Seventeen

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Yuuki sat down at the dining table and took off his tie. The sofa was a little too close to Jun for comfort. He was afraid that if he sat there it might provoke Jun to jump up and break the family circle.

  Smiling, Yumiko came over.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. I already had something.”

  “So, did something good happen today?”

  “Huh?”

  Yuuki saw that Yumiko was laughing.

  “Does it look as if it did?”

  “Actually, it does. You look happy about something.”

  Happy…?

  Instinctively, Yuuki rubbed his cheek.

  “Shall I run a bath for you? We all just took showers today,” said Yumiko, picking up Yuuki’s tie. She sounded a little reluctant. She wasn’t overtly worried about saving water, but perhaps it was in the back of her mind.

  “Yes, please,” Yuuki replied.

  Instead of going into the bathroom, Yumiko headed to the kitchen. She got out two bottles of beer from the storage space under the kitchen floor and put them in the fridge. Yuuki turned his attention to the two children in front of the TV.

  “Yuka, how was the Yomiuri Giants versus Taiyo Whales game?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. After Touch I watched Sailor Moon.”

  Yuuki already knew this would be her answer. She was only interested in Hanshin Tigers games.

  Back in the newsroom, they’d been showing an NHK special broadcast: “What Happened to the Tail?—Analysis of the Japan Airlines Plane Crash.” The word “analysis” gave the feeling that time had lapsed since the crash. The eye of the storm had already passed.

  Yuuki rolled his neck and shoulders uncomfortably. Next in line was Jun. He tried to think of something to say to him, but he couldn’t find any words.

  There was something he needed to talk about, though.

  “Hey.”

  He was addressing Yumiko, who’d just come back from the bathroom.

  “What?”

  “Sit down a minute. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He told her the short version of what had happened to Anzai. She was utterly amazed.

  “I’ve never heard of that before. I mean, asleep with your eyes open. So he’s a vegetable?”

  But she was a reporter’s wife. She remembered she needed to avoid discriminatory and offensive terms. She quickly rephrased it.

  “Sorry. I mean, is he in a vegetative state?”

  “Yes. They call it a persistent vegetative state, or PVS.”

  “Is it possible to regain consciousness?”

  “In exceptional cases.”

  Yumiko let out a deep sigh and slumped back into her chair.

  “His poor wife,” she murmured under her breath.

  “The Anzais have a son, Rintaro.”

  “I know. He’s about the same age as Jun.”

  “I’d like to invite him over to the house sometime. His mom’s busy at the hospital. It’d be nice to have him over for dinner or—”

  Yumiko cut him off.

  “Sounds good. Bring him over anytime. I’ll try to help out as much as possible.”

  Yuka was watching them. Jun’s head was turned just far enough to hear what his parents were saying.

  “I hope you two will help out, too,” Yuuki managed to say as casually as he could.

  Yuka’s eyes lit up.

  “Hey, Daddy. What’s he like?”

  “He’s a really good kid. A little quiet, maybe.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Hmm … I’m not sure about that. I know he has a really kind face, though.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, Jun?” He caught his son just as he turned back to the TV.

  “That boy’s dad is a really good mountain climber. He taught me how to climb, too. Let’s take Rintaro with us mountain climbing sometime.”

  He watched for Jun’s response, but instead he got an earful of Yuka’s shrill voice.

  “That’s not fair! I want to come, too!”

  “Of course you can come. But I know you’ve got volleyball on the weekends.”

  “Ahh! What a pain. I think I’m going to give up volleyball.”

  “Which mountains?” asked Jun flatly. His gaze landed somewhere around Yuuki’s torso.

  “Mount Haruna or Myogi. Actually, there are loads of places. It’s great. The air’s really clear. It’s exhilarating, going up to a high place.”

  Yuuki gestured excitedly as he spoke. Jun was looking off into space. But he didn’t look lost—more as if he was letting his imagination run free.

