Death By Choice

by Masahiko Shimada

  “The time for love is past.”

  “You can atone for your kid brother’s death even if you stay alive, you know. You can commune with the dead without having to die yourself. You just have to think about him. You’d forgotten till now, but from now on you can remember. Please, come back.”

  “I’ve told you this already, but if I’m resurrected, I’ll come and see you. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  Aki was there beside him as he headed back to the car, but he managed to trip her up and leap in before she recovered. He gave her a merry wave and took off, leaving her standing there disgruntled, snapping her last photographs of the rapidly retreating rear end of the white coffin. For some reason she’d found it quite elating to discover that this way of living, or rather dying, was possible. She’d hopped in to the car in the hope that he might abduct her too, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Still, it had given her a certain courage. Maybe I’ll just go ahead and leave home, she thought.

  He’d better crash the car before the gasoline in the spare tank ran out, Kita decided. He’d find a bit of coastline just right for plunging the car into, and give himself a sea burial. After all, his kid brother had drowned. Where was he now? How far would wind-blown Cape Erimo be from here? That would be a good place to drive off a cliff. But at this rate, he was likely to grow old worrying over irrelevant questions. Better be quick. He’d had a pretty good last week. It was great to have thrown everything to the wind for once. He’d put up with too much in his boring life, God knows. This person called “Yoshio Kita” was a pretty bankrupt specimen. But this last week he’d been on a really good roll, so let’s say it had been a good life. He had loved. He’d had lots of great sex. He’d eaten his fill of seafood and curry. He’d donated lots of money to the Red Cross. He’d almost been poisoned to death. He’d gone to two hot springs, and smoked dope. The memory of this reminded him what a weird guy that doctor was. He hadn’t ever learned his real name. The guy would probably die a lousy death. He despised life, after all. Why should there be room in this crowded world for people like that? True, the world had turned out to be a crazier place than Kita had assumed. By average standards, Kita was a pretty regular guy after all. Well then, he should die the death of a normal citizen. Spur of the moment, and no second chance. Just slam the foot down on the accelerator. If he took off from the cliff edge at about a hundred thirty miles an hour, he’d probably achieve about the same distance as a ski jump. But maybe he should just take a peep over the edge before he went. There was an ideal curve right there. And – a lucky break – no hospital in sight.

  Kita got out and looked over the cliff edge. It was about fifty feet high. Down below, foaming waves washed up over the black rocks. If he smashed through the guardrail and went over, he’d have to be pretty unlucky not to die. He’d probably need a run-up of no more than three hundred yards or so.

  Right, was there anything else he needed to do before he took off? Not really, but why not pause and look at the sea? This was the sea that would be his grave, after all. That weedy stuff floating over there beyond the rocks where the waves were breaking must be kelp. It looked somehow like it was beckoning him with its long slippery arms. He’d soon be taking his eternal sleep cradled in those arms like a sea otter. A seaweed burial, eh? Not a bad thing, after all.

  The only worry was how hard it might be to crash through the guardrail. It didn’t look all that solid, so he guessed he’d get through without any problem if he hit it at around a hundred thirty miles an hour. What did professional ski jumpers think about before a jump, he wondered? They always looked as though they were mourning lost love, but that was surely due to the tension. They were probably imagining the parabola of a perfect jump.

  Why not take a piss? There wouldn’t be any public toilets on the banks of the Styx where he was going, after all. But for that matter, there were none here either. OK, his last piss by the side of a street. His last meal had been curry. His last companion in life had been Shinobu. The last person he’d shaken off in life was Aki. His last lover was Shinobu. His last love was Shinobu. The last thing he’d read in life was… the Bible, right? This looked a bit too good. OK, how about singing a last song? The old Shinichi Mori number ‘Nothing happens in the spring at Erimo.’ I guess nothing happens in summer there either. And Fall? Winter? Right, he’d taken his last piss. Now was the time for his last drive. No, hang on there. He hadn’t stood on his head for the last time yet. Why not try it? He hadn’t stood on his hands in quite a while. He checked left and right in case a car was coming, then put his hands down in the middle of the road.

