The Hunter

by Asa Nonami

  The Hunter

  Asa Nonami

  PROLOGUE

  At dusk the north wind suddenly picked up. As night came on, the streets lost color; leaves danced in little eddies at the corners of buildings and out-of-the-way places, and passersby screwed up their faces to keep the sand and dust from getting into their eyes. An air of festivity had pervaded the area a week earlier, during the New Year's holiday, but the herd of commuters now hurrying home looked gray and spiritless. After rush hour peaked, the moon came out in the east. As it rose higher in the sky and the night wore on, a kid with a guitar and a white guy who sang nothing but Beatles songs took up residence in front of the station, unbothered by the gusting wind. The singing, the guitar strains, and the sporadic applause were swept up into the sky along with the moaning of the wind.

  Masayo Kizaki, a part-time waitress, was the first person to notice the man in the doorway of the restaurant. It was a family restaurant on the edge of town, bordering the highway, which perhaps explained why it was crowded even when the trains would soon stop running for the night. The restaurant was filled to about sixty-percent capacity. Masayo, who had spent her entire New Year's holiday on the slopes, and who intended to go skiing twice more before spring, was nineteen; she was a student at a vocational school.

  Ten minutes before midnight, Masayo, whose shift had begun at ten, was carrying a large coffee pot past the cash register as she headed toward the tables of customers when she felt a chilly gust of wind. There were two doors in the front of the restaurant, and every time someone came in or went out wind would blow in, along with dust, leaves, and the noise of traffic. Masayo was wearing a light-cotton, short-sleeved uniform, so the cold air immediately raised goose-bumps on her arms.

  "There'll be two of us," said the customer casually to Masayo as she turned toward him. His voice was husky and, for a man, rather high-pitched. Masayo did not want to escort him to his table while carrying the coffee pot, but the cash register was unmanned and no other waitress was coming over to say "This way, please." The late-hour shift operated with minimum staff.

  "Smoking or non-smoking?" Masayo asked.

  "Smoking."

  Masayo turned around, coffee pot still in hand, and pulled out a menu from the slot by the cash register. She had gone by the book in asking him his preference, but she definitely remembered this customer. His face rang no bells, but the minute she heard his voice, she knew: he was a regular, probably in his late thirties, and no ordinary salaryman—you could tell that from the color of his suit, gray tinged with purple, and from the heavy gold bracelet glittering on the wrist of the hand holding a zippered briefcase. He wasn't wearing a coat, so he must have come by car. He usually came pretty late, and he always laid his cellphone on the table. The restaurant had too many customers for Masayo to have either the inclination or the time to commit to memory, but this man's voice was distinctive; that and the bracelet were hard to forget.

  She led him past the oblong case used for a salad bar at lunchtime and over to a window seat with its back to the highway, placed the menu in front of him, and said the words specified in the restaurant manual: "As soon as you're ready to order, please let me know." The man slid onto the curved, pink-upholstered bench that wrapped around the circular table, paying no attention to Masayo, and picked up the menu in silence. Most customers didn't bother to respond to every little thing you said to them. Wait staff didn't expect a response every time either, so after reciting her line, Masayo proceeded to ask the other customers if they wanted a refill of coffee. When she returned to the man a few minutes later, he ordered a beer and fries.

  Doesn't he have to drive home?

  The thought entered her mind, she recalled later, as she took the menu and said reflexively, "One moment, please." After that, how many minutes went by? With another burst of cold air, two new customers came in; after seating them, she set a bottle of beer and a glass on a tray and started toward the man's table. The words "Sorry to keep you waiting" were in the middle of her throat when it happened—flames shot up, right before her eyes. At the same moment, a howl, like the war-whoop of an enraged beast, filled the restaurant.

  At first Masayo was too stunned to realize what was happening. The next instant, she was screaming in horror. She threw the tray down and, leaping back, slipped and fell. The flames roared, consuming the man in a flash. Masayo's mind went blank. From all around she heard shrieking, chairs being knocked out of the way, dishes breaking. Still on the floor, she stared wide-eyed at the scene before her.

  "I'm on fire! I'm burning up!"

  The cry emerged from the middle of the flames. The upper body of the man, now a human torch, was twisting and turning. Masayo slid backward. The man was up on his feet, sparks cascading.

  "Help! Somebody, help me!"

  It was as if the flames themselves were speaking. Masayo stared up, seeing the silhouette of a man waving his arms wildly from within the flames. The fire raged, black smoke billowing. The stink was terrible. Masayo's eyes stung as she watched the fire spread to the curtains and the padded bench where the man had been sitting.

  "I'm burning up! Help me!"

  The next moment, the pillar of flames toppled over and rolled on the floor next to Masayo. She screamed and scrambled away. There was a crackling sound in her ears, and the stench of protein charring filled her nostrils. There was a dull pain in her right arm. With every jerk of the man's body, flames scattered, new offspring of the flames leaping and spreading of their own volition. From her position on the floor, Masayo, dumbfounded, just stared. Though her mind was blank, incapable of thought, for an instant there arose in one corner of her consciousness something like a thrill: the flames moved with such vitality, gave off such radiant light, they were beautiful.

