He finds me outside of the sushi shop that my mother owns, the one I was fired from two weeks ago. I’m crouched on the ground like a hurt tiger, eyes glowering and trailing smoke. From the little I can see, the old man is prim in his Western-style suit and the dampened Japanese accent he speaks in.
“We heard about your problem,” he says, his voice as thin as a reed. “You can come work for us.”
“Do I know you,” I say, flat monotone. My eyes stay trained at the ground.
“You can continue your omakase service with us. One-time. Good pay.” He does not say a single unnecessary word, and his tone brooks no argument. Quickly, carelessly, his business card flutters down to my feet – from the corner of my eye, I can see that it’s made of cardstock. Thick. Expensive.
Even from where I am sitting, I can smell the varnished wood of what must be his sushi bar, the rich spicy scent of real ginger and real wasabi, not that cheap horseradish shit.
The about-face of his black oxfords is a signal that I’ll finally be left alone soon. “You can start tomorrow,” the old man states gently. Already, his voice is sounding fainter and fainter. “You can wait outside when you are ready, and I will send someone to get you.”
I know that he must smell the desperation pathetically crumbling off of me with the cigarette ash. Even if he does not turn around, there is something satisfied about the set of his shoulders, as if he knows for a fact that he will see me again.
I fumble for his card so fast that I nearly cut myself.
***
I promise I am not stupid. There are three reasons for why I do the impulsive things I do: first, I don’t have many reasons left to live. Second, I am flat broke. And lastly – I love to make sushi.
Despite everything that my mom has done to me, I still owe her for teaching me how to cook. I truly, truly love the way the fish feels in my hands, cool and tender like silk. I love how the wa-bocho bites through soft flesh like water. I like the meditative tempo of cupping the rice into soft ovals. I like playing with the balance of flavor and color; I love the expression on my guests’ faces when they eat something truly delicious. Even though I hate eye contact, I love watching people experience something I have made with care.
Ultimately, my restlessness is what pulls me upright and pushes me to get dressed. I manage to root out my least stained shirt, coiling my black hair into a standard professional bun. Everything that I own reeks of smoke, but there is nothing that I can do about that now.
They are obviously be watching me. Squinting in the heavy sunlight, I wait for nearly ten minutes until a sleek black car pulls up inches away from my feet. It’s as shiny and as prim as that old man. The handle is silver, slick under my sweating hand.
When I slide in, that wood-ginger-wasabi scent is even more pungent, almost thick. There’s a partition in place so I can’t even see the driver, so I may just as well be on my way to the black market, ripe for organ harvesting. It doesn’t bother me as much as it should, probably – I have nothing left to lose.
Without missing a beat, the driver pulls away from the curb. The ride is unnaturally smooth, and the engine is a low purr. The windows of this car are tinted so dark, I can barely make out passing outlines. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I notice a piece of loose paper on the seat next to me. As I scan the lines, my fingers run over the ridges of the same cream cardstock. The letter is written in clean, spiky handwriting.
Hello, it begins, and I can suddenly hear his papery-thin voice. Thank you for doing us a favor. Despite your unfortunate outbursts, we are aware that you are an excellent chef.
He is right, and that makes it even more embarrassing. My nails bite into the parchment, crinkling its perfect edges.
Your training and your reputation precede you. This is a highly exclusive opportunity. All your materials will be provided for you – you only need to do as you are told. If you can demonstrate basic etiquette and awareness, you will be rewarded.
At the bottom of the letter, there is a dollar amount printed that would satisfy my next few months’ rent, including a few grocery bills.
He could nearly beat out my mom in condescending attitude, but besides the contempt, the old man’s objective is clear. The instructions are basic. Omakase is, to my mother, the purest form of sushi-making. For once in our lifetimes, I agree with her. It is the height of my craft – there is something so poetic and humanizing about feeding your guests one piece at a time. Making the moment last.
So I could be going to the organ market or giving the service of my dreams. Either way, something will be taken.
The car slows to a stop so gradually that I haven’t noticed it until the door is whisked open. I finally see the mysterious driver, but his face is covered by a pair of comically-large sunglasses. His gloved hand motions me towards the ornate door, so I depart wordlessly.
