The Little White Speck of Akasaka

            Kentaro Suzuki hadn’t missed a single day of work in the past 30 years. Naturally enthusiastic and hard-working, he’d spent his whole career in a large and powerful bank, situated right in the center of Tokyo’s bustling Marunouchi district. Tall, with a good posture and broad shoulders, Kentaro came to feel right at home amongst the towering glass skyscrapers that characterized central Tokyo’s skyline.

            For a CEO, he was unusually present and involved in the day-to-day operations of his bank, even in the most minute of details and the most menial of tasks, such as making sure that the ground floor vending machines were fully operational and stocked with soda. Whilst his employees enjoyed the company of a boss who truly loved his job, they were equally as perplexed by his overt keenness and diligence. However, even for newcomers, seeing Mr. Suzuki water the beloved office plants or lock up in the late evening hours would quickly become a familiar and dependable occurrence.

            A man of routine and ritual, Kentaro’s day always began with a leisurely stretch and a cup of his favorite loose-leaf green tea. After tea and breakfast, as the delicate rays of the morning sun filtered through the shutters, he made one half of his spacious king-sized bed and proceeded to the bathroom, where he took particular care to brush his teeth (and floss, of course!) in one of the two ceramic sinks. After slicking back his hair, Kentaro opened a large, ornate wardrobe that sat proudly in the corner of his bedroom. In it lay an extensive selection of suits, silk ties, and cravats, along with a carefully organized collection of elaborate cuff links. Whether Kentaro himself knew it or not, his emotions manifested in the clothes he wore; this Friday’s choice – a deep, dark navy suit. After polishing his brown Oxford shoes, he made sure to wash his hands three times.

            Locking his door at 7:13 sharp, Kentaro rode the elevator from the 19^th floor to the lobby, where the clicking of his heels against the marble floor served as a cue for the concierge to deliver his morning greetings. An older gentleman of a shorter build and long, but immaculately groomed whiskers, the concierge had taken a liking to Mr. Suzuki over the years, as he was one of the few residents in the entire building that took the time to speak to him, and that took a real interest in the particularities of the job. Curiously, the brief chats they shared only turned into lengthier conversations on the weekends.

             However, the old man couldn’t help but feel that his conversation partner, whilst he was a welcome relief from the often-mundane job of a concierge, seemed to be running from something – didn’t a well-established bank owner have better things to do than to care about the elevator maintenance schedule and the wattage of the lobby lights? In the end, the old man always brushed it off as Suzuki having an overly caring, communal spirit, and went about his ways filling out countless Sudoku puzzles until lunchtime.

            By 7:15, Kentaro was already seated in the back of a silver Mercedes, and this particular Friday was no exception. What was different, though, and especially shocking for his chauffer, was that his boss was quick to stop him from playing any music. The final step of Kentaro’s morning ritual consisted of listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the short, but sweet commute from his apartment building in Akasaka to the bank in Marunouchi. The chauffer, who had recently started studying English on the weekends was more than happy to listen along. It just so happened that Cheek to Cheek was a favorite for both men, but neither knew it of the other.

            The chauffer was a young man in his mid-20s, who, despite his plethora of ambitious dreams for the future, was also perfectly content with working as a chauffeur. Although most of his drives with Mr. Suzuki were void of any deeper interaction than a couple of basic greetings and where-tos, the young man had developed a deep sense of admiration for his boss and was strangely troubled by his request. Not once did the young man think that the absence of music could say both so much and so little. As they arrived at the bank, the clock struck 7:30.

            Through Kentaro’s eye’s, that particular Friday was no more particular than any other Friday. He made a few phone calls, attended a few meetings, and, after enjoying a hot cup of loose-leaf green tea in his office at lunch, he made his usual rounds of checking on vending machines and watering the office plants for the weekend ahead.

            However, from the outside, Kentaro appeared a lot more agitated than usual. His characteristic, smooth gait and air of swagger had almost entirely disappeared and had instead been replaced by a rather terse and anxious demeanor. Amplified by the already simmering anticipation for the end of the work week, a slurry of giggles and chatter spread like wildfire through the offices of the bank.

            “Is it just me or does Mr. Suzuki seem a bit odd today?”

            “Aiko told me she saw him – get this – on a ladder inspecting a flickering light in the print room!”

            “Wait, is he watering the plants…again?”

            Meanwhile, Kentaro hadn’t even noticed. Unknowingly traversing through a world of his own, he'd even misunderstood the worried expression on his attentive secretary’s face when she saw him arrive to work in a deep, dark navy suit. Strange, he thought, perhaps it’s that time of the month.