  "Fools! Run for your lives!"

  Behind her came this shout. As soon as she heard it, Masayo jumped to her feet as if released from a spell. The carpet was catching fire. The fire moved with amazing speed, flames licking everything within range like a famished monster. Customers ran screaming for the exit. Desperate, Masayo joined the stampede, getting stepped on, then herself stepping on and clambering over fallen customers.

  "Customers first!"

  She thought that was what she heard someone cry. A hell of a time to say something like that. Forget it, man, I only work part-time. No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she felt someone grab her shoulders from behind.

  "You heard me. Customers first!"

  Masayo was flung to the back of the onrushing crowd. She fell hard against a corner of the cash register and once again sank to the floor in a daze.

  This can't be happening.

  Slowly she turned around. She saw the man wrapped in flames, writhing, black smoke rising from him. He was no longer whooping. He was crumpling over, looking like an actual beast.

  "Hello! Hello! Somebody's . . . somebody's on fire!" Over her head the manager was screaming into a phone.

  The stampede of customers out the door had allowed a strong gust of wind into the restaurant, fanning the flames enveloping the man. The fire now had free range; the air grew thick with smoke and crackle and stink.

  "Somebody's on fire, and the fire is spreading!"

  Whipped by the wind, the flames spread across the curtain even as Masayo watched. There was a loud crack, followed by the plate-glass window falling and shattering. The lights went out. More screams. With wind blowing in from the gaping hole, the restaurant swirled with flames and smoke. It was not about the man anymore.

  Gotta escape, gotta get out of here!

  Trampled by customers, listening to the roar of flames that drowned out all the screams, Masayo began to crawl for all she was worth. The smell of the fire was everywhere, her eyes stinging so badly she could bare
ly keep them open, her mind incapable of rational thought. Instinct alone propelled her in the direction of safety, toward the air blowing in from outside.

  One

  1

  As she opened her front door, her nostrils were assailed by the obnoxiously artificial perfume of air freshener. She had been duped into buying it by the advertising; far from refreshing, the scent was cloying and annoying, thought Takako Otomichi as she took one boot-clad step indoors.

  It's like my front door opens right into the bathroom.

  The thought of encountering this irritating scent every time she dragged herself home from work was unbearable. She groped around for the switch. A soft orange light lit up the small entryway and the kitchen beyond.

  "What it is, is fake," Takako muttered to herself. With a gloved hand she reached up for the small white jar of freshener sitting on the shoe cupboard. Cuteness, aimed at a universal appeal. By itself the thing was trim and attractive, but no matter where she put it, it looked out of place; the thing had no style.

  That's what you get for swallowing the ad, dummy.

  Takako slid open the cupboard door and stuck the jar of air freshener inside, next to a pair of black pumps she never wore. That was the right place for it, hidden away. She peeled off her gloves, then removed her helmet. With the pressure off her ears, the sound of her breathing echoing inside her head suddenly stopped. Placing her gloves and helmet on top of the shoe cupboard where the jar of freshener had been, she bent over to take off her boots. She felt a numbness in her lower back. After spending all day in the same position, small wonder that her back muscles were in knots, that her body was so thoroughly chilled.

  Take a hot bath, get something to eat.

  Her condominium, a one-bedroom apartment with a combined dining room-kitchen, was on the top floor of a five-story building; as it was on the corner, it got plenty of sun. With a six-mat tatami room and an even bigger kitchen, the place was plenty big for one person. The reason it seemed so cramped was that, ever since she moved in, an entire corner had been taken up by a heap of cardboard boxes. She knew very well she should get cracking and clear the mess away, use a day off like today to tackle the pile a little at a time—packing had only taken a matter of hours—and yet somehow she could never get started. The boxes had sat where they were for almost a year. But even without unpacking them, Takako found she did not really lack anything, so there couldn't be much of value in there anyway. The kind of knickknacks you were happy to get as presents but would never buy for yourself, porcelain mugs in saccharine colors, old junior high textbooks, . . . Her old judo outfit must be in there, too.

  Well, doesn't do them any harm to sit there.

  Giving herself the same old excuse, she walked around the apartment turning on all the lights. Then she checked her phone for messages, but the green light that flashed on and off when she had a message was not blinking.

  On her ride home that evening the wind had picked up, and Takako had used up all her strength. Her legs felt heavy, her neck and shoulder muscles rigid. She ran the bath; while the tub was filling, she peered in the refrigerator and clucked at the slim pickings. Whenever she was out on her bike, she didn't stop to eat or drink, so now she was good and hungry. She had hoped to find something for a quick meal, but the spinach and chrysanthemum greens she'd bought before New Year's were now yellow, and the cucumbers, still inside their plastic bag, were turning to mush. The ham and tofu were both past their shelf date. That left natto—fermented soybeans—that had been in there for god knows how long, some ketchup and mayonnaise, and several cans of beer.