  He twisted his back as he went up, but he still managed to walk a few steps on his hands. In the old days he used to make it to fifteen steps. He’d aged. OK, exactly how long had he lived now? Let’s count up. Today was Friday the 13th. His birthday was also the thirteenth, so that made him exactly thirty-five years and six months old. What would he be doing tomorrow, if he were still alive?

  Enough! Thinking about this on the day of your execution just made you sad. It was important to enjoy this Death By Choice. Yoshio Kita was going to go out with an erection and a blissful expression, like Saint Sebastian. Although he was feeling a little tense. Right, let’s try a bit of muscle relaxation. His last loosening-up exercises.

  The sun peeped out from between the clouds. Come to bless him, eh? This needed some kind of fanfare. Shame the only audience was himself.

  Right, that had the ol’ death hormones pumping now. Turn on the radio. They’d just set in on the prelude to Carmen. Fabulous timing. He was fired up and ready to go. Energy flooded him.

  Turn the car around and back up five hundred yards. Another U-turn. Check the clock. Fourteen eleven. That would mean he died at around two fifteen on the thirteenth. That’s if the car’s clock was set right. OK Mr Yoshio Kita, you ready boy? The prelude was reaching its crescendo. Wait, he hadn’t written a will. Oh well, what the heck. He’d told his last wishes to Shinobu. Sorry doc, but my organs are going to be fish food.

  Full throttle! Tyres screaming. There’s that tingle, really pumping. Ooh, here comes the erection. Man, this is almost too much. OK, here goes. Bye!

  The guardrail leaped towards him. One good solid punch to the jaw and he was through. Suddenly there was something pressing hard against his chest. The air bag. The Camaro was airborne. Now it was falling. Up comes the sea. My God, what a force. Just like an ejaculation.

  And then, a shock that went straight through his bone marrow.

  Can’t breathe. Something pressing against his stomach. Something sticking into his shin. Pain. Was he in the sea? The car was sinking. Carmen still playing. This some kind of aquarium? Why didn’t the water come in? Goddamn, I’m still alive. Didn’t it work? Maybe I can’t die unless the water comes in. Maybe the glass’ll break if I just wait. Or should I break it? Intense cello music. And some sound like water poured onto a hot fry pan. Water! The water’s beginning to come in. This is going to take a while. Got to break the glass to lessen this pain.

  Kick it. And again. What about the power window? Nope, broken. Head-butt it. The head’s the hardest part of the body.

  The glass broke. Kita was swallowed by the sea.

  Through the band of light above him, he could see a stream of bubbles rising. Fish had already come flocking around the Camaro where it lay on the sea floor, sounding it out. Kita had escaped the car and was floating in the water, bent over. Ah, it’s me, he thought. He felt he’d forgotten something in the car, so turned back to check. There was a child playing there, ducking in and out of the trunk. “Hey, what’re you doing? You’ll drown!” Kita called. “I drowned long ago,” the child replied.

  “Are you my little brother?”

  “Never laid eyes on you before.” This kid was only three, but he was sassy. Around him was a belt of kelp, covered with minuscule writing. Do you hate me, kid? I pushed you into the river. You must have suffered. I’m sorry. I wanted to see you again. To apologize… But the child had d
isappeared, leaving the kelp floating empty.

