Lion Cross Point

by Masatsugu Ono

  Joel continued to pass food to Takeru through the windows, and sometimes brought it to the apartment. The days were shorter now, and the weather was getting cold. Joel had brought over some blankets, but even with them it was cold inside the apartment. Takeru wandered the streets in search of warmth—supermarkets, convenience stores. He didn’t like to visit the same places all the time, so sometimes he went a long way away. Public libraries were perfect to spend time in, but he had to be careful not to go during school hours. If people started noticing him, he moved on before they asked any questions.

  He often went to a big supermarket a twenty-minute walk down the main road. They had started playing Christmas songs. He couldn’t remember exactly when. He was always hungry; his stomach rumbled. He couldn’t think clearly about anything—his mind rotated like an empty dryer. He probably went to the supermarket because the old woman was there. It was a large store, and next to an in-store bakery at the back was an area for shoppers to sit and relax. There were three sets of tables and chairs in the middle, and against the bakery wall was a false-leather banquette and four identical Formica tables. By the plate glass on the opposite side were a vending machine, an ice machine, a photocopier, and a blood-pressure gauge that you could use for free. Takeru always sat on the banquette, reading an old manga book. Nobody complained. He’d often see men on their own there, middle-aged or older, unmarried, he guessed, eating lunch from boxes or snacks they’d bought in the store. He’d see mothers with children and heavy bags, chatting happily, telling their chubby children not to climb on the seats with their shoes on. He’d see high-school boys and girls, drinks from the vending machine on the table in front of them, fiddling with their phones, talking about friends who weren’t there. He’d see junior-high girls, who had obviously not bought anything, sitting with their books spread out, preparing for tests. Takeru would watch them all vaguely, and then the old woman would arrive.

  “Here she is,” the junior-high girls would whisper to each other, snickering over their textbooks.

  Takeru vaguely supposed they said the same sort of thing when he arrived: Here he comes! The boy in the cap. Look at him! He’s still wearing that same Pokemon T-shirt in the middle of winter! And he still stinks of sweat!

  The old woman was tiny, her back bent over double. She always wore a drab shirt and trousers, and was always pushing her shopping cart. To Takeru the bag in the cart looked like a little suitcase. She’d put the cart beside a table and sit down. Whenever someone came to sit nearby she’d stand up and try to push the cart closer to the table. “Sorry,” she’d say. “In the way.” As far as Takeru could see, there was plenty of space between the tables for people to get by, but despite what was obviously serious pain in her back, she always got up and tried to move the tightly packed cart. (In reality she didn’t move it at all.) “Sorry. In the way.” It was as if she were talking about herself. For Takeru there was something a little uncomfortable about her words, something unsettling. Was it because she was giving ground she didn’t need to? Yet at the same time, and more powerfully, Takeru felt as though he was floating on something very soft, wrapped in a deep sense of relief. At times like this it seemed almost as if he had been forgiven. Being near the old woman must have made him feel that way, watching her give people space she didn’t have to. But it’s odd: unsettled and relieved—completely opposite emotions caused by exactly the same thing. Takeru probably no longer had the strength to think things through.

  He liked watching the old woman put her hand slowly inside the cart to pull out a small white plastic bag. She’d take some manju or mochi from the bag that she’d bought at the store. Takeru enjoyed watching her slowly chew and swallow. He liked swinging his legs and waiting, wondering when she would finish. All he could have wanted was to watch from the side. He couldn’t have been after anything more.

  But one day their eyes met.

  The old woman was about to eat a piece of mochi, but she returned it to its plastic container. She picked up another piece in her thin, veined hand and held it out to Takeru.

  “Want one?” she asked.

  He finished it before realizing he’d even started. He had no clear recollection of having eaten it at all. Suddenly he was worried that he hadn’t thanked her.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s okay!”

  Later, the old woman’s voice would blend with Bunji’s. It would never be drowned out. The two voices would become one. So perhaps even then, in the voice of the old woman, Takeru was hearing Bunji.

  It’s okay!

  It’s okay! Bunji’s voice was already saying that all the time, even when the words seemed negative on their surface: Don’t! Don’t! You mustn’t!

