一人で歌えない歌がある

"Would you go to karaoke with me?"

The voice on the other end of the phone was faint. It wasn't from clearing his throat; I later understood that this was simply his voice. That a voice, left unused, becomes like this.

The client was Mr. Sasaki, sixty-one years old. It was early March, a day when the wind still bit cold. Holding the receiver, I fell silent for a moment. Karaoke. As a request for a friend-for-hire service, it wasn't uncommon. It falls into the same category as needing someone to round out numbers for a gathering or a group date. Yet, there was something in Mr. Sasaki's voice that set it apart from all of those. The reason he couldn't go to karaoke alone was not due to poor singing.

Mr. Sasaki had been retired for a year. His wife had passed away five years prior. He had two children, one living overseas and the other in Kyushu, and they might see each other once a year, perhaps during New Year's. He had no one to converse with daily.

"The only time I use my voice in a day," he said, "is to say 'I need a bag' at the supermarket checkout."

As he said this, Mr. Sasaki offered a faint smile. He smiled, yet there was no laughter in it.

For us at Family Romance, such requests are growing more common. They are not flashy assignments. Not like the substitute wedding attendances or apology services that might catch the eye of television. These are simply requests for "I just want someone to be with me." The true essence of a friend-for-hire service, in fact, lies right here. They want someone to eat with. To walk with. To go cherry blossom viewing with. And—to go to karaoke with.

To have no place to raise one's voice. Many people do not realize how deeply isolating, how tormenting that can be. A voice is something meant to be directed towards someone. Even if one sings to a wall, it is no longer a voice, but merely a sound.

On the day of the appointment, I met Mr. Sasaki at a coffee shop in front of the station. For friend-for-hire services, it's common to take some time for conversation beforehand, to alleviate the awkwardness of a first meeting.

"Mr. Ishii, are you good at singing?"

That was the first thing he asked me. I answered honestly, saying, "I'm average. I sometimes miss notes." Mr. Sasaki nodded, as if relieved.

We spoke for about thirty minutes at the coffee shop. Mr. Sasaki's favorites were Showa-era pop songs, especially those by Naomi Chiaki and Kenji Sawada. During his working years, he was in sales, and it seemed he always went to karaoke during after-parties with clients. In other words, for Mr. Sasaki, singing was social interaction itself. Upon retirement, those social interactions ceased, and with them, the place for singing disappeared. With no place to sing, his voice vanished. And with his voice gone, he even began to question his own existence.

"It might sound exaggerated," Mr. Sasaki said, "but if I don't use my voice, I feel like I'm becoming transparent."

It's not exaggerated, I thought. In my line of work, I speak with someone every day. I play the role of a father, a husband, a friend. There isn't a day when I don't use my voice. But in Mr. Sasaki's daily life, there is no one to receive, no one to acknowledge, his voice.

We entered the karaoke box. A small room, just for two. Mr. Sasaki took the remote control and searched for a song for a while. It seemed less like he was searching, and more like he was lost.

"How many years has it been, I wonder. Five years, no, perhaps even more."

The first song he chose was Kenji Sawada's "Toki no Sugiyuku Mama ni" (As Time Goes By). The moment the intro played, Mr. Sasaki's expression changed. His eyes welled up a little. But when it came time to sing, his voice didn't come out. It wasn't a problem with the pitch. His voice, physically, would not emerge.

There was a silence for several seconds. The lyrics scrolled across the screen. I didn't tap a tambourine; I simply sat beside him. Mr. Sasaki put the microphone down once, drank some water, and picked up the microphone again. From just before the chorus, he began to sing in a faint, hoarse voice.

"Without a thought, just as you feel it." When those lyrics echoed in that small room, I felt a strange emotion. This was not a performance. I was simply listening. Yet, I believe that the mere fact that "there was someone simply listening" meant everything to Mr. Sasaki.

In Japan, there is a culture of "solo karaoke," with even dedicated establishments for it. So, some might think, "Why doesn't he just go to karaoke alone?"

But for Mr. Sasaki, karaoke was "a place to go with someone." The option of going alone was merely an act of confirming his loneliness. He told me he couldn't bear to say "Just one person" at the reception, feeling as though it was a declaration of his isolation to the staff.

This is not a problem unique to Mr. Sasaki. We receive numerous requests to "accompany someone to places that are difficult to enter alone"—yakiniku restaurants, family restaurants, movie theaters, hospitals. Places one should be able to go to alone, yet cannot. I believe that is not a weakness, but an expression of the inherent social nature of humans. People are not made to be complete on their own.

When the isolation of the elderly is discussed as a social issue, numbers emerge: the number of elderly living alone, the number of lonely deaths. But before those numbers, there is the daily reality of "having no place to raise one's voice." People who stop using their voice will eventually become unable to cry out for help. The very act of Mr. Sasaki calling us might have been his last resort.

In the two hours of karaoke, I only sang three songs. I did so because Mr. Sasaki encouraged me, saying, "Mr. Ishii, you should sing too," but essentially, I just listened to Mr. Sasaki sing.

In this friend-for-hire service, there is something I hold dear: that "the client is always the protagonist." I try not to over-enliven things, not to be obtrusive. Yet, without me, it wouldn't happen. To be an existence like air. But just as people cannot live without air, to be a presence where "simply being there has meaning."

Though Mr. Sasaki couldn't find his voice for the first song, his volume started to return around the third. By the fifth, he was adding flourishes. By the tenth, he was singing, looking at me with a smile.

Watching that smile, I pondered. What had taken root between Mr. Sasaki and me in these two hours? Friendship? No, can friendship truly blossom with someone you’ve paid to summon? Yet, Mr. Sasaki's smile was genuine. His joy at regaining his voice was genuine. If the emotion is real, then it is real. I believe this. I have no choice but to believe.

It was evening when we left the karaoke box. The March sky was still bright, but the wind was cold. We walked side-by-side to the station.

“May I ask you to come again next month?”

Mr. Sasaki said this. After a slight pause, I replied, “Of course.” But at the same time, I also added, “Mr. Sasaki, why don't you try looking for a local karaoke circle or something?”

I don't want them to become dependent on me. I want them to use me to build real human relationships. This is what I always believe. I see "Family Romance" as akin to crutches. When you break a bone, you can't walk without them. But the goal isn't to use crutches forever. They are a temporary support, meant for you to walk on your own feet someday.

Mr. Sasaki said, “I'll think about it.” His voice was a little more robust than it had been during the morning's phone call.

As we parted at the station, Mr. Sasaki turned back and said, “Today, I used my voice for the first time in a long while. Thank you.” I waved. Watching his back disappear beyond the ticket gate, I thought.

Honestly, it would be better if services like this didn't exist. Everyone should have someone to go to karaoke with. Yet, there are those who don't. And when such a person strains to ask, “Will you come with me?” we say, “Yes.” That is our job.

That day, the last song Mr. Sasaki sang was Naomi Chiaki's “Kassai.” When he finished, he remained motionless for a while, still holding the microphone with both hands.

“This was my wife's favorite song.”

After saying that, he said nothing more. I, too, remained silent. Only the lingering resonance remained in the small karaoke box.

A song is meant to be delivered to someone. A song sung to a wall is different from a song sung in front of another. Even if that 'someone' is a rented person, if there are ears and a heart present, the song will reach them. A song that reaches is real.

When Mr. Sasaki sang “Kassai,” what reached my ears was a song for his deceased wife. I might have received that song on her behalf. I cannot be a substitute. But I can receive it.

The March wind is still cold. Yet, there is someone who has found their voice again. That alone gave meaning to this day.