There was half a cup of black coffee on the desk and he drank it down, welcoming the bitter jolt of it and shivering in the unheated room. Realising it was probably the same temperature inside as out and stifled by the fears surrounding him in his apartment, Kai fled to the streets, hoping that by walking through the night, perhaps a solution would come. And it was there, staring up into the sky, that he noticed the karasu.
Black and menacing, these birds were a plague on Tokyo and an emblem; on every street corner, by fast-food shops, crawling out of rubbish bins, perching on telephone wires, they dived down upon the populace, swiping at those who passed too close to their young. They were urban pests and harbingers – carrion birds, the frequenters of battlefields. Both real and mythic.
The photographer, Masahisa Fukase, had devoted entire collections to them in the years after his wife, Yoko, left him. The original prints were coveted and hard to find, but recently in a bookstore in the backstreets of Kanda, when Rina had been unable to meet him, Kaitarō had come across a copy of the collected Karasu and seen for himself Fukase’s homage to the corvids of Japan: the ravens of Hokkaido and the jungle crows of Tokyo.
As Kaitarō flicked through the pages, his fingers sticking to the expensive, glossy paper, he found that he could picture Fukase at the end of his marriage: smoke-stained and balding, awake on a sleeper train to Hokkaido, returning to his birthplace with nothing but a bag of underwear, a camera and a hip flask of whisky. Kaitarō looked at the photos and then reached up to touch his hair; he did not care for the comparison.
The pictures were extraordinary though. On each page, the birds appeared in massive flocks from a distance or as black silhouettes against grey wintry skies. The close-ups were monochrome, impressionistic and overexposed so that huge wings spread out across the page, bleeding into the paper. They were desolate, irresistible. And yet as Kaitarō walked through his neighbourhood that night, he wondered if he might photograph them too, if there was a chance he might find something else there: solace, or beauty, perhaps even redemption. The birds around him had eyes that glowed like beads of jet; their beaks gleamed and their feathers shone iridescent in the moonlight. For a second they were visible and then they were not; they were many things to many people, and they gathered in the quiet of the night.
Listen
Satō was mixing a gin and tonic when Kaitarō entered the apartment. He didn’t even turn around as the front door opened and closed, focusing instead on adding cubes of ice to a crystal tumbler. Kaitarō stepped forward, looking for signs of Rina. He noted the large pink shell on the bureau and in it only one set of keys. Satisfied that she wasn’t there, he took an unsteady breath and, ignoring the stand for his outdoor shoes, walked towards Satō, his boots heavy as he crossed the room.
‘What the hell is going on?’
With a smile Satō gestured for him to take a seat. ‘What a pleasure to see you, Kaitarō. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘What if Rina finds me here?’
Satō looked pointedly at Kaitarō’s shoes, still on his feet, and then up at his hair, which was mussed and sweaty as though he’d been running. His smile broadened to a grin. ‘Drink?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘What do you think?’ Satō asked gesturing to the wide open space of his living room from the white marble floor and tall windows to the cream rugs and elegant lacquer cabinets. Kaitarō followed his movements but he saw other things. His eyes were drawn to the items that were hers: there was a bunch of silk needlepoint camellias in a vase on the sideboard, her set of calligraphy brushes in their box gathering dust, and a wooden Buddha that she’d bought in Nara and once described to him. Now that he was there, he could see that the apartment was also surprisingly spare. There were a few photographs of Sumiko on the sideboard and only one shot of them as a family; it looked like it had been taken on a skiing holiday, some time ago. There was nothing more recent.
‘Very nice,’ Kaitarō said, struggling to keep his temper under control. He looked at his watch and then favoured Satō with an even expression.
‘See anything you like?’ Satō asked.
Kaitarō turned and took a seat on the sofa, but as he settled among the cushions he caught the scent of her and the cedarwood powder she wore. Rina.
‘It’s a job to me. What do I care if you want this apartment or her trust fund?’
