by Ryu Murakami
‘So, anyway, she read the notes. I have no choice but to kill her, right? What else can I do?’
‘Where is she right now?’
‘She’s in the emergency room at this hospital. I’m outside waiting for her.’
‘Won’t she say something to the doctor, or one of the nurses?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, if she was going to do that, she could’ve talked to someone in the lobby of the hotel, right? The security guard or whatever.’
‘I guess that’s true. But if she read the notes, why isn’t she trying to escape?’
‘I don’t get that part, either, but it’s not as if this is a woman who’s in control of herself, or acting rationally. I’m pretty sure she’s a kindred spirit.’
‘Kindred spirit?’
‘I think something happened to her when she was small.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but I can tell she’s afraid, and starved for something.’
‘So, what are you going to do now?’
A slender figure came out through the emergency room door. She was hopping on one leg and looking anxiously about. One thing’s for sure, Kawashima muttered under his breath as he sprinted towards the girl. I can’t take her back to the hotel in Akasaka.
He really did wait for me, Chiaki thought when she saw the man running to her out of the frozen darkness. She thought he looked like a steam locomotive in an old cartoon, lugging those two big bags and expelling clouds of white smoke. And it was comical the way he dangled her Lancel bag from the crook of his left arm, like a lady. Of course he can’t hold it in his hand because of his finger, she thought — but just look at him, running like that for all he’s worth. How cute can you get?
Not wanting to wait a single extra second to feel his arm around her shoulder, supporting her, Chiaki started towards the man, dragging her numb, anaesthetised right leg.
‘Come to my place,’ she said as they settled into a taxi. ‘You’ll come and stay with me, won’t you?’
Kawashima’s lips and cheeks were stiff with the cold, and he merely nodded rather than trying to speak. Her place would certainly work for him. He couldn’t take her to the hotel in Akasaka, where he was registered under his real name, and had been thinking he might have to make do with a love hotel after all.
Chiaki never thought to question the man’s motivation for accompanying her to the hospital — or for waiting outside, for that matter. She had long since lost sight of the fact that he was merely a client who’d happened to call her club and ask for a girl to be sent to his hotel room. All she could see were his selfless efforts on her behalf, which, in her mind at least, were beginning to take on epic proportions.
He stood out there in this freezing weather waiting for me, she thought. His arm felt like ice — I never even knew a body could get that cold. I was afraid he wouldn’t really wait for me, and when he wasn’t right outside the door I almost fainted, but then there he was, humping it across the street as fast as he could go, huffing and puffing clouds of steam. It was like being in a movie, like being lead actress in some big romantic scene.
It was warm inside the taxi, but the man was still shivering. His face, just above and to the right of hers, looked distorted, the features out of balance. It was as if only some of his facial muscles had thawed while the rest remained frozen solid. His hair, exposed all that time to the cold wind, was dry and mussed, his teeth were chattering, and his nose was runny. His eyes were watering, too, and he kept blinking. His face was a complete mess, in fact, and yet it was also the most adorable thing she’d ever seen. She had a sudden urge to hit that face. Not just give him a little slap on the cheek but slug him as hard as she could, with her fist or a bottle or a wrench or something, right in the eye. He’d be bleeding and begging her to stop, and she’d just laugh. He’d be even cuter weeping and asking for forgiveness, she thought. And after that he’d stay by her side for ever, no matter what.
