by Isis, Justin
—She’s really disgusting, he heard Saya say.
Whenever a girl they disliked came through the door, they remarked on the sloppiness of her uniform, the cheapness of her haircut, or the awkward manner of her walk. Park caught only fragments of the conversation; Tomo was telling him about the clubs he’d investigated. He wanted to know whether Park was interested in attending the Photography Circle meeting with him. When Park ignored him, he said:
—Well, I mean I guess I won’t go either then.
—You should go if you’re interested, Park said.
—No, I’m not that interested either, but. I just thought it might be worth checking out. Anyway, yeah, are you going to the archery thing with Kikuko?
—No.
Park closed his lunchbox.
—Why were you with her anyway?
—She just met me at the station. She was telling me about how she went to this group meeting about whales becoming extinct, whales being overhunted.
—Don’t encourage her, don’t reply to her messages.
—I wasn’t encouraging her, she just showed up.
Park stood. As he made for the door, Saya said:
—Are you guys leaving?
—Yeah.
Mutsumi’s eyes widened in comic sorrow.
—Why, do you have class now?
—Yeah, Park said.
His next class wasn’t for half an hour.
—Which one?
—English History with Fukaya.
—Oh, I had that. He’s really boring. You should stay here and hang out with us.
—I will next time.
They waved at him as he left. In the corridor he agreed to meet Tomo the next night, then walked to a study hall on the second floor, anxious to be alone. After a few minutes he sent a message to Kikuko, telling her he had to work and couldn’t meet her. Then he rested his head on the table and stared out the window, rolling a pen across the table with his palm. He replayed the last half hour in his head, imagining Saya and Mutsumi chewing on Tomo’s flesh, undressing him with knives, tearing off his penis with their teeth, sitting on either side of him so that the table rocked like a seesaw, each movement bringing one of their mouths to his neck, his chest, his groin; their makeup running with spit and come, a lacework of blood in their hair—
From the desk he could see the tops of the trees that surrounded Hanazono, their branches now in flower.
•
He walked to the station alone and pushed his way through the queue: his mother expected him at the florist by five. Soon the express train arrived and emptied, and the crowd pushed forward. Park held onto the overhead bar and looked at the seated passengers, preparing to move every time the train stopped. Finally a woman by the door stood up as they approached Shibuya. Park edged into her seat and took a book from his bag: a thick paperback, its title obscured by the heavy tape holding the cover in place. Flipping to one of the bookmarks, he opened to the Gospel of John.
Ragged from its years of use, Park’s Bible had become unreadable to anyone but him. Its margins were crowded with annotations and cross-references, his favorite passages circled in pen. Elsewhere, entire pages had been crossed off or torn out, discarded as irrelevant. Park had carried it with him for five years, reading nothing else. He regarded fiction as tepid and protracted, and nonfiction as a transparent lie, since a word and its object could never meet, not even in a dream. Only the Bible gave him any comfort. In particular, it seemed pointless to him to draw any morality from the pages of that tattered catalogue of murders. All that mattered were the passions of ancient women steeped in blood and idols: Delilah and eyeless Samson, Judith slaying the Assyrian in his bed, Salome who danced for the Baptist’s head. Then there was the death of Judas — recounted in Matthew as a hanging and again in Acts as a fall. This lonely, ambiguous death had a special dignity and beauty; it seemed to encompass a kind of infinity for which he couldn’t find words. Again he imagined Judas hanging himself in the Potter’s Field, and in another part of his mind, the fall and its broken flesh. The juxtaposition of the two — Judas’s snapped neck and ruptured organs — seemed far in excess of Christ’s miserable death.
He looked up as a group of Hanazono students entered from the adjacent car. As they huddled together by the door, he recognized one of them as the girl from his homeroom. He looked down and pretended to keep reading, examining her from the side whenever she wasn’t looking. From his seat, he could see her long, thin fingers and the smooth curves of her wrists. He overheard her name as Shiho.
One of the other girls noticed him and he stared past her out the window, reconstructing her features in his mind, drawing the lines of her face to their conclusions. He imagined the weight of ten, twenty, then thirty years piled on her: flesh sagging, hair thinning, weariness dulling her eyes. Time taut against her flesh like an invisible insulation. Tiny fragments of her shearing away even as the seconds advanced on his watch, slices of her youth and beauty discarded like pared nails.
He heard Shiho laugh: a loud, careless sound, her voice naturally deep and clear. He studied her face, his mind rushing to dismantle it, but as he let himself relax — tracing her movements, the way she carried her shoulders, the corners of her lips, her small, gently curving nose — he saw only a perfect unity and symmetry. Unlike the others, there was no entrance to her, nothing to suggest a weakness: her beauty was unassailable. Looking at her he felt stilled and suspended, emptied of hope. He wanted to see what absolute contempt would look like carved on her features — the detachment of it, all empathy gone. How could he get her to hate him?