‘You think money is all it is?’
Kai shrugged and tried not to check his watch again. Rina would be picking Sumiko up from school soon. It took her twenty minutes to get there and twenty minutes to return home. He needed to be gone by the time they got back.
‘Satō,’ he began diplomatically, ‘you didn’t call me here to show me your apartment. Tell me what it is you need and I will get it for you. What were you thinking? Do you want to blow my cover with Rina?’ At this last his voice rose; he couldn’t help it.
‘You’re not doing your job.’
‘I’ll get it done,’ Kaitarō replied, leaning forward, pressing his palms together. ‘We are too far into this case to assign another agent.’
‘That’s just it,’ Satō said, sipping his drink and walking towards the younger man. ‘I’ve spoken to Takeda. He said there was a great agent available – excellent track record.’
Kaitarō swallowed and looked up, registering too late the latent fury in Satō’s expression. He tried for a shrug but remained tense; he could taste the metallic tang of fear on his tongue. ‘You must do what you think best, but bringing in another man now will only muddy the water.’
Satō snorted. ‘Irreplaceable, are you? Yes, your boss said you and this Haru guy were quite competitive . . .’
Kaitarō got to his feet and caught a faint trace of Rina once more. ‘I just need a little time.’
‘You have said that before.’
‘Sir, I can give you everything you want.’
‘You were brought in to save me time, Nakamura,’ Satō said. ‘Time. Money. The painful conflict of a divorce.’ For a moment he sipped his drink and held Kaitarō’s gaze. ‘There will be no second agent.’
Kai inhaled sharply. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve decided to stay married.’
‘What?’
‘You’re fired. And at the agency too. Takeda will confirm it.’ Satō paused, relishing the moment and the look on Kaitarō’s face. ‘Now get out of here, before my wife finds you in our apartment.’
All That Glitters
When Rina was young she had loved the heat of the streets, the whir of the traffic outside her window. In the evenings as dusk fell, she would sit on a ledge in her bedroom barefoot, listening to jazz, tapping out the beat of the drums with her feet as the moon rose higher.
It must have been her youth that had coloured everything. Tonight, the jazz didn’t sound the same. It was dull, synchronised. Dusk was falling, but Rina could not hear or sense the traffic below, the footsteps of the people, the rumble of cars; the smoke and steam. Up on the twenty-eighth floor of the latest Hilton everything was silenced by tall walls of shimmering glass.
When she was a child, Yoshi had told Rina about the various transformations of Tokyo and how so many of them had come about in his lifetime. She remembered his tales of the war, a time so full of deprivation that even his cat was collected and skinned to make soldiers’ mittens. She thought of the new highways and underpasses of her childhood, the vitality and freedom of her years at Tōdai, and the wealth that had flowed into Tokyo on the eve of her marriage. She wondered what her father thought of the world Satō aspired to, this world of vintage liquor cocktails sprinkled with gold leaf. He saw it for what it was, she was sure, but she also knew that he expected her to take advantage of it. Having raised her in a period of prosperity, he expected her to grasp it with both hands. When she did not, he had to settle for her marriage and, in the end, he had invested in that too. Rina knew that if
she left Satō and the life they had built, the life her father believed in, she would be betraying every single member of her family.
The flute of champagne had grown warm in her hand and she put it to one side. On her right, Sumiko fidgeted in her new shoes, fingering the white lace of her dress. This was her first grown-up party, a new world, one that she very much wanted to enter. There were a few children present, but they were older and in their early teens, those that were considered suitable for adult company. Still, when she behaved herself, Sumi was eminently presentable and an asset to her father.
Satō was holding court with his business colleagues. Their wives were smiling at his jokes, crunching on triangles of fois gras toast and laughing as he delivered a punchline. Standing on the outer edge of the circle with her daughter, it was clear to Rina, if not to Sumiko, that the jokes and laughter were not for them, nor were the extensions of charm, the invitations, the promises: ‘When we go to dinner . . .’
