Title: Myself

Published: October 29, 2012

Author: Ribbon

Target: Tezuka Kunimitsu

Default Name: Shui Fujika

Author's Note: Yes, finally. I realized that this has been sitting on the site for quite a while. My apologies.

II. MYSELF

Two: Leave Behind

A voice is something that is seldom heard.

But, for every voice, I believe that there is an ear. Just one ear will do: anything to hear out the burdens or pleas of a troubled mind.

For every voice, there is an ear, and for every ear, there is a mind that is being consoled by comfort. The ear will respond with a voice of its own. Praise, encouragement... the mind of a human being is small. Its expectations are easily surpassed.

If there is no ear, then there is no voice. No one will speak if no one is willing to listen.

A long time ago, I was an ear for more than one person. I heard out people who didn't have ears, and compensated for those who didn't have the ability to listen. I thought it would make a difference to them, and I'll never know if it did or not. But my unconscious desire to please others was never acknowledged in the slightest.

That was why I thought Tezuka was my ear. He listened to me without a second thought, and genuinely waited to hear my answer when he asked me a question. He came every day at precisely seven o'clock to listen to me talk over a cup of coffee—one that I had poured, but he had paid for. He would wait until Tsuwabaki caught me out before he began to read his book. And when he left, he always said goodbye.

This caliber of happiness was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Certainly, something changed.

- x -

My mother called again, following the week I'd called her. I got back from work on Monday just in time to answer the ringing phone.

"Hello? Mom?"

"Fujika, I just thought I'd call to confirm. Am I able to come next Tuesday?"

There was a kind of vibrancy in her voice that I hadn't heard for a long time. But then again, this had also been the first time she'd called in a long time, too. Most times it was left up to me to dial her number and pay the bills for calls filled with nothing but silence. She was taking the initiative.

The words to be exchanged by you and your mother may come more naturally than you think.

Maybe it wasn't that they came naturally. Maybe they had already been there, just waiting to be said.

"Sure. I finish work this Friday." I said.

"I see... so I can come?"

"Of course. I've been looking forward to it." I really had.

At that time, I wished I could have seen my mother's face. I hoped I was right to picture her smiling. Strong and smiling. "I have been, too." She said, sounding as if she was regaining the confidence she used to have. "I can be there on Tuesday evening."

"I'll be there to pick you up." I promised.

Some part of me unconsciously registered the change in my mother's voice when she said, "Good. I'll see you Tuesday, Fujika."

Her firmness made me believe that hiding somewhere inside my mother was a woman I used to know.

- x -

Friday was my last day at the café on shift before my two week break. That was the day Tezuka came in five minutes earlier than he usually did. He put the money for two cups of coffee on the edge of the table, waiting for me to arrive with a pot and two cups.

Today, he didn't have a book with him. I wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

"It almost feels like you're a different person." I said, amused, as I poured us a separate cup each. He took one cup, and I sat down in front of the other one. "What with arriving early and leaving books behind."

He was smiling. "A change is as good as a rest."

"There really is no limit to your knowledge of proverbs, is there?" I asked, returning the gesture. "I'll need all the proverbs I can get. I'm not sure how things will turn out when I take even a short break from this café."

It was his turn to be amused. "From the sound of it, the world outside the café is unfamiliar to you."

Sheepishly, I laughed. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not a bad thing." He said. "All bad things are stepping stones to a reformed future."

"That is, 'April showers bring May flowers.'" I said. "I'm learning quickly from you."

"Today is not the end of lessons, nor is it of work here." He said. "Perhaps you can use your time outside the café to think what it is you've been working towards all these years."

I blinked. "What I've been working towards?"

"We all have a goal that we aim to work towards."

I folded my arms over the table and looked mischievously at him. "And what would your goal be?"

Tezuka went silent. His smile did not vanish completely, but it faltered. His sudden reaction made me wonder if my words had hit a sensitive, undisclosed part of him. "Life is not meant to be brooded over, but we who have regrets do it instinctively." He said. "My only priority, as of now, is to finish what I have on my plate before I ask for more."

