A Portrait of Shinjuku, Keng Xiong

117 FICTION A PORTRAIT OF SHINJUKU Keng Xiong

rendezvous: entering a thundercloud —Miyako Yagi

The distant typhoon just begins to hit Shinjuku, Japan, low winds raging songs through one half ofthe eastern island. The sky flashes green and purple as people scurry with umbrellas, rushing past the opening of an alleyway where a restaurant inhabits a slice of the corner. The space is small and compact, but the window is a spectacle. Its huge expanse fills the entire wall and creates the livelihood of space. The frame is intricately designed with golden flora and dark green curtains that drape over potted ferns. Inside this frame, the ceiling lights of this family-owned Japanese restaurant slowly wane as a young woman, Mari, grips a crooked broom and alcohol wipes. The white lights hug her small silhouette, dancing as it shines against the white backdrop. She is hunched over small tables smelling of lemon-scented wipes. Her eyes and nose water as strands of hair cover her face. Mari sits in this radiating silence as she takes out the airport ticket to America, her hands tightly pinching the piece of paper. She frowns and puts the ticket on the table. She looks out the window to where people are scurrying away under the glowing lanterns, their heads buried in raincoats flapping in the wind, and it is here that she hears the slap of shoes on cement. Mari tugs the ticket into her pockets and clutches the broom. She already knows who it is before the door opens.

The glass chimes tinker as he bursts in laughing, the outside storm rattling the store for a moment before he’s on the ground on all fours, heaving

deep breaths. Asahi’s clothes are slack with rain, his entire body shivering. His dark hair presses against his head; his black suit, peppered with paint, slinks around his small frame. He clutches his left arm, which is in a cast, and grins like a dog. She grabs the dustpan and goes behind the counter.

It’s almost ten, she says.

I thought I told you, he says as he begins to unbutton the outer layer of his shirt. His undershirt is folded against his torso. He uses his right arm but struggles with unbuttoning. Mari goes over to help him. He smells of sweet candy.

I just finished the last set designs for the children’s theater.

Loosening the last of his buttons, she glances at Asahi; he flinches against her touch, his hands gripping the hem of his shirt. His hands are covered in specks of black paint, matched with a silver glitter that flits across his face. His backpack, which spills forth empty soda cans and paint bottles, rests with his large plastic portfolio. It reminds Mari of times running back from school under the quiet Tokyo showers, his laughter upholding a gray sky. Now, he was shivering—drenched—with laughter as he did in elementary school; it was hard to believe that he was older than her by two years. She hides her smile.

Well, he says as his dance shoes clack on the tiles, Got anything left to eat?

I thought you were finished with painting, she says as she folds his shirt. And why are you wearing your suit in this sort of weather?

Well, I guess you could say I received a new job deal, but you know, the kids thought it was a good fit, he says, ignoring the first half of the question. He approaches the marble countertop, hanging his coat on the coat rack, as Mari rummages through the mini fridge. She takes out the untouched pound cake, mochi, slices of fruit, and carrot cake, all covered in plastic wrap.

Well, it certainly doesn’t suit you, she says as she grabs the leftover bits and places them back inside the glass display case. Asahi crouches and peers through. His eyes are the same deep brown as their mother, almost black, but his smile is a bit wider. As he stands, she hands him a rag.

Wipe yourself. You’re getting water all over the place.

Asahi chuckles to himself, his smile widening as he wipes his neck. He stares intently at the food as Mari notes his necklace, tangled and rusty, a gift from their father. It matched her own, but she never wore hers except during special occasions.

What’s fresh, he says. Or edible.

She simply shrugs and picks the thin slice of carrot cake. He reaches over and takes a piece of persimmon from the plastic cup. She places the rest of the food in the fridge and runs water into the teakettle. He is still standing there, waddling back and forth where a puddle has formed, his hand in his pocket.

Take a seat, she says. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but he just nods and walks to the corner table, next to the picture of the springs of Mt. Fuji he had drawn in pre-school. The lights flicker as distant winds push against the silence of the restaurant, growing louder each second. Mari gathers the cake onto a large glass plate and walks over to Asahi who stares at the painting. She slides the plate to him and leans against the opposite table.

