Neither Sakota nor I offered a reply. As though acknowledging his childish defensiveness, Yōji cheerfully returned the question: “What about you two?”
“At the moment I’m working for Megaton,” I told him, a twinge of guilt blending with a vague sense of superiority.
“I’m the assistant manager of Musashiya in Higashi-Urawa,” Sakota said proudly, despite his efforts to hide it.
“Musashiya? You mean the supermarket chain? Kondō in the A-form told me he’s working there part-time.”
“Uh-huh. I interviewed him.”
“Who’s Kondō?” I asked.
“He was the head of the soccer club. Don’t you remember? His girlfriend was Mihara, who was in my class.”
“Ah,” I replied, though I could remember neither the head of the soccer club nor even Mihara.
Sakota and Yōji exchanged various anecdotes, leaving me behind.
“Mihara was something.”
“At the end of last year I saw her. In a convenience store.”
“She hasn’t changed?”
“She looked all grown up.”
“So you spoke to her?”
“Nah. You know how it is . . .”
For them it was as if the last ten years had not passed and they were still in high school. I was in no mood to be haunted by these two specters.
“So Kondō’s a job-hopper . . . I always thought of him as someone determined to rise above the herd.”
“But aren’t you a bit of a job-hopper yourself, Yōji?” I blurted out.
He stared at me, momentarily speechless, and I scowled back at him.
Sakota frantically tried to mediate: “There are many from our generation who haven’t yet found steady, full-time work. It’s quite normal. There are guys like Konishi, who was just telling me about how he’s been studying ever since college to become a licensed tax accountant.”
“Is that so?” I said, clinging to the words. “Excuse me, I need to go talk to him.” And so I left them.
* * *
The moment I saw Yasokichi Konishi, I was seized with such agitation that I felt the urge to weep. So was Yasokichi another ME? Why, I wondered, did I feel that here was my salvation? It was, I figured, because after all this time, with no contact since our graduation despite our close friendship, we were at last meeting again.
He sensed that I was looking at him, and his face beamed. And yet in his gaze there was not the coconspiratorial look of someone fully aware that he was one of US. I felt somewhat let down. My sense of liberation would have been greater if he had been motivated to come by his own awakening.
“How have things been going?” Yasokichi asked, raising his palm in greeting, like we were just seeing each other back at school after the summer holidays.
I clasped his hand in my own. “Getting along, getting along,” I replied. Then I boldly added: “And how’s it going with your tax-accounting quest?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve gone back to it again.”
“Again?”
“I had a full-time job for a while.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I dropped out of the study group I was in and joined a company. I felt guilty about it and didn’t tell anyone.”
“Is that right? Where?”
“The electronics company MuRata.”
“No kidding. You’re one of our main rivals.” I was startled by the coincidence.
“Oh, are you also working full-time, Daiki?”
“Yeah. For Megaton.”
“So you gave up on photography?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, one never knows what life will bring. I just recently quit my job.”
“Oh, really?” I was genuinely surprised, though I had the feeling that I’d already heard this somewhere.
“I wanted to take up my accounting studies again.”
“A lingering attachment, eh?”
“I met my old study partners for the first time in quite awhile. I’d drifted away, but then I had an awakening.”
“But a person can still study without totally giving up a job. We’re almost thirty now.” As I spoke, I had a distinct feeling of déjà-vu.
“There’s no way I can handle being pulled between those worlds. I’m determined to make a last-ditch effort.” Yasokichi stopped talking and lowered his eyes. A gloomy expression slowly crossed his face. “And then the work environment wasn’t good. I tried to do my job like any normal person, but I was constantly being yelled at for being immature or unable to stand on my own two feet. It was terrible. Failing to act decisively came to be called pulling a Konishi. In fact, I don’t remember ever being guilty of that. No one ever used the expression to describe me, but in my presence someone might use it to talk about, say, Suzuki. I realized that I’d soon go off the deep end, and so I handed in my resignation.”
I felt nauseous hearing this story. I tried to convince myself that since Yasokichi was a ME, his experiences were naturally my own. We were in the same boat, after all, making it reasonable that I would understand him and that I should respond positively. I was telling myself all of this, and yet I somehow knew that I was engaging in self-deception and was therefore being punished. Punished. Yes, there was no other word for it. Knowing that was enough; I didn’t want to think about exactly what I was being punished for. I had to get away from Yasokichi, a ME though he was. I desperately wanted to turn away, to not have to look at him. Pretending I wasn’t feeling well, I suddenly excused myself, brushing off Yasokichi’s sincere concern, and immediately fled the class reunion.
* * *
And yet the torture did not end there.
Since the reunion had been held at the high school at Kita-toda Station, I’d promised to visit my older sister’s family in Ōmiya after it ended that evening. My old lady had been badgering me on the telephone about never having laid eyes on my nephew Shō, and so I finally relented since the venue was close by. Though it was not a visit to which I looked forward, I at least felt considerable relief at having escaped the reunion and a degree of satisfaction in knowing that I was doing my mother and sister a service. And so, though for me quite out of character, I stepped into the Hachi no Ie shop in the station and purchased some bean-paste cakes.
