“No, I’m serious. His actual name is Semyon, but everyone just calls him the English version of that, Simon. I don’t know the whole story, but apparently his parents emigrated there from America. Some other Russian folks he knew were starting up a sushi restaurant, so he works the street, getting the word out.”
None of it sounded real, but there was only pure sincerity in Masaomi’s eyes. It had to be true. Mikado was still wide-eyed in disbelief, so Masaomi added, “He’s one of those guys you’re not supposed to cross. Once I saw him pick up two guys who were brawling off the ground with one hand each, both of them his size. Word says he broke a telephone pole in half once, too.”
Mikado shivered, envisioning that tanklike build again. After a few more moments of walking, he murmured, “This is amazing.”
“Huh? What is?”
“That you can talk to so many different kinds of people, I mean…”
Mikado meant it as an honest compliment, but Masaomi just laughed it off as a joke. He cackled and yawned, shrugging it away.
“Oh no, you can’t butter me up like that.”
“I’m not.”
In fact, Mikado had tremendous respect for Masaomi. If he’d been alone, he would have dried up and shriveled amid the sea of humanity that was Ikebukuro. The people who lived here were not all like Masaomi. Ever since grade school, he’d had a special charm that drew others to him, and he had the assurance to speak for himself in any situation.
How many times had he been blown away by both the neighborhood and Masaomi in just the few days since arriving? Mikado hoped that one day he could be like his friend.
One of the biggest reasons for Mikado’s exodus to the big city was to escape the familiar sights of his world. This was not a tangible thought at the forefront of his mind, but deep within his heart, he was constantly searching for a “new self.” Perhaps in this place, he’d find the “extraordinary” that existed in comic books and TV shows and experience it for himself.
Mikado didn’t want to be a hero. He just wanted to feel a different kind of breeze through his hair. He didn’t realize it himself, but amid that terrible anxiety deep in his gut on that first visit to Ikebukuro was a powerful elation and excitement that fought for control with his unease.
And right next to him was someone who had mastered the fresh breeze of his new home, harnessed that excitement for himself. Even at age sixteen, Masaomi had completely blended into this place and made himself a part of it.
Mikado realized that his friend represented everything that he wanted, and the warring anxiety and excitement lulled as he felt more in control of his surroundings—or at least, they should have.
But in the next moment, all of that was destroyed as a fresh new maelstrom of anxiety and excitement burst into life.
“Hey.”
It was a very pleasant voice, crisp and clear and vibrant, as though being hailed by the pure blue sky itself.
And yet, the instant he heard that voice, Masaomi grimaced as though he’d been shot in the back with arrows. He slowly turned in the direction of the voice, an instant sweat congealing on his face.
Mikado turned the same way and saw a young man with an equally pleasant face. He looked soft and gentle, but with a bold, intrepid edge—a perfect materialization of some ideal of handsomeness. His eyes were warm and all-accepting but glinted with a hard scorn of anything that wasn’t himself. His outfit, while possessing its own personality, did not show off any obvious features or characteristics. All in all, he was very difficult to grasp or classify.
Even his age was indistinct based on appearance alone. He had to be more than twenty at least, but there was no way to tell anything beyond that.
“Nice to see you again, Masaomi Kida.”
Masaomi responded to the use of his full name with an expression Mikado had never seen before and swallowed.
“Ah… H…hi,” he responded awkwardly.
Mikado’s state of mind erupted into chaos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kida look like this…
Fear and disgust mingled in Masaomi’s eyes, but the muscles in his face were tense, trying to bottle up that emotion.
“Is that a Raira Academy uniform? So you got in. First day of school? Congrats.”
His congratulations were brief and clipped, but not devoid of feeling. He only used the barest minimum of emotion necessary in his voice, however.
“Y-yes, thanks to you,” Masaomi said, a common pleasantry.
“I didn’t do a thing.”
“It’s strange to see you out in Ikebukuro…”
“I’m just meeting some friends. And who’s that?”
The man looked at Mikado, and for an instant, their eyes met. Normally, Mikado would look away shyly, but this time he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He felt as though if he broke that contact, his entire existence would be denied, negated. Mikado didn’t know why he felt this way—the man’s gaze simply held him in place with its breathtaking sharpness.
“Er, he’s just a friend,” Masaomi blurted. Normally he would have said Mikado’s name, but he seemed to be intentionally avoiding that. The man did not seem perturbed by this omission in any way. He turned to Mikado.
“I’m Izaya Orihara. Nice to meet you.”
Everything clicked into place for Mikado. The man not to get involved with. The man not to make an enemy out of. But the fellow standing before him didn’t seem all that dangerous. Aside from his sharp gaze and handsome features, he seemed like any other young man. Even his plain, glossy black hair stood out amid all the bleached and dyed hair around him. He looked like the kind of sharp young man that would be teaching at a cram school out in the country somewhere.
He’s more normal than I expected, Mikado thought, and decided to introduce himself.
“Sounds like an air conditioner,” came Izaya’s response, without mirth or surprise. He seemed to be referring to the Kirigamine appliance brand. Mikado opened his mouth, unsure of whether or not he should say something to continue the conversation, when Izaya raised a hand.
