“Who is he?” Monoi asked.
“A guy from the credit union who comes to the factory.”
“Huh.”
“He’s a Zainichi Korean. Always pissed off on Sundays.”
As Yo-chan said this he flashed his teeth a little, his shoulders shaking as he laughed without a sound.
In that moment Monoi failed to make out Yo-chan’s spurt of words, but he assumed it was because of his bad hearing and didn’t bother asking him to repeat what he had said. After all, Yo-chan was as young as Monoi’s grandson, and everything about him—from his outlook on things to the way he used his chopsticks—only caused Monoi to feel ill at ease. It had been the same with his grandson who died on the 15th. In any case, the way Monoi saw it, the man walking away seemed to belong to that particular vein of shady underworld connections, though he had no clue as to why he had gotten such an impression.
“Diana might be a win,” Monoi said, bringing the conversation back around.
“Middle odds at best. Not a dark horse,” Yo-chan corrected him soberly, though his face was already buried again in his newspaper.
Monoi spoke to his profile. “Come by my house tomorrow. We’ll go out for sushi.” With that, he walked away.
Monoi had lingered long enough talking with Yo-chan that there was already a battery of umbrellas around the paddock. He stepped into the rain and peered at the paddock through a gap in the crowd, but after realizing that he couldn’t see, he gave up and decided to watch the horses on the various monitors that were around the betting windows. In just a short time he was drenched, so he returned to the shelter of the building and stood beneath a monitor in the crowded passageway. The screen only showed one horse at a time; here was horse number four, a jockey astride him. He was a six-year-old stretch runner who had always run in the nine-million-yen class but, as if himself aware that he had been losing his edge lately in the homestretch, he walked with a heavy, drooping gait. Then came horse number five. He had a lucid expression, seeming fully matured at four years old, and he pulled against his reins and bared his teeth as if he wanted to say something. Next came horse number six.
The rain had not let up. One could practically make out every single raindrop that fell on the horses. Since their bodies were covered entirely by hair, getting wet meant their own body weight would be more of a burden. Infected by the languid mood of the horses, Monoi’s focus started to drift away from the race.
I could use a pick-me-up, he thought to himself. At times like this, it was best to simply let go and sink five thousand yen or so in a single race on the horse he had initially chosen, and if he happened to win it would be all good. If not, all he could do was apply himself better in the next race. Monoi never had much attachment to the bets he made, and perhaps that was why both his interest and his money had lasted for more than thirty years. “Erimo is next,” he said to himself, and though he had not intended to, he moved through the crowded passageway to see the horses warm up on the main track. A throng of men, unable to go out onto the field by the main track due to the rain, had already gathered by the exit from the grandstand, and Monoi could barely get a clear view by craning his neck. There, he waited for the horses moving in from the paddocks to line up, and from a distance he stared at the almost otherworldly movements of the horses’ legs for more than ten minutes. He turned to the clock as he thought to himself that it all came down to potential.
Only fifteen minutes left until the start of the race. He had a few bets he had been tasked with by an acquaintance, so he hurried to the ticket windows. There was no sign of Yo-chan at the foot of the pillar where Monoi had seen him before—where had he gone off to? Gathered in front of the betting windows all he could see was a long line of heads jostling each other. As he stood there being pushed and shoving back over the course of ten minutes, habit induced his excitement and made him think, “Yes, Erimo it is.” When he reached the window, he slammed down five thousand-yen bills and heard himself shout, “Number two to win!” He grabbed the ticket that appeared and quickly pushed forward three more thousand-yen bills and barked, “One-two. One-five. Two-five!” These were for his friend. As he came back out to the passageway with the tickets in hand, the bell signaling the two-minute cutoff before the start rang above his head, followed by the reverberating sound as the chain of ticket windows closed.
