And then, he said, When the dust settles, I promise to give my next work to you, but for now, I beg you, please take the blame for my desertion. Now, there’s something I must confess. But what I’m about to divulge, I do so in the strictest confidence. I want absolute assurance of your silence! He made us promise again and again, as he conveyed a summary of the events that led up to his betrayal.
After hearing the story, we just sat there, stunned.
It was nothing more than a love affair.
He’d never worked with the new publisher until then, but a new, twenty-three-year-old female agent had paid a visit to say hello sometime in the month, after which a small association had begun. However, this association with the young agent had unexpectedly—according to the author—developed into a physical relationship.
When he first mentioned her name, I couldn’t recall anyone by that name among my contacts, but in a few minutes I remembered vaguely a freckle-faced, awfully quiet girl.
Apparently she’s been a fan of mine since high school, the author said, and has read everything I’ve written, and well, at any rate, she came to see me with a lot of enthusiasm.
And then he got her pregnant.
He was told of her pregnancy during the holidays, apparently while taking a stroll with her somewhere in Tohoku. The rest is just absurd, but after much wrangling over whether to give birth or not, she threatened the author, who was notorious for being a henpecked husband, that she’d disclose their affair to his wife.
Hence the change in publisher.
But that’s still no reason, I began, "to hand over your manuscript to her, is it? It’s patently ridiculous! First of all, such a response can only be a temporary fix, and it’s only going to embolden her. Even the matter of having an abortion or not is all up to her, isn’t it? I mean it really depends on how she personally feels about that. It’s
unlikely that a twenty-three-year-old woman would willingly give birth to a child fathered by someone she’s not married to. Bottom line, she just used her body to reel in your manuscript, don’t you think? If you continue to deal with her so timidly, you’re bound to be preyed upon from now on." I realized that my company had covered the costs for his research trip to Tohoku with the preposterous woman.
I understand, the author said. You don’t need to tell me that, but things like this never tend to follow reason, do they?
The author appeared downhearted and exhausted, but I felt that he was faking it, that he actually didn’t regret his decision at all.
Sir, my boss began, you’re naturally planning to break up with her, aren’t you? If you go on like this, you’re bound to get caught by your wife sooner or later. And when you do get caught, the problem’s just going to get worse, because this tart appears to have no scruples; no decent woman would kick up a fuss about becoming pregnant soon after you start dating her. My boss was certainly insinuating that he had doubts about the agent’s claim of pregnancy.
Of course, with this incident having caused an awful amount of trouble for you both, I intend to set her straight soon.
An author, in many cases, is an individual who puts himself in a warped, closed environment, never sufficiently exposing himself to the winds of society. Thus, more often than not, lacking in the department of love, he makes passes at an insignificant, yet accessible, member of the opposite sex, and at the depressing end of the affair, falls into a severe psychological crisis.
Believing that he wouldn’t break off ties with her that easily, and not counting on his promise regarding his next work, we refrained from grilling him any further and left his office.
We then went to Ginza and drank.
Even though he wants us to keep our mouths shut, my boss began, we’ve got to let the brass know up to a point.
Naturally, I answered. Even though it was an outrage that he was duped by the agent of another company—a twenty-three-year-old minx, no less—when I thought of how a small life, whose light was now lit in the mother’s womb, was going to get snuffed out in exchange for a single full-length novel by that miserable wretch of a writer, I felt nothing but utter contempt and disgust. There’s no limit to human vulgarity.
I’m amazed, my boss then said, at how he can keep writing novels with so many murders in them, when no one in his life has been murdered, not to mention the fact that he himself hasn’t murdered anyone. What’s more, he hasn’t even seen a corpse, nor has he had a long talk directly with a murderer, you know. Frankly, whenever I meet mystery writers, I can’t help thinking there’s something’s wrong with them. They have zero sense of reality, in reality. I haven’t met a murderer myself, but if a murderer actually read any of the stuff mystery writers put out, he’d find their works totally phony, don’t you think? But then again, murderers don’t read books.