As he was speaking, his eyes fell to the steaming cup of coffee before him. He opted to take a sip as I sat there, silent. Wasn't this the first time Tezuka has said anything to affirm himself, rather than making me guess blindly?

When he noticed the absentminded look in my eyes, he lowered his cup and smiled over the rim of it. I couldn't decide whether his words from earlier were a good sign or a bad one.

"The fact that your boss hasn't rostered you on tomorrow doesn't overrule your liberty to come back for a morning cup of coffee." He said, as he saw Tsuwabaki coming out of the kitchen and detected a potential threat to our peaceful existence. "And if you aren't here tomorrow, then I will understand why."

Why... Was he asking me to skip over what was on my plate? Or was it something else?

He ended our little morning session with a smile. "I will not hold you up this time."

I wondered if those words had a meaning behind them, too.

- x -

I could only have wondered whether the meaning behind Tezuka's session that day was that "a change was as good as a rest," or if it was more than that.

Change. Dreams. Actions. And the arrival of my mother in a few days. I wondered if there was a link in particular that Tezuka had wanted me to explore. And I wondered if he was trying to encourage me to do something he never had the courage to do.

"My only priority, as of now, is to finish what I have on my plate before I ask for more."

The last thing I thought about when I graduated from high school was if my father made it to the place everyone said good people went to. He wasn't a hero in the greatest sense of the word, nor was he a man known by many; he was just another of the many that died every day. My greatest fear was that his lack of recognition on earth would lead to his lack of recognition in a higher place.

After that, I didn't have any dreams for the future. The only thing I had when I graduated was the self-reassurance that he was somewhere, and he was safe.

When I went home that night, and I attempted to decode Tezuka's words, something hit me.

I had never fully gotten over the way my father died. There were few people who needed to be informed of his death; his parents had passed away several years ago, and he had few friends outside of work. There were some who came to his funeral, but not many. Few needed to be invited to it in the first place. And hardly anyone took the time to lay a rose, or even a tear, at the bed of his grave.

I hated the way that no one cared. That was why I was never able to move on completely.

As I sank into a chair, I let my eyes stray across the photographs on the table—photos of my family when my father was alive; photos with my friends when my mother loved to capture memories; photos with everyone when I was happy with my life. There was an abundance in photos of a small girl, smiling shyly at the camera when she was by herself and widely when her father was there with her. Her happiness dwindled as she grew, and the appearance of her father in photos became rarer and rarer.

When my father was admitted to hospital, my mother gave up on taking photos of that would become nothing more than ill memories. It had been well worth it. The last photo I remembered my mother taking was of the first birthday I'd 'celebrated' without my father there.

I'd never told Tezuka more about me than I felt was necessary, but he could have just as easily guessed what kind of life I led. Had Tezuka's goal been to ease the anomalies resurfacing in my current life, or to prepare me for what lay ahead?

Tezuka was as much of a mystery as the dreams I'd buried within myself long ago. Four months of knowing him had barely scratched the surface of his passive façade.

I felt as if I had been seen through by the stranger named Tezuka Kunimitsu.

With my thoughts unsettled, sleep did not claim me easily that night.

- x -

I took up Tezuka's offer and went to the café the next day. In an attempt to surprise him, I aimed to make it there at precisely seven o'clock. He was amused when I walked in ten minutes later. Without looking at me directly, he said, "Time waits for no man."

"Enlighten me." I said as I sat down. I started to pull out money for a cup of coffee, since I wasn't on shift, but Tezuka gently pushed my hand away and brought out the money for two cups before I could protest.

"I challenged time to a race." Tezuka said. "Briefly, I won."

"Just briefly?"

"I wonder if time were to challenge me, time would win." He said.

Tsuwabaki was the one who served us. When she came to the table, she gave me a long stare. "I roster you off for two weeks, and you come waltzing back in the next day, whether you're the customer or the waitress." She said. "I have half a mind to make you sweep right now."

"Oh... I can—"

"No, Shui-san, that was just a bad joke. I'll stand by what I said." She sighed, pouring the both of us two cups of coffee. She collected the money in her hand and placed it back in front of Tezuka. "Here's your change."

