THE TABLE AND THE DEBT

Meeting Force with Stillness

There was the melodic ring of the bell as I stepped inside. The air was redolent with the smells of cooked fish and soy sauce. My nephew’s restaurant was a narrow place, the kind where the laminate tables appear too small for the plates. An overhead fan, superfluous to the air conditioning, turned silently. The walls, made of lightly finished wood slats, were decorated with black and white photographs of neighborhood street scenes. There was the distinctive sound of plates clattering in the kitchen.

My nephew, seated at a rear table, motioned for me to join him. He had asked for my advice. His face was drawn, the lines at his mouth deeper than I remembered. He spoke in a low voice, as if the walls could overhear.

“The shobadai is due,” he said. As he spoke he folded and unfolded the edges of a napkin. “I have no money left. After the pandemic… the customers never returned in the same numbers. Many of our regulars have disappeared. He shook his head, “I can’t cover all of the invoices.” The late afternoon light turned the walls a warm gold.

The bell over the door rang as two men entered.

They wore dark suits, almost identical, the fabric creased in the same way. Their crewcuts were close, severe, their faces angular and hard at the edges. The older man led, his hands loose at his sides, the younger trailing half a step behind. The air seemed to tighten as they moved through the room.

The older man’s eyes swept the space once, resting briefly on me, then locking onto my nephew.

He spoke quietly, almost gently. “Nakamura-san.”

My nephew froze, the napkin falling from his hands onto the floor.

“We had an agreement,” the man said.

My nephew’s voice came out small.

“I know. I… things have been difficult.”

The man raised a hand, palm outward. His fingers were long, the nails trimmed clean.

“Please,” he said. “No stories. We all have our troubles.”

He glanced at me again, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“And you are?”

“I’m his uncle,” I said.

“A monk,” he said, as if noting the weather.

I inclined my head, nothing more.

The younger man’s knee bumped the table. The soy sauce bottle rattled against a bottle of tabasco.

The older man’s attention returned to my nephew.

“The shobadai is two months late,” he said.

My nephew’s hands twisted in his lap. “I don’t have enough,” he whispered.

The man leaned forward, his fingers tapping on the tabletop.

“You know what to expect when obligations are ignored.”

His calm voice was almost warm. The younger man’s gaze narrowed as he looked menacingly at my nephew, his fingers tapping once on the table, a small, click of sound.

I watched them, my arms and hands off the table.

“You’ve been here many times before,” I said gently, looking at the older man.

He glanced at me, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

He tilted his head slightly, “Enough times.”

“And each time,” I replied, “you found him still here.”

The older man’s mouth twitched, barely a movement.

“Until the day we don’t,” he said.

I nodded.

“Until the day you don’t.”

The air shifted slightly. A small boy outside shouted to a friend, his voice carrying down the street.

I looked at the older man.

“You must carry many stories,” I said.

His eyes widened slightly. “Stories?”

“From the places you visit. The shakkin, the debts. The yakusoku yaburi, the broken promises.  

He studied me with a fixed gaze.

“You think this is about stories?” he asked.

I let the question rest. The younger man’s eyes darted from me to my nephew, a faint sneer tugging at his mouth.

“You think we’re here for talk?”

I looked at him gently.

“You are here for the shobadai,” I said. “But you are also here because you care about the street. About the shop. About what happens to it.”

The younger man scoffed, but the older man’s gaze did not shift.

“Care.” he repeated the word as though it were from an obscure foreign language.

“Yes,” I said. “Care is different in every face. But it is there.”

The fan creaked overhead. A faint smell of miso drifted from the kitchen.

The older man sat back.

“You are a strange monk,” he said. “You sit here so calm. Do you think calm is stronger than power?”

“Calm is not stronger. Not weaker. It is what does not push or pull.”
“Then it is weak.”

“Perhaps so,” I said.  “However, weakness does not break. It bends like bamboo and returns. I see a man who comes himself. Not sending others. Who sits at the table. Who asks for what is due, face-to-face.”

He tilted his head.

“And what do you see in him?” he gestured toward my nephew, who glanced up then, his eyes looking at me directly for the first time.

“I see a man who does not run,” I said.

“I… I didn’t want to hide,” my nephew’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I only wanted to keep this place. My father built it. I thought if I could just…” His voice trailed off.  

The older man watched him with interest.

I spoke quietly, “sometimes, the most difficult thing is to stay.”

“Your nephew owes money. Not prayers. Not philosophy.”

“Yes. But you collect not only money. You collect the history of this place, the hours worked, the meals cooked. The shobadai is not only yen.”

“Then tell me, monk, what else is owed?”

“Respect for what has been built. Care for what protects the street. The payment is not

denominated in only what you take, but also in what you leave behind.”

The older man was silent for several seconds. “Your way of speaking is not like the others.”

“Each of us carries something unique. I carry what I have seen: men who demand, and men who give. I have seen both crumble when the storm comes.”

“And what do you see in me?”
“A man who is tired. And a man who still has a choice.”

He exhaled through his nose, a low sound, almost like a sigh. “You’re right about one thing,” he said. “I came because it’s my job. And because it’s my street.”

He looked at me. There was something intense burning beneath the surface.

“And you, monk.  You sit here like nothing touches you.”

“It touches me,” I said. “But it does not own me.”

The silence stretched between us. The younger man shifted, waiting, but the older man did not speak.

The light outside had dimmed further with the arrival of dusk. A truck rumbled past, its engine low and even.

The older man’s fingers drummed on the table, then stopped. He exhaled slowly and pushed his chair back, the legs scraping lightly against the floor.

“Not today,” he said in a low voice.

He stood and adjusted the sleeves of his suit jacket. His gaze lingered on me for a breath, then shifted to my nephew.  “Take care of this place. Don’t let it fall apart.”

They turned, the bell above the door rang as they left.

My nephew sat still, the tension in his shoulders had eased.

“Thank you,” he whispered, not looking at me.

I slid the plate of pickled radish closer to him.

“Eat,” I said quietly.

We sat together in the quiet. The world outside moved on.