The next stop was approaching... he shoved the Bible into his bag and leaned over the edge of the seat. When one of the girls turned her head in his direction, he raised his arm and gestured to her. The girl assumed he was motioning to someone else; when Shiho noticed him he caught her attention and waved her over. She stood hesitating, but he repeated the gesture until she exchanged a look with her friends and walked over by herself. As she approached he looked up and fixed his eyes on hers.
—Hey, he said. You’re in my homeroom, right.
She looked at him.
—Do you want to go out somewhere, if you’re free.
He waited for her face to harden against him, for her eyes to freeze in hate like the sun.
Instead she said:
—Who are you?
There was no tension in her voice, no resistance. She looked bored, slightly worried.
—I’m Park Seok-Hwan, he said. I’m in your homeroom... we go to Hanazono together.
Before he could say anything else one of her friends called her name as their stop came and she backed away to the door. He watched her join the crowd on the platform, remembering his glimpse of her fingernails. In the light of the train they had seemed almost transparent. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rails until the voice called his station.
When he reached the store he found that his mother had already left. As he entered, Mrs. Matsukawa came out from behind the counter.
—Good, you’re here. I have to pick up my daughter, can you manage until seven?
Park nodded as she left and began to adjust one of the flower arrangements in the window. When Park’s father had died, his mother had used the insurance money to open the florist with Mrs. Matsukawa. The venture had paid off, almost entirely because of Sujung’s diligence. She managed her account book scrupulously and promoted the business herself, often taking out ads in the paper. Park filled in for her every week night, tending the counter until she returned at ten to do the day’s balance.
He looked up as he heard the door again. A woman in white boots and a royal blue scarf had just entered, carrying a small black handbag. He recognized Junko immediately, although it was the first time he could recall that she’d come to the store.
—I thought I might find you here, she said, and smiled.
Park smiled back. Because of his frequent presence at her house, Junko’s attitude towards him had
softened since their first meeting. She liked him more now — or pretended to for Tomo’s sake. But since they were alone, he took her smile as genuine.
—Anything I can help you with?
She walked to the counter and picked up one of the brochures.
—My niece is getting married and I can’t make it to the wedding, but I’d like to send them something anyway.
Park handed her a different brochure.
—You could get something in here, he said. But I’d go somewhere else. Go to Ikebukuro, there’s a florist there that’s a lot cheaper I think.
—I’d have thought flowers would be the same price anywhere, if they’re seasonal.
—No, it doesn’t work like that.
She flipped through and pointed to a bouquet on the second page.
—Anyway, I’ll take this.
He handed her a yellow sheet and a pen.
—All right, fill this out.
As she wrote he stared at her hands, her carefully painted red nails. He said:
—Isn’t Tomo’s birthday coming up soon?
—Yes, the 24th.
—Are you going to have a party or anything?
—I imagined his friends would take care of that.
By this Park knew she was referring to him, since Tomo had no other friends.
—I was thinking about it... do you want to go shopping together?
She looked up.
—For a present, I mean. I don’t really know what to get him.
She finished with the paper and handed it back to him.
—I can make time on Saturday, she said.
—What are you going to tell Tomo, though? I mean he usually tries to meet me on the weekend... but I think he’s joining this club that has a meeting, then. I don’t know yet.
She took her bag from the counter.
—Well, anyway, stay in touch.
He watched her leave.
A few other customers came in over the next several hours, but mostly he had the shop to himself. Soon he thought of Shiho, remembering the curve of her shoulders and the sound of her laughter. Then, bored, he began to look for symbolism in her name. The first kanji, will, struck him as a brief flash of her self... the character seemed to flare in his mind like fireworks erupting in a clear night sky. Never before had he thought of a name so intently.
The sound of the door made him look up. Expecting a customer, he was surprised to see his mother walking towards him. Already five hours had passed.
—I see you changed the displays, Sujung said.
—Yes.
Park stepped aside to let her behind the counter.
—Well, and how was school? I bumped into Mrs. Kurota today, she’s always asking after you. She said that Reiko has just gotten a new job. We’ll have to go to dinner with them some time, I’ve been putting it off for ages.
She inspected the day’s sales receipts and helped Park close up the shop. The two of them walked to the station together and caught the train, changing over at Shibuya. As he watched his mother navigate the crowd, how she rose sharply from her seat and pushed through the ticket gate, he felt exhaustion and disgust rising in his mind. Her industriousness, proud bearing and neat dress only made her seem all the more absurd and grotesque. She was like an ant scrabbling up the side of a glass jar only to fall back to the bottom. Since he had every intention of abandoning her, he knew that her efforts would come to nothing, that each passing year would only mock her failure to join her husband in death. He pressed close to her in the crowd and imagined time caressing her, wearing away her cells, sculpting her into a crone — although even this wasn’t enough, he decided; nothing would be enough.
He took out his phone and sent a message to Mutsumi.
•
On Friday he received a call from Kikuko, who had suffered an unspecified humiliation in the bathroom from a group of older girls. In tears, she asked to see him, wherever he was. He looked up from his lunchbox and mentioned the assignment due next period — wouldn’t it be possible to meet her after school, when he was less busy? He could barely discern her response, her voice garbled by tears.