  “What do you think? Should we go?”

  “… I’ll think about it.”

  Having given this vaguest of promises, Jun turned back again to the TV. Yuka got hold of her brother’s shirt and began shaking him. “Jun, it’s not fair. It’s not fair.” She was clearly annoying him, yet Yuuki could still see the trace of a smile on his face.

  Yuuki lay in the bath and thought things over. He felt a mixture of guilt and, to a lesser degree, contentment. He’d used Rintaro to pique Jun’s interest. Of course, Rintaro would be thrilled. The experience was sure to be good for him. But Yuuki knew that making these kinds of excuses for Jun’s behavior didn’t make it any better.

  He scooped up a handful of steaming-hot water and splashed it over his face.

  It had been a long day. Everything he’d done and felt drifted through his mind.

  Ayako Mochizuki … “Heavy lives and lightweight lives … Important lives, and lives that are … not.”

  There was no point in thinking about it anymore. He’d made his decision: Ayako’s letter was going to appear in tomorrow’s paper.

  Something Yumiko had said to him popped into his head.

  “So, did something good happen today?”

  He wondered why she’d asked him that. She’d said he looked happy. Surely not. He’d been tense and worried at the thought that he might be leaving his job.

  When he got out of the bath, Yumiko was alone in the living room. Yuuki was both relieved and a little disappointed to see that the TV screen was dark.

  “They’ve gone to bed?”

  “Just now.”

  “It’s not really cold yet, but never mind,” said Yumiko, pouring two glasses of beer.

  Yuuki sat on the sofa and picked the copy of the North Kanto Times up from the coffee table. Turning it over, he checked the TV schedule on the back page. Only a few days ago it had been full of the words “JAL crash.” Now the program titles were again peppered with exclamation points and question marks; proof that the usual variety and comedy programs had regained their prominence.

  “Can you turn on Channel Four?”

  “Something on the crash?”

  “Yeah. After the sports news it looks like they’re doing a documentary.”

  Yumiko switched on the TV and came to sit by Yuuki.

  “I’ll just have the one,” she said, picking up a glass.

  Yuuki was finding it difficult to broach the subject of what had happened at work. He wanted to quit. He thought that, if only Yumiko could read his mind, then he wouldn’t need to find the words.

  “Sweetheart?” said Yumiko, without taking her eyes off the screen. He peered at her profile and saw a hint of something determined.

  “You shouldn’t get too upset about it.”

  “About what?”

  “This thing with Jun. He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

  Yuuki froze.

  “How can I explain it? I guess he’s just tactless, awkward. He doesn’t know how to mend fences. He’s very much like you, really.”

  Yuuki didn’t answer. Yumiko turned to look at him.

  “He’ll get over it. He just needs to grow up a bit first. I’m sure he understands. You used to hit him because you didn’t know how to communicate with him. Don’t be too impatient. Take it slowly.”

  Silence.

  “Are you listening?”


  “I have to put my trust in you,” said Yuuki. “Be their sunshine. If you’re there for them, Jun and Yuka will be okay.”

  “Sunshine? Yuck!” Yumiko burst out laughing. “Being a bit overdramatic, aren’t you? That’s why Jun can’t get close to you, you know.”

  There was a kind of understanding that came from being a married couple. As well as things that, despite being married, they would never understand. Right on the boundary between these two states, Yuuki felt a little sad.

  He could hear his mother singing a lullaby. He’d wanted her to be his sunshine. That had been his strongest desire in his youth.

  Yumiko soon went off to bed, and Yuuki was left alone in the living room.

  The sports news was over and he still didn’t know the result of the Giants versus Whales game. Nor could he concentrate on the crash documentary. He just sat and stared into space.

