According to the operating manual of Jeweler Richard, sibling discussion was off the table, as Seigi Nakata had just learned. Richard knew everything, spoke a billion languages, was a master of gemstones, had the world’s biggest sweet tooth, and was particularly picky about his royal milk tea. And, most of all, he was the kindest person I knew.
My grandmother told me that kind people knew what it was like to experience pain. I never wanted to be the sort of person who poked at those feelings for a lark, but unfortunately, I kept finding myself doing just that. I made mental notes whenever I caught myself in the act, notes I dearly needed to review at every opportunity. (This was a particularly recent realization.)
I wanted to have as good of a relationship with my boss as possible. He wasn’t a person B whom I’d chosen after having had enough of person A. He was, in every way, a one-of-a-kind individual.
But if Richard was right, then maybe everything—every event, every gemstone, every person—was one-of-a-kind. Maybe, then, my desire to cultivate a good relationship with him had nothing to do with him being so unique.
Maybe I just wanted to be closer to him.
I wanted to be close enough to have at least a vague idea why he shied away from conversations about his siblings. That way, I wouldn’t accidentally go prying at any sensitive personal business. I wanted it to be like second nature for me.
But that was like asking for the moon. I had to come to terms with the fact that I might never know that part of Richard’s past. I understood he would probably recoil and try to put some distance between us if I asked him directly. Worse yet, it could end in me losing my job. Yikes!
I portioned the royal milk tea cooling in the fridge into cups for the customers and covered them with plastic wrap. They would be here in another, oh, five or ten minutes. The days were getting to be real scorchers, and guzzling ice-cold milk tea could cause brain freeze. It was more customer-friendly to serve tea a little closer to room temp.
No one knew what the future had in store. The best I could do was work behind the scenes to help Richard give his customers an amazing experience. And then, if possible, I also wanted to give this store’s beautiful owner a quiet helping hand.
“You know what they say,” I’d said the other day. “Behind every great man…”
Richard didn’t like that one. Another mental note for me: Don’t pull out that quote again today. In fact, never mention it again.
“Oh hey, Nakata. You still free on the day of the concert?”
The phone call came out of nowhere. I didn’t recall ever telling Shimomura about my job in much detail, but just as I finished cleaning the shop at 7:30, my phone rang. It was him—Haruyoshi Shimomura. The buddy who invited me to the concert that started it all.
I shrugged him off with a “Not really” as I walked down the street in Ginza. Shimomura laughed.
“Then wanna get dinner together? With a show, kind of.”
Kind of? What sort of show was he talking about?
“Yeah, sure! That sounds amazing,” I said. “Funnily enough, I was thinking of asking if you had plans. You beat me to it.”
“Yeah. Sure sucks that the concert fell through, huh?”
“You’re telling me. I was dying to go with you.”
“Aww, am I one of your special friends? You’ll make me cry.”
“I don’t know. Aren’t all friendships special?”
“…Maybe, maybe not. Whatever. See you at dinner?”
“Yeah, see you!”
And just like that, I had plans for dinner!
Shimomura took me to a Spanish restaurant tucked away in the back of a department store in Shinjuku. It was one of those places that doubled as a sports bar, judging by the huge TV in the corner. Sports weren’t the focus today, though.
Tonight, there was a woman in a black dress dancing to the music of a guitarist. She clapped with gusto in time with the music. Clap clap clap, cla-cla-cla-clap! It was flamenco.
“Whoa! This is one hell of a place, Shimomura.”
“Yeah, I guess. You cool with this sort of thing?”
“Cool? In what sense?”
“You know how it is. Some people say they don’t get it.”
“What is there to get about flamenco?”
I had to admit I didn’t know much about flamenco, either…
Shimomura burst out laughing. “Forget it. Don’t worry about it. This is why I like you, Nakata.”
“I-It is? Well…yay?”
“Yay. C’mon, let’s get something to drink.”
They filled our glasses with a red liquid called sangria—a punch made from red wine and orange juice. It was sweet but had a slightly spicy kick to it that stimulated my appetite. Periodically, the other patrons would shout, “Olé!” Shimomura told me that meant, “Nice one!” He really knew his way around this place.
“Man, Shimomura, you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m glad we got the chance to come here today! Thanks for bringing me.”
“…Eh, well. Some things are just out of our control.”
“Oh, quit going on about the concert. I’m having fun without the disclaimers.”
We had to shout to be heard over the music and dancing, which kept building as it reached the finale. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the dancer, but even just knowing I had a friend sitting next to me at this small table made me feel good. Here we were with a bunch of strangers, listening to the same music, and for one brief moment, letting our emotions run high together.
Shimomura sounded proud as he said, “If plan A doesn’t work out, all you need to do is make plan B and have fun. That’s important, according to my teacher. He says that’s what life is all about. It’s the kind of advice guys with real prospects just shrug off, but honestly, I think he’s got a point. It’s realistic. Kinda go with the flow.”
“Huh,” I said. “You didn’t pronounce those letters like ‘ayy, bee.’ You said, ‘ah, beh.’”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m learning all sorts of stuff. Olé! ¿Qué tal?”
“Ke…tal? Kettle?”
He laughed some more. “Sorry for messing with you. You’re a fun guy, you know that?”
The alcohol in our systems made us slap each other on the back and shout “Olé!” together. Then, his voice dead serious, Shimomura said the artist we’d ended up not seeing was actually amazing, and he would invite me out again if they did another show. Hearing that he had wanted to go just as badly as I did touched me. I responded enthusiastically, if less morosely than him, that I’d be happy to go to the next one.
Maybe there wouldn’t be a next one. Even so, I realized, just making the plans was so much fun.
After I said goodbye to Shimomura and started for home on the Yamanote line, my phone lit up with a message from Richard.
“How was your evening?”
For once, I was more grateful than guilty. The concert was on a Sunday, so I’d told Richard I couldn’t make it to Étranger, and he’d been kind enough to schedule clients around me and close up the shop for the day. I’d figured he would be occupied with other business in the meantime, but here he was, texting me.
Bumping and swaying with the movement of the train, I tapped out a message back. “It was a blast.”
I added a ‘thank you’ at the end before I sent the message off. A full three stops later, Richard had yet to respond. Funnily enough, though, I heard his voice in my head. The one that spoke in silence; the smile that told me, “I’m quite glad to hear that.”
As I admired the nocturnal version of Shimomura’s beloved Tokyo skyline, my thoughts kept returning to that beautiful jeweler. I wondered where the most beautiful man in the world was and what vista he beheld. I wondered if he’d had a good day himself.
I hoped so. It would have made me very happy.