The Briefcase Read Online Free PDF Page B

including even the tiny little ones.

Mushroom Hunting, Part 1
    WHAT ON EARTH was I doing, wandering around a place like this?
    It was Sensei’s fault—after all, he was the one who first starting talking about mushrooms.
    We had been sitting at the counter in the bar, the air that evening filled with autumn briskness, when Sensei, his posture perfect as always, said cheerfully, “I love mushrooms.”
    “ Matsutake mushrooms?” I asked, but he shook his head.
    “ Matsutake are fine, of course, but . . . ”
    “Yes?”
    “Assuming that ‘mushrooms’ refers to matsutake is as simplistic as deciding that ‘baseball’ means the Giants.”
    “But don’t you love the Giants, Sensei?”
    “I do, but I’m perfectly aware that, objectively, baseball is not only about the Giants.”
    The quarrel that Sensei and I had over the Giants was still quite recent, and both of us were now extremely cautious when it came to baseball.
    “There are many varieties of mushrooms.”
    “I see.”

    “For instance, you can pick murasaki shimeji mushrooms and roast them on the spot. Drizzled with soy sauce—my goodness, so delicious!”
    “Yes.”
    “And iguchi mushrooms are quite savory as well.”
    “I see.”
    As our conversation went on, the owner of the bar had poked his head out from his side of the counter.
    “You know a lot about mushrooms, sir!”
    Sensei gave a slight nod. “Oh, not much at all,” he said, although his demeanor seemed to suggest that he knew quite a bit.
    “I always go mushroom hunting this time of year,” the owner said, craning his neck. He gestured toward Sensei and me with his nose, like a mama bird feeding her chicks.
    “I see,” Sensei replied in the same vague way that I often did.
    “Well then, sir, since you like them so much, would you like to come along with me on this year’s mushroom hunt?”
    Sensei and I exchanged glances. Despite the fact that we came to this bar almost every other night, the owner had never once treated us like regulars or made a point of making friendly conversation. Rather, it was the kind of place where everyone was treated like a new customer. And now, suddenly, the owner had invited us “to come along” with him.
    “Where do you do this mushroom hunting?” Sensei asked.
    The owner craned his neck even further. “Around Tochigi,” he answered. Sensei and I exchanged glances once again. The owner awaited our reply, his neck still outstretched. At the same moment that I wondered aloud, What do you think . . . ? Sensei responded, Let’s go. Somehow, just like that, it was decided that we would go mushroom hunting in Tochigi via the owner’s car.

    I KNOW ABSOLUTELY nothing about cars. Neither does Sensei. The bar owner’s car was white and boxy, unlike the sort of streamlined cars that you often saw these days in the city. This car was squarish and outdated, and somewhat austere, the kind that was common more than ten years ago.
    The plan was to meet up outside the bar at six in the morning on Sunday. So I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and, without even washing my face, grabbed the musty old rucksack that I had dug out from the back of my closet the night before as I left my apartment. The sound of the key as I locked the front door echoed unpleasantly in the morning air. I couldn’t stop myself from yawning repeatedly as I headed for the bar.
    Sensei had already arrived. He stood there perfectly straight, his briefcase in hand, as always. The trunk of the car was open wide, and the bar owner’s upper body was thrust inside.
    “Is that equipment for hunting mushrooms?” Sensei asked.
    “No,” the owner replied, without changing position. “I’m bringing this stuff to my cousin’s place in Tochigi.” His voice reverberated from within the trunk.
    The things he was bringing to his cousin’s place in Tochigi consisted of several paper bags and one long, rectangular package. Sensei and I both peered over the owner’s shoulder. A crow cried from atop