I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like

by Isis, Justin

  —Me too, Tatsuya said.

  They looked around for a while and eventually decided on a Chinese restaurant in Little Hong Kong.

  —It looks kind of expensive, Tatsuya said.

  —So what? Miyuki said. If you’re really worried, I’ll pay.

  Inside, they ordered corn soup and a plate of spring rolls. Tatsuya decided on roast duck; Miyuki went with fried rice. Masa said he wasn’t hungry.

  —I love this soup, Miyuki said. I get it every time I eat Chinese.

  She leaned back in her seat and sipped from a glass of water. Tatsuya looked around the room, taking in the businessmen and couples seated at the tables. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a real restaurant.

  —So what do you guys usually do? Miyuki said.

  —What do you mean? Tatsuya said.

  —When you’re free, I mean.

  —I don’t know, just hang out, pretty much.

  —You should tell her about your philosophical treatise, Masa said.

  She looked at him.

  —Oh, what’s that?

  —No, it’s nothing, really, Tatsuya said.

  —Come on, tell me.

  —It’s going to sound really stupid if I say it out loud.

  She smiled.

  —Come on, you’ve brought it up, you gotta tell me now.

  —I’m writing this philosophical treatise...

  He stopped.

  —No, I don’t know... I can’t talk about it.

  —Go on, she said.

  He paused, then spoke very quickly.

  —It’s a philosophical treatise opposing the value of human life.

  The words hung in the air, heavy and lifeless. He had always hated talking about the treatise, and now wanted to kill Masa for mentioning it.

  —What? So what’s it about?

  —I don’t know, I just think that... I just feel like it’d be better if we’d never been born.

  She was looking at him quite seriously, he thought: nodding slowly, as if following the thread of an argument.

  —But you don’t really believe that, right?

  —I don’t know.

  She sat up.

  —You should write something with a happy ending. Have you read anything by Kaori Ekuni? I really like her.

  —Well, I mean... I mean I’m not really a real writer or anything...

  After that the main dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to other topics: soccer, travel, music, recent films. Tatsuya and Masa sat listening, only rarely offering their opinions. Neither of them wanted to say too much about their lives, which meant that Miyuki kept talking. Tatsuya sensed she wasn’t usually the type of person who rambled on about herself, but she seemed comfortable, certainly more than before, and so he fed her questions, asking about her family, job, plans for the future. His earlier fears proved unfounded, as Masa didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary. Instead he sat, mostly silent, sipping his tea and chewing on a spring roll.

  —I’m getting full, Miyuki said at last, pushing aside her plate. I don’t think I can finish this.

  —Don’t worry about it, Tatsuya said.

  —Do you guys want to do any other shopping or anything?

  —Not really, Masa said.

  —I just thought, while we’re here...

  —You can, if you want, Tatsuya said.

  —Well, why don’t we go on the ferris wheel?

  Neither of them objected, and after paying the bill they left the building and made their way back along the path. The top of the wheel became visible long before they reached it, the colored neon lights across its beams glittering sharply in the dark. Tatsuya remembered reading somewhere that it was the largest ferris wheel in the world. After waiting in line for fifteen minutes they paid the fare and climbed into one of the transparent glass cars. As the machine started Miyuki moved close to the side and looked out.

  —Are you guys scared? she asked.

  —Not really, Tatsuya said. How about you?

  —No, I love anything like this. Especially roller-coasters.

  —Can’t do them, Tatsuya said.

  —Me either, Masa said. This is enough for me.

  Tatsuya felt the car move forward and rise up gently. At first he could see the lights of the bay ahead of them, then the whole outline of the island became clear, the ring of buildings surrounded by waves, distant silver-black ripples. As the car rose higher it seemed as if it would separate from the wheel altogether and float off into the sky.

  —We’re right at the top now, Masa said.

  —Yeah, it’s amazing, Miyuki said. I like how pretty everything looks from up here. I mean, that must be Shimbashi somewhere over there, right? It’s so ugly when you’re there, but from here it looks like a big crystal.

