I surveyed the dishes laid out on my aunt’s caramel-toned, timeworn dining table. The spread was elegant, understated, and Japanese to the extreme, consisting of saikyoyaki—grilled fish marinated in white miso—accompanied by a heaping pile of shaved daikon, braised burdock root, pumpkin salad, and a tofu and seaweed miso soup.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“Help yourself, dear,” Aunt Ayako said. “Or were you expecting something heartier?”
“Not really.”
“Trust me, Takumi, a light meal is the right meal,” she assured me. “You’ll be up late studying, right? I’ll make you some crab meat porridge later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Oh, but I want to,” she countered playfully. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll focus on the cooking, and you just focus on the eating.” She flashed me a smile so warm and motherly that it put my biological mother to shame.
I acknowledged her with a nod, then shifted my attention to the meal before me. The oily white fish, shellacked in a golden miso glaze, flaked apart readily under my chopsticks. Aunt Ayako may have been worried I’d want something more substantial for a main course, but it was more than enough. And the burdock root and pumpkin side dishes, each prepared meticulously from scratch, held their own as well—a far cry from the prepackaged sides I used to eat.
“Haruka seems sweet. Koro was quite adorable too.” My aunt smiled to herself as she ate, chopsticks darting between dishes with precision. “I really didn’t expect those bells to ring, though.”
I didn’t say anything, instead focusing on maneuvering another piece of fish into my mouth. After a moment, she shrugged.
Haruka Kitazawa. Her comment about the house resembling a gnome’s or wizard’s dwelling replayed in my mind—her eyes had sparkled with such unfeigned enthusiasm as she spoke. How long had it been since I last heard those bells? I certainly never would’ve imagined that I’d hear them again that afternoon. I knew what their peal meant, of course, yet the abrupt unfolding of the situation had left me grappling with disbelief.
“I wonder if she’ll come back,” Aunt Ayako wondered aloud.
“You’re hopeful.”
She chuckled knowingly. “It’s my job to be.”
In lieu of a TV, a soft melody played from an old record player—a keepsake from my uncle. The song flowed with an easy rhythm, its lyrics close to spoken word, seemingly as formless as a passing breeze.
“A French chanson with Japanese food?” I remarked.
“What’s wrong with that?” she rebutted. “What do France and Japan have in common? A love of good food.”
As I returned to my dinner, I noticed out of the corner of my eye several shadowy figures in a dim corner of the kitchen swaying in sync with the music—silhouettes that most people couldn’t see.
✦ ✦ ✦
AGAINST all odds, I made it through the first day of midterms. A flicker of triumph coursed through me as I strolled home; I felt as though I’d done better than expected. As I walked past the kitchen, my mother ambushed me.
“Haruka, what’s this I hear about you getting hit by a bicycle yesterday?”
My heart sank. How does she know? Resigning myself, I revealed my bandaged knee.
Mom thoroughly examined it before lifting her eyes to me. “I took Koro out for a walk this afternoon,” she explained, “it being my day off and all. When we were near the station—do you know what happened?—he darted toward a woman.” She placed a hand on her cheek, evidently still astonished. “Koro never approaches anyone on his own. I was so surprised.”
I think I know where this is going.
“And then do you know what happened? The woman recognized him and went, ‘Koro, is that you?’ And that just surprised me even more!”
Yep, it was Ayako.
“She felt terrible about the whole incident. But since you never told me anything, I was completely at a loss!”
“I-I didn’t tell you,” I interjected, “because I tripped on my own! It was my fault for rushing into the intersection like that. And she even treated my injuries and…lost all her eggs in the process…”
“Well, you should’ve told me that!” Mom scolded.
My eyes strayed to a gift box sitting on the dining table. “A token of her apology,” she said, noticing. “Listen, Haruka. I’m partially to blame as well here—I should have noticed you were hurt. But please, don’t hide things like this from us, okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
She took my hand and inspected my palms. “At least you’re healing well. You know, she was quite worried about you, so how about we go pay her a visit the weekend after exams?” She glanced at the box. “But for now, let’s forget about all that and just enjoy these, shall we?”
With a final sigh, Mom poured us both a cup of tea. I studied the gift box’s packaging. It contained an assortment of baked goods from a patisserie run by Takanori Endou—the same source of the macarons at Ayako’s place.
“Wow, we really lucked out, Mom!”
Takanori Endou was a famous pastry chef and social media sensation who enjoyed a massive following both on network TV and online. He was so devilishly handsome that his best-selling cookbook actually came with collectible polaroids of him. Admittedly, that gimmick was a bit corny for my taste, but his recipes were undeniably fantastic. From madeleines to dacquoises to tarts, all of his classic French desserts looked so good. Man, I really wish you hadn’t, Ayako. How much did this even cost? The price was definitely beyond my middle school budget.
Mom handed me my cup. “The pastries? Yeah. Apparently, the son of her boss runs the place.”
“Wait, what?”
No seriously, what? Didn’t she work at a cooking class? What was the name on the card again…? Endou’s Cooking Salon? Endou…? Endou! Of course—how did I not put two and two together! I never would’ve guessed. She didn’t give off the vibe that she was well-connected at all.
Unaware of my internal epiphany, Mom barreled on. “That Takanori Endou guy’s father is a renowned French cuisine chef—and Ayako’s his assistant! Can you believe that?”
I bit into a financier, the sweet, buttery, almondy confection almost melting in my mouth. I washed it down with a sip of tea, and the fragrant, sharp brew cut through the richness beautifully. “Mom,” I said, “these are way too good. They’d be wasted on my brother.”
“You might have a point,” she replied. “We’ll save some for your father, but for your brother…a taste will suffice.”
We exchanged knowing smiles and a quiet giggle. No doubt we were both thinking of my brother’s tendency to inhale food with no intention of tasting it. His exclusion was unfortunate but necessary.