A Glimmer and It’s Gone
It had been an unusually warm winter when, by pure coincidence, I discovered a quiet and charming little store called ‘Othello’s Antiques’.
The squirrelly looking man behind the counter looked nothing like Othello. I would come to learn his name was Ryuki Domen, though I only ever called him by his last name of course. He was a strong silent type, and I liked to attribute to him an imaginary love for games like chess or dominoes, though he never actually mentioned an interest in either of those things. Perhaps I merely ascribed to him typical ‘old man’ qualities, as other than what was a well-kept but nonetheless majestic beard, he was very unassuming.
The store itself was a bit of a hidden gem for students such as myself, venturing from my school, Yamaku, a school for the physically disabled nestled in the hills just outside of the city. Not only did the topic of Mr Domen himself intrigue me, but his catalogue of antiques ranged from at least mildly interesting to downright fascinating. I was drawn in at first by an old map of the region, but the various little treasures dotting the shelf are what kept me coming back whenever I made it this far into the city.
On my second visit to Othello’s, Mr Domen greeted me with a nod of familiarity. It was peculiar, given that on my previous trip two weeks prior, he had scarcely lifted an eye in my direction, even when I approached the counter, map in hand. He had simply given me one quick scan, said the price, and without any negotiation on my end, I was out back into the city streets. And yet this time his nod was convincingly conversant, as though I had been in his store every day since. The man remembered me fondly.
I suppose for any outside of Yamaku, I would be quite memorable. I walk with a cane and have done since I was very young on the account of my cerebral palsy. How many young people do you see walking with a cane? My friends would often joke that I had an old soul, as if the cane was a personification of my already elderly spirit. I had an equally funny joke where I would hit them with it.
It was on the hunt for a birthday gift for one such annoying friend that I found myself back in Mr Domen’s little cove of treasures, and where I discovered a fascination that would unknowingly open ancient wounds for us both.
You see, I have this terrible trait of inquisitiveness. No, inquisitiveness is probably the wrong word. Angry curiosity or annoying prying is probably more accurate. I’m like a dog following my nose around the garden this way and that way, digging up a bone, chewing it to death, and then digging up another until the garden is full of holes. Still, this quality of mine has brought me a few good times for the multitude of bad ones. It was curiosity, after all that brought me to Takumi. Then it was my unwillingness to let things go that drove her away.
I was lamenting my curiosity and how it had forsaken me in the aisle of Othello’s when Mr Domen came out from behind the counter to approach me.
“I’m afraid to say that I no longer have any of those maps you were keen on last time.” His voice was a bit gruffer than I expected, but I didn’t get the sense that he was ridiculing me or anything.
Truth be told the lack of maps was a bit of a blow. I had planned to get another map like my one for my friend’s birthday, as he had already commented several times on mine. Still, Othello’s housed many potential gifts, so I tried to hide my disappointment with a smile.
“That’s not a problem, I’m sure I can find something equally promising.” I replied with a chipper tone. Mr Domen nodded.
“Is it for a gift?” He asked, and I could already see the gears beginning to turn in his head to assemble a suggestion.
“Indeed, a friend’s birthday.”
Mr Domen and I wandered the store searching for a suitable gift, exchanging relevant talk about my friend and his tastes. Somewhere in this wandering we exchanged introductions, and I got the sense that few people would frequent his store but that those who did received this sort of colloquial and personal touch from him. We finally settled on a delicate and beautiful pirate ship model that set me back a fair bit. I didn’t mind. It felt like I was paying for the service as well as the gift. As I was leaving the store, I caught sight of a framed photograph behind the counter.
The photo featured a young girl, dressed as a Christmas elf, alongside what was clearly Mr Domen in a Father Christmas costume. It was clearly several years ago, I could see that the years hadn’t been kind to Mr Domen, and that the beaming smile he wore in the photo was a rare occurrence now. The girl was what really fascinated me, as she was leaning on a cane in the photograph, though she was clearly attempting to disguise it behind Mr Domen.
