by Ashley Capes
Riko nodded. “You’re right about that.”
3.
Kiyomi wouldn’t touch the journal when they returned. Even Daisuke was unwilling to read it when he arrived. It was obvious Kiyomi thought Riko was being disrespectful to the dead for keeping it. And maybe she was.
But Riko couldn’t stop reading.
The pages were mostly stuck together, but with her hairdryer and nail file she managed to read some of the journal. Many entries were simple observations of events and times. Others were messages directed to an unnamed ‘you’ and yet other entries, the kanji often smeared, were haiku and sometimes senryu.
It took her over an hour, but she finally translated one into English, just for fun:
black clouds
brooding
was I ever a bird?
Not a cheerful piece. Riko set the pen down. How long had she sat there, hunched over the journal? Jimmy Stewart looked down on her from a Rear Window poster resting between bookshelves that formed an arch over her desk. It was usually a cosy arch, but it had become oppressive. She leant back, putting her feet up on the desk. Her socks were a splash of blue against the shelves. One question remained unanswered; why had the writer gone to Aokigahara? What went wrong with her life? In one of the passages, the diary-owner described scenting her hair with jasmine and surprising her husband. She sounded happy then, at least.
Someone tapped on her screen door.
Riko’s desk chair squeaked as she put her feet down and spun. “Come in.”
Kiyomi slid the screen open. She wore a floral dressing gown and even from across the room the scent of orange shampoo was strong. Daisuke stood behind her, his ready smile absent. His hair was suddenly bleach-blonde.
“Hey, when did you do that?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, a bit earlier – what do you think?”
“It looks good, kinda 1990s.”
He gave half a smile but it didn’t last when he caught sight of the journal. Kiyomi’s expression was one of concern. “Riko, we’ve been calling your name.”
“Sorry. I’m lost in the journal. What’s up?”
Daisuke glanced at Kiyomi, who shrugged. He sighed. “This might sound a bit strange, but have you been humming?”
“No, why?”
“Well, Kiyomi and I heard humming from this end of the apartment.”
“I haven’t heard it. Are you sure?”
“We’re sure.” Kiyomi said.
“And you both heard it?”
Daisuke nodded. “It sounded like a woman humming, but it wasn’t your voice.”
“And the tune was old, like something from an old war movie,” Kiyomi added. “I don’t know if you’d have grown up with the song in Australia.”
“Maybe it was a neighbour’s TV?”
“Could be.” Kiyomi nodded slowly then took Daisuke’s arm. “I guess that could be it. Well, we’re heading out soon. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“All right, see you later.”
Riko returned to the book. Barely half a dozen words into the next entry and she stood. Her neck was tight and eyes dry; it took more than a few blinks to clear her vision. Time for a proper break. She still hadn’t showered since the hike. Grabbing a towel and ducking into hall, she moved to the bathroom and paused in the enclosure to strip down. She filled the tub in the wet room then grabbed the shower nozzle and sat on the wooden bench where she soaped up and blasted hot water. Everything took a lot longer than showering back home but it was worth it. Once she was clean, she hopped into the bath for a soak, giving a long sigh as she settled in. The heat soothed her calves and aching feet.
Money was going to be a problem soon.
Odd how such thoughts always came from out of nowhere. As if her subconscious had been wrestling them quietly, pouncing the moment she relaxed.
Diving into the journal had to be an avoidance technique. She hadn’t studied pysch but it sounded about right. Calling home for help wasn’t an option. Even family in Japan was out. Aunt Eiko would eventually tell Mum.
If she could find work quick enough, it’d be fine. Hopefully some of her old students would want a tutor. She hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. What was her sponsor telling people? And would Ikeda leave her alone? Was her visit a mistake?
Once dressed, Riko had the house to herself. In the small kitchen she put some water on the stove and collected herbs, placing the bundle on a chopping board beside a small knife. Before she made a single chop, her phone interrupted.
Mum.
Riko took a deep breath, dragging strength in with it.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Riko-chan. Why haven’t you returned my calls? Or your father’s?”
“I’ve been busy, Mum. I’m sorry.” No point mentioning the bad news.
“Eiko said you moved out. More than three months ago.”
Riko rolled her eyes, dumping the knife into the sink. Aunt Eiko had done pretty good to hold out so long – Riko had moved out much earlier. “Of course I did. I’m a grown woman.”
“A grown woman would be married by now.”
“Mum, this isn’t about Ryuu is it?”
“It’s about all of your relationships, dear. And he was a fine young man.”
“Mum.”
“You’re wasting time and with your father getting worse.” She sighed from the other end of the phone. “I want him to see you happy.”
“That’s not what he wants.”
A gasp. “Of course it is. Now, you listen to me. Your father’s stubborn, but the doctors thought he should go back to hospital. Who knows what will happen?” Her mother’s voice held a note of deep concern that she would never admit aloud. It had been the same, even before Riko left home. But there were good hospitals in Melbourne; everyone knew that. And if Dad was back in hospital, that was probably the best place for him. Same as last time. Mum was just laying on the guilt again. How far away was the demand for Riko to come home? To be more dutiful?