Thanks, he says as he picks another slice of persimmon. After a slight pause, the persimmon dangling on his lips, he touches the frame of the landscape, his eyebrows furrowed. I thought you took down all the paintings…Of mine, at least.

But Mari stands staring at the ceiling fan, counting the amount of times it spins. She doesn’t want to speak, so she doesn’t. But she can see that he wants to by the way he nibbles on his food, the way he eyes the scribbled splotches of paint on canvas. He picks at the cake, the clink of silverware on ceramic is the only sound other than the storm.

What would you know? It’s pretty good, he says, overcompensating with a giant bite.

Made it in the morning, she says. She goes over to turn off the ceiling fan and walks over to the window, curling her hands around the curtain. The view of the street corner darkens as the clouded skies rush in. The sound of the rain grows louder as large splotches pelt the window. She stares at the sky, a gloomy shade of purple and gray. Typhoons never reached the heart of Tokyo.

Raining pretty hard, he says. I thought I would catch the bus later.

There doesn’t seem to be many people out, she says as she stares intently at the empty walkway.

I wonder when the rain will stop.

I kind of like it, Mari says as she places her hand onto the cold glass. She looks at his blurred reflection in the window. It reminds her of the days when they would sit in the restaurant after hours, counting money on the table, shouting over who was right. Except now the chords of high-pitched shouts were replaced with his chewing, and eventually the sound of silverware clinks its last note.

Hey, I got something for you, Asahi says. She walks back curiously. Here, he says, grabbing her hand. It’d be great if you could come. He places a golden ticket into her palm. It’s just down the street, remember? At seven in the morning, like usual, he says. If you’re there early, they’re handing out free drinks.

When they were young, they had always snuck out early for the free snacks, a morning ritual they had when their father once painted for the playbills. The first few people received them—original works—signed from the main cast. Asahi had kept them all.

Mari looks at him. His hair is still damp and shaggy, his thin lips crusted with cake crumbles. She notices for the first time that his eyes are red and puffed, as if he hasn’t slept for a long time.

You aren’t sick, are you? She asks as she clenches the ticket, her eyes on Asahi’s painting of Mt. Fuji their father had adored so much. Anyways, I’m not six anymore, she says as she hands him the ticket. She can see his smile slowly wane. Thanks, but I wouldn’t even be able to make it.

The sound of the kettle screeches. She quickly moves over to the stove and pours the hot water into a brown mug, scooping matcha into the water. The sound of the storm becomes overbearing, like a bag of stones hitting cement. The winds shake the restaurant and bang a distant shutter. Mari looks out the window where water begins to flood the sewage. Asahi taps the bell on the table. Mari looks at him.

I—I made a portrait, he says. It’ll be on the cover of the playbill. She goes over with the cup of matcha and places it onto the table. So, you haven’t given up? she says as she slides the mug over to him.

No. Well I . . . It’s all right, he says as he fakes a smile. They told me it was just as good as Dad’s. But . . . they probably did it out of . . . out of, you know?

As she sits, the lights suddenly flicker off, leaving only the black outline of his body.

Asahi, stop pitying yourself, Mari says as she gets up. You’re starting to sound a lot like Mom. She goes to flip the light switch, but it doesn’t turn on. She opens a drawer behind the counter and grabs a flashlight. It doesn’t work. She opens the backdoor that leads into a small room filled with a stubby little desk that occupies the corner, next to the single shoebox-sized window and her rolled up sleeping mattress.

Ah, so this is where you’ve been, Asahi says from behind her. Comfortable.

Hey, it’s only been five days, she says as she goes over to her backpack. You should have heard Aunt when I said I wanted to sleep in here. She unzips the front pocket and grabs the batteries and stuffs them inside the flashlight. He comes in and looks around. Her two suitcases are lined against the side. The room used to be full of boxes, stuffed and trashed away. Now only a couple remain in the corner of the room.

It’s been a while, he says as he looks at the walls filled with various photos he had taken, but Mari just pretends to work on the batteries. See, he smiles, told you I can take good pictures. Then he glances at the door leading to the alleyway.

Can we go back into the alley? Can it still open? It’s storming, she says. You know, typhoon? It’s barely sprinkling, he says. Have you even been outside today?