He looked at the change. Then he looked at her.

"Today's on the house." Tsuwabaki said. "Enjoy the coffee while it lasts."

She left before I could thank her.

I picked up the coffee in my hands, glad to feel the warming up after the late fall chill had turned them blue, and smiled over the rim, as Tezuka had done yesterday. "Thank you for the coffee, Tezuka."

He smiled. And this time, it wasn't his usual. It was soft, but... "Always."

There was mellowness in his eyes. And it wasn't just warmth.

"Tezuka-san..."

"Fujika." He said, subtly transitioning from sadness to amusement. I almost didn't notice. "That was in your message. Am I wrong?"

The worries I had for Tezuka soon dissipated. "No. I don't think there will be quite a moment like when you're wrong, considering I've never seen it firsthand." I laughed a bit. "Have we ever had a conversation on anything less intellectual than books and human behavior? Save for my incompetence."

He smiled at that one.

- x -

Before I slept that night, knowing I was bound for another restless sleep, I received mail from Tezuka. I smiled when I read the words, "Good night."

I wondered if it was his attempt to end a conversation that we'd never started—the normal conversation that we would one day have—or if it was the ear telling the voice what it wanted to hear. I made sure to reply before sleeping.

His words eased my restless conscience for that night. And for the many nights that he continued to mail me good night, my mind remained at ease.

- x -

During our coffee session the following morning, Tezuka said to me, "Your mother comes on Tuesday."

"Yes." I said. "I'm picking her up from the airport that evening."

"Do you have plans before then?"

I willingly let a smile free. "Are you asking me to go somewhere with you?"

"A short trip across terra incognita." Tezuka said. "Preparation is a worthwhile experience: perhaps even more so than what you are preparing for."

"I think you're hinting at something."

He rewarded me with a smile, and a raised coffee cup. "To terra incognita."

I raised my cup, and we clinked them together—gently, for coffee cups weren't made to be clinked.

- x -

We met for our usual coffee session the next day, and Tezuka, as always, had something magical to say. That was, he spoke in a way normal people didn't. Speaking cryptically was almost like an art that was long-lost to literal and cultural changes. And yet, it was something that Tezuka revived in his everyday life. He was a man like no other.

Instead of returning to our daily lives after the session, the two of us walked outside the café together. Tezuka asked, "Where would you like to go?"

I smiled. A pleasantry. "Was I incorrect to assume that you had already planned today out?"

"You weren't." He said. "There is a place I would like to show you."

The skies were a hint that in the next few days, we would witness the first sight of snow. I saw past my mother's visit and realized that, soon, winter would be upon us. Here was to another year, I reflected, of cold, lonely nights in a dark apartment, remembering that December was the month in which my father had been buried. The first cascade of snow had hidden his coffin beneath a white blanket, and the Christmas lights strung up nearby gave the graveyard a spiritual glow closer to dark. On those nights, it almost felt like my father had woken up for my sake: to tuck me into bed like he used to, when I had fallen asleep in an attempt to meet Christmas Day with my own eyes.

In harmony with the minds of traditional atheists, Christmas held no meaning for me.

The place Tezuka took me to was a little way down the street from the café. Though I walked to work, this particular location was situated outside my usual route. That might have been the reason I hadn't known the Little Library existed.

It wasn't an old store, but the stories filling the shelves might have been. We were greeted by the shopkeeper, and, in turn, we greeted him. Tezuka, who was familiar with the shop, led the way through the center aisle.

Our path was intercepted by a man replacing books on the shelf by their spines. He was brooding over a selection of books, his eyes roving back and forth in a hypnotic motion, until he noticed that there were figures approaching him. He turned his head to us and blinked slowly. "Tezuka?"

"Ōishi." Tezuka said in response. I wondered if Ōishi was a friend or otherwise, based on the way Tezuka was speaking to him. It seemed as if they were merely acquaintances.

