by Susan Barker
Sweat humidifies the confines of his expensive suit as he looks out of the window, rifling mechanically through the records. I have seen him before. He came to The Sayonara Bar with his boss only last week. A yakuza henchman, he has killed eighteen men and has many aliases, the most up to date of which is Red Cobra.
I hack into his optic nerve and dry-heave when I see the object of his feverish attentions: Katya. To be fair, his mental reconfiguration has elevated her onto a higher aesthetic plane; her drab complexion now has a milky opalescence, and her lank hair whispers to him, lush and inviting. His throat tightens with unspoken desire as she sips her espresso.
As the sun sinks over the tawdry retail outlets of the township, Mary and Katya leave Mister Donut’s. Red Cobra moves away from the window of the record shop. He and his beloved Katya will have to part company here. His disfigurement renders him too eyecatching to pursue her further. The girls head towards the train station.
The commuter crowds are thinning out. I sneak out from behind the recycling bins as Mary and Katya buy tickets and proceed to the turnstiles. I watch as their bone marrow regenerates and lymphocytes spurt through lymphatic vessels. I access their thoughts and learn that Mary wants to doze on the train and Katya is trying to remember something. The lost memory headbutts the walls of her subconscious, bumping closer and closer to her mental foreground, until she spins 180 degrees and shrieks: ‘I left my shopping at Mister Donut’s!’
I freeze. The eye is drawn towards moving objects.
‘Wait there!’ she orders Mary. ‘I will be one second.’
My heart standing still, I slink back to the recycling bins.
Mary watches Katya dash to the exit, shaking her head at what a pain she is. She smiles as a small boy with a large kendo stick marches past, touched by how cute and serious he looks. And then: ‘Watanabe?’
The concrete floor and postered walls spin away. An abyss opens up, at the centre of which is Mary. She moves towards me with a quizzical smile.
‘Hello, Watanabe! What are you doing here?’
I am here as your guardian, to protect you and guide you towards liberation . . .
‘Are you OK?’ she asks, her smile dissolving.
I lower the rim of my baseball hat, to shield her from the white heat of my mortification. I want to tell her that I am fine, that her concern should be saved for the rest of humanity. But not a word comes out.
12
MR SATO
I
The doorbell rang at quarter past ten this morning. That’ll be Mrs Tanaka, I thought. Ever since Mrs Tanaka caught me returning home at dawn after my night in the bamboo forest, she has kept me under keen surveillance. In the evening time she often brings me wholesome dishes of beef and vegetable stew, convinced as she is that deficient nutrition had a role to play in my aberrant behaviour. I have told Mrs Tanaka that I am perfectly capable of cooking for myself. But she laughed at this and told me my ‘namby-pamby’ diet of rice and miso would never put any meat on my bones.
So I opened the front door, expecting to see Mrs Tanaka bearing a steaming casserole dish in those enormous red oven mitts of hers. But instead there stood a curious gentleman of about my age. He wore a moth-eaten corduroy suit and his bald head glistened in the sunshine, as though it had been lovingly massaged with glycerine before he’d left the house that morning. (Though I mustn’t joke: my hairless head could be just as shiny for all I know!) The man also had a tremendous handlebar moustache, which at first glance I mistook for some comic disguise.
‘May I help you?’ I asked.
He was quite down-at-heel, so I expected that he had come to offer his window-cleaning services or suchlike.
‘Mr Sato?’ said the man. ‘We spoke on the phone Thursday night. I’m Mr Onishi, head of the music department at Tsuita High School. I have come to collect the cello you have so generously donated. On behalf of the staff and students of Tsuita High, I thank you, Mr Sato.’ Mr Onishi beamed and bowed twice in rapid succession.
The arrangements we had made flooded back to me: ten o’clock, Saturday morning. How had the appointment slipped my mind? I smiled and bowed, flustered by my short-term-memory loss.
‘Thanks to you, Mr Sato, we are now able to offer cello lessons to our more underprivileged students. In expression of our gratitude we would like to invite you to be guest of honour at the Tsuita High School brassband concert next Wednesday.’
