- Hole in the Ground -
The sun above is more forceful here, as if we are closer to the sky and the sun is trying to make an argument. Both the ocean breeze and the sun collide, and we're caught in between. I don't quite understand what they are trying to say however, whether they're fighting for attention or hoping to drive us out of their miniature town. There are no buildings higher than two or three storeys here to provide a little headroom.
I feel entirely out of place. As if I had been stripped of my skin. True enough that there's still a sensation of someone watching my every move, but I've come to push it aside and focus on what I'm doing - that isn't the feeling I'm concerned with. This is the feeling that I am in a strange alien world, and I have no alibi, no reason or justification to be here. The train had carried us and fragments of city air, bustling murmurs of memories, traveling through time and space and deposited us, like contagions in an unpolluted environment. We are intruders. We're not welcome. Deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Here, the roads are desolate except for a few students and old villagers meandering down the streets. All of them have a sedated pace of such languor that the students, I'm sure, are cutting class. They all speak with low voices. A surfer visiting for the open shores rides by on a moped. We pass by a shrine or two, hiding at the top of dark stairs secluded by foliage. Every now and then, the ground drops off into a short cliff-face overlooking a patch of farmland or the forest comes up to swallow the houses. These trees seem to suck up sound from its surrounding, replacing it with whispers of the heart. It reminds me of Hayao Miyazaki animated films set in quiet ancient towns in the middle of nowhere. It's in these places where mystical spirits of nature awaken and take on physical allegorical form, blending legend and mythology with reality - and we face them with awe and fear.
Like the animations, it all begins to bring back images, blurry from time, running an old reel-fed film through my head. The memories are unclear but I realize I am feeling an overwhelming nostalgia. Something strikes a chord within me and sings through my body. My heart churns and begins to feel heavy. I remember the town I had lived in with my mother - though not the same - used to carry a similar hush of melancholic peace. What I recall now, aren't spectacular feats or rare occasions but simply cycling through town each day, from the top of a hill, whistling down a narrow road, or taking out the trash at night and feeling the breath of trees against my face. I remember stopping by the only crepe shop in town with a few school friends every week and sitting along a small river not too far from a stretch of rice paddies.
In such a place, all else starts to fade away and one loses touch with reality. Nothing really matters anymore, but the great trees and the deep shadows that shift in the wind. Past, present and future disappears, and the moment takes on its own life. Within, comes a powerful desire to latch onto that single moment, any moment of the mundane, and cherish its totality, its own beginning, middle and end, fearing that something great would be missing if you look away for an instant. Simplicity becomes the profound.
We follow one road which happens to be the central vein through the area. I had chosen one direction and stuck to it and by luck, we somehow ended up on the right one. Eventually we make it to the core of the town where most of the trees, except for a few chunks of grass and scraggly shoot, have been cleared away. On the left side we can see the land slope down gently and hear the roll of waves against the shore. Sea salt stains the air. There's a line of little shops here and cars tucked away like a squirrel's stowed away nuts. According to the address it would be around here, yet there is no sign of Resso Coffee.
We stop by a convenient store, a little run down, but looking like it had been renovated recently. Inside, a middle-aged man sits at the counter with a smile. He is rather thickset and tan, as if he had been farming all his life.
It's up the hill, he says. "Just down the bridge over the stream and to the left. You won't miss it, it's next to a shrine."
"Why didn't they choose to put their shop in a more commercial location?"
"Oh, it isn't a shop. It's their home office. They're not here that often but I think you've come at the right time. They usually come back when it gets warmer."
"Yes, it's getting warmer lately isn't it?" I test him.
"Looks like spring is here."
But it's early February.
Shirayuki takes one of the chocolate bars as we leave and I turn a blind eye. It can't possibly be real, but I scold her as soon as we're alone. She laughs and asks if I want some. "You gotta loosen up, Mr. Maeda. Old age is getting to you," she says. "In a world where abstraction takes form and seasons warp, surely taking a chocolate bar can't be that bad!"
"If everyone starts taking chocolate bars and whatever they want, there would be a world war."
She shrugs. "If a world war over chocolate bars is meant to be, then it's meant to be."
"Looking at it that way, we shouldn't be doing anything right now but maybe take a nap or sit on a beach."
"Yeah, Mr. Maeda, why don't we do that? You certainly don't want to get rid of me that bad, do you?"
I don't reply.
We cross a bridge over a creek and climb what turns out to be a steep hill. At the top of the incline we can see mismatched matchbox houses of different shapes and colours haphazardly arranged against winding paths that lead to the shore below. Jutting from the port like an odd pirate ship extends a pavilion, the kind with white pillars and railings, and along the dock are little boats tethered loosely. They bob sluggish in the water. The water wears a turquoise tint and ripples like a blanket. Further down along the shore is a vast field filled with multicoloured pigments like an Impressionist painting. These seem to waver and change colours as a breeze passes over them. I somehow realize that I'm looking at a flower farm. From this distance, I can't make out any specific details and don't see anyone around. Everything seems to take on its own form of solitude, holding back secrets behind blank tacit facades.