He then went on to curse recent novels and novelists incessantly. I was overcome by about half a month’s worth of fatigue, bearing down on me all at once, and so couldn’t keep up with all his yammering.
In the restroom of a small bar we went to next, I threw up for a long time.
Even after I returned to the counter, just looking at the sweaty glass of whiskey and water made me feel sick again. Such a thing rarely happened with me.
For the most part, I’ve never considered alcohol to be all that tasty while drinking it, but on this particular day, I was simply shocked that I’d been pouring the foul liquid into my gut for all this time. Just what was it about booze that made you dent your wallet anyway? All it offered in the end was misery. I tried searching for the reason while holding back the mounting urge to vomit again. It felt as if there was some profound meaning to be found, so I couldn’t help pondering. But there’s no answer to be found to such a question.
I rose from my seat, told my boss that I was ill, left the shop, and flagged down a taxi. Inside the moving vehicle, the prospect of going home to that bleak apartment became unbearably tiresome, so I changed my destination to Ningyocho. I’d stayed overnight just three days ago, but since I’d never visited without a warning, Eriko might get a little surprised, I thought.
I felt sick again, leaning against the wall in the elevator of Eriko’s apartment building, mumbling her full name over and over again. For some reason, in the short time it took for the elevator to ascend to the ninth floor, I came to believe that of all the people I knew, she’d surely be the one to relieve me of this suffering. When I stood in
front of Eriko’s apartment door and sounded the chime, it was already past twelve.
Eriko opened the door and stepped out, and I snuggled up to her without saying a word. I think I was testing my limits, and as I convinced myself that I wasn’t actually so sick that I’d collapse to the floor, I pressed my cheeks against the smooth nape of her neck. But it turned out that I was just kidding myself. The moment I leaned against Eriko’s body, my knees collapsed, my body began to shake, and I became paralyzed. I was panicking inside as I tried to stand up again, but she held my body as firmly as she could, and when I realized that she was making an all-out effort to convey me to the bed while stroking my back, despite the unnatural posture I was in, I felt at ease and fulfilled, so I let go and entrusted my entire being to her.
She laid me to rest on the bed ever so gently, and I became enveloped in the sensation of being submerged in a lukewarm pool. Close to my ear, I faintly heard the sounds of music streaming through a satellite radio channel, but it stopped soon. A magazine-like object near my head was carried away by a slender arm crossing over the tip of my nose.
Eriko’s palm covered my forehead; it felt cool and nice. I saw her face as she untied my necktie. Apparently, I just fell asleep then.
I woke up suddenly. It seemed like a long time had passed, but it might have been only a short while. The room was bright, but the fluorescent light on the ceiling, in fact, was switched off, and the only light in there was spilling out from the kitchen. Still, the snow-white ceiling, the creamy walls, and the sheets, whose whiteness pressed again
st my peripheral vision, seemed to glitter brilliantly, washed in the spilling streaks of light. I felt as if I’d been thoroughly disinfected and dried. I was comfortable.
Eriko was watching. Seated by the bed, she had her face turned toward me.
I tried to speak but my throat was stinging, so all I could do was let a hoarse lump of sound roll over my tongue. Trying to smile, I grimaced.
Eriko brought her face closer, looking ponderous, as if she’d failed to catch something I said.
Feeling a little comfortable now? she said, the palm of her hand before my eyes. I finally realized then that a cold towel had been placed over my forehead. Next thing I knew, the slight weight got lifted from there and I heard, from somewhere unseen, the sounds of ice clinking in a washbasin and a towel being squeezed, fizzing with foam. Then, once again, the cold weight returned to my forehead.
Somewhat. I coughed, my voice having gotten extremely hoarse. I feel like I’m in a hospital.
I thought about what I just said and added, It’s as if you’re nursing me as I lay here dying.
Eriko laughed.
You’re so kind, I said, thinking how true that was—from the depths of my heart.
