The Death of Honor

The old man Takeshi stood alone at the end of the counter in the Tachinomiya bar. He lifted his glass, dragged the water with his finger to complete the circle his beer left on the wood.

           The beer didn’t taste like the one he shared with what was left of his fellow soldiers at the end of World War II. It didn’t taste like the one he had after he finished building his house with his bare hands. It tasted like nothing. Because it meant nothing.

           As he drank, he admired the katana mounted on the wall near the entrance of the kitchen, out of which emanated a faint smell of roasted meat. The ebony scabbard shone under the dim light of the paper lanterns, a red ribbon tied in a bow where the handle began. It distinguished itself by its antique and noble aura, surrounded by framed pictures of pop stars, funny drinking slogans, the Pepsi logo, shelves packed with bottles, a calendar with chickens, and words written in large, fluorescent letters that were alien to the old man.

           The place was calm, soundless except for the bartender cutting limes and the light humming of the glass-door fridge behind him.

           Takeshi placed his palm firmly on the counter, letting the coolness of the wood enter him. The shades of brown, red, and beige that colored the place aroused in him the fantasy of being inside a tree. A thick, robust tree shielding him from the eccentric and restless outside world.

           It made him dizzy, how fast everything was happening while at the same time not much happened at all. He barely had time to process the world, like watching it flow from the window of a speeding car.

           “What’s your tattoo?”

           Takeshi looked up. The bartender pointed at the round scar on his hand. He had one on the opposite side too, right in the middle of his palm.

           “I caught a bullet,” Takeshi said.

           The bartender laughed.

           “That’s a strong guy if I ever met one. Next beer’s on me.”

           Takeshi had been a bodyguard for a rich businessman years ago. The guy made shoes. Apparently, that’s worth shooting at someone for these days. Age had caught up with Takeshi, and he drifted from one trivial job to another.

           He’d been standing at the bar for a long time. The pain in his legs made him shift his weight sideways. He lifted his glass and dropped it. The beer spilled on the polished wood as his shaky hand searched for something cloth-like. The bartender wiped the liquid without looking at him.

           Before Takeshi could apologize, three young men burst through the door, laughing and shouting. They took over the center of the bar. One of them dropped his bag on the counter. Students, the old man concluded. That was what they looked like, although they sounded like a henhouse, smelled like a sty, felt like a hurricane. They each ordered a whisky highball and plates of horumonyaki.

           The old man stared as they chugged their drinks, shoved the offal in their mouths, chattered, or poked their phones with greasy fingers. One bit a chunk of skewered beef heart and chewed pieces fell back on the plate and around it, floated in the puddle of whisky and club soda like islets of a broken kingdom or boats lost at sea. The one in the middle told a story, gesticulating widely, and yapping with his mouth full.

           Takeshi couldn’t follow a word of their conversation, not that he wanted to. Lots of sounds that said nothing. They glanced at him now and then; maybe they could feel his stare intruding on their discussion. He didn’t try to be subtle. He looked at them straight, with all his body. As far as he knew, he was a ghost from another era, invisible to the modern eye. Just a fossil on the counter.

           One of them raised his glass, and the old man saluted him, seeking his eyes, but they were already back on the food. The others laughed and went on ignoring him.

           The door creaked open and a samurai entered the bar. A young man with valiant and serene features. The iron plates of his golden armor gleamed and tinkled. He positioned himself next to Takeshi and asked for a draft beer. He toasted his elder—kanpai—and as he did, he held his glass lower with both hands. Upon seeing that the old man’s drink was almost done, he ordered him another one.

           Takeshi clasped the handle of his glass and smiled. Ancient, better times were bleeding into the present. Respect, honor, bravery, and benevolence would fill the streets. They would teach the Bushido code in schools. People would shower each other with loyalty. Crime would fade. Traditions would return, stronger than ever. There would be less suffering, less cheating, less disenchantment.

           A glass shattered on the floor. One of the students giggled as he appraised his mess.

           The samurai was gone. There was no trace he had ever been there.

           Takeshi ordered a beer, then another. He pictured the golden liquid filling him from the soles of his feet, rising above his knees, through his chest, up to his head. The juice glowing inside him, although no one would know by looking at his frail, bent shape.

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           After the young men had left, the bartender picked up the plates and wiped the bar with his grease-stained cloth. On his way to the kitchen, he stopped. The katana was gone. Only two naked silver hooks remained. He swore under his breath and rushed to the door to look down the street. The busy river of people stirred under neon signs. No sign of the students.

           Back inside, he scrutinized every square inch of the floor, found only dust and stains. The place was empty. He checked the bathroom.

           He found the old man sitting on the toilet, the blade stuck in his stomach, in the seppuku fashion, both hands still holding on to the handle.