He turns around with a look of embarrassment.
“This room is closed to girls.”
“Pardon?” I cock my head, casting my eyes down away from his half-naked body.
“No, I’m just kidding. Do I know you?”
“Perhaps you don’t know me. But I know you.”
“That’s fine with me. You’d better catch him.”
“O, I do.”
Then the moment I grab the knob of the clubroom door to leave, he calls me as if to remember something.
“Are you the one who spread the rumor of Yukio Misawa having been murdered?”
“You’ve just caught the one here.”
“Oh, you really are.”
“Wow, it sounds like I’m a celebrity.”
“I didn’t mean to treat you like that, though. Are you Takeshi’s steady by the way?”
“No, he’s one of my old friends. That’s all.”
I give him a dry shrug, worrying whether I have blushed.
He says, “Then you know he’s our Kendo master’s protegee.”
“You mean…protege?”
“Yeah, that’s the word, I guess.”
“Yes, I know. I heard it from Takeshi himself.”
“They are like, you know, like…”
“Like…what?” I frown at the slender student.
“Well…no…it’s nothing. Forget it.”
I go down the stairs to the schoolyard. It is almost like late spring today. There is no wind, only a breeze. In a silent blue sky, several clouds are forming and moving east in a slow hypnotic pace.
I step into the west wing of the school building and walk through the corridor by a row of windows. The soft winter sunlight filtered through a row of cherry trees is casting the shadow of leaves on the pearl-colored floor like ripples. I make a civil bow at an angle of five degrees to a couple of teachers approaching. When they are about to brush past, chatting, one of them calls me to stop and says in an authoritative tone, “Is it true that you’re playing at detectives and suspects all by yourself?”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re no longer sniffing out a plot for Yukio Misawa’s incident, are you?”
“Well, it’s just a groundless rumor, sir.”
From my left, another teacher warns me.
“It seems that you’ve been in the spotlight these days, doesn’t it?”
And they both look me in the face as if they were carrying search warrant inside one of their breast pockets, like policemen.
I start wheezing.
“I’m no longer interested in such an infantile game, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Just study hard. That’s all you have to do here and now.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“That’s good. You don’t want to be called a conspiracy theorist, do you?” says another teacher.
“It will hurt your school report.”
“Rather severely, yes, we promise.”
“Leave everything to the police. There’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll be well off when you start doing what a girl is supposed to do, you know.”
I nod to both of them with a sincere look.
After them pass me several girls in hakama with a Japanese traditional archery in each hand. Trying to avoid their inquisitive eyes, I go out into the light and to the courtyard. Then the sound of our school song being played by the brass band club reaches my ears. It becomes louder, clearer, and more solid. Bathed in the late winter sunlight I stretch myself very slowly.
In front of me rises the domed gymnasium.
Yukio used to curse the structure for its tasteless functionalism.
‘Are we Sinanthropos Pekinenses the Peking men? Why do we need to run, jump, throw, or smash, to begin with? All we need for survival is not to shake brains but to keep them steady, right?’
But, Yukio, we’d better learn all those tricks if we’re to survive in the morning rush hours in Tokyo.
*
He has been completely beaten and is now gasping for breath. He is tall and slender. He is a sophomore, probably a science major, if my memory serves me well. He has just finished a Japanese fencing practice match with Takeshi. I try to appear uninterested in the sophomore by fixing my eyes only on Takeshi.
There is already a touch of darkness outside. The yells and shouts echoes against every walls of this high-ceilinged gymnasium. After making a shallow bow to Takeshi, the tall sophomore sits beside me on his heels, laying his shinai the bamboo sword down on his right.
“Oh boy, Takeshi is unbelievable,” he spits out.
I say nothing, looking straight at Takeshi.
Removing the helmet, he asks me if I have already finished practice for the field and track club. I explain how a woman trod on my right foot with her high heels in a packed morning train.
“What a petty excuse,” the tall sophomore says with a sneer.
“Where is your captain today?” I look around.
“He’s out to the neighboring school. We take part in the coming Tokyo Kendo Tournament. That’s why.”
‘Oh, I see.’ I give him a dry nod.
On the hardwood floor are now being played three practice matches. The clash of bamboo swords echoes in the gym like busy firecrackers in a summer festival. Without exception, members of the Kendo club wear hakama the skirt-like kimono for formal Kendo uniform in addition to the helmet, the breastplate, the loin guard, and the gauntlet.
The tall sophomore tells me that a point can be obtained the moment you hit the opponent with a single clean blow on the top of the helmet, the gauntlet, or either side of the breastplate. And the winner is the one who scored two points first.
Takeshi has gained first point already before I glance back at him. The tall sophomore whispers in me, wiping the sweat off his brow with the palm of his hand; “Give me a break. Takeshi is only a freshman.”
The next moment Takeshi has thrown the opponent down on the hardwood floor.
“No, that’s a foul,” the tall sophomore says, “This is not a Judo match you know. What’s the matter with him?”
