by Riku Onda
Unexpectedly, the image of a good-natured young man comes to mind. A young man playing a tape recorder in a hot room, drinking canned fruit juice and silently writing out transcriptions in a notebook. A kind-hearted youth, younger than her, in whose company she had once spent many days, long ago.
Why does she think of him now? Sentiment, most likely, she concludes. She had asked him to assist her way back then because deep down she liked him. The thought bemuses her as she ambles along.
The clamour of the streets on a weekday afternoon makes her feel comfortably relaxed and lethargic. And also inconspicuous, as if she could be a housewife anywhere, walking the street in the early afternoon. Nobody turns to look at her, nothing about her stands out. This knowledge sets her mind at peace.
II
She ruminates on the peculiar nature of connections to strangers, how one can never know what draws people together or pulls them apart.
Unconsciously her feet have taken her towards the famous Japanese garden in the centre of the city. She looks sidelong at the tour groups flowing through the main gate and saunters in alongside them, before peeling off alone from the standard route in the direction of that building.
To a quiet, still, enclosed space.
The temperature is distinctly lower inside the large wooden building and the odour of mould noticeable. A low ripple of whispers from the sprinkling of visitors inside is sucked up and absorbed by the interior. Few tourists venture away from the garden into this house.
Inside the dark old house is an open-sided covered walkway with a view of the house’s garden, the view framed in such a way as to inexorably draw the visitor’s gaze. She has always felt fearful in this graceful, tranquil space, a fear rooted in the powerful menacing tension that pervades Japanese gardens, one akin to a life-or-death battle, springing from the sharp separation between the observer and the observed.
The observer and the observed. In the end, I was the observer, I suppose, she thinks, standing fixed to the spot, gazing at the framed square of garden. She was always one of the observed, and she knew it.
Such are the thoughts that pass through her mind as she studies the garden and the varying degrees of colour in its greenery. If there is no observer, the observed also does not exist. A garden such as this, where every single angle of vision is calculated with thorough awareness of the viewer, would not exist without that appreciative eye. Observers and the observed can be accomplices, but the line between them does not cross.
I wanted to be an appreciative observer, she thinks, looking away from the garden. To a proper, appreciative observer, the question of guilt – whether it exists or not – is not the issue.
She walks along the dark corridor and goes upstairs. A creaking of steps follows her up from behind.
The fact of her existence was a kind of miracle. I knew that. But almost nobody else did. There were people who worshipped her for being a beautiful young lady and treated her with respect, but that was all.
Outside, she sees deep green pine trees.
I knew, though. I was the only one who understood. Miracles do exist, but the question is what should those with this knowledge do about it? Should they tell what they know? Should they leave a record?
A faint breeze blows, gently brushing her cheeks.
It’s such a pity I wasn’t able to make a decent record. If only I’d had more talent I might have been able to leave something more complete. That was the best I could do.
She bitterly regrets her failure. But how can a miracle be adequately expressed? It is altogether too difficult. This is a question that artists have always struggled with. Not that she thinks of herself as an artist.
A small room comes into view. A room that is dark, cool and serene. A room without sound, painstakingly created by craftsmen, where the walls are coated with precious blue paint. Just looking at it gives her goosebumps.
She thinks of a young girl standing here long ago. An adult holding her hand as they peer into the room. Then she turns and sees a young girl standing in the cool corridor, a girl wearing a white blouse and navy-blue skirt with shoulder straps. The girl looks at her. The two stand side by side in the corridor, peering in at the forbidding, cold room. The girl’s large intelligent eyes focus with deep concentration, and she seems a little nervous.
She stares keenly at this figure of Hisako before she lost her sight.
III
“Oh, my goodness! You wouldn’t by any chance be… the one who wrote a book? Oh, I thought so!”
The woman certainly had a good memory. The last time they had met was before she married, when her hairstyle and dress sense were completely different. But although their eyes had only met for a few seconds, the woman had succeeded in figuring out her identity before she could even think who this stranger might be.
The woman was plump and middle-aged, with a kindly accommodating manner that tended to distract from the fact that she was an extremely capable police officer.
The last time they had met she had been extremely impressed by the policewoman, who was quick-witted, always chose exactly the right words, had a memory that was accurate down to the smallest detail, and never said anything vague or unsupported. She was of course also an attentive listener who was impossible to deceive with contradictions or evasions. On top of all that the policewoman radiated an emotional stability and empathy that put people at ease, making them feel as if they could trust her. Which is why, even at this unexpected meeting, she immediately relaxed and bowed her head in greeting.
They had stood conversing in a corner of the train station, on the edge of the crowd streaming through. The policewoman had mentioned her impressions of the book and they spoke about all that had happened since then. It was a short but full conversation, one that gave her a renewed appreciation of the policewoman’s efficiency. She was not one to waste her own or other people’s time.
