Audition

by Ryu Murakami

  ‘Now, wait just a minute—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you hanging. Just tell me what you need me to do. You can have my rights to the story idea for free, and I’ll fix it up with the Germans too. But I’ve already found what I was looking for, and then some. I wish you’d just accept that and be happy for me. In any case, I have no motivation for continuing with the movie project now, and I’d like to disengage myself from the production side. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  Yoshikawa was silent for a moment. Then he sighed and spoke in an even colder tone.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about the film either. Calm down a minute and listen to me, all right? I’ll take care of the movie, that’s not the problem. What I’m worried about is you. Maybe you’re right, and there’s nothing to the Shibata question or the disappearing family. I mean, you’re probably right about that, but something feels screwy. Think about it. As of right now, we have no one who knows anything at all about this woman. I’m probably overreacting, and maybe it seems like I’m being a pain in the ass. And I’m not going to pretend that I’m not a little envious that a guy my age can hook up with such a knock-out. But I’m only trying to be as honest and objective as possible. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘I guess so.’ As Aoyama said this he flashed on the strange incident of the young man in the wheelchair, but only for a moment. His psychological defences had encircled the euphoric glow left over from lunch with Yamasaki Asami. He’d never imagined he could derive so much pleasure simply from being with someone, and he wasn’t interested in entertaining any doubts. The memory of the kid in the wheelchair was pushed aside as soon as it arose, and nothing Yoshikawa said was making any real impression on him.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not saying there’s anything in particular that I’m worried about, it’s just a feeling. You’re in the clouds over this woman, and that’s not a bad thing. Seriously, I’m not being sarcastic. It’s important to enjoy life. But the way I look at it, life is never all that easy. A woman of that calibre remaining unspoken for . . . Well, it’s all just a little too perfect, if you ask me. And it bothers me that we don’t really know anything about her. It’s exactly the sort of situation that could get messy. So listen, do me one favour. You gave her your number, right? My hunch is that if you don’t contact her for a week or so, she’ll contact you. If she does, be on your guard; if not, go ahead and call her. But give it at least a week. All right?’

  A week passed, and there was no communication from Yamasaki Asami. Partly because of his own sense that a man shouldn’t appear over-anxious, Aoyama did as Yoshikawa had asked and then went one further by waiting an extra week. But in those two weeks he thought of nothing but her, to the extent that not only his staff but Shige and even Rie-san began to ask if he was sure he was feeling all right. He lost weight, too – three full kilos.

  On the fifteenth day, after conferring with Yoshikawa, he called her.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, in that spine-melting voice. ‘I was beginning to think I wouldn’t hear from you!’

  6

  ‘I hope this won’t sound too pathetic, but I’ve been waiting every day for you to call.’

  Each syllable uttered in that voice was a gemlike particle that rolled through the receiver, into the ear canal and straight to the brain. His spine went numb and a sweet sensation seeped through his body, as if he were absorbing some exquisite wine or cognac. Why had he been such a fool as to leave her hanging for two whole weeks? He pictured her sitting up each night alone, hugging her knees, waiting for the phone to ring. The picture was like a knife in his heart.

  ‘It’s been crazy here,’ he said hoarsely. He felt as if he were producing the words not so much by vibrating his vocal cords as by wringing them out of his throat. ‘I just couldn’t find the time.’

  ‘I understand. I was thinking that you must be awfully busy.’

  Aoyama was at a loss as to what to say. He wished he could simply fold her in his arms.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ he said, and immediately thought, Idiot!

  ‘Fine. Hanging in there.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

  They were both silent for a moment. Aoyama could hear her breathing softly.

  ‘But I hope you’ll always feel free to call,’ she said. ‘Whenever you’re not too busy, I mean.’

  ‘I gave you my card, didn’t I? You could have called me.’

  ‘Is it really all right?’

  ‘Of course it is. But listen, why don’t we have dinner sometime soon?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What nights are you free?’

  ‘I only work on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.’

  ‘How about Wednesday, then?’

  ‘I can’t wait!’

  After arranging the time and place, Aoyama hung up and took several deep breaths. He noticed that his cheeks had relaxed into a smile. He heard her voice, her words, echoing over and over again in his head: I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait . . .

  ‘What’s up with you lately, Pops?’

  It was the night before his second date with Yamasaki Asami. He and Shige were eating dinner and watching an NBA game on TV. Rie-san had prepared shrimp dumplings, a beef and potato stew, and vegetable soup. The game was a premier match-up: the Chicago Bulls versus the Orlando Magic.

  ‘What’s up with me? What are you talking about?’

  Aoyama had a glass of beer in his left hand and a dumpling scissored between chopsticks in his right. But he’d held them like that for the past minute or so without wetting his lips or taking a bite, and the dumpling was out of steam and looked in danger of falling to the carpet. His eyes were on the TV screen, but they hadn’t been following the movements of Michael Jordan or Penny Hardaway. He’d been daydreaming about Yamasaki Asami.

  ‘Come on. You’re not even paying attention to the game. It’s like you’re in a trance.’

