He sighed with relief. His brother was okay.
Even if he did know what had been going on between his mother and the man, he was probably still worried about his brother. There was no more pretense in that feeling than in his regret at having left him there alone. An ant was crawling on his brother’s arm, so Takeru squashed it with a crumpled tissue from the floor. He looked at the tissue. The ant’s tiny body seemed to have produced a large mass of sticky, ugly-smelling fluid.
Takeru was exhausted. He lay down beside his brother and pressed close. His brother’s body was warm. Takeru slept.
When he woke it was dark. He turned on the light. His brother was still asleep. After a while, he heard the sound of a car stopping on the road outside. The engine didn’t sound at all like Kazuhiro’s car. Takeru went out onto the balcony and leaned over to look down at the road. He was right. Kazuhiro’s was a stylish black foreign car—this one was white and Japanese. Takeru knew Kazuhiro took very good care of his car—it was always sparkling clean. Takeru had never been inside it, and, of course, his brother hadn’t either. He’d once seen it parked on a side road some distance away from the apartment. He’d had a ten-yen coin in his pocket and thought about using it to scratch the dark gleaming chassis. But then he remembered his mother saying the car had cost eight million yen. He hesitated. If it cost that much, it might make more sense to use a big five-hundred-yen coin. Then he began to worry about what would happen if Kazuhiro found out. The thought made him tremble, so he gave up on the idea and walked away. But he made a wish. He wished with all his might that Kazuhiro’s smart black car would be smashed in an accident. Seeing the white car outside the apartment didn’t make him think that his wish had come true, though. The car belonged to someone else—he knew that. Sure, his mother got out. But the man who climbed out of the driver’s side wasn’t Kazuhiro. The man took some paper bags from the back seat and followed Takeru’s mother up the stairs.
His mother called him Nakayama-san. He was a square-faced, balding man. He was stocky and paunchy, and wore black-framed glasses. Takeru’s mother said he worked for the council’s welfare department. Takeru couldn’t imagine where his mother would have met someone from the council. Nakayama often drove his mother home to the apartment in that white car. They held hands and linked arms. Nakayama sometimes brought sushi or cakes. There was probably something like that in one of the paper bags he’d just taken out of the car.
When Nakayama came into the apartment Takeru’s mother would offer to make tea, but he would stop her. Instead, he’d go into the little kitchen, boil some water himself, and make instant coffee. Takeru was always nervous that Nakayama might get angry about the state of the apartment, and one day Nakayama seemed to notice Takeru’s worried look.
“This is nothing,” he said calmly. “My place is much worse. It’s a pigsty.”
“I thought pigs were clean,” Takeru said. It seemed okay to say it to Nakayama.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry,” Nakayama said. “I wasn’t being fair to pigs. But my kids leave their manga and toys all over the place. They never clear them up, no matter what I say.”
Nakayama sighed.
“What grades are your children in, sir?” Takeru asked, when his mother had gone to the bathroom.
“The girl’s in her second year of junior high, and the boy’s in fifth grade,” Nakayama said, looking rather embarrassed.
“Is he at Momono?”
“No, it would be nice if he was, though. He’s at Yamashiro First.”
Nakayama had a gentle, low-pitched voice—very different from Kazuhiro’s shrillness. But when they panted and groaned they sounded exactly the same. Everyone must sound the same when they’re writhing in pain, Takeru thought, or close to death. Perhaps animals too. Had it been Nakayama with his mother earlier, shouting, writhing, clinging? But what about that “Kill me!”? Would his mother say that to Nakayama?
One day Nakayama and Takeru were alone together in the kitchen. Nakayama was drinking coffee as always, the little table strewn with empty prepackaged meal containers and instant noodle bowls.
“Takeru,” he said suddenly, “do you want to go to the aquarium next Sunday?”
“The aquarium?” The excitement in Takeru’s eyes soon abated. “Do you mean with your kids, Mr. Nakayama? Would we all go together?”
Nakayama shook his head as he sipped his coffee.
“My daughter’s in a brass-band competition that day, and my son’s got a football match. My wife’s going to go watch him play.”
“Don’t you have to go too, Sir?”
