I didn’t care who did it, as long as someone put an end to this story filled with despair as soon as possible…
Just then, Kotobuki slipped past me and walked toward Mr. Mariya.
Kotobuki held the bouquet of blue roses that had fallen to the floor resolutely in her arms.
Her eyebrows arched, she bit down on her lip, and swung the bouquet up over her head with an angry look on her face, and then struck Mr. Mariya squarely in the face.
Petals as blue as the ocean fluttered away, and the bouquet fell to the floor with a thump.
In its wake appeared the dazed, wide-eyed face of Mr. Mariya, a petal still stuck to his cheek.
Kotobuki balled both her hands into fists, planted her feet, and shook.
The corners of her eyes were filled with tears as she glared at Mr. Mariya, and her expression quickly faltered, overflowing with sadness alongside her tears.
Surprise dawned on Mr. Mariya’s face.
“Y-Yuka cared about you…a lot. These roses are the flowers you chose for her birthday…and she said that’s why she fell for you. She took pictures and texted them to me. Telling me they were roses her boyfriend had sent. She sent me tons…Didn’t you care about her?!”
It wasn’t hatred or anger or even a curse, it was the pure-hearted cry of someone who cared about her best friend.
Maybe she reminded Mr. Mariya that the blue roses were memories of happier times.
That hatred hadn’t been the only thing he had felt for Mito, that there had been love before that.
Sadness slowly rose into Mr. Mariya’s face.
The moment that the Phantom, who in his sorrow had tried to kill Raoul, saw that Christine was spilling tears for his sake, he was healed and, for the first time in his life, fulfilled.
The diva was supported by a selfless love, and her tears flowed also beneath the cold mask and mingled with the tears in the Phantom’s eyes to shake the soul of the man who had been such a terrifying monster.
Poor, unhappy Erik.
The words of the diva saved that one wretched man who had no name but Phantom.
In the same way, Kotobuki’s tears may have touched the gentleness inside Mr. Mariya.
He crumpled slowly to the floor.
A silver ring rolled across the floor…cling.
Mr. Mariya caught his breath and stared at it.
The masked boy whispered in a detached, low voice that seemed to be fighting back emotion, “Yuka clung to that till the very end. She never let go of it…”
His fingertips trembling, Mr. Mariya picked the ring up.
Then from the pocket of his suit, he took out another—a second ring of the same design.
Mito had written ecstatically in a message about how they had exchanged matching rings on Christmas Eve.
How they had promised to always keep them on, but he got teased when he wore it at school and so he took it off his finger and hid it.
How before a date, he would quickly pull it out and slip it on his finger.
How much she liked hiding and watching him do that.
“And then when he’s sad, he squeezes my hand tight to get through it.”
“When I touch his hand and he loosens his grip just a little…I feel so sublime and indulgent, and I think, Wow, I love him so much.”
Mr. Mariya looked at the two rings that lay in his palm with a frail gaze that threatened tears at any moment.
Then he squeezed them firmly in both hands.
He hung his head and wept. There was no one left now who would gently loosen his grip.
Mr. Mariya had finally realized what it was he’d lost.
The petals of the blue roses that signified the blessings of God were scattered all around him.
There could be no forgiveness for what he’d done.
Nor could he take back the words he’d spoken.
But seeing Mr. Mariya, his shoulders shaking, tears continuing to pour down his face, I could feel the dark lump in my chest quietly melting away.
Tohko and Shoko both had sad expressions on their faces as well.
As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, Kotobuki sobbed and whined like a puppy.
I was still wondering if I had any right to do the same, feeling as if my heart would tear open—but even so, I reached out and embraced Kotobuki.
We didn’t notice when the angel disappeared.
I’m sorry I made you cry so much, Nanase.
And that it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be able to keep my promise about Christmas…
I’m pretty sure this will be the last message I send you.
You used to say that all you ever did was let me help you, but that’s not true.
You were always giving me reasons to be happy actually.
You were always an awkward, straight-talking girl who never told a lie. The girls in class always pushed you into the role of telling boys what they’d done wrong, and you always got the short end of the stick, but I really loved that about you.
Back then, you hated boys and you said boys hated you, but I was sure that eventually there would be a boy who would understand what was so wonderful about you.
So the winter of our second year in middle school, when you came to me all embarrassed, your face bright red, and you told me, “Teach me how to pluck my eyebrows,” I was as happy for you as I would have been for myself.
Because you wanted to be more girlie for the guy you liked, and because I could help you be pretty.
You were always totally devoted to being in love. It was really fun encouraging you while you were happy or sad or confused or soul-searching about Inoue.
I always thought you were so cute. You’re cute, Nanase. You’re really cute, the cutest girl in the whole world.
I always hoped that your feelings would come across to Inoue soon.
