The Aosawa Murders

by Riku Onda

  “Is everything all right?” Noticing the Young Master rooted stiffly to the spot, the middle-aged abbot approached and spoke to him.

  “That man over there – is he with the temple?”

  The abbot glanced at the man and, sensing the unspoken questions, nodded with a sigh. “He comes here sometimes to worship,” he replied politely, “and plays with the children before leaving. For one so young he’s had a lot of misfortune in his life. Do you know him?”

  The Young Master hesitated. “No, but I’ve seen him around the neighbourhood sometimes. I remember his face because he’s so good-looking.”

  “Ah, I see. Near your home, you say. May I ask where that is?”

  The address that the Young Master gave seemed to mean something to the monk, for he nodded several times and said, “He’s still going for treatment, then.”

  “Treatment?”

  The monk turned to look at the garden, avoiding the Young Master’s eyes. “Three years ago there was a young couple murdered near the Asano River.”

  “Yes, I remember. They were out on a date. The gang that did it were caught, I believe.”

  “That couple were engaged to be married. They had no connection with the gang at all, but they were killed in an extremely cruel manner. Well, the girl was his younger sister.”

  Seeing the Young Master’s expression of shock, the abbot continued.

  “They were very close because the parents both died when the children were young, so they looked after each other,” the monk told him. “He managed to put himself through university, get a job and save up for his sister’s wedding, just as his parents would have wanted, but then tragedy struck and it nearly destroyed him. He became extremely despondent and depressed, and was hospitalized for quite a while.”

  “So that’s his story.” The Young Master felt a stab of pity. No wonder the young man looked old beyond his years.

  “He’s a born worrier with a sensitive temperament, but he managed to keep going and worked hard for his sister’s sake. I heard from quite a few people that his parents were exactly the same, and that it probably helped send them to an early grave,” the monk said evenly.

  The Young Master wondered fleetingly if it was appropriate for him to hear such private information, but he was curious to hear more.

  “In hospital he met a professor of Buddhist art, would you believe, who happened to be in the bed next to him,” the monk continued. “He told me that’s how he came to be interested in Buddha.” The monk had a strong Kansai accent. Perhaps he had lived in Nara or Kyoto.

  “I hope that Buddha can be of help to him,” the Young Master said.

  “He seems to be interested in Buddha statuary rather than Buddha’s teachings. In particular the Urna. You know, the dot that represents a third eye on the forehead in Buddhist images? That’s what seems to attract him most.”

  The Young Master was startled: the eye in the middle of the forehead. He remembered the young man standing outside the soba restaurant staring at the scroll.

  In the same subdued tone, the monk proceeded to recount fragments from his conversations with the young man:

  “What’s this eye? Or maybe I should ask if it is an eye.”

  “It’s not an eye exactly. That’s hair growing between the eyebrows on a Buddhist saint. The curl to the right makes it look eye-shaped. Sculptors usually make it circular. Sometimes you see it as a grain-sized crystal inset. It’s supposed to emanate sacred light.”

  “So it’s not actually an eye then?”

  “No. Some buddhas do have a third eye, like the horse-headed Kannon, or the Fudo Buddha, but you’ll find it’s mostly the wrathful buddhas that tend to have a third eye.”

  “Wrathful?”

  “That’s right. These third eyes are a mystery. Images with a third eye, or a spot that seems to give out heat, have been found in cultures and religions round the world since the dawn of time. I learned about the phenomenon in my religious training. I’m not sure if it’s relevant, but pictures of Francis Xavier and other monks you see in textbooks show them with a bald spot on top of the head. One theory is that building inner strength through spiritual training causes the energy circulating in the body to become self-regulating and produce intense heat at the top of the body, leading to the natural development of baldness. Which is why all the really virtuous monks have that hairstyle, or so the story goes. But it’s the most common pattern of baldness in men, so I suspect an element of convenience in that explanation.”

  “By clocking up virtue? I wonder how everything would look with an extra eye.”

  “Beats me. I’m not one to know. But I expect you’d see the world differently, at another level.”

  The Young Master remembered gossip he had heard at a school reunion about the abbot at this temple. Apparently he had only recently inherited the position from his father. Before that he had been something of an adventurer, travelling around the world and getting involved with hippy culture in America. After this conversation, the Young Master could well believe it. He had a sense of something unconventional about this monk.

  The abbot continued his reminiscences about his conversations with the young man:

  “I really don’t know what to do.”

  “Do about what?”

  “I have to give an answer, but don’t know how to answer.”

  “Give an answer to who?”

  “Um… I don’t know how to express this exactly, but an answer to the world.”

  “Revenge is not the answer. Revenge will always come back to bite you. It’s a vicious circle. Nothing good comes of it. Your sister would never rest in peace.”

  “you’re wrong. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a grudge against the world because of what happened to my sister. It upsets me that people think that, because I don’t.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “The world is asking me questions. It’s like a heavy weight coming down on just one person – me. I’ve stayed quiet so far, but I can’t stand it much longer. I have to answer somehow. That’s why I feel a great sense of responsibility right now.”