I felt as though Mr Domen and I had established a bit of a repour, and so I asked if the girl was his daughter, perhaps a bit ruder than I had hoped for it to come out. All at once, Mr Domen stiffened up. I had unknowingly struck a nerve.
“She was a customer, and a friend.” He replied coldly, and I knew then that I would draw no blood from this stone today, and so I gave him my thanks and exited into the warm winter taking over the city.
The gentle hum of the bus threatened to put me to sleep on my return to Yamaku. Still, I was wired awake by the photograph and Mr Domen’s sudden withdraw. The girl was important, that much was clear, but the cane she had failed to hide in the photo gnawed at me. She looked to be about my age, at least when the photo was taken. Was she a student at Yamaku? And wouldn’t the age gap between Mr Domen and the girl make a friendship unlikely, bordering creepy? There was something perplexing about Othello’s irrespective of the photo, and I knew I would be returning soon as the bus slowly puttered out from the city lights into the dark country sky.
***
Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
***
I was reeling from a rather uncomfortable conversation with Takumi when I found myself once again in the city.
You see, Takumi and I were, from one perspective, destined to fail. We could hardly move without stepping on one-another’s toes, figuratively speaking of course as Takumi’s condition, Huntington’s Disease, in conjunction with my own condition meant we didn’t often go for long walks.
We often butted heads, particularly over Takumi’s pessimistic attitude, that she swore was actually optimistic. Her Huntington’s was still in its early stages, but she had opted to withdraw from intensive medical treatment. It was her decision of course, but despite my inquisitive brain, I just couldn’t understand her. Why would someone give up a chance to prolong their life? I had stressed the importance of fighting to her, when, in the heat of the moment, I had accused her of cowardice.
“It’s about living,” she said, her eyes blinking away tears. “I’m choosing life.”
“You’re choosing death,” I replied, before shutting her dormitory room door with an unnecessary thud.
This was hardly our first fight, but it was easily our worst. Arguing with Takumi, or any loved one for that matter, is like juggling spears in the air. Eventually, they all come crashing down and you’re impaled by your own words.
I’m not sure what possessed me to visit Othello’s again. My Christmas shopping had been nearly completed, and aside from a few last-minute gifts for my family, I had no business in the city. It’s not like I find cities particularly calming or anything, but I did, at least, find Othello’s a bit soothing. There was a coffee shop just short of the store where I stopped and took in the life all around me. I saw Takumi everywhere around me, the passing people and the billboard adverts all seemed to morph into her tearful face. I couldn’t help but cry, but no-one seemed to pay me any mind. Just as the sky was darkening, I took off from the café and passed the stores between it and Othello’s.
Christmas lights were just beginning to twinkle to life, and their light flittered through the windows to dance on the pavement. A small bar was open on the other side of the road, and already some businessmen, presumably finished for the day, were sharing their drunk merriment with a terribly performed rendition of an English Christmas carol.
Othello’s was devoid of Christmas decorations, and like every other time I had visited, there were no customers. The small chime of the bell and scent of a pine candle were the only signs of life within the store, as even Mr Domen was nowhere to be seen. I let my hands and eyes wander over the shelves with absent-minded curiosity. Nothing in particular was jumping out to me, but I found myself again at the counter where the photo stared back at me.
From within the frame, the girl was beckoning me closer. It was my imagination, of course, a product of my saddened brain. Still, I felt as if the girl from the photo was compelling me to investigate further, to pry the story from the frame. At the bottom, I saw an inscription for the first time.
“A glimmer and it’s gone – Saki Enomoto.”
It was nonsensical to me, and closer inspection didn’t reveal any other hidden communiques in the photograph. Saki Enomoto was obviously the girl, I mean, the process of elimination made that clear given I already knew Mr Domen’s name. It was also a pretty name that wouldn’t suit a bearded man like Mr Domen. It was at this moment that Mr Domen revealed himself from what I presumed was the storage closet.
He saw me looking at the photograph, and I can only presume he could tell I had been crying, because he didn’t greet me angrily or with frustration. Instead, he let out a deep sigh.
“Your uniform is Yamaku Academy, yes?” He asked in a quiet, calm tone.
