“The Ainu,” I repeated. “I’ve never heard of them. In fact, I didn’t even know that Japan had indigenous people.”
“There are only a few thousand now. They’re animists and believe that everything on earth has itskamui, or divine spirit. They bless the spirits of wine and food before they eat and drink. They used to live in thatched houses they callcise.”
“Apart from that, are they like other Japanese people?”
“No. Traditionally, they had a completely different way of life. For example, they didn’t have any furniture in the recreations of the thatched houses I saw.”
Two bowls of miso soup arrived as Mizuki’s mood became more expansive. She was fascinated by what she’d seen.
“Traditionally the men had very long beards and mustaches, and the women tattooed their mouths, as if they had a big black smile, and also their genitals. They wore loads of earrings and pendants. They hunted whatever they could find in the forest using a bow and poisoned arrows.” She blew on her soup before concluding. “The men only used chopsticks when they were eating to move their mustaches out of the way. The women used spoons.”
“I’m happy that you’ve come back in better spirits,” I said, before starting on my soup. “Did you learn anything about the language?”
“It’s difficult and nothing like Japanese. I only remember one word,anekuroro. It means ‘happy.’”
“Anekuroro. . . I don’t know how long I’ll be in Kyoto, but I’m happy to see you happy.”
Mizuki slowly savored her soup, her eyelids lowered but looking relaxed. Then she smiled and said something I didn’t understand.
“Tonight you’ll have the chance to prove that what you just said is true.”
Namida no Café
After dinner Mizuki took me to the crowded Shijo-dori Avenue in the center of town, running from Yasaka Shrine to a bustling area around the Shijo Bridge, which crosses the Kamo River.
As we made our way through a traffic jam, amid the music blaring from the pachinko parlors, I was surprised by the architectural chaos. Sleek, modern buildings rose beside squat commercial blocks smothered in garish signage. Looking at the tangled messes of electrical cables connecting these buildings, I thought that one spark could plunge the whole city into darkness.
“It’s down here,” Mizuki said, taking my hand and pulling me into an alley that branched off the main road. “Now you’re going to discover my favorite bar.”
As we ventured deeper into the dark, narrow street, I was shocked by how cold her skin was. It was as if I was being guided by a beautiful reptile. Dim lights shone from buildings that looked only half finished; each floor had Japanese signs for the various businesses within.
“Are they brothels?”
“Some of them probably are, but they could be just regular shops and offices. We have such a big population that there isn’t room for all the businesses on the ground floor.”
We stopped outside a small white-tiled building that reminded me of the first apartment blocks to be constructed on the Costa Brava in Spain. The outside stairway went up past four bars with hand-painted signs on wooden plaques.
“It’s the bar at the top,” she said, ahead of me on the stairs.
We went up to attic level where we came to a bar with a sign that showed an alien’s head with a tear on its cheek. On the way up to Namida no Café—whose name, as the sign suggested, meant Bar of Tears—I’d peeked into a few places as tiny as the one where we’d met, although they were much more stylish. There was one named Yellow which, honoring its name, was totally painted in that color, from floor to walls and furniture. Even the waiter’s shirt was yellow. Mizuki’s favorite bar turned out to be a shadowy place about 150 feet square with three tiny tables and a sofa. Behind a well-stocked bar, a young man with a neat quiff welcomed us with a nod. He had a tear tattooed beneath his right eye.
A portable record player at one end of the bar supplied the background music. As the record played, I looked at the cover, which had been propped up against two bottles on the bar. It was Joy Division’s haunting and somber “Atmosphere.”
Mizuki got comfortable on the sofa. I looked around for a stool and sat down facing her on the other side of a table with a cracked glass top.
“Don’t be such a gentleman,” she protested. “You can sit next to me.”
Trying not to look like a coward, I did what she said, leaving a few inches between us. Meanwhile, she rapidly ordered something in Japanese.
“What did you ask for?” I was edgy.
“Two Stigmata Martyr cocktails. I won’t tell you what’s in them. Let’s see if you can guess.”
The record had stopped spinning, and silence reigned as the barman fixed our drinks.
“This isn’t a very cheerful place.”
“No, it isn’t. After all, it’s called ‘The Bar of Tears.’”