“Well, it’s time for my meeting. Gotta go.”
And with that, he left. Masaomi stretched and inhaled a deep breath, watching Izaya’s retreating back.
“C’mon, let’s go. Uh, where were we off to?”
“Is he really that scary?”
“Scary might not be the right word… See, I got into my share of trouble in middle school…and I ran into him once, and it really scared me. It’s not like a yakuza thing—he’s just unstable. He’s unpredictable. His motives and beliefs change every five seconds. The fear he inspires isn’t one of danger…it’s more like he makes me sick. One of those creepy-crawly feelings that sneaks up on you. I’m never going to the other side again. If you ever wanna smoke ganja or whatever, don’t look to me for help.”
Ganja. Mikado shook his head abruptly. He’d never seen it in person, but he’d been on the Internet long enough to know exactly what that was.
“I’m just kidding, man. You’re the kind of guy who won’t drink or smoke until the legal age at twenty. Just stay away from him and Shizuo Heiwajima. That’s rule number one.”
Masaomi clearly didn’t want to say another word about Izaya, so they kept walking in silence for a while. Mikado had never seen Masaomi like this before. More than Izaya, it was Masaomi’s attitude that had piqued his curiosity.
Maybe there’s no limit to the kind of extraordinary things I can experience here, Mikado thought. It was a stretch from what prompted the notion, but he could feel his excitement and expectation growing from within.
It had only been a few days since Mikado came to Ikebukuro. But already, the phrase return home had disappeared from his dictionary.
Those crowds of people, which had seemed so artificial and inorganic, now looked like processions of saints bringing life and prosperity to the town.
Something fascinating is going to happen. I can feel it. The adventure I wanted is just around the corner. This is a place where those TV
shows and comic books come to life.
His eyes sparkling with this misguided thought, Mikado found hope and excitement in his life ahead.
Chapter 5: A Regular Day in Town, Night
“So anyway, is there anything in particular you’d like to do before you die?”
It was a rather frightening question for Izaya Orihara to ask in a karaoke room. He spoke calmly, drink in his hand, not bothering to choose a song.
But the two women he was asking just shook their heads without a word.
“I see. Are you sure you want to do this with me? There aren’t better men you’d rather commit suicide with?”
“No. That’s why we want to die.”
“Good point,” Izaya noted, his face still placid. He examined the two women. They didn’t seem particularly gloomy. If a total stranger looked at them, they’d never suspect that these two harbored suicidal thoughts.
They had chosen to participate in a thread Izaya posted to a pro-suicide message board titled “Let’s go through with it together!”
Izaya’s message was extremely upbeat and positive, and for good reason: He’d taken a spam message from a dating site and tweaked the language a tiny bit, nothing more. But surprisingly enough, a quick perusal of the various posts on that board showed that many of them were optimistic in style. The text was crisp and practical, discussions of methods and motives for suicide, without any of the attitude one would expect a person preparing to die must exhibit. Some posts were as thorough as planning documents for a major business. Izaya enjoyed seeing the great variety of “invitations” on the site.
Of the two women here who had chosen death, one was having trouble finding a job. The other was in despair because she couldn’t get over a broken heart.
Neither seemed to be a satisfactory reason to kill oneself, but such motives were proliferating since the beginning of the recession, and an aggregation of suicides grouped by career showed that the unemployed were easily the largest group. When grouped by age, suicides by those under the age of twenty were also far lower than any other age group. Because the media widely reported on those cases stemming from bullying or other youthful causes, there was a perception that many suicide victims were young, but the vast majority of them were actually adults. The two women with Izaya appeared to be in their midtwenties.
This was around the twentieth time that Izaya had met in person with the suicidal, and he was struck by how little he noticed in common among them. Everyone had their own way of approaching death—some couldn’t stop themselves from laughing, and others couldn’t stop themselves from setting up the DVR of their favorite show before they left to kill themselves.
However, none of the people that Izaya had met had ever actually committed suicide. And that was very disappointing to him.
The news ran reports on suicides. In recent years, the media picked up on cases where people had met online to commit suicide together. Because of that, the total suicide number was more than thirty thousand a year ever since.
What drove them to kill themselves? Did they have no other options? Were they prepared to die for the sake of others? How deep was the despair that surrounded them when they went?
Izaya Orihara loved people. Hence, he wanted to know them.
However, he wasn’t meeting with these women in order to convince them not to die. The reason none of the people Izaya met had killed themselves wasn’t because they were insincere looky-loos or were too afraid to die.
Beneath his calm exterior, Izaya’s true nature flicked its tongue.
Izaya let them talk for a while, explaining their motives for suicide, but eventually he changed the topic with a bright question.
“So, what are you two planning to do after you die?”
Both women were momentarily stunned by this question.
“Huh…? You mean, like, heaven?”
They think they’re going to commit suicide and get to heaven! How impertinent. This is what makes people so fascinating.
“Do you believe in the afterlife, Mr. Nakura?” the other woman asked Izaya. The name Nakura was just an alias he made up.
