Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

In Between

I turn my attention to the coffee machine that's set into the corner closest to the door. It's a high tech piece of equipment. Metallic sheen and glowing lights. Like a landed alien spacecraft in a barren wasteland. I take one of the paper cups and set it in the niche and hit the button for a standard latte.

While I wait for the coffee, I run over the details of what had happened this morning. I make sure to note down all the small details like what Shirayuki had said and when I had received the first message about the rabbit hole. I clearly remember when Shizuka had disappeared the first time. But too much had happened. It, in itself, felt like Homer's Odyssey, a trip home that had extended into a lifetime. But with such hyper-saturated detail, I have a feeling I am missing something important. There must be something I am missing. If I could just grab hold of it, make it tangible, I might be able to understand what's going on. Perhaps I could find Shizuka. But the harder I dig through my memory, the more it fragments into irreparable splinters. Images seem to blur, dance and fade away. If I continue to think about them, they will disappear completely.

I throw a glance over my shoulder out the door, hoping to see Shizuka. But it's empty. Maybe if I had shown her the messages, and told her about Shirayuki and the strange disappearances earlier, maybe if we had spoken more, it might have ended up differently.

No matter how much I stand and think, nothing more comes to mind. I'm only left with a growing sense of helplessness. With my so-called ability to think and perceive, it yields no conclusions. I'm suddenly trapped in the middle of an ocean without a compass. So far out I am that there's no longer any sign of the shore. I can't decide on a direction to swim or remember how I had gotten there. Just the vastness of nothingness. Black and blue and white skies. A storm is approaching yet there is nothing I can do. All of a sudden, I'm lost. And alone. Lost and alone like I had never been before. Before I had met her, I existed within a framework, a rigid set of rules and a contained environment. I didn't need to step out of line nor had I the desire to. I lived a solitary existence without realizing I was alone. Perhaps I liked being alone without any long term ties to anyone else. I had left my family and had a few university friends because it was expected of me. But she had hauled me along, for what purpose? For what plan? Hadn't it been better if she had left me alone in ignorance? Now, strung out in the open, like a naked man for crucifixion; I'm m exposed for all to see. I'm aware of my solitude and my lack of direction, an absence of something. It begins to take on a physical shape as if something had actually been sawing off a piece of flesh. I wonder if there is something wrong with my organs. I had never endured something so physical. So deep inside, closed off to me behind locked doors. Yet, as time passes by it is filled with dry winter air that leaks in from somewhere.

"What you are searching for, isn't here." His voice comes from the furthest recesses of the shop.

"What I'm searching for?"

"More precisely, what you're searching for isn't ready to be found."

"How do you know who I'm searching for?"

"You aren't really searching for a person."

Silence on my part. I still can't see him. All I see is the top of his bald head. His voice is thin and scratchy, muffled by the counter and various rows of shelves that stand between us. I pick up my cup of coffee.

"You're searching for a concept, an idea."

"I don't think I'm following."

"But of course you are. Come here, you wanted a coffee."

I cautiously make my way to the cashier. As I draw nearer I hear a faint trace of Paganini playing softly. It must be the end of the first movement of his Violin Concerto no.4. The man behind the counter stands and straightens as far as he can, which isn't very far at all. I make out his crooked nose and glasses perched precariously and realize that it is precisely the same man resting on a cane from the Family Mart.

"You were at the Family Mart earlier," I say.

His wrinkles crease and his mouth twitches but I can't tell if it is a smile or a frown. "Was I?"

"You were wearing a green bomber jacket and leaning on a cane."

He doesn't reply and tells me it's 140 yen for coffee. I fish out the money and pay as I am told.

"Tell me, do you like Paganini?"

"I don't particularly mind it," I pause and he waits for more. I try to gather some thoughts. "It has tremendous technicality and he was the ultimate virtuoso at his craft no doubt. It soars with dynamics and is playful, he was a sensation in his time but while designed to engage the crowd but I find something missing from it listening to it now."

He smiles or forms what I think is a smile. "I listen to it because it's performance. It's straight forward and for the purpose of pushing the limits of music and his instrument. Paganini was considered to be some kind of Devil's violinist. He's known to have exceptionally long and dexterous fingers. People tend to try to explain away phenomena that changes their world and innovatively break standards, in a negative light. Such is human nature. Genius is considered to be dangerous and controversial, until it becomes renown."

I pick up the coffee and take a sip. It lacks the acidity of a stronger drink but it isn't bad. I hear the violin being plucked and the expert chaos of arpeggios.

"Yet, it's funny isn't it? Unless the soloist has his kind of fingers and unique condition, we will never be hearing the real Paganini virtuosity. This one is Salvatore Accardo, brilliant in his own right but we will never hear the original again. Lost in the ears and memories of those who lived long before us."

He takes off his glasses, wipes them and puts it back on. "No doubt, I don't listen to this to reminisce about the past or its meaning. It is full of skill, exhilaration and entertainment rather than mythological depth and polyphonic layers. It makes it suitable to listen for pleasure and engaging my senses. An old man like me needs something clearly audible and something to keep me awake. I don't need to worry about misinterpreting it." He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a moment, like he is listening to something – not the music. "But such things don't apply for everything, especially not life."

I stare at him. He seems to sag more and more like he needs a seat again. "They call me the gatekeeper," he says. His eyes are small and thin almost like they had disappeared entirely from view. But they seem to bore right through me again.

"There are many who come here, all with their different reasons. But of course there's no real gate. At least not right now. In fact, the gate for you right now is closed. I can't let you through and you can't come through as you are now. You need a key."

"A key?"

"You must find the key first. Yes. This person you think you are searching for. It is up to you whether you will be able to open the gate."