Toddler Hunting

by Taeko Kono

  “It was all a mistake,” she whispered, pulling her head away. She started to sob. She felt Matsuda rise abruptly. “It was a mistake,” she repeated.

  “Was it?” He did sound disappointed. “Well, but that’s all right. It’s all right. Wait.” There was the sound of the light going on.

  “Oh, don’t do that.”

  “Okay.” He reached again for the switch.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I spoke too soon,” Fumiko said, laying her head on his pillow and crying again. Her tears flowed naturally, but one part of her mind was conscious that she was acting like a woman who had been desperately hoping to be pregnant.

  “No, it’s good you told me. We had a trial run,” Matsuda said.

  “But you were so happy.”

  “Well, you can make me happy next time. We have to go to America first — we’ll do it after that.”

  “All right. But I mustn’t wait too long,” Fumiko said, realizing her voice sounded as if she meant it. But then, she did want him to have a child. “I don’t like children, though,” she added.

  “You’ll come round — I didn’t like them, either.”

  “But what if I don’t, though? What happens if I have one, and I still don’t like it?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll see to the diapers.”

  “You’ll spoil it wildly, I bet. I won’t. I might spoil a boy, but if it’s a girl, I’ll just be mean and cruel — I’ll be so cruel, people will think I’m her stepmother.”

  Suddenly, a picture flashed into her mind of the child she would treat like a stepdaughter: this whole event had had quite an effect on her. She no longer had the worry of the last few days, and once the image rose in her mind it began to stimulate all sorts of fantasies.

  “If it’s a girl,” she continued, “let’s not allow her too much edu­cation.”

  “I agree,” Matsuda answered. “Too much schooling is no good anyway.”

  “Of course, we’ll have to send her for the compulsory years.”

  “No, they’re the worst. Let’s hire tutors.”

  “Far too expensive. I’ll never agree to that,” Fumiko replied. “No, she can just go to the local school. When she graduates from junior high, I’ll keep her at home and treat her like a maid. By this time of the morning, she’ll be up cooking our breakfast. I’ll be lying in bed like this, taking it easy with you.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “So it appeals to you. In that case, I’ll make her cook breakfast when she’s in grammar school.”

  “Will a ­first-grader be able to cook?”

  “She won’t have any choice. And she’d better get the rice just right.”

  “The poor little thing!”

  “But it’s best to be strict with girls — better for them.”

  “True.”

  “I’m not going to have a girl who thinks too much. Let’s raise her so she’ll never talk back. I don’t mean just so she can restrain herself — I want her incapable of talking back — a girl who has no opinions of her own. A girl who does what she’s told, automatically, like an idiot. Even her face must be an idiot’s face.”

  “A girl like a doll.”

  “Yes. When she’s small, I’ll train her to serve other people, like a good little wife — like the girls in ancient China. As soon as she gets out of school, I’ll marry her off.”

  “I’ll go and visit her. I’ll take her some of that sugar we got as a present, behind your back.”

  “Will you indeed.”

  “But you never use it to cook with. There’s too much, anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You told me.”

  “Did I? Well, take it, then.”

  “I’ll go and see her every Sunday.”

  “Her husband won’t like that.”

  “That’s all right. He’ll understand. I’ll find her a kind husband.”

  “He won’t stay that way. I’ll encourage him to be cruel and mean. You must encourage him, too — to have affairs and drink. If you meet any beautiful women, you mustn’t keep them for yourself. Send them over, lots of them, to him, just like the sugar. She won’t get any sympathy when she comes over to complain. I’ll show her my body. ‘Look!’ I’ll tell her: ‘Look at what your father does to me. I can bear it, and so should you!’ ”

  The clock chimed.

  “What time is it?” Matsuda asked.

  “Half past six.”

  “Go and look. I bet it’s ­seven-thirty. You’ll be late.”

  “No, I won’t: it’s ­six-thirty.”

  For their conversation to end when she was having so much fun was the last thing Fumiko wanted. She wanted to pick it up where they had left off — as soon as possible. Matsuda, however, got out of bed, unlocked the window, slid a panel aside, and opened the outside shutter.

  “You see?” Fumiko said, looking at the clock. “­Half past six.”

  Matsuda slid the window back, left the shutters open, and drew the curtain, the way she usually did for him as he lay in bed. Then he left the room.

  When he came back, still in his pajamas, he was carrying his newspapers. Putting them on the floor, he sat down, crossed his legs, and started reading them one after another. She couldn’t object, considering his profession. But after a while, it was obvious that nothing was particularly catching his eye.

  “There’s nothing urgent,” she said. “Can’t you leave that till later?”

  Apparently he could.

  “What about the time?” he asked, putting down a newspaper and coming back to bed.

  “It’s all right,” replied Fumiko though it was ten to seven. Ten more minutes, and she would have to get up.

  “You’re so lucky that you get to leave later,” she sighed, and suddenly remembered they’d run out of butter. “We don’t have any butter for breakfast. Do you mind? I forgot to get more.”

  “We have jam, don’t we?”

  “Yes. And cheese.”

  “Well then, that’s plenty.”

