ME

by Tomoyuki Hoshino

  “I had him once as a passenger, that guy.” As she spoke, she took one hand off the wheel and turned her face toward me, along with her upper body.

  Rattled all the more, I dropped my newspaper. “Oh really?” I replied, feigning curiosity, as, to my relief, she turned back.

  “Incidents like that are proof that we live in troubled times.”

  “Indeed.”

  “This is a dangerous job. Drivers get stabbed by passengers sitting right where you are. At the taxi dispatch that I work out of, we’ve lost a couple dozen people since I started three years ago.”

  “What? Murders?” I exclaimed, putting on a show of surprise, even as I shuddered at the thought that she might be aware of my knife.

  “No, I mean that they’ve quit, saying the job is too hazardous. And that means that we’re always short on drivers and that we have trouble filling the vacancies.”

  “But I’ve heard that fewer people are using taxis.”

  “That’s right, and so the outlook’s pretty grim. I’ve got to hang on. Without this job, I’ll wind up on welfare. And getting that isn’t easy either. Yesterday an applicant was stabbed by a clerk at the Saitama Municipal Office. Even applying for welfare can be life-threatening.”

  Speechless, I knew without a doubt that this involved Hitoshi. I flipped through the newspaper and found the report, confirming my suspicions:

  At approximately 1:50 p.m. on the 25th, Mr. Takeshi Midorikawa (31), unemployed and without a fixed address, who had come to the Saitama Municipal Office in Tokiwa, Urawa Ward, Saitama City, to apply for welfare assistance, suffered multiple stab wounds in the chest when he was attacked by Hitoshi Nagano (29), the official handling his application. The victim is in serious condition. The Urawa police are currently seeking the whereabouts of the suspect.

  Overcome by anxiety, I compulsively glanced back at the cars following us. It was of course possible that Hitoshi was in one of them.

  The driver started to say something else, but I cut her short: “I’m sorry, but could you please be quiet?”

  “Okay, okay,” she replied. “But when I find myself with a silent passenger, I worry so much about being assaulted that I can’t drive very well.”

  Again I ignored her. Instead, I tried to make sense of Hitoshi’s actions and put them in order:

  1. The night before last he lost it with Nao and me, denouncing us before stomping out of Our Mountain.

  2. I promptly left for my apartment in Hiyoshi.

  3. Hitoshi later returned to Our Mountain and eradicated Nao. Late in the evening, I tried to call Nao but there was no response.

  4. Hitoshi went to work at the Saitama Municipal Office the next morning (yesterday).

  5. He eradicated a welfare applicant, a ME, and then went on the lam.

  6. He then might have gone to Hiyoshi to make a video recording of the Megaton camera department using Nao’s cell phone. He then went straight to my apartment to film there, including at the entrance.

  7. He returned that night to Our Mountain after I left.

  8. This morning, using Nao’s cell phone, he sent me two videos.

  Where was he now and what was he doing?

  The car had come to a stop. Instinctively, I turned around and looked back.

  “We’re here,” the driver said coldly, glancing around at me and pointing toward the crime scene. I paid and got out.

  * * *

  The area was encircled with police tape, but contrary to what I might have expected, there were neither cops nor curiosity seekers milling around. I took the opportunity to slip behind the barrier.

  There wasn’t even a trace left of the living room glass. The sofa, the source of so much pride, had been transformed into a lump of ash. The corridor leading to the back of the house, though covered in soot, had been left unscathed. I started to make my way in that direction but abruptly stopped at the sight of a bloodstained doorknob in front of me.

  Suddenly I felt a spasm of rage at having been burdened by this sight in the first place. Under my breath I cursed and told myself that none of this had anything to do with me. No matter how much I stared at the scene, I felt nothing for Kasumi’s family or my old lady. I wanted to pretend that I had never seen this; all of it should just vanish into thin air. I felt the urge to set fire to what remained.

  My pocket was vibrating from my cell phone. I had received another message from “Nao,” though again there was no text, only a video attachment. I opened it with dread.

