sora niwa naisho no hanashi dayo
Some notes were too high for this oddball, who was totally unfazed by his inability to hold a tune. The bar owner listened to him with her arms crossed, apparently pleased by this little show for an audience of two.
I was dismayed to discover that I’d inadvertently wandered into a karaoke bar for the lonely.
After a ridiculous polka-beat climax, the gray-haired man sat down again with the expression of someone lost in some very murky musings.
I picked up a handful of nuts to take the edge off my hunger before having a sip of my beer. I felt like a fish out of water. Just then the man asked in fairly comprehensible English, “You do not know that song?”
Okamura
As I would soon find out, it wasn’t easy to find English speakers in Japan. I answered politely without suspecting that the lonesome karaoke star was going to become my shadow every night—a key character in my Japanese story.
“No, I don’t know it,” I confessed without leaving my corner of the L. “In fact, I’ve only just arrived in the country.”
“That is why.” He smiled. “You will not find anyone here who doesn’t know ‘Dokonoko no Kinoko.’”
“It sounds like a tongue-twister.”
“It is a children’s song, but it’s very popular with adults too. Many people have it as a ringtone on their phones. We even have a ‘Dokonoko no Kinoko’ dance.”
I finished my beer. Thank heavens the Japanese man didn’t get up from his stool to do the dance. I would have had an attack of the giggles.
For the sake of saying something, I told him, “I’ve never been in a karaoke bar. I usually listen to classical music.”
“Me too.” He pulled a face as if I’d offended him. “The Russians—especially Tchaikovsky and all composers after him until Prokofiev. I have not interest in the music that came later.”
Marveling at the discovery that the karaoke man loved the great Russian composers, I couldn’t resist asking, “So how come you decided to sing a modern kids’ song?”
“Therapy.” He smiled timidly, then drained the last drop from his glass. “For depression. My wife, she died not a year ago and the doctor tells me it is good way to distract my mind. I come here after work and, if I want to, I sing a song. To not have fear of looking ridiculous is good for the head. I strongly recommend for you to try it.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” I was afraid he’d ask the woman to put on another song. “My knowledge of Japanese is zero, except for a couple of words.”
“My niece, she will write the words for you. The tunes are easy, catchy. Like mushroom song.”
“The mushroom song? Ah, you mean that song aboutkino. . .”
“‘Dokonoko no Kinoko,’” he repeated. “It is about adventures of a mushroom in the forest. By the way, my name is Okamura. I am sorry I do not have card with me.”
He bowed formally, and I imitated him without getting up from my stool. The woman was staring at my empty glass, waiting for me to ask for another beer. But all of a sudden I was overwhelmed by tiredness.
I put nine hundred yen on the bar. The woman took a step backward and, shaking her head, gave me a shocked look. Then she got a pen and wrote some large numbers on a piece of paper: 1,400.
I picked up her drinks list and indignantly pointed at the price marked for my beer. She responded with hand flapping and head shaking, but I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me until Okamura intervened.
“She put cover charge for first drink. All small bars they open at night do this.”
I took a five-hundred-yen note from my wallet and put it on the bar. Even its picture of Mount Fuji didn’t stop me from feeling pissed off. All that money for a beer in a dive with a drunk who sang about a mushroom in a forest seemed really over the top.
Okamura saw how irked I was and murmured, “This is first thing to remember when you go to drink. In Japan, smaller bar mean bigger prices.”
Less is more. I remembered the maxim that kept cropping up in Titus’s books.
“It is totally logical,” Okamura went on. “The lady of this establishment which can fit few customers has to do same as the big bar. Life it cost same price for everyone.”
I was ashamed of getting worked up about the money. After all, the lady, who was now washing my glass, had had very meager takings that Wednesday night. If I wasn’t in such a state of stupefaction from lack of sleep, I would have asked her to serve me another beer.
“Thank you for telling me, Mr Okamura,” I said, getting up to leave.
