It's hot today.
He will be irritable, more so than usual. Already I can see the blue blaze that will smolder behind those ridiculous purple sunglasses, the ominous twitching of the black eyebrows above them, while he bides his time, waiting for the slightest provocation.
It will be a small thing that sets him off – a single bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, raising gooseflesh in its wake, or a lazy fly beating its wings somewhere nearby, its monotonous, droning hum wearing at his already-frayed nerves. Or perhaps his partner will breathe just so; a bit of his hot breath will stir the fine hair on his arm, and he'll snap. What will happen at that point, I prefer not to anticipate. No doubt it will cost me a small fortune.
How nostalgic.
He was not so volatile. We, together, we were not so predictably unpredictable. Smooth, cool, self-possessed – he and I were testaments to professionalism.
But this was nostalgic because der Kaiser hated the heat. Loathed it.
"Let's go," he would say in the summers, impatient, tetchy. "Munich. Vienna. Moscow, for God's sake. Someplace else."
Always, I persuaded him to stay. This was Tokyo, I argued, this was the place for a recovery business. The idea was born here. The best market was here. Pulling up stakes now would mean months of minor cases, of bad pay, of those silly fliers, and a thousand other indignities too mean for the likes of talented, steady professionals like us.
I regret it now, of course, because I could have listened to him. I could have taken him away from here, away from her and from that evil place that lurks on Shinjuku's horizon. If I had, if I had been a little less professional and a little more impulsive, he might be here. Life might have been very different.
They stroll in. He looks like his father, melting like a candle in the heat. His nostrils are flared, his brow lowered dangerously. He is half-crazed with discomfort. It is slow torture; but it maddens him to the point of violence. Shoving past his partner – who glows with a healthy sheen of sweat, despite his troubled expression – he flings himself into a booth, panting, waxy-faced and wet.
His partner stands before the door and takes a long, slow breath, shrugging at me. I point at a pitcher of water and two glasses, already prepared for them. (Some say there is no point in delaying the inevitable. I think the longer my establishment remains intact, the better.) He nods appreciatively and takes the proffered items to the booth.
His ungrateful companion shoots an ugly glare at the pitcher, at me, at the calmer, more stable man across the table. He mutters darkly to himself, but pours a glass and gulps it down anyway. Not until he's drunk his fill does his partner even attempt to quench his own thirst. Perhaps he too hopes to postpone the unavoidable.
I don't bother trying to converse with them. The one is undeniably miserable and cantankerous, the other conscientiously walking on eggshells, so as not to provoke the dozing giant. And he looks miserable too.
I cannot help but pity him, so I reach down for the sweet, chilled apples in the miniature refrigerator beneath the counter. I hold a pair up and mime throwing them; his eyes brighten and he raises his hands.
A good throw and a decent catch later, the two of them tear into their respective fruits. He eats with relish, the other with a peculiar vindictiveness.
I almost feel sorry for the apple.
He ate them more elegantly, even in the heat, and behind my glasses I roll wearied eyes. He hasn't half his father's class, I decide with an internal snort, whatever his skills may be. Coarse and ill-tempered, and prone to pettishness, he is but a very poor shadow of my old friend.
Half-formed guilt wells within, and I press it back into the secret recesses of my soul, where a number of old hurts fester, unseen, unknown to any but myself.
I watch them from behind a newspaper. Poor shadow or not, he looks very like his father, especially now, while I am musing over old memories. And his partner, open-faced, sincere, surprises me, because behind his wide, honest eyes, there is a concealed worry that reminds me of my own younger days, when I looked at der Kaiser and wondered what became of such powerful, driven entities.
But even as they devour my generosity, a softness comes into those wide eyes, a softness of deep understanding and affection, and I find myself regretting my harsh judgment. He can't help it, and as his partner doesn't seem to resent the crudity or the violence, I suppose I have no call to, either. Besides, it isn't as if his father were around to model his polish or his reserve.
He couldn't; his partner hadn't been able to protect him from the evil things on the horizon. Watching our successors now, I wonder if his son's partner will have better luck. Doubtful, but I have been wrong before.
I hope I am now.