Chiaki wanted to communicate these feelings to him. How nice it would be if she could tell him everything, even all the bad stuff. She could see herself tugging on his sleeve, going: Listen, listen, I know you probably don’t like to hear about things like this? But I really really hate my father. I do. Everybody thinks he’s a good man, a nice, respectable gentleman, and he was head accountant for the biggest company in our home town and didn’t even have any interests or hobbies outside of work except for spending like an hour every day feeding the goldfish, but from about the time I started elementary school, whenever my mother was away or after she’d gone to sleep, he’d do nasty things to me. He really did. That’s why I’ve always just wished he would hurry up and die, and he’s told me to drop dead too, lots of times. I really and truly wish he would die, but when I was in middle school my tonsils kept getting inflamed and finally I got a really bad fever and they decided to take them out? And we lived in this small town outside Nagoya that didn’t even have a real hospital, so our local doctor was going to perform the operation, and at the dinner table my mother was worrying about that, saying she wondered if the doctor really knew what he was doing, and my father said, ‘If anything happens to Chiaki I’ll kill that son of a bitch,’ and then he burst into tears. I mean, I was amazed. At the time our family was a shambles because I’d finally told my mother what he was doing to me, and after that he turned into this really mean and angry person who was always yelling, but him saying that about the doctor and crying, that’s the thing I remember most. You don’t see a grown man cry very often, right? I changed my personality too, right after I entered junior college, except I did it on purpose, and after that boys started liking me more, and I have three boyfriends right now, sort of, but don’t be jealous, OK? You don’t have anything to be jealous about. They’re all losers, really. One’s named Kazuki; he’s a college student, but in high school he crashed his motorcycle, and his shoulder and knee are messed up, and he’s always saying he wants to die. I like to watch boys when they’re sleeping really soundly? So about six months ago I crushed up three Halcion tablets and mixed them in Kazuki’s Campari and orange, and ever since then he won’t eat or drink anything I give him. They’re all like that. Yoshiaki’s this guy who when I tried to stab myself in the leg he got all hysterical, and then when I pricked him just a little with the knife he ran away. He’s twenty-eight now but he’s still just a clerk in a video store. Atsushi is young, the same age as me, and he just became a hairdresser, and he’s half-white but near-sighted and doesn’t have any parents. He’s an orphan. He’s always going on and on about his childhood, and when he gets drunk he might tell me he’s going to kill me or he might start bawling like a baby, and sometimes he calls me Mommy. Atsushi’s the one who taught me about piercings. He’s got five rings in his ear, eighteen gauge to ten gauge, but when I told him to get one in his nipple to match mine, and to get a Sailor Moon tattoo — because I like Sailor Moon? — or if not that, a skull, he stopped calling me. I was eighteen when I changed my personality, and in the three years since then I’ve had about twenty boyfriends, but they were all more or less like that. So you can understand how happy I am to finally meet someone like you!
‘Are you hungry?’ she said.
The man nodded without taking his eyes off the road ahead and without any change of expression. High-rise buildings loomed on all sides, and the lights from the windows — so many different colours and shades — seemed to swirl around them, enveloping the two of them in a warm cocoon.
I can’t communicate the way I feel to him, she thought, but I probably don’t need to anyway. He’s not going to ask me a lot of questions, and he’s not going to tell me about himself. You can tell he doesn’t like hearing or making confessions. Who knew there were still people like that in this world, though? Everybody wants to talk about themselves, and everybody wants to hear everybody else’s story, so we take turns playing reporter and celebrity. It must have made you ver
y sad when your own father raped you — can you describe some of your feelings at the time? Yes, I wept and wept, wondering why something like this had to happen to me. It’s like that. Everyone’s running around comparing wounds, like bodybuilders showing off their muscles. And what’s really unbelievable is that they really believe they can heal the wounds like that, just by putting them on display.
This man was different. But she had to ask herself: Was he really the one she’d been waiting for? And her various selves — the self whose father licks her down there, the self who whispers I love you to him as he laps at her private parts, the self who watches from the corner of the ceiling, the self who commands her to die, the self who unfolds the scissors from the handle of the Swiss Army knife — all gave her the same reply: Who knows? How could anyone know what sort of man she was really waiting for? Up until now, she’d simply accepted whoever showed interest in her and put up with her and sacrificed for her and wanted her body.
Well, it doesn’t matter if he’s the one or not, Chiaki thought and looked at the man, who wasn’t even bothering to wipe his fogged-up lenses. Once we’re in my room, I’ll have him shedding tears of joy and gratitude.
‘We’re almost there,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some hot soup, or a nice stew or something, OK?’
‘Ah,’ Kawashima said in a hoarse whisper. Could he get to her room without being seen by anyone? All he knew for sure was that he needed to rest awhile. He’d rest first, and then plan the next move.
