“They’ll yell at you again for taking stuff without permission.”
“But Japan wants it. They just left it in front of the store for a long time, y’know? And he’s too much of a wimp to make off with it himself.”
He’s aware that’s stealing, isn’t he?
“Beeeaverrr!”
Suddenly, an angry voice rings out. I know this one, too.
“Ah shit, it’s Ex-Princess!”
Beaver takes off in the opposite direction of the voice, clutching Hikarun in his arms. The floor manager of the mall, whom everyone calls Ex-Princess, follows in his wake with a face like someone possessed. “He used to work at the Princess Hotel in Naeba,” Nami once told me, “so that’s why they call him Ex-Princess! How lame is that?” Then she had a little laugh over it.
Ex-Princess, who also has blond hair, is dressed to the nines in a suit, but it’s a little funny to see him get angry enough to chase after Beaver. After watching them run off into the distance, I walk down to the first floor where Sunnyside is located to continue looking for Mr. Fujiyama, but he’s nowhere to be found.
So I move on toward the mall entrance.
Outside, I find a large parking lot that looks like it can hold five hundred or so cars, but the asphalt and exhaust fumes make it way hotter than the outdoor terrace. I weave my way through the rows of cars looking for Mr. Fujiyama, but he’s not around. His cotton-ball hair is pretty noticeable, so it would be easy to spot him.
As I approach the entrance to the parking lot along the main road, I feel a sudden drop in temperature. I glance at my feet and realize I’m in the middle of a large shadow. I look up, and there it is—a vertical billboard about fifteen feet high, creating shade and coolness. In the center of the sign is the logo of Oda Nouvelle Mall, a lofty assertion of its presence.
Then I spot something. Right under the logo, there are words scrawled in spray paint. Each letter is sized differently, and I’m not even sure which way it’s supposed to be read, but I still manage it.
All the many things up above to look at bring summer with them, too…
That’s my haiku. I’m getting a bad feeling about this.
Walking around the mall looking for Mr. Fujiyama, I encounter surprise after surprise. Looking closely, I can see my haiku scrawled on store walls, steel poles, signboards, and all over the place. I haven’t done any of it, of course—it was all Beaver. This kid… He’s already scribbled all over his secret hideout, and now he’s spreading it around. So embarrassing.
Suddenly, the sweat on my forehead trickles down and into my eyes. I look up at the sky and see the sun shining brightly. It has been so hot recently that the newscasters are making inflated comments like, “the highest temperatures ever seen” and “heat stroke cases reaching a record high,” or whatever.
Today’s heat may be a bit dangerous. Usually, it’s easy to find the guy, but of course he makes it harder for me when it’s blazing hot… Better find him fast.
Widening my search, I head for the rice fields along the main road.
Going slowly along the wide sidewalk that runs parallel to the main road, I look around for Mr. Fujiyama. There is practically no one out and about on the sidewalk, and I have far more space than I actually need.
Suddenly, I hear the rustling of wings. It’s coming from the rice paddies. Looking over, I see a flock of white egrets flying low in the sky. From the terrace, they were just white dots, but from this distance, I can clearly make out their silhouettes, their wings outstretched.
The flock passes over the farm road. Just below it, I can see a big dandelion head in the middle of the field.
…That’s not a scarecrow! It’s Mr. Fujiyama! …He doesn’t look like he’s in trouble. From this distance, I can see him standing there, calm and composed. Thank goodness I found him.
So I cross the main road at a brisk jog and head for Mr. Fujiyama.
As I run toward him, his figure becomes clearer. He’s standing in the middle of the farm road, staring at a square piece of paper about a foot wide—a record jacket—in his hands. What he’s looking for is the record, the thing this jacket’s supposed to hold.
As Nami told Akiko earlier, nobody has a clue what kind of record it is, what kind of songs are on it, or even if there’s any music on it at all. I once caught Mr. Fujiyama mumbling, “I want to listen to it again,” while staring at the jacket. I guess it must be important if he’s looking that hard for it. Maybe it’s something really rare.
I rush over to Mr. Fujiyama, who’s a bit shorter than me. Leaning down a little to put my face close to his ear, I shout, “Mr. Fujiyama!” No response. He stares at the photo printed on the jacket—a row of cherry trees and what looks like a metal tower—without indicating whether he sees me standing in front of him. I’m used to that by now, but still…
Mr. Fujiyama is extremely hard of hearing. He doesn’t bother with hearing aids, though, so it’s not uncommon for him to act like this when I talk to him. I don’t want to think it’s because I speak too softly.
Though actually, I noticed when I put my face close to Mr. Fujiyama’s that he isn’t sweating at all. There isn’t a drop of it on his wrinkled face, and the collar of his shirt looks dry, even in a scorcher like today.
I move closer to Mr. Fujiyama’s ear and call out at my maximum volume. He slowly raises his head and looks at me, finally noticing I’m there.
“Did you find your record—?”
“Ohhhh! Cherry, my boy!!”
I immediately cover my ears with my headphones. Mr. Fujiyama really shouldn’t shout so loud without warning like that. Keeping them on in anticipation of future outbursts, I try again, “Did you find it?”
Mr. Fujiyama shakes his head. No dice today, either.
“All right. How about we head back now?”
I hold out my hand to Mr. Fujiyama, and he takes it. We walk side by side as we head back to the mall.