            Whilst he had nothing but warm weekend wishes to extend to his workers as the workday drew to a close, Kentaro himself hated weekends, simply because there was no work to do. Without constant occupation in one form or another, his thoughts, akin to an invasive ant species, stung too hard and were far too many. Besides, there were only so many cups of loose-leaf green tea one could consume and only so many Ella Fitzgerald songs one could listen to before the chilling silence would return, only to drown out the caffeine buzz and the music. The silence itself was not so much the problem – the real problem was the harrowing feeling of dreadful loneliness that the silence brought with it, like a little companion that it strung along for the sake of mocking Kentaro in his solitude.

            In a way, Kentaro had a certain kind of fear for these long and painfully slow weekend days. Days like these turned into even worse nights, and nights like those never ended well – often in the only temporarily-comforting arms of a bottle of gin or an unknown dame.

            But the weekend came as it always did, except this time, Kentaro hadn’t had the energy to try and deny it. He had no intention of entertaining the concierge, nor any interest in calling his mother to hear her complain about how the sudden spell of warm weather had caused the plants in her vegetable garden to flower prematurely. On the car ride back home, Kentaro wondered whether it was energy that he lacked or ideas. It had been almost six years since the divorce, and no matter how creative, one is bound to run out of ideas on how to spend 312-odd weekends.

            By the time the Mercedes had come to a halt at the entrance to his apartment building, Kentaro was still lost on ideas. The one thing he knew with absolute certainty, though, was that he could not allow himself to stay at home.

             That evening, the last traces of sunlight danced across the twilight sky, illuminating the outlines of dark, heavy clouds that hung like dead men in the far ends of the city. As streetlights slowly flickered on throughout Akasaka, enveloping it in a warm, evening glow, Kentaro exited the marble lobby and began his walk. He had washed his hands four times before he left.

            The evening air was thick and heavy, but an occasional cool breeze caressing the nape of Kentaro’s neck warned him of incoming showers. Despite the threat of downpour, Kentaro soldiered on, wandering aimlessly through the dizzying Tokyo streets, scoffing to himself occasionally as he went. Although he’d left the draining emptiness of his house, the loneliness was quick to accompany him. Like a shadow, it followed him – no matter how far he ran. As couples and groups of friends passed him by, Kentaro felt life taunting him and the loneliness continuing its mockery.

            Suddenly feeling deflated and weary, Kentaro turned a sharp corner to make his way back home, at which point the rain had already started drizzling. As the now-crisp smell of rain hung in the air and the heavens moaned, a fleeting white speck appeared in the corner of his eye. Coming to an abrupt halt, Kentaro raised his brow at the sight of what he realized was a little white kitten, clearly drenched and shivering. With its surprisingly clean white fur contrasting against the wet pavement, the kitten reminded Kentaro of the last bit of snow left outside as the passing winter slowly made its way into spring’s warm embrace. Its brilliant emerald eyes gazed both fearfully and desperately at Kentaro, and as he gazed back into them, he felt as though they had, for a brief moment, understood each other.

            Static for what felt like eternity amidst the pouring rain, the two strangers stared at each other until a passing motorcycle scared the little white speck away. With a quick twitch of its whiskers and a flick of its tail, the emerald-eyed kitten disappeared into the dark behind a pair of soggy cardboard boxes that leaned up against a tall, grey lamppost. Kentaro paused for a moment, perplexed by an unexpected sense of disappointment, and, with a sigh, made his way back home.

            That night Kentaro lay in bed with his face turned to the ceiling and thought of his ex-wife. Even at fifty years old, she had always been more radiant and evergreen than any woman he’d ever come across. She was a person impossible to forget, and yet for the past six years, he forbade himself from ever thinking about her. The deeper his mental conflict with her unforgettable nature became, the more he found himself washing his hands. That night, however, was different. Finally feeling free enough to think as he pleased, he thought of her soft, supple skin and the wrinkles in her gingham dress as she bent down to water the houseplants. The corners of his mouth would curve into a bitter smile with every year he’d counted that had come and gone.

            Kentaro never strayed onto her side of the bed, not even in his sleep. That night he stared at it longingly, wondering whether this was all just a lucid nightmare he needed to wake up from. Hand quivering, he slowly reached over to her side and gently placed his hand atop the sheets, and immediately knew he’d made a mistake. The sudden memories that washed over him only made the abyss darker and the pain more unbearable. As he sank deeper and deeper into himself, the smell of rain that had lingered in his nostrils since he’d come home suddenly grew stronger. Jolting upright in his bed, a tear dripped down his face. Rain? He could have sworn the windows were closed.

           Jumping to his feet, he found that the windows were indeed closed. So where was this sudden, intense smell coming from? That mystery would quickly come to be forgotten when the fleeting white speck from before appeared in the corner of his eye. The kitten! The white speck disappeared, but the memory of the little white kitten in the rain, hiding behind a soaked cardboard box, appeared in the forefront of his thoughts, and for the rest of the night it did not waver.

