Sayo shook her head.
“Nope.”
She smiled at Rintaro’s confused expression.
“You should say Merry Christmas.”
This was an expression a little unfamiliar to Rintaro, but it had a lovely ring to it.
“Merry Christmas,” he repeated with a smile.
How It All Ended
Clematis was his grandpa’s favorite flower. The old man had a particular love of the deepest, richest blue variety. Rintaro recalled his grandfather’s face squinting in the bright sun of early summer as he admired the open petals. Its Japanese name, literally “iron lined flower,” seemed to suit its elegant straight lines and gentle curves better than its botanical name. He remembered how his grandfather had been unusually talkative as he filled the plant pots in front of the shop with clematis.
I can do this, he thought, as he began to water the plants. He felt more at peace than he had lately.
It had been three months since his grandfather had passed away. The seasons had moved on, bringing with them a change in scenery. The snow under the eaves had melted, the plum blossoms had flowered, and now the buds on the cherry trees were about to burst open.
As the seasons flowed by along their regular course, Rintaro had been keeping his own regular schedule. Every morning at 6:00 a.m. he’d open up the wooden latticed door to air out the little shop. He’d take a broom and sweep the front steps, water the plants, now covered in fresh new leaves, and then sweep out the interior of the shop.
“You’re really on top of it.”
Just as he was about done with the cleaning, he heard Sayo’s cheerful voice, and she walked in carrying her black instrument case. Rintaro had recently learned that she played the bass clarinet. He’d never heard of the instrument but reliable sources told him that Sayo was the only one in the band who could play it.
“You do this day in, day out.”
She sat down on a stool in the middle of the shop.
“Is it really necessary to clean the shop every day?”
Rintaro laughed as he took the books off the shelf and dusted them one by one.
“It’s fine. You and I are different people. I don’t have any club activities to go to in the mornings. New books catch my interest every time I clean, so it’s a lot of fun.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
Sayo was being as blunt as ever, which Rintaro always found refreshing.
“But this book really is terrible, don’t you think?”
As she spoke, Sayo produced a thick hardback book from her shoulder bag.
“I just don’t get it at all.”
Rintaro grimaced. It was Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. He’d started off recommending Jane Austen, moved on to Stendhal, Gide, Flaubert—all love stories, thinking they’d be enjoyable reads for her—but just last week Sayo had announced she was ready to try other genres. Rintaro had suggested García Márquez.
“Did you really read this whole thing?” she asked him.
“Of course. It was a while back, though.”
“Yeah, you’re weird. I can’t understand a word of it. It’s too difficult.”
“That’s good.”
Rintaro chuckled as he knocked the dust off the nearest bookshelf. Sayo stared at him with a puzzled look on her face.
“Why’s it good?”
“If you find it difficult, it’s because it contains something that is new to you. Every difficult book offers us a brand-new challenge.”