Nakayama smiled.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
Takeru was standing at the entrance to the tatami room. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Of course,” said Nakayama. “I’ll take you both.”
The narrow eyes behind the thick lenses narrowed further. Nakayama looked troubled by something.
“Takeru,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Nakayama?”
“You don’t have to be so polite when you talk to me. It’s too formal. It makes me uncomfortable.”
If Takeru had spoken to Kazuhiro in an informal way, he would have been in trouble. He’d have gotten a sharp smack on the head, or his cheek would have been pinched and twisted—as painful as a burn. In fact he had been burned once with a cigarette. He’d seen his mother punched and kicked and hadn’t been able to control himself:
“You stupid man!” he’d said. “Drop dead!”
Because he’d seen his mother punched and kicked? Is that why? Wasn’t it how the man looked at his brother, the way he tapped his brother on the head, as if to imply he wasn’t worth hitting properly? “You stupid man!” Takeru had muttered. “Drop dead!” Kazuhiro heard him. He threw Takeru to the floor and sat on him. He pinned Takeru’s arms with his knees and slapped his cheeks, first left then right. “Talk to me like that would you?” he said, spitting the words down at Takeru’s face. He took his lit cigarette and pressed it into the flesh at either side of Takeru’s mouth.
Takeru’s body convulsed. He’d remember this later when Ken Shiomi took him to see the yellowtail farmers at work in the bay. As he watched the fish being held down and gutted he’d remember writhing in desperation under Kazuhiro. The fish pens by the quay frothing and bubbling, torrents of water tumbling down from the nets as they were hauled high in the air by cranes. Takeru stared up at them, hypnotized. But now he was staring up at Kazuhiro. He didn’t regret what he’d said. He burned with hatred for this man who was too contemptuous to pin down and punch his brother, but who’d been on top of his mother and was now on him. Takeru’s mouth, burned on both sides by the cigarette, shouted just what his mother had shouted: “Kill me!” What was it that was grasped and squeezed flat in the man’s hand? Was it the cheek of a defiant child, or was it the naked white breast of a woman, the tip of its dark nipple sticking up between the man’s fingers? He didn’t know. Was it Takeru’s voice shouting, or his mother’s? He didn’t know. But it certainly, definitely, wasn’t his brother’s.
“What’s the matter, Takeru?”
Nakayama’s concerned voice broke Takeru’s trance.
Takeru shook his head. He tried to say something, but his throat was dry. His tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He ran his hand over his lips. The burn marks had almost disappeared now, but for a while he’d been unable to talk. Even smiling had been painful—stretching, breaking the healing wounds. He moved his mouth cautiously, as though the pain might return. But speaking without formality was easier than he’d imagined.
“The aquarium—you mean the place with the dolphin show?”
“Yes,” said Nakayama, nodding happily.
“Wow! That’d be great,” said Takeru. He wasn’t just saying it. He wanted to go.
“Okay. Let’s go next week. It’s a date.”
“Yeah! Great! Thank you.”
He’d been wanting to go to the aquarium for a long time. They had sea otter
s, penguins, and a huge tank where whale sharks swam around. What Takeru really wanted to see, though, were the dolphins. It wasn’t just a dolphin show—jumping through hoops and throwing balls with their noses—you could actually swim with them. His classmate Ippei Shimizu had been several times. He said it was amazingly fun and the dolphins were really smart. The other kids called Ippei “Animal Professor.” He always spent his breaks looking at books about wildlife, and knew a lot about it. His desk was next to Takeru’s for a while and he often showed him whatever book he was reading. Takeru found out something very important from Ippei: There was a bottle-nosed dolphin at the aquarium named Johnnie, and Ippei told Takeru that Johnnie had special healing powers and could get children to open up. By coming into contact with Johnnie, swimming with him in the water, children who’d never spoken before would start to talk. Takeru didn’t believe it at first. For one thing, how could those children swim? It seemed unlikely that children who were so cut off that they couldn’t speak would be able to swim. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Ippei, speaking as if he were an adult. “I didn’t explain it well. The kids are held in the water by the staff or their parents while Johnnie swims around them. He never takes his eyes off the child, and once he’s circled several times he swims in closer. He brings his long mouth right up to the child’s face and makes a noise—it’s as though he’s talking to the child, or maybe chanting or singing. And then a miracle happens…” Takeru was still a bit skeptical, but Ippei insisted it was true—and Ippei’s father was a doctor—so Takeru decided to believe him.
