“How was the photoshoot?” Rumi asked.
Mima hummed in thought, then said, “It was tough, but satisfying.”
“Yuji is a really nice guy, isn’t he?”
“He really is,” Mima agreed. “I’m not sure I could have made it through the day if not for him. I might have gone running for the hills.” She dropped her gaze.
Rumi understood how Mima felt. This wasn’t just a simple change to her image, this was a sudden leap from innocence personified to being photographed in the semi-nude. No matter how resilient she was, the change must have been mentally and emotionally exhausting.
Mima said, “It really was satisfying; I wasn’t just saying that. I found myself thinking, I actually am pretty sexy. At a certain point, I wasn’t doing the photo shoot just to do it—I truly wanted to make the best pictures I could.”
“I hope I’m not out of line saying this,” Rumi offered, “but I find that your brand of sexiness is refined and still has a certain innocence to it. It’s far superior to Ochiai Eri’s straight up vulgarity.”
Rumi’s voice took on a sharp edge when she mentioned Eri. Apparently, she shared Mima’s hatred for the young upstart—a sentiment Mima noticed. The singer grinned and said, “It sounds like you don’t care for Eri, either.”
Rumi puffed out her cheeks. “She’s no idol. She’s a nobody. She doesn’t even give you a hello when you run into her in the studios. And… and, she’s a slut—I can just tell!”
Mima let out a little gasp. “Rumi-chan. You shouldn’t say such terrible things.” She gestured to the driver with her eyes.
Rumi got the message. To Mima, she impishly stuck out her tongue—and then, for the driver’s benefit, apologized with a straightforward “Sorry.”
The taxi reached its destination, and the rear passenger door swung open as Mima stepped out. She leaned back in and said, “Meet me here at ten a.m. tomorrow,” and then headed up to her apartment. Rumi waved goodbye from inside the taxi.
Mima took the elevator to the third floor and walked toward her room, down a long hallway that was open to the exterior on one side. Her apartment was number 304, a southern-facing corner unit. Her name, of course, was not displayed on the placard.
Mima dug her key from her purse and put it in the lock. Just then, she heard a rustling under her feet. Curious, she looked down and saw a red object. What’s that? she thought, stooping down to pick it up.
It was a red rose.
Something about the rose felt alarming, sinister. Attached to the stem like a little branch was a rolled-up piece of white paper. Hurriedly, she removed the page. Something was written on it. She read it in the hallway’s light.
The blood drained from her face.
On the outside of the folded sheet of paper was written “Your Darling Rose.”
He’d come.
He’d really come.
This man who she feared more than anyone else had come to her home.
Her hands shaking, she opened the letter and saw the now-familiar unsteady handwriting.
This might be my final request.
Why? Because you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been telling you.
I delivered my previous letter to you (well, strictly speaking, to your assistant). I can be fairly confident you read it.
I’ve called you many times.
I went to all these great efforts to tell you one, simple message: Please do not change.
And yet, look at you! From your costume to your new song, to the soon-to-be-released photo book, you’re becoming a Mima completely different from the Mima you’ve always been.
But fine. I won’t ask you again.
It appears it is now time for me to act. I will save you from this wicked path by my own means.
Like I said—I won’t ask you again.
I’ve made up my mind.
I will take action.
Sincerely,
Your Darling Rose
When Mima finished reading the letter, she sank to the floor on the spot.
III
In Mima’s apartment, Tadokoro exploded with rage. “I’ll never forgive that bastard!” he shouted. “Who does he think he is, threatening Mima like a goddamned coward? If he had any balls, he’d come out and show himself!”
Mima lightly shook her head. The shock of receiving the letter had kept her awake almost the entire night, so physically, she wasn’t doing well—but emotionally, she’d calmed down for the most part.