I always talked about how I wanted to go on a double date with my boyfriend, you, and Inoue, remember? Whenever I did, you would blush. It was so cute. It’s too bad our four-person date never became a reality, but I still believe and pray that your love will come true.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t give Yuka back to you. But Yuka feels peaceful and happy now, and she’s singing tons of songs that she loves, so don’t worry about her.
I’ll consider you my best friend forever, Nanase.
I’ll hope for your happiness with all of my heart.
If you’re ever sad, remember the magic spell I sent you.
You’re cute, Nanase. Really cute. The cutest girl in the whoooole world.
Chapter 8—I’ll Go, Then.
It was Monday, the start of the week. A little after closing time, I paid a visit to the library with Tohko.
The room was dyed in the desolate darkness of sunset.
The counter was empty, and there was no sign of anyone in the reading area, either. If I listened carefully, I could faintly hear the clack-clack of someone typing on a keyboard.
We tried heading for the computer corner on one side of the room.
There we found Omi, his cheek awash in the light of the setting sun, typing with ease.
His glasses were shining, and I couldn’t really read his expression.
“Omi…,” I called out softly. His hands paused over the keys, and he looked at me.
His face was very still and calm. It looked like he’d guessed that we would come see him.
“Where’s Mito? You know, don’t you?”
“Hold on for three minutes,” Omi murmured in a low voice, and he started typing again.
At last, he pressed the enter key; then he shut off the computer, stood up, and took off his glasses.
“It’s a little far. Do you mind?”
When we got off the train, I sent a text. We walked a long way from there, then arrived at an old factory standing in an abandoned field. Without turning around, Omi explained in a detached voice that the factory was locked up now and wasn’t used anymore. I sent another text at that point.
Th
e area was thick with weeds, but there was also a single Christmas tree as tall as we were, shining in the light of the moon.
“Where are you?!”
“Inside a Christmas tree. That’s my home.”
I remembered the conversation we’d had on the phone, and a creaking desolation spread through my heart.
When Omi came to a stop in front of the tree, he knelt down on the grass and flipped the switch on the power supply that had been tossed aside there with a click. The next moment, the stars, churches, and angel wings decorating the tree glimmered brightly.
“Mito is sleeping…under here,” Tohko murmured, her voice tinged with sadness.
His head still bent, Omi answered in a croaking voice, “Yuka loved Christmas trees. She was so excited when I brought a tree here. Yuka put up all of these decorations.”
Mito had always said that she wanted to live in a Christmas tree, and in the end, I suppose Omi had granted her wish.
As he related the story with some detachment, his voice was different from the low, muffled voice he had at school or the overpowering high notes I’d heard in the music hall or the noble girl’s voice from when we had talked on the phone; it was a strange, androgynous voice, nearly a woman’s alto.
Just how many voices did he have?
The night before, I’d used my family’s computer to look up the young man who had long ago been called an “angel” in Paris.
The young Asian man whose age, birthplace, professional background, and everything else were swathed in mystery had, some years earlier, been scouted while singing with a church’s choir, and he became instantly popular.
Everyone lauded and idolized him as an angel who delivered people to the heavenly paradise and for the hymns he could perform in his shining voice that burst with a holy sound.
Even after his voice changed, audiences were simply astounded at the high clarity of his voice, and there were even those who suggested that the angel was probably a woman in men’s clothing.
The sexless angel—
Eventually, that’s what people started to call him.
The one Maki had been telling me about wasn’t Mr. Mariya; it was Omi. I was sure she’d deliberately said it in a confusing way. Maki had said that occasionally the art world gave rise to unprecedented monsters. The angel had certainly been that.
Those who are men but nevertheless naturally possess a woman’s register in their singing are called sopranists; male singers who produce a woman’s register using a falsetto are called countertenors; and male singers who undergo castration in order to preserve the soprano of youth are called castrati.
There was no way to know which of these the angel was.
But he had given voice to a song of miracle before us all and had even pulled off an imitation of Mito’s voice.
Afterward, Kotobuki had said that if she listened closely, she could tell it was different from Mito’s voice.
She thought he had been adept at grasping the speed of her speech and miniscule habits and that with the mood of the place he had made her believe that Mito herself was talking.
I was convinced the many high voices I’d heard in the alley must have been a trick of his.
After a year of glorious activity, his concerts led to suicides and the angel abruptly disappeared from public view.
The angel’s songs were songs of destruction that led people to their deaths—as that negative reputation spread, the angel’s name was corrupted.
There were a great many people who wanted to hear his singing even so, but the angel never ventured to the stage. There were also people who said he really had been a girl after all, people who said he’d been kidnapped by a crazed fan, and people who said that puberty had stolen his clear voice.
Even now, years later, the truth hadn’t come to light.
Standing in front of us now, looking at the Christmas tree with a friendless gaze, he was unrecognizable as the ordinary first-year high school boy who hid his face behind glasses, exuding an aura of illusion.