‘Try these slippers; they’re more for summer really, but they’re nice, aren’t they? They’re from Morocco. I have lots of other kinds, too. See these? Antique Chinese — isn’t the silk beautiful? Of course, they were for bound feet, so they’re just to look at, you can’t really wear them. The Moroccan ones feel a little rough if you’re not wearing socks, but with socks on they’re really comfortable, don’t you think?’
It was a spacious one-room apartment with thick carpeting everywhere except the entryway and kitchenette. A big climate-control system built into one wall emitted heat with a low, almost inaudible hum. Next to this was a sliding glass door that led to a veranda with deckchairs. The skyscrapers of West Shinjuku were visible in the distance.
The taxi had dropped them off here, a small new apartment complex midway between the shopping and residential districts of Shin-Okubo. There was no security guard in the lobby. The building was U-shaped, and in the centre was a cramped little garden with potted plants and an angel statue. The walls of the elevator were glass, so that you looked down at the angel falling away as you rose.
They’d got off at the sixth floor. In the corridor they passed an elderly man with a puppy, but the girl didn’t say anything to him and he scarcely seemed to know they were there. The corridor was fairly dim, with soft indirect lighting, and Kawashima was sure the old man hadn’t got much of a look at him.
The girl had slid an electronic key card into a slot and opened the door, then switched on a muted spotlight and introduced him to her slipper collection, which she kept on a rack in the entryway. He stepped into the Moroccan slippers she’d set out for him. They were yellow and looked like sandals.
‘Would you like some espresso?’ she asked. ‘Or would you rather have a beer or gin and tonic or something like that?’
Kawashima opted for the caffeine, and the girl pointed out her espresso machine (‘It’s from Germany!’) and took a Ginori demitasse cup from the cupboard. The machine was a professional model about the size of a large microwave oven, its stainless-steel housing and fixtures polished to a shine. She fiddled with it, then crossed the room to the closet beside her bed, where she hung up Kawashima’s coat and began to undress. She was facing him when she squirmed out of her slip and let it fall to the floor. He studied her standing there in her purple panties and marvelled at how different a woman can look in different settings. He’d gazed at and grappled with this girl’s naked body in the hotel room, the bathroom, and the corridor, but now somehow her skin seemed even whiter, almost luminous. And when he’d helped her into her panties he hadn’t noticed the wisp of downy hair curling above the waistband towards her navel. What a beautiful tummy, he thought.
She put on a grey T-shirt and a loose-fitting brown velvet skirt that wouldn’t constrict her bandaged wound. As she fastened the skirt, she looked over at Kawashima and mouthed the words Just for now! Meaning, he gathered, that she’d take it off again later.
‘Nice room,’ he said.
Thick, dark coffee began to trickle from the espresso machine into the fancy cup.
‘I don’t spend much money on anything else,’ the girl said, walking to the kitchenette. She retrieved the cup, set it on the coffee table, and took a seat on the sofa beside him. ‘A lot of girls like to go out drinking or clubbing or whatever? But I don’t, and I don’t buy that many clothes, either. I prefer to build my wardrobe little by little, you know what I mean? Just buying the things I really really like?’
Against the wall opposite the L-shaped sofa were the A/V rack and a bookshelf. There were paperback mysteries and horror novels, complete multi-volume sets of various girls’ manga, and a photograph collection entitled Corpses mixed in with a number of oversize books about tableware and furniture. She had only a smattering of videos and CDs: three domestic animated films that had been big hits, a few CDs of the ‘Greatest Classical Melodies’ sort, and ten or twelve others that were movie soundtracks or ‘best of’ collections by Japanese pop stars. The TV screen was on the small side, and the stereo was just your average mini hifi system.
‘After we rest a minute I’ll make some soup,’ Chiaki said. ‘Would you like to listen to a little music?’
The man nodded, and she slid Afternoon Classics, Volume III into the CD player. It was the one with Chopin’s Nocturnes, Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood, and Schubert’s Moments Musicales. She turned the volume low and sat back down even closer to the man, who’d already finished his espresso. She was about to say, Doesn’t the piano sound like rain? — but he spoke first.