The water started boiling over. “I have to go, Mum. I’m cooking.”
“It could be serious this time, you know that.”
“Mum, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Riko didn’t wait for a response. She hung up, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The water hissed where it hit the hotplate, and she lifted it off the heat and wiped the bottom.
Was Dad really sick? He’d tried to call, after all. Maybe hanging up was a bit much.
But he was always in and out of hospital. He always got better and he always got sick again too. And so his lectures were always ‘from his death bed’ as he’d claim. Not this time. She didn’t need to hear it again.
A thump from the other room.
Riko froze. It wasn’t the neighbours this time. No humming from a TV or radio. It came from her bedroom. Kiyomi and Daisuke were still out, and would be hours yet. Her fingers slipped around the handle of the heaviest knife in the block and she moved into the hall. With each soft step, her heart jumped a beat.
The door was still open, but the light off. Had she turned it off?
Riko clenched the knife. Her arm shook as she reached out to flick the switch.
Empty.
Not a single rumple on her bed. The journal and her papers were in place. The tiny wardrobe was empty. Riko stalked into the hall and hit another light switch, checking Kiyomi’s room with its ordered lines and single, innocuous Hello Kitty ornament, then the rest of the house. Even the toilet. Nothing. No-one.
She put the knife back and returned to her desk. Nothing was out of place so what made the sound? She was alone, that much she’d proved. She shook her head; should finish cooking. Or maybe translate some more of the journal. Or better yet, forget the food and journal and get some sleep. Riko rolled her pen acr
oss the desktop. The clatter of it filled the room.
She stopped.
Something was out of place.
Her mother’s picture lay flat on the dresser.
4.
She waited all night but there were no more strange sounds.
Wrapped in a blanket on the couch with a knife close by, bad movies and apples and coffee kept her awake. She’d even checked between couch cushions for spiders.
Kiyomi never returned; she had obviously stayed at Daisuke’s. Now that daylight finally blasted through the windows, Riko stumbled into the kitchen found a packet of dried fruit in the pantry and threw it onto the bench. She rubbed her eyes. “Stupid.”
She’d let the dark, and being alone, spook her.
She poured another coffee to go with her dry breakfast and perched at the table, one knee held to her chest. If only she had another hike to go on. Anything to stop her driving by Yamanashi Language Centre. Maybe if she hid her car keys, stayed indoors? Went all hikikomori – became a real shut in? No. Something else. Reading the journal wasn’t much of an idea either; her eyes were wobbling in their sockets, the whites probably more ‘smashed strawberry.’
Not the best day for job hunting either.
But maybe the kind of day for visiting. Maybe Yuuki Ikeda would be at the park today. How such a part time job didn’t shame the precious Ikeda-san, she didn’t know. The life of a third son – no-one really cared what he did, she supposed, so long as it was unremarkable. In fact, it further supported his father’s reaction. It was all about what her supposed transgression would do to him, not his son.
But if she could get Yuuki alone, maybe she could talk some sense into him. Tell him to speak to his father. Maybe get her job back.
It was worth a shot.
And yet, if Ikeda found out...
She paused, coffee cup half-lowered, skin prickling. “Bad idea, Riko.”
But what else could she do? Nothing. And no-one could help her. No way she’d end up a burden to Kiyomi, she had to try. Riko showered, not taking time to soak in the tub, and dressed in a flash. She leapt into her shoes in the entryway and snatched up her keys and bag before jumping into the car. All she had to do was find Yuuki and explain what he’d done with his lie. Appeal to his sense of fairness. If he had any. Damn kid. Riko gripped the wheel and the leather creaked.
Fuji-Yoshida Park was busy. Cherry blossoms and people drifted over the soft grass and beneath the slap-to-the-face-sun; any shade was welcome. One young couple laid together, their books forgotten. A businessman shovelled down a bowl of noodles, beside him a woman nursed a coffee, tapping her feet to whatever song she’d plugged into via her iPod.
A gardener crested a small rise at the centre of the park, his green uniform and hat conspicuous – surrounded as he was by colourful tops and bare-skinned legs. Still in jeans, Riko huffed. Sweat was already forming at her temples.
“Hi, could you help me find someone? He works for the Park.”
The man squinted at her. “Yes?”
“Yuuki Ikeda?”
“Oh, him.” He gestured with his hand, toward a modest building nestled beneath the spreading branches of the cherry trees. The steel roof was littered with white and pink spots. “He’ll be sharpening tools in there.”
Riko thanked him and strode across the lawn. She paused at the door; grinding sounds came from inside. She timed her knocks between the tool’s bursts. Hurry up.
“Coming.”
Her jaw ached as she waited. Yuuki finally opened the door, a welder’s mask in hand. He paled and then glanced away, suddenly looking half his age, not just about to hit college – but like a primary school kid who’d been caught in a lie. Which he had.
“Riko-chan.” Yuuki gaped. “Riko-san, I mean Riko-san.”
