Grotesque

by Natsuo Kirino

  I can still remember that rainy night very clearly. Miss Hirata was holding an umbrella, and the black hair that hung down her back, nearly to her waist, looked exactly like Mei-kun’s. My heart began to pound. Her profile, too, was the spitting image of Mei-kun’s. That was the main reason I was attracted to her. I had been searching for Mei-kun. The men around me would always say, “Your sister’s dead. Get over it!” But I couldn’t help fantasize that she was still in this world and that I would run into her again someday.

  There can be no doubt that she disappeared that night in the sea. But what if a fishing boat passing by had rescued her? She could still be alive. Or maybe she swam to a nearby island. I thrived on such hope. Mei-kun had been brought up in the mountains, just like me. She wasn’t able to swim. But she was a strong-willed, talented woman. I can still remember running into her again at the pool in Guangzhou. “Zhe-zhong!” she’d called out to me then, her eyes filling with tears. And so I walked the streets around me, hoping—expecting—to see her again.

  Miss Hirata complimented me the first time she saw me. “You have a nice face.” And I had said to her in return, “You look exactly like my younger sister. You’re both beautiful.”

  “How old is your younger sister?” Miss Hirata asked, as she walked along beside me. She threw the cigarette she’d been smoking into a puddle and turned to look at me. I gazed into her face head on. No, she wasn’t Mei-kun after all. I was disappointed.

  “She’s dead.”

  “She died?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. She looked so sad I found myself being drawn to her. She seemed like the kind of person to whom I could unburden myself. And then Miss Hirata said, “I’d like to hear about it. My place is nearby. Why don’t we go there and share some beers?”

  Detective Takahashi said that’s just the kind of thing prostitutes say. He does not believe my testimony. But when I met Miss Hirata, I was not encountering a prostitute; rather, I was meeting someone whose hair and profile looked just like my little sister’s. I think the fact that Miss Hirata bought the beer and the bean-jam buns with her own money when we stopped at the convenience store is all the proof I need to support my testimony, don’t you? I think Miss Hirata was interested in me. Of course, we did negotiate a price, that much is true. But that she went from ¥30,000 down to ¥15,000 should prove that she was fond of me.

  As soon as Miss Hirata got to her apartment in kubo, she turned to me and asked, “So what would you like to do? We’ll do whatever you want; just tell me.”

  I told her exactly what I’d been repeating to myself in my heart over and over. “I want you to look at me with tears in your eyes and call out ‘Brother!’”

  Miss Hirata did as I asked. Without thinking, I reached over and embraced her.

  “Mei-kun! How I’ve wanted to see you!”

  While Miss Hirata and I were having sex I was beside myself with excitement. I suppose it was wrong. But it confirmed everything. I did not love my sister as a sister. I loved her as a woman. And I realized that when she was alive this is exactly what we had wanted to do. Miss Hirata was very sensitive. She looked up at me and asked, “What would you like me to do next?” It drove me wild.

  “Say ‘That was awful’ and look at me.”

  I taught her the words in Chinese. Her pronunciation was perfect. But what really surprised me was that real tears began to form in her eyes. I realized that the word awful resonated with something in Miss Hirata’s own heart. We cried together in her bed, holding each other. Naturally, I had no desire to kill her, far from it. Even though we were racially different and from different cultures, I felt we understood each other. Things I could not communicate to the woman from Taiwan I was able to communicate to Miss Hirata, even though I had only just met her. It was amazing. Miss Hirata seemed to share my feelings, for the tears rolled down her cheeks as I held her in my arms. Then she took the gold necklace off her neck and hooked it around my own. I don’t know why she did such a thing.

  So why did I kill her? you ask. I don’t even understand it myself. Perhaps it was because she pulled the wig off her head as easily as if she were doffing a hat. The hair that emerged from beneath the wig was light brown flecked with white. Miss Hirata was some kind of foreigner who looked nothing like my Mei-kun!

  “Okay, the game’s over.”

  She suddenly grew cold. I was shocked.

  “Was it all just a game?”

