The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories

by Kyotaro Nishimura

  “Well it’s going too far.” She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at the stream of blood on his arm. The fulfilment of a moment ago, when I had touched her lips and felt she was at last mine, had been swept away without trace. So it had been nothing more than a momentary illusion after all.

  Was that really all it was?

  I looked for the spot of blood on her breast. That vivid red spot of blood was the proof that in that moment she and I had been one. It had been a reality, not a dream.

  It was still there, but it had already dried up, and had lost the beauty of that moment. Instead, blood from his arm was staining her breast and dress.

  “Get me a bandage, would you?” she said, as if she was ordering me. I bit my lip and ran out of the room. Get a bandage for him? You must be joking!

  I fled to the twilight beach.

  The sky was dark, and the sea surging. The breeze, too, was cold. The empty beach reflected in my eyes was as bleak as a desert.

  Subconsciously I was searching for the little blonde girl, her hair glinting in the rays of the setting sun, her cute pouting mouth, and her small hands. I wanted to see her again. It would be enough just to see her. If I could just see her cute figure and serious eyes, perhaps I could get some respite from this crushing sense of despair.

  I carried on walking along the beach.

  The rain started with a thunderous roar, like a horse abruptly taking the bit and bolting.

  Sheaves of raindrops beat against my face, my shoulders.

  The surroundings grew darker and the headland and the villa were only dimly visible in the rain. The beach looked like an ink painting. I walked slowly along, still hoping for a glimpse of the little blonde girl. I knew she could not be out in this downpour. I knew that, but I still searched for her. What I wanted now was probably not the child herself, but rather the fantasy of seeing her. Of course, this was nonsense. I know that. But I believed then that I would not mind even just the fantasy.

  The rain persisted. I carried on walking. I did not find the little blonde girl.

  Little by little I grew tired, and the distinction between reality and illusion became hazy. I was losing my grip.

  I was just seventeen, so why was reality so indistinct? Was it because I was still young? Or was it equally vague and unreliable for everybody? I would never find that little blonde girl I had seen yesterday playing with the crab, who had shouted fiercely, “My crab!” My blood had stained her breast a vivid red, but in the next moment it had become just one small dirty stain. Everything was hazy. Had I really beaten up a young man on the headland? I could no longer be confident of anything. The pain in my hand from having hit him had already gone. Plus I would never see those guys or their car on the headland again. There was no proof that the fight had ever happened, and I could no longer vouch that it had.

  I was even beginning to think that dreams were more certain than reality. In my dream, I had shot her naked body. That dream would never change or fade. Every time I recalled it, her naked body would fall with bright red blood flowing from her white breast. That was certain.

  It was still raining.

  I was exhausted.

  That night the wind raged. The TV and radio announced that the tropical storm off the coast of Kanto had strengthened and been upgraded to a typhoon.

  Upstairs in my room, I pressed my face up to the window and stared out at the stormy night sea. Every now and then a heavy squall of rain spattered against the glass and passed by.

  The sea was baring its white fangs. Its gentle face of indolence at the height of summer had gone. It had transformed. The sea tonight was violent and aggressive. This morning it betrayed me, defeated me. And now it was howling, as if challenging me.

  Of a mind to accept the sea’s challenge, I went out onto the balcony. I wanted to feel my body exposed to the wind and rain.

  I was soon drenched to the skin. The rain was driving against me in large drops that hurt. The wind tried to sweep me off my feet. I braced myself, planting my feet firmly, and glared at the sea with my eyes wide open.

  The wind and rain raged furiously, but then abruptly dropped. I continued to glare at the dark, boundlessly dark sea. In that blackness, I tried to recall everything that had happened to me since yesterday. I hoped that the roughness of the sea would expunge anything not worth remembering from my consciousness.

  What on earth had I done these past two days? What had happened? I made an effort to remember. She was reading under the parasol. I swam. He arrived in his bright red sports car. I almost drowned. There was a young blonde girl. In my hands, a small crab was crushed to bits. I had fired the rifle at night on the headland, and I had touched her lips. And I had beaten up a young man. I could remember many things, but all the images were terribly vague. What had that little blonde girl’s face looked like? I couldn’t remember. Even the bright red drop of blood on her breast had dimmed. I was getting exasperated. Was reality as vague and nebulous for Yukibe as it was for me? No, it couldn’t be. For her, there would surely always be a definite response to reality. That was probably why she had left school and home behind and taken to the streets. She had a clearly defined enemy to fight. But for me, it was as if there was a veil over my eyes and nothing at all was clear.

  I wanted to shoot that veil away with the rifle. A momentary flash might make this vague, hazy reality into something unchanging and solid. It might clarify what I needed to do.

  I went back into my room. I paid no attention to the water dripping from my drenched body as I took out my hunting rifle. Before loading it, I aimed it at the dark stormy sea. I would shoot at the sea, at the invisible veil. With my nerves on edge, my senses were keener than ever. That was probably why I noticed that something was not quite right. There was a slight difference in how it handled, and I noticed it right away. The gun was heavier than usual.

  Did I leave it loaded?

  No, that was not possible. I had no recollection of reloading it after firing it at the headland last night.