The fight is over. Takeshi has thrown up the practice match by himself. He is now standing face to face with the opponent. They make a polite but cautious bow at an angle of five degrees.
Takeshi slowly turns his face guard to me.
“You can’t chitchat while the fight is on. It’s the matter of courtesy.”
“I’m sorry. It was careless of me.”
“Oh, come on, Luna. It was meant to be a joke you know,” said Takeshi, smirking at me.
*
It rapidly grows dark outside. Although his hakama is soaked through with sweat, Takeshi seems to have no intention to go into the men’s shower room until there is no one to be left in the gym except us.
I become nervous without any particular reason.
His father owns Karaoke bars, Pachinko parlors, Korean BBQ restaurants, and a chain store for the DVD movie rental service. He must be a busy man. Nonetheless, he has seven mistresses, according to a rumor.
My mother told me once: Most rich men are great womanizers. And most smart women can smell out them. Unfortunately, my sense of smell was not developed as keen as necessary when I married to your father.
Takeshi’s father drives a Mercedes-Benz and his mother a Jaguar. My father drives a Toyota and my mother his Toyota, by the way.
Takeshi is now letting his sweat flow down on his baby face just as it flows.
I say, “We don’t talk to each other much lately, do we?”
“You’re a girl and I’m a boy.”
“So?”
“We Japanese have no need to talk much. We have Noh-masked smile on our face. And that’s enough.”
“Still I need to talk.”
“Can’t you see, Luna? I’m wet to the skin.”
“That’s your problem, Takeshi. Not mine.”
“Now a little person starts talking.”
“Why don’t you
go for a quick shower?”
“Alone?” He frowns at me.
I am startled at his expression with a blush.
“No, I’d rather like to wait here,” I say.
“I won’t bite you,” he says with a smirk.
“Why then don’t you go ahead and do whatever as you please?”
“You want to talk, Luna, don’t you? Let us save time, shall we?”
After scanning around to make sure that all the others have gone, Takeshi pops his chin up to signal me to follow him.
I nervously follow him in the men’s shower room.
The room is being brightly lit and there is a large frosted mosaic window. Takeshi hands me a towel to let me wipe a bench dry. Turning my back to him, I am seated several feet away from Takeshi to keep myself dry while he is taking a shower.
“If someone sees us right now, we’ll be finished,” I say, perhaps with a worried look.
“Definitely, yes.” He nods.
“We might be suspended from school for few days.”
“Probably, yes. But so what? Yukio has been dead for few months already,” he says, raising his voice.
“I don’t like the way you put it.”
“We must let him go. That’s what I was going to say.”
There is a row of shower arms that droop each head wearily in each booth that is secured by embossed glass partitions on either side.
Takeshi is in the third booth from the door and about to turn on the shower. You can see his silhouette through an embossed glass partition.
“You’re stealing a glance at me now, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.” I quickly turn my head to face again the large frosted mosaic window.
“Everybody in our class is talking about you, about your conspiracy theory.”
“Because I’m a celeb now.”
“You seem to believe that somebody in our school killed Yukio, right?”
“Because I think it’s true.”
“Then I can be a suspect too, right?”
“Why?”
“I was there, right behind Yukio, waiting for that damned train to arrive.”
“Maya said there was somebody standing between you and Yukio.”
“I don’t remember. And I don’t even remember whether I was pushed by somebody at that exact moment.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“According to your theory, I could kill anybody by a single push on that crowded platform even if I were standing far back, you know, because the domino effect will do the rest. But I can’t even recall whether I stumbled or not.”
And Takeshi turns on the shower. I sneak a look at him again and realize that the silhouette of his well-proportioned body somehow impresses me. As a matter of fact, my ears start burning.
From the rim of a trashcan in the corner is hanging a pair of dirty soggy white socks left behind by someone.
Takeshi sniffs at the clouds of thick creamy steam with exaggerated gestures.
“It always smells of chlorine and I know you’re a hentai voyeur.”
“Oh, I know you’re an exhibitionist.”
“I’m just a guy who likes to win as many games and girls as possible. That’s who I am and you’re one shy girl. You shouldn’t try to look like some other girl who is far from the image of your own. It’ll hurt you.”
“Thank you for your mean advice.”
“No problem.”
“I heard that you picked up Yukio’s Mobile from the scene of the crime, I mean, the scene of the accident, and took it home with you. Why would you do that?”
“You know the Mobile is the most precious casket of privacy for anyone. What’s stored inside that particular Mobile is the story of Yukio’s life, so I wanted to preserve it just as what he used to be.”
And he turns on the shower again.
I say, “Whatever you claim, I’m sure that we share the same secret with each other.”
Poking his head from the side of the partition, he says, “No, I don’t think so, Luna, if what you’re talking about is Yukio’s DVD.”
I turn around and say, “Oh, you’ve already heard of that DVD. Maybe from Reiko?”
“Everybody chats and twitters on about anything.”
“Chitchat, chitchat.” I swing my head cheerfully.
“Let me tell you few simple truths. Anyone who stands or sits next to me is a competitor. Anyone who doesn’t share the secret with me is an outsider. And you don’t know a thing about what you’re looking for.”
