Remembering Melody

And breezy afternoons looking out over rooftops

A few weeks ago, I overheard the news. It made me sad to hear, but as Mr. Ninomiya is now in his seventies I should have seen it coming.

Two young men in suits were sitting with Mr. Ninomiya at one of our small tables. They mentioned the new tenant and said he’d be moving in from October 1. Our coffee shop Melody would become something called a shared office space.

I don’t really know what that is, but I’ll find out soon enough.

Mr. Ninomiya seemed dejected, though he tried to smile through his chat with the men. He said he looked forward to moving on to his next chapter. But you know what? After these 41 years, I know Mr. Ninomiya too well. He was grappling.

He had never mentioned to me that a change would be coming. I kind of resent that, considering all the time we have spent together.

In 1983, we opened sparkling new. We were one of about 40 small coffee kissaten in this neighborhood called Hakusan. It’s an area of old money but also students, because Todai University is in the vicinity and Toyo University, a technical school of lesser status, is just around the corner.

Despite the local kissa competition, we built a solid reputation and for at least the first 20 years Melody made a small splash. Most seats were taken through the day by the students, while many of the older residents of this area also made us their home away from home. People said Melody was a place to take a break after shopping, to take a load off. A den for friends to quietly chat about their days.

The brass brewing machine that Mr. Ninomiya ordered from Paris—and doted on—was spotless. He blew the milk-steaming pipes clean and rubbed down any stray fingerprints from the brass after each use. Our matching rosewood counter, floors, shelving, tables, even window frames gleamed with daily wipe downs and monthly waxing. Mr. Ninomiya came in two hours before the start of each day to personally do all the tidying himself!

He was in his early 30s then and “still single” people said with a wink. Particularly in the 1980s that eligibility stood out, so townspeople often whispered about Mr. Ninomiya. Everyone guessed he was homosexual but of course didn’t discuss the thought openly.

They were correct. I saw his slightly younger partner, Mr. Itoh, come to the shop several times over the years, but only discreetly after hours. The two never told me directly of their relationship, but squinting anyone could tell. No public physical displays in the shop (ever!), but there was a deep mutual affection mixed with a laser-like ability to push each other’s buttons like only intimate partners can do.

“You should keep flirting with Mrs. Ueno’s son. You were once as in shape as him.”

“I do appreciate your help. It’s just a shame your skills were never understood by employers. That eight-figure job you had with Mitsubishi Shoji for instance…”

Mr. Itoh’s role seemed to be ensuring that Mr. Ninomiya was ready each day. He kept three sets of white aprons cleaned, starched, and stocked in the shop at all times, just in case there were any spills or stains during a work day. I heard Mr. Itoh also did all the books, as well as the ordering of foodstuffs, like imported French and Italian roast beans, Hokkaido whole and low-fat milk, meats, pastries, and juices. Mr. Itoh was the engine room of this operation, and he kept himself safely below deck.

Mr. Ninomiya, who I think always dreamed of running a kissaten, was the day-to-day face. He made all the coffees and juices and prepared all the food. He liked people and kept up with their ongoing challenges as well as successes. “How was your daughter’s music recital? Did she play the Chopin Minuet,” he would inquire of a customer, effortlessly picking up threads of a conversation left dangling a week ago.

He also kept our space filled every moment of the day with the most beautiful classical music. We had here in Melody about 100 vinyl records of chamber and symphony music from performances around the world. I suggested to Mr. Ninomiya that he might want to sometimes play jazz albums, but he would have none of that. “Miles Davis is a celebration of missed notes,” he would say only half joking.

He installed his prized Technics turntable, a powerful, old tube amp made by Onkyo, and two timeless bookcase JBL speakers. The result was an intimate kissaten filled with the low strains of cellos and bassoons, as well as the lifting, more piercing sounds of violins, flutes, piano, and trumpets. The volume was kept low, always in the background, but the audio quality was so spectacular I could hear musicians’ fingers squeaking on strings or a single audience member shift in his seat during a live recording.

Mr. Ninomiya had high-EQ musical sense: he picked every album carefully for the season, weather, even the mood the townspeople might be feeling at that moment. I remember the day after Japan (unbelievably) beat Brazil in that Olympics football match, he played a jubilant symphony that rang through the house. It sounded like angels were descending on our little kissa.

I guess the music, even more than the coffee, was Mr. Ninomiya’s signature.

Melody was perched on the top of a small knoll in Hakusan. The elevated position looking over and past most people’s rooftops bathed the shop in sunshine particularly in the afternoons.

Two doors down from us and also on that same hill is Hakusan Shrine, one of Japan’s 72 most important religious sites. On nice days, we opened our large back window to let in the breeze. Below us was a corner of the shrine’s graveyard, normally not a positive sight for Japanese, but I heard many customers say they found the scene peaceful. On the afternoon breeze, we could smell incense sticks burning from the graves below. It was a calming scent.

We only served a few dishes—he never said it, but my guess is that these were simply Mr. Ninomiya’s favorite foods. In the mornings, we served a small set meal of shredded cabbage salad with white dressing, a hard-boiled egg, one half of a sliced banana, and buttered fluffy toast. Past 11AM, you could have your choice of beef curry rice, stewed pork, or Napolean spaghetti. All day long we had pizza toast that came with a small, sample-size bottle of Tabasco Sauce “made in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

Melody was not a landmark by anyone’s estimation, but it played a role in the neighborhood’s story. An assemblyman named Nagatsuka launched his first campaign there—the only reason we remember is because he was arrested years later as an MP for bribery. A top Kabuki actor stopped in regularly for our pizza toast and ice coffee, but only an elderly widow regular, Mrs. Eguchi, ever recognized him. (She would shoot star-struck glances over and over at the actor and begin fanning herself with a paper sensu as if to telegraph ‘the vapors.’) Kenzaburo Oe, the Nobel awarded author, once used us as the scene of a breakup in a short story about a deranged man.

All in all, a respected kissaten with an unchanging menu, but most importantly a conviction of the role that local shops should play for people in a town.

Time of course evolved around us, and I suppose that’s why Mr. Ninomiya is moving on. Coffee shops today are no longer hangouts to read books, finish term papers, or to quietly gossip with neighbors for hours. Porcelain and china have been replaced by paper cups with plastic sippy lids, shall we say?

It’s fine. I’m not sour and times need to change.

I do worry about Mr. Ninomiya though. He is 72, and though he never mentioned it, we learned that Mr. Itoh passed away about five years ago. Mr. Ninomiya speaks to his friends of moving back to his Iwate Prefecture hometown where his brother cares for a few small places still in the family. Wherever he chooses to go, I’m sure he will take his stereo and albums as well as the considerable achievements of Melody proudly with him.

For me? I’ll stay here—hah, I really have no choice! My yellowed walls will get repainted, and the new tenant is talking about dividing me into several smaller rooms. I’ll suggest that whatever he chooses to do, my main window should still be enjoyed by all on warm, breezy afternoons.