  The voice affirmed everything about Takeru. Although it had no basis whatsoever for doing so, it accepted everything about him. This unsettled him, frightened him.

  Takeru stared at the old woman. Her wrinkled face looked as though it could either be smiling or crying. Takeru decided to think she was always smiling.

  He never went to the seating area in the supermarket with the intention of getting fed, but from then on the old woman always shared her snacks with him. And every time he thanked her, she’d say:

  “That’s okay!”

  Takeru knew it wouldn’t last long. He’d known ever since he first saw her. Didn’t she keep saying, “In the way. Sorry,” in that quiet voice, always worried that her shopping cart was an obstruction? She wasn’t just talking about her cart—she was talking about herself. So, although she said, “That’s okay” to Takeru, she would obstinately refuse to accept the same thing being said to her. That’s why she had to speak in such a quiet voice—so nobody would respond with tolerance or forgiveness, so that when she said, “Sorry. In the way,” nobody would reply, “That’s okay.” And nobody ever did.

  When people looked at her bent, shuffling figure there was always a shade of irritation or embarrassment in their eyes. The old woman had forgiven Takeru, but there was no forgiveness for her. It seemed forbidden—forbidden both by her and by something else as well. It was as if, in order to forgive someone, she’d had to forfeit, in equal measure, the opportunity of being forgiven herself. But is the world where humans live so petty? The world—full of what Takeru only knew as the big thing—can it be so mean as to think a bent, wrinkled old woman, unsteady on her feet, is in the way? It can’t be. But if it isn’t, that means the old woman wished it upon herself, that her “In the way. Sorry” was a curse she used to punish herself. But even if that were the case, what had she done that had to be punished?

  No. It couldn’t be a punishment simply for sharing her manju with Takeru.

  In Takeru’s vague, unreliable memory it was the last day he ever saw the old woman. She gave him a treat as always—a manju, but then she bent forward over her cart, brought out another plastic container, and put it on the table. Inside were two more manju.

  Her thin swollen-jointed fingers pushed the container gently toward Takeru. Then he heard her voice:

  “Eat these with your little brother.”

  Did Takeru’s trembling voice say, “Thank you”? And did he hear her all-forgiving voice reply:

  “That’s okay.”

  It’s okay. Take it. Take it.

  Did Bunji, of whose existence Takeru could have had no knowledge yet, shout that in a whisper (if that’s possible) into his ear?

  But was what she’d done something to be punished? Did she have to be punished for assuming Takeru was the older brother, for thinking of him and his older brother (yes, his brother was older, not younger), for wanting to share treats with them?

  How, since Takeru had always been alone when they met, always completely alone, had the old woman known about his older brother (yes, his older brother, not younger)?

  Who or what had told her? The big thing? That big thing that had told Joel about them? In which case, had Joel disappeared because he too had thought Takeru was the older brother? But the big thing
, that great big thing—too big to be imagined—couldn’t be so small-minded as to punish someone for a mistake over who was older, who was younger. His brother was older, Takeru was younger—a tiny fact like that couldn’t bother the big thing, the colossal thing that embraced everything, accepted everything. So why the punishment? Punishment for what? Takeru tried to think, but he couldn’t. It was like trying to draw water from a well with a broken bucket. The bucket always came up dry. Was the well so deep that all the water had seeped out by the time it reached his hands? Or was the well just empty? What was it that the big thing had punished? Who had been punished? His brother? No. Definitely not. Takeru? Me? But it wasn’t Takeru who disappeared. Takeru was here. He was here, whether he liked it or not. The old woman disappeared and Joel disappeared. No. It wasn’t just the old woman and Joel who disappeared.

  His mother?

  Takeru shook his head sharply to drive the thought away. Pointless notions bubbled and spat in his mind like wet things in a fire, they swarmed like flies around a dead fish. Frantically, he shook his head again. It was a stupid thing to do. That’s what made his mother’s face fall from the basket of his memory, never to be recovered.

  His brother?

  No. No. No.

  Then (but when?) he heard. Two junior-high girls were chattering at the table next to his in the supermarket.

