Coin Locker Babies

by Ryu Murakami

  “Don’t forget,” said the officer in charge, “your lads aren’t the only problem we’ve got to deal with, there’s also the matter of those illegals you rescued; they’ve got to be kept in custody as well.”

  They had managed to pull seven crew members from the pirate fishing boat, all of whom were now huddled shivering in one corner of the hold, making the limited space more cramped than ever. Nearly all of them had an injury of one sort or another. The bunk frame in the center of the hold had collapsed at some point from the pitching of the ship and the weight of the men, leaving them nowhere to sit. Thus, the entire group had been standing knee-deep in a fragrant stew of oil, salt water, and puke while the powers-that-be argued about their fate. Nor did being anchored to the seawall stop the rocking in the hold. At first, the excitement of the rescue had kept spirits high, but as time went by, fewer and fewer voices answered when the captain or the guards came to yell encouragement down the hatch. The rocking went on, milder but still inescapable, punctuated now and then by a tremendous lurch. For what it was worth, they held on to what remained of the bunk frame, but several men had slumped to the floor from exhaustion, settling into the soup. Their faces, peering up from a pool of bilge, might at one time have been funny, but nobody felt much like laughing. Sealed off from the outside, the hold was like a hermetic globe with its own tepid, nauseating ebb and flow.

  “Fuck this! Give me solitary any day,” Yamane groaned. He was suffering from another headache, this one apparently the result of a blow from the winch during the rescue operation. Kiku, however, was busy coping with his own nausea, trying to distract himself by building bit by bit a picture in his mind: the picture that had hung on the wall of the chapel at the orphanage. The man with the beard was still hoisting the newborn lamb, lifting it up to heaven. Kiku could see him, this person he’d been told was his father, standing on the cliff overlooking the sea, a sea he suddenly realized had been stormy. And for the first time he had the feeling there might have been, somewhere off in the corner of the picture, a tiny, foundering ship. He had been in the picture after all, he realized: he was aboard that ship. Yeah!—he told himself—I’m going to make it! And when I get out of here, the guy with the beard will probably be waiting for me up on that cliff, all shining and glorious!

  “OK! Everybody out! We’ve got you a place to stay,” he heard the supervisor shout just then, as if in answer to his thoughts.

  As they climbed on deck, cheering and hugging one another, they came face to face with their welcoming party: a jeep equipped with a spotlight, two rows of policemen, and a small crowd of fishermen who were staring, pointing, and whispering among themselves. They were then herded onto a truck where each of them was given a blanket, while the foreign fishermen climbed into the jeep and were driven off elsewhere. But the truck stayed put, delayed apparently by the man in charge of them complaining that they hadn’t received the change of clothing they’d been promised.

  “If these guys are really sailors, it’s not going to kill them to sleep in a little puke,” shouted one of the fishermen. The supervisor ignored the applause this drew from the other spectators and continued to press his point until finally someone yelled from the truck: “He’s right! We don’t give a shit about the clothes!” Just then, a gust of wind blew through, ripping the canopy off the truck and leaving the prisoners sitting in the rain and the glare of the spotlight. One of them, covered like the rest from head to toe with oil and worse, stood and faced the crowd.

  “You think we want any fuckin’ thing from you?” The other inmates began to get to their feet, but the police immediately surrounded them, fingering their billy clubs. By this time, the rain had soaked the thin blankets, making them limp and heavy, and one man began to slam his on the bed of the truck.

  “Fuck you cops! You don’t scare us!” he shouted. Several clubs came sliding out of their belt loops, though before things got really out of hand, people on both sides were told to simmer down.

  The entrance to the warehouse, a gray building at one end of the harbor, was too low to pass through without bending over, yet the interior was the size of several gymnasiums. Most of the space, however, was stacked to the ceiling with bags of cement, leaving them only enough room in one corner, next to a row of forklifts, to spread some newspaper and lie down. As they settled in, Kiku noticed that Yamane was sweating heavily, and though his skin usually looked like a sheet of plastic, it was wrinkled with pain.