I wondered how old he really was…His bowed head was unusually handsome in profile, and he looked like he could be a boy or a girl, an adult or a child.
A creature who had surpassed time, sexless and pure—yes, exactly like an angel…
“I always had lessons with Yuka here,” Omi told us, his voice hard, severe, and restrained. “I had no intention of getting involved at first…”
He gave a soft tsk, as if he was annoyed at himself.
The night they met, one of the heels had broken off Yuka’s sandals and her clothes were ripped. Her right cheek was red and swollen, but through her tears she was singing.
Apparently she’d gotten a bad customer and been thrown out of his car.
She was singing a bright, happy song to keep herself from being swallowed up by sadness. And though she couldn’t hold it back completely and her voice hitched and she wiped away the tears that spilled down her cheek again and again with the back of her hand, she continued to sing. At first, Omi watched this girl from hiding. But since her singing never stopped, he couldn’t help calling out to her.
“You shouldn’t sing like that. You’ll ruin your voice.”
The summertime, thick with the scent of grass.
He said that catching sight of him, appearing so suddenly, illuminated by the moonlight, had filled Mito’s face with a terrible shock.
She had listened raptly, her eyes wide, when he picked up the song she’d dropped.
Then she had started singing, joining her voice to his.
Their duet went on for quite a while, Omi giving her brief, sporadic words of advice. Mito’s voice gradually improved, as if pulled along in his wake, and a shining smile spread across her whole face.
He’d enjoyed himself, too.
He had closed off the option of singing in front of people, and it had been such a long time since he’d sung alongside the voice of another. His voice overlapping with someone else’s and melting into one was enjoyable and made him happy, and he’d been in the mood to sing forever.
When morning came, he prepared clothes for Mito and then left without telling her his name or making any promises.
He had no intentions of interacting with anyone and he didn’t want to have any expectations whatsoever.
Still Mito came to him the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and asked to take lessons from him.
When he wouldn’t tell her his name, she laughed and said, “Then I’ll just call you my angel, and it’ll be fine. Like the Angel of Music in Phantom of the Opera. If you don’t like that, you have to tell me your name.”
Since he remained stubborn and wouldn’t give his name, angel became his name.
Even though it should have been torture for her to call him that, when Mito called him “angel” with her clear voice, he felt good.
Mito wore him down and took instruction from him, and her voice changed with each passing day. Rather than improving in terms of technique, perhaps the fact that her spirit was liberated had a greater effect.
When she was singing, Mito always seemed to be energetic and to be enjoying herself.
Mito told him about a lot of things.
About her best friend Kotobuki, about her lover Mr. Mariya, about what books she liked, about her dreams for the future—and not just fun things but also painful things. She revealed everything to him. “Maybe I’ve lost my way like Camellia. Maybe I’ll lose everything someday, like Violetta,” she whispered morosely. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. Debt collectors came to our house every day, and my dad can’t be at his company anymore, and we wanted my little brother to go to high school. I can only do what I can…So yeah, there’s nothing I can do about it. Right now I’m happy just being able to sing,” she said and laughed.
“It hurts me to lie to Keiichi and Nanase, but I still want to believe that in the light of day, I’m the way I used to be, that nothing has changed, that what happens at night is all a bad d
ream and the me when I’m awake is the real one.”
When she said that, her face suddenly turned sad. “But lately,” she murmured, “there have been times I think the way I am at night is the real me and the way I am in the daytime might be the illusion.”
“I’m a human being who gave up singing, but…Yuka truly loved songs. She was a great girl and talented, so I didn’t want her to live like I had, concealed in the shadows, living in hiding from people. I wanted her to succeed somewhere the sun shone.”
Staring at the faint lights burning on the Christmas tree, quietly relating his memories of being with Mito, Omi’s face and voice were both colored by the sorrow and the solitude of a person who had lost something important to him.
Omi had been alone for a long time, so in his mind, Mito might have been someone who brought him light and warmth.
Like a single tiny Christmas tree glinting in the darkness.
Mito had been Omi’s hopes, hadn’t she?
What had the time they’d spent together here been like? What had they talked about? When I thought about that, my heart trembled uncontrollably, my throat and eyelids grew hot and burned painfully.
Tohko was probably having the same thoughts as me. Her eyes glistened with tears, and her lips were pursed sadly.
The event that had triggered Mito’s weirdly intense obsession with songs had been learning of the deaths of her family. In order to try and forget the grievous cruelty of reality, Mito sang, and at the same time, she began to fiercely pursue success.
She threatened the assistant director Tsutsumi, seized the lead role in the recital, and spent night and day rehearsing. In playing Turandot, who attempts to avenge an ancestral princess, Mito seemed to be crying out against the world that had dealt her such suffering. It had made Omi uneasy.
Book Girl and the Corrupted Angel Page 16