  The plants on the windowsill that had faded in the sun; the white wall clock he’d bought for one of their wedding anniversaries—what number was it again? The patchwork quilt Yumiko had made back when she was really into that kind of thing; the woodblock-printed calendar Yuka had won as a first prize—so it must have been three years ago; the black skid mark on the floor left by the tire of one of Jun’s toy cars; the wooden carved figure and the vase with the artificial flowers, both of which seemed to have been dumped haphazardly; the noren cloth hanging that they’d bought on a family trip to a hot spring. Nothing expensive, but everything precious to him, each piece representing a family memory.

  If he was kicked out of the company, had no job, he’d probably have to sell this house. A reporter was useless for anything else. There was not much work for writers out here in the provinces. It would be pretty much impossible to make enough to support a family of four. He’d have to move to Tokyo. But he didn’t have any connections or know of any job openings in the capital. Even if he set out with the hope of new beginnings, would there be anyplace willing to give an unskilled forty-year-old a chance?

  He’d lose his family, move to a tiny apartment in a small town somewhere. But Yumiko could still be the sunshine for his children.

  He laughed at himself, at his childish way of thinking. He was forty, after all.

  Yuuki cursed the years that had accumulated while he’d been idling his life away. He cursed that innocent woman, Ayako Mochizuki, who’d turned up unexpectedly right at the crossroads of his life.

  51

  You mustn’t chase the stars

  You mustn’t chase the moon

  Chase the beasts, in the forest

  It’s dark, it’s dark, deep in the forest

  The stars are asleep, deep in the forest

  The moon is asleep, deep in the forest

  You are asleep, deep in the forest

  You mustn’t chase the stars

  You mustn’t chase the moon.

  Yuuki greeted the sunrise from the sofa.

  It was morning, and he hadn’t slept at all. He’d sat up all night waiting for the morning delivery. Now the hands on the clock showed a little after five. There was a noise coming from outside—an engine running and stopping, then running again. The newspaper deliveryman was making his way up the street on his moped.

  At ten past five, Yuuki slowly got up from the sofa and walked to the front door. He stuck his feet in a pair of sandals and went out to get the stack of newspapers from the mailbox. Back in the living room, he pulled out a chair and sat at the dining table. He broke his usual habit and opened the North Kanto Times before the others.

  READERS’ LETTERS: HEARTFELT

  It was titled “Japan Airlines Crash Edition.”

  He scanned the letters. Ayako Mochizuki’s was there, right at the end. Just as he had instructed, they’d used her initials. And not a single word had been altered.

  He waited until six o’clock, then called the newsroom.

  “Hello, this is the North Kanto Times.”

  He’d assumed that his call would be answered by one of the first-year reporters working the night shift, but the voice in his ear was unmistakably Sayama’s. Typical of Sayama to step up at a time like this, he thought. But this was no time to be sentimental.

  “Have there been any complaints?”

  “Five calls so far.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Think how the bereaved families must be feeling—all of them like that.”

  After a beat, Yuuki asked the big question.

  “Anything from the victims’ family members?”

  “Nothing.”

  They could hear each other let out a long breath.

  “How many people are manning the phones?”

  “We have four lined up. All people with a soothing manner.”

  “Got it. I’m going to come in early, too.”

  “Yuuki-san?” Sayama said hurriedly, just as Yuuki was about to hang up. “To be honest, I don’t know whether it was the right decision to print that letter or not. I can’t judge.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Yuuki-san!”

  “Who can say? But, sometimes, you just have to do it.”

  “That’s true, but this time it wasn’t—”

  “It was for me.”

  Yuuki’s tone was harsh. He was irritated at himself for his clumsy attempt to make Sayama understand. He hung up the phone and, just as he was getting dressed, Yumiko came downstairs.

  “Already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The crash again?”

  “Yes.”

  Yuuki hurried out of the living room and was just slipping on his shoes at the genkan when he heard the tread of slippers behind him. He turned to speak.

  “I might be leaving the paper.”

  Yumiko’s sleepy face was suddenly wide-awake.

  “No!”

  “I don’t know yet. But I just wanted you to be prepared for the possibility.”