I am no longer embarrassed at the silhouette of his naked body.
“You said we Japanese shouldn’t talk much. Especially you boys should not.”
“That’s the rule, Luna. That’s the rule.”
“But you seem to have been talking a lot since you started taking a shower. What has happened to you?”
“I’m just playing a talking head here. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, Mr. Talking Head, you’re supposed to know the answer then.”
“No, no, you can’t fool me into bringing out any secret in me. I’m expecting you to admit that anybody has few secrets. Whatever they are.”
“But I think it depends on what kind of secret you have.”
“Are you threatening me, girl?”
“Why not?”
“Come on. I can tell that you know nothing of my secret.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Of course.” He makes a grimace with a faint smile.
So I smile back at Takeshi knowingly and say, “You never know.”
“Now you’re talking like a Yakuza girl. It’s definitely out of character for you.”
“Remember that I have Yukio’s DVD with me.”
Then I pause for a dramatic effect. Poking his head again from the side of the partition, Takeshi is letting his face turning sulky, losing color. Drenched, it shines like a cheap celluloid manga-character mask. A sense of exhilaration surges up inside me. Maybe it is possible to drive him into a tight corner where he accidentally leaks something that would provide me some important clue to a murder suspect.
Takeshi wipes his face with the palm of the hand.
“No, you can’t scare me at all, Luna. A DVD? What a joke. I’m one-hundred-percent sure that you could find nothing whatsoever in Yukio’s DVD.”
I bite the lower lip because what Takeshi has just said is true for the most part. All I can do now is to pretend to be unmoved.
“Listen, Luna. The contents of any digital gadgets are vulnerable to theft. Hackers, crackers, and plagiarists are everywhere. Have you ever thought, even once, that Yukio did so stupid a thing as to store some important private information into such a popular digital medium as DVD or, say, memory card? No way.”
I no longer have anything to say. My heart has already changed its color into dark gray winter skies. I hang down my head and bite my lower lip in my vexation.
“Oh, poor Luna. Don’t let your spirit sink. Just think. You seem to prefer the dead to the living, but we are not dead yet, right? Why can’t we chat like we used to do?”
He is now rubbing himself dry with a large bath towel.
“Someone killed Yukio,” I mumble. “It bothers me.”
“Were you his steady or what?”
“You’re such a bore, Takeshi.”
“Look. What I want you to see is that you have no hard proof, nor physical evidence or whatsoever. Have you ever thought that it might be only your imagination?”
“We’ll see the answer. In time.”
“It means I’m supposed to be a suspect until then, doesn’t it?”
“Did I mention it?”
“It’s so obvious because you believe that someone is afraid if his or her secret might be brought to light. Maybe that someone is me.”
“Could be.”
“No. Forget it. I’m just kidding,” Takeshi sneers me down and says, “Remember what Mr. Buddha lectured in his ethics class: A believer is the one who can b
e seen by everyone else but oneself, or the one who can be heard by everyone else but oneself, or both.”
“You’re talking like you already know what’s in the DVD.”
“Who knows?” Takeshi smiles a plastic smile.
“You shared some secret with Yukio, didn’t you?”
“Come on. Do you want me to catch a cold or what?”
Takeshi peeks from the side of the partition and stares down at me with irritation. But his baby face doesn’t look menacing at all. It rather appears sulky. I glare back at him in silence, picking up my ear to a shower dripping.
As we look away from each other, the silence expands its wings and swiftly covers every inch of this shower room. But soon we begin to hear someone singing a theme song for a serial anime drama. It is a thick male voice and terribly out of tune. It sounds like one of our teacher’s but I cannot identify whose voice it is. The stranger’s silhouette passes right outside the large frosted mosaic window.
Takeshi nervously sniggers at the voice but I don’t.
I just keep listening to the dripping.
Schoolgirls
It is Thursday morning. I am being sandwiched in between Maya and Reiko on the usual commuter train. We are all so closely packed with each other that I can feel the body temperature of Maya and Reiko being transmitted through our school uniform combining a middy blouse and a short pleated skirt.
The train joggles and my body vibrates and synchronizes with everyone else. I ask Maya if she is the one who has disclosed our secret to students other than Reiko and Takeshi. Shaking her head dreamily, Maya tells me that I shouldn’t be worried about it because almost all students in our class know already about my hypothesis. Over my shoulder Reiko whispers in my ear: “You know, students in our gakko have all very acute sense of smell except for the one who believes she is cleverly playing at detectives and suspects in secret.”
“Wow,” I say. “I need to know who that is.”
I hear someone start talking to no one in particular. It is a male voice. Its tempo is allegro and tone staccato. He repeats the same sentence like a machine-gun fire: “That’s your problem. Not mine. You’re responsible for everything. This whole system is going to collapse. I know it. And that’s your fault. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I’ve told you so. No, I’m not crazy. You are. Yes, you’re paranoid. And that’s not my fault.”
A Japanese Schoolgirl Page 7