Of course, the topic of her had come up. When she had last spoken with the policewoman she was still a student, and perhaps the policewoman had not thought the information relevant to the book she was writing, but on this occasion it fitted easily into their conversation. The information of interest concerned the police’s first interviews with her, the survivor, immediately after it happened.
When she heard the content of this interview it came as a shock, but she tried to keep a nonchalant expression on her face while she listened.
“Of course, that child understood the appalling position she was in,” the policewoman had said. “She knew vaguely that most of her family had died around her. Because of course it was hell all around. When she was taken to hospital she was in a state of panic at first. Extremely agitated and kept gabbling something very fast but didn’t seem to be aware she was speaking. I couldn’t catch what she said, and neither could the nurses.”
She saw in her imagination an image of the young girl lying in bed. Her. The survivor, Hisako.
“They gave her an injection to make her rest,” the policewoman continued, “and when she woke up I listened to her again. I was extremely careful to pay close attention to anything she said. Many times I tried to get her to speak, and at a slower pace, because I thought it was important for her to get whatever it was off her chest. And of course there was a chance I’d find some clues too, clues that would lead to the truth about the crime.”
The policewoman had patiently listened to Hisako and kept asking her questions, straining every nerve so as not to miss anything. But still she was unable to make head or tail of what Hisako was saying. Hisako responded to questions, but not to the actual content of the questions. The police were at a loss, but they persisted, and finally they caught on.
“We couldn’t believe it,” the policewoman said. “It was about colour. All that time she’d been talking about when she was a young child. Gabbling the same thing over and over about when she was small and still had her sight. We didn’t have the slightest idea why she’d talk about that. The doctors said she might have unconsciou
sly been escaping in her mind to a time when she still had vivid impressions, that perhaps the fear of comprehending a tragedy that had taken place in a world where she couldn’t see had driven her to a place where she could comprehend the world through her eyes.
“It left quite an impression on me,” the policewoman continued. “I listened to her repeat herself over and over like a tape recorder, and my blood ran cold at times. She kept saying the same thing, like a broken record. ‘Someone’s with me in the blue room. The white crepe myrtle flower is scary.’ That was it. But she repeated it endlessly.
“I racked my brains about what it could mean, but never figured it out in the end. She herself had no memory of saying it, despite having repeated it constantly. What on earth had that child seen in her mind as she heard her family die? Had she mentally run away to happier days when she was little?”
At this, the plump policewoman’s eyes took on a faraway look, perhaps recalling that period and the young girl who had kept talking about colours. It was the only time her ageless face appeared old.
It felt as if the conversation had continued for hours, but in fact only twenty minutes had passed.
“That’s right, while she was talking she kept moving her hands about. What was it… a sort of circular motion. I wonder what it meant?” The policewoman furrowed her brow and looked at her, as if to ask her opinion of this mystery she had puzzled over for many years.
But she was far from being able to give an answer, for in that moment she was struggling to control the shock that this conversation had dealt her.
IV
She leaves the old building and goes out into the lush, green garden.
She cannot remember saying goodbye to the policewoman on that occasion. No doubt she bowed and said something, but her mind was too preoccupied with what she had just heard to recall their farewell. What did she do afterwards to relieve the shock? She cannot recall that either.
The blue room and white flowers. White crepe myrtle flowers. They had been in profuse bloom that summer too.
Cries from a chorus of cicadas slice through her, fusing with the replay in her mind of the words from the memo that was left in the kitchen.
I journeyed alone all this time
That I might meet you again.
What did Hisako hope to achieve by leaving that memo there? Who was it meant for? Who, really, was it that Hisako wanted to offer everything up to?
Anger and disappointment suddenly seethe up inside her.
And I’m supposed to be the appreciative observer…
Long-suppressed emotions rise to the surface. It is all very well to be an appreciative observer, but she wishes that this ability could be recognized, by the public to begin with, and then by the subject of her observation.
Hisako should have received my message. The book was meant as a message for her alone: I see you, I can appreciate you. It didn’t matter if nobody else read the book, as long as she did.
Again, she sees a vision of a young man hard at work making notes, and feels a mixture of affection mixed with contempt.
He misunderstood. He thought I asked him to be my assistant because I was making an approach. In hindsight I can’t say he was entirely wrong. But he was the only one I could have asked to do that work. I was dazzled by his good breeding and happy that he seemed to like me. I envied his good nature. He knew nothing about the murders, and in front of him I could be proud of being someone connected with the tragedy.
She narrows her eyes at the green cloud over her head.
From here on we will be together, forever.
She sees Hisako in her polka-dot blouse, serenely reading the poem in a low voice.
I’m the only one in the world who knows the real Hisako. But I have no intention of accusing her of anything. I would never do anything so tedious and inelegant.
Gravel crunches under her feet and she hears a hubbub of tourists’ voices. She thinks about everything for the first time in a long while.
Yes, I know why Hisako would do such a thing.