  Kita was in a familiar child’s room. On the wall were the letters “WXY,” carved in the wood with a knife. In Kita’s mind when he was a child, this had signified the body of a woman having sex. These letters began to move, and shifted to the figure of his mother washing her hair in the bathroom. His kid brother was crying in the bathtub. Yoshio! Yoshio! came a cry. His father was digging a hole. I’m putting a pole up here for the koinobori carp streamers. Ah, I’m way back in the past. Looking up at the sky. I’ve seen this blue sky full of scaly clouds before somewhere. Sorry, Kita, I just can’t go on being with you any – Stop it, don’t apologize! You’ll kill my love. Now a child yelling, Papa! Papa! I’m not your Dad. Who are you? Is that Shingo? Do you recognize me? Yeah, you used to love Mummy, didn’t you? That’s right. You might’ve lived if I’d married your Mum, you know. No, you’re wrong. I’ve never been born. Shingo goes skating off into the distance. And now here comes Shinobu, riding in an Alfa Romeo. Kita! Come to the hospital with me. No, I hate hospitals. No no, don’t say that. I think I’m pregnant, see. My kid? Of course. So come on, quick, come to the hospital. But hang on there, I’ve just committed Death By Choice. Oh, everyone these days wants to die. Kids, middle aged folks… Did you know, my friend Jesus had a time when he wanted to die, when he was just past thirty. But before that he’d had a life and death battle with the world. He chose to lose the battle, and he won. You’re just like Jesus. Come on, quick! You’re going to be reborn.

  I’m being sucked down a narrow tube. Am I off to the other world at last? My body’s being drawn out like a piece of spaghetti. This hurts. I can’t breathe. I can see a hole. A small hole. All I can do is try and escape through it. The other world must lie beyond it. A brilliant light is shining in. An unbearable tingle! Who’s doing this to me? Is this a sign I’ve arrived?

  Someday

  Solitude by Choice

  Some time before night fell, the doctor discovered the broken guardrail on a curve of Route 336 between Ogifushi and Sakaimachi, where the road ran along a cliff above the sea. He informed the local police and requested an investigation, and early Saturday morning the diving team arrived, donned aqualungs, and dived to the bottom. There they discovered the white Camaro, but the body of the driver wasn’t in it. A three-hour search was conducted with two boats and a crew of six divers, but there was no sign of the body. The most convincing theory was that it had been washed far out to sea. If he had by any chance managed to survive he would surely have sought help from a passing car or someone living nearby, but no one had seen him, and there was no way of confirming the death.

  The doctor returned to the capital. There was nothing more he could do.

  He was deeply exhausted. No sooner was he flat on his back at last than the ceiling began to spin. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to them, then looked at the ceiling again. The window, the wall, the door, the chair, all looked like spinning fragments of crystal. It was as if he was gazing down a kaleidoscope.

  Could this be some message from his brain telling him to stop staring at things? Now he came to think of it, these eyes had spent too much time recently looking at bloodied organs, corpses that had just breathed their last, and flat ECGs on a screen.

  He held his eyes tightly shut, but now it was his own body that was beginning to spin on the bed. He’d spent the last few days hurtling from place to place, playing both doctor and killer, he told himself. If he didn’t rest, he’d burn out, but the impetus from all this frenetic activity kept his body spinning even after he’d hit the bed.

  He swallowed a sleeping pill to force the spin to a halt, and slept the sleep of the dead. He planned to dream away these last few days of utterly futile effort, then to proceed to forget all about the dream and get back to good ol’ lazy, uneventful everyday life again.

  He was woken by the sound of the telephone.

  A woman’s voice informed him it was checkout time. He had no memory of having slept so long, but the clock told him it was noon. What? he thought. He suddenly couldn’t believe that he’d been wandering in the realm of dreams for thirteen solid hours. What day is it? he asked her.

  “It’s Sunday.”

  Oh yeah, Easter Sunday, Resurrection day. Yesterday was Saturday, and the day before was Friday thirteenth.

  The doctor booked himself in for another day, ordered up a room service brunch, and ran the water for a bath.

  As the hot water began to soak into his parched skin, a heartfelt sigh escaped him. His blood vessels expanded, a sweat broke out on his forehead – and then suddenly the bathtub he was lying in began to spin down a whirling hole.

  Here we go again, thought the doctor. He tried ducking his head under water and massaging his temples, but things went on spinning. He felt seasick, as if he was in a boat on rough seas. This just didn’t make sense. He jumped out of the bath, grabbed his bathrobe, and began to pace the room.