  Lying on the floor, listening to the wind and rain which showed no sign of letting up, Kiku realized that the rocking of the ship’s hold had followed him to the warehouse. In the darkness of that enormous room, lit by just five candles, he felt his body sway with the lingering sea, his outer self still while his gut rocked on. After a while, the guards brought in some rice balls and hot tea, earning a cheer from everyone except Yamane who barely managed to sip a little tea. Kiku, on the other hand, practically inhaled his three rice balls.

  “You know, seasickness is weird,” he said to Hayashi who nodded between bites.

  “Doesn’t matter how sick you feel, you can still eat. Maybe getting some food in your gut helps calm it down,” Hayashi laughed.

  “You better believe it,” said Nakakura, overhearing them. “If you stop eating, you’re done for.” But as he spoke they all found themselves casting worried looks at Yamane who was bent double, pressing his head in his hands.

  With their stomachs full, the excitement of the storm seemed to come back to the group as a whole. There were various retellings of the flooding in the engine room, the puking in the hold, and the details of the rescue. Eventually, the captain joined them and was just beginning a more formal account of it all when the doors of the warehouse opened—not the child-sized door through which the prisoners had entered, but the main doors used by the forklifts, crane, and other machines—and the wind blew in, sweeping up the newspapers lining the floor and blowing out the candles. Then, right behind the wind, came a silver, windowless bus with a large light mounted on top. Kiku had seen this kind of bus before: it was just like the one that had been parked in the alley that snowy Christmas Eve. Flanking the bus were a dozen or so guards and as many more men in the yellow helmets and gaudy overalls of the Disaster Relief Squad, and from among this crowd appeared a man in a suit carrying a mike stand. Behind him was a battery of TV cameras. Someone who seemed to be a producer came over to talk to the prisoners’ supervisor.

  “We’d like to tape an interview with the trainees who rescued the foreign fishermen,” he said, beginning to bluster a little, “and we already have permission from the Juvenile Detention Center back in Hakodate.”

  As a result, the lights came on and the interior of the warehouse, which until then had been buried in shadow, rose into view. The men who had taken part in the rescue were made to sit with their backs to the cameras, so that only their numbers were showing. The man in the suit was on the air.

  “We’re coming to you from a warehouse in the port of Ishinomaki. As we’ve been reporting, Typhoon No. 12 has made rapid northerly progress, causing extensive damage and injuries along the Pacific coast of central and northern Japan and provoking criticism of overly optimistic forecasting by the National Weather Bureau. But in the midst of this emergency, we have a rather unusual, and heartwarming, human drama to report to you: a training ship for a Juvenile Detention Center on a practice cruise has rescued—or should we say ‘captured’—the crew of a sinking Thai fishing boat operating illegally. This evening we’re here to talk to the trainees themselves, who are still recovering from their ordeal with the storm and the perilous rescue at sea. But before we begin, we should explain that in order to protect the privacy of these men, their faces will be concealed and their voices altered, and we’ll be referring to each of them by number rather than name.

  “Well then, No. 3, could you tell us what you’re feeling like at the moment?”

  “Tired,” said No. 3, who was Hayashi.

  “And well you might!” gu
shed the announcer. “And No. 1, how about you?”

  “Guess I’m pretty tired myself,” he said. “The adrenalin kept me going during the storm, but as soon as we got into port, I realized how whipped I was.”

  “Spoken like a true sailor: he finds coming ashore more tiring than being at sea! Well then, No. 6, could you tell us if you knew right away that the vessel you were rescuing was a pirate fishing boat?” No. 6 was Kiku, who said nothing in reply. The bank of lights behind him was hot on his back, and the man holding the reflecting panel directly in front of him was chewing gum and staring at him. “… Well, it’s quite understandable that you’re at a bit of a loss for words after what you’ve been through. No. 5, how about it—could you tell right away?”

