At moments like this, I often daydreamed about doing it with the girl. And then occasionally, when I acted on my own inclination, since that’s what I always did, there were times when it ended up happening. It was more about following my own habit or pattern than about my own intention, but now, for some reason, I felt reluctant about asking her out somewhere, as I typically would have done. I had just slept with that other girl, and the thought of going through all those motions again seemed tedious to me. I figured this reluctance also had something to do with the gun, but I couldn’t really tell whether that was the case because I had in fact slept with a girl since getting it. As she and I talked, I hesitated about what to do next. Ultimately, though, I reached the decision that I should ask her out. Whenever I got tired of wondering about something, I always went with the option that might yield a surprise.
“So, you really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“I mean, really, you don’t remember me, do you? You’re forcing yourself. This whole time, you’ve had this full-of-shit look on your face,” she said, studying me.
I stared at her, a little taken aback. A faint smile played about her lips as she watched my eyes. I had no choice but to admit she was right. I realized it might be possible that I had slept with this girl, but that was unlikely. In the first place, I didn’t sleep with girls whose faces I’d forget, and I had never been so drunk that I’d blacked out. I apologized to her, and she laughed out loud.
“It’s no big deal if you say you don’t remember me. Really, it happens. It was ages ago anyway, now that I think about it. Like, when we were freshmen, there was a party for some club. It was a welcome party for incoming students or something. We left together and got something to eat, didn’t we? I’m Yuko, Yuko Yoshikawa. Do you remember now?” she said, looking at me with a smile.
Hearing her describe it, I had a faint recollection of that time. I had definitely snuck out of that party with a girl named Yuko, and we had gotten dinner at some chain restaurant. And then something else had suddenly come up that I had to do, and I had forgotten all about her. But, as I recalled, that girl had had short black hair, and she seemed like a different person from the one here now. Obviously I didn’t really remember, but there was something about Yuko’s air that gave a much different impression from how she had been back then.
“A lot has happened since then. I was in America for a while. I took a leave of absence from school. I was doing something like a homestay, but I recently came back to school. Which I majorly regret now, really. I was bored over there too, but it’s probably worse here. I guess it’s the same, after all, wherever you go,” she said, smiling again.
For whatever reason, I decided against asking her out. It might have been because I felt like she had called me a liar—I wasn’t sure. But in any case, it was annoying to go through the same thing all over again in such a short time—it was exhausting, really. She ordered a coffee, apparently intending to sit and chat with me for a while. Her big eyes were her defining characteristic, and I couldn’t stop staring at them. I lit yet another cigarette, and drank my already cold coffee.
“But, you know, you seem very different, really. Wasn’t your hair short back then? I remember now. No, seriously. That must have been amazing, going to America. I mean, my English is terrible.”
“English? Oh, well, it’s really no big deal to be able to speak it. Basically now I can have a conversation with an English-speaker, you know? It’s not as if I started studying it because I liked it. That was all my parents. They forced me to take English classes when I was little.”
“Hmm, but didn’t that work out for you in the end though?”
“Well, I guess, but I don’t really know. One day they’ll probably make an automatic translator or something, and then there won’t be any need for it. Right? I’m sure that will happen. So, enough about that, what have you been doing? Did you repeat a year or something?”
“Nope. I’ve just been going to class, same as usual.”
“Hmm, really? Sounds pretty boring.”
Then she said she felt like doing something fun. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, so I asked her specifically what she wanted to do. She said that she didn’t really know herself, so she would leave it up to me. She added that she remembered that she had fun the first time we hung out. I figured she’d be awfully surprised if I were to suggest that we have sex. I had a habit of wanting to turn what seemed like was about to happen into something unexpected—a slight yet distinct fascination that I occasionally indulged. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to forget about it for now. She continued to make vague requests of me, which seemed to amuse her in some way. The fact was, I felt like she was trying to drag me down into her own boredom. I gave it some thought but I didn’t come up with any good ideas. And I figured that, when bored people got together, they would only beget boredom. Something about that line appealed to me, and I wanted to try to remember it. The image of the gun flitted through my mind but it wasn’t as if I was going to share that with her. Yuko and I continued to just hang out like that for quite a while.
She asked for my cell phone number, so I asked for hers too. Just then, an idea occurred to me, a sort of game. I would take my time, and in due course, become close friends with this Yuko Yoshikawa. I liked the idea of it taking a long time. Rather than trying to have sex with her right away, I would try, little by little, to proceed along the course. It may have sounded ridiculous, but something about it appealed to me. If at some point, a boyfriend of hers were to appear on the scene, I might even try to act jealous. I felt my mood gradually begin to improve, and I was happy about that. And, for some reason, I still attributed the root of this shift for the better to the gun.
