I told him I wanted to smoke a cigarette, although quite a long time had elapsed from when I had first wanted to say so until I was able to. “Good idea,” he said, “let’s take a little break,” and he led me to the hospital cafeteria. All I wanted was a smoke, but he