“Hey!” I called out. In that instant my shoulders were pushed full force. I had foreseen this but could do nothing to prevent it. I tried to keep my balance but tripped over his leg and fell over backward, with nothing to hold on to. I glimpsed Hitoshi’s face for the last time, but he did not bother to look back: his gaze was directed elsewhere.
* * *
“You really didn’t see anything? You had no idea there was a disturbance?” The middle-aged policeman, a ME, kept repeating the same question.
“I don’t know what I don’t know. I was just waiting for the train, so . . .”
“So everyone else who was there says that it happened on the platform.”
“Says what happened?”
“It’s perfectly clear what what is!”
“I don’t know what what is.”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about? You live in Japan, don’t you?” The policeman’s contempt for me was on full display.
“If not, where am I?” I responded petulantly.
“It’s amazing that in this day and age there are still young people who don’t get it . . . I’m talking about a passenger accident. You can read all about it in the newspapers.”
“Ah, so someone was deleted?”
“So you do know something about it! Occurrence is the term we use for it nowadays. Deleted is too graphic.”
“So that’s what happened?”
“There were two young men about your age. One of them suddenly knocked the other onto the tracks. Then he jumped in front of the train coming from the opposite side.”
“I don’t know anything about that. Just when I started wondering why the train wasn’t coming, someone came along and brought me here.”
“So . . .” he glanced down at his interview notes, “Nakano-kun, you were waiting alone for the train?”
“Yes,” I said with irritation, having already given the same answer to that same question.
“Hmm . . . Nakano-kun, I think you saw what happened, but it was so trivial that you don’t remember . . .”
“Trivial?”
“Well, yes. You know, we get one or two incidents like this at every station every day, so the trains are constantly being held up. It’s a nuisance, of course. We think: Oh, not again! What a pain! But then we forget. As long as we weren’t pushed onto the tracks or didn’t push anyone else, we simply aren’t capable of keeping up with it all.”
“I suppose so . . .” Now I genuinely wondered if I had simply ignored it.
“Fine then. I’ll write this up. You witnessed the incident but didn’t see the man who ran away. That ought to make sense. All right?”
“Will that do?”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re not going to solve the matter anyway. With this kind of thing I just go through the motions of interviewing people. It’s totally meaningless. Who are we really solving these cases for anyway? Eh?” The policeman met my eyes.
Damn, I’m going to be deleted, I thought. In my state of turmoil, I jumped out of my seat.
The cop turned to a junior colleague: “Call in the next one.”
Still on my guard, I stepped out into the corridor and nearly bumped into someone. The two of us stood there glowering, just out of arm’s reach, each poised for battle.
“Hitoshi?” I blurted out.
“Eh, Hitoshi!” the ME said back to me. He was dressed for a funeral.
“You’re Hitoshi,” I said.
“Nah, you’re Hitoshi.”
We continued to glare at each other. I knew that neither of us was lying and sensed that he did as well.
“All right then, whatever,” he said, taking the initiative, and turned away.
“Right,” I agreed. It made no difference which of us was Hitoshi, since both of us were MEs.
“You were there too? Did you see it—the incident? It seems I did, though I don’t remember.”
“I don’t either.”
“The dumb cop won’t let go . . . Say, why are you dressed like that? Going to a funeral?”
He glanced down at his clothes. “Well . . .”
“When it’s over, how about getting a bite to eat?”
I had to put on a show of friendliness for fear that otherwise that might happen, but immediately regretted the invitation—I was in no mood to endure having dinner with him.
Fortunately, he replied: “No thanks, I’m a bit tired.” We were both off the hook.
“Okay,” I said, turning to go, “see you around.”
“Yeah, goodbye then,” he said and was gone.
A flood of relief swept over me. Since when had I become this terrified of fellow MEs? The thought weighed me down as I walked out of the police station.
Night had fallen some time ago. Feeling cold, I buttoned up my suit coat. All around me the lights from high-rises were sparkling. Soon I reached the west exit of Shinjuku Station.
And there I found myself stuck. Where should I be going? I didn’t know where home was.
I fumbled in my jacket pocket. My wallet and cell phone were gone; all I had was a bank envelope. A thick envelope. I surreptitiously checked the contents under the cover of my coat: a wad of 10,000-yen notes, maybe sixty-five or seventy of them. I felt utterly bewildered, as though bewitched.
Plunging a hand into my pants pockets, I came upon a handkerchief, gum, and a pocket knife—the Victorinox Swiss Army Knife. Gripping the knife, I felt a measure of relief.
Beneath the bright neon lights numerous MEs, liberated from their day’s work, were coming and going. The crowd was boisterous, some perhaps already drunk. Amid the din of cars and music, I inhaled the smell of food and grew hungry. I caught sight of a McDonald’s and went in, gripping my knife tightly.
I took my Big Mac, salad, and oolong tea upstairs, searched for an empty seat, surveyed the floor, and found that seven of the ten customers there were MEs. Although they were not looking directly in my direction, I could sense their awareness of me.
