‘Yes,’ she bleated.
‘Wonderful. Ten a.m., then? You’ll be expected at the office.’
‘Ten a.m. Thank you. Thank you.’
The man finished the call and Nozomi remembered to breathe.
‘Who was it?’ her father asked.
‘I’m expected,’ she whispered.
‘Yeah?’ He lit a cigarette. ‘And you’re expected at table twelve with those autumn beers.’
In the end, Nozomi’s meeting at Nichibotsu had taken all day. Even so, it felt like time was roaring past her, as though she were standing between two passing trains. She was introduced to an entire cast of people she could not hope to remember, all of them smiling at her like she was the sun after a long season of rains. It was beyond strange for her to hear other people discussing the fate of Yoko and her mannequins as though they were real, Nozomi’s pen strokes like iron bars imprisoning her characters into existence.
By 5 p.m. she had a cheque for a little under half a million yen, a publishing contract for The Mannequins as a stand-alone novel and a numb elation in the pit of her stomach. She stopped by the bank, where she deposited the money to the congratulations of the manager, then drifted over to Kimura’s club; he was now working as muscle at a Kabukichō yakuza drinking den.
Seeing her, he lost his customary work scowl and lit up. When Nozomi told him her news he whirled her around like a carousel horse and insisted on asking for the evening off. ‘Dinner,’ he announced with a grin. ‘The best in town.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. But come with me so they’ll see I’m not making you up.’
Kimura asked his colleague to cover for him and led Nozomi inside. The bar itself was normal enough, nothing out of the ordinary beyond the eye-watering prices and the topless girls on the podiums. Keeping her eyes on the floor, Nozomi followed Kimura down the stairs until they reached the private room. Cigarette smoke crept up from beneath the sliding shoji doors and thick guffaws made the paper screens tremble. Taking off his shoes, Kimura timidly slid one open, bowed deeply and apologized unreservedly for the interruption. He approached an old man in a black yukata who was midway through downing a whiskey highball and whispered something in his ear.
‘Hm? Where is she?’
Kimura gestured behind him. The old man smiled grey teeth and waved Nozomi over. She took off her shoes and approached. He squinted at her through his cigarette smoke. Up close, she could see the tar in his skin, the hunger in his eyes.
‘Kimura’s girl, huh?’ He looked her up and down. The others did too. Not taking her eyes from her, the old man addressed Kimura. ‘Normally, I’d have your balls for this, boy. You’ve taken an oath, you don’t get to drop in and out when it suits you.’
Kimura bowed, seemingly physically hurt by the words.
‘But, I suppose given the calibre of this particular filly’ – the man squeezed Nozomi’s left buttock as if testing it for firmness – ‘we can make an exception. Gentlemen?’
The old men leered their approval.
‘Well, there you have it, Kimura.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’
Open-mouthed, Nozomi glared at her boyfriend.
‘Now get the fuck out of here.’ The old man punctuated his order with a smack on the back of Nozomi’s thigh. She flinched, swallowed her fury and marched out.
In the street Kimura begged her forgiveness, pleaded with her, tried to explain he had no choice but to accept the old man’s shit – that was what paid the bills now. Nozomi was furious; she wanted to stay angry too. But after a few minutes she began to see she couldn’t really blame him. Though Kimura was built like a bull, he was still a little boy next to those men. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what he did for a living from the beginning.
‘I shouldn’t have taken you in there, I know, I know. But I had to ask the old man a favour. After all, I want to take you somewhere special tonight.’
Remembering her promise to Ryoma Hisakawa, she shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t. I just came by to tell you the news. I’ve already got plans tonight.’
Kimura’s face shifted. ‘With who?’
‘An old friend, you don’t know him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Just a friend from university.’
‘You never talk about him.’
‘He’s just a friend.’
Kimura took Nozomi by the wrist. ‘Cancel.’
‘… what?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Kimura, I don’t like the way –’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not telling you what to do. I just love you, I love you more than anything that’s ever been in my life before and, tonight of all nights, I just want to take my beautiful genius girlfriend for dinner.’
