A mushroom from the forest.
A forest mushroom turned into a trumpet
And its music flew to the clouds
Puppu-Lu-Papa-Pulu Pappa . . .
Don’t tell this story to the sky.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the sky.
A sky mushroom turned into a parachute
And fell upon blue waves.
Sulusulu-Lala, Sulu-Lala . . .
Don’t tell this story to the sea.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the sea.
A sea mushroom turned into a jellyfish
And dreamed of the green forest.
Yurayura-Lu Lu Lu Lu-Yura
Don’t tell this story to anyone.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the forest.
Only God knows the answer.
I hadn’t got to the last line of these crazy lyrics when the black door opened and Okamura made a triumphal entrance. He was much more elegant than the previous night and, despite the scratched pebble lenses, I could see from his eyes that he hadn’t started drinking yet.
He sat on his stool and, looking at the stranded microphone and addressing it rather than me, announced, “Things will happen today.”
The Last Photo of Us Smiling
I thought that any moment Okamura would ask for a song and grab the microphone, but he didn’t. Perhaps he needed the encouragement of a bottle of sake in order to get going.
As he filled his glass with beer, he looked at me intently as if he couldn’t understand why I’d come back to this place. I certainly knew why I had.
“Can you explain why this bar is now called after me?”
“It is only a name,” he replied, unruffled. “Last night, when I was helping the owner with her catalogue of videos, I had the idea we could call it this. She was agreed with me. It is provisional, like life itself. Tomorrow maybe it has another name.”