Eriko drew her mouth close to my ear and whispered, This is the first time you’ve praised me for something other than my looks.
Listening to her humbly tell me so, I wanted to cry for some reason. And when tears began to well in my eyes I became genuinely surprised.
I’ll be looking after you, so why don’t you get some more sleep? Eriko said before pulling the thin blanket up to my neck and covering my shoulders.
I closed my eyes, and in that moment, sensed a few teardrops brimming from my eyelids and dampening my eyelashes. I wondered if Eriko saw, but my hold on consciousness thinned again.
Next morning, we sat facing each other across the dining table. Eriko, sinking her teeth into a slice of toast, looked into my face and said, You seem worried.
I wasn’t worried about anything, so I shook my head.
I finished eating and stood up to reach for my coat and necktie hanging on the wall, but Eriko prevented me, saying Just a minute, and crossed over to the closet and returned with a brand-new shirt and a beige and purple pin dot tie. Thanking her and receiving the two items, I placed them on the sofa and took off my shirt illustrated with baby birds. Meanwhile, Eriko picked up the new shirt, broke open the seal of its packaging, spread out the shirt, and unbuttoned it before handing it over to me as I stood there. I thanked her again and wore the brand-new shirt. Grabbing the new necktie, I put up my collar and wound the tie around my neck, but then I stooped down, picked up the tip of the necktie and thrust it out to her. She happily went on to tie it with a deft hand and said, It suits you well. I suddenly kissed Eriko on the lips and doggedly sucked her tongue, but she removed her lips, as if to escape, and said, laughing, You still smell of booze.
While she changed, I read the morning edition, standing up. There was a long article in there by a correspondent in Jerusalem reporting on the signs of a power shift happening in the corridors of power in Israel, so I read it carefully, ruminating on the subject.
The two of us left the apartment a little past ten. As Eriko was locking the door, the door to the neighboring apartment opened and a jeans-clad woman in her early thirties stepped out. She was carrying a large sketchbook under her arm. Eriko said Good morning and she too said Good morning in return. She glanced my way and then walked past the both of us.
She’s a storyboard writer for TV commercials, Eriko said, depositing her keys into a pocket inside her bag.
She drops by my place to drink beer sometimes. Until around five years ago, she was a magazine model, you know. I haven’t worked with her though. Now she’s into riding her 750cc motorcycle; the big one that’s always parked in front of this apartment.
Eriko continued to talk about the woman during the elevator ride, and while we were walking as well. For the most part I just listened in silence.
Since the two of us didn’t have anything planned that morning, we entered a Starbucks near an intersection in Ningyocho and I ordered an Americano while Eriko ordered an iced latte.
We settled into a sofa on the basement floor. Eriko had a sip of her latte and began to discuss my holidays in July. Having worked nonstop without a break since the beginning of the year, I thought about settling the matter of the blunder regarding that author within the next month, and then taking a paid week or more off as soon as July began. I’d already spoken to Eriko about that.
Eriko said that if I were to take a vacation in the second week of July, she’d be able to take four days off in a row from the eleventh. She paused and then invited me to visit her parents’ home in Suwa for three days, from Friday the twelfth, if I didn’t mind.
I was bewildered by her sudden suggestion.
I immediately asked where I’d stay.
It’s an old house, Eriko replied, but it’s got plenty of rooms. There’s no need to worry. She then added that her parents wanted to see me.
You must be joking, I thought. But considering how intimate we’d been for the past couple months, I believed it would be prudent not to reject her invitation outright, or even give the impression of doing so.
But then she said, I suppose it’s somewhat sudden, so if you’re not up for it, I wouldn’t particularly mind. If that were the case, she went on to say, we could go somewhere else together.
I’d hate to disappoint you again, as I did during that last trip to Kyoto, I said.
Oh, that was fun in its own way, Eriko said, laughing a little.