A waiter approached and offered Sumi a glass of lemonade but she refused, shaking her dark head. A drink would mean that she might spill it and need to wash her hands or leave her father, and she wanted to be there when his attention turned to her.
Rina accepted the lemonade in her stead and surveyed the room. She looked at the buffet tables covered in pristine white damask, the chandeliers glinting above the crowd. The more people she was with, the more she felt alone. There was only one exception.
Turning a little, Rina noted the women who watched her, the groups who talked among themselves and turned away as she approached them. These barriers were nothing to Satō; he was good in a crowd, able to judge and infiltrate each little set, adjusting his manner to please. He didn’t mind that he was being judged, that these people were pricing them up by the inch. Satō liked to be on show; it was when he was the best form of himself.
Like her father, Sumiko was at ease in these situations. She was older than her years, as only children often are, and adept at reading adults. Sumi was excited, but she could also stand by herself with ease, happy to watch the other guests and take part in conversations when invited. She had that glorious immunity of childhood, the ability to slip between situations and generations freely.
Suddenly, the moment arrived and Satō turned to Sumiko, drawing her fully into his group. ‘My daughter,’ he said, and Sumi gave a polite little bow and accepted a canapé. Rina watched as her child was drawn away from her. She wanted to call her back, but at the same time she felt a flicker of pride as Sumi answered questions and laughed with her father and his friends. Her daughter loved praise and approbation. An easily influenced child, Yoshi said, but watching her, Rina saw only grace in her immunity and exuberance. Looking at Sumiko smiling amid the crush of strangers, Rina prayed that she would always have it.
As the minutes ticked by, Sumiko glanced back at her mother and Rina smiled, raising her glass in a toast. When Sumi was a baby and she was allowed to sit at the table with the adults, she loved to raise her handled cup at each toast, holding it out to her mother’s wine glass and waiting for her to say ‘Kanpai!’ Sumiko adored this, and it made Rina and everyone else laugh. The baby’s joy was infectious, as was her love of celebrating. Rina remembered the concentration on her face as she grew older and wanted to raise her cup to each person at the table, leaning over to tap their glass.
Looking around, Rina decided to give her daughter some room; she would find someone she could bear to talk to. Putting down her drink, she took one last look at Sumiko. She was in the thick of the party now, the shoulders of her white lace dress just visible within the group of people. Satō had found an ally and an entertainer in their child. She was confident but polite – just precocious enough.
Rina had been like that once, secure and bold. She had thought that her mother would always protect her; she had not realised that there would come a time when she would be watched by all and feel alone. Above the sound of Satō’s laughter, she made a promise to herself that Sumiko would never know such isolation.
The cream of Rina’s generation were in the room that night, even some of her classmates from Tōdai. She had introduced Sumiko to them earlier, and though her friends meant to be kind, she could see them measuring her child and her marriage against her potential, the dreams she’d once spoken of. Rina had laughed. Sumiko wanted to be a lawyer, she told them; perhaps there was still time for her to grow out of it. She had beamed at them and turned just as their smiles had begun to fade.
Crossing to the end of the room, Rina decided to head to the ladies’ room. Perhaps a few moments of solitude would put her in a better mood. It did not help that she disliked everything about herself, even the dress she was wearing, black, beaded and fiercely tight, but it was elegant, European, and Satō had insisted. Rina tugged at the collar as she walked.
She had not seen Kaitarō in more than two weeks, had been avoiding him, and the more he called her, the more she retreated into an almost paralysing silence. Yoshi approved. As the weeks passed he had become ever more critical, even going so far as to remind her of the custody laws. She knew he was only trying to protect her, knew he was trying to protect Sumiko, but she was aware of what could happen just as much as he was; she did not need reminding. Before her mother died, when she was just fifteen, the two of them had spoken of Rina’s marriage, packing a lifetime of advice into the months remaining to them. Her mother wanted her to be happy; she would support a divorce, she said, but not once there were children. And that was it. That was what it would always come down to: her child.
