2

with the final days of december looming, a strange pressure seemed to fill the air as the

inhabitants of kyoto made their preparations for the new year. everyone passing by the

kamogawa diner seemed preoccupied, their pace hastier than usual.

‘i did tell tae to be here at twelve sharp, you know,’ said nobuko, sitting at a table near the

entrance and occasionally glancing anxiously out of the window.

koishi laid a place mat in front of her, together with a set of cutlery.

‘she rang just now. says she had a visitor just as she was about to leave,’ said nagare, poking

his head in from the kitchen.

‘she could have just told them she had important business,’ grumbled nobuko.

‘nobuko, about today’s dish . . .’ began nagare, emerging from the kitchen and standing in

front of her. she looked up apprehensively and waited for him to go on.

‘i managed to track down the dish in question. but i want everything to be just as it was fifty-

five years ago. so, please imagine you just walked into that restaurant and placed your order.’

‘alright, i will.’ with an obedient nod, nobuko slowly closed her eyes, as if mentally turning

back the hands of a clock.

‘i’ll be making the dish today. dad made sure i got the recipe just right,’ said koishi, making

her way towards the kitchen. nagare, meanwhile, seated himself in front of nobuko.

‘you ate your stew at a restaurant named furuta grill. it’s down a narrow alley, nestled under

the leaves of a black locust tree. there’s a counter on your right as you walk in. you and the

gentleman in question would have sat there, side by side. he tells the chef your order. two bowls

of beef stew, please. the chef starts peeling potatoes and carrots, working away at a leisurely pace.

and you’re sitting here, waiting.’ nagare spoke slowly, in a low voice, almost as if he was trying

to hypnotize her.

‘but . . . how did you . . .’

‘well, it wasn’t just the beef stew i went looking for. i ended up retracing that whole day you

spent in kyoto.’

‘the whole day . . .’ said nobuko, gazing up at the ceiling.

‘winter, fifty-five years ago. i imagine it was a chilly day just like today. i believe you and this

gentleman would have arranged to meet at sanjo station on the keihan line. he probably wanted

to show you shimogamo shrine. these days, the train runs all the way to demachiyanagi, but

back then you had to walk north along the banks of the kamogawa.’

nagare unfolded a map of kyoto. nobuko leaned forward and watched as he traced their route.

‘ah, that’s right. we followed the river upstream. the conversation flowed so easily it seemed

hard to believe we’d never met in person before . . .’ nobuko was beginning to blush.

‘this is demachiyanagi. you probably made your way up onto the embankment here, then

headed into the tadasu forest,’ said nagare, running his finger across the green expanse that

unfolded above the y-shaped confluence of the takanogawa and kamogawa rivers. ‘that must be

the forest you remembered walking through.’

‘but i don’t remember it being so close to the city. i recall it being a wilder sort of forest than

that . . .’ said nobuko, cocking her head slightly.

‘oh, the tadasu forest is pretty wild. it’s virginal woodland – practically untouched,’ said

nagare, opening up a laptop and turning the screen towards nobuko. on it she could see the

vermilion torii gate of a shrine.

‘this is shimogamo shrine – the one you must have visited after your walk. it’s the only one

you’d reach in the way you described – after walking through a dense forest.’

‘but surely there must be other shrines you could arrive at through that forest?’ said nobuko,

her tone sceptical.

‘the two of you had been discussing the ten foot square hut, hadn’t you? in which case, it

would make sense for you to visit the shrine associated with that work – the shimogamo shrine.

there’s another reason, too. this gentleman you were with – you said you remembered him being

born in the year of the mouse, didn’t you? why would you remember that?’

‘oh, i can’t say i know. i imagine it was just something he told me . . .’ said nobuko, a

searching look in her eyes.

‘you can’t even remember the gentleman’s name, but you remember his zodiac animal. now, i

reckon that’s because it’s not his words you’re remembering, but an image: that of him praying to

the mouse god.’

‘the mouse god?’

‘shimogamo shrine is unusual, even for kyoto, in that you pray in different places depending

on your zodiac animal. there are seven little shrines, known as kotosha. five of them are

dedicated to two animals, and the other two just one. the mouse and the horse each get their own

shrine. that’ll be why you remember that he was born in the year of the mouse.’

‘ah, yes,’ said nobuko. ‘i remember walking up the gravel path and under the red torii gates,

expecting to find a big building where we’d pray, and instead there were all these little shrines . . .’

‘images like that never fade, do they?’

‘after we left the shrine, we carried on walking along side by side.’

it seemed nobuko’s memories were beginning to return. nagare watched her closely.

‘koishi,’ nagare called into the kitchen. ‘once you’ve put the roux in, bring the whole pot

through here, would you?’

‘when it’s almost ready, you mean?’ said koishi, bringing through the aluminium pot with a

handle, billowing with fragrant steam.