Mari looks at him and unlatches the bolts of the door. She turns the rattling doorknob as a cool breeze floods the room. The wind whips her hair across her face, but then it softens. The alleyway is empty except for the riveting streams of water and the smells of heavily rotten fruit and butts of

cigarettes. On the wall, graffiti covers half of the opposing building. Asahi takes a folding chair and places it underneath the flapped roof. The sound of thunder rumbles and Mari goes back into the room to grab her umbrella. And before deciding not to, she goes back to the dining room where his portfolio is leaning against the door. When she returns, Asahi has a sketch pad on his lap, his right hand violently shaking as he scribbles onto the paper.

Mari leans against the brick wall, his portfolio in her hands. He’s humming a slow melody. The rain begins to pick up again, but they stay like that. The world around them invites their senses: the distant whir of cars, the fragrant pile of garbage bags filled with cherry blossoms, and the empty street vendors wrapped with plastic. She looks at the spot where she had thrown the glowing lightbulb all those years ago after an argument with their father. Like scorched earth, it had blackened against the wall, the glass splintering onto the street, fracturing their trust. She still regretted it, never having said sorry.

How did you like it? The paintings, she says as she stares at the ground. His gaze is on her. The ones you painted for the theater.

A moment passes.

They were fine, I guess, he says, but he doesn’t look up. Nothing big though.

And the portrait? she says. Nothing like Dad’s original, you know. She frowns.

Can I look? she says as she lifts the plastic. Asahi just shrugs and continues to scribble into his sketch pad. It is slight, but his left arm clenches into a fist.

She unzips the folder and sees a large piece of work. She unearths a large acrylic portrait of a woman with her hair a fiery red, the tag on the painting reads: Frame in Wildfire. It is colored in a rich purple and red, and in the middle, neon colors meld the canvas. But she can see it, the large buildings, the trains, and the way he has drawn it on the face of a woman.

Hey, when did you draw this? she asks as she holds it up. He glances forward.

Oh, I don’t know, a while ago, he says. Dad wanted me to finish it for him.

Who is it? What do you mean? The woman—she looks familiar. I don’t know what you’re talking about. It reminds me of Dad’s portrait. A pause.

Put it away, Asahi says as he stops drawing. Let’s not talk about it… please.

Mari places the portrait into the plastic and heads back into the restaurant. She forages the fridge and returns with two heated meat buns—the plastic still hot—and hands him one. As he takes the bun, she glances at his sketch pad.

So, tell me more about the show. You know, what’s it about, she says as she leans back.

I thought you said you didn’t want to come.

I said I couldn’t, not that I don’t, she says as she pinches the soft skin of the dough.

Well, it’s my last show, so I’ll just be watching. I’m not sure about the specifics, but I was able to paint the set pieces and the playbill. Oh, by the way, do you still have Mom’s pictures I asked for? I mean, is it here?

Mari looks at him, his eyes lingering on his sketchpad.

Mom? she asks. Yeah, I just placed them into a few boxes. Mari stares at Asahi, where the red hue of the street outlines his head until a flash of lightning crackles through the air and a single drop of water from the roof makes him flinch. He shivers in his thin clothes. Mari tosses him her meat bun.

I’m getting cold, she says and heads back into the room, grabbing the lantern on top of the desk. She lights a candle as he follows in behind her. She throws him a thin blanket and drops some cardboard boxes onto the ground.

Many of the them contain empty picture frames that were supposed to be hung on the bare walls of the restaurant. She kneels on the sleeping bag and sets the last box in front of her.

Here’s everything from the restaurant that Aunt packed away, she says as she takes the things out.

Asahi sits across from her and touches the frames. She hands them to him, and when she gets to the bottom, she sees it.

Hey, I think I found something, she says as she rips open the film of plastic. He moves toward her as she lifts the canvas from the large cardboard box. It spans the length of the desk. It looks like it had been in there for a long time. Asahi wipes the surface layered with dust. She knows as soon as she opens the film. It is the painting they used to hang on the wall, directly across from the window. The frame is lit with neon lights. She plugs the cord into the wall and the painting lights up. Its purple neon cuts across the room. The dark shadows in the corners now emblazoned with pink. It is the very first sign that had accompanied the restaurant, the sign they had helped their father create. The painting was of the city, of the way in which it became brighter when one looked from further away—it was of their mother, a single figure amid Shinjuku. Alone with the world.

