Eve or not, a shift was a shift, so I readied myself and made for the sushi restaurant.
When I arrived, I was told we had an order of terrifying magnitude to fill: Party platters to serve seventy-three. We started churning out rice and fish the moment I arrived, and this kept up until eleven o’clock, barely finishing with enough time left for delivery.
The unfortunate rain had grown stronger yet, and I was soaked from head to toe when the scooter pulled up at the provided address. The customer was a small, local hospital. I clutched the large platters of sushi to my chest and dashed to the entrance. But just as I made the shelter of the eaves, the power flickered out, plunging the hospital into darkness and the staff and patients into chaos. I stepped inside to find a procession of nurses walking the hallways with lit candles in hand, unintentionally providing a very fitting scene for Christmas Eve.
Orders continued to pour in all day. The owner and I made deliveries via scooter, zooming all over town, while the owner’s wife held down the fort. It was chaos. My hands, long since soaked through with the incessant rain, were on the verge of freezing solid, and I felt as though the remainder of my body and my mind would be soon to follow.
“Any plans for Christmas?” the owner’s wife asked during a brief lull in the madness. She was pulling apart the sections of a satsuma, popping them into her mouth one by one.
“None at all,” I replied brusquely. “It’s a holiday in which I haven’t the slightest interest.”
My response sent the owner’s wife into a fit of sweet, lilting laughter.
When my shift was over, I headed to a curry shop for a late lunch.
This particular shop ran an ongoing challenge: Finish an oversize dish of curry within a fixed time limit, and you eat for free. One wall of the shop featured photos of those who had managed the feat. Most of the photos showed crowds of young college students gathered around the victor—close friends who had come to cheer for their champion. But one photo in particular stood out. This picture had none of the youthful geniality of its neighbors. It depicted the impenetrable smiling mug of a lone, bearded giant, who held in one hand a massive platter on which not a single grain of rice remained. The giant’s curious pose suggested that he might next hurl the platter across the restaurant.
I expect I needn’t clarify that the giant in question was Takayabu. When money ran tight at the end of a month, he would circle through his neighborhood curry shops, beef bowl shops, and so on, completing such challenges to shave a few hundred yen from his living expenses.
As I tucked into my bowl of curry topped with deep-fried fish, I appreciated the photo and the shop’s unwavering commitment to including it, despite its proudly independent aura.
Where, I wondered, had the friendly giant disappeared to? Perhaps he’d donned the robe of a depraved monk, lying low in the wilderness of Kurama to avoid his mysterious lover. I was a bit concerned that he might be mistaken for a bear or a tengu and be fired upon by members of the local hunting association. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from a bear or a tengu even after he’d been downed. It seemed a very tragic way to go.
I mulled over these concerns as I made my way out of the shop. The rain had grown hard again while I ate. As I trudged home, I was overcome by the irritating sensation that I was being pummeled by thousands of tiny fists. The asphalt appeared to sprout a thick carpet of wool thanks to the raindrops’ incessant ricochets. When I reached the Hyakumanben Post Office, I found the nearby intersection awash with the muted headlights of passing cars. Other pedestrians—most of whom held umbrellas aloft—appeared as silhouettes beyond the veil of rain. I could no longer distinguish man from woman.
I would have been very content for the rain to thunder on all evening and wash Christmas Eve away in its entirety.
I returned to my lodgings and filled a washbasin with hot water to soak my feet. The water sloshed over my numb skin, and I felt as if it were seeping inside, causing my toes to balloon outward.
My entire body was frozen through. Part of me had given up. I longed to stay where I was, holed up in my fortress where I’d weather whatever else life decided to throw at me.
My better self sought to censure this unseemly capitulation, but the swirling warmth of the washbasin was so incredibly sweet. For a time, I pushed all thoughts of our impending battle at Shijo Kawaramachi from my mind.
A knock at the door briefly interrupted my worldly indulgence, and I heard Yushima calling my name. There seemed no compelling reason to quit my washbasin paradise on account of a phantom bill collector, so I ignored him. I continued to slosh the soothing hot water over my feet.
Yushima rattled off a long, unbroken stream of speech, none of which I could make out. He might have been expounding upon his precarious state of mind as usual, or he might have been singing lines from the Railway Song. It was the voice of someone mumbling sutras, sometimes loud and sometimes soft, sometimes near and sometimes far, as if carried upon the backs of rolling waves.
Higashiyama stands to the east.
Arashiyama soars in the west.
All betwixt is the glorious city,
its waters the Kamo and Katsura.
Gion, Kiyomizu, Chion-in.
Yoshida, Kurodani, Shinnyo-do.
And up at the source where the water flows pure,
the shrines of Kamo to guard his majesty’s land.
At last, I called out to him from my side of the door.
“Yushima, if I may offer a suggestion? Head to Shijo Kawaramachi this evening. You might come across something interesting.”
I strained my ears for a response, but none came.
I lifted my feet from the washbasin and made for the door. But when I opened it, I found the hallway empty, save for the echoing strains of the Railway Song.