  Just as I feared, the clip began with shots from outside my Hiyoshi apartment: The door opened. Dressed in my suit, I peered out and looked around. I even stared right at the camera. I then darted out, bolted the door, and unlocked my mountain bike. I could be seen pushing it furiously from behind, stepping out onto the street, tearing off into the distance.

  I was sure that no one had been there. Had I simply failed to see him hidden away?

  My cell phone vibrated again—another e-mail from “Nao.”

  This time the video was of a place I did not immediately recognize, apparently a railway station. But there I was, dressed in my dark suit, devouring a newspaper in front of a kiosk. I glanced up from the paper, momentarily spaced out, and then mechanically folded it up. The camera lingered on me in that pose. It was Urawa-Misono Station! My mouth started to move, as though I was muttering to myself. I repeatedly scratched my nose with my thumb. Was this a new habit of mine? I then headed out of the station building, walked to the taxi stand, and stepped into a waiting vehicle.

  Watching the video, I was petrified. I had the feeling that Hitoshi was lurking directly behind me, that he might appear with the slightest shift of my gaze.

  I did not wish to see anything; I did not wish to know anything. I wanted to be a passerby, taking my leave from this mysterious place, unconcerned with the affairs of others. And even if Hitoshi should indeed be there, I wanted to be such a stranger to him that I would be incapable of even noticing his presence.

  Feeling faint, I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I was weak and my nerves were on edge, like a piano with broken strings. All right then, I would get something to eat.

  I started walking toward Ōmiya Station, opting for brunch at McDonald’s. The setting this time would be Ōmiya rather than Hiyoshi, but it was my regular routine. In this way I projected an image onto myself—I was desperately attempting to regain a semblance of normal life.

  Though I hummed to myself as I strolled to the station, inside I was tense. My hand tightly gripped the knife in my pocket, stiff and immobile. My neck was likewise rigid, so that I was unable to turn back and look behind me.

  I could sense Hitoshi’s proximity. I knew that I was not imagining things, and that he was no doubt nearby. Being a ME, I could intuit the patterns of OUR behavior—and Hitoshi could likewise predict more or less what I would do. His ability to get into my head made everything terribly complicated.

  And now my cell phone was vibrating again. I almost cried out. I knew without looking what I would see: myself, prowling about the burned-out interior of the house. I fearfully watched the latest video.

  I walked robotically until I arrived at the crowded station. Upon spying the red and yellow of the McDonald’s, I immediately knew that the spell was broken. My eyes blurred with tears: for the moment, I was saved. McDonald’s was my true home. No matter where I went, the same interior welcomed and reassured me. Today I would order an Extra Value Meal, with a Double Quarter Pounder.

  As I approached the entrance, someone on the other side pushed the door open at that very instant. I attempted to sidle past him, but he blocked my way. His black suit was reflected in my downturned eyes; it was the same sort of suit I was wearing. I thought it strange, but then it was too late: he pressed himself against me—and then stabbed me in the chest. I tried to fling myself upon him, but he pulled away with a thrust of his elbow. As I fell backward, he lunged at me and buried his knife in my abdomen. I dropped to my knees and
then collapsed. Glimpsing his face, I could see that he was a ME, with close-cropped hair and thick-rimmed spectacles, but I could not determine whether it was Hitoshi. Again he plunged the knife deep into my chest. I had lost all feeling, my body reacting only with a sigh, as the light around me faded.

  (So be it then. This does it. No regrets. No lingering memories. Nothing at all. From the start there was but a void. I am not dying, for I never existed to begin with. So be it then.)

  Chapter 5

  Transmigration

  “Atsushi, it’s time to go. We’ll be late.”

  My old lady was shaking me. I raised my head. We were in McDonald’s. I had apparently fallen asleep facedown on the table. I glanced at the cell phone I’d been clutching: it was after four p.m.

  “Do I have any marks on my face?” I asked her. I checked the sleeves of my funeral suit to see whether I had slobbered on them.