Japanese addresses are often nonsensical and impossible to locate amongst an innumerable quantity of unnamed streets, barely wide enough for cars to traverse. Sometimes it's impossible to tell if they are actually meant to be streets in the first place. So with great difficulty, we manage to find ourselves in front of a house without any numbers or signs. It's square and stocky, with featureless grey walls and wide black framed windows. The rooftop and door are also black. There's nothing to confirm we have the right place except for the small shrine sitting next to it. This one is rather open, such that we can see most of its stone courtyard and the prayer bell visitors would ring.
I check for any sign that we had been followed and when satisfied, I warn Shirayuki not to steal anything - to which she rolls her eyes - before walking up to buzz the intercom. It's state of the art technology, out of place against such a plain looking house, but nowadays having such equipment in the sticks is not unfathomable. Even farmers carry smartphones with twelve megapixel cameras.
I hear static in the intercom and perhaps the sound of someone moving. Then a woman's voice drifts through the air. A quiet voice. "This is the Kaneko household, please state your business."
It's so formal it catches me off guard.
"Good morning, I'm Naoki Maeda, I've come on behalf of someone to collect a coffee plant cherry."
There's a long pause, as if they had to look through their schedule or something.
"I understand. You've come to the right place. Give me a minute."
When I'm let inside, I'm instantly greeted with a heavy aroma of ground coffee, like walking into a solid wall. It's so saturated that it takes a few minutes to adjust my breathing. There's much barking from a tiny white dog. It's covered with fur down to its short stubby legs, like a feather duster. It seems to notice Shirayuki behind me and circles her a few times.
The woman who had spoken through the buzzer shakes my hand with an artificial smile and leads me down the hall. As typical of Japanese detached houses, it isn't large, and the walls and ceilings press down on all sides into a confined box. The floorboard is traditionally wooden, clean-swept and some parts of it appears to be loose. They creak like insects when I step on them. On the cream-coloured walls hang little letter sized paintings at regular intervals. The entire building inside is lit by natural daylight - not a single lamp is on; windows are large enough and the curtains thin and silky, so that it acts as a filter scattering late morning glow.
I watch as the light seems to drip down Shirayuki's black hair. The woman wears her own in a bun, a turtleneck and simple black sweatpants. A single gold cord dangles on her chest with no adornment. She seems to fade into her surroundings, her posture upright and pace even, not slow and not rushed. Overall, she prides herself in simplicity it seems. The furnishing agrees with my judgement. We pass by a living room: a small flatscreen TV, minimalist sleek black couches and a mahogany coffee table. On it, there's no coffee. A lonely green cactus plant sits in the corner begging for attention. Nothing else.
"Please make yourself at home. Would you like coffee?"
I sit down on the sofa. It's unexpectedly hard and cold. "I would appreciate that very much, thank you."
"I'd like one too," Shirayuki says, but of course the woman doesn't hear her.
For a while we sit in silence as she's audibly tinkering in the kitchen. There's no other sounds except for the dog breathing at my feet. My hands are on my lap as if I'm reporting for an interview. I can't seem to relax. My body tenses at times like a pulse of some uniformity. The entire room seems to scrutinize my presence. But it reaches no verdict. I pet the dog for something to do. I wonder if she has a husband or children. Or how "Processed" she is. Oddly enough there aren't any pictures or frames on the tables or walls as if the house doesn't belong to anyone. Kaneko, she had said. Is it too much of a coincidence?
She returns with two cups of steaming coffee. For a moment, Shirayuki thinks it's hers until the woman sets the saucer and cup down on her own lap. I try to restrain my amusement.
"The coffee is made from our own plants. Give it a try."
"Okay." The dark circle in the cup beckons, an extract of the night sky. A white porcelain frame outlines it. There are no stars in its depths, but I can see the reflection of my face. A tired face, as if it had been stretched out like a silkscreen over and over again. An elastic band, overused. I breathe in the scent before I take a sip. I close my eyes. The black coffee is thick and smooth, and settles like sediment in my mouth. It's highly concentrated, finishing off with the slight aftertaste of cocoa or caramel maybe.
"It's good. Arabica?"
"Yes, these are fresh beans imported from Colombia and Brazil and planted here. We've built an air-tight simulated environment where coffee plants can be cultivated. One of the most massive climate controlled plantations in the world."
"I imagine that it's not here where I can see right?"
She smiles a little, her skin creasing around her lips. She's quite well-aged, and her make up is applied on lightly just enough to accentuate her high cheekbones and shapely nose. Her eyes carry a twinkle, but they seem to froth and shift erratically within. Like she has too many untold stories that threaten to overflow.
"You could see it if you'd like to."
"It's right here?"
"It is if you believe it is so."