—Who was that? Mutsumi said.
—One of my friends.
—Oh.
She turned back to Saya, bored. Park started writing a message to Tomo, explaining why he couldn’t meet him the next day. Earlier, he’d called Junko and discussed possible presents for Tomo’s birthday. They’d decided on a new set of paints, a hobby Tomo had mentioned to him several times and which he’d dismissed as a passing interest. But according to Junko, Tomo practiced every night, secluding himself in his room.
He looked up as Kikuko came through the door, her face red, hair tangled. She stood staring at him for a moment; then, as she scanned the table, her eyes seemed to swell closed, a little cry coming from her open mouth. Shaking her head, fresh tears running from her eyes, she pushed her way back through the crowd and vanished into the hall.
—Was that girl really your friend? Mutsumi said.
—What?
—That little fat girl just now. Or was it someone else who called you.
—I went to the same junior high as her.
Mutsumi frowned.
—Well, she was being a little whore. And she’s just a first-year.
She looked over at Saya for confirmation. The other girl nodded, eyes solemn.
Park closed his lunchbox and placed his chopsticks back in their slot. He thought of asking what they’d done to Kikuko and decided against it. Not knowing made Mutsumi seem more interesting.
After class they went to her house in Kanagawa. She took his hand as they walked along the street, and he followed her up the steps to the room she shared with her aunt. He was surprised to find the interior fastidiously clean, even sterile.
—Get something to drink, help yourself, she said.
He went to the kitchen and got out two glasses for them. When he came back Mutsumi was watching television. He took her hand and pressed a small parcel into it.
—Is this for me?
Immediately she set to unwrapping it, first tearing the paper like a child, then opening the plastic case containing the silver hair clip taken from Sujung’s nightstand.
—What is this, is this an antique?
She looked about to cry. He was surprised. He looked at her. She turned the clip over in her hands, and without waiting for an answer she embraced him. As he leaned forward she pressed her lips to his neck. The kiss ended in a bite, and he pushed her away.
—I’m sorry, she said, a smile at the corner of her lips. I was just so happy.
—Try it on, he said.
She stood and went to the mirror, holding back her shoulder-length hair and fixing it in place with the clip. Park sat rubbing his neck, then got up and followed her to her room.
—I really like this, she said. It’s not played-out. I can’t stand most people’s stupid accessories. Like that fat bitch Eiko and her bracelets. Or those girls who wear belts with studs and fake diamonds. I fucking hate that!
—You’re full of hate, Park said.
—I’m not full of it. I’m a very loving person.
She sat down on the bed and took a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand.
—Hey, he said. Do you know Shiho Maehara?
—First-year? Yeah, she’s on the tennis team.
She lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Park. He took one and lit it off hers.
—What do you think of her, he said.
—She’s a stuck up little brat.
—Really.
—Yeah, why? Ew, do you like her or something?
—No, I was just wondering.
She sat up and looked at him.
—You totally love her!
—What the hell, Park said. I just asked what you thought of her.
—Yeah, but you haven’t talked about any other girls before.
—Yeah, well, my friend is into her.
—Which friend?
—Tomo.
—That little kid who follows you around all the time?
—My friend, yeah.
She rested her cigarette on the lip of the ashtray and moved over to him.
—There’s no way she’d even look at him. Unless she thought he had a big dick or something. God, what a little slut! She doesn’t even have a good smile, it’s kind of lopsided.
She started to play with his hair, combing it with her fingers and leaning over to examine its color in the light. She wanted to be a hairdresser, she said. Did he know that his hair was actually a very dark brown instead of black? It was the first thing she’d noticed when they’d met. She told him about a salon where one of her friends worked, where she hoped to get a job after graduation. Bored, he reached around and placed his hand between her legs. She kissed the back of his neck and he pressed against her. After a few minutes she slid her arms around his waist and unbuttoned his pants. He looked over at her cigarette burning on the ashtray, its thin spiral of smoke rising to the ceiling. She started to masturbate him.
But he couldn’t come. After a while his penis felt numb and he asked her to stop.
—Do you want me to go down on you? I can, if you want.
—No, don’t worry about it.
He took his drink from the nightstand and finished it. He’d started to think of Shiho again and wanted to talk about her. He thought of calling Tomo.
—Do you want to watch a movie? Mutsumi said.
—Okay.
He followed her out to the living room and watched as she turned on the television. But halfway through he stood up.
—Well, I’ve gotta go pretty soon, have to do some things at home.
She made a sad face but otherwise didn’t protest. He got the impression she was used to being left.
On the street, he took out his mobile phone. Tomo answered after the third ring. He was in an arcade in Shinjuku.
—I’ll come there now, just wait, he told him.
He hung up and caught the train. After leaving through the east exit at Shinjuku station he called Tomo and found that he’d moved to a Sukiya restaurant. Park had been there before and was able to find it easily. As soon as he entered and sat down he started to talk about Shiho, relating his encounter on the train. But he found Tomo unresponsive. Tiring of his own voice, he got up and ordered a bowl of curry rice.