I nodded.
He came and stood beside me, looking up at the photograph with his lips pursed in thought. With gentle hands, he plucked the photograph from the wall and held it in his hands with a fond but pained smile.
“She was an alumnus of your school,” he acknowledged after a moment of quiet contemplation. “Saki Enomoto, this was about six years ago.” He gently rubbed his thumb along the frame of the photograph.
Mr Domen went on to explain how he had recognised my school uniform when I first entered the store, despite some changes to it. How he noticed my cane, but after meeting Saki, had become less prone to staring or reacting publicly to visible disabilities. She had helped him climatise, he said. I didn’t really like his terminology. He asked me if I was okay, and I told him the truth.
Wordlessly, he began to shut up shop. It was a short process, as all he had to do was flip the sign on the door around to say ‘CLOSED’. I suspected that even with the door saying open, few if any customers would enter. He opened the cash register and stowed the drawer which contained a few bills in the back where he had emerged from. Motioning for me to join him, we turned off the lights in the store, locked the front door, and headed back in the direction of the café. Under one arm he held the photograph, and under the other a small umbrella that would protect him if the clouds opened up overhead as they were beginning to threaten.
We were already seated and drinking by the time we spoke properly again. I had a juice, as I felt any surplus caffeine would make me anxious, and Mr Domen had a mug of tea that he swirled round and round between his fingers.
“I have a story for you.” He finally said, as the first drops of rain fell down on us.
***
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo Neruda
***
Ms Enomoto was an intriguing sort of girl. She was like you, in a few ways. Curious about old things, old people. She was fascinated by everyday life as though she was an academic on the subject, and her questions about the past bordered on the relentless. She would meander through the store, touching everything, scaring off my usual customers by asking them prying questions, about them and what drew them to the store. In all respects, she was a terrible employee, but I felt a kinship with her from the moment she stumbled into the store a year prior, seeking shelter from a terrible rainstorm, and I hired her on the spot.
She never got too specific about her condition, just that it was of the terminal variety, and that as a result her actual academic life was relatively unimportant to her. I tried to convince her to take her studies more seriously, but she was convinced that she could learn what she needed from experience in the store and in the city. She would arrive for a shift, late, and in her school uniform, but I didn’t really mind because she brightened up the place and customers eventually became familiar with her, even with her incessant questioning.
After an unusually busy day in late October, Saki, she insisted we dropped the formalities because it was ‘wasted time she didn’t have’, had an idea that I didn’t have the heart to refuse.
“We have a duty to the community,” she insisted with a cunning smile and pleading eyes. In her left hand she had plucked a Santa hat from one of the boxes in the storage closet.
“We have no such duty, besides, Christmas isn’t such a big holiday here,” I protested in vain.
“And isn’t that so devastating sad? Wouldn’t you like to fill the winter with a little warmth?” She could read the scepticism on my face and changed her attack. “Besides, I need us to do it, to add to my catalogue of experiences.”
How could I argue with a dying girl? Especially one like Saki, who could flutter her eyes and make anyone weak at the knees. One of her most brilliant qualities is how she would invoke her condition, not for the sake of herself, but in order to persuade others to be better. She told me once that it was her duty to spread a bit of joy, even if it had to be forcefully.
Sure enough, the plans were set in motion. I phoned the event coordinator of the local mall, who was a bit perplexed by my request but nonetheless allowed us to set up a small booth in the main thoroughfare of the shopping centre free of charge. Saki and I got to work collecting presents from the community, and other Yamaku students even got involved in order to help set everything up. A school newspaper article by a girl named Natsume Ooe about our little idea even made it in the local paper. ‘Christmas Spirit Bolstered by Othello’s’, I think it was titled. The whole thing made for some good publicity for the store, not that that was an ulterior motive. Oh, but people quickly forget and move on. C’est le guerre.
Where was I? Oh, that’s right.
By the time December came around we were prepared for our little event. We were in position at the stall, and Saki was giggling relentlessly at the rather ill-fitting Santa Claus costume we had put together in the month prior. I had to wear one of those fake belly things to give the outfit some weight, and it was terribly uncomfortable.