  They fell silent. As the car moved towards the ground again Tatsuya closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing. He felt very relaxed: the tiny car reminded him, in a way, of his room. And although Masa and Miyuki were there with him he felt no pressure to do anything. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw Miyuki leaning back in the seat next to him. Her eyelids were lowered, her mouth open a crack. She looked tired, he thought: for her, the day must have been exhausting. Afraid she would fall asleep, he tapped her arm lightly. She shifted and her leg touched his.

  —Are you having a good time? she said.

  —Yeah, he said. You?

  —Yeah.

  She spoke the last word slowly, with no particular emphasis.

  The car came to a stop, and soon the attendant was opening the door and hurrying them out. They left the Palette Town area and walked back towards the bay.

  —You want to shop now? Masa asked.

  —No, Miyuki said.

  —Then what do you want to do?

  —Drinking.

  —Again?

  —Yeah.

  They followed her as she inspected several bars along the waterfront. Most of them she dismissed as being too crowded, or ugly, or expensive. Eventually she decided on a small pub next to a noodle shop. There were only a few patrons: a table of businessmen, a group of foreigners, two old men by the window. They sat at the bar and Miyuki ordered a pint of Kirin.

  —You guys should really drink, she said.

  Tatsuya looked out the window. From here he could see the bay, and past it the long expanse of Rainbow Bridge winding out towards Tokyo. He tried to remember the last time he’d been to Odaiba — probably it had been on a school trip years ago.

  He looked around. Masa was playing with his mobile phone, adjusting the volume setting. Next to him, Miyuki lifted up her beer and drank. He could hear the voices of the foreigners from the other end of the bar, laughing at a joke in English. He took a menu from behind the counter and flipped through it, scanning the names of drinks. Miyuki finished her beer and ordered another.

  After an hour, Masa stood.

  —Well, I’m going back, he said. My last train’s in fifteen minutes.

  Tatsuya stood.

  —I’ll come with you.

  Miyuki got up and came over to him.

  —Stay with me, she said. My last train isn’t for another hour.

  Tatsuya turned to her, then looked at Masa, hoping he would say something.

  —I think I’ve gotta head back, he said. I mean, it’s kind of late...

  —Stay with me until the last train, Miyuki said again. Her eyelids were half-closed, and she seemed tired, or sad, or both: he couldn’t tell.

  He turned to Masa again but his face was blank; there was no sign he understood his friend’s appeal. Tatsuya suddenly felt a great distance between them — he had, he realized, no idea what Masa was thinking.

  —Just stay with her, Masa said at last. It’s not that long.

  Finally he seemed to sense Tatsuya’s hesitation, and stepped forward.

  —I’ll send you the first draft of the report tomorrow. You can tell me if I left anything out.

  Tatsuya l
ooked at Miyuki, who barely seemed to be listening. Instead she stared past them out the door, slowly rocking back and forth.

  —All right, he said. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.

  Masa nodded at him and left. Tatsuya turned back to Miyuki, who was already walking back to the bar. She ordered another beer and looked across the room, through the window to the lights of the bay. He sat next to her.

  —Are you still thinking about, uh...

  She turned to him.

  —Yeah. But, don’t worry.

  She started in on her beer. He looked around. The bar had emptied out — the only other customers were the two old men by the window. Next to him, Miyuki slumped forward and rested her elbows on the counter.

  —My little sister’s really weird, she said. I think she’s autistic or something. She’s in Kobe now, but... when she was little she never really talked to anyone, she’d just sit there watching TV or listening to her music. Then when she got to high school she started going out all the time and didn’t come home until early in the morning. We thought she was out with friends but I never saw her with anyone else, and when I asked her she said she just went places alone and sat there. She’d go to a mall and just sit on a bench outside for five hours. Or she’d go to a restaurant and sit down and not order anything and just stay there until someone asked her to leave. Oh, and Inokashira Park, she used to go there too. I always tried to get her to tell me about it and she just looked at me and didn’t say anything. And she’d wear the same clothes like five days in a row — she had this one red sweatshirt she wore every single day.