I took a taxi to my sister’s house, noted the name on the doorplate—Ageha, in Roman letters—and rang the bell of the rather chic dwelling. Contrary to my expectation, neither my sister nor mother came to the door. Instead it was my brother-in-law, Kensuke.
“Come in, come in,” he greeted loudly with a welcoming smile, then suddenly froze. My expression probably did the same, as I saw that Kensuke was a ME.
He stepped outside, closing the door behind him. We stood there in front of each other, sighing simultaneously.
“How many of US have you encountered so far?”
“I’ve lost track,” Kensuke replied, gazing up at the sky vacantly. “In any case, neither Kasumi nor your mother has a clue, so we can rest easy.”
I had no counterargument, and so we went inside the house.
I followed him into the living room, from which I could see the old lady washing dishes at the kitchen counter. Even though this was my mother, I had a strange and unpleasant feeling.
“How was the reunion?” she called out to me.
“Trouble! People get so defensive when they hit thirty. I couldn’t get in sync with them, so I left early.”
“Thirty’s still young. You make me feel so terribly old with that kind of talk!”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Is he asleep?” she asked, her voice directed past me.
“Yes, he’s asleep and probably won’t be awake again for a couple of hours,” responded my sister, emerging from the room behind me. “Sorry about the bad timing,” she said as I turned around to greet her. “Shō has just dozed off.”
Being no good around kids, I felt relieved. “Hey, no problem,” I reassured her. I handed her the box of pastries as Mother filled our cups with
tea.
“Don’t you get sick of being home all day?” I asked my sister a few minutes later.
“I’m actually away from home. Every day is quite a challenge.”
“That’s because children can’t wait,” our mother chimed in.
“True enough. The fact is that cultivating emotions and aesthetic sense begins at birth, and that keeps me quite busy.”
“Does he listen to music?”
“Yes, that’s important. I’m friendly with other mothers who play the piano or the violin, and we have semimonthly miniconcerts. Remember that children acquire greater sensitivity and perceptivity if they are exposed to foreign cultures by the age of three, so, thanks to Kenbō here, we’ve been introduced to a German couple, with whose children we have regular get-togethers. We also go to the pool once a week. That helps to build up the skin’s resistance and makes the body less prone to colds and allergies. Once or twice a week I meet a group of mothers who got to know each other in the maternity clinic. It’s vital to acquire information in a timely fashion in order to secure a place in a day-care center, for example. Whatever the topic, there’s so much to discuss when synchronized mamas get together.”
“Synchronized?”
“Yes, those mothers who gave birth around the same time period, whose kids will enter school in the same year. The children grow up together and become friends. The bonds are better and stronger than if they play in the park, for instance. We all recently went to Tokyo Disneyland and had a fine time.”
“Young mothers should prevail upon their parents to look after their children at times like that,” our mother said with a sigh.
“How can you say that? It’s all for the child’s benefit.”
“A child under the age of one isn’t likely to get much out of Disneyland.”
“I wouldn’t say that infants have the same pleasure that a toddler might, but even they still enjoy it in their own way, and that experience has an enormous influence on the development of their emotional and aesthetic sensibilities.”
It seemed to me that she was just parroting lines, but I thought it would be quite impertinent of me to contradict her in any way, especially since I knew nothing about child care. Still, I found myself gradually becoming irritated, and then took the opportunity to change the subject as I glanced around the living room.
“My, what a gorgeous home you have!” Indeed, the interior could well have been taken for the set of a period movie. Kensuke and I were sitting on a soft, cobalt-blue leather sofa. Sunlight streamed through the two large windows, one facing east, the other south. Through the former I glimpsed what appeared to be a glass-covered study jutting off from the side of the house.
“That’s where Kenbō works,” said Kasumi, peering in that direction.
“Shouldn’t a financial accountant work in a regular office building?” I naively asked.
“He’s not a financial accountant,” said Kasumi. “He’s a licensed tax accountant.”
Kensuke took my mistake in stride and said, “I also share an office near the station, but as Daiki-kun will no doubt well understand, I’m the sort who prefers to work alone, so I’m normally here.”
“Wow! It’s great that you can already be virtually independent in that world!”
“When we first got married, I didn’t expect that Kenbō would become so financially successful so quickly.”
“That’s something I’ve often heard, and not just from Kasumi, so I suppose it’s true.” I sensed a level of condescension in his voice.
“I feel fortunate and grateful that Kenbō is so often at home and can help bring up Shō.”
“If the two of you can do that on your own, that will top everything,” the old lady remarked despite herself.
“Still, there’s a troublesome side. We get the occasional client coming to the house, and then I wind up acting as some sort of secretary. I wish he would do something about that.”
“But isn’t it good that you can be helpful in that way?”
“Yes. Basically, I don’t mind pouring tea or fussing with cakes. But the more unpleasant and overbearing types have no qualms about asking for single-malt whiskey or whether I might go online to check when such-and-such Shinkansen train will leave for Osaka.”