Izaya chuckled at their responses and shook his head, then turned the question back on them. “What about you? Do you believe?”
“I believe. Maybe there’s no afterlife, but some people stay behind as ghosts to wander around,” one of the women said, trailing off.
“I don’t. There’s nothing after you die, just darkness—but at least it’s better than this,” said the other. A giant red X popped into Izaya’s head.
Ugh, what a letdown. What a terrible, terrible letdown. I’ve just wasted my time. What are they, middle schoolers? At least the last group were all atheists. They were fun. These ones are just drunk on themselves.
Izaya decided that these two were not taking the idea of death seriously. Or perhaps they were, but only in a way that suited themselves. His eyes narrowed, and he smiled with a hint of derision.
“Oh, come on. Why do you care what goes on after life if you’re going to kill yourselves?”
“Huh…?”
The two women looked at Izaya in bewilderment. He continued softly.
“Believing in a world after death is a right reserved for the living. Either that, or you have to have done some major philosophizing about death. If that’s the case, I’ve got nothing to say. Or perhaps if you’re truly driven to the depths of despair or being hounded by unscrupulous loan sharks.”
His calm, benevolent smile never wavered.
“In your case, that pressure is coming from the inside, isn’t it? You can’t just choose death because you’re hoping the world after death is better.”
At this point, the women realized that they’d spoken at length about their motives for dying, but the man with them had not spoken a word about his own situation.
“Um, Mr. Nakura…are you actually planning to die?” one of them asked, straight to the point.
Izaya didn’t bat an eye. “Nope.”
For a brief moment, the only sound in the room was the muffled bleed through from adjacent karaoke booths. Abruptly, one of the two women erupted, like a dam breaking.
“I don’t believe this! You lied to us?!”
“Of all the… What a horrible thing to do!” the other added reprimandingly.
Izaya’s expression did not budge. I had a feeling they’d react this way.
Izaya had been through this situation many times, and the reactions to his admission were, like the suicidal motives, wildly varied. Some people started swinging without warning, and some left without another word. But he didn’t remember a single person who stayed entirely calm. Anyone who would respond to that admission with an easy “Oh, I see” wouldn’t have sought suicide partners in the first place. Izaya didn’t know every single human being, and the model of psychology didn’t fit every person in the world, so he wouldn’t state for certain—but he had a theory. If someone could remain perfectly calm through this, they were either cruising for kicks, or secretly wanted someone else to stop them, or were hoping to convince others not to commit suicide—or were people like him.
“What a pig! What’s your problem? How can you do something so messed up?”
“Huh? Why?”
Izaya’s face had the innocent wonder of an uncomprehending child. He looked back and forth between the two, then shut his eyes.
When he opened them again several seconds later, his delighted expression was gone, and a different kind of smile played across his lips.
“Aah…!”
The woman who claimed to believe in the afterlife sucked in a shrieking breath.
It was indeed a smile on Izaya’s face. But this was an entirely different kind of smile. The two women, for the first time, learned that there were different types of smiles.
Izaya wore a smile as expressionless as a mask, and there was a coldness to it. It was the kind of smile that caused terrible fear in any who saw it, because it was a smile. In most cases the women wo
uld be hurling vile insults at him, but neither of them spoke now. They were grappling with the illusion that the other person in the room with them was not a human being at all.
Izaya repeated his question, not letting the smile fade from his face. “Why? What’s so awful about it? I don’t understand.”
“Why? Because—”
“You girls,” Izaya interrupted, his words harder than before, “have already decided to die. Why do you care what anyone says to you? The lies and insults are going to be gone forever in just a few moments. If it’s torturous for you knowing that I tricked you, bite your tongue off. If you do that, it’s not the blood loss that kills you. The shock causes the remainder of your tongue to compress your throat and suffocate you. Then all the bad stuff disappears. You will cease to exist. I think it’s rather messed up of you to claim that I’m messed up.”
“I know that! But…”
“No, you don’t,” he said to the woman who claimed there was no afterlife. His voice was even more forceful than before.
Still with a smile.
“You don’t get it. You don’t get it at all. You said there was nothing in the afterlife. But that’s where you’re wrong. Maybe you meant it in the sense that you won’t have to suffer anymore—but death means to become nothing. It’s not the pain that disappears, it’s your existence.”
The women did not argue back. They were paralyzed by the pressure of his smile. It grew more and more twisted, but the women still did not get a sense of the heart behind his words.
“The state of nothingness is not ‘nothing.’ Nothing is not always in contrast to ‘something.’ The nothing you speak of is eternal darkness, a blank slate. But that is as perceived by you being aware of that darkness. That’s not nothing at all. If you’re dying to be released from suffering, doesn’t that require a form of you afterward that recognizes you’ve been released from suffering? You can’t imagine that you’re not even aware that you’re not even aware that you’re not thinking about this in the least. Fundamentally, there is no difference between the way both of you think. Even a grade school child who doesn’t believe in life after death understands this and has feared and grappled with it.”
Durarara!!, Vol. 1 (novel) Page 6