On his way to the second floor of the grandstand and with the fanfare as the horses entered the starting gate ringing in his ears, Monoi ran into Nunokawa, who was clutching his daughter under the arm with one hand while carrying a folding wheelchair in the other as he ran down the steps.
“She messed her pants,” Nunokawa mumbled and gestured with his chin at the girl.
When Monoi’s eyes fell upon the girl, he saw that a stain had spread over the crotch of her blue pants. Aha, he thought to himself, troubled by the sudden image of a mare’s ass that came to mind again.
“First time?” he asked.
“I think so . . . No, I don’t know.”
“What is your wife doing today?”
“Shopping. I think she’s probably home by now.”
The two men awkwardly lowered their voices beside the girl, who groaned, “Ah, ah, ahh,” as if to say something, throwing her arms and legs around, her neck wobbling. She was in a foul mood. Nunokawa looked down at her blankly as if his mind had gone off far away, then in the next moment, a blue vein at his temple quivered as his expression registered extreme irritation. However, each expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“She’s a lady now,” he let out roughly.
If she had gotten her period, the girl had indeed become a lady, starting today. Thinking that was one way to look at it, Monoi muttered in agreement but could not find the right words.
“I could place you a bet for the eleventh race,” Monoi finally said.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Nunokawa replied, “Ten thousand yen for Lady-something-or-other to win.”
Monoi again puzzled over how he should respond. “There are two horses with the name Lady.”
“Then five thousand yen each.”
“Better make it a place bet.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
With the hand that was holding his daughter, Nunokawa struggled to fish out a ten-thousand-yen bill from his wallet and hand it over. Then, for the first time in the six years that Monoi had known him, he left without a parting word. Flanked by his daughter in one arm and the wheelchair under the other, he disappeared into the crowd of people in the passageway.
Monoi, on the other hand, ran up the stairs and wedged himself into the crowd of people that was now packed as far back as the passageway. He craned his neck, turning the right half of his face toward the track. The tenth race had taken off from the south side, the eight horses dancing into the sea of rain.
The black sash of the dirt track stretched out before them. The horizontal line of horses edged back and forth as if cutting into a sand dune and, in the blink of an eye, they approached the third turn, the competition still neck and neck. Far beyond the mist, the colorful helmets of the jockeys blurred into one another and wavered. In the second block, Erimo’s black cap appeared to have started a little behind. The horses were now breaking into three groups as they ran past the screen in front of the finish line. The rumble of hooves on the ground grew closer. Erimo was still in last place.
With two horses taking the lead, the remaining six rounded into the fourth turn, only a nose or a neck between them, and entered into the five-hundred-meter homestretch. The cheers that erupted from within the grandstand swelled into giant waves. The eight horses were now edging back and forth in a frenzy as Inter Erimo came surging up on the far outside. Erimo was quickly gaining. Will he pull it out? Will he? Monoi wondered as his own neck stretched forward. He watched as Kita Sunline at the top broke away, followed by Saint Squeeze half a length ba
ck, and then Erimo, another half-length behind. The cheers and roars of a hundred thousand or so people spilled over, the losing tickets scattered at once into the air, and the tenth race was over.
The quinella bet was set at 1-5. One of the tickets Monoi had purchased for a friend had won, but looking at the odds, the winnings would be just enough for a cup of coffee. Erimo had not been able to take the lead but, judging from this demonstration of the power of his hind legs, Monoi figured it would be more than worthwhile to continue betting on him. He also wondered why this time, as Erimo charged forward, the exclamation that ordinarily sprang from his lips had not risen up; he assumed his grandson’s death still cast a pall over his mood. Engulfed by the crowd of people for the first time in three weeks, neither his body nor his mind felt back to normal yet.