  “What is this, some kind of quiz show?” muttered No. 5, slumping forward in embarrassment. The image in the sheet of metal facing Kiku showed Yamane curled up on the floor hugging one of the cement bags. The supervisor had said there was no need to take him to a hospital, that he’d be fine if they just let him sleep peacefully, and after some aspirin he seemed to be doing just that. At least, that is, until one of the many thick camera cables snaking across the floor leapt up and slapped him lightly on the side of the head. First, both legs twitched spastically and his hands shot to his head as a low moan came from his throat. Then, shaking himself, he sat up, and as the moan rose to a karate squawk, he lunged at the bag of cement, using his hand like a bayonet. In the space of a few seconds, everyone—guards, TV crew, prisoners—was looking at Yamane, and even the lights swung around to focus on him as he stabbed at the bag in a series of thrusts.

  “What the fuck?” said the gum-chewing technician. “What the hell you think you’re doing? We’re in the middle of a show here.” But Yamane paid no more attention to him than he did to the circle of guards who had closed in on him as he punched the bag to pieces. He now sat very still, hands on his chest, eyes shut tight, biting his lip as if fighting to control himself. Kiku alone knew he was probably trying to remember the sound of his son’s heartbeat.

  “Hey, buddy, what’s the problem?” said one of the guards, an older man, laying his hand on Yamane’s shoulder. Yamane opened his eyes and, pressing his palms together as though in prayer, looked up at him.

  “Please—be—quiet,” he said through clenched teeth, with that peculiar moan of his starting up again.

  “Is he…?” said the producer, twirling his finger beside his head, just as a young guard went up behind Yamane and prodded his shoulder with his billy club.

  “Stop that—please!” Yamane said, hands clasped to his chest while his head bounced about.

  “Hey! Buddy!” said the guard, continuing to poke at him. “What’s with you? You’re bothering the TV people, so cut it out. You hear? Put a lid on it.” Kiku heard Yamane mumble “It’s no use,” but he had no clear picture of his movements after that; all he knew was they were fast. Apparently Yamane hopped lightly to his feet, did a spin in the air, and lashed out with the heel of his hand. A second later, anyway, the older guard was covered with cement dust and rolling on the floor with a broken jaw. Immediately, the other guard took a swing at Yamane with his club, but he dodged right and swept his leg around to land a kick at the back of the man’s neck. There was a sound of bone breaking. The guard stumbled forward, bumping into a light stand and sending it flying. The big light bulb burst, and the announcer sank to his knees moaning that he’d got some glass in his eyes, but as he crouched there rubbing at them Yamane kicked him under the chin, snapping his neck and sending him tumbling backward. At this, the TV people turned and fled without a word.

  “Hit the floor! Now!!” one of the guards bellowed at the other prisoners and the TV crew, as they went for their guns. The man who gave this command, though plainly frightened, ran at Yamane with his own gun drawn, but he never got a shot off; Yamane had pounced forward, meeting him halfway and planting a finger in each of his eyes when they came together. The fingers made a squishy sound as they dug to the base of the sockets, and the gun went clattering to the floor. Just as it hit the ground, however, the thing went off, and by the time the bullet had buried itself in a sack of cement after ricocheting off the bus, every gun in the place was trained on Yamane.

  “Stop!” the captain yelled, running forward, but as Yamane turned toward him, two guards fired at his legs, pitching him onto the floor clutching his thigh. Even then, though, he managed to wheel about and bring down two more light stands, one of which he used to fell incoming guards. The guards approached cautiously, crouching and making little skipping jumps to avoid the stand, while Yamane, still holding his wounded leg, was doing his best to get back on his feet.

  “Don’t shoot!” the captain yelled again, but he had competition from one of the cameramen, who was shrieking “He’s fuckin’ crazy, kill the bastard!” from the top of the bus. Yamane, shivering and teeth clenched, was still trying to get up, using the light stand as a crutch. One of the guards got close enough to kick it out from under him, but just as he lost his balance and started to fall, he lurched forward and grabbed him by the belt. The man let out a scream that faded to a hiss as he brought the butt of his pistol down on Yamane’s face, but before he could land another blow, Yamane jabbed hard with his open palm at the other’s knee. The guard collapsed, covering Yamane with his body and briefly pinning him, giving the remaining guards the chance they needed.

  “Shoot him in the arms,” someone ordered, and there were three shots almost simultaneously. One tore into Yamane’s right arm.