Throngs of people passed us with confused glances. It was clear that, despite the relative excitement that had generated in the lead up, people were still confused as to what the Santa stall was actually about. Yet, despite a relatively slow start, families began approaching us, taking photos with me, and receiving a present from Saki.
I’ll confess, my heart wasn’t really into it at first. I’m not much of a family man, and Saki was the closest I had ever come to having children of my own. I tried to be jolly, and even forged for myself a deep, Christmassy laugh that bellowed. Still, I was struggling to get into the spirit of the thing until Saki muttered something about ‘getting the magic back’ and slipped away from the stall.
She was gone for about thirty minutes, during which a handful of children came to visit the stall and I tried my best to channel Santa Claus.
When she rounded the corner, dressed in that ridiculous elf costume she’s wearing in that photo, I nearly cackled myself to death. At least her costume fit properly, though she would never reveal to me where exactly she bought it. Maybe she had fashioned it herself, but I’d seen the result of her other arts and crafts projects, and they were not exactly professional.
After that, the stall became extremely crowded. We ran out of presents to give within a few hours, and if it wasn’t for a customer of mine who happened to be passing and volunteered to buy a few boxes of chocolates to hand out, we would have had to wrap up early. As the evening came in, a journalist approached the table wanting to write about Othello’s but more importantly about Saki Enomoto. ‘The girl who saved Christmas’ they called her jokingly.
Saki was hesitant at first, but I urged her to speak to them. With only a minor protest, she agreed, and sat down with the journalist just beside the table. The crowds had mostly dispersed, and so I suggested that I get a few celebratory hot chocolates.
When I returned the interview was winding down, and lights were beginning to dim in the shop fronts along either side of the mall. I didn’t mean to pry, but I overheard a snippet of their conversation, when Saki rather proudly stated.
“All we can do is spread a little joy while we’re here. Nothing more, nothing less. A glimmer, and we’re gone.”
Her phrasing stuck with me. It was so definitively Saki. Even the journalist seemed a bit taken aback by her positive affirmation, and even without knowing the severity of her condition, the journalist could tell that Saki was resolved to impart a bit of kindness every chance she could before her death.
He asked us to pose for a photograph, and he was happy to send me the copies, which I of course framed. For a while, Othello’s was abuzz with activity. People would visit just to spend time talking with Saki, and even if few people bought things from the store, it was nice to see the shopfront so lively.
The Santa stall became a bit of a yearly tradition for Saki and me. Even when her friends were moving away to university, she insisted on staying, helping me run Othello’s and organising our yearly Christmas stall. I think her family put her up in the city, and she would sometimes phone up to say she couldn’t work because she was on a date with some young lad, she met during her final year at Yamaku. Again, I didn’t mind, she had become family to me, and she made up for every shift she missed with aplomb.
Well, everything is a loan in this world, and our new yearly tradition eventually became too taxing for Saki. On her last time manning the stall with me, her legs buckled, and she collapsed before a crowd of young children, who, mortified to see an elf collapse, screamed, and cried. Saki tried to play it off with a comical remark, but the damage had been done.
It broke her heart when I insisted that she take a break from Othello’s, but she understood. I can only assume that her boyfriend and family had also been encouraging her to take things easy, and to spend the last of her time with them. Before she left the store for the final time, I asked her to inscribe our photograph with a message. She happily obliged, but she let the pen linger over the photograph.
I visited her a lot after that, bringing her stories, and the occasional trinket from Othello’s. She adored the stories of the customers but without Saki the regulars started to vanish. I was fine financially, but the loss of customers hurt, and Saki was quick to realise that something within me was changing. On my last visit, this time to a small hospice outside of the city, she asked her family to give us a moment and spoke to me in her usual sing-song voice.
“Stories of kindness,” she said to me, squeezing my hand tight within the ward of a hospice. “That’s all that really matters, stories of kindness to take with you.”
I placed my other hand on top of hers and promised to carry her with me.
“A glimmer and I’m gone,” she laughed quietly.
“A glimmer of gold is enough,” I replied.