‘furuta grill had an open kitchen, so when you were sitting at the counter, you’d have been able

to smell something like this,’ explained nagare, holding the pot out towards nobuko.

‘ah . . . yes! that’s it. that’s how it smelled!’ said nobuko, her nose twitching.

‘it’ll be ready in fifteen minutes or so.’

after glancing at nobuko, who had closed her eyes, nagare signalled to koishi that she should

take the pot back to the kitchen.

‘now,’ he continued, ‘this is going to get a little personal, so please feel free to stop me at any

time.’

nobuko seemed to think for a moment, then nodded slowly.

‘last time you were here, and i showed you to the office, do you remember how you hesitated

slightly? when a client does that, it usually means the dish they’re looking for is associated with

someone they’d rather not remember.’

nagare stopped to take a sip of his tea. nobuko’s gaze was still fixed on the table.

‘tracking down the recipe for this beef stew in itself wasn’t too hard. it’s a well- known

restaurant, and various critics have written about the place. the route you were walking led right

to it. there’s just one thing that’s been bothering me. is it really right for me to track someone

down and tell you all about them, when it seems you’d rather forget?’

at this, nobuko looked up and gave a nod of approval.

‘his name was shigeru nejima. i asked one of the regular customers at furuta grill if they

remembered a kyoto university student with the character for “mouse” in his name. turned out

they did.’

‘shigeru nejima . . .’ said nobuko, a stunned look on her face.

for a moment, nagare looked her in the eye. then, as if regaining her senses, nobuko sat up in

her chair.

‘mr nejima was studying literature at the university. born and raised in kyoto. back then, he

lived in the shinnyodomae neighbourhood of kamigyo ward. you know, not far from the

imperial palace,’ said nagare, pointing at a map in his notebook.

‘but . . . how did you find all this out?’

‘actually, it was his daughter who filled me in.’

‘he has a daughter?’ said nobuko, her shoulders sagging slightly.

‘let’s go back fifty-five years, shall we?’ said nagare, quenching his thirst with another sip of

tea before he went on. ‘you and mr nejima met in december of 1957. in the early days of the

new year, he left japan for england.’

‘england?’

‘he was an exchange student there, then ended up staying on at the university. he was there

thirty-five years in the end, eventually rising to the rank of honorary professor. he married three

years after arriving and had a single daughter. his wife died of an illness five years ago, but even

after that he kept up his study of japanese literature – until his own death, a year ago. i suppose he

wanted to take you to london with him. you were living in yokohama at the time, so he didn’t

know if he’d get another chance to ask you.’

‘but . . . nagare, this is all just speculation, isn’t it?’

‘not exactly. see, his daughter was kind enough to let me read mr nejima’s diaries. it was all

there. he’d kept a diary from 1955 onwards. i imagine he wasn’t too keen on his wife reading it,

because he always kept it at his university office. his daughter found it after he passed away, when

she was sorting through his research materials.’

nagare smiled gently at nobuko. ‘of course, he didn’t go as far as recording the recipe for the

beef stew.’ he glanced at the clock on the wall, then turned back towards the kitchen.

‘i think i was just . . . afraid,’ said nobuko, choosing her words slowly, as though addressing

nejima himself. ‘the idea of happiness pitching up in my life like that all of a sudden – it terrified

me.’

‘sorry i’m late!’ said tae, panting as she burst into the restaurant.

‘ah, you’re just in time for the stew!’ called koishi from the kitchen.

‘someone popped by unannounced,’ explained tae, steadying her breathing as she adjusted the

neck of her kimono.

nagare brought the beef stew over and placed it in front of them.

‘oh, that does smell lovely,’ said tae, leaning forward. nobuko, meanwhile, remained

motionless and simply stared at the dish.

‘please, enjoy it while it’s hot.’

they did as nagare suggested, each pressing their palms together in appreciation before

reaching for their knife and fork.

koishi came out from the kitchen and stood alongside nagare. they watched keenly as the two

women tucked in to the food.

nobuko began by trying a piece of beef, which she chewed slowly for a moment before nodding

deeply.

‘oh yes. this is exactly how it tasted.’

‘phew!’ said koishi, then clapped her father on the shoulder. ‘good job, dad!’

‘the broth is very delicate,’ said tae, beaming. ‘but it has a wonderfully rich flavour. i imagine

you took a great deal of care with the demi-glace sauce.’

‘a famous food writer once said the beef stew at furuta grill tastes almost like pot-au-feu, but i

actually think it’s a little different. i imagine they were referring to that delicateness you just

mentioned, which comes from using a light tomato-based demi-glace rather than the usual thicker

kind. the meat is pre-cooked in stock and quickly simmered with port wine. put it in a pot with

the vegetables, add the demi-glace and cook everything down, and this is the result. if you just

chuck the vegetables in with the beef from the start, they lose their shape and all the flavours get

confused. but do it furuta-style and the sauce will simply coat the meat. that way, the umami

from the beef and the flavour of the demi-glace only come together once they’re in your mouth.’

there was a note of pride in nagare’s voice.