  Whoops, thought Aoyama, plopping the dumpling in his mouth. But all he said was, ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re acting really weird. Holding that dumpling up in mid-air, with your eyes all out of focus. Why don’t you go in for a check-up?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Don’t worry.’

  ‘People don’t always know when they’re sick. You ever see Awakenings with Robert De Niro, or Dustin Hoffman in Rainman? You remind me of one of those guys. Maybe you’re getting Alzheimer’s, or that disease where your brain turns to sponge.’

  ‘Sponge?’

  ‘There’s this thing called a prion that eats away at your brain until it ends up riddled with little holes, like a sponge, or a pumice stone.’

  ‘Quite the expert, aren’t you?’

  ‘I told you I like biology, but never mind about me. Get yourself to a hospital.’

  ‘This disease is something they can cure at a hospital?’

  ‘Not even.’

  ‘So what’s the use of going?’

  ‘Yeah, but think about me. I just entered high school. Can’t have you turning into Rainman on me. I’m way too busy to be playing nurse for my old man.’

  Shige didn’t so much as crack a smile as he said this. Aoyama laughed and took a sip of his beer. He wondered if he should tell him about Yamasaki Asami. He’d have to sooner or later. On TV, the Bulls were expanding their lead. Dennis Rodman, his hair dyed green, grabbed a rebound and fired it out to Jordan, who drove hard to the basket, drawing three defenders, then dished to Scottie Pippen for the slam dunk. It was likely that before very long Yamasaki Asami would be sharing these evening meals with them. Shige had a right to know that, Aoyama reminded himself, and maybe now was a good opportunity to discuss things. Besides, it would save him from having to lie about his date tomorrow.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said. Shige read the tone in his voice and laid down his chopsticks.

&nbs
p; Aoyama said he’d met a woman through work, and outlined the situation without specifically mentioning the audition.

  ‘How old is she?’ Shige said when he was done.

  ‘Twenty-four, I think.’

  ‘Pretty young.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Closer to my age than yours. I hope you know what you’re doing, Pops. Quite a babe, is she?’

  ‘You hope I know what I’m doing?’

  ‘You’re sure she’s not taking you for a ride?’

  ‘Look, I just met this woman. Tomorrow we’re having dinner together, but that’ll only be the third time I’ve seen her.’

  ‘You have to watch your step with women these days, Pops. She could be involved with yakuza or something. Even some of the girls in my class – you should hear the stuff they talk about. Fifteen years old, and there’s nothing they don’t know. We’re not in the age of Peace and Love any more.’

  ‘You just can’t imagine that a young woman would find me attractive, can you?’

  ‘It’s not that. All I’m saying is that you’re a little brain-dead right now. I look at the girls in my class, and there’s something, like, mercenary about them. I mean, I don’t even understand some of the things they’re into. There’s this girl in the class ahead of me who just got kicked out of school for working at an S&M club. Can you believe that? I’ve started to think I’ll find myself a nice girl from Kazakhstan or somewhere. Language might be a problem, but—’

  ‘Kazakhstan?’

  ‘The women there are supposed to be beautiful, with really excellent personalities.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve given this quite a bit of thought.’

  ‘We talked about this before, remember? I said there were hardly any good-looking girls in my class, and you said beautiful women were as rare as stag beetles?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But a beautiful woman with a good personality, good character, is hundreds of times harder to find than a stag beetle. More like the Japanese wildcat, or the giant salamander, or the crested ibis.’

  On TV, the Magic had begun a rally. Hardaway made three consecutive three-point shots.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to her eventually.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll check her out for you,’ Shige said, without losing the look of serious concern on his face. ‘I think I’ll be able to read her better than you can, Pops. Not just because she’s nearer my age, but, like I said, you’re basically brain-dead right now.’

  They’d arranged to meet at the same hotel café at six p.m. He got there twenty minutes early, and at five to six he saw her arrive. Her hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and she was wearing a soft turtleneck sweater and loose-fitting pants, with a leather jacket draped over her left arm – impeccable fashion for the time and place. Aoyama could feel the excitement building inside him again, but he kept reminding himself of the decision he’d made after talking to Shige. He wanted to ask Yamasaki Asami about her private life, and he wanted to do so before dinner and the attendant accumulation of alcohol. He couldn’t actually imagine that she was involved with yakuza or anything of that sort – and even in the unlikely event that she was, he had plenty of acquaintances, beginning with Yoshikawa, who knew how to handle such situations. But talking with Shige had brought home to Aoyama the fact that he himself wasn’t exactly a kid any more, even if he felt like one. He knew – and anyone with eyes could see – that he was in love with this woman. She, for her part, had been thrilled when he called, and now she was showing up for their date dressed to perfection and beaming an apparently irrepressible smile. It was unthinkable that she was faking all this, but it was possible that her intentions were different from his – that she was thinking of him not as a man so much as simply a reliable, mature person to confide in. He’d managed just enough objectivity the night before to consider this possibility.

  ‘I’m having a beer. What would you like?’

  She took a seat across from him and bowed her head slightly, still smiling in a way that manifestly revealed her to be beside herself with joy but somewhat embarrassed about feeling that way. If this was an act, Aoyama thought, the girl was a genius.

