Canon's Diary

As usual, I sat on the sofa in my living room, sipping the coffee I had brewed that morning and poured into a pot. Heavy rain had fallen the night before, but today the sky stretched out clear and blue. A slightly strong wind stirred the fresh green leaves, setting the trees swaying. That day, a jazz festival was being held in the town where I live. A stage had been set up at the community center near Tsutsuiike Park, with food stalls lining the area. Bars and shops near the station had opened their doors, letting music spill out into the streets. There were even street performances, I had heard.

I rode my electric bicycle to the shopping street, bought a teriyaki bento from a skewer shop, and continued south along the main road. At the open space by the community center, I sat on a folding chair I had brought, enjoying a local beer with my meal.

It has been a year since I moved to this town. During last year’s long holiday in May, my father had been in a critical condition, and I had no room in my heart for anything else. This year, however, I have been able to spend my time quietly in my room. My father passed away on May 11, and his first death anniversary is approaching. I worry about my mother, who remains in Tokyo and struggles to manage without him, but as for myself, I feel that I have finally begun to come to terms with things. Though I live alone, I have not felt lonely. Having spent so many years living with my wife and parents, constantly mindful of others, I had come to understand the quiet importance of time spent by myself.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was half past one. There was to be a small classical jazz performance at a bar near my home starting at two. Good—right on schedule. I cleared away the empty plastic container from my meal, got back on my bicycle, and headed north toward home.

The whole town was caught up in the festival, and music flowed even from speakers along the main street. Small shops and food trucks lined the roadside. The wind was a little strong, but the sunlight was warm, and more families than usual strolled leisurely along the sidewalks.

My destination was a small bar with a modest sign that read “Akira.” Normally, it was shut behind a heavy-looking door, offering no glimpse of the inside. A menu stood out front, but the writing was too small to read, giving the place an unapproachable air. I had often passed by, curious, since it was so close to my home. When I learned that live music would be open to the public for the festival, I finally felt inclined to step inside.

When I arrived, the atmosphere was entirely different from usual. Beneath a green parasol, with the door standing open, two young people who looked like siblings welcomed me.

“What would you like to drink?”
“In that case, I’ll have a whiskey soda.”
“Thank you. Please, come in.”

Led inside, I was able at last to see the interior. It was not large, but the white-painted walls and high ceiling with exposed wooden beams gave it a sense of quiet openness. Soft indirect lighting, placed here and there, cast a gentle glow across the room. An L-shaped wooden counter stood inside, lined with an astonishing variety of spirits. I was shown to a seat at the counter, where the bartender prepared my drink and set it before me.

“Please, take your time.”

When the time came, the door that had been open was quietly closed. I caught my breath. The music from outside was completely shut out, leaving a deep silence. In the dim light, a spotlight fell upon the performers. It felt as though I had been transported in an instant—from the daytime bustle into a midnight gathering.

Soft jazz began to play.

Suddenly, I found myself remembering a small jazz concert I had once attended with my wife when we were young. For some reason, I felt as though she were sitting beside me. I took another sip of my whiskey. Gazing into the glass, I listened to the gentle voice of the female vocalist. The low resonance of the bass sank slowly into the depths of my chest. Back then, even without conversation, simply sharing the music had been enough.

When the song ended, I found that once again, I was alone.