  In the gap between the doors, which she noticed Matsuda had not bothered to shut, Fumiko glimpsed a short fluttering skirt: their daughter — the girl whom other people might mistake for her stepdaughter.

  “I won’t allow our daughter to forget to buy butter,” she told Matsuda. “I’m very strict with girls. I punish them cruelly. You won’t be able to stand seeing what I do to her — despite what you do to me. You’ll have to go hide in a closet and cover your ears. . . .”

  The door slid open, and the short pleated skirt came in. Fumiko pretended to be asleep.

  “Mother,” said her daughter. She was about seven years old. Fumiko didn’t acknowledge her for a long while, until finally she said with her eyes closed: “You didn’t close the door. I scolded you the other day for leaving it open.”

  “But Father never bothers to close it. . . .”

  “You think you’re the same as your Father?” Fumiko shouted. She jumped up and rushed at her daughter, grabbed the sides of her mouth, and pulled. “Are you talking back?” The girl tried to free herself, but she couldn’t, Fumiko had her in such a tight grip. “I’m sorry!” the girl begged. “Forgive me!” The same words that Fumiko uttered at night making love with Matsuda.

  “I won’t forgive you!” Fumiko retorted. She started pinching and jabbing her. “And not only because you talk back, either. Think about how badly behaved you’ve been — in the last few moments. Addressing your mother without getting down on your knees. Who taught you that? And when you came in — just entering, without even knocking.” Fumiko began to strip her of all her clothes — the short pleated skirt, her blouse, her underwear — and pinch her all over her body.

  And there was the butter, she remembered: something else to berate her for. Fumiko pushed her toward the kitchen.
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  “Do you have butter for breakfast?”

  “No. I wanted to go buy some, but I needed some money, and that’s why . . .”

  “You forgot, didn’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  The girl immediately cowered by the gas stove, hiding her face: on her back there were several small round scars like cigarette burns.

  “Go out and buy some.”

  A stick of butter slid down from the ceiling to rest cold and heavy in Fumiko’s hand. She unwrapped the translucent wax paper from the fresh butter, took a large scoop with a big metal spoon, which she set on the gas ring over a flame. When it melted the butter would be boiling hot. She threw a glance at the back of the girl crouching at her feet, and then peered at the butter in the spoon. The yellow lump was changing from a congealed mass to a liquid grease.

  “You’ll be late,” Matsuda was warning her. Both hands of the clock were pointing down — it was long past seven.

  “Yes, I will,” Fumiko mused.

  “Aren’t you tired?” asked Matsuda. “Why don’t you stay home today? I’ll call the office.”

  “I’ve never taken a day off,” Fumiko replied, trying to hint that she wanted to.

  “Well, maybe you should.” Matsuda’s hand groped for her breast — Fumiko was already excited. Unlike the other morning, she had no objection today.

  “When do you want me to have your baby?”

  “How about when we come back from America.”

  “How soon after?”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “The earlier the better, I suppose. I do want to have a baby for you, but . . .” She broke off: Matsuda had her nipple between his forefinger and thumb and was pulling it toward the center of her chest while with his little finger crooked he searched out her other nipple. His finger slipped over it two or three times before catching it. The next moment, a terrible pain seared her: Matsuda was pinching both nipples, and pulling back at the same time. He pulled harder — as hard as if he were trying to lift a heavy bucket by its handle. Fumiko gasped, arching away and burying her face in his shoulder. This worked to increase the pain, and her pleasure.

  “I do want very much to have a baby for you,” she continued, when she could draw a breath. “But I don’t like babies; you know that. So you must tell me to do it — order me when you want one. If you don’t, I’ll never . . .” Again, she had to gasp and hold her tongue. Shivering all over with pleasure at the pain, she choked out, “You’ll have to tell me to do it. You’ve got to force me!”

  “I will, when I think the time is right,” Matsuda said. He pulled again, harder. “I’ll say: ‘Give birth to it, even if it kills you!’ ”

  “I will,” she gasped. “Even if it kills me. So you must stay with me, by my side.”

  “I will.”

  “But I may want you to do more. . . . The pain might make me scream and struggle. Then you’ll have to tie me up. Maybe I won’t stop screaming — in that case, will you beat me, please? Tied up and beaten as I have my baby: that sounds better — I wouldn’t mind if I could give birth like that. How about letting me try now. . . . Please . . . ? I want to. Now!”

  Matsuda sprang out of bed to open the closet door. Fumiko became aware of an oblong strip of sunlight on the curtain over the window. By the time she heard him take out their bamboo fishing rod (neither of them fished), she couldn’t have cared less about the time or about whether anybody up and about would hear the noise.

  Matsuda, his shoes on, was already in the hallway. He drank the bottle of milk Fumiko had brought him, standing.

  “You all right?” he asked, moving the bottle away from his lips. Fumiko smiled, not saying anything.

  “We won’t be able to do that when you’re pregnant, you know. We’ll have to go easy. You’d better bear that in mind.”

  “But after we have the baby . . .”