  “He’s not there!” said the thin one who had short hair and a face rather like an alpaca’s. “When we arrived they said they weren’t doing dolphin shows anymore. I thought, ‘Oh no!’”

  Takeru’s heart pounded. Maybe he already knew what they were talking about.

  “That’s too bad,” said her friend, owl-like in her glasses. “You’ve wanted to see him forever, haven’t you? The supernatural dolphin!”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I like so wanted to see him!” said the alpaca, her voice getting louder. “But he’s gone. It’s, like, a real shame!”

  They turned, astonished, to look at the boy who was suddenly standing right next to them and staring intently.

  “Is that true? Really true?” asked Takeru.

  “What’s he want?” said the owl, pouting.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the alpaca.

  “He’s not there anymore?” said Takeru. “Johnnie’s not there?”

  “Huh? Johnnie? What’s he talking about?” said the owl. She screwed up her nose in disgust, then suddenly laughed. “Johnnie? Who’s that?”

  “You mean the dolphin?” said the alpaca. “Right?”

  “He’s not there anymore? Johnnie’s not there?”

  “Ugh!” said the owl. “What’re you crying for? Yuck!”

  “Shut up! He’s upset,” said the alpaca.

  “Yeah,” she said, turning to Takeru. “He’s gone.”

  Takeru was crying so hard he couldn’t form any words. He pulled his Man U cap down to hide his eyes. The tears didn’t stop, but eventually he managed to speak. “Why? Why? Is he dead?”

  It was as though he was asking himself as much as the girls. His voice trembled. The words seemed to disintegrate the moment they touched the air.

  “I wish you were dead!” said the owl. “Go away!”

  The alpaca, though, was doing her best to cheer Takeru up. Maybe she just wanted him to stop crying because he was attracting attention.

  She kept talking, saying whatever came to mind.

  “I don’t know what happened to him, but they say he’s not there anymore. I’m sure he’s okay, though. Yeah, sure. I mean, like, nobody said he was dead. But he’s gone. That’s for sure. So…yeah, I guess maybe he escaped. He’s, like, gone back to the sea. He’s a dolphin after all. He’ll be in the ocean somewhere, like, enjoying life. Yeah. Definitely.”

  While the alpaca rambled on the owl faced the other way, stifling her laughter.

  But Takeru wasn’t listening. He turned his back and, still crying, headed for the door. It was all too late.

  Maybe there were some adults in the store who were worried about him, but with his cap pulled all the way down all he could see was the floor.

  He came out of the supermarket and started running in despair. What pushed him now was the big thing. It didn’t wrap him up and keep him warm, though. It didn’t give him strength. It didn’t affirm anything about him. Entirely the opposite. It had forsaken him. He was abandoned. Repulsed by the big thing, swept forward by overwhelming force, he could do nothing but run. Rejected, displaced, he had no choice but to go somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t here.

  The harsh din of cicadas filled the air. Earlier in the morning there would have been birdsong, playing along with the first rays of sunlight that crept down the western hill toward the village. The hillside would have shimmered in its gentle touch, before the rough assault of full light began. But now, all that could be heard were the cicadas. The newly formed shadows of all the things in the village quivered with their cries. The sound was like that of heavy rain, but the sky was clear. There was no mist out there, it was all in his head, among his memories. He was still in a daze, as always, and thoughts would not form properly. Takeru was sitting on Mitsuko’s wooden veranda, taking large bites from a watermelon she’d cut for him.

  He’d been out to the holly tree at the edge of the garden to shout for Saki to come and have some, but there’d been no reply.

  “Looks like she’s still asleep, Mitsuko,” Takeru said as Mitsuko washed the dishes from breakfast in the kitchen.

  “She shouldn’t be lyin’ ’round in bed, just ’cause it’s the holidays,” said Mitsuko, showing a hint of anger at Saki’s father, Tatsuya.

  From Mitsuko’s veranda you could see the hills around the village to the south. The blue sky above them was clear and bright. Takeru knew that the Pacific Ocean lay beyond the hills, and he imagined the sparkling sea. There was a beach over there where sea turtles came to lay their eggs. He wanted to see that.

  “I’ll take ya,” Hii-chan had said. They were on the way back from shopping in town and had stopped for some gas at the Shudo Gas Station.