Outside the light was slowly fading, and little by little the air around us grew faintly blue. On campus, the outdoor lights came on, glowing orange, and crowds of students came and went among them, in conversation as they walked. The orange orbs glimmered as they cut through the dim blueness, and I may have stared at them too long, because an afterimage lingered in my vision. The imprint went from yellow to green, following my gaze wherever I looked. Trying to focus on the afterimage itself, the background appeared blue, then orange. As I did so, I experienced a slow, dreamy sensation. The feeling steadily enveloped me, and the next thing I knew, the moment slipped away. I had fallen asleep right then and there.
Yuko Yoshikawa was talking about something, and smoking one of my cigarettes. I nodded at what she said, and drank my coffee.
6
I polished the gun inside my apartment.
Of course I used the black cupro cloth that I bought previously, holding the gun in my left hand and the cloth in my right hand. While I moved around the apartment, I always carried the gun and the cloth with me, polishing it as I listened to music or watched television. I polished it with both elbows propped on the table, or while I was lying in bed.
Time went by surprisingly quickly this way. I took pleasure in the monotony of the task, repeating a conversation with the gun. Needless to say, I didn’t actually speak aloud to the gun, or even carry on a conversation in my head. The gun was a device, so talking to it was the same as talking to myself, and if the gun were to reply, that would mean I was crazy. I simply polished the gun in silence, constantly aware that I was near to the gun. As I did so, however, at times I felt an inexplicable twinge of sadness. I don’t really know why, but it had been a very long time since I had felt that way. I wondered what the cause might be, but I couldn’t figure it out. The day turned to evening, and eventually night.
These past few days, I had often seen the police in the neighborhood. I realized I might have noticed them more because I was hyper-alert to their presence, but it really did seem as though there were more of them around. I overheard a group of women near the convenience store saying that they had seen a lot of cops, and I eavesdropped on some ma
le students speculating about the Arakawa murderer. One time I even saw a uniformed policeman accompanied by a dog, near a nature park about a kilometer from my building. That really shook me up. I had heard about sniffer dogs that could detect the scent of drugs, but I didn’t know whether they were used for guns as well. It was unlikely, but there was no way to know for sure. The gun was metal, and other than that, I didn’t think it gave off a particular scent. When I saw them, I watched the dog for a while, but it paid no attention to me, keeping its snout to the ground and sniffing at something intently.
I put the gun and the black cloth away in the satchel, and went out to buy something for dinner. There was a chill in the air, and having worn nothing over my shirt, I was cold. I lit a cigarette, and set out at a leisurely pace anyway. The sky was overcast with enormous clouds that obscured the moon and the stars.
I got as far as the convenience store, and then just kept going. I could have easily shopped there, but I felt like walking on further. Along the way, I bought a can of coffee from a vending machine and sipped it. I had wandered onto a narrow street lined with residences that I continued to follow, cutting through a bicycle parking lot and going over a railroad crossing. I passed several people, and almost collided with someone whizzing by on a bicycle. The rider was a young guy, and I sort of wished I had kicked his front tire. I walked pretty far and wore myself out, so I found a narrow concrete step built into the wall of a building and sat down. I berated myself a bit, wondering why I had kept walking to the point of exhaustion.
Just then, I saw a uniformed policeman riding toward me on a bicycle. He appeared to be on a neighborhood patrol, his gaze following his surroundings as he decelerated. Once he noticed me, our eyes met and held as he slowly approached. I was a little startled, but I reminded myself that this didn’t mean anything, and I tried to manage an attitude of nonchalance. I was sitting by myself, on an empty back street, past ten o’clock at night. In such a situation, there was no reason a cop wouldn’t question me. Conscious of trying to convince myself to be relieved, I braced for the officer. Thinking that it would seem even more suspicious to act as though I didn’t see him, I stared back at him with a bland expression, trying to project a look that casually implied that it was unusual to see a policeman around here.
“Is anything the matter here?” he began by saying. I realized he was actually questioning me, and I felt slightly annoyed. He was young, probably almost the same age as I was, I figured. I had expected him to have a look of righteous and fearless determination, but he wore glasses that made his eyes seem round, and his cheeks were a little puffy. I took a drag off the cigarette in my hand, and exhaled the smoke into the air. Then I decided to act like someone who had been drinking.
“No, I’m a little drunk, so I’m just taking a break here. I’m about to be on my way.”
“Ah, I see, but, it’s not safe around here, so you should hurry up and get home.”
“Not safe? Did something happen?”
“Lately there’s been a high incidence of purse snatchings. Targeting young women, though.”
“Purse snatchings? Oh, now that you mention it, I’ve seen a lot of flyers on billboards.”
“That’s right. Well, even men should be careful, it could happen at any time, so please be on your way.”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you for your trouble.”
“Not at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He gave a slight bow in my direction and then started to pedal off again somewhere on his bicycle. He seemed uninterested in me. I felt a little buzz, perhaps from talking to the cop. It may have come from the nervous tension I felt about the gun in my apartment and my relief that the conversation was over. Giving myself over to the excitement, I called after the policeman. He braked, turning only his head to say, “What is it?” My mood was extremely high—I was aware of a desire, for some reason, to curry favor with this guy. I realized I was getting carried away, but I felt no need to restrain myself.