She searched his eyes, staring at him hard. Nozomi had never heard anyone say such a thing out loud to their girlfriend, much less in public and much less Kimura. Shaking her head, she held out her hand. ‘Coin.’
‘What?’
‘Coin.’
Kimura fished one out for her. Nozomi went to the phone box, called Hisakawa and told him that she was feeling unwell and would have to cancel.
‘Again?’ There was music playing in the background and she could hear the ice cubes in his drink. ‘Nozomi, I’m starting you worry about you.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘But I haven’t seen you in weeks.’
‘I’m sorry, Ryoma. I’ve been busy.’ She brightened. ‘But hey, I have some good news. I got a publisher!’
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t sound very happy.’
‘I am, I’m just surprised.’
‘I see.’
‘Come on, don’t take it like that, Nozomi. I just – I don’t know. It is surprising.’
‘Look, I have to finish up a manuscript by the end of the autumn. Let me call you when I’m on the other side of it, okay? Then my mind won’t be wandering.’
‘But that’s weeks away.’
‘I know, Ryoma. But … well, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Nozomi, I’ve always been kind to you. Bought you things. Done you favours.’
‘I know, you’ve been very kind –’
‘I just want to feel like you want to be my friend. That’s all.’
Feeling a shank of guilt, she shook her head. ‘Ryoma. I swear, once I’m finished, I’ll call you. We’ll hang out like before. Okay?’
‘… Okay.’
‘Good. Look, my money is running out.’
‘You’re in a phone box? I thought you were sick.’
‘I am, I’m just heading home now.’
‘Oh.’
‘Bye, Ryoma.’
‘Nozomi?’
‘Yes?’
‘Congratulations.’
When she emerged, Kimura was beaming. He crushed her with his massive hug, which he had never done before in public, then hailed a taxi. Getting in, he gave the driver an address she did not recognize.
The helicopter was owned by Kimura’s boss. The old man was, it turned out, a lieutenant in a notorious yakuza family. Nozomi felt unsure about getting in – for a number of reasons – but as soon as they took off and the electric effulgence of Tokyo spread out like a giant deep-water squid, she forgot her worries.
The helicopter banked this way and that and she kept having little flashbacks to signing her contract. Hard as it was to believe, she kept telling herself: This is all real. Life can be this beautiful. Kimura nudged her and handed her a foil package. Nozomi unwrapped it to find two chocolate bananas.
‘I told you,’ Kimura shouted over the noise. ‘Finest dinner in Tokyo!’
Long after they had landed and gorged themselves at a chankonabe restaurant, they found themselves walking through the leafy campus of the Marine Sciences University, not far from Tokyo Bay. It was late but there were still students sitting out drinking wine on the grass. Nozomi could hear a radio blaring from one of the dorm windows,
Muhammad Ali had beaten Joe Frazier earlier that day in Manila. Kimura suggested buying a few cans and sitting out, but Nozomi shook her head.
‘I can’t, I have to go home and write.’
‘It’s midnight.’
‘I always write late, you know that.’
‘Well, I’ve got paper at my place.’ He smiled wolfishly.
‘All my notes are in my room. I have to finish this, I’ve signed a contract now.’
‘I know, but come on. You’ve got plenty of time. Two months is ages.’
Irritated, Nozomi checked her watch. ‘No, it really isn’t.’
‘Fine, don’t stay. Just come round for a bit. We’ll get a cab.’
Nozomi was doing the mental calculations as he slid an arm around her waist and tried to kiss her neck under the shadows of the flowering dogwood trees. Had he not done that, she might have relented.
‘Kimura, get off.’ She shoved him away and, off balance, he stumbled a little.
There was an odd silence, as if they had both ruined something.
Then Kimura’s face changed, an ugly metamorphosis, even in the half-dark. ‘You know, most girlfriends don’t hold out like this, Nozomi. All I want is a screw. If you hadn’t noticed, I treat you pretty fucking well.’
