Page 13 of The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop

Sometimes such emotions became so intense, Shingo was unable to suppress them.

On more than one occasion, he found himself throwing a tantrum in front of other people.

But then, the next moment, he would forget why he was so angry.

And that was what infuriated him the most. As each day passed, his memory only became worse, never improving.

What’s more, he knew that his memories were there.

No, perhaps it was more accurate to say that he wanted to believe that they were still there.

In any case, no matter how hard he tugged at them, he couldn’t seem to bring them to the surface of his mind.

And right now, a rush of this familiar frustration was coursing through him.

As usual, Shingo silently bowed to the young lady whose name was apparently Matsumoto as she handed him the tray of food.

He turned around to look for a table. Behind him, a male worker came out from the back of the kitchen.

‘Are you okay, Mai?’ he asked the young lady, to which she replied, ‘I’m fine.

’ Then, she added, ‘It happens all the time.’ Naturally, Shingo had no idea that this conversation was taking place.

The canteen was noisy with chattering voices and laughter.

Shingo, however, seated himself at an empty table, and began working through the dishes in silence.

Once he was finished, he joined his hands together over the empty bowls and plates, giving a bow as he quietly expressed his appreciation for the meal.

Returning his tray to the counter, he made his way to the washstand at the corner of the canteen and scrutinised himself in the mirror.

All clear. His beard was well groomed, and his cap looked clean.

He would brush his teeth after eating. Oh, but I mustn’t forget to take my medicine, he reminded himself.

But now, Shingo was confused. Had he eaten his breakfast? He could ask someone. But who? No, he thought to himself. Surely there was a way he could check. Then, his eyes landed on the serving counter, as well as a board stating that breakfast time had finished.

Right. Breakfast was over. I would have eaten, then. I must have.

At that moment, the same young lady from before stepped out of the counter.

Noticing Shingo, she waved at him. Maybe because of her youth, her smile was blindingly radiant.

Shingo felt inclined to pull up the corners of his lips in response.

It was a weak, reserved smile he’d never show in front of the mirror, but of course, he had no way of knowing that.

Finished with their meals, about half of the residents stayed on the ground floor and headed to the lounge, where there was a large television.

While they appreciated that the volume of this television was set to a comfortable level, what the residents enjoyed the most was that the on-screen text was big enough to be easily legible, even for their aged eyes.

They usually watched travel shows, music programmes featuring classic hits, or shows about strategies for playing Go or Shogi.

When a sumo tournament was taking place, the television was tuned to that channel for the entire duration of the matches, which ran from the afternoon to 6 p.m.

On that day, however, the programme being shown on this big screen was a documentary from abroad, the US, to be exact. It was about the iconic Highway 66, or Route 66. Noticing this, Shingo scanned around for an empty seat at the front and made his way over to claim it.

Route 66 was the first national highway connecting the Midwest and the West Coast. It was also famously depicted in Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath , which was later adapted into a film.

According to the documentary, around the time the novel was published, a pair of giraffes from Africa were transported across the continent, travelling from New York Harbour to Los Angeles along this route.

The first half of the programme focused on such stories about the road.

But as it progressed into the second half, it illustrated how Route 66 began to decline and lose its purpose around 1990, following the completion of the new Interstate Highway System.

It’s the same everywhere , thought Shingo.

As highway systems and bullet trains continued to develop, he began hearing the phrase ‘unprofitable local rail lines’ more and more.

And with the privatisation of the national railway, lines jointly managed by private and public sectors known as the ‘third-sector railway’ emerged, driving many routes to closure.

Such changes were probably closely related to an inevitable force like government policies, or the way the times were headed, but Shingo couldn’t put a finger on how to describe it.

After Japan’s first steam locomotive began operating between Shimbashi and Yokohama in 1872, rail transport quickly became a part of everyday life.

But maintaining something that people have come to take for granted was not as easy as it seemed.

If only the world knew that certain things were not meant to be measured by metrics like efficiency and profitability.

As these thoughts crossed Shingo’s mind, he found himself clenching his fists on his lap.

The programme was coming to an end. The song playing over the credits was the perfect choice: ‘Route 66’ by Nat King Cole. No other option could have been conceivable. This is what I’ve been waiting for , Shingo thought, and once again squeezed his fists.

‘Route 66’ was a song he would never forget.

It was filled with memories of Yuriko. The hope of hearing this song was what kept him glued to the television instead of returning to his room.

Back in their youth, the two of them would listen to artists like Nat King Cole, Bobby Darin, Frank Sinatra and Paul Anka.

This was a time when terms such as ‘dance hall’ were still in fashion.

Shingo reminisced – about taking Yuriko’s hand in his right hand and placing his left hand on her waist. As they swayed to the rhythm of the music, Shingo began to think that now was the only time to say it.

Even Nat King Cole seemed to be urging him on as he sang, ‘Won’t you get hip to this timely tip? ’

‘I want to marry you.’

Without any hesitation, Yuriko said okay. For a while, she buried her face in Shingo’s chest as though she was trying to hide her expression from him. Then, she suddenly pulled away and lifted her head.

‘Promise me one thing.’

Yuriko’s lips moved slowly and assuredly. Shingo nodded at her words.

What did she say to him?

That feeling of urgency started to build in his chest again. He needed to find out. He needed to find out now, before it was too late. Something was telling him that he was running out of time, as though he was counting down to a fast-approaching departure time.

But Shingo didn’t know any more than that. If anything, it felt like his anxiety was pushing the few remnants of his memories out of his mind. Eventually, he found himself unable to remember what it was that he was trying to remember. He didn’t even know what he’d been thinking about.

Shingo wished that somebody would help him. He wished that his wife would hold his hand. But looking around, there wasn’t a familiar face in sight. Everyone in the room wore a blank expression as they gazed mindlessly at the screen.

Why am I not at home?

What is this place?

Where is Yuriko? Who is minding our daughter?

The train I’m driving … what time is it departing?

Before he knew it, Shingo was sitting with his body leaned forward and his hands cradling his head.

He could feel his heart beating faster. Opening his mouth, he noticed how dry his throat had become.

It even made him wonder if he might just end up turning into a withered corpse, right there on the spot.

Thinking this, Shingo was suddenly overcome with fear.

Unable to bear it any longer, he let out a scream.

He kept crying into his knees, squeezing out noises that were incomprehensible even to himself.

Everyone’s eyes turned on Shingo, but he would not have noticed. Then, he heard hurried footsteps approaching. Judging from the sound, it was clear that this wasn’t the pace of an elderly person. Words like ‘What’s happening?’ and ‘Well, it’s this gentleman…’ were exchanged.

When he realised that someone’s hand was patting his back, Shingo finally came back to his senses.

‘What’s wrong, Grandpa? Are you all right?’

Shingo looked up to find a name in front of him. It said ‘Matsumoto’. As his eyes skimmed over the name, he thought: This surname only has a small number of strokes. As he wrote out the kanji characters in his head, mentally confirming the stroke order, a bit of clarity returned to him.

‘My name is Kikukawa. You have no right calling me “Grandpa”.’

He hadn’t meant to say them out loud, but the words had already escaped him. This wiped the smile off the face of the worker named Matsumoto. It somehow made Shingo feel a pang of guilt, and he instinctively said, ‘Sorry,’ although he didn’t really know what he was apologising for.

The group of elderly people who had been watching from a distance gradually started to turn away. Some sat back down in front of the television, others disappeared down the corridor, and a few gathered together and opened the glass door to head out to the courtyard.