  “Well, what did you think? That’s the way I earn my living. It’s time for you to settle up.”

  I felt a chill creep down my spine as I pulled the money out of my pocket. That’s when the trouble started. Miss Hirata told me to hand it all over, all the ¥22,000. When I asked why the price had changed, she said with disgust, “Playing incest games costs more. Fifteen thousand yen is not enough.”

  Incest? The word made me furious. I shoved Miss Hirata down on the futon.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  She scrambled to her feet and rushed at me, as mad as a demon. We began to push and shove each other violently.

  “You cheap bastard! God, I wish I hadn’t fucked a Chinaman.”

  I wasn’t angry about the money. I was angry because I felt Mei-kun had been tarnished. My precious Mei-kun. I suppose this is what we had been heading toward all along, from the minute we ran away from home; tragedy was all that awaited us. Our unattainable dream. Our impossible dream so easily transformed into a nightmare. The Japan that Mei-kun had longed to see. How cruel. I had to survive. I had to continue living in the country that Mei-kun never lived to set foot in. And I had to endure all of its ugliness. What kept me going was the hope of finding a woman like Mei-kun. And when I finally did, all she wanted was to play games for money. How stupid I was not to see it coming. I felt as though I were being swept along by a rapid current, unable to understand what was happening. When I came to my senses, I saw that I had strangled Miss Hirata. I did not kill her because I wanted to steal her money. But I made a mistake I can never undo. I would like to dedicate the rest of my life to praying for the repose of Miss Hirata’s soul.

  Zhang Zhe-zhong

  SIX • FERMENTATION AND DECAY

  • 1 •

  I was so determined to attend the first public hearing in the Apartment Serial Murders trial that I asked to take a leave from my job at the ward office. Do you find that surprising? The courtroom looked like any other courtroom, but it was the largest one in the courthouse, and I was astounded to learn that they had had to dispense spectator tickets by lottery to those who wanted to view the proceedings. Nearly two hundred people lined up for a chance at a ticket. That just goes to show you how fascinated people were with Yuriko and Kazue. A lot of reporters and people from the media came to cover the case, but I heard they wouldn’t let the cameras in. When I asked my boss to let me have the time off, his lips twitched. I knew he was dying to ask me about it.

  Earlier, I noted that I had absolutely no interest in whether or not that Chinese man named Zhang had actually murdered Yuriko and Kazue. I still feel the same way. I mean, those two were streetwalkers. They met freaks and perverts all the time. They had to know they might be killed if they weren’t lucky; it was precisely because they knew this, I assume, that they found what they did so thrilling. Moving from customer to customer, never knowing if this day might be their last; when they left home, they couldn’t be sure that they’d ever return. And then when the night was done and they did make it home in one piece, they must have felt such relief as they counted the money they’d earned. Whatever danger they might have faced, that night and others, they stored away in their memory to draw on again and again as they learned to survive by their wits.

  The reason I went to court in the first place was because I had read the copy of Zhang’s deposition that Detective Takahashi gave me. “My Crimes,” he titled it. What a ridiculously long and tedious piece of work. Zhang goes on and on about completely irrelevant matters: the hardships he faced in China, all the thi
ngs his darling little sister did, and so on. I skipped over most of it.

  But throughout the report Zhang repeatedly refers to himself as “smart and attractive,” noting at one point that he looks like Takashi Kashiwabara. When I read this I began to feel curious about what kind of man he was. According to Zhang, on the day he killed her, Yuriko told him, “You have a nice face.” All her life, Yuriko was praised for her own beauty. If she thought Zhang had a nice face, I had to get a look at him.

  You see, I’ve never been able to forget little Yuriko, back in the mountain cabin, snuggling up to Johnson’s knees. One of the most handsome men in the world with one of the most beautiful girls. No wonder they were attracted to each other and unable to separate for as long as they lived. What? No, I most certainly was not jealous. It’s just that beauty seems to function as its own compass; beauty attracts beauty, and once the connection has been made it remains so for life, the arrow holding steady, pointing in the opposite direction. I was half, myself, but unfortunately I had not been blessed with a similarly fantastic beauty. Rather, I knew my role in life was to be the observer of those who had been so blessed.