‘dad, i tried some, and – wow!’ whispered koishi in his ear.

‘what did you expect? i went all out with this one!’ he murmured back.

nobuko and tae chatted away, leisurely enjoying their meal. when they’d finished, nagare

joined them again.

‘now, i believe this stew will have tasted differently to each of you.’

‘what do you mean?’ said tae, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

‘well, unlike you, nobuko sat here for half an hour waiting for her meal. all that time spent in

anticipation can only have added to the flavour. i think the “spice” of nostalgia has been at work

today.’ nagare gazed kindly at nobuko.

‘where was mr nejima laid to rest?’ asked nobuko, a slight blush coming to her cheeks.

‘konkai komyoji temple. he died in december of last year. it was a cold day, i’m told.’

hearing this, nobuko pursed her lips. ‘i acted so rudely back then. and now i’ll never be able

to apologize . . .’

‘oh, it was just a misunderstanding,’ sighed koishi.

‘i suppose we should be on our way,’ said nobuko, extracting her purse from her handbag,

perhaps as a way of steadying her emotions.

‘we let our clients choose the fee. just transfer whatever feels right to this account,’ said

koishi, handing her a slip of paper.

‘that was a wonderful beef stew,’ said tae, bowing to nagare, who grinned back.

‘i’m glad it was to your liking. though i imagine there was a little more “spice” at work in

nobuko’s dish . . .’

‘thank you very much,’ said nobuko as she and tae left the restaurant.

‘oh, i almost forgot,’ said nagare, reaching into the pocket of his white chef’s jacket. ‘i have a

little something for you.’ he pulled out a white envelope the size of a small book. ‘mr nejima’s

daughter sent me these.’

nagare extracted two handkerchiefs from the envelope and showed them to nobuko.

‘oh, my . . .’ gasped nobuko.

‘it seems you left one of these in that restaurant fifty-five years ago. the other one is a present

mr nejima had been planning to give you. it’s swatow lace, i believe – beautiful, isn’t it? the

design is titled “the disc of the moon” – apparently it was inspired by the poem “midnight song”

by the tang-era poet li bai. i looked it up, and it turns out it’s about longing for someone who’s a

great distance away. mr nejima tried sending it to your family home, together with the one you

left in the restaurant, but they refused to accept it. you must have been out at the time. and so he

never managed to reconnect with you . . .’

nagare returned the handkerchiefs to the envelope and handed it to nobuko.

‘thank you.’ she gripped the envelope tightly. as she stared in surprise at the sender’s name, a

single tear made its way down her cheek.

‘oh, my. what a tasteful gift,’ said tae, dabbing at her eyes with her own handkerchief.

tae and nobuko slowly made their way off down the street. koishi and nagare stood in front of

the restaurant and watched them disappear from view.

back in the restaurant, they finished cleaning up, then set about preparing dinner.

‘i saw the envelope, dad. i can’t believe he named his daughter nobuko!’ said koishi as they

made their way into the living room. ‘i hope you didn’t have some lover in the past who you

named me after . . .’

‘oh, come on. it’s your mother all the way for me. right, kikuko?’ nagare turned and smiled at

the portrait on the altar.

‘mum, don’t let this guy fool you. you never know with men!’

‘see, koishi, this is why you still can’t find a husband.’

‘not can’t, dad – don’t want to. have you seen the men out there? they’re all useless!’

‘oh, shush. time to get supper ready. can’t keep your mother waiting. beef stew and wine was

always one of her favourite meals. wasn’t it, kikuko?’

‘dad, wait – what? that wine looks super expensive!’

‘well observed.’

‘how did you even afford it?’

‘a certain client paid us very handsomely for our services.’

‘well, i can’t wait to taste it. what’s it called? not that i’ll recognize the name . . .’

‘it’s a château mouton rothschild. from the year your mother was born – 1958. apparently

dalí did the drawing on the label. expensive, but cheaper than the ’59. nothing too lavish. it cost

about the same as that laptop i got you.’

‘what? you mean a single bottle cost a hundred thousand yen?’

‘so what if it did? your mother never properly splashed out on things, you know.’

‘you know, dad, you can be a bit drastic sometimes.’

‘well, today’s the anniversary of your mother’s death. don’t tell me you forgot?’

‘of course not. here you go, mum,’ said koishi, untying a bouquet of flowers. ‘christmas

roses. her favourite.’ she placed them on the small table in front of the altar.

‘getting a bit chilly, isn’t it?’ said nagare, looking out of the window.

‘would have been nice if the first snow had fallen today. mum loved the snow, didn’t she?’

koishi turned towards the altar and closed her eyes, pressing her palms tightly together.