Seated beside Mima on the sofa, Rumi watched Tadokoro with an anxious expression. The assistant said, “This isn’t the time for anger, Tadokoro-san,” she said. “This has gone too far now. We need to inform the police. We’re beyond worrying about Mima’s image if it goes public. That freak came to here--to her home.”
Rumi’s eyes were serious.
Tadokoro nodded deeply in agreement. “I understand. You’re right, Rumi. This is no joke. This is a full-on crime. I’m friendly with a few detectives, and I can notify them today. They’ll grab this pervert by his neck and haul him in.”
Tadokoro couldn’t forgive anyone who would cause such a good girl to suffer. He had managed many performers, and Mima wasn’t his first idol. All of them had been selfish and petty. None of them had treated him as their manager.
But Kirigoe Mima was different.
She was dutiful and treated both Tadokoro and the rest of the agency’s staff with consideration—and she possessed incredible perseverance. To Mima, Tadokoro said, “Just you see. Against the full might of the police, that creep doesn’t stand a chance. They’ll catch him, and for good. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
Mima put her hand to her face and smiled weakly. “Thank you, Bon-chan. I’m glad that you feel that way…but don’t tell the police.”
Rumi turned to Mima in shock and said, “What are you saying? Look at how much distress he’s caused you.”
“She’s right, Mima,” Tadokoro said. “This is no time to worry about the agency. This is about you now—as a person.”
Mima looked down, shrinking into her shoulders. “I understand how you both feel—believe me, I do. You want the police to protect me. But think about it: What are this guy’s crimes? Making prank phone calls and delivering weird letters—and that’s it. I don’t think that’s enough to move the police into action. Even the letters’ contents—while they’re very frightening to me—it wouldn’t be impossible to read them as being mere fan letters, if that’s what someone wanted to see in them. Besides, I don’t want to have to go through being interviewed by the police. My new song comes out next month. Starting tomorrow, my schedule will be consumed by promoting it on TV. I don’t have the time to waste on some creep.”
Her speech genuinely moved Tadokoro. She’s so resilient, he thought. A normal idol in this situation would have been hysterical, probably lashing out at her assistant and manager. But instead, Mima was thinking of Rumi and Tadokoro.
Rumi also appeared to have been moved, as she looked at Mima through teary eyes.
Tadokoro patted his fist to his chest and said, “All right, Mima—this is what we’ll do. I won’t contact the police. We’ll stick to your TV schedule as planned. But I’ll stay at your side the whole time. Of course, that includes me staying here in your apartment for a while.” He looked to Rumi. “I’d like you to be here as much as you can. After all, an idol and her manager entering and leaving her apartment with no other company? Who knows what people would say.”
“Okay!” Rumi said enthusiastically.
To Mima, Tadokoro said, “Everything will be fine. I may not look it now, but as a student I made first dan in judo. Black belt. If that creep comes anywhere near you, I’ll knock him out with my trademark ura-nage back throw.”
“Thank you,” Mima said, as tears finally filled her eyes.
IV
Hardly stirring a muscle, the man stared at the knife on his desk. The weapon’s blade gleamed in lamplight. The longer he gazed into its sheen, the m
ore the man felt his calm return. A soft, warm comfort enveloped his body.
Maybe it was the same feeling as a mother’s warmth. Or maybe it was that elusive emotion—love—which he had never once tasted.
He took the knife in hand and rubbed the handle with his fingertips. The grip was made of wood, and he bobbed his head as he enjoyed the sensation of its rough texture against his skin.
Something had been carved into the handle—a human figure. The man rubbed insistently at that figure. When he eventually stopped, he brought the carving up to his eyes for a closer look.
The figure was a woman, a full-body carving.
The man spoke to it. “Mima-san,” he said, and the woman smiled back at him. At least, that’s what it seemed like.
He had spent many dogged months carving the figure into the handle. He copied her likeness from several photos of Mima from the time of her debut and put great care into the details. Both the face and the overall proportions were nearly identical to the real thing.