  As he listened to her speak he looked at the opposite window, and it was not until he turned his head that he saw she was looking at him. He looked back, saying nothing. After a pause she spoke again:

  —Yeah... my sister’s weird.

  She looked into his eyes, not smiling. Her expression was vaguely expectant, but what it expected he couldn’t tell. It was not an expression he had seen before. He looked away, and after a while he sensed her head lolling forward. When he turned back he saw her resting her head on the table, beneath her folded arms.

  Another half hour passed in silence.

  At the sound of the bartender moving about by the register, he looked up. The men by the window were leaving. Tatsuya looked at his watch; it was close to midnight.

  —Hey. I think we have to go.

  He tapped her shoulder. After a moment she stirred and sat up.

  —Uh?

  —It’s closing. I think your last train comes soon.

  She got off the seat. He waited while she put on her coat, and then they left the bar and walked along the path, past the shops, back to the station. The waterfront was almost empty; only a few couples in winter coats and long scarves lingered by the beach. When they got to the station she bought a ticket and he loaned her a hundred yen coin — all she had left was a thousand yen note. As they approached the gate she turned to him.

  —Thanks for staying with me, she said. I had a really good time today.

  Before he could say anything she took a thin silver cell phone from her coat.

  —I’ll give you my number, okay? We should be friends.

  Tatsuya took out his own phone, one he’d bought two years ago. It was a clunky black model from Vodaphone with no internet or camera. The only names in the address book were Masa and his family.

  —Here, I’ll put it in.

  She took the phone and typed in a number. For a moment they stood in silence.

  —Well, I’ll see you later, she said, turning at last to the gate. Tatsuya waved as she moved towards the platform. Then he turned and went to catch his train.

  He only had to wait a few minutes. The train was almost empty; he took a seat by the door and rested against the railing. He would have to keep himself awake, he thought; if he slept and missed his stop, the taxi fare would empty his wallet. So he looked out the opposite window as the lights of Odaiba rushed by. Past the glow of the buildings, he could see the dark curve of the ferris wheel, and further out, the faint shimmer of the bay. Against the horizon Odaiba seemed like a different world, a tiny kingdom of its own; and as the train moved further away it all seemed to be fading, vanishing into the night.

  By the time he reached Shimbashi it was already early morning. He caught the local line to his station, and as he walked home he wondered whether his mother had left his dinner out for him. He’d eaten a lot at the Chinese restaurant, but that had been hours ago, and now he was hungry again. He supposed it was the hour: usually he went to sleep at eleven and woke up early.

  At home he knocked once, and receiving no response, took out his key and opened the door. Inside, the lights were out. He went to the kitchen, found a plate of pasta and ate it sitting at the table. The latest volume of the treatise was still where he’d left it in the morning. He thought about writing some more, but decided against it. He was too tired.

  He opened the door to his room and looked in. He would have to clean it soon, he thought: to get to the bed he needed to navigate through a sprawl of books, papers, magazines; in one corner, close to the closet, was an enormous heap of clothes. The closet itself was close to overflowing, and it had been weeks since he’d vacuumed. Stepping over the garbage on the floor, he made it to the bed and smoothed out his pillow. Then he took out his phone and looked down at it for a while, flipping it open and closed, turning it over in his hands.

  A patch of wall close to the door caught his eye. It was lighter than the space surrounding it, and he saw that a photograph he’d taped to the wall had fallen down. He would begin there, he thought: in the morning he would retape the photograph, and then he would clean the entire room. But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew it would never happen. At the most he would clear off the top of the desk and give up when it became too much. In truth he didn’t know where to start. And the more he put it off, the more difficult it became.

  In his hand the phone’s cover was flipped up, the screen open to the main menu. He stared at it for a long time. Then he scrolled through to the address book and deleted her number from the registry.