  “But, Hii-chan,” said Toshi, “they’ve only just laid their eggs.”

  “What difference does that make?” said Hii-chan, flaring his nostrils, making his nose look bigger than ever.

  “Well, it’s too late for Takeru. They won’t be back ’til next summer, will they?” said Toshi, mockingly.

  “He can stay ’til then,” said Hii-chan smiling. His silver tooth glinted. “Suits ya here, don’t it, Takeru? You’ve gotten fatter.”

  Hii-chan prodded Takeru’s cheek. Takeru didn’t know if he was fatter or not. Perhaps he was.

  “You stay here long as ya like,” said Hii-chan. “It’ll be ’kay.”

  Okay. Okay. Takeru heard Bunji’s voice too. He couldn’t say where it came from.

  Takeru tried to imagine himself staying here until the turtles came back to lay their eggs again. He couldn’t really picture it. But despite that…no, probably because of it, he felt he’d be happy enough staying.

  It was the day before their trip to Dolphin Village. They’d originally planned to go sooner, but there had been a series of early typhoons and the road along the coast had been closed because of a landslide.

  Takeru heard the sound of a door slamming from across the field. He looked up. Saki was walking sleepily along the path, rubbing her eyes.

  “Mornin’!” she shouted. “Did ya yell for me?”

  “Yes! We’ve got some watermelon. Hurry up!”

  Saki joined Takeru on the veranda and polished off two pieces of the watermelon. Then, without any particular plan, they decided to go out.

  “It’s hot, Saki,” said Mitsuko as they were leaving. “You’ll have t’wear a hat, like Takeru.”

  “’kay.”

  “Look—here’s the one ya left behind yesterday,” Mitsuko said.

  It was a straw hat with a ribbon. She placed it on Saki’s head.

  “You should be careful not t’forget things.”<
br />
  “Sorry! Thank ya.”

  Takeru had decided they should go to the temple first.

  “What? Again?” said Saki.

  “Why not?” Takeru said, walking quickly ahead.

  The garden in front of the main building of the temple was entirely free of weeds and meticulously swept. The black earth bore the neat lines of a bamboo rake, deterring deviation from the pathway. The noise of the cicadas was so unrelenting it could almost be ignored. It was like a curtain of sound on top of which the birds drew clear patterns of song. The humid air clung to Takeru’s body like an extra layer of skin. He felt as if he could have pinched it between his fingers and pulled it away.

  He couldn’t remember his mother’s face; but he remembered the old woman in the supermarket in Akeroma—her skin, brown-stained and loose, as though hanging directly off her bones.

  The sticky, clinging air protected Takeru from reality. Or distanced him from it. Perhaps those are the same thing in the end.

  Okay. Okay.

  Bunji wasn’t visible through the thick film of heat shimmering in the air.

  Takeru looked up. A thin white trail of clouds prevented the blue of the sky from penetrating his eyes. Bare blue sky frightened him, as if his mind might be sucked into its depths.

  The birds sang louder, and for a moment the membrane of heat seemed about to burst. The surface of the air rose and fell, as though it were breathing. But the world was with Takeru like it always was, or perhaps it was showing a calmer, friendlier face than normal. The light, softened by white clouds, was smiling down on everything that remained in the world. All things had been accepted. Did his mother hate this scenery in spite of this? Did she want to get away as soon as possible, in spite of this? He heard kittens mewing somewhere. The somewhere was within him—as if he were a bag and the kittens were closed up inside. But that didn’t trouble him. He felt good, and not just from running up the stone steps. Everything was forgiven. He may or may not have formed that thought in words. But what enveloped him—the clinging heat; the peaceful-looking sky; the soft light; the birdsong—it expanded his being, generous and wide. Takeru’s mind normally shrank when he thought of his mother and brother—the kittens in the tightly sealed bag crying for help, cries that might never leave his ears—but now his mind was growing, swelling out, so that, though still heartrending, the kittens’ cries were now further off. But they were still inside, there was no difference there. What am I thinking? What have the kittens done to be tied up in a bag? What have I done? Tell me. Tell me.