And yet, a smile eased on Ōishi's face. "I'm just browsing for a book. It's a bit early, but... while I was out; I thought I should stop by. I didn't think I would run into you. The world really is a small place."

The chuckle that followed Ōishi's words started to taper off when he noticed me standing there.

"Oh... I'm sorry." I said, bowing. "I'm Shui Fujika. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, the same here." Ōishi said, returning the gesture with less composure. Our formal introductions did not dismiss the bewildered look on his face. "I'm a friend of Tezuka's. My name is Ōishi Syūichirou. You are...?"

I blinked, initially unsure how to respond—especially with Tezuka standing right beside me. "We're..."

"Friends." Tezuka finished for me. "I wanted to show her something."

"Aren't you lea—"

Tezuka was quick to cut him off. "Ōishi."

Ōishi blinked. Then, upon glancing at me, he seemed to realize something. "Ah... I didn't realize. I'm sorry." He said, taking a step away from the section on the shelf he had previously been so fixated on. "At any rate, I should be going now. I might come back later to search for a read. Maybe you could find me a recommendation."

He nodded at Tezuka, and then gave me a small bow.

"I'll see you, Tezuka." He said. "And it was nice meeting you, Shui-san."

"You too, Ōishi-san." I said, bowing in return. He give us both a quick smile before taking his leave.

Tezuka followed Ōishi with his eyes to make sure his friend's retreating figure left the shop. Ōishi did not turn back and look at us.

"Kunimitsu-san, that was..."

"A friend." Tezuka said. He didn't linger on the topic, choosing instead to head deeper into the back of the store. I could not help but think that he was hiding something from me.

We arrived at a section of the book store where I found English titles engraved across the spines of leather-bound, aging books. Hoping to see Tezuka relax, I started a new topic. "This is..."

Slowly, he did. "I thought you might like it. There are quite a number of classics here."

I saw books by Ernest Hemingway... Nathaniel Hawthorne... Oscar Wilde... and remarked the diversity of the collection. To find this in the corner of an old book store was...

I caught Tezuka looked amusedly at my mystified face.

"I thought you might like it." He said, reaching forward to ease one of the books out from the shelf. I tried to read the title, but it was in a language I didn't recognize. "It's German. Durch einen Spiegel, in einem dunklen Wort."(1)

"I didn't know you spoke German." I said, impressed. "Just how many languages do you speak?"

He smiled, but did not speak.

"Then... I guess I'll take this one." I said, taking Poems and Prose: William Blake from the shelf.(2)

"I didn't know you were a fan of poetry, much less Blake."

I smiled, but did not speak.

- x -

What Ōishi had wanted to say to Tezuka was something that I could not begin to guess, based on the few hints I was given. The frown creasing his face, his anxious voice, and the guilt he possessed when he was cut off by Tezuka. What he had realized must have been something that Tezuka hadn't told me.

But I couldn't connect the dots if I didn't have any to start with.

I suppose that, in some sense, the ear never has to start a conversation. He never has to tell the voice what its worries are; its purpose is to listen, and comfort. In that sense, was I being unfair, or just abiding by stereotypes?

That night, I was the first to mail Tezuka.

"I had a lovely day today. And thank you for walking me home."

His reply came within moments. "You're always welcome. Good night, Fujika."

In turn, I wrote, "Good night, Kunimitsu-san."

Notes:

Durch einen Spiegel, in einem dunklen Wort: The German adaption of Jostein Gaarder's "Through the Glass, Darkly." The original title and book would have been in Norwegian, but let's just make it this for my sake, your sake and Tezuka's sake. I'm not a Jostein Gaarder fan, guys, but let's just pretend Tezuka is.

William Blake: Blake. Yes, I can talk about him. He was a British poet from the Romantic era. Some of his works include The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (c. 1790 - 1793), Songs of Innocence (c. 1789), Songs of Experience (c. 1789 - 1794), so... you guys may know The Poison Tree, The Echoing Green, A Divine Image, Proverbs of Hell, A Memorable Fancy, and so forth. I saw my chance to add him in, readers, and I took it. I'm sorry.

Princo & Ribbon

June 6, 2013.