Mr Onishi gave another speedy, whiplash of a bow, before smiling in expectation of a verbal contribution from me. It would have been polite at that point to invite the music teacher inside for a cup of jasmine tea, before showing him up to the cello. But I had begun to feel very strange. A clammy sweat had broken out beneath my shirt and cardigan, and I completely lacked the wherewithal to move.
At the delay, Mr Onishi’s snaggle-tooth smile began to languish. ‘I do not wish to intrude or be a nuisance,’ he said. ‘If you prefer I could return at a more convenient time . . .’
His walrusy moustache twitched as he spoke. As I have never cultivated such a moustache myself I wondered if such a thing would be an impediment at mealtimes. Would one require a special comb to remove the crumbs buried in its bristles? Mr Onishi shifted uncomfortably. To be honest, I have no idea why I said what I said next. Even hours later my incivility induces a hot flush of shame.
I cleared my throat. ‘Mr Onishi,’ I said, ‘I am afraid that I have already given the cello away. My memory has been very unreliable of late, and I completely forgot. I can only apologize for wasting your time.’
The ease and conviction with which I lied took me aback. Where had this confidence sprung from? Obviously some devious quarter of my mind, which ought to be suppressed.
Confronted with this bad news, Mr Onishi was the height of graciousness. ‘Ah, well, not to worry,’ he said. ‘We all make mistakes. As long as you’ve found the cello a good home.’
He glanced at his watch and said he had to get back to supervise brass-band practice. He told me that I was still more than welcome to attend the concert on Wednesday, that my name was down on the guest list. Then he bid me good day and set off back to school. Though Mr Onishi’s corduroy suit was moth-eaten, and his moustache straggly and unkempt, I knew which one of us was the lesser man.
After he had gone I went up to the spare room and stood before the cello. There was a fine sprinkling of dust on the scroll and tuning pegs, so I removed a handkerchief from my trouser pocket and set about wiping it away. Is it true that we are all guilty of the good we haven’t done? If so, then I am doubly guilty, for I drove the opportunity to do good right from my doorstep. What had possessed me to lie like this? Lies that deprive a high-school student of the chance to learn a musical instrument, no less. And the thing that upsets me the most is that to pass on the gift of music is what you would have most wanted.
I promise you I will take the cello to Tsuita High School next week, the first chance I get. I will leave it in the school reception with a note for Mr Onishi. It simply will not do to leave it idling in the spare room. It will not do at all.
II
The Public Accounts office has been lamentably short of staff for three weeks now. The endless reams of paperwork have left us all as snow-blind as Arctic explorers. Matsuyama-san says he has an enchanted in-tray: whenever he thinks he has cleared it, the tray magically refills itself. We all had a good laugh at this. But joking aside, the continued absence of Assistant Section Chief Takahara-san is of growing concern to all of us. Mid-morning I went to the office of Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor Murakami to discuss the appropriate course of action.
Murakami-san invited me to sit in his upholstered wingback chair and, via intercom, requested his secretary bring us a pot of coffee. Murakami-san sat at his mahogany desk. It was a morning of clear blue skies, and behind his broad shoulders metal skyscrapers ricocheted the glare of the sun.
As I voiced my concerns, Murakami-san gave deep thought to all I said; he closed his eyes and positio
ned his hands beneath his chin in contemplative prayer. A moment or two after I had finished saying my piece his eyes flickered open again.
‘Takahara-san is most fortunate to have a colleague as considerate as yourself, Sato-san,’ he said. ‘But have you considered the possibility that our friend Takahara has absconded? His position is very stressful and Hawaii offers many distractions for the lonely businessman . . .’ Murakami-san smiled to himself, perhaps at some private memory. ‘Perhaps, rather than report him as missing, we should wait a week. He will surely contact us. Though I must say his future job prospects at Daiwa Trading are shaky.’