“Mima-san,” he said, “you really were great back then. Of course, you still are—to an extent. But…” He poked his finger at the carving’s face. “But you can’t keep going on like this—like you’ve been doing lately. How many times have I asked you to stay how you were? Why don’t you listen to me?”
He gripped the knife by the handle and tightened his lips. “I’ve decided. My mind won’t be changed. It feels like I’ve been thinking about what to do for years. Now’s the time to do it.”
The man pulled a record from the shelves. It was Kirigoe Mima’s debut single, “Innocence Forever!” The song was his favorite, so much so that when the 12-inch remix version came out, he bought two copies.
“You were still pure back then. I thought you would remain innocent your whole life. I thought you would never betray me.” A savage cast came over his eyes. “But maybe I was wrong. That’s why I’m going to take action. I’ve thought about this for ages, but now it’s time to act.”
Still holding the knife, the man stood. He walked across his room into an adjoining wood-floored kitchen. Even there, the piles of video tapes and idol magazines intruded.
From the freezer of a mini fridge next to his sink, he retrieved a blackened object bundled in cling wrap. He placed it on the countertop with a thunk. For a moment, he studied the bundle, then left it on the counter and returned to his room, muttering, “Probably best to let it thaw naturally.”
Seated at his desk, he resumed gazing at the front jacket of “Innocence Forever!” From the cover, Mima looked back at him, her hair short, her eyes big and round, her clothing cute and frilly. Her smile was as innocent as a baby’s.
As he looked at the picture, his eyes began to water.
I have to protect this smile, he thought. That’s why I need to act.
He bit down on his lip.
The wrapped object gradually softened and turned spongier, and an unpleasant smell began to permeate the kitchen. The grinning man peeled apart the plastic wrap, thinking, I figured it might stink a bit. When the wrap opened, the stench immediately intensified.
The object within appeared to be a thin strip of flesh. The top side was yellowish, the underside an unnatural black.
I shouldn’t have waited so long before attempting my experiment, he thought, but it was too late to change anything. He grasped the fetid thing between his fingers and placed it on a bath towel. Grim determination replaced his smile.
He held the knife in his right hand and pressed the blade’s tip into his forearm.
He ran the blade up his arm. Red streaks of blood coursed across his skin.
The man grunted. Sharp jolts of pain tore through his brain.
But this was for Kirigoe Mima. For her, he bore the pain. The knife did not relent. When it had nearly reached the crook of his elbow, he pulled away the edge. But he adjusted his grip and cut again—first across his arm, then back down toward his wrist.
By the end, he’d made the bloody outline of a perfect rectangle.
The man slid the knife beneath the wound. He began to separate his skin from the layer of fatty tissue beneath. Sticky globs of blood oozed out from the open cut. The pain began to dull; heat surged through the whole of his arm.
A distant part of him thought that, at least where the cutting was concerned, the sensation felt similar to peeling the skin from a raw piece of chicken. As he severed the connections between skin and meat, his flesh began to lift away.
Occasional jolts of intense pain tore through his body. He wondered if that signified nerve damage.
In his mind he repeated, This is for Mima, this is for Mima, like an incantation.
At the end of this minutes-long struggle, he finally peeled off the patch of skin.
Patchy spurts of blood leaked from white fat and red flesh, both equally exposed. Droplets fell from his arm, absorbed into the towel, but less blood came out than the man had expected.
He took the thawed-out, putrid scrap of flesh and pressed it onto the flayed-open wound upon his arm. It felt unpleasantly slippery to the touch, but that sensation was immediately dwarfed by biting, stinging pain. He wrapped a white cloth around his arm, the better to keep the thawed flesh from separating from his own.
V
Blushing, Rumi came back to Mima’s green room.
“How was it?” Mima asked. Standing in front of a full-length floor mirror, the idol applied her makeup.
“Well, it’s a tough song,” Rumi said. “That part in the chorus, where the line goes ‘Oh, run away with me,’ has a tricky interval. If you’re not careful, it’ll want to go flat.”