I confess that Saki’s passing affected me deeply. I was just one of many unremarkables that wound up in her orbit and was enriched as a result. The drive back to the city was a contemplative and quiet one. I continued the tradition we established until a few years ago, when a small family business within the shopping mall asked if they could continue in my stead. The truth is that without Saki, I’d lost my love for it anyway. Besides, I’m getting old now. Being Santa is a young man’s game, figuratively speaking of course.
I can see you’re getting antsy now; maybe this is a boring story, or maybe I’m not a very captivating storyteller. You seem like a nice kid, so I’ll leave you with a bit of Saki’s wisdom.
Don’t go looking for answers in everything, but don’t ever stop collecting stories either. In this grand and complicated life we’re only tourists. Fill your suitcase, because its only around for a glimmer, and then it’s gone.
***
Mr Domen sighed and sat back in his chair. The rain was pelting the canopy above us, and people were darting around us trying to save things from the storm. A planter filled with white rhododendrons filled with water and began to veer dangerously to the left.
It was a lot to take in from a relative stranger. My curiosity had certainly be sated, but I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. Mr Domen, for his part, seemed lightened and unburdened. I wondered whether he had told anyone but me the story of Saki Enomoto, and I wondered if the Saki from his story would have wanted him to share it.
We stayed in the café until the rain eased off, but it was clear that neither of us had much more to contribute to the conversation. I tried to pay for my juice, but Mr Domen was kind enough to cover the bill. He lent me his umbrella and asked if I would come back to Othello’s to return it someday. I vowed that I would be back soon, and excused myself.
I didn’t know what to make of Mr Domen’s story. It was profoundly sad, but feeling despair or sadness from it seemed to dramatically miss the point. I tried, in vain to shake the feel of unease and ennui that settled on me as I stood waiting for the bus to pick me up. I found myself the victim of a gripping isolation, and I felt myself nearly come to tears again as the rain continued to lazily fall onto Mr Domen’s umbrella.
When the bus eventually arrived, I was soaked through. The umbrella had done very little and was more like a summer parasol than an actual waterproof. The chill from the cold sunk into my bones, and I could feel my fingers going a little numb. Thankfully, the bus driver didn’t ask for my pass, and ushered me straight into the warm seats.
We took off immediately, leaving the city lights behind as the bus throbbed. Every light must have been green, because the journey home was far quicker than it usually felt, and aside from one other passenger who got off before me, the bus didn’t stop.
Yamaku was as quiet as it always was. There were some hastily thrown together Christmas decorations, and someone who I presume worked for the school had draped some tinsel over the gate. I walked past that godawful mural by the boys dormitories and stopped for a moment to observe it, despite the cold. Apparently, it was painted by a student with no arms, but that was years ago, and by now parts of the mural had become dull and colourless. I felt another rush of profound sadness as I noticed a small graffiti in the corner, and I made a mental note to come back tomorrow with a brush and some soap.
Something compelled me to pass the boys dormitories, and moving automatically, I crossed the courtyard to the girls’ dorms.
Some bitchy first years were watching Christmas movies in the common room, and one of them shot me a scowl as I passed them. In fairness, I was still dripping wet, and I looked quite miserable.
Up two flights of stairs and down the corridor, I knocked on Takumi’s door.
Takumi opened the door. She had clearly just showered but before she could say anything I took her into my arms. Her back was warm, and thought for a moment she might protest, she nestled into my collar and squeezed me, practically wringing me dry. All I could think about was the inscription, and Mr Domen’s curious retort.
‘A glimmer is enough.’
I held Takumi and didn’t let go.
. 
) Really, I can only take credit for some of this. To quote a line from some criticism of King Lear I read recently, 'maybe what we're looking for is really there, in some potential form.' A lot of what you credit me for is actually only successful BECAUSE of your criticism. You have that Walter Pater style of criticism, tailored to the experience of the reader, and (despite what some recent public discussion topics might say), the experience is significant. Criticism, academic and personal, is useful even if it describes how we interact with a piece of writing, or else, what's the point? It can all be reduced to the experience, in the end. 