  •

  Masa caught the last train home and stopped at McDonald’s for his dinner. He bought two cheeseburgers and a Coke and walked back to the apartment he shared with his brother. As he stepped inside he saw a note lying on the table: his brother was out. He was alone.

  He started up his computer and turned on his music. The last few hours were dissolving in his mind, his memories curling into vague clouds, all soon to evaporate. His attention had already turned back to the report, and while he hadn’t decided where he would post it yet, fragments of it were assembling themselves in his mind. He jotted down a brief outline, beginning with the discovery of the photographer. He had been, he thought, almost like a detective. He smiled.

  He checked his e-mail, browsed the forums, and started a number of new downloads. A friend messaged him on MSN:

  —Did you get the new Ayaya?

  —No.

  He remembered. Ayaya — Aya Matsuura — had just released a new single a few days ago. He’d meant to download it, but the scandal had distracted him.

  —It’s called “Suna wo Kamu You ni... NAMIDA”. I can send you it, it’s pretty good.

  He clicked the link, and was soon listening to a morose ballad about lost love and “tears just like rain.” It was not an especially distinguished song, he decided, but as he looked at the album art he found himself moved. Matsuura’s face called up a memory from some years ago, one of his favorite memories, well-tended and almost caricatured through constant replaying. He did not always think of it when he looked at her, but the angle of her face in the photograph brought back the day when he had gone to the handshake event in Shibuya.

  This was a routine event, arranged for the promotion of a new album: Matsuura would appear in a record store for an hour to meet and shake hands with fans. Masa had arranged the trip days in advance, arriving early to get as c
lose to the stage as possible. Even so, he was surprised at the turnout — although he should have expected it, he told himself. Matsuura was one of the most popular idols in Japan; he saw her face constantly on posters, signs, advertisements; she was less a person than an element of design. Her other aspects came after her, as if trailing from a distance: her voice, played constantly in malls, arcades, shopping centers; her body, framed in magazines and music specials; and then her own thoughts, serene and unknowable, like a flower folded in on itself. She was at once idol, voice and concept, a beauty existing in every dimension while still remaining whole.

  He moved forward as the line grew behind him. The floor had opened, and as Matsuura walked out amidst the clicking of camera shutters, Masa pressed ahead to the foot of the stage. At first he was surprised at her height; he had not expected to be taller than her. He was afraid he would be disappointed — that the reality of Ayaya would not match his ideal. He had been to these events before and had learned to relax his expectations. Most models, most idols, had contrived faces with fixed smiles and eyes like opaque glass. A kind of muted hysteria seemed frozen in their features as they greeted all alike: insistent children with pawing hands, bored businessmen seeking souvenirs, pock-faced fans with enormous cameras. All too often the event, intended to provide closeness, only reinforced the distance, the idol growing ever more remote, more unknowable, masked by her own practiced civility. And so it didn’t do to hope for too much: sometimes the poster was better.

  The line began to move. He studied her face as the session started. Seen in the flesh, it seemed to cast off its old associations, to be born again, the face of a young girl: beautiful, but then there was nothing extraordinary about that. What made her stand out, he thought, was that standing before him she seemed utterly ordinary, and yet alive, present, and so young. 1986 — that was her birth-year. He remembered 1986. What had he been doing when she was born? Sitting in class, perhaps, staring out the window. Looking at her and thinking of the past, he fell into a kind of trance. But then the line pushed him up the stairs, and he stepped onto the stage.

  Probably Aya Matsuura had never known any real suffering; probably no one in her life had humiliated her, spat on her, told her she was ugly. Loved by millions from a young age, she would always have friends, lovers, money. There were people like that too, he thought. So there was no reason for her to be genuine, no reason for her to care apart from formality. But he saw nothing insincere in her eyes as he walked towards her. She took his hand calmly, smiled, and then turned to the side as a photograph was taken. Through it all he kept his attention focused on her smile, which was not the plastic grin he had come to expect, but a restrained smile, calm and gracious. Then it was over: he stepped down from the stage: she waved again to the crowd as the line moved forward.