  Wasn't smart enough to pick up something on the way home.

  Disgusted, she shut the refrigerator door. No way was she going out shopping now.

  "Hello, I'd like to order a large plain pizza. Corn salad and fried chicken on the side."

  It took Takako only a few seconds to decide to call the pizza place; she knew full well it was going to cost her. But soba noodle shops and sushi places sometimes wouldn't deliver for just a single order—and besides, you had to wash out the bowl afterward and leave it outside for them to come pick it up. Too much trouble. Pizza was fine. All she really wanted was something to put in her belly.

  Piece by piece, she stripped off her leather riding suit and then, leaving the bathroom door open, she stepped into the filling tub. She couldn't wait to get in the hot water, even if it was just her feet. Slowly she lowered herself into the water, careful to avoid touching the cold sides of the tub, then sat down, arms around her knees, as the hot water gradually rose around her chilled body, engulfing her, warming her. The steady sound of the water pouring out of the tap was soothing. By the time the water level was up to her breasts, Takako's shoulders had begun to relax; she stretched out her legs full length, closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, resting the back of her head against the tub. She could feel the tension draining from the very marrow of her bones, and a tingling sensation ran through her. In a voice like a middle-aged man's she murmured: "Sweet ride."

  Behind her closed eyes, scenery of the day's ride passed vividly by. She saw road after mountain road. The scenes beyond the guardrail, Mount Fuji draped with snow,... Beautiful, all of it beautiful. At sunrise, riding through a village tucked in the mountains, she felt a touch of spring in the air. Yes, today, even as she sped through the bone-chilling cold, Takako had definitely felt that spring was near.

  One year.

  Slowly Takako opened her eyes. She reached out and turned off the tap. Quiet filled the room, and amid the clouds of steam she could feel the pores in her face opening. Scooping up the silky water, she scrubbed her face, filthy from exhaust fumes and dust, as she played back the events of one year ago.

  She had gone for a long, solitary bike ride, coming home after dark. And then, alone in the bath, she'd found herself weeping. She hadn't meant to do anything of the sort, but when she gave her pleasantly tired body over to the warmth of the bath, the tears had just flowed, and flowed, and flowed.

  It's been a whole year.

  Never had she wept such bitter tears. Never had she dreamed she would cry so pathetically. That day, with her face half submerged in the water, sobbing, Takako made up her mind: She was going to get a divorce. She knew her lying husband wasn't coming home that night. She knew where he was, and she knew it wasn't the first time.

  I thought I was going to sink right to the bottom.

  And now, nearly a year later, here she was in the bathtub again. What was strangest to her, looking back, was that for four and a half years she had lived with someone she called a husband. That she had ever been any man's wife. Having never lived alone before, on first moving into this apartment she'd felt a kind of vertigo—an enormous sense of helplessness and insecurity. It felt as if a cold wind were constantly blowing. And yet, the days had gone by.

  It hadn't been too late to start over. Much better than sitting around clinging to the past.

  After the divorce, she heard all kinds of rumors about her ex. "I wouldn't have said anything before, but you may as well know it now." That's how people would preface their remarks, and then tell her something rotten he'd done. None of it was easy to believe, and sometimes there was nothing she could do but laugh—or else cry. Each time Takako made a point of telling herself: This is why you're better off. The loneliness is nothing compared to the humiliation of being treated like that. It hurts, but you're far better off.

  The deeper the wound, the longer to heal. Fear of healing just deepens the wound.

  This year, for the first time in her life, Takako had spent the long New Year's holiday alone. Somehow she had found the energy to prepare the traditional New Year dishes, or a reasonable approximation of them. The year before, she'd done the year-end shopping with her husband. She remembered this as she saw the New Year in by herself this year, breathing a sigh of relief that the normal rhythms of life were resuming. But now, feeling sorry for herself, she wondered if she alone in the city had missed the New Year
. There was nothing new or good about it. One look at the calendar was enough to bring back the taste of tears; was January always going to be bad for her? That was exactly why she climbed on her motorcycle this morning.

  Strange to be thinking these things. To be discovering only now how exhausted she really was.

  Her thoughts starting to fog over, Takako suddenly realized that her forehead was covered in perspiration. If she didn't hurry and get out of this bath, the pizza delivery would come and she'd miss it. She was starving. She stepped out of the tub, swiftly shampooed her short hair under the shower, and washed and rinsed herself all over. In a corner of her mind lingered the image of herself a year ago when, sobbing, she splashed her face with cold water. She had not forgotten the despair. How much better it was to be giving herself a quick shampoo while waiting for a food delivery. That's the way to look at it.

  Just as she was slipping into her sweat suit, the food arrived. Takako laid the pizza out on top of her small kotatsu heater, along with the salad and fried chicken, got a can of beer from the fridge, and settled down to her meal.