Asahi is quiet as he stares at the painting. On the sign there is a yellow sticky note sprawled with handwriting—their father’s. Asahi puts his right hand into his pocket and leaves the room with his own portfolio. She hears him pacing before he throws it onto the floor. Mari snaps the post-it note from the paint, leaving a clean rectangle among the dust. She sits back down and stares at the piece of paper. Mari had thought their mother had thrown away all the paintings, but did she forget about this one? Asahi returns with his black suit jacket in his hand, the edges tearing at the seams. The residual paint smudged his hands. Asahi unplugs the cord and sits across from her, the light slowly fading. With a deep breath, he takes out his phone. She looks at the window above her and the wedge of musky light wandering through the opaque shades. It’s like she can almost see the familiar picture as the phone in his hand reflects across his face. After a minute, he shoves it back into his pocket and closes his eyes.

Asahi, Mari says as she crumples the piece of paper. She looks at him, her eyes fully adjusted to the dark. Why did you come back? His body tenses. I thought you said you were leaving. With Mom.

What do you mean? he says. You’re leaving, so I thought you’d like company. A pause.

You don’t have to stay, Asahi. He goes quiet as he kneads his left arm. I’ll be back, she says. But maybe not right away. She looks at his portfolio near the doorway and sighs deeply. I just need a break, you know. But you, why did you quit? Why did you leave? You know how much Dad loved it when you painted.

He bites his lip. I’m sorry, he whispers. But I can’t do it, Mari. I’ve never been able to. Mari takes the portrait from the table.

I remember, she starts, how Dad smiled when you said you wanted to be like him. When we woke up every morning, the first in line, and you came home stuffing playbills into your box. When you first signed up for art school, she said, her voice shaking. When you didn’t come back.

Asahi closes his eyes.

I-I’m not quitting, he says. I just, I can’t be the one who takes it. Aren’t you the one leaving now?

Mari places the painting into his hand, gazing at his face, a dark blur. She lightly puts her hand onto his left arm. He stops shaking. She grips his hand, looking at the portrait of Shinjuku.

I’ll always be with you, Asahi, she says, and though she is leaving, she really means it. Though maybe it is a bit selfish to say it only to him. With a deep breath, she smiles, unwavering this time. Just be yourself—that will always be enough. *

Asahi leaves the room with the box and enters the dining area. The room is still dark, but light trails softly from the window. He grabs his things from the table and takes a cold sip from the mug. He stares at the ticket on the table—his only ticket. He reaches the door and puts the broken umbrella into

the box along with his backpack. He realizes that it has stopped raining, and the only sound is the heavy sigh of his breath.

The sky has turned into a shade of brilliant purple as he listens to the quiet city murmur every so often, only faint traces of daily life seeping through—flickering lights and stagnant trains. He takes out the umbrella and feels his shoes squish wading through puddles. It’s sprinkling, and a few cars pass him. He walks across the intersection and wipes his face with his shirt as a gust of wind pushes against him. Before he is too far, he looks behind him— back through the restaurant window where Mari, his younger sister, exits the backroom.

She goes to the table where Asahi had been. The lights are still off. As she picks up the plate and untouched mug from the counter, the single ticket is still there, golden and shining. She looks out the window, and it is at the corner where he waits, that Mari sees Asahi’s blurred figure in the droplets of rain. His face is lit by the pink light radiating from the side of the train station. It deepens the crimson outline that masks his face and cuts across his cheek. His umbrella trails on the wet ground, emblazoning neon pink colors onto his path. It is the only light in the world before the lights of the restaurant flicker back on, and the reflection is replaced with her own. A young woman framed in gold—her small mouth, her hair cutting beneath her shoulders, and the white backdrop of the bare wall. The rain speckles her cheeks like diamonds dotting her face. She clutches the ticket he left behind.

“Thank you.”

The sound of rain drowns out, fading into the familiar quiet of the Tokyo sector where Asahi, her older brother, walks away from Shinjuku.