I wanted to reach for the knife in my pocket but both my hands were holding the tray. Suppressing the impulse to act, I kept my eye out for an empty seat, and then slowly, quietly, warily walked forward.
“Hey there, Miyama?” a ME called out amiably and waved. I did not know him, but following his lead, I cheerfully replied, “Hello there. What a coincidence! So what are you doing here?”
“Nothing in particular. There’s an empty seat here,” he said, pointing across from where he was sitting.
“Sorry,” I replied, raising my pinkie, “I’ve got a date. But I’ll be in touch.” I then moved on.
I suddenly understood his gesture perfectly: I had done the same thing at the police station in going against my own wishes by inviting a ME to join me for something to eat. One became absurdly friendly, hoping to alleviate the unbearable strain. In this situation, the MEs filling the McDonald’s could understand each other’s feelings as their own and thus keep themselves in check, sitting at regular and discrete intervals.
I sat down in the middle of the room, where I could watch the ceaseless flow of customers. When someone new came in, those MEs sitting near the stairs or the hallway would periodically call out with forced familiarity: “Oh, it’s nice to see you here!” or, “What happened? You’re late.”
As I accustomed myself to this strange rhythm, constantly alternating between fear and reassurance, I wondered why, if they were all so afraid of that—the unutterable—they had packed themselves into this particular establishment. It was all an act: to avoid goading each other on, they called out to total strangers, albeit fellow MEs, as though they were friends. There was no joy in seeing their hardened faces. I could understand why I was here, having no other place to go to, but these others . . .
And then I understood: the other MEs were no different from me, or rather, we were all the same. Like me, they didn’t know where to go and were unsure of their identity, so that when they thought of fortifying themselves with a meal, they would head for the nearest suitable rest
aurant, which naturally meant choosing a place already familiar to them: McDonald’s. Unwilling to have their helplessness exposed, they appeared desperate to bury themselves in quotidian concerns. In their respective pockets they concealed weapons for self-defense—knives, blunt instruments, pepper spray—and were prepared to use them at any moment. I was the same, now munching on a Big Mac.
Yet even though we were all armed, no one would actually launch an attack. Among us MEs, none wished to stand out from the crowd. Sensing each other’s thoughts and feelings, we knew that whoever acted first would be the loser. While we all longed to break the tension, no one wanted to pull the trigger, for that would only turn the ME into a scapegoat, to be immediately deleted by the entire group.
On the surface, there was nothing out of the ordinary, another uneventful evening in a McDonald’s like any other. I finished my hamburger and salad, but lingered over my tea. Lacking a Walkman, cell phone, or paperback book to keep me occupied, and not knowing where to direct my gaze, I stared at the floor and read the advertisement on the paper lining of my tray over and over. I soon felt the urge to go to the restroom—I knew I should go quickly, in a calm and inconspicuous manner. But if the facility was already in use and I had to wait in front of the door, I might find myself in danger.
This is the sort of foolishness I focused my mind upon to avoid confronting the severity of my situation.
* * *
I was saved by an intervention from outside. From across the street came what sounded like an explosion, followed by shrieks and cries throughout the restaurant. The air inside the McDonald’s grew thick. Customers near the window facing the street got up and went to look, calling out in agitated voices. Others, no longer concerned about brushing up against fellow patrons, trotted toward the stairs. Those near the stairs followed suit and began to flee, and a moment later everyone else had joined the stampede.
Blood rising to my head, I too felt the urge to make a dash for it, but I feared getting caught in the tangle of people and instead ran to the restroom, where I leisurely relieved myself.
The toilet stall was the safest place I could be, and I would have happily remained there for eternity.
The wail of sirens grew closer. I didn’t know what had happened and didn’t want to know, but clearly I was not safe where I was. I left the restroom and scampered down the now-empty stairs. There was no one at the register or in the kitchen.
I went outside. Glancing about, I quickly determined the direction with the fewest people and then ran that way, endeavoring to avoid everyone and everything. And yet since WE were all thinking the same way, their numbers did not diminish no matter which way I went.
Eventually I found myself in a residential area that I vaguely recognized, my hand gripping the knife in my pocket. As I twisted through the narrow streets, the number of passersby diminished, much as I had hoped. I decided to slow my pace and began to walk to avoid attracting attention. Upon glimpsing an old, two-story, wooden apartment building, I began to tremble, overcome by a strange feeling: I sensed that I had somehow stumbled into a neighborhood in which I had once lived as a child.
Hearing the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps behind me, I began to run again, causing someone walking well ahead of me to turn around and, apparently seized by a similar terror, take off at a furious pace.
I had set off a chain reaction, and this would not do. If I slowed down or stopped from sheer exhaustion, I would be finished, and if I failed to come up with a more audacious strategy, someone would get me. But was I, in fact, being pursued? No, no, I shouldn’t be thinking like this. The possibility was still there, of course, and to relax my guard might well prove to be fatal.
I made up my mind: I would take refuge in the two-story wood-and-plaster apartment building I seemed to remember. If the door was locked, I would make a run for it. There was no room for hesitation, for I was, after all, dealing with a ME; I would either sink or swim.
