Balzac’s enormous body of work is said to have been fueled by a vast quantity of coffee. Some describe it as a river of coffee. That’s how much of the stuff the man drank. I don’t remember where I read it, but he supposedly consumed fifty thousand cups over his lifetime. He carried his own personal coffeepot with him so he could be certain the raging current never slowed. His exquisite personal blend was comprised of Bourbon, Mocha, and Martinique. I’m not certain of the ratios of each type of bean. I think, however, I might like to look into it someday. Perhaps if I gulp down cup after cup of Balzac’s signature blend, I, too, will produce an unending torrent of literary masterpieces—and then gulp vainly for air as I drown in a mire of debt.
Personally, I prepare and drink perhaps four or five cups of coffee per day. I don’t pretend to be so versed in the subject as to start developing my own original blend. But neither am I the type to feel satisfied with the ready-made stuff for sale at the convenience store. Instead, I frequented a small roaster that I happened to discover one day near Ginkaku Temple. It was one of my small pleasures in life to stop by, place an order for freshly ground beans, and then purchase a Daimonji-yaki pastry to snack on as I make my way home.
The shop was a tiny place. No more than a hole in the wall, really, measuring perhaps two mats in size. The shop counter faced the street and was staffed by a rather gaunt-looking girl, who was indisputably beautiful but had a slight trembling about her, as if indicative of a precarious mental state.
The girl disliked social interaction. Only when she was turning the handle of the grinder, listening to the crunch of the beans being reduced to fine powder, did she ever seem at peace. It was a compulsion, in fact. A few months prior, she’d decided that beans no longer sufficed, and her eyes began seeking larger prey. Each night, she’d sneak back into the shop to feed small, fluffy animals into her mill, grinding them to a pulp as they shrieked and squealed, a devilish grin on her face all the while.
That was the story I liked to tell myself, anyhow, as I waited at the counter. My mind sped off in its mad dash of fantasy, and my body would start to tremble. And as I trembled, the girl would finish grinding my coffee. She’d hand me the little bag of freshly ground beans and offer a complementary caramel candy. I accepted the thoughtful gesture with a smile, wondering if the caramel was her way of luring me in—and that one day soon I’d find myself a victim of her grisly grinder.
In all, I’d spent over a year enjoying my daydreams about the girl at the coffee roaster and our bloody, one-sided trysts.
That evening, after my unexpected reunion with the man from Mizuo’s parking lot, I was in a particularly sour mood. I needed something to soothe my mind and decided to take a trip to my roaster. I hadn’t been by in some two weeks.
I arrived at the shop front to find everything gone, replaced by a new tenant.
I am no stranger to the vicissitudes of time. I know that things come and go in this fleeting world. But this particular disappearance struck at my heart. Were the stormy seas of reality truly so fierce? Did they have to sweep in and carry away that poor, fragile girl’s meager shop? She’d done nothing wrong. Her compulsions had simply led her a bit astray. It was only a few small mammals.
And worse, where was I now to procure my coffee? I could spend my whole life searching and never find another shop run by a girl who trembled and teetered on the edge, whose only respite in life was the systematic pulverization of solid objects into fine dust. Why was I being punished? I did my best to lead a hermitic, ecologically friendly life, only to have my one meager worldly enjoyment seized away. Surely the god enshrined at Kitashirakawa Tenjin was in error. Why was my name upon his divine checklist of those who deserved punishment? He must have me mixed up with someone else!
I peered through the windows at the new tenant’s wares. The shelves were lined with imported foodstuffs. I fumed. The era of import worship is over!
But when I caught a glimpse of the shopkeeper, my fury turned to astonishment. There, surrounded by all the cans and jars, was Ebizuka.
I spun on my heel and pumped my legs as fast as I could. The storm that had raged between this particular upperclassman and myself was still crystal clear in my mind.
Dear gods!
Ebizuka yet lived!