Gravel crunching. Laughing tourists. Distant cries of cicadas. A corner of her brain feels slightly numb.
I’ve known her all along. Even before reading that poem. I knew her long before the murders happened, I knew her before I was born.
She looks up at the sunlight filtering through the trees.
Hisako had to do something. She had to accomplish something big, something major. It couldn’t be helped. If that hadn’t happened, it would have been something else, maybe even bigger.
Rays of sunshine streaming through the leaves dazzle her.
It’s like someone’s shooting bullets of light at me. Am I being blamed? Criticized? Why me?
She staggers into the shade of a tree and sinks onto a bench. Taking a handkerchief from her bag, she mops her forehead. Sweat trickles unpleasantly down her back.
That policewoman never sweated. Her skin was always smooth, and her make-up never smudged. Just like a doll. She was a mystery, all right. Almost like a robot.
A face with a faraway expression flits through her mind.
I always tried to be somebody. Somebody other than myself. I wanted to know what it felt like to be someone who wasn’t me.
Hisako.
But ultimately I was made to understand that I am merely an observer.
She clutches the handkerchief and chases images.
I’m glad Hisako lives on the other side of the ocean. Thank goodness the statute of limitations is suspended. The connection between us can continue.
She realizes that she is more exhausted than she thought. That’s what comes of wandering about the streets on a hot, humid afternoon.
Why is it so dark? Maybe I’ve got a touch of sunstroke. She looks about for a teahouse where she can buy a drink.
I wish I hadn’t met that policewoman, she thinks bitterly, fighting down nausea. If only that woman didn’t have such a good memory. If only she hadn’t spotted me.
Bitter regret, long buried in a deliberate attempt to forget, smoulders in her heart.
If only. My miracle could have continued forever.
V
She stands up ready to set off walking again, but is overcome by dizziness and sits back down on the bench. Her body feels heavy, so she decides to rest a little more first before going to buy a drink. She sighs.
White crepe myrtle flowers. The policewoman doesn’t know. Probably never will.
She puts her fingers to her temples and slowly rubs them.
Hisako couldn’t have seen those flowers.
The sunlight irritates her.
Couldn’t have seen them.
She sees Hisako’s face pointed towards the flowers in full bloom.
So picturesque. If I were an artist I’d paint that scene for posterity.
Hisako was always instantly aware of changes in the environment. She was particularly sensitive to sound and scent, and noticed any flowers immediately. She seemed to know as well as if she held them in her own hand what stage of bloom they were at, whether in bud or about to fall.
Ah, the sun hurts.
A dull pain thrums at the back of her eyes and she rubs them.
And yet, Hisako…
The polka-dot blouse. Hair lifting in the breeze…
Hisako didn’t know what a white crepe myrtle looked like. She had turned her face towards the flowers in bloom on the tree outside our front door, but did not know it was a crepe myrtle. I knew that all along. Hisako misunderstood. She believed it was a different kind of tree.
I can’t believe it. Nobody spotted it, not her family nor anybody else. I just happened to find out by chance.
When Hisako could still see, she saw the flowers on the tree outside the Aosawa clinic. But it was only after losing her sight that somebody must have taught her the name of it. Only it’s a difficult name to read, and maybe the person who taught her didn’t know it properly themselves, because it’s pronounced quite differently to the way it’s written.
Crepe myrtle blooms for a long period, with either red or white flowers. But she had another word for it fixed in her brain, which she was convinced was the name of the flowers that bloomed outside their house.
But Hisako knew about crepe myrtle, and in her mind she used that name for another, different flower, one she’d seen in the past.
I knew that. I’m probably the only person who did.
She stares at the pebbly gravel at her feet. Heated, round stones glowing white. Under her gaze they grow in size and form a white dotted pattern.
A polka-dot blouse. She sees Hisako facing into the wind with eyes narrowed.
The distant past seems startlingly vivid and clear. Why now? she wonders. Is it being back in this city again? But I’ve never felt attached to anywhere. And I lost interest in this city a long time ago, after I finished the book.
But here you are again. You came back today, didn’t you? says a cool voice in her head. If you lost interest, what are you doing here?
She shakes her head weakly, not feeling like answering.
I don’t know. But the image of the Hisako I knew as a child is strong. I recall the touch of her hair and even the air she breathed. I hear her voice as she told me things.
VI
I was in the blue room. I was only very young. This is a strange story, you see.
The room was icy blue. I was cold. Not even the air moved.
I could still see then. There was an adult next to me. I don’t know who, exactly.
I was kind of scared. I don’t remember why. But I stood there, afraid.
I felt signs of bats.
I was afraid. So afraid.
I felt alone, even though someone was with me.
It was the blue room. The cold blue room. The air went cold just looking at it. My skin was like ice, my bones were like ice.
I stood there for a long time without saying anything. It was awful having to stand for a long, long time without moving in the blue room.