What if Johnnie and his brother could swim together? What if…
He waited eagerly for the day of the visit.
But the day never came, and it was all Takeru’s fault.
When Nakayama finished his coffee, he’d always stand up and carefully wash the cup in the sink before he left. He’d say goodbye to Takeru’s mother, embracing her by the front door without bothering to check whether Takeru was looking. He always said goodbye to Takeru too, and, most importantly for Takeru, said goodbye to his brother as well. Perhaps that was why Takeru thought Nakayama was a nice person. When he got up in the morning and found Nakayama drinking instant coffee in the kitchen, he was never particularly bothered that he’d stayed the night. Rather, he was worried about what might happen if Kazuhiro found out.
And he did. Because Nakayama forgot to wash a cup. Was that why? If it was—if Kazuhiro had sensed Nakayama’s existence from the cup on the table, if that was really how he found out Takeru’s mother had another man—then it was all Takeru’s fault.
Yes. It was all his fault. When Nakayama left that day Takeru noticed he hadn’t picked up the cup as he normally did. In other words Takeru noticed that he didn’t wash it. But Takeru didn’t tell him. He should have. He’d noticed, so he should have said something. But was it really, truly because of the cup?
There was no point in wondering about that now. He was to blame. It was all his fault that he, and therefore of course his brother, couldn’t go to the aquarium.
In the middle of the night Takeru heard the ominous vibration of Kazuhiro’s engine in the street. It sounded angrier, more menacing than ever. The car door slammed. Takeru heard his mother fall down on the road. When she came in, her face was almost unrecognizable. There were cigarette burns on her arms. Takeru burst into tears. His mother cried too. Her eyelids were swollen purple-red, her eyes could hardly open, and beneath them ran streaks of tears and blood. His brother didn’t cry, though. He just stood motionless behind Takeru. If he’d swum with Johnnie he’d be crying now—the three of them would be able to cry together. He’d be capable of crying. Takeru had made that miracle impossible. He sobbed uncontrollably. His mother put her arms around the two boys and hugged them. Or rather, she clung to them. Takeru had not been held like that for a very long time.
After that, his mother decided to escape Kazuhiro. They moved from Momono to Akeroma in the next prefecture. Really she should have gone farther. The problem was finding somewhere. They chose Akeroma because Nakayama had a friend who ran a real estate agency there. Nakayama had asked him if he had any ideas, and he suggested the apartment block. The landlord had a lot of property in the area. He owned a number of similar buildings, some parking lots, and he had recently bought some newer condominiums as well. He also owned the orchard. Some of his apartment buildings were over thirty years old and had very few tenants. He’d asked Nakayama’s real estate agent friend to handle all of them for him. The agent had told them that, given the situation, it didn’t matter if the rent wasn’t always paid on time. “It’s just a kind of hobby for the owner,” he said. “I don’t think he’d notice.”
The landlord may not have been very conscious of his tenants, but Kazuhiro quickly sniffed them out.
It was he that had just climbed out of the foreign car parked by the orchard. Kazuhiro. No question about it.
Takeru ran up the rusty staircase, the manga book hugged to his chest. There were five apartments on each of the two floors of the building, but the only occupied one was theirs, on the second floor at the northern end. He went inside and locked the door. Fortunately, the lights were off. Maybe Kazuhiro wouldn’t notice the apartment. He looked in on his brother—sleeping in his underwear in one of the tatami rooms. He’d always slept a lot, but recently he spent almost all day fast asleep. There was no fear of him making a noise. Takeru pressed himself against the wall and, trying to keep his face out of view, peered through the corner of the window. Kazuhiro was coming closer. We’re finished, Takeru thought.
Then something entirely unexpected happened. As Kazuhiro reached the block’s unused, overgrown parking lot, someone suddenly called out to him from behind. He turned around. It was Joel, supermarket bags hanging from his long arms. He was at least a head taller than Kazuhiro. Kazuhiro was clearly astonished to be called to by a black man.