Face burning, she shook her head. ‘Then why don’t you go back to Hedonia. I’m sure you can find someone more obliging.’
‘Finding someone isn’t the problem.’
‘No, especially when you tell them about your diamond trade.’
‘Fuck off.’ He took a step forward, almost squaring up to her.
Shocked, Nozomi began to walk away, Kimura pawing at her shoulder.
‘Hey, come on.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. All right?’
‘I told you from the day we first met. I didn’t want to …’
‘Want to what?’ He was using his doorman tone. He stopped in his tracks, his face hidden in the shadow of a stone war memorial.
‘Nothing.’ She carried on walking.
‘It’s just a fucking book, Nozomi.’
She turned, open-mouthed. ‘Is that how you feel?’
‘Have I ever said something I didn’t mean?’
Fighting back her tears and furious at herself for producing them, she reached the main road and hailed a cab. Just as the door closed, Kimura was at the window, at once embarrassed and incensed. His words were muffled through the glass. ‘Get out of the car, Nozomi, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Drive, please.’
The cabbie looked over at her. ‘I don’t want any problems.’
Kimura slapped the window now. ‘Nozomi, get out! I told you I was sorry, now stop acting like I’m some –’
‘Just drive!’
The cab lurched away. After a few trembling seconds Nozomi looked back through the rear window and saw Kimura standing there in the road, his beautiful suit dishevelled, fury distorting his face. Sitting back low in her seat, she ignored the driver’s glances and closed her eyes. She didn’t know if it was fear or regret she felt in amongst the helpless love, but she knew she didn’t want it anymore.
Nozomi got out in Jinbōchō and decided to walk the rest of the way. By the time she arrived home it would probably be too late for writing, but it wasn’t as if she would be able to think straight now. The argument with Kimura had shaken her, brought so many things into question. Either Kimura had been changed by his job, or she was merely seeing the side to him that had always been there. Nozomi never really bought his shy, gentlemanly approach but it had never particularly mattered.
Now, however, the lies were beginning to add up. Reservations that had been there since the beginning were now meeting new doubts forming in her mind.
Nozomi passed Nichibotsu Ltd. Only a few hours ago she had emerged feeling joyous. It angered her that something as simple as Kimura could have any effect on that, the single achievement in her life, the potential of doing something in this world. She promised herself that, from now on, nothing would do that ever again.
It was gone 2 a.m. when she reached her street. It was deserted, even the homeless trio gone. She cut through the empty lot and could hear a blaring radio from somewhere, Hachiro Kasuga’s ‘Farewell One Cedar’ – one of her father’s favourites. The song was about a man parting with his love at the end of his village by the cedar tree, the mountain jay crying for their sorrow.
Nozomi was mouthing along with the lyrics. As she looked up at the moon, her breathing was stopped. It took her a moment to realize she was being strangled, those little squeaks coming from her own throat. Panic carved through her. Nozomi felt her face tightening, as if the blood in her head were expanding. If she didn’t do something, she would die.
Nozomi mule-kicked the shin of her attacker. There was a hissing and his grip loosened. She staggered away, through the jagged concrete, weeping for air. She could hear the song, Hachiro Kasuga singing of the village girl still unmarried, years passing, waiting for her lover’s return. Nozomi lost her balance and fell.
There was a strange silence and then rubble crunching under footsteps. Terrified, Nozomi flipped on to her front to crawl away. But there was a weight on her back now, an inarguable weight. She felt her mouth being forced open and something being shoved in, something rough and greasy, something that smelled of leather. And now she was being dragged through the lot by her hair.
‘Come on, doggie.’ The man spoke playfully.
Exposed iron-mesh wire from fallen concrete slabs slashed at her, broken glass cracked beneath her knees. She tried to scream out, but her throat betrayed her, as if complicit.
The man flung her into a corner of what was once a room. Part of the ceiling was gone. She could see the moon through a crack. This must be a dream. I’m still flying over Tokyo with Kimura. Or maybe I never woke up today at all. I’m late for my meeting with Mr Kuroki.