  I checked the barrel. As I had thought, it wasn’t loaded. But near the muzzle, I discovered something was blocking it; a ball of lead.

  A chill ran down my spine. If, unawares, I had loaded the rifle and pulled the trigger, the weapon would have exploded and probably killed me.

  Gradually the fear subsided. In its place, rage welled up. Who could have done such a thing?

  It was him!

  It must have been him. I could not think otherwise. It must have been him.

  I had found a target for my bullet. The haze had not lifted from reality, but the enemy had become clear. This man was my enemy.

  I took out my tools and removed the lump of lead; then I slowly loaded a bullet. My hands trembled slightly, not from fear but from the fury I felt towards him.

  I took the gun and went downstairs.

  The lights were off in the living room, but there was light coming from his room.

  I threw open his door without knocking. He was sitting on the bed, and with a displeased expression looked at me and then at the gun.

  “That’s a dangerous thing you have there,” he said.

  I planted myself in the doorway and glared at him. His right hand was swathed in a white bandage. That whiteness reminded me of the incident that afternoon. I had hit him, and he had crashed into the window. The shattered glass. Dripping blood. Her eyes reproaching me. And her breast sullied by his blood.

  “I’m going to kill you.” I leveled the rifle at him. His face contorted in fear.

  “Don’t make dumb jokes,” he said, his voice trembling. “What if it’s loaded?”

  “It is loaded. I am going to kill you.”

  “Why? Why would you do that?”

  “Surely you know.”

  “No, I don’t. I know you don’t like me much, but is that enough for you to kill me?”

  “You tried to kill me, so instead I’ll kill you.”

  “I tried to kill you? What nonsense is that? I was you
r father’s friend, you know. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

  “You blocked my gun with a lead ball so that it would explode and kill me. Isn’t that so?”

  “I put a lead ball in your gun? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never even touched your gun.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. You are like my own child. Your father himself asked me to look after you. And you think I would try to kill you?”

  “So who put it there?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

  “You’re the only one here. If it wasn’t you—”

  “What about her?” he said in a low voice. Her? I felt the blood drain from my face. A cold shiver ran through my body. It was not because I believed him. It was because she had suddenly come up in this dark talk about murder.

  “It wasn’t her,” I yelled. “How could it be?”

  “But if it wasn’t me, that only leaves her,” he said callously, his voice dry.

  I shouted furiously, “No! It was you. You did it. And what about this morning? When you saw me drowning, you pretended you hadn’t seen me and walked away. You intended to leave me for dead!”

  “No. The fishing boat had seen you, so I knew you’d be alright. That’s why I didn’t do anything. Anyway, I can’t swim.”

  “But why did you turn your back?”

  “Ah, yes.” His gaze went into space. “Yes, I did turn my back on you. That’s because I noticed that she was on the upstairs balcony. I’m sure you won’t believe me, but she was calmly watching you drown. Her face was so cold!”

  “Liar!”

  “It’s true. At that moment, I again felt how you were a burden to her.”

  “It’s a lie!”

  “Do you remember me saying I wanted to give you some advice? I wanted to tell you to stop falling in love with her. You might think she’s an angel, but she is the type of woman who cannot live without a man. She’s been making eyes at me, too. So for her, you falling in love with her, being obsessed with her, is a nuisance. You’re in her way.”

  “It’s a lie! A lie!”

  “It’s cruel, but it’s true. She was probably the one who fixed your gun.”

  “Rubbish! You haven’t any proof.”

  “No, I don’t have any proof. But there is a way of finding out if I am right or not. Go to her room and pretend that you are going to shoot her. If she is scared, then I am wrong. If she isn’t scared, that’s because she put the lead into the gun and knows that if you pull the trigger it’ll be you who will die.”

  I was unsure what to do next. I just walked along the corridor to her room, and knocked on the door.

  She opened the door.

  I went in.

  She was wearing a light, see-through negligée. It was as if she was standing naked before me.

  “What’s the matter?” She smiled gently at me, as if humoring a small child. Mechanically, I raised the rifle and silently aimed it at her breast.

  “That’s dangerous,” she said. But her face showed no trace of fear. She did not even pale. That was not all. I saw a sinister glee in her eyes, as if she was expecting something. She knew. She knew, and was waiting for it—for the weapon to explode.

  Strangely, I felt no anger. I merely felt confused. The worlds of reality and illusion had meshed within me, and I could not distinguish between them.

  This is a dream.

  This was the same as last night’s dream.

  If it was not a dream, surely I would not be able to shoot her. Therefore, it was a dream. It had to be a dream. In last night’s dream, I shot her naked body with my hunting rifle. I could still clearly recall that dream. To my seventeen-year-old self, the dream was clearer than reality. If I did not pull the trigger now, it would become hazy like reality. Her image would transform into something elusive and vague. In order to make her mine I had to pull the trigger, just as I had in the dream.