  “Responsibility? Responsibility for what? Your sister’s death wasn’t your fault. Many people feel guilt after being caught up in terrible situations through no fault of their own. There’s no reason at all for you to feel responsible.”

  “Really? But the reality is I was the one caught up in it. Nobody else – I was chosen. Don’t you think there’s a reason for that? I have to answer somehow.”

  “Aha, it’s all becoming clear now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a feeling this was meant to happen – that I come back here and meet you.”

  “Me?”

  “My problems were trivial compared to what you’ve been put through, but I used to have similar questions about the world. I was born in this temple and had a Buddhist upbringing, but I rebelled and went off in search of answers. When I got tired of travelling I came back and dutifully took over from the old man and now I give sermons without blinking an eye, like I’m better than everyone else… but then I meet you – like this. And I think it’s because you are meant to receive Buddha’s teachings.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are. The professor of Buddhist art you met was also a sign. If anyone is in need of the Buddha’s teachings, it’s you. The fact of you being here with me, now, says it too.”

  “Is that what you think? Well, I don’t believe in destiny. Or signs.”

  “Call it what you like, but I think it’s meant to be that I’m here now with you, for you to receive the teachings of Buddha.”

  “If you say so, maybe it was meant to be. In any case, I feel responsible, and I want this eye. A third eye. So I can look down on myself and see the world from a different level, somewhere way up high, and I won’t have to suffer any more. That’s all I hope for.”

  “Your friends ar
e back.” The monk broke off and pointed to the Young Master’s companions signalling from the other end of the passageway. It was time for them to move on for lunch. They had a vegetarian meal waiting at a nearby restaurant, the kind of meal that might once have been unthinkable at these gatherings, but they were now all of an age to have various health issues to consider, and it was enough simply to see each other again.

  The Young Master was about to move off when a photograph taped to a pillar in the passageway caught his eye. It showed a monk walking along, dressed in vivid yellow robes.

  “Where was that taken?”

  “Er… Sri Lanka, I think. I’m not sure any more. I’m embarrassed to say, but in my youth I bounced around quite a bit, not distinguishing much between one place and another.” It was evident the monk had taken this photograph himself.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep what I just told you to yourself,” the monk continued. “The only reason I mentioned it is because you seemed interested in him. Please don’t cause him any trouble, or reveal what I said to anyone else, I beg of you.” The monk solemnly bowed his head.

  Naturally the Young Master had no intention of speaking directly to the young man or telling anyone else about him. He casually turned to look at the hydrangeas again and saw that the kindergarten yard was now empty. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds, no children’s voices could be heard, and there was no trace of the man in the white shirt.

  II

  Although the monk’s words left a sober impression on the Young Master, as the days went by the matter faded from his mind. Yet his connection with the young man was fated not to end there, it seemed, as he encountered him for a third time in the middle of a heavy downpour towards the end of the rainy season.

  To be strictly accurate, they did not exactly meet. The Young Master had been on his way home from a business meeting when the bottom of his paper carry bag became soggy and dropped out, and so he had stopped at the shop of a tobacconist acquaintance along the way. While transferring his belongings from one bag to another he sensed someone outside, walking through the driving rain, and lifted his eyes to see a figure pass by on the other side of the frosted glass sliding door that fronted onto the lane separating the shop from the residences opposite. It was a young man. That much he could tell. He watched the figure continue up the road and eventually disappear.

  The wife of the Young Master’s acquaintance arrived bearing a cup of tea and found him staring with a puzzled expression at the glass door. “Oh, did you see the lodger next door?” she asked.

  “It must have been. I didn’t know there were flats there.”

  “Yes, just behind us. The hardware shop next door owns them,” she said, glancing at the sliding door with a dark expression. “So young but he can’t work. Health problems, apparently.”

  “Is that so?”

  “When he’s up to it he helps out with deliveries for the supermarket up on the main road, but these days we rarely see him come out. Shuts himself up in his room the whole time. It’s a little worrying.” She covered her mouth with her hand, as if she had said something inappropriate.

  The Young Master made sympathetic noises.

  “But he looks like a decent enough young man. He’s nice-looking, quiet and well mannered. Always neatly dressed,” she added hastily, as if she didn’t want to be thought a malicious gossip.

  Her description struck a chord in the Young Master. Surely not… it couldn’t be him?

  “Children do seem to like him a lot,” she continued. “He seems to hold a mysterious attraction for them. My grandson often chats with him. I was quite surprised the way they got to know each other in no time.”

  Now he was sure: it had to be the same man. The Young Master could see him, sitting in the temple garden surrounded by children. Clearly he still wasn’t back on his feet yet. It was heart-rending. He recalled the monk describing the tragic events in the young man’s life, his despondency and illness.

  “Grandma, where’s Big Brother from next door? Is he back yet?”

  As if on cue, a boy wearing long wellies came racing in. The Young Master guessed he was around eight or nine. The boy must have seen the young man turn into the lane from a distance.

