Aiko. Tales of Full Contact. Part 2 1. LV

1.

LV.


He tried to talk to me about the others one time.

— Oh, this one is just…

— Stop.

I put my hand out. Like that. The spoon was still in it. I didn’t look up from my plate.

— Not now, not later. I don’t really care. At this moment, I’m eating.

— What?!

He looked shocked. Lost for words. It was a new look for him.

— You’ve got some nerve, girl. You know I have to pay for your food, right?

— I know. Later. Later you can pay. But now I just want to eat it.

And I smiled and went back to the food. Yeah. Later. You can pay later. Now, I’m eating.

That was my father's first and last attempt at trying to explain the situation or the women he had.

He looked like Hemingway in old pictures. Especially the ones at work sites. Mining is a rough business. You dress for the dirt. Boots. Heavy cloth. He was a true engineer. Technical. Smart. Straightforward in work and in life.

He saw different women for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My mother lived in a different house. A different part of the city, really. She tried to pull me aside at times.

Your father is this or that…

I stopped her every time. Same thing. Not interested. Let’s talk about something else. Not that. Not me.

When we went to the sites, we traveled in different cars. Always. You never know. An attack is always a possibility. Everyone knew that to get to him, they needed to get to the daughter.

The way he got my attention was by grabbing my LV bag. I’d be at my desk, focused, working, not paying attention to the world. The bag sat on the side. Anyone who knew me knew the bag was the trigger. They touch the leather, and I’m back:

— Oh, hi. What’s up?

There was an incident at one of the sites once. The local miner didn't know what to do. They’ve been digging for days and then the machine stopped. The engineers on site said it just needed to cool off. But the owner panicked and called my father.

The owner told me the story later:

— Your father pulled up. Got out of the car. Walked straight to the machine. Looked around quickly and then said, “Take that machine to the sea and dump it.” Then he left. Your father was right as always.

And they thought about it and tried fixing it, but that was it for the machine. They made some mistakes, my father said. He knew stuff like that. And he showed up to that site in Ferragamo shoes. Walked across that red dirt in them. He’d been in the office and forgot to change into his boots.

I gave him those shoes. Every CEO has a pair. Those are the most comfortable shoes in the world they say… and they are. Simple, but you can tell them right away. These were a natural brown. They looked almost orange against the dust.

Later, at dinner, people were talking about the site.

— I’m never giving you shoes again, papa, I said.

— Why?

— You wore them to the site.

Everyone gasped. Then they laughed. He didn’t quite grasp why it was funny.

The night he died, I felt a shift. I was home taking a nap and then woke up with a gasp.

— Hhu-ah!

Just like that. I looked at the clock. 7:30 PM. Then later, they called me and told me he had passed away. I asked what time. They checked and told me.

7:30 PM.

I felt it. Like a gust of wind. A tree swaying. Yeah. I couldn’t breathe for 5 seconds. Something had changed. I knew it. In Japan, clocks are everywhere and everyone checks the time. The Japanese are pretty on time. They probably have a procedure for the time of death. They wrote down the exact moment I needed to breathe.

He told that to the Russians one time. It was so funny. It was a meeting with an Australian and two Russians. They looked very Russian. Suits. Haircuts. Straight faces. Tense. Not smiling. Not saying much.

— Wine? Beer? Coffee?

— No.

That was their answer. They sat there, not eating, not drinking. Looking uncomfortable. We drank some wine with the Australian. My father leaned over me:

— What’s with these Russians? I don’t think we can work with them.

He turned back to the table:

— If you don’t want to drink or eat, maybe you can just breathe then.

A year after he died, I was at the airport with one of the partners. He was close to my father and we were discussing something and then I noticed the Louis Vuitton bag on the counter a few feet to the left. Saw it in the corner of my eye really.

It had initials on the front. HY.

The partner noticed it, too, and I pointed to the bag.

— This is him. Your father is trying to get your attention.

And I said:

— Yeah. That’s him.

The HY was facing us. The bag was placed perfectly so that we could see the initials. As if the bag itself wasn’t enough to catch my attention. And I just looked at it and said:

—Hi. You are here.