“Stop that,” she snapped. “This is serious, Yuuki. We need to talk about what you said.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Of course I’m –” She lowered her voice. “Of course I’m angry with you.” Shock had definitely worn off. Anger sat in its place, straining on its leash.
“I – I’m sorry I tried to kiss you. And...tried to touch your breast.” He finished in a rush and stared at his feet, cheeks aflame.
She folded her arms as if to brush away the memory of his hesitant touch. “Forget about that. Why did you lie, Yuuki? You know I lost my job. I might even have to leave Japan if your father decides to force me out.”
“I know, Riko-san.”
“And?” Her hand twitched. How much worse would things get if she knocked him down? Or throttled him?
He glanced at her. His eyes were wide and his frown deep. “I don’t even know why I did it.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Do you mean tell the truth?”
“What do you think?”
He trembled. “But my father will be furious; he’ll tear me to pieces.”
“Shit, Yuuki...” She stopped with a sigh. Of course he was afraid of his father. Poor kid. God damn it, he’d screwed up but maybe she could ease up a bit. After all, she knew what that was like. The disappointment of a father...“Yuuki, I need your help. If you speak with Fujita-san maybe you can persuade him to keep the truth a secret from your father. He still might give me my job back. Or at least a decent referral letter.”
He still couldn’t meet her eyes. “Fujita-san and Dad are friends.”
Riko threw her hands up. “Isn’t that perfect then?” She strode off, ignoring his call.
*
Riko raised an eyebrow.
The journal was changing. The characters were drawn with less care, their subjects jumping wildly. There were more haiku and more single lines of confessions and accusations:
And with barely a twinge, it’s done. I’ve betrayed your memory with another.
Then on the very next page:
Your heart is never clear, is it? There’s always a little cloud around it.
And several pages later:
Today you brought me a flower. You’d grown it just for me, having hidden the pot in the garden for weeks. How I never noticed it!
Still no name. But there was little doubt the narrator was a woman. Her unhappiness blinked through the pages, some sickly smooth beneath Riko’s fingertips. Too many pages were stuck together or unreadable. She’d have to do more than air the pages by the window in order to open some of them, and her routine over the last couple of nights included sweeping grains of dirt and membrane-like fragments of leaves into her waste-paper basket before bed.
Days had slipped into one another. She slept and read and translated, ate and slept. Sometimes she met Kiyomi for coffee, sometimes she shopped for the apartment and despite searching each day for another job, she found nothing. Not even tutoring. Not a single one of her ex-students responded to her offer. Was it the contract the Centre had everyone – teachers and students – sign before commencing lessons? Or Ikeda’s influence?
Riko stood, stretching her back. She moved closer to the bed and bent to touch her toes, holding the position a moment.
She straightened.
Smoke.
Riko dashed into the hallway. No sign of fire or smoke. Yet an acrid scent stung her eyes and rasped down her throat. She stopped in the kitchen, coughing. The oven and stove were cold and the TV silent. She fell to her knees, gagging. Invisible smoke? Was it even real? And where the hell was it coming from?
She pulled her shirt up over her mouth and crawled into the lounge, blinking through tears. It was so thick! Riko hacked as she scrambled forward, knocking into a shelf. Something sharp bit into her scalp and she swore. Another picture frame.
Riko picked it up and the smoke was gone.
A rush of clean air hit her lungs. She wiped at the blur of tears and slumped back, legs crossed, jaw slack.
Riko breathed hard.
Was it a sign?
No. She was crazy. Crazy as a street preacher. Only her eyes weren’t bulging and her outfit wasn’t Charlie Chaplin-esque Tramp. Had the photo stopped the invisible smoke? It didn’t make sense. Hallucinations? A mental breakdown maybe – but from what? Losing a job wasn’t enough. Shit, had someone poisoned her? Some freak slipping something into the city’s water-system?
She knew the likelihood of that.
Riko climbed to her feet, replaced the photo and headed to the bathroom enclosure where she jammed the plug in the basin and ran cold water to the top. Then she dunked her head, wincing as a chill soaked into the cut – and exhaled. Bubbles spun and threshed around her face, tickling her skin.
All right, Riko. Keep calm.
She raised her head, sucking in air. Beautiful, clean air. Water ran down her neck and dripped from her nose, soaking the front of her old Astro Boy shirt. A shiver rippled up from her toes, along her legs and into her spine. What was going on? First the humming, then the picture on the dresser and now imaginary smoke and yet another photo frame falling from furniture?
Kiyomi could confirm it when she came home for lunch. Riko could get her to check for remnants of smoke. And if Kiyomi could smell it – then no-one had to be hallucinating.
Riko pulled the plug and went back to her room, slumping into her desk chair. She rested her head in her hands, fingers avoiding the throbbing cut. Her hair fell across the journal and she flinched back.
A pair of kanji on the page seemed to shimmer.
Yurei.
Dim. Soul.
5.
Kiyomi paced the lounge with a slight furrow to her brow. Light from round paper lamps on the roof cast shadows across her face. Finally, she slumped onto one of the tatami mats with a sigh, arm resting on the coffee table.