  “You’ve got a crease on your cheek from lying on your arm,” she replied, “but no one will notice it without looking closely. We’ve got no time. Besides, your father’s saying that he won’t even go after all.”

  My mother, likewise dressed in mourning, appeared on the verge of tears again. She had already been weeping so long and so intensely that her face was swollen, as if stung by a bee.

  “Why now?” I asked, looking around for my father. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  “He keeps saying that the mere sight of them will drive him to murder. I don’t want to go either, but she’s our daughter. I have to go. Poor thing!”

  “Where’s Father?”

  “He’s outside having a cigarette.”

  We got up and left the McDonald’s together. My father was smoking, his back to us.

  “You don’t know when to give up,” I said to him.

  “I don’t care how difficult it was. They should have separate funerals. Absolutely. It should have been doable. We simply went along with what his family said. And so now we have to put up with this.” He spat out his words, his back still facing us.

  “It can’t be helped that things wound up this way. It was so all sudden. And it’s for Kasumi.”

  “If it’s for Kasumi, then she should have her own funeral.”

  “Well, maybe you should have negotiated it that way,” I said, my voice rising.

  “You’ll regret not going. Just grit your teeth and come along,” my mother pleaded.

  “If he doesn’t want to go, so be it,” I said. “Leave him alone.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to go. I want to go, but I won’t be able to put up the Agehas.”

  “Now Atchan,” said my mother, apparently considering the matter with my father settled, “about the funeral offering . . . I’m sorry to impose, but could you provide 100,000 yen for your father and me? Your share is 50,000.”

  “You have to pay for your own daughter?”

  “What?” my father shouted. “There’s no need for that!”

  “We’re not the chief mourners,” my mother pointed out, rebuffing him.

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Oh, but you’ve got that secret stash of yours, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. “That’s why it’s a secret—it’s a family emergency fund.”

  “Well, isn’t this an emergency?”

  “It’s not a matter of our life or death.”

  “After the horrible way my daughter and grandson died,” my mother sobbed, “I feel that I might as well die too.”

  In a state of resigned indifference, I reached into my suit pocket and drew out the envelope full of cash, counted out 150,000 yen, and handed the bills to my mother. My father followed her hands, an expression of displeasure on his face, as she placed the money in her purse.

  Without exchanging any words, we hailed a taxi and headed for the funeral hall. I listened to Tibetan Buddhist sutras chanted on my Walkman as we drove.

  * * *

  It was a most unpleasant and dismal wake. Upon arrival, we were met by Kensuke’s parents, who immediately broke down in tears. They went on and on: “Kensuke did such a terrible thing robbing his parents-in-law of their treasured Kasumi-san and Shō-chan . . . Not even with our own lives can we make amends for that. We do not expect forgiveness and only want you to understand our unbearable grief.”

  They gripped my mother’s hand and surreptitiously attempted to hand her a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle. Infuriated, I watched as my mother took the bundle and said, as she slipped it into her black handbag, “Please don’t think that this is the end of it.”

  Here, I suddenly realized with amazement, was the hidden agenda: they would live on the money they could extort.

  “Thank you. Of course we don’t think that this is in any way a settlement. We will continue to carry out our duty so we don’t forget what our son has done. What has happened is terribly hard for us. We’ve had our son and grandson snatched from us. It’s unbelievable that such a meek and gentle soul could have committed such a cruel act. We wish it were were all a vicious lie. It’s more than we can bear.”

  Again they broke down in tears.

  “Could a meek and gentle soul be so heartless?” my mother asked. “Don’t parents unable to see their offspring’s true nature bear some responsibility? Isn’t this a case of spoiling a kid rotten and turning him into a monster?”

  “What a terrible thing to say!” screamed Kensuke’s mother.

  I forcibly separated my mother from the surviving members of the Ageha family. My father had said that the sight of them would drive him to murder, but my mother was now far more dangerous.