  For the event at the courthouse I borrowed a book on physiognomy and took it with me. I planned to study Zhang’s features. A round face indicates a carnal personality: someone who is easily contented, does not fuss over details, but is indecisive and promptly loses interest in things. An angular face indicates someone who has a calculating personality, is physically robust, hates to lose, and possesses a stubbornness that makes it difficult to get along with others. On the other hand, those with triangular faces are delicate and sensitive; they are physically fragile and tend to be artistic. These categories are then further divided into three positions—upper, middle, and lower—starting from the top of the face and working toward the sides. By reading these various positions, you can determine someone’s fortune. For example, I suppose I would conform to the “sensitive personality.” I am physically delicate, drawn to beauty, and fit the artistic type. But the part about not being sociable is me in a nutshell.

  Next we have the five endowments, the major areas or landmarks of the face: eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. One item of particular note is the brightness of the eyes; the more penetrating the gaze, the more substantial the individual’s vital force. A nose with a high bridge indicates an equally high sense of self-pride. A large mouth suggests aggressiveness and self-certainty.

  If it is possible to predict someone’s character and fate by observing their face and physical attributes, how is it that the beautiful Yuriko met such a tragic end? Beautiful, brainless Yuriko! There must have been an imperfection in her face that brought her to this fate. Perhaps it was her perfect beauty?

  A young detective, clearly on the side of the prosecution, leaned close and peered into my face. The eyes he turned to me behind brown-framed glasses were full of pity, as if he’d marked me as the grieving sister of the victim. “They’ll be starting soon. Take a seat on the front row to the right,” he said.

  I had been given special treatment from the very beginning, not needing to line up for a ticket or for admission. I went directly to the front of the courtroom. I was the only one present who was related to Yuriko, which was to be expected. I had not told my grandfather that Yuriko had died. Grandfather is currently being cared for at Misosazai Nursing Home, where he is off chasing the dreams of his past—or perhaps being chased by his past nightmares. The present has been cleared completely from every corner of his memory. The simple happy time I spent with Grandfather was very brief. He moved in with with Mitsuru’s mother once I entered the university. It was fine with me if she wanted to take care of a senile old man, but as soon as Grandfather started showing signs of dementia, she abandoned him. Well, none of it really matters now.

  It was time for the trial to begin. The spectators made a great fuss scrambling for seats. I sat in the far corner of the very front row with my head bowed, looking like a relative of the victim. With my long hair hanging down over my cheeks, I doubt if it was possible to see much of my face from the spectators’ gallery.

  At last the door opened and a man appeared, sandwiched between two fat courtroom guards. He was manacled, a chain leading from his handcuffs to a belt around his waist: Zhang. Wait a minute! Where was the resemblance to Takashi Kashiwabara? I was appalled as I stared at the shabby man in front of me. He was squat, pudgy, and bald. His face was round and his eyebrows short and bushy. To top it off, he had a pug nose. Most notable about him was the expression in his eyes; they were squinty and gleamed with light as he looked out over the spectators, darting here and there. He looked desperate, as if he were searching for someone he knew, someone who would help him. His mouth was small and constantly dropped half open. If I were to make a physiognomic analysis of Zhang’s character, I would say he is easily bored and he must have a difficult time getting along with others, because he is stubborn and yet is weak-willed. I sighed audibly from my seat in the gallery, disappointed.

  Perhaps my sigh created a ripple in the air that was transmitted to Zhang. He turned and looked directly at me from where he was seated, ramrod straight, in the defendant’s chair. Maybe he’d already been told that I would be there as a connection to Yuriko. When I returned his stare, he averted his eyes timidly. You killed Yuriko. I glared at him with accusing eyes. He seemed to sense my scowl. He squirmed in his chair and swallowed so loudly I could hear it.