Monoi gave up on running out to the paddocks as they prepared for the eleventh race and instead lit up a cigarette in the grandstand, where people were already quickly dwindling. The front-row bench where Nunokawa and his daughter had been sitting was completely empty now. On top of it was the solitary umbrella he had forgotten, and the pages of a discarded newspaper were littered everywhere as the rain beat down upon them. Picking up the umbrella, he saw that a losing ticket was stuck to its fabric. As he swatted it away with his hand, suddenly the phrase “Superior Quality, 100 Years in the Making. Hinode Lager” flitted through his mind.
Now, where have I seen those words? he wondered, but could not remember. Superior Quality, 100 Years in the Making. Hinode Lager. A television commercial, a Viennese waltz playing over the backdrop of a photograph of an old beer hall from the Meiji or Taisho era, the tagline appearing in gold letters. The version that aired during the height of summer displayed fireworks over the Sumida River with the words Summer in Japan. Hinode Lager.
Ever since his grandson’s funeral, he felt as if a small object had lodged itself in the blood vessels of his already forgetful brain, and one thing or another would cause it to rumble around in there—he knew now this must be why. Right before the accident, his grandson Takayuki had finished a second round of interviews with Hinode, and had only to wait to receive his employment offer for the following spring. Monoi had heard about it from his daughter and son-in-law at the funeral.
He had married away his only daughter, or rather, she had run off on her own to be with a young dentist in Setagaya, and aside from coming to show him their infant son just after he was born, the couple never stepped foot in her parental home. The few times Monoi saw his grandchild were when he had taken him to Ueno Zoo or Toshima Amusement Park when the boy was young, and after that he sent off a congratulatory gift whenever his daughter called to report that he had gotten into Keio Preschool, then Azabu Middle School, then Tokyo University, and so on. He had figured it was about time for his grandson to graduate from university, but what would happen after that was beyond the scope of Monoi’s concern. Even when he had heard about Hinode Beer, the only vague image he had was of a “large company” that had been around for a while, and Monoi himself rarely drank beer.
Right, it was Hinode. He reminded himself that if Takayuki were still alive, he would start working for Hinode next spring. But when he tried to recall the face of a grandson whose voice he had barely heard in years, his mind came up blank. Monoi had another relative who’d also worked for Hinode before the war, but he had been adopted by another family before Monoi was born.
Nevertheless, the death of someone younger than oneself was a sad thing. When he thought about it, ever since his grandson died, his nerves had bothered him and he couldn’t relax; he constantly found himself dwelling on his past or pondering the remaining years of his life—which at this point barely merited much worry—and often before he even realized it, he found himself lost in abstraction. Five years ago when his wife had passed away, it wasn’t like this at all. Maybe because he himself was five years younger then . . .
After finishing his cigarette, Monoi went off to place his friend’s bet for the eleventh race, and again lost himself for a moment as he was swallowed in the crowd around the betting windows. Resigned to being out of sorts that day, he decided not to make his own bet, but once he had the other person’s ticket in hand, he rushed back to the stands to watch the fourteen fillies as they warmed up for the eleventh race. In these thirty or so years, he had never gone home without sitting through the main race. That habit was the only thing creating the rhythm in his gut. Glaring at the racing column, his eyes drifted to the four-legged creatures as they went back and forth at their respective paces on the main course. How about Ayano Roman, fresh off a break? Sweet Diana, the one Yo-chan had bet on, looked good as she sprinted for about two hundred meters and then shook herself off. She might run a good one. As for the two “Ladies”—the first time Nunokawa had ever placed a reckless bet—Monoi saw one ran with her chin up but he lost track of the other one.
Figuring it must be about time for the horses to enter the starting gate, Monoi was surveying the south side of the track when another acquaintance appeared and uttered a brisk “Hello.” The man had a can of oolong tea in one hand as he crouched down in the aisle beside the already fully occupied benches. It was none other than Handa, the person who had asked Monoi to place a bet for him.
Handa was a detective at the precinct in Shinagawa or somewhere like that. Since his work schedule was irregular, these days he rarely showed up at the racecourse. Instead, he would come to Monoi’s drugstore late at night to purchase an energy drink, and while there he would also ask Monoi to place his bets. Monoi had no idea where the man lived, although he had known the guy for a good six or seven years now, just like Nunokawa.