So, hey, what do you want to do? she asked again. I fell silent and tried to search for a suitable answer, but I began to feel ridiculous. I took a deep breath, cleared my mind, and said to Eriko, locking my eyes on hers, I don’t understand. Why do I have to meet your parents? I wasn’t able to prevent my voice from quavering with emotion. I hardly think our relationship has reached such a stage. But don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying that I don’t want to meet your parents. I only feel I’m probably incapable of meeting your expectations and your parents’ regarding polite formalities—I suck at things like that. What’s more, I’m associating with you, not your parents, and I have no intention of associating with them in the future. I think I told you before, but I don’t believe in families at all.
Halfway through my diatribe, Eriko’s expression changed suddenly. When I finished, she was looking down and seemed like she wanted to run away, rendered speechless, her slender shoulders shaking slightly.
But rather than feeling sorry for her, the sight of her like that was getting on my nerves. It was as though she was inflicting a subtle form of violence on me.
I don’t think it’s a matter of whether I’m up for it or not. If I may say so, with regard to our relationship, I feel you’re more irresponsible than I am. I felt my anger rising steadily. On the day of Raita’s moving, remember what you said? You said let’s do the best we can together, didn’t you? What the hell did you mean by that? Were you in fact saying that we should do our best together in order to meet your parents? If so, I believe there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.
Eriko, still looking down, let out a small sigh. Taking the bag she’d kept on the chair next to her and slinging it over her shoulder, she stood up with the unfinished cup in her hand without saying anything. And then she looked
down at me with serene eyes. Looking back at her, I let out an obnoxious sigh and leaned back into the sofa.
I could tell that my actions had made her hold back the words she was about to say.
I’ll take off, then, she finally said, wearing a crooked smile as she slowly turned her back and walked toward the dim-lit stairs of the shop. Holding my breath, I endured waves of anxiety and regret surging through my heart, while cursing at the figure of her receding back: Get the hell out of here.
17
THE FUNERAL HALL WAS a small ceremonial hall at the edge of Urawa.
I
rode the Keihin-Tohoku Line from Tokyo Station to Minami-Urawa, transferred to the Musashino Line from there, and got off at Higashi-Urawa Station. The spacious station plaza was—possibly because it was a little too early to be crowded with office workers going home—completely deserted, hit by the rain that had been falling nonstop all day long. On the other side of the street, except for a McDonald’s and a pachinko parlor, there were no conspicuous structures in sight. Underneath the dark clouds of the rainy sky, the entire town seemed submerged, smelling of despair.
The rain wasn’t letting up at all.
I pulled out from my bag the fax Eriko had sent to my office and stood by the ticket counters to check the whereabouts of the funeral hall. Apparently, I needed to turn left from where I was and keep walking straight for less than ten minutes.
Opening my large umbrella, I began to walk down a paved road where the pedestrian traffic was sparse. I kept looking back and forth to see if there were others who appeared to be making a condolence call like I was, but no dice. The intense rain immediately made my shoes and the hem of my black pants soaking wet.
Although I’d met the deceased only once, when it occurred to me that I’d be offering my condolences in such a bleak place—a place that was so remote from my everyday life—it made me sad. According to Eriko, only the older brother of the deceased was living in Urawa. The wake and funeral service naturally ought to be held, therefore, in the vicinity of Ekoda, where the deceased’s company was located, or in Hitachiota, where the deceased was born, but apparently circumstances conspired against that.
The sign, Ceremony Mall Higashi-Urawa, appeared. There was a parking lot just before an antiquated, box-shaped building, but the only vehicles parked there were a car and a station wagon, and there was no reception tent in sight.
The eaved entrance was slightly spacious, and the front door was on the right-hand side; it was a set of double automatic doors, but they were made of frosted glass so you couldn’t see through them.
Even in this area, though, there wasn’t a single reception desk to be found—just a large, rectangular panel hung on the wall, which had these words written in deft calligraphic strokes:
The Part of Me That Isn't Broken Inside Page 18
