Vintage Rob

Chapter 15 - Worse Than Nothing

Rereading the name on the blue paper, willing it to become Makiko, failed.

Meanwhile, the music played on. The old people in the park stretched. Their routine directed them to turn around and face him. None of them resembled Yukiko's mother. Many of them, skinny bodies and serious expressions, could be an older version of her father. None paid him any special attention, so he scurried out of the park, doubled back to the house, and rang the doorbell.

After a long, useless moment, he turned to go.

An old man approached from the direction of the park and veered toward the house. Now Rob recognized Yukiko's father in the solemn features. He used a phrase from Ayako's list, but improvised the next line. "Makiko's address please."

Mr. Tanabe shook his head and grasped the doorknob with a thin hand. His face would have looked haggard if not for his fierce eyes.

The message was clear. When Rob stepped off the landing, Mr. Tanabe opened the door.

Rob bowed his head slightly and spoke in Japanese. "Thank you."

***

After the apology, Rob headed to Ayako's apartment, hoping to catch her before she left for work. He slipped the blue paper with Yukiko's number into his coat pocket and clutched it while walking. Smiling at the morning commuters he passed, his legs rose and fell like a waterwheel, a splash with every step.

Ayako answered her door immediately. Dressed for work in a black suit jacket and skirt, she slipped her foot into a shoe.

He held up the blue note.

"Yokkata," she said. "You got it?"

"No, my ex-wife's. Better than nothing though." He pointed at the number. "Can you tell me anything about it?"

Ayako took the blue paper. "Setagaya."

"Is that nearby?"

"Yes. Between here and Roppongi, a nice part of Tokyo."

"Okay," he said, sticking the paper into the envelope. "It's a start."

***

That afternoon, after a nap, Rob took a deep breath to clear his mind. Sitting on the bed in his hotel room, he flattened out the paper with Yukiko's number on it and punched the digits into the phone.

Years had passed since they talked, and his stomach turned over on every ring. When Yukiko answered, she uttered the standard Japanese telephone greeting. "Moshi, moshi."

"Hello, Yukiko, it's Rob, your ex-husband. I'm in Tokyo and would like to see Makiko." He spoke too fast and had to slow down. "Could you please put her on or give me her number if it's different?" He straightened his back and adjusted the phone against his ear. Maybe he should have apologized first.

"I thought you would call earlier."

The restraint in her voice might have meant Makiko was nearby. No matter what, he did not want to give Yukiko an excuse to hang up. "I'm jet-lagged and was at your parents' all night. I wanted to rest up and start on the right foot. I want to apolo-"

She snorted. A churlish noise followed, as if she could not choose from a dozen retorts. "That's impossible, I'm afraid."

She had learned to speak her mind since the divorce - good for her, except... He massaged his forehead, wondering how to placate her. Her tone screeched like a bird's harsh cry, unlike the bird in one of her favorite poems during college, one by Emily Dickinson about hope and feathers.

"Your English is great," he said.

"Don't compliment me."

If compliments hurt, something burned. "I was a fool, Yukiko, sorry. Please, I'm in Tokyo. Let me see our daughter."

She cleared her throat and spoke evenly. "You're in Tokyo because of a colleague's death."

"A close friend." If she payed attention to his life in Afghanistan, she was not completely indifferent. Perhaps she unconsciously scanned photographs in the newspaper for his byline. "Katsutoshi was going to help me find Makiko. We were going to do this together."

"You're doing this for him?"

"No, I didn't mean that."

"Makiko doesn't want to see you. She does not want anything to do with you."

"If I hear that from her half a dozen times, I'll back off. Please don't interfere."

"You can't say that. I raised her. With my husband."

She blocked him from communicating with Makiko, but reminding her of that was futile. Glancing around the hotel room, at the laptop on the desk, at the nonviolence book on the table, he tried to think of something constructive. "I was a lousy husband, but I wasn't a bad father. Makiko loved me. You know that's true."

"What kind of father... with his best friend's wife on the living room couch?"

Rob did not want to hear it. He thrust the phone through the air without letting go. The taut cord nearly dragged the phone off the table. Alarmed at himself, he stared at the ceiling and put the phone against his ear. "Hello?"

"Makiko wants nothing to do with you. She said that yesterday morning when my parents called."

"Yukiko, please."

"It's not my decision. Or yours."

"Does she know I tried to contact her after you left? Does she know I had no rights as a father, that the family court in Japan-"

"Congratulations on the Pulitzer. Goodbye."

"Yukiko."

She hung up.

What should Rob's next move be?

Your next move, perhaps, should be to star this chapter!