“Thought you were on duty,” Monoi said.
Handa craned his neck to see the last of the horses warming up as he replied, still brusque, “I was in the neighborhood.” In business shoes and a duster coat, he looked clearly out of place in the stands on a Sunday, but Handa seemed to pay this no mind. Perhaps he had a made a big arrest or something at his job; his broad shoulders seem to be dancing a little. Like Nunokawa, Handa was also still a young man.
Monoi handed the tall man the single winning 1-5 ticket from the tenth race, and the three quinella bets for the eleventh race that was about to start. Handa said, “Thanks,” as he stuck out his hand to receive them, his eyes continuously scanning the racecourse now hazy with rain. It just now occurred to Monoi that Handa was also betting on Sweet Diana.
“How are they? That guy and his kid . . .”
As if he had suddenly remembered them, Handa gestured with his chin to the front-row bench where Nunokawa and his daughter had been sitting until about half an hour ago.
“The ex-army guy and his daughter? She became a lady today. They went home a while ago.”
“What do you mean by lady?”
“She got her first period.”
“Huh.”
The matter did not quite seem to register in the detective’s mind, as Handa nodded vacantly and took a sip from the oolong tea in his hand. The can bore Hinode’s trademark seal of a golden Chinese phoenix. Then, after tossing aside the can, Handa stared straight at the racecourse and nothing else.
The horses began to assemble at the starting gate on the south side across from the stands. Monoi craned his neck, gathering the collar of his jacket closer. The rain was relentless, blowing every which way in the wind that strengthened then slackened in turn, creating a leaden maelstrom over the large expanse of the racecourse.
While they waited the few seconds for the gate to open, the wind and rain blew the tickets littering the stands into the air until the white specks obscured the sky. Monoi stretched his neck even farther and looked out into the distance. For an instant, the pale green of the turf track morphed into grassland hazy with large flakes of snow, the tracks of the Hachinohe railway of his birthplace laid across it, a freight train carrying charcoal and lumber running over the tracks and leaving a rumbling s
ound in its wake. On either side of the railway tracks the grassland stretched out as far as the eye could see, and beyond it to the east was a black shoreline the color of iron sand—once the train disappeared from sight nothing was left but puffy flakes of snow. In the hazy port beyond the tracks, there was dust and soot rising from the tin roof of the foundry. The shipyard and the ironworks. The main roof of the fish market. The squid fishing boats. And farther offshore the freight vessels en route to Dalian. As he squinted, the snowscape from a half century earlier transformed once again to the turf track, and the fourteen horses were dashing into the spray of water.
“Here they come, here they come!”
Slapping Monoi’s knee, Handa leaped to his feet. A horse was driving in from the very back of the pack as they rounded into the fourth turn. Was that Ayano Roman? Monoi also rose from his seat. Sweet Diana was pulling away. Ayano Roman gave chase.
“Go—!”
Handa began to shout. A sound also escaped from Monoi’s lips. In that moment, both Monoi and Handa were one with the horde of a hundred thousand filling the stands.
2
Hiroyuki Hatano
Hiroyuki Hatano strained his ears. The phone was ringing. Sounds that he wouldn’t have noticed before while he was working now registered in his hearing often. The pitter-patter of a child’s feet in the waiting room. Then the sound of a man coughing.
Hatano was preparing a lower molar for a root canal procedure, trying to gain access into each curved canal of the molar’s roots. The sensation of the reamer blade striking the canal walls made his fingers jittery. Is that where it’s getting caught? He swapped the instrument for a K-type file—one with a differently shaped blade—inserted it into the canal and, using the superfine tip, began to file the canal into the proper shape. As he shaved away the dental pulp, the file began to glide smoothly up and down, all the way to the apex.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 4