“Um, were drugs found around here, by any chance?”
“What?”
“I mean, were there drugs, or something, found around here?”
Hearing my question, the cop’s expression shifted, and he dismounted from his bicycle and approached me again. I noticed that his demeanor seemed slightly different. I was a little nervous, but at the same time, I was curious to see what would happen next.
“Excuse me, but why would you ask such a thing?”
“No, lately, I’ve seen policemen with dogs around. Are they called sniffer dogs? So, I just figured that’s what it was. That something like that might have happened.”
“Yes, but I’m not able to provide more details about the investigation. I’m sorry. The truth is, I don’t know the details myself. However, a few days ago, in fact, the Tokyo Police arrested someone involved with a drug-related gang. Excuse me but, uh, why do you ask . . . ?” he said, as he started to study my face.
I wondered what the cop would do if I were to panic right now, but of course I didn’t do that. I calmly smoked my cigarette, and gave a little smile. It made me aware of the nervous tension I was holding inside.
“I’m working on alternate theories for my thesis. I’m studying data on preventive measures for drugs and suicide, which is why I was wondering.”
“Your thesis? For university?”
“That’s right. My professor doesn’t rely on books alone, he tells us we should go to the police and juvenile detention centers. So I just thought I would ask you. I’m sorry. I guess I do tend to get chatty when I drink.”
He seemed unimpressed by what I said, but he also seemed to register relief. He gave a brief sigh and said, “I’d like to be of assistance but I have work to do myself.” Then he told me again, “You should go home as soon as possible.” I thanked him, and walked in the opposite direction of the cop. I thought that he too might have enjoyed that a little.
While I was walking, I thought about how much more nervous I would have been had I been carrying the gun with me. I probably would have been so anxious and scared, I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy fear and anxiety for their own sake, but it piqued my interest, as it were, when they were mixed in with excitement. Maybe I should start walking around with the gun when I felt like it. Maybe that would lead to further discoveries.
Finally, I went into a convenience store and bought a bento and a juice, and headed back to my building. My legs were tired, and my heels ached. As I approached my door, I was a little surprised to see light coming through the small window of the kitchen of the apartment next door. It had been vacant until a few days earlier, when a moving company had brought in someone’s belongings, but I had been unaware of signs that anyone was living there. I had thought that they must have rented it as a sort of storeroom or something, but tonight I realized that someone had moved in. Mine was the innermost apartment on the ground floor; sometimes I heard sounds from above, but until now it had been relatively quiet. I had a bad feeling, but reminded myself there wasn’t anything I could do. I unlocked my front door and went into the apartment. I could hear noise, a child’s voice mixed in with what must have been the sound of the television. Feeling bummed out, I turned up the volume on a Stones album to drown out the sounds. Then I thought about Yuko Yoshikawa, and wondered when I should call her.
7
After my lecture ended, I searched for Yuko Yoshikawa. Thinking I would run into her accidentally-on-purpose, I went to the cafeteria, and checked out each of several smoking areas on the quad. It didn’t really matter to me whether or not I saw her, but I searched valiantly. Since she was a literature major, I even walked through her department’s building, but was still unable to find her. I was just about to give up when it occurred to me to try calling her cell phone. I knew that I didn’t need to go to such ends, but once I commit to doing something, I like to follow it through faithfully,
so I thought I’d see if she wanted to have lunch. As I listened to the ringing tone, I noted how high my motivation level was today. And whatever the reason for it, being motivated wasn’t such a bad thing.
I let the phone ring seven times, and then I hung up. I figured she might be with another guy or something right now. I just had a feeling, even though I had no idea if she was seeing anyone in particular. If she were dating a guy who played it cool, I would need to be a good listener, but if, on the other hand, he were the jealous, needy type, then I would have to be the cool one. In either case, blowing up her cell phone was not the thing to do, so I had to give it up for today. And—who knows—she might very well just call me up herself.
The gun was inside my bag. I had placed it in a black leather pouch, the opening of which was tied up securely, and put the pouch in my university bag. The pouch was American and expensive; it was well-made and completely concealed the gun, and most importantly, I liked its plain and simple design. Since I had started carrying the gun around with me, I had been going about my life very conscientiously. If I were to leave the bag somewhere, or if I were mugged, that would be the end of me. Now, every day was filled with a pleasant tension, and I felt a constant, piercing excitement that welled up from deep inside my body. The knowledge that I was carrying a gun made me hyperaware of almost everything else in my life. In the middle of a lecture, I often pulled the leather pouch out of my bag and left it sitting on top of my desk. The leather was stiff enough to conceal the angular outlines of the gun, making it difficult to tell just what it contained. I stared at it, sometimes touching it, as I endured the boring lecture. Needless to say, I avoided doing this whenever Yuko Yoshikawa or Keisuke or anyone else I knew was around. If for any reason one of them were to pick up the pouch, it would create a real problem for me, one that went beyond mere tension and excitement.
The Gun Page 4