Well! Can you believe it? How could the Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor be so light-minded about a matter as serious as a missing man? He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and smiled through the steam rising from the cup. His eyes were dewy and pink, and, to be frank, could have done with some eye ointment. Though the coffee was freshly brewed and scalding, Murakami-san took a lengthy draught. When he placed the cup back in the saucer I saw that half the coffee was gone.
‘With respect, Murakami-san, though I have only known Assistant Section Chief Takahara for eight months, he has impressed me greatly with his upstanding character. He would not run off without a word,’ I said. ‘We of the Public Accounts office would like the peace of mind of knowing he is safe and well.’ Murakami-san leant back in his leather chair. ‘Very well, Mr Sato,’ he said. ‘I will contact the police myself this afternoon. Perhaps they will be able to organize something with the police in Honolulu . . . And for the time being I will find you a replacement for Mr Takahara.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, pleased Murakami-san had come round to my way of thinking.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for an afternoon board meeting.’
I bowed and apologized for the intrusion. And, smiling, Murakami-san escorted me to the door.
Upon my return to the Finance Department I announced to the office that Murakami-san was to procure a replacement for Takahara-san. The news drew sighs of relief all round, and Taro, the graduate trainee, stood up and did a banzai victory dance. What difference it made to Taro I do not know. While the staff shortage has had the rest of us running about like headless chickens, Taro has continued in his work-shy ways. Really, the stench coming off the boy this morning could have knocked you out at twenty paces. One has to suspect he’d spent the previous night doggy-paddling about a vat of whisky, before bedding down in a giant ashtray. In the interests of public health and safety I lent the boy a flannel and a clean shirt from my locker, and sent him to the washroom, telling him not to return until he’d given himself a thorough seeing-to with the carbolic soap. We had a visitor from the Mitsubishi plant coming in at noon, and it simply would not do to have the place reeking like a brewery.
As Taro shilly-shallied about his daily assignments, I overheard him telling Miss Hatta that he had been out the night before with Murakami-san. It sounds like Taro is Murakami-san’s latest protégé, to be tutored in the ways of late-night carousing. Murakami-san should know better than to take our graduate trainee out on drunken escapades at a time our office can ill afford it.
Though my work was nowhere near completion I was out of the office by eight o’clock tonight. This dereliction of duty is not my idea, but Dr Ikeda’s. In my last session he instructed me to restrict my working day to eight hours. When I began to explain to Dr Ikeda what a crucial time of year it is for Daiwa Trading, he cut me short, saying that I had to reduce my daily workload to overcome my work addiction and rediscover the things of value in my life. This made me very cross. ‘Addiction is not a word to take lightly,’ I said. What right has he to lump me in with the alcoholics and nefarious marijuana addicts who roam the back streets of the entertainment districts? In light of Dr Ikeda’s ignorance, ten hours a day is a more than reasonable compromise.
Perhaps Dr Ikeda made this personal slight out of professional bitterness. I had my second hypnotherapy session with him yesterday, and once more he was unable to ‘send me under’. He says I have the most resistant mind he has ever encountered in a subject. Though he said this in complaint, I fancied I could detect a hint of awe in his voice. When I think how many thousands of patients must have passed through his musty, book-lined study over the years, I cannot help but feel secretly flattered.
That night in the bamboo forest I promised myself I would seek help. But, really, what is a man to do when his tremendous resilience of mind stymies even the doctor’s efforts?
III
It is 4 a.m. and another strange day has bled into an insomniac night. I have been sitting up for hours now, summoning the courage to talk to you. My tired eyes burn through the darkness, watching the shadow puppets of my imagination dance upon the walls. I have exhausted my brain playing the incident over, reading a hundred and one meanings into her every word.
All that remains is for me to lay it down, for you to judge.