  The wrinkles in her cheeks and eyes crumpled in a way he’d never seen before.

  A strong magnetic force was trying to pull him back to the house, but he had to fight it. He realized that Yumiko’s fear was very much his own, too.

  52

  The morning sun was just starting to shine in through the newsroom windows.

  Sayama was still there, tethered to the phone. The number of reinforcements had grown to seven. Inaoka from the Heartfelt column had come in early. He looked surprisingly lively. Chizuko Yorita was there, too, at the desk next to Sayama’s: her long hair tied back, talking earnestly to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Yuuki caught Sayama’s eye and raised a hand in greeting. He went over to him and checked out the cheat sheet he’d prepared.

  The North Kanto Times is open, impartial, and operates on a principle of fairness and neutrality. We print all views without prejudice. We respect all opinions, suppress none. It is our mission to inform the people of our prefecture in a well-rounded manner.

  It was Inaoka’s hastily prepared statement. He’d made copies and distributed them to the whole phone team. In the corner, there was a box headed “tally.” So far, Sayama alone had recorded eight protest calls.

  He looked at Chizuko’s sheet. She’d already answered six. Which meant that there must have been a total of around fifty calls so far.

  How many had come from the victims’ families? But before he could ask Sayama, the phone on the desk to his right began to ring.

  Yuuki grabbed a ballpoint pen from his pocket and picked up.

  “What the hell does the NKT think it’s doing?”

  The booming voice pierced his eardrum. This was the first time he’d ever had to deal with an angry customer, but he felt strangely calm.

  “Which article is the problem?”

  “It’s obvious. Heartfelt, of course. How could you print something like that? It’s disgusting. The poor families of the victims!”

  “We decided that was one opinion. It’s a sincere letter that encourages us to think about the to
pic of life and death.”

  “Then why didn’t you print the author’s name? All we know is that it was written by a twenty-year-old university student. It’s clearly a bad joke. You think it’s okay to print rubbish like that?”

  “We know exactly who the author is, and the letter was written with perfectly serious intentions.”

  “You scum. The North Kanto Times is a local newspaper. Those bereaved family members have come here in pain and distress. You make me feel ashamed! I can’t believe we’ve done this to them.”

  “It’s because we’re a local newspaper that we printed it. Please understand.”

  Sayama had a moment between calls and slipped a note to Yuuki. It read: “Victims’ Families: 0.”

  Yuuki felt relieved, but the booming voice in his earpiece kept up to the end.

  “Really? Then I’m not taking your newspaper anymore. In fact, I never want to set eyes on it again.”

  He was probably a perfectly well-intentioned person. And a regular reader. His declaration that he was going to unsubscribe was torture to Yuuki.

  Every time they hung up the phone, it would ring again.

  Tipped off that something big was going on, Kasuya, followed closely by Todoroki, showed up before eight o’clock. The two of them had spent the previous evening at a dinner put on by local business leaders and had been out of the office. Oimura had called to let them know that Yuuki had published a scandalous letter, but even with that advance notice its contents had still managed to shock them now. That had probably been Oimura’s intention: to be deliberately vague about the subject matter so that they wouldn’t realize, until they arrived, the severity of the situation.

  Oimura showed his face briefly around nine o’clock but was soon gone again. Next, Kishi and Nozawa turned up, also earlier than normal. Apparently the managing director and the chairman were in, too. That was the rumor going around between calls.

  It was past ten before the phones stopped ringing. Yuuki totaled up the number of protest calls: 283. It was the most they’d ever received, except for during the general election two years before, when they’d accidentally printed the wrong candidate’s photo.

  There hadn’t been a single call from any of the victims’ relatives. Of course, this wasn’t something for Yuuki to rejoice about. The readers’ anger was genuine. And while he listened over and over again to their reasonable arguments, he found it increasingly difficult to remember what he’d been thinking when he’d made the decision to print Ayako Mochizuki’s letter.