  “You motherfuckers!” muttered Hayashi from where he lay on the floor. But Yamane was still trying to stand up. Kneeling on his left leg, which was bleeding heavily, he pulled himself up with his right leg and left arm. As he did so, some of the TV staff hiding nearby switched on the remaining lights and flooded the area around him. His hips twitched in a last effort to stand upright, but now a guard had got in close and every time he moved he was beaten down. Yamane didn’t so much as flinch at the blows. Eyes wide and chest heaving, the guard took a heavy swing at his neck that landed on his shoulder. There was a thud, but Yamane merely stared at him without moving. When the man started beating him in earnest, Kiku couldn’t take it any more. He jumped to his feet. Fortunately, with all the lights trained on Yamane, the rest of the place was dark and no one noticed him until he was quite close. He grabbed the guard by the collar and threw him to the ground, and when someone behind him slammed him on the ear, Hayashi, Nakakura, and two more prisoners piled into the fight. As the fight spread, another guard standing on the sidelines pointed his pistol at the ceiling and fired, only to be tackled and brought down by Kiku. The two wrestled for the gun, but just as Kiku had managed to gain the upper hand, riding the fellow’s back, he found himself staring down the barrel of another service pistol. A shot rang out, and blood splattered on Kiku’s face: the guard who had been aiming at him clutched his leg and fell over backward. Out of the corner of his eye, Kiku noticed Nakakura had a gun, and almost before he could take this in, Nakakura had grabbed one of the television crew and shoved the barrel against his head.

  “OK, folks, drop your guns,” he said.

  The silver bus was driving through the storm, headed for Uranohama, with Nakakura at the wheel and Kiku and Hayashi alongside. Uranohama had been the last scheduled port of call for the Yuyo Maru, and Anemone would be waiting there. When they were still a couple of kilometers outside the town, they abandoned the bus. The rain had stopped, and after a short walk they found a red Landrover with “DATURA” painted on the side in the parking lot of a business hotel near the docks. They used the phone in the lobby to call Anemone who, when she appeared, briskly introduced herself to the other two as Kiku’s girlfriend, then told them all to get into the car and drove off. Around the time the police had finished setting up roadblocks on all the roads in Miyagi Prefecture, the Landrover was a safe distance to the south.

  By the following day, when Kiku, Hayashi, and Nakakura had made the most-wanted lis
t and the cops were busy stopping cars on every major road in northern Japan and searching every hotel and inn, room by room, the foursome, clad in snow-white yachting clothes, had already made a refueling stop at Hachijo Island. Their Hatteras cruiser, powered by two 260-hp engines, was passing Oshima, heading for Garagi Island at full speed under the fiercely blue skies that follow a typhoon.

  30

  My sheep, my sister,

  My ship, my garden:

  My eyeball stolen from my head.

  My precious eye, I’ve searched for you,

  Since a fly’s wings separated us—

  Nevermore to have you, ball to socket,

  Nevermore to touch the things I see

  Nor see the things I touch.

  My eyeball sits atop a tower,

  A tower that forever watches me.

  The tower has a master:

  Master Fly.

  The tower is my father

  Whose face I’ve never seen.

  Hashi finished reading the poem aloud and then asked Neva what she thought, but she went on sketching designs for an angel’s costume without looking up. The angel she had in mind wasn’t Hashi but the baby in her belly.

  “What do you think?” Hashi asked again, louder this time. When she still didn’t answer, he picked up a plate of potatoes and bacon left on the table and threw it at her. The plate, barely missing her head, shattered on the wall, but the food came to rest in a greasy mess on her white blouse. After calmly picking it off and dropping it piece by piece in an ashtray, she went into the bedroom to change her blouse and finish cleaning up. Then, just as calmly, she pulled a new suitcase down from the closet—the one she’d bought to use on their honeymoon in Canada and Alaska—and began to fill it with underwear, dresses, cosmetics, and several books. While she was doing this, she caught a whiff of bacon grease on her neck, so she dabbed a little perfume behind her ears. She had combed her hair and was tying it in a scarf—the one with a design of deer stepping on some sparrows—when she caught sight of Hashi in the mirror. She smiled at his staring face, then, bag in hand, walked past him and out of the room without a word. That was the last he saw of her for several days.