Not pausing the makeup, Mima replied, “You’re right. I’ll have to be careful there.”
Mima always left the soundchecks to Rumi, since the pair had almost the same vocal range and ability to project.
This was the first time Mima would perform her new single, “Sexy Valley.” Mima didn’t typically fret this much over a soundcheck, but she was especially nervous today, as was Rumi.
“It’s got a catchy beat, though,” Rumi added. “It just makes you want to dance.” She started humming the rhythm. Mima moved her arms to the music and gradually her anxiety melted away.
“Thank you,” the idol said. “I feel a lot better now. I’m going to nail this song today. I can feel it.”
Standing half hidden behind an open door in the corner of the TV studio sound stage, Mima waited for her cue.
Whenever she was on standby, she liked to wait wherever she was unlikely to be seen. Her poor eyesight—probably worse than 20/200 in both eyes—meant that she didn’t always recognize people she knew, even if they walked right past her. That was all the more true in the typically dim light backstage. She preferred to minimize the risk of awkward situations before a performance.
Music Town was about to start. The show, a live broadcast, permitted no mistakes—especially when Mima’s performance topped the episode. Live performances were hardly new to the singer—yet her heart raced, and her body felt numb. You’ve got this, she told herself.
Then an intense feeling of being watched overcame her. Reflexively, she looked over her shoulder.
It was Ochiai Eri, wearing an outrageously gaudy costume. Feathers crowned her head like a cockscomb. Even larger feathers extended from her back and a tight-fitting lamé mini dress completed the cabaret dancer look. She resembled a peacock, but on Ochiai Eri the lewd ensemble completely worked.
The idols’ eyes met.
Eri scoffed and turned her head away, then spoke just loud enough to be heard. “Just how old is she supposed to be, anyway? First she put on that innocent act, and now she’s in that smutty getup? I hope I never age. Apparently when a woman gets too old she can’t pull off innocent or sleazy.”
Mima locked eyes with her rival and grinned, as if to say, Is that all you got?
For a moment, Eri’s bravado wilted, but she quickly recovered. Under her breath, the rival singer muttered, “Just you wait.”
VI
Tadokoro sat on the couch in Mima’s apartment, drinking a glass of wine.
He expected Mima and Rumi to arrive soon. Music Town finished at around 8:50. From the K-TV studio, Mima’s apartment was about thirty minutes by taxi. Tadokoro glanced at the clock on a table in the corner of the room. It read a quarter past nine.
Wine glass in hand, Tadokoro got up and walked to the window. He opened the curtains and looked outside. He’d been repeating this process about once every ten minutes, not because he was nervous about when Mima would return, but because he was watching the apartment’s front entrance for any lurking strangers. He’d been paying particular attention to the bushes beside the entrance.
The manager had remained stationed in Mima’s apartment since a little after seven in the evening, and no such stranger had come loitering. The second anyone even the slightest bit suspicious showed up, Tadokoro was prepared to run out and capture him.
Just as he was about to close the curtains, a slash of light fell upon the bushes, likely from the headlights of a passing car. Moments later, a midsize taxi came around the front and stopped beside the entryway. Mima and Rumi stepped out.
Tadokoro closed the curtain and sank into the sofa to await them. A short three minutes later, he heard their voices outside the door, followed by the sound of the key sliding into the lock. The door opened, and Mima and Rumi rushed in, their expressions elated.
“I’m home!” Mima said in as cheerful a voice as he’d ever heard.
Tadokoro met her and put his arm around her shoulder. “You did great, Mima! Absolutely fabulous!”
With a ticklish scrunching of her shoulders, the singer made a victory sign with her fingers and said, “It was great, wasn’t it? I’ve never performed a song so satisfying as that one.”
“And that was one sexy costume,” Tadokoro said. “It even got my heart beating a little faster.”
Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis Page 5