True to his word, Murakami-san sent along a replacement for Assistant Section Chief Takahara. Miss Yamamoto reported to me at eight o’clock sharp. She has a boyish haircut and sprightly laugh, and took to the job with verve and panache. For once, I was delighted with Murakami-san’s choice. Miss Yamamoto is like oil to the rusty Finance Department machinery. She has a serious, intelligent approach to the work, but also an easy levity. She brought two badminton rackets into work with her, and at lunch-time invited Taro for a game in the office car park. Eating my instant noodles, I watched them from the window as, laughing, they batted the shuttlecock to and fro. Taro huffed and puffed and panted mightily. The boy seems quite smitten.
After lunch Murakami-san stopped by to check on Miss Yamamoto, and to let me know that he has informed the Kansai police of Takahara-san’s disappearance. All we can do now is sit tight until they contact us with their findings.
It was a day of satisfactory progress, so I did not mind when everyone began to bow out after the five o’clock company chime. The first to go was Taro, who bounded to the door like a dog who’s been cooped up indoors all day and is desperate to relieve itself in the yard. Then Matsuyama-san had to go home and look after his children while his wife taught her Tuesday evening pottery class. Miss Hatta went at six, giggling into her mobile phone to a girlfriend, and our new recruit, Miss Yamamoto, left half an hour later, with an armload of files she intended to work on at home. Such conscientiousness! I wonder if it is possible to keep her on as a replacement for Taro when Takahara-san returns.
By eight o’clock all was quiet in the Daiwa Trading building. The footsteps echoing on the stairwell and the voices calling, ‘Thank you for your hard work,’ became scarcer and scarcer, before vanishing altogether. Even the cleaners had ceased sloshing their mops along the corridor and gone home. Soon I was all alone, with only the dormant hum of the office computer for company.
I took advantage of the peace and quiet to get ahead with the accounts ledger. I grew peckish at some stage and considered purchasing a snack from the vending machine down the hall. But once embroiled in a project I find it a wrench to leave my desk. After a little more work I realized that I was in gross violation of the ten-hour compromise I had made with Dr Ikeda. This made me feel rather rebellious! It also gave me a peculiar satisfaction to think of my office as a solitary pocket of light in a building of darkness.
I was poring over the accounts ledger, my nose a finger’s breadth from the page, when I heard the cough. The cough was crisp and feminine in timbre, and orchestrated to draw my attention. Startled, because there had been no footsteps to alert me to an intruder, my gaze flew to the door.
First glance, and my heart seized up. I mouthed your name as you stood there, holding a box wrapped in a gingham handkerchief.
‘Mr Sato?’ you said, and the illusion shattered. It wasn’t you at all, but Mariko, the hostess.
I sprang up from my seat like a jack-in-the-box.
‘Mr Sato, I—’
‘What are you doing here?’ My voice quivered with
rage.
Mariko took a step back as I shakily inhaled. I was furious at Mariko because I had mistaken her for you. This was in no way a manipulation on Mariko’s part, yet I reacted as though it were.
Mariko lowered her head. ‘I am very sorry to have alarmed you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should leave.’
But she made no sign of departing. Her act of visiting unannounced was brazen to say the least. I recalled the telephone call she had made the other week, and was disturbed once more by her last words to me – words that filtered from the perforations in the telephone receiver, to fill me with unease.
Mariko wore a yellow sweater with a pale-blue skirt of accordion pleats. She held the gingham box with both hands, and slightly outwards, as though it contained a substance that might stain her clothes. Her hair was in a ponytail and on her feet were those red buckle shoes. How could this child, so innocuous of appearance, arouse such anger?
‘What are you doing here?’ My voice did not quiver this time. It hissed.
‘I made a bento for you this afternoon. I wanted to give it to you before my shift at the hostess bar tonight. I came at five and sat on a bench in the park opposite this building and waited and waited for you to come out. By seven o’clock you still hadn’t appeared. I was already late for work by then, but I just kept thinking: Five more minutes and he’ll come out; five more minutes.’
‘Why did you make me a bento?’ I asked in disbelief.
‘Because I woke this morning and felt like it.’ Mariko stated this as simple fact, as if I had asked why the sky was blue. She held out the gingham box further with both hands. ‘It’s salmon and rice with pickled plum . . .’