  Her naked body would fall slowly to the floor. Her breast would be stained with bright red blood. That vivid redness would remain unchanging for all eternity, because this was a dream.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The Monkey That Clapped Its Hands

  Toku Yoshizawa’s small body had remained motionless in the viewfinder for some time now. She squatted at the water’s edge with her back hunched over, her hands coarsened by farm labor tightly clasped together, gazing out at the dull sheen of the sea. Seeing her silhouetted against the light, Sawaki could not make out her expression, but he guessed she was struggling to contain her tears.

  He looked up from the camera at the officer from the local police station next to him.

  The middle-aged policeman was clearly bored and itching to get back. It was only to be expected. As far as he was concerned, the case had been wrapped up a week ago—simply a young man’s suicide, with nothing else suspicious about it. The fact that he did not come right out and say so was probably because he was more good-natured than his rough appearance suggested.

  Sawaki took his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to the policeman. Shielding it with his body against the strong sea breeze he finally managed to light it, and then asked the officer, “Would you mind telling me about how the body was found?”

  There was nothing much of any note in the policeman’s story. A local fisherman had been taking his boat out that morning when he found the body washed up on the beach. That was all. The one point of interest for Sawaki was that the dead man had been clutching a small toy monkey in his hand when he drowned. That toy was now at the police station, along with his other personal effects.

  Tossing his cigarette butt into the sea, the policeman turned to Sawaki with his head to one side. “I don’t get it. Why would a reporter from Tokyo come all the way here to the Japan Sea for such an insignificant case?”

  “Editor’s orders,” answered Sawaki simply. Indeed, for the police, this probably was a minor case of no importance. But there was someone who thought otherwise, and that was why Sawaki had come all the way from Tokyo, although he had no intention of telling the policeman that.

  The dead youth’s name was Shinkichi Yoshizawa. He was from a remote village in Hokkaido, and had come to Tokyo three years earlier having found employment at a laundry in Asakusa through the mass recruitment drive for school leavers from rural areas at that time. He was by all accounts a hard worker, and apparently sent part of his monthly wages back to his mother in Hokkaido. Yet, one day, this twenty-year-old man had suddenly gone off on a trip to the coast of Hokuriku and drowned himself.

  What Sawaki had in mind was an investigative piece on the young man’s life, to shed light on what might have driven him to suicide. In fact, he had not so much been ordered to do this by his editor as he had persuaded his editor to let him do it. It was partly his reaction against the newspaper’s tendency to devote too many column inches to sensational stories like student protests and murders. He also hoped this “obscure” case might possibly illuminate the problematic nature of the mass recruitment program, but he did not yet know whether it would form part of this as a wider issue.

  Sawaki once again turned his gaze back to Toku Yoshizawa.

  The forty-seven-year-old mother bereaved of her only child was still sitting there gazing out to sea in exactly the same position as before.

  Back at the police station, Sawaki took several photos of Toku collecting her son’s belongings before picking out the toy monkey from among them.

  It was the sort of toy often sold at night stalls for about five hundred yen. It held cymbals in each hand that it clapped together when you wound the screw. It was rusty from having been immersed in seawater, but as Sawaki wound it up there was an abrupt noisy clash of cymbals and the monkey started nodding its head jerkily back and forth. The sound was grotesquely amplified in the silent room, and he hurriedly stopped it with his hands.

  “Was your son fond of toys like this?”

  Toku briefly shook her dark,
tanned face in answer to Sawaki’s question. “He wasn’t a child any more, and besides, he was always such a good boy, even when he was small.”

  At twenty years old, he was already an adult. And no doubt he was a dependable sort, just as she maintained. Yet he had been clutching this toy when he died. When Sawaki released his grip on it, the monkey clashed the cymbals together two or three times more before grinding to a halt.

  “I just don’t understand,” said Toku, glancing distractedly at the toy monkey. “Why would he go and die, leaving me behind?”

  “That’s what I would like to know too,” responded Sawaki.

  Apart from the toy monkey, there was nothing of note among the dead man’s belongings, but mixed in amongst the waterlogged pack of cigarettes and wallet containing less than five thousand yen, a book of matches bearing the name of a hotel caught Sawaki’s eye. The Star Lily Inn. The policeman informed him that it was twelve or thirteen minutes’ walk away.

  “Let’s go and check it out,” Sawaki urged Toku, and together they left the police station.

  The narrow road to the inn wound along the coast. The wind had picked up and the waves were tipped with white crests. There was nobody in sight, and no fishing boats on the water. To Sawaki, accustomed to the placid Shonan coastline near Tokyo, the early winter Hokuriku sea appeared dark and cheerless. Even if he wanted to die, he would not come here, he thought to himself. Why had young Shinkichi chosen this place to die?

  Sawaki turned to Toku, who was lagging behind as usual. “Is this anything like the sea in Hokkaido?”

  “What?” Toku glanced at him in surprise, before adding in a small voice, “No. In Utoro the sea is already icebound by now.”

  Sawaki had only ever been to Sapporo in Hokkaido, and he could not immediately place Utoro. If it was icebound, though, it must be further north, perhaps on the Sea of Okhotsk. Perhaps the sea where Toku and Shinkichi were from was even darker, even more desolate than here.

  The Star Lily Inn was small, but solidly built in the old style with deep eaves to protect it against heavy snowfall. Sawaki blinked in the semi-darkness of the lobby.