The place I am meant to work is overly ostentatious – an atypical sign for quality sushi, but also pretty atypical for hidden black markets. The entire building is intricately hewn from gray stone, looking more like a concert hall than a restaurant. This must be a private event for some very important people. Right at the entrance, there is an enormous velvet doormat with a twisting, unrecognizable insignia.
The entrance is a stone door has a large knocker that is shaped like a fish’s open mouth. When used, the knocker drops with a stunning reverberating sound.
Like everything else, the door slides open silently and immediately. At this point, the smoky smell of ginger is so strong that it’s nearly overwhelming. Inhaling is like taking in a breath of fire, spicy and hot. My eyes take another moment to adjust to the suffocating darkness of the enormous room I’m in; my ear takes in the soothing strains of barely-there jazz. Above it all, there is the clinking and chatting of my guests. My clients. My Very Important People. The dithering small talk of hungry people trying to wait.
The building is almost warehouse like in its enormity, but only the smallest fraction of it is occupied. In the farthest corner, like a light at the end of the dock, I can see a tiny sushi bar. Three seats.
As expected, the prim old man is there, squeezed between two beautiful women. As I trek towards the bar, none of them turn to acknowledge me. It takes a talented level of pretentiousness to ignore the echo of my footsteps, and the trio does so gracefully.
From behind the sushi bar, there glints something huge. Something glittering green.
I do not even get the opportunity to take in the pristine sushi bar, which is a near-perfect replica of my work station in my mom’s restaurant. I barely see the neatly stacked platters, the rolled towels, or the newly sharpened and gleaming wa-bocho.
Above everything else, I am forced to stare at the meat, the monstrosity, the miracle of something I have never seen before. In front of me is the bottom half of the largest fish I have ever seen. It is so unthinkably huge; the rubbery tail flops off the table and folds over itself on the glossy dark floor.
Closer up, it’s more of a pattern of green-blue-gold, scales lining the entirety of it. At a rough estimate, it was nearly six feet long. The actual edible flesh is nearly hot pink in its sheen, glowing faintly in the way that only freshly-caught fish can. The marbling is incredible – fatty lines of white striping the flesh evenly; it looks like a prize chunk of red granite. It is the most tempting, ideal piece of fish that I have ever seen, magnified and quadrupled in a way that I didn’t know was possible. Even from a distance, the fish smells sweet and rich, like butter.
In the back of my mind, I’m still struggling to believe that this is real. Out of everything that happened to me, this is somehow the most shocking.
Only just now, I have realized that my three esteemed guests have ceased talking and are staring at me, unashamed. Their gazes are starving.
One of the women finally speaks to me, her voice breathy. “Is this your first time?”
First time with this company, I assume she’s asking. “Yes.”
All of three of them seem to smirk, but it’s the same blonde woman who giggles a little. “That’s so special! I love watching their first time.” It seems as if the universe is conspiring to only pair me with people who infantilize me.
“Should we be generous, my dears?” The old man asks. He sounds drunk, his words blending together a bit.
“Yes,” the third woman says, but I am starting to lose focus. Whatever they are implying, it can’t be good. Unless –
“Go ahead,” the old man says, and his eyes meet mine for the very first time. His pupils are a true black, a placid ocean at midnight. “You may cut yourself a piece, chef. You have never had anything like it before.”
Like it has a mind of its own, my wa-bocho is silent and immediate. The first slice of sashimi falls in front of me, 10 millimeters thick, perfect. The meat is firm and cool between my fingers.
I can’t see them, but I feel their gazes on me. The second I place the fish against my tongue, the room explodes in decadent color.
The mark of fresh fish is that it melts in your mouth without needing to chew. The oily, succulent taste of this flesh sprawls across my tongue; my palette is overwhelmed by sensory perfection. Behind my eyelids, the world glimmers neon pink for just an instant, and as the fish slips down my throat, everything fades.
It is indescribable. It is luxuriously ridiculous. I suppose, at the end of the day, it is the magic of sushi. But still…
“Stop,” his thin voice snaps, breaking me out of some trance. “I said you could taste it, not eat all of it yourself.”
I take my hand off the fish completely, retracting my fingers from where the had unconsciously drifted.