The man stood over her now, his face blotted out, the moonlight silver on his shoulders. ‘Hello, Nozomi.’
‘… No.’ She croaked.
‘I was waiting for you.’ He unbuckled his belt. ‘But I think I’ve waited enough.’
Nozomi realized they were only metres from her house. She could hear her father’s TV blaring, the tinny quality of the audio so familiar.
The man looped the belt around her and punched her in the face. She had never been hit in the face before; there was a dreadful detachment from it, like nodding along with something you did not understand. Nozomi counted five punches and wondered if she ought to close her eyes.
Then he was tugging off her clothes and flinging them around the rubble. She could hear Detective K’s flying car. There he went, saving the world all over again.
Nozomi imagined it was next October, or last October, or any other October that ever was. She imagined herself on a hill all alone, with nothing for a thousand miles, watching the Tears of Saint Lawrence. She imagined her fictional mannequins smiling quixotically. She imagined her ashes placed into a tiny capsule and shot into space to circle the Earth for evermore.
21. Sleep with the Angels
Río Limbo ran through the highest of the Sierra Cabral mountains then plunged four hundred metres into the gorge below. In winter months, thick mist would descend on these narrow mountain roads, rasping rains sweeping them away like bad ideas. But it was a calm blue afternoon and Valentín knew the way by heart.
The jungle canopy kept out the day, only little jewels of light visible in the interstices. Valentín’s mind was swimming as she drove, her head a cumbersome weight. She was coughing continually now, swallowing down blood. There was a strange release of pressure and distantly she thought she might be wetting herself.
In the back seat the two men wearing ranchero hats had said nothing the entire time. One was tall and stocky. The other was short and skinny.
‘There it is,’ said Skinny.
Up ahead, the structure came into view. The dummy airport had been built years ago for special
police-response drills but spending had ballooned and governments had changed. The building had been left to the elements ever since.
When the road ran out Valentín stopped the car. Weeds had broken through the concrete of the runway. The jungle clutched the terminal greedily, its windows cracked, wind howling through. Lakes of rainwater had collected, green with makeshift life. The simulation airport had only been abandoned some fifteen years yet now looked like an ancient Mayan ruin – wildly overgrown and heaving with the richness of human absence.
Valentín got out of the car, the two men behind her.
‘Ready?’ said Stocky.
‘First things first,’ she replied. Sitting on the bonnet of the car, Valentín lit up and tried not to cough up blood. In the distance, she could hear the quiet, constant roar of the falls. The jungle was screaming and whirring and ticking as it always did. Beyond the waterfall colossal, flossy clouds were turning pink in the late afternoon. She recalled what she had said to Iwata. Over here or over there. Everybody dies. She hadn’t been wrong.
Valentín finished her smoke and nodded. The men opened up the trunk and dragged Iwata out. He was blindfolded, his face bloodied. A large cardboard sign hung around his neck, a message scrawled on it:
La boca es la puerta a la catástrofe.
– La Familia Cabral
The mouth is the gateway to catastrophe.
Skinny and Stocky had worked Iwata over before putting him in the car. There hadn’t been any anger in the beating; they were just two plumbers polishing their tools.
Valentín spat and took out her gun. ‘Might as well get this over with.’
‘Where do you want him?’ asked Stocky.
She pointed to a large tree at the edge of the jungle. The two men dragged Iwata over to it and propped him up. His head lolled and Stocky patted him on the cheek.
‘Sleep with the angels.’
Valentín fired and the bullet hit Stocky in the forehead, his eye socket withering. She swung her aim to Skinny and pulled the trigger once more. And again. She was firing, but there were no shots. With her gun raised overhead, Valentín bellowed and charged.
Skinny reached for his own gun now but Iwata booted his wrist hard and the gun flew into the undergrowth. He responded with a savage left hook to the temple and Iwata slumped. Skinny span in time to block Valentín’s blow. Then he was on top of her, hammering down blows with her jammed gun, the jungle screaming like schoolboys egging them on.
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