“Yes, well, I told Noguchi-san that I don’t like getting my wife involved in our work, but he’s the sort of guy who simply doesn’t get it. He’s like that no matter whose house he’s in. I feel bad about it for her sake, but then we have all sorts of clients.”
“I understand that even obnoxious clients are still clients, and the implications in this line of work for a young man who doesn’t accept that. But since Kenbō has that office available, I just wish he could get everyone to meet there.”
“Yes, that’s what I tell people, but since Noguchi-san already knows this house, he occasionally shows up when I’m here. He is simply insensitive.”
“Perhaps if you were a bit more emphatic about it . . . You could say: Please refrain from coming by the house. We can conduct business at the office.”
“Noguchi-san acts impulsively. I tell him when he calls that I’m heading right over there, but then he comes here anyway. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Kenbō, you’re deliberately skirting the issue, which is not just about Noguchi-san. There are other people who come here too. And they’re always the same type of people. I’ll admit that it’s only occasionally . . .”
I listened nervously to the exchange. It appeared that my sister had found something fishy about Kensuke’s clients, and that since he was constantly deflecting her complaints, she had deliberately raised the matter in the presence of her mother and brother.
“You shouldn’t be meddling in Kensuke-san’s business affairs,” the old lady eventually admonished.
“Ah, I appreciate the reinforcement, but Kasumi is saying that I shouldn’t take on such weird clients.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Is this Noguchi-san a kind of thug?” my mother asked nervously.
“Thug? My goodness, I wouldn’t have expected that kind of language from my old lady!” I passed my little finger across my cheek to suggest a scarred hoodlum. “You mean a real muscleman?”
“Stop calling me old lady.” She glared at me as Kensuke smiled wryly.
“In this line of work I do get some dubious requests.”
“Advice on tax evasion, hiding funds from shady sources, money laundering . . . I suppose it’s all quite lucrative.”
“I’d like to take a look at Shō’s sleeping face.” I wanted to close my ears. I didn’t want my sister to air any more of Kensuke’s dirty laundry. After all, he was a ME. Whatever was sleazy about him was also sleazy about me.
“Getting into that sort of thing is like doing drugs. No one thinks he would ever dream of dabbling in it, but once he impulsively tries some, there’s no turning back. I have known senior tax accountants who have brought themselves to ruin this way. It’s regrettable, but they provide an instructive lesson.”
Kensuke had turned to the old lady as he spoke. She nodded, apparently reassured.
As for me, however, my mind was in turmoil, sensing that Kensuke was really talking about himself. Even though I have no real grasp on accounting and hadn’t the slightest evidence, I nonetheless knew. I imagined myself as my sister had described him, a freelancer without work, feeling the shame of my family for being professionally stymied, and then hearing the siren’s sweet murmurings. There was no other way to explain how someone so timid and mediocre could have suddenly earned, at age thirty-six, enough money to build such a splendid house.
I remembered something: You make yourself at home wherever you are and then say whatever pops into your head. Who had uttered those words—and when? They were certainly true. I had never chosen anything. I had always changed my colors according to my surroundings. Nor had I ever willingly engaged in providing advice on how to evade taxes or gone along with that kind of scheme. I mere
ly went with the flow of the moment. I was thus virtually nonexistent.
The image of a sardine floated across my mind. Though I seemed to be swimming freely in the sea, I was merely moving my body in relation to the other fish around me. There was no sardine leader deciding in which direction we would swim. We merely conformed to the fluctuations of the school, expanding or shrinking, drifting off to the side or surging ahead into the distance. And there was no intentionality behind it. The sardine that strayed would be eaten. Thus, so as not to fall behind, I stayed in constant motion. Behind me. Before me. Above me. Below me. Sardines, sardines, sardines. Eventually I would no longer know which sardine I was or whether I was really there at all.
“This way,” my sister beckoned. It seemed that now was the time for us to visit sleeping Shō. I followed her and our old lady. Kensuke had left.
The two were huddled together whispering, perhaps about Kensuke. I felt dizzy: before my eyes, both my mother and my sister were slowly turning into ME. I convinced myself that this was somehow predetermined, then put it out of my mind.
In the couple’s bedroom at the back of the house was a small crib. My sister carefully peeked over at the child, then looked at me and nodded for me to do the same. I peered in. Shō was lying on his back, his head turned slightly to the side; he was sound asleep. He had soft, downy hair, and puffy, dewy cheeks above small, parted lips. Though it was the face of an infant, I could recognize that here too was a ME. Shō, who had been so fated, was now dear to me.
* * *
When dinner was over, I took my leave, but rather than return to Hiyoshi I headed for Our Mountain in Ōkubo. I simply wanted to spend time with Hitoshi and Nao, but as soon as I glimpsed their faces, I felt the urge to tell them all about the day’s events. Once I began, I could not stop, propelled by sheer momentum, laying out what I had anticipated being reluctant to share—including the discovery that Tajima was a ME.
“Why am I the only one who keeps encountering these worthless MEs? I want to meet someone who’s fun to hang with, someone like Mizonokuchi!”
“Do you think you’re the only unlucky one? You must be so special!” snorted Hitoshi. He had recently lost all joviality and become downright sarcastic.
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