  As long as he was moving, he discovered, he didn’t feel dizzy, but as soon as he lay down it was back again. Maybe a good stiff drink would improve things a little. He tossed back a beer from the minibar and tried a few warm-up exercises. Soon after, his room service clubhouse sandwiches arrived, so he set to and sated his appetite in hopes that would work. But once he leaned back on the sofa it wasn’t long before the room began to heave up and down and tilt from side to side on a rough sea, and then it was back spinning again. He drank another beer, then emptied two mini bottles of whisky, but the goddamn spinning just went on. He felt he would vomit unless he got up and started pacing the room again.

  This was all Kita’s fault!

  There was no question. It was Yoshio Kita, the man who’d disappeared into the North Pacific on Friday, who was behind this dizziness. The doctor had no idea if he’d really died or not, since he hadn’t personally managed to check the corpse. This was what was getting to him, and making his middle ear act so strangely.

  As a general rule, if someone smashes through a guardrail and plunges fifty feet into the sea inside his car, he’d have an eighty percent chance of dying. What’s more, since this particular man chose to do this as an act of suicide, the odds would surely be higher than usual. But no body had been found. The doctor had failed to lay his hands on the cornea and organs he’d paid for. He had been ejected from the story without a chance to ascertain anything for himself, and there was nothing he could do about it. Except somehow get through this dizziness.

  Rest was denied him. He was forced to keep on going, round and round, pointlessly. He was being ordered to keep going, keep trying, or else he’d just spin in place. And who was doing the ordering?

  The doctor pulled back a few days. Just who was it that had given him his orders and involved him in this chain of events? Heita Yashiro, that’s who. But he’d settled things with that guy already. If you made your living dealing in other people’s lives, you could only say it served you right to have a kidney stolen. And it was a safe bet that Yashiro, though he was probably still alive for a while yet, wouldn’t want to lay eyes on the doctor again. It was too late to get that kidney back now. It was tucked away inside someone else’s belly, busy filtering out the poisons. Yashiro had done quite a bit to poison the world, but at least his kidney would be helping someone else get rid of some. Meantime, some of his own poisonous dealings had caught up with him and shortened his life considerably.

  So who had ordered the doctor to try to save Kita, then? Shinobu, of course. He had no idea whether he’d managed to do as she’d asked or not, in the end. Still, he felt he had to report in to his employer. He picked up the phone and rang her. He found on his cell phone a message from her, almost a prayer for Kita’s safety.

  They hadn’t found Kita’s body, he informed her. She wanted to meet right away, she said. She added, however, that wherever she went she was inevitably trailed by gangsters, gawkers, and cops. Could he come to her place, in the guise of a consulting doctor? And make sure to dress the part as obviously as possi
ble, please.

  Well at any rate, now that he’d been given the task of making his final report he was at least freed from his dizziness for a while.

  He shaved, carefully parted his hair, put on a tie, picked up the Boston bag of medical equipment he’d been carting everywhere, and hailed a taxi. Upon arrival, he swept ostentatiously into the flat, white coat fluttering, before the eyes of the doubtless lurking onlookers crouched in their cars or hidden in the shadows.

  Shinobu had undergone a change in the last two or three days. She had a new poise and dignity about her. Yet there was also an air of unswerving determination, quite unlike the single-minded devotion of those few days. Could it be that this over-the-hill idol was suddenly drawing fresh breath now that the eyes of the world were on her again?

  “You’ve changed,” the doctor observed bluntly.

  “I’ve lost three kilos in the last five days,” she replied, gazing at him levelly. The doctor flinched a little before the strength in her eyes. This was not the look of a girly idol who flirts and fawns.

  “I imagine they’ve grilled you to death over it all. You’re the only one who knows the details of the abduction, after all.”

  “The cops have kept the pressure up. They’re trying to claim the abductor and I were in cahoots, and it was all a put-up job. I spent another five hours being questioned yesterday. And once the cops were done, it was the turn of the reporters. I’m worn out, let me tell you. Then the production manager’s been fleeced of all that money, so he’s going to use me to the hilt to make up for his losses. I have a half-day off today, then tomorrow I’m back on the treadmill again – magazine interviews, appearance on a talk show, recording discussions, discussions about appearing in some TV drama. In the next few months I have to decide about my future, so I’m being as nice as I can to everyone.”