Paomaster

 
In a sushi cafe

Here I am, sitting in a small well-lit sushi cafe on a street in Central London. It is only 1740 but night has fallen. Cafes along the street are lit up and beckoning corners dot the slightly dim road. Looking from the inside of the cafe, I feel like a character in a Murakami story, right at the heart of Tokyo in the night. Alone, eating my sushi and drinking a bottle of oolong tea with no sugar, writing in my little book. Two shop attendants, me and one other customer are present in the shop. I will like to picture this scene with a little more melancholy. This small pocket of space becomes the solely lit corner on the entire street, like a little spark of hope you spot in a sea of dismay and anguish. The illumination of this small shop in contrast with the enveloping darkness, and me, silently(with the occasional accompaniment of the buzzing refrigerating machine) watching everything unfold before my sight. The entirety is not me, but outside of me.

I share this small wooden table with no one. I have ample space to place my objects on the table, enough space for me to stretch my pair of tired legs and sit comfortably into the brown chair. Directly opposite the shop from where I am(facing the wide open and welcoming white door) is a cosy looking Lebanese cafe. The purple and green interior strikes a total opposite to the white and metallic feel of the sushi cafe. The colors extend a certain comforting hand, the dark colored leather sofa and huge paintings covering the walls add a certain mystique to the atmosphere. Needless to mention, the shish pipe is posing at the window. It lays its eyes on every passerby walking along this increasingly cinematique street.

Facing the entrance of the cafe has set into me a certain state of mind. Every time someone crosses the street from the other side, the thought that he will then continue to walk straight into the shop arises. But most of the time, it is not the case. I try not to make eye contact with every person who executes that same motion. It makes me totally uneasy and queer. Strangely I also get the same feeling every time someone walks past the door. The thought of him suddenly changing his mind and turning into the shop is a very substantial possibility, which will then only send a current of shock into my easily disturbed conscience. I shall leave my glances down.

There are five people in the shop now, including the apron-wearing staff, and I have 3 brown rice sushi rolls remaining on the foam tray. I cannot determine how much oolong tea is currently sitting in the PET bottle as the branded plastic wrap has covered the entire height of the bottle. I imagine someone capturing this view of me in the shop from above. From a cherry picker for example. Observing me from above, looking at me pen every word in the book with a blunt pencil, all without me noticing his presence. Still, no one has entered the Lebanese cafe. The two male staff are having a small chat. The two female staff on the opposite are checking the sushi stock constantly, as if there wasn’t anything else more important to do. Honestly, there isn’t, with only two people now sitting at the tables, busily getting into the business of filling their hungry stomachs. The two females converse in English. I wonder if either is a fan of sushi.

There is a huge glass panel next to where I am sitting. Eight out of ten times, the person walking past, whether hurriedly or slowly, will peer into the shop. Sometimes at me, sometimes at my sushi. The other times, I’m not sure where their gazes could possibly land. Maybe at the lady in the apron bent over the sushi shelve counting stock. Maybe at the bright white lights, which I believe, seem much brighter from the outside. The man has left. Alone, I am, again. As before. As when I first walked into the shop 20 mins ago. I took that same amount of time to consume eight pieces of sushi, with the occasional sips of oolong tea. No sugar, but with a certain amount of ascorbic acid.

I am trying harder to submerge deeper into how it feels like to be in a Murakami story. If I can soak myself into this moment even more, at a certain point, I can transcend to The other side. I am suddenly reminded of the female character in After dark. She sits in Denny’s, eating a sandwich, and reading a book. She is in no hurry. She sits there for ages. It is close to midnight. Is it possible that my striking blue hood and orange windbreaker is making it difficult for me to impersonate a Murakami character? I’m possibly dressed in too bright colors, not to mention another ominous sight of orange around my eyes. But my MUJI watch looks Japanese enough. Not sure if it is a product of Japan though. I should believe I can sit here for as long as I like, although my sushi is no more and any remaining traces of oolong tea is hidden by the plastic wrap. I will like to see a photograph of myself sitting in the shop, at this exact position, scribbling in a book with a blunt pencil.

The shop closes at 2030. That leaves me with two more hours. More people are walking the street now. In four directions, horizontally and vertically. Me, I am at a point of standstill. I notice a white cylinder-like shape placed at each table. It is of the same height as the two wooden chairs, so I do suppose it is meant for sitting. It does seem real now that any object with a flat surface and of sufficient height can take the function of a chair. The whiteness of it does not communicate well with the lightly stained wood chairs and tables at all. It looks like a third party who has obstinately decided to intrude on a couple engaging in intimate conversation without any attempt to make itself slightly less visible. I hear some fireworks in the near distance.

Who is it for.

A guy with headphones muffling his ears walks into the shop. He stands in front of the sushi shelf for a few seconds, then turned and smiled briefly. He walked out. I suppose he was left pretty much satisfied just by looking at the sushi. Maybe he just wanted to do a visual QC. On the other hand, I do not rule out the possibility that he has the ability to fill his stomach just by looking at food for a few moments.

I’m trying to see myself outside of my body. Watching my own actions. Can I also identify the thoughts that are going through my head? Perhaps it will be clearer if I were standing outside myself. Like all other things.

This shop used to be a bookshop owned by the same Japanese company. It sold Japanese books, magazines, small objects, cute stuff. I can still see the pale brown bookshelves when I look around the empty space where they once stood. It was much cozier looking then, and gave me the warm feeling of a nice, happy family home. A grandfather figure runs the shop, and his granddaughter helping to arrange the books when asked to. Now the scene of the bookshop in White Valentine appears. I was enchanted the moment I saw that bookshop. Arranging books seemed pretty enticing then. Modern bookstores are no longer set up like that anymore. More importantly, the lights are too bright. Sometimes I’d rather things are not so well-designed. A little inconvenience or disorganization can add a flutter to the all-too-perfect image.

Embrace a little chaos.

The lady in the apron is now huddled over the receipts and checklists at the counter. She has been at it since I finished my last piece of sushi half an hour ago. She doesn’t look exactly confident of what she is doing. Her eyebrows are knitted and her eyes fixed firmly on the papers. I could steal out at this moment, but, I’ve already paid.

Across from my seat I see a small Japanese food mart. Rice, wine shop in gold 3D type standing out from the dark green pull-out shelter above the shop. I cannot see any people in the shop, only stacked up instant noodles and snacks which cover half the height of the shop window. The door is too narrow to be visible from my point of view. Are snacks the best sellers in a Japanese supermarket? I guess so.

I feel colder the more I sit here. The wind entering uninvited is at full rush towards me now. I should leave. But before I do, I shall leave a mention on my departure. It says, ‘I’ve not heard a single Japanese word spoken for the whole hour I’ve been sitting here’.

I give the oolong tea bottle a little shake.