For a second she allowed herself to think of Kai. She loved him, but it could not be. The rush of attraction, the beauty of their friendship, the trust between them, had deepened into something so perfect so fast that it had allowed her to block out all else. But now that she was back in Tokyo and confronted with her life, she could see clearly what was at stake. They had thrived in the shadows, in pockets of time, snatched and secluded. They could not exist in the light.
It was a fault of hers, Rina knew; she could be so set on a course of action that she became almost wilfully blind, as though she could sense consequences on the periphery of her vision but she never turned to look. She had employed this tactic at every stage of her life, in trying to make it as a photographer, in marrying Satō, in falling for Kaitarō. Only now there was an inescapable truth and she could not turn away.
There were couples who could arrange things between themselves, who would communicate through all the twists and turns of a marriage. These couples could perhaps go to the local ward office and agree to terms for a divorce, but even thinking about it now made her shudder. She and Satō were not like that. There was simply too much at stake, too much to fight for, and Satō would fight, she knew. She could not take him on. She could not risk losing her child.
Behind her the party blared on. No matter how far she walked down the hotel corridor, she could not escape it, and she could not walk particularly fast in the dress anyway. She moved on past the cloakroom and stopped at an alcove overlooking the city. It was a viewing platform of sorts, framed by silk curtains with a heavy swag, private. Perhaps here she could find some peace, just for a moment. Stepping inside she walked to the tall glass window and looked out over her home, the city she had grown up in, and as always it looked right back.
Staring into the darkness, Rina felt a hand at her back as a figure stepped into the alcove with her. He was wearing black tie and in it he looked beautiful, expensive. Like everything he did, he wore his clothes with ease. His hair, usually soft to the touch beneath her fingers, was slicked back, but his eyes, his eyes were the same; they had that warm glow that she had come to love.
‘How did you get in here?’ she asked, frowning and smiling at the same time. Now that he was there everything was better. ‘Has my husband seen you?’ she asked and immediately felt ashamed, though she peeked beyond the curtain nonetheless.
He leaned a shoulder
against the glass, looking only at her. ‘I would never let that happen,’ he said, and as she returned his gaze, she knew it was true.
‘You haven’t been taking my calls,’ he said, and her heart sped up; feelings, sharp and fierce at having been long suppressed, rose to the surface. But just as quickly, she felt common sense intercede. She could not continue to do this. She wanted to be near him, to be held by him, but with each new touch or caress she was leading him on. She stepped back, resisting contact.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you know we cannot do this any more.’
His jaw tightened and she could see that he was struggling not to reach for her, to disperse her doubts as only he could. ‘Rina,’ he said, his voice unsteady, ‘I know you think there’s no way out, but we can do this, we can build a life.’
Rina looked up at him. She forgot when they were apart, when she was not in his arms, how tall he was. ‘I have a life,’ she replied. ‘There is a man I am married to and a child who is his. We have a home, a future.’ Rina closed her eyes, remembering the night before when she had lain awake next to Satō, the scent of him all over the sheets, the black tea that seemed to emanate from his skin. He had remained in their marital bed and so had she.
‘What about us?’ Kai asked, and she flinched at his tone, at the pain she heard there.
‘You do not trust me?’ he asked.
‘I do.’
‘You will not trust us?’
Rina bit her lip. She could feel the tension rising in him, had felt it these past weeks since they’d returned to Tokyo. It was not right to give him hope. Even in this moment, her indecision was crippling and he could sense it. She took a deep breath and held it, preparing to hear him out and defend her decision, but he came to her then. His palms were warm as they smoothed up her arms, and she shivered at his sudden nearness, at his head lowering to hers.
What's Left of Me is Yours Page 14