“What is this?” I ask. My voice hovers at a rasp.
The blonde woman answers smugly as she takes a measured sip of her sake. “This season, it’s the most expensive catch in the world. Did you know that it was discovered three days ago? Those Italian fishermen are still deciding what to name it, but they said that it was a marvelous fight trying to bring it in.” She ends her explanation decisively, and turns her body and attention back to the old man.
I am in no position to ask more questions, and there is nothing left for me to ask. I suppose I am convincing myself that I have seen stranger things before, whether it be gutting poison-puffer in Kyoto or grilling alligator in Florida. Silently, like they have paid me to, I begin to divide up the fish.
I am thankful for all of mom’s training, because I’m uncharacteristically dazed right now. Usually, sushi is an art of muscle memory, but I seem to be battling every impulse to slow, slow down. This stuffy room makes me sweat profusely, and the space around me is wavering and closing in. The lights of my little bar seem to be swirling together.
Breathe, a little voice demands in my mind, and I fight to focus.
There is just so much of it. When I look down at the hundreds of pounds of meat, it feels like a truly ludicrous amount. I start by first carving out a manageable slab, taking care to work around the pearlescent, needle-sharp bones. I plate all my courses with care – each piece of nigiri, sushi, and sashimi is identical.
For as obnoxious as my guests are, they are quiet when fed. The old man accepts each piece readily and eats it promptly; like always, he seems quiet and reflective as he swallows. As they wait between courses, I continue to feel their eyes boring into my every move.
It is at the third handroll variation that the blonde woman begins to droop unexpectedly. She has eaten so much so quickly, as if she were a bottomless animal. Her stomach is full, bulging through her thin dress. She is halfway through a bite, slimy pink flesh all over her lips and breath, when her gaze morphs from calculating to slack-jawed. Her pupils are blown huge, and her chin gleams with fish oil.
“Ma’am?” I say, trying not to offend. But it’s so hard to speak. It feels as if my words are leaking out of my lips underwater, lost in a stream of bubbles. “Are you alright?”
She doesn’t even react. Her enormous pupils are following the acts of invisible people in the air. To her left, the loud brunette is reaching the same state – giggling aimlessly as drool leaks from the corners of her mouth. It is the old man who seems tireless, eager in his consumption, still loudly smacking his lips as he bites into the bright pink flesh over and over again. As I set out more sashimi for him, I see how his cufflinks and pressed white shirt are damp, stained with juices.
It’s time for another chunk to be carved out of the enormous tail, but there is something wrong with me. My wa-bocho is not listening to my hands… my fingers… my head. I feel like I should be reacting more… I’m too anxious to feel this numb. Should I be feeling fear? Or … perhaps… alarm…
My head starts to pound, my eyes and mouth are watering. I blink, hard, but my eyes only seem to ache more.
“I need a break,” I say, gulping at the sweltering air. No one even turns to acknowledge me as I head towards the nearest door. I’m closer to the back entrance than I had thought, and it takes all the will that I have left to stumble towards it. It takes a few tries, but the door finally unlatches enough for me to fall through.
The sun is hanging directly overhead now, heat radiating down like rain. It does not help. Everything seems brighter and worse – I can barely see. Then, I almost walk face-first into the dumpster. Fancy building, regular reeking dumpster.
I think that I’m about to lose both my mind and the contents of my stomach when I finally smell it – that familiar, inescapable, butter-seaweed-rot smell.
In the dumpster, sprawled across the bottom, sliced cleanly at the waist, I see a giant man.
No – not a man – I see an enormous head, a thick neck, a pair of gangly arms. It looks like it is asleep, needle-sharp teeth poking through its clearly formed mouth. Its nose is a simple divot on its flat silver face. At the end of this creature’s rounded waist, it melts into lines of blue-green-gold scales. Almost comically, the entire thing is nestled gently in a matted cloud of its green, stringy hair.
It is unreal. It is impossible. It is something unimaginably humanoid, sliced and discarded with the scraps.
The scariest thing of all is how the bright pink flesh of this mermaid’s corpse still calls to me, like a siren song to a sailor, like animal fat to human lips. Fresh-caught meat on a hot summer’s day.