           Ever since he was a boy, Kentaro was no big fan of cats. Having had an unpleasant encounter with his grandmother’s fat tomcat – a tabby with an attitude bigger than his appetite – he kept away from animals, deeming it unnecessary to ever come into contact with them at all. He often mentioned this disdain for cats in conversations with friends, acquaintances, and co-workers alike. At times, this was a point of friction between him and his ex-wife, who wanted nothing more than to rescue a stray from a shelter. Perhaps she’d gotten one in the past six years. But despite his intense aversion to feline companions, the little white speck had taken up a very large part of his thoughts that night. Tossing and turning, Kentaro tried desperately to shake the image of emerald eyes from his mind, but the more he fought against it, the heavier his conscious felt. The familiarity of this kind of mental strain had skipped his mind completely – there was simply no room for deeper analysis in the presence of the little white speck.

           Before he even realized it, Kentaro Suzuki stood in the rain outside his building, sporting a dirty grey hoodie and a pair of blue checkered pajama bottoms – a sight he would never have allowed anyone to see had he been fully present. But that Friday night, it was, as though by the mere twitch of whiskers and flick of a tail, he had fallen into a trance. Frantically making his way down the empty streets of Akasaka, Kentaro searched desperately for the street he had seen the little white kitten in. In the dead of night amidst the falling rain, the streets of his very own neighborhood seemed foreign and unfamiliar.

            Despite his feverish search for the specific grey lamppost and soggy cardboard boxes, he circled around the same block of buildings over and over again to no avail as a nerve-wracking feeling of guilt began to set in. Sudden, panic-stricken thoughts of vending machines and office plants raced through his mind. He realized that he’d forgotten to wash his hands before he left.

            However, his anxiety quickly ceased when a faint crying revealed the tiny creature he’d come to find. And just like that, as though he’d fallen into another trance, Kentaro found himself riding the elevator up to the 19^th floor with the kitten in his arms. For a brief moment, he resisted with every fiber of his being the need to squirm at the unbearable feeling of a dirty, wet, flea-ridden kitten.

            The kitten, that Kentaro soon realized was a girl, would nevertheless be washed that night in one of the two bathroom sinks. Already used to being wet, she was content that the water was, at the very least, a lot warmer this time around. As she dried up, her thick, fluffy coat gave her a round, almost perfectly circular shape. In that moment, Kentaro could think of no better name than Maru – circle – by which he could call his new roommate.

            After going through a can of tuna each, Kentaro picked up Maru and gently placed her in her new bed – a small basket woven by his mother that he’d stuffed with old kitchen rags. Still in disbelief at what he had done, he crawled into bed and turned off the bedside lamp, mulling over the new role he had just assigned himself. In a matter of minutes, before he could even see Maru make herself comfortable on his ex-wife’s side of the bed, Kentaro was out cold.

            A few hours later, as the gentle morning sun filtered in through the shutters of Kentaro’s bedroom, his clothes continued dripping quietly in the bathroom. Meanwhile, as Kentaro awoke from a poor night’s sleep and struggled to keep his eyes open, the alarm clock revealed a preposterously later time than he was used to waking up at. But before he had the chance to react, he felt a light pressure in the center of his chest. Lo and behold, there was Maru, breathing gently and rhythmically as she dreamed, probably of canned tuna. He watched her little belly rise and fall until she woke up a with a leisurely stretch and a loud chirp.

            Elated by the thought that mornings could start so blissfully, without the crippling need to fill his time with meaningless tasks, Kentaro spent the next few days devoting all of his energy and attention to the little speck called Maru. Having repurposed his old, worn-out ties as cat toys, he spent countless hours playing with her, and as dusk fell, he played Ella Fitzgerald records for her as she drifted off to sleep, her emerald eyes slowly closing. In this moment, Kentaro realized that he hadn’t thought about his grandmother’s mean, fat tomcat or his ex-wife a single time since Maru had stretched and chirped into his life.

            By the time Monday rolled around, Kentaro hadn’t even noticed that the work week had started. Word of Mr. Suzuki’s highly uncharacteristic absence made breaking news in the bank, prompting his secretary to take matters into her own hands. Empathetic to a fault, she had spent her weekend worrying over her boss’ Friday choice of a dark navy suit and wondered what could have possibly been wrong. On her way to Akasaka, she stopped by a noodle shop and got him some miso soup in case he’d fallen ill. But upon arriving at his apartment, she was bewildered by the bizarre state she’d found her boss in and worried that this was a kind of ailment that miso soup simply could not cure. 

            As Kentaro opened the door with wild, messy hair and an unshaven complexion, he was hardly recognizable. In that moment, Maru pranced curiously towards the door. Kentaro picked her up and held her firmly against his chest. The secretary, painfully aware of his disdain towards animals – cats in particular – was virtually lost for words. Instead, she gave him an even more puzzled look.

            Don’t worry, Kentaro laughed, this little white speck is a very good friend of mine.