“Where are you going?” asked Joel in Japanese. “No entry!”
“I go tsu my garlfrend,” Kazuhiro said in English. This attempt at a foreign language seemed to make his voice even higher than usual. He was gesticulating pointlessly with his hands, his silver rings and gold bracelet glittering in the setting sun. Joel didn’t seem to understand what he was saying.
“Boy…meetsu…garlu!” Kazuhiro shouted desperately in English, then in Japanese, “Why the fuck can’t you understand?”
“No one there,” said Joel in Japanese. “No entry!”
“What?” said Kazuhiro in his own language. “You speak Japanese?” He was so tense he hadn’t noticed before.
“No one there.”
“Is that right?” said Kazuhiro, raising his sharp eyebrows suspiciously. He looked up at Joel.
“Soon demolish,” said Joel, pointing at the excavator on the construction site. “Danger!”
“You work for the developer?” Kazuhiro said. “We’re in the same business, you and me. Comrades! Colleagues! Come on, let me take a look around.”
“Danger,” said Joel, looking down at Kazuhiro. “Can’t go in.”
“Come on, my friend. Just a little look. Okay?”
Joel waved his big hand dismissively.
“Nobody there. Danger. Collapse. Can’t go in.”
Kazuhiro wavered in the face of Joel’s stubborn resolve.
“Okay. I’ve got the wrong place. Understood,” he said. And then in English: “Sank you. Sank you bery muchi!”
He went back to his car. Its chassis and wheels shone faintly in the evening light. Joel stayed standing in front of the block until the car drove off. His long shadow reached all the way to where Takeru was hiding in silence upstairs. Joel turned and waved up at the window. Then he disappeared from view around the corner of the building. A moment later Takeru heard footsteps on the stairs. He opened the door. Joel was standing outside.
“Konnichi-wa,” said Joel, and handed Takeru a large plastic bag.
“Thank you,” said Takeru, taking the bag. It was heavy.
Inside wer
e sweet rolls, apples, aloe-flavored yogurt, and a carton of milk. Once he’d taken the bag, Takeru noticed that Joel was carrying another, smaller one. Joel put his big hand inside and pulled out a red baseball-style cap. On it was the Manchester United emblem. Joel placed the cap gently on Takeru’s head. It was slightly too big. Joel put his hand on top of the cap and adjusted its position.
“Thank you!” said Takeru. He tried to look up at Joel, but the cap slid forward over his face and he couldn’t see anything. He burst out laughing. Joel gently pushed the brim up again and then pulled another cap out of the bag.
“Pour ton frère.”
It was dark blue and had the FC Barcelona emblem.
“What?” asked Takeru.
“For your little brother,” said Joel in Japanese.
“Thank you!” Takeru said, worrying that his smile might look forced.
Obviously Joel, like the others, thought Takeru was the older of the two boys. Even so, Takeru was happy.
Joel had saved them. But how had he known Kazuhiro was looking for their mother? It all seemed odd to Takeru. But maybe for Joel the situation was quite simple. A young boy sat on the rusty old cast-iron bench reading manga, swinging his legs happily. Suddenly he froze. His face turned pale. He was looking at a man with spiky hair, precious metal adorning his neck and hands—a gangster, obviously. In just a glance Joel would have seen that Takeru was frightened, that he was trying to get away. But why would he want to protect Takeru? What made him do it? It had to be the same big thing that had been protecting Takeru all along—protecting him and his brother. The big thing—far, far bigger than the almost two-meter-tall Joel—had told him to keep an eye on the two brothers, to keep watch over them as they lived in the ramshackle old building next door, as good as abandoned by their mother. It had to be that. But if that big thing gave strength to those around him, why in the end did it abandon Takeru?
Kazuhiro had gone, but he could easily turn up again. Takeru was scared. He was worried for Joel too. Kazuhiro had backed down that day, overawed by the larger man, but he was a very jealous person and might start thinking there was something between Joel and Takeru’s mother. After that day, Takeru thought he saw Kazuhiro’s car several times in the area. Perhaps it was just a similar car, or maybe it was his imagination, but still he didn’t think Kazuhiro was somebody who’d give up easily.
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