  Once the exchange of emotional gougings and slashings was over, the priest’s recitation of the sutras began. As only immediate relatives were present, the participants were few. When the priest had ended his chants, we opened the caskets of Kasumi and Shō in accordance with the undertaker’s instructions. My mother pressed her face to Kasumi’s cheek and begged to exchange places with her. My father was devastated at the sight of Shō, blowing his nose into a handkerchief already soaked with tears.

  My own state of mind was one of deep and solid gloom. Kasumi and Shō might just as well have been wax figures; I felt embarrassed to be standing in front of two immovable objects. Unable to reach out to them, I felt even more wretched at the thought that I was nothing more than a mere ME. I felt loathing toward my parents and the swinish MEs who were Kensuke’s family.

  Yes, I was thoroughly disgusted. Here the three of us were, living on my part-time earnings and my father’s meager state pension, and now this had happened. How could I even think about living with these parents of mine? I had resolved to get away from them so many times, and yet there I was, stuck with them again. This time I would finally be rid of them.

  * * *

  Leaving the funeral hall, we returned to Ōmiya Station by taxi and boarded a Saikyō-bound train. Again I listened to Tibetan Buddhist chants. When we reached Shinjuku, I abruptly announced that I had something to take care of there and then got off the train, leaving them behind. I swore to myself that I would never see them again, and I changed trains to get on the Sōbu Line headed away from Tokyo and toward Our Mountain.

  Waiting on the platform, I fiddled with my cell phone and noticed quite a few new messages in my “Nao” folder. Intuition told me not to open the attachments—and so I deleted them all.

  At that moment my cell phone began to vibrate. Had I received yet another message? With that dismal thought, I glanced at the display and saw that someone was calling me. The name Hitoshi Nagano appeared. As though hypnotized, I responded: “Hello?”

  “What’s going on? . . . Daiki?”

  Daiki. Yes, that sounded right—and then it didn’t. I was in no position to judge, and so I said nothing.

  “Where are you?”

  “What difference does it make?” I replied.

  “What’s wrong? You’re being awfully cold. I’m in Shinjuku. How about grabbing a bite to eat?”

 
I lied: “Can’t do it. I’m in Saitama.”

  “Nonsense—I’ll just wait for you on the Sōbu Line platform.” With that, he hung up.

  I looked around, puzzled, then felt a tap on my shoulder and found a ME in a dark suit standing next to me.

  “I’ve been here for quite some time now.”

  I wasn’t sure whether or not this was Hitoshi.

  “So you knew I was here when you called,” I guessed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Now, don’t be angry. I was just fooling around. But hey, I never thought you’d lie about being in Saitama. You were heading back to Ōkubo, weren’t you?”

  I nodded awkwardly, then mumbled, “Has Nao come back yet?”

  “Well, I was with him until a moment ago,” he replied offhandedly, “but then he went off somewhere.”

  “Then let’s call him,” I said, opening my cell phone.

  “No!” Hitoshi barked, forcing the phone shut. “Your clothes . . . Were you at a funeral?”

  I looked at myself. Yes, I had just been to a funeral. “My older sister’s family died in a murder-suicide.”

  “Really?” Hitoshi gazed up into the sky. “But she wasn’t your family.”

  I somehow knew that; I was already forgetting their faces. I looked away from Hitoshi. I wanted to forget everything, including him.

  “How about heading to the mountains?” Hitoshi was speaking close to my ear now.

  Startled, I turned back toward him. “The mountains? We’re wearing suits.”

  “Don’t be a dope! I was kidding. You’re certainly not one for jokes today, are you, Daiki?” He nudged my right shoulder. My heart was pounding. I wanted to make a dash for it.

  A voice over the loudspeaker announced the arriving train before it barreled down the track.

  “You’re really Hitoshi, you know!” he shouted over the sound of the approaching iron wheels.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. It’s all the same,” I replied.

  “Yes, you understand things quite well. And that means there’s no need for more than one of us. I’m going to split!”