  ‘I’ll have a beer too,’ she said quietly, then shook her head and laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Aoyama asked, smiling in spite of himself.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really didn’t think we’d meet again like this, so . . . I’m just happy.’

  The waiter brought another beer and poured it for her.

  ‘I made a reservation at an Italian place I’m fond of,’ Aoyama said. ‘But I couldn’t get a table until seven-thirty. Can you wait that long to eat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They touched glasses, and Aoyama decided to get straight to it.

  ‘Yamasaki-san,’ he said, ‘I haven’t asked you anything about your family. Are they all well?’

  The smile vanished as if turned off with a switch. Her face went pale, and she pressed her lips tightly together. Yoshikawa’s words reverberated in Aoyama’s brain: As of right now, we have no one who knows anything at all about this woman. Was he about to catch her in a lie, before he’d ever kissed her or even held her hand? Maybe she was hiding something. Maybe it was all some sort of scam after all.

  ‘I don’t want to keep anything from you,’ she said, ‘so I’m going to tell you the truth – all of it.’

  Aoyama braced himself. His heart was pounding so hard he wondered if the lapels of his jacket weren’t bouncing up and down. His complete attention was riveted on her, and everything else around them ceased to exist.

  ‘My parents divorced when I was small – I don’t even have any memory of it – and I was sent to live with my mother’s younger brother. All I remember about that time is being terribly mistreated, mostly by my uncle’s wife. She was just that sort of person, I guess. She . . . This isn’t a pretty story, and it might not be pleasant to hear, but it’s the truth, so . . .’

  Aoyama nodded and shifted in his chair.

  ‘My uncle’s wife once bathed me in cold water – this was in the wintertime – and I ended up coming down with pneumonia. Another time she slammed my head into a window, and I got a big gash on my forehead and bled so much I thought I was dying. And she once pushed me down the stairs. It could have killed me, I think, but all I got was a dislocated shoulder. As a little girl, I always had some sort of wound or bruise or broken bone, but when I was in elementary school a doctor became concerned enough to intervene, and I was sent back to my mother. Mother had remarried, and her new husband . . . well, he was my stepfather, of course, but even now I can’t think of him as any kind of father to me. I hate to say that, but it’s true.’

  She fell silent for a moment, as if waiting to build up the strength to continue. Aoyama’s heart was hammering even harder now. He hadn’t expected to hear anything like this, and it froze his blood just to imagine her suffering the sort of abuse she was describing.

  ‘My mother’s new husband didn’t beat me every day, the way my uncle’s wife did, but he used to say things like, “You disgust me. Just looking at you leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” Things like that. “I hate you. I’d just as soon kill you as look at you. You smell bad, too,” he’d say. He wouldn’t have me in the same room as them, even during dinner. As soon as I got home from school, he’d tell me to go to the other room. It felt bad, of course, but I didn’t know any better, and I guess I just thought that this was the way life was. My mother never tried to protect me and never even said she was sorry about what was happening. It . . . it mystifies me to think about that now. But the truth is, the fact that she never apologised to me was a blessing, in a way, because it helped me, or forced me, to be strong. If she’d ever said, “I’m sorry, honey,” I think it would have been even harder for me, though I can’t say exactly why. I still see my mother sometimes, we’ll meet for tea, but once, quite a while ago now, we were drinking together – my mother’s a big drinker – and she said something I’ve never forgotten. Her
own mother, my grandmother, was an alcoholic too, and apparently she was married and divorced several times. My mother said she’d always wanted to live a life completely different from the one her own mother had led. But she said she hadn’t been able to after all.’

  When he noticed the tears welling up in her eyes, Aoyama’s chest constricted. Not just figuratively, either – it was as if someone were tightening an invisible corset around his ribs. She bit her lips to hold back the tears, and after a moment she continued her story.

  ‘She said that even though she was able to picture a different life, she wasn’t strong enough to make it a reality. She told me that real strength is the capacity for kindness to others, and that I should do whatever I could to find that kind of strength. She said she couldn’t tell me how to go about doing that, because she never found it herself, but that people who were strong enough to be kind to others could always get by in this world. My mother’s new husband was handicapped – he didn’t have the use of his legs – and for some reason I was always a fast runner. Mother said maybe that was why he hated me so much, but . . .’

  Aoyama quietly took a few deep breaths. Her confession explained a lot, and he was aware of a certain sense of relief, among all the other emotions. Undoubtedly her mother and the ‘new husband’ had been living in the apartment in Suginami. Though they were probably her parents legally, she wasn’t in regular contact with them, which would account for her not knowing they’d moved. Why should she care?

  ‘The last time you were kind enough to meet with me,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I told you a lie. I said that we sometimes went to soba shops or family restaurants together, but the truth is we never went anywhere as a family. It wasn’t easy for my mother’s new husband to get around, for one thing, and I wasn’t allowed to eat meals with them even at home. Well, I did share a meal with my mother from time to time, but . . . Here you’ve been so kind to me, and what do I do but lie to you the first time we get a chance to talk? I know there’s no excuse for that. If you want me to leave now, please just say so.’