  “Don’t worry.” Matsuda tipped his head back, and drained the bottle. “I’ll make us a soundproof room. We need one already, if you ask me.” He handed her the empty bottle. “I’ll call your office,” he said over his shoulder, as he left.

  The futon had yet to be put away; the only difference in the room was that the shutters were fully open. It was the rainy season, but the sun managed to find its way through the clouds, along with a breeze.

  Fumiko sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda. With every fiber of her being she concentrated on her physical sensations. Everywhere on her skin she felt heat, then stinging pain, then heat again — alternating sensations which were gradually diminishing in intensity. Her whole body responded in successive waves to every breeze, a feeling she liked very much. Matsuda had left without breakfast since they had run out of time, and she hadn’t eaten yet, either: she could feel hunger pangs. She went on sitting there, however. In a while, drowsiness overtook her and lying down on the futon, she closed her eyes. Such a pleasant early summer breeze.

  She awoke to find it was nearly two o’clock. What, she thought suddenly, if a child were to see her in this state? She tidied the futon away, and went into the kitchen.

  As she opened the window, a strange object on the inside sill met her eyes. Jet black, and oval in shape, it seemed to be squirming. On closer inspection, she saw that it was a lump of raw meat, alive with crawling ants. Oh yes, on the cutting board. She remembered putting it away herself in the refrigerator.

  This was one of the slices she had gotten Matsuda to press up against some of her wounds this morning — though of course there hadn’t been any ants then. She had had him do this several times before: from the kitchen Matsuda would bring in the slices of meat to the bedroom, using chopsticks, and she would lie and watch, and burst out laughing each time a piece approached her shoulders or haunches. He must have forgotten to put the board of meat back in the refrigerator.

  Now, hundreds of ants covered the slice, swarming all over it, crazily. Hardly any ants were wandering around on the board itself, and, strangely, not one was making its way toward it, so she couldn’t tell where they had come from.

  Well, she was in no hurry to brush them away: nothing could be done about the meat now — the ants could do what they liked with it. Fumiko stayed there and gazed at them, all squirming and wriggling together like a single organism. She was amazed to find so many ants living inside her house; she hadn’t ever before caught a glimpse of one. Their absence she had attributed to the lack of sweetness and sugar in their household — and that, in turn, she linked with her own lack of domesticity. After all, the last thing she wanted was a baby drinking milk, or small children leaving caramel candy wrappers lying around. Neither she nor Matsuda took sugar in their coffee; she preferred smoking to snacking between meals; and she rarely spent time boiling up stews in sweet gravy.

  And yet all these ants had been living here, the whole time. These ants must have forgotten the taste of sugar — or else had never sampled it. But perhaps they found a certain sweetness in the vinegary taste of the blood in the meat, putrefying slightly in the warm air. . . . It was just like ants, wasn’t it, to have detected the meat so quickly and gathered around.

  Fumiko concentrated on observing the movements of the ants individually, each one burrowing away, its body trembling while it pushed its head eagerly into the meat. After a while, however, her eyes grew tired and she had to give up trying to focus on them singly. There were just too many, and all so close together. As she gazed, they formed a single writhing mass again before her eyes, a black lump squirming obscenely, teasing and goading her on.

  Final Moments

  Saigo no toki, 1966

  She had to die at some point, she could accept that; and to die in that particular way might even be her fate. But so suddenly, so quickly — Noriko couldn’t begin to face the possibility.

  “Give me a few days,” she begged.

  “You mean you want time to get used to t
he idea,” a voice said.

  “Who can ‘get used’ to dying?” she retorted. “I’m not an old lady — I’m not terminally ill: I’m middle-aged. I’m healthy — and nothing is wrong with my mind, as far as I know. And anyway, there’s not a drop of samurai blood in my veins: I know I won’t want to let go of life — I’ll be exceptionally unwilling — unless you manage to kill me on your very first try.”

  “I thought you said you believed in spirits.”

  “I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy to die!”

  “Well, that’s better than not believing at all.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with you. Spirits and ghosts are probably powerless creatures, you know. I know they’re supposed to be able to influence humans — to be able to read their minds, and so on. But they don’t have physical power over people, or objects; I don’t think they can even see them. And what happens when from the other side they try to reach people whose minds are insensitive, and who don’t react? Or who are too sensitive, so they overreact? I’m sure lines get crossed all the time: it must be easy for a ghost to get frustrated and lose interest. Besides, after a while, seeing into people’s minds must get quite boring and annoying. And aren’t ghosts supposed to be bundles of irritation and resentment? No, I dread dying all the more when I think of such an eternally painful existence. If anything, I envy people who can believe in nothingness after death.”

  Then she cried out: “Oh, I wish that my spirit could stay with my body forever! Or at least that when I die, my spirit would go too!” She so fiercely wanted this that for a moment she forgot about the reprieve.

  “Anyway, the point is,” she resumed, “I don’t want to die. I have to, I know, but you could at least give me some extra time.”

  “You can’t get out of it, you know.”

  “I know. That’s exactly why I’m asking. I only need two or three days. . . .”

  “Out of the question.”

  “But it’s not as though I was born in a matter of seconds. How can I just suddenly die? There are so many things I have to take care of before I . . .”