I carefully wound my way through several alleyways, relying on instinct. Suddenly, I froze in front of the door to the apartment. Before I could act, someone yanked it open from inside. I tried to pull it back but it was too late. I now saw a man well on in years, a ME, staring wide-eyed in confusion. His mouth gaped open, but no words came out. Terrified, I fumbled for my knife.
But then the man spoke. “What? It’s you, Hiroshi!” he said, a look of astonishment still on his face.
I flinched as he nudged my shoulder lightly.
“Well, well, at least you’re home safe and sound. We were afraid you’d been caught up in it. I was about to go out searching for you.” The expression on his face softened as he moved to the back of the room.
“Hey, honey, Hiroshi’s back!” he called out.
“No need to exaggerate,” I replied with forced familiarity, stealthily fingering my knife.
“I’m not exaggerating. Say, you’re out of breath. You’ve been running, haven’t you? Were you caught up in the explosion?”
“Yes, sort of, but—”
“Indeed, indeed . . . Well, anyway, come on in.” He waited for me to take off my shoes.
My gut feeling was that what he was saying was close to being real. Perhaps, in imminent danger of being deleted by Mother, he had been on the verge of fleeing—and by bursting in, I had altered the situation.
My ME mother came out to greet me, wiping away tears as she exclaimed: “It’s so dreadful!” Her voice trembled, then she laughed. “It’s so good that you’re back safe and sound!”
“But of course,” I replied, playing dumb. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“This is good timing. Your mother was being ridiculously persistent, going on about how you must have been caught up in that. I kept telling her that she had it all wrong, and that if something had happened, we would have heard from the police. But she couldn’t be persuaded. And that’s why I decided to go out and have a look for myself.”
“You could have reached me on my cell phone.”
“I tried to. A bunch of times,” Mother said. “But you didn’t answer, and so I grew afraid something might have happened, and then I became genuinely agitated thinking that you might have been caught up in that nasty business that’s been so prevalent lately.”
“That’s weird,” I said, theatrically fumbling through my pockets. “This is bad. I must have dropped it somewhere.”
“Then you’d better suspend your service right away,” the man suggested.
“But please don’t go looking for it. It’s dangerous out there,” Mother chimed in.
“I won’t.”
We were all talking quite seriously, even though the three of us knew that it was nothing but a pack of lies. This lady didn’t know my number, and I was pretending that I had dropped the phone. The truth was that they wanted me to leave, even as they suggested the opposite. We were each putting in first-rate performances in this little farce of ours. And yet I had the nagging sense that these two were indeed my mother and father—they somehow had the feel of my real parents. Since we were all MEs, anyone could play those roles.
“It’s amazing,” exclaimed the woman. “There’s no way of knowing where or when one will run up against it—whatever it is. Just the other day . . . Do you know Onishi-san?”
I shook my head.
“Didn’t I tell you? Onishi-san lost her life to it . . . I went to the funeral . . . The very idea that someone could be robbed of life in such a way is quite unbearable.” She was speaking softly now. “She had just become a grandmother. Whenever I met her, all she talked about was her grandchild. It was a bit annoying, but still . . .”
I couldn’t help but feel wary as she told this story.
“She and her daughter became totally absorbed in taking care of the child, so much so that her husband grew jealous. And that in turn angered Onishi-san, who railed that she had cared for him long enough and that it was time for him to stand on his own two feet. They had a terrible fight, which ended in her winning a divorce.
She was going around boasting that her real life had at last begun, when it happened.”
As much as I wanted to ask whether it referred to something her ex-husband had carried out, I could not, for I had the feeling that all this talk about Onishi-san was really about herself, and that she was making her husband listen to it.
“Oh, how terrible it is that the world doesn’t give one a moment’s peace of mind,” I remarked.
“Whether inside or outside, danger is constantly lurking,” her husband muttered to himself.
“Yes indeed,” I said. “But if this is all we think and talk about, we’ll be in constant agony, worrying about when and where they’re going to get us. We’ll convince ourselves that as long as we’re bound to meet some absurd fate, we might as well take the initiative and go after the source of the danger—and then wind up totally confused about what to do. It’s better not to dwell on the matter.”
“Yes, yes, it’s like . . . what do you call it? Something about flying? A start? When the pistol doesn’t go off, and you can’t stand waiting any longer and you go tearing off . . .”
“Ah, Father, you’ve said it so well!”
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask . . . aren’t you going to get married? I’m just at the right age to become a grandmother, don’t you think?”
This was, as I had guessed, exactly where the conversation would go. Ever since hearing about Onishi-san’s grandchild, I had been able to predict the path of the conversation precisely because she was a ME, and I could see right through her.
“I’m all right the way I am now. Besides, I’m not exactly a hot commodity.”
“What? Don’t you have what it takes?” She sighed. “Humans are like that. They keep sticking to the nest, leaning on others. You’ve got to become more serious and find someone who will pull you away from here.”
“So I can get married and wind up like that Onishi-san? Do you seriously think I’d be better off with a wife? Are you honestly telling me that I should do what you and Onishi-san wound up regretting?”
“What are you saying?” She gave me a terribly cold look.
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