  His grandmother frowned. “He is, but he’s not looking too good. Don’t go disturbing him and making a nuisance of yourself,” she chided.

  “But he promised to teach me how to build a radio.”

  “Leave it until he’s feeling better. Besides, it’s raining cats and dogs.”

  “But isn’t it better to be inside building a radio when it’s raining?”

  A child’s logic is unbeatable, thought the Young Master as he listened to this exchange with amusement.

  “And anyway, he don’t hardly come out now. He just sits in his room reading sutras all day, or goes out to find stuff… I dunno what. Now’s the time to catch him.”

  The Young Master remembered the monk’s conviction that the young man was meant to receive the teachings of Buddha and was glad to hear that he appeared to be doing so. He thanked his friend’s wife for the tea and left her still chatting with her grandson. Outside, the rain fell unabated.

  Connections to people are a curious thing, the Young Master thought as he grappled with how to describe this young man’s relationship to himself. There were countless people living in the same city with whom he never exchanged a word and whose existence he was not even aware of, yet for some reason he had become conscious of one particular person who had come to his notice by chance. Should he consider his connection with that person to be fate?

  Despite having no place in the Young Master’s daily life or conscious awareness, thoughts of the young man would float into his mind at odd moments, stirring up an uneasy feeling.

  Though the rainy season had ended, the torrid heat continued. Out on the streets, a sweltering, sauna-like humidity prompted pedestrians to seek out shade as they walked in order to escape the relentless sun. This was what drove the Young Master to dive into a sweet shop one day when he was on his way back from a meeting about a delivery of office supplies, and his attention was caught by a sign hanging outside that read ICE. Without hesitation he ordered a strawberry shaved ice, then took off his glasses and wiped his forehead. A soothing, gentle breeze flowed in through an open window and he breathed a sigh of relief. The breeze also carried with it a fragment of conversation taking place on the other side of the window, which sounded to the Young Master’s ears like primary school students talking.

  “Dunno what he goes on about now.”

  “He’s gone cuckoo or something.”

  His ears pricked up; one of these voices was familiar. The Young Master swivelled to look out of the window and saw two young boys walking along the street. Could it be… yes, that was him.

  “He doesn’t look any different. When he teaches maths he’s all right. He explains science and maths stuff heaps better than any teacher.”

  “So what’s this third eye he’s always on about?”

  “Dunno. It’s been bugging him for ages. Always going on about looking for a third eye. After somebody told him about one he started saying ‘I found it, I found it’ all the time. Sooo boring. I took off then.”

  “Freaky, hey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But hey, class two…”

  The voices faded into the distance.

  The Young Master was perturbed by this exchange. Obviously they were talking about the young man, and it was clear he had discovered the location of a third eye. What on earth did that mean? This has to be some kind of omen, he thought, pressing the cool shaved ice against his forehead. It was like walking out into the street with a particular question in mind and every overheard word taking on a special significance.

  So, what had he just learned from these young boys’ conversation? And why did mention of this young man so often reach his ears in this fashion?

  What it boiled down to, he realized, was his own desire to know mor
e about him. About the man whose name he still did not even know. In fact, come to think of it, the name did not even matter; he was simply curious to know what this young man, who so resembled his uncle, thought about, and how he was going to cope in future bearing the burden of terrible tragedy.

  After finishing the strawberry ice the Young Master’s overheated body felt cooler at last. The sun was finally lower, he noted, and so he ventured outside again and set off in the direction of a place it had not originally been his intention to visit: the tobacconist’s, where he had received a new paper bag that day in the rain. This was where the young man lived, at the rear of the shop. A man who the Young Master had only ever seen by chance several times, whose name he did not know, and with whom he had never spoken.

  Though the most intense heat of the day had passed, the earth continued to roast slowly under the sun’s rays. In the hush that had descended on the city, the Young Master walked along the silent streets of this exposed world, and upon reaching the tobacconist’s he guessed from the unattended street-front counter that whoever was watching the shop had retreated from the heat into the cool of the interior. It wasn’t just this shop, he observed; the whole city almost looked as if had been left unattended.

  He stood outside hesitating. The lane was only a few steps away. It would be easy enough to go down it, turn the corner, and finally meet the young man with the aura of a saint and a face old for his years.

  What on earth am I doing here? he thought.

  He remained there indecisively, conscious of the sweat dripping from his pores. Still he could not bring himself to move. Then, in a sudden moment of decision, he turned on his heel and went in search of a bus stop.

  Summer dragged on interminably. The days were marked by the sound of empty beer bottles clinking as they were carted away by liquor stores, and an accumulation of debris from all those foods favoured in summer: hulled soybeans, sweetcorn cobs stripped of their kernels, white chewed-up watermelon rinds and wooden ice-cream sticks. Children who were scolded for upsetting their stomachs with too many cold drinks blenched at the bitter brown pills they were forced to swallow. City residents sweltering uncomfortably, and feeling as if summer would never end, realized that a change of season was imminent when a typhoon was forecast.