‘It was too cold even to talk earlier,’ Kawashima said. As his body warmed in the heated room, that vision of the girl’s white belly kept replaying in his mind, and he was suddenly excited again, and nervous. ‘So, anyway, how did it go in the hospital?’
She lifted the hem of her velvet skirt and showed him the clean new bandage on her thigh. Kawashima wished he knew what she and the doctor had talked about. There was no guarantee she hadn’t told him about the notes. For all he knew, the police, tipped off by the doctor, might already be staking out this apartment and stationing men outside the door, ready to burst in on them the moment the ice-pick made its appearance. But he hadn’t noticed any cars tailing the taxi or any indications inside or outside the building that they were being watched. Well, he had time now to wait and feel things out. Surely he couldn’t be arrested just for having an ice pick, a knife, and some notes on how to commit a murder. And if the girl were to lie and say he was the one who’d stabbed her in the thigh, all the police would have to do is inspect the wounds to see that they hadn’t been made with an ice-pick or combat knife but with the tiny blades of her own Swiss Army scissors. And the depth and angle of the cuts would prove they’d been self-inflicted.
He was still gazing at the girl’s new bandage when he became aware of a voice reverberating inside him, and a shiver vibrated out from his core. Who are you kidding? the voice said. All you really care about is stabbing this girl with your ice pick. It was the same voice he’d heard several days before, by the diaper shelf in the convenience store. You still don’t get it, do you? Can’t you see that it isn’t about maybe she saw the notes, or maybe she told someone? And that it doesn’t even have anything to do with your fear of stabbing the baby? None of that really matters to you. Ask yourself this: Why did you come tagging along with this woman — to sit there snuggled up on the sofa drinking coffee? I don’t think so. You did it because you’re afraid of losing her. Why? You know perfectly well why.
You were staring at her little white stomach when she changed clothes, weren’t you? That pretty tummy with the soft brown peachfuzz. And you were thinking how you’d like to slowly open a small hole in that tummy with the point of an ice pick. That’s all it’s about for you. It’s more important to you than anything else. To pull the ice pick back out and watch the thick, red blood ooze from that little hole. Your whole life has been leading up to this moment, when you reveal to the world the sort of human being you are. This is your debut as the real you. And guess who you have to thank for this opportunity?
Mother? Kawashima detected an odour like hair or fingernails burning. A fever was gathering between his temples. Sparks burst where his olfactory and optical and auditory nerves crossed and short-circuited, and his lips were trembling. He touched the nape of his neck. It was wet with perspiration, and he could feel his vocal cords were preparing to scream, all on their own. A scream of horror or exultation? He wasn’t sure. He bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and tore off the gloves he’d been wearing all this time, beginning with the left one. The newly formed scab had stuck to the inner lining; it peeled off, and he could feel fresh, warm blood seeping out again. He bowed his head and clenched the hand in a tight fist, trying to use the pain to gain control of himself.
‘Oh, I forgot!’ the girl said. ‘We have to put something on that finger!’
Kawashima shook his head.
‘But you have to disinfect it! I got some medicine from the doctor — I’ll put some on for you, OK?’
He shook his head again. His eyes were still shut. He was barely listening to what the girl said, but something about the tenor of her voice was triggering a memory. It was like a voice he used to hear back in the Home whenever he had an episode. He’d be lost in his mind, no longer in control of himself, terrorised by the overpowering sense that something was about to burst or rip apart, the fever building between his temples, sparks flying where the sights and sounds and smells short-circuited, and then he’d hear this voice — an actual voice, coming not from within but from somewhere outside himself. It wasn’t a scolding or appeasing or soothing voice, just matter-of-fact and real. Masayuki, hey, it’s dinner time. We’re having everyone’s favourite today — hamburgers! Time to wash up. Let’s go and wash our hands. I know the water’s cold, but we want those hands to be really clean! Everybody’s happy because we’re having hamburgers. See? See how happy they all are? That voice would smother the sparks one by one and slowly cool the fever. Take your fingers out of your ears now and open your eyes. Look around, listen to all the children talking and laughing. Everything’s the same as ever. Nothing has changed, and no one is going to hurt you.