  Well, I glared at him, but in fact I did not blame him for his crime. How can I explain this? If Yuriko and I were compared to the planets, she’d be the one closest to the sun, always basking in its rays; I’d be the one off in the dark on the far side. Planet Yuriko would always be there between me and the sun, soaking up its rays. Am I wrong? I managed to enter Q High School for Young Women in a desperate attempt to escape Yuriko, but it wasn’t long before she followed after me and I sank back into the misery of being her older sister, confronted regularly with unflattering comparisons. Yuriko, whom I hated down to the very marrow of my bones, was killed so easily by this pathetic man. Yes, I despised Yuriko from the bottom of my heart.

  The court proceeding was over in no time. Zhang was once again handcuffed, manacled, and led from the room. I felt as if I’d been tricked by a fox. For a time I was unable to move from my seat in the gallery.

  Where did that jerk Zhang get off, telling such a pack of lies—things like “My sister and I were attractive,” and “I look like Takeshi Kashiwabara!” These had to be the most flagrant lies I’d ever encountered. And since he was so fervent in declaring his innocence in Kazue Sat’s murder, I was all the more convinced he did it. I mean, think about it. If a person is so incapable of viewing himself objectively, if he’s convinced that he is good-looking when he’s not, obviously he’s going to come up with all sorts of outrageous lies.

  “Excuse me, may I speak with you for a minute?”

  I was cornered in the corridor in front of the courtroom by a pale woman. My book on physiognomy notes that people with combination pale and blotchy complexions have bad kidneys, so I felt a twinge of concern for this woman. But then she said she was from some television station, a fact about which she clearly felt considerable pride.

  “I believe you are Miss Hirata’s older sister, is that correct? What did you think of the court proceedings today?”

  “I was unable to take my eyes off the defendant.”

  The woman began scribbling furiously in her notebook, nodding encouragingly as she did so.

  “I hate the man for killing my only sis—”

  “The defendant has clearly admitted to Miss Hirata’s murder,” the woman cut in, without waiting to let me finish. “The problem lies with the Kazue Sat case. What do you make of the fact that an educated career woman turned to prostitution? After all, weren’t you and she classmates?”

  “I think Kazue—I mean Miss Sat—was after the thrill. She thrived on it; she lived for it. I imagine the defendant was one of her customers. I thin
k he has a carnal personality, or—oh, I don’t know.”

  While I was blundering through my explanation of physiognomy, the reporter stared at me, perplexed. She continued to nod, but she was only pretending to take notes. And before long she’d lost interest in anything I said. No one cared about Yuriko’s death. It had no impact on society. But Kazue? Kazue had worked for a respectable firm. Isn’t the attention she was now garnering just so typical of her?

  The woman left me alone, standing on the highly polished floors of the courthouse corridor. Then a skinny woman with uncommonly large eyes stepped in front of me. It seemed she’d been waiting for me to be alone. She looked carefully around, ensuring that no one was nearby. Her hair was long and hung straight down her back. She was wearing an outfit that resembled an Indian sari, but it was cotton, not silk, and stiffly starched. She stared at me intently and then smiled lightly.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t remember me?” When the woman got closer, I caught a whiff of chewing gum on her breath. “It’s Mitsuru.”

  I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Of course, the papers had recently been full of articles about her. Mitsuru had been one of the central figures in a religious organization, whose members several years ago had been involved in carrying out terrorist activities and been imprisoned.

  “Mitsuru! Are you out of jail already?”

  My words caused her to flinch. “Oh, that’s right. Everyone knows all about me.”

  “Yeah, everyone knows.”

  Mitsuru looked back down the corridor with an irritated expression.

  “I’ll never forget this courthouse. My case was tried in room four-oh-six. I had to appear at least twenty times. And no one came to support me. My one and only ally was my defense attorney, But even he, deep in his heart, thought I was guilty. He didn’t understand,” Mitsuru grumbled. “All I could do was sit there wishing it would be over.” Then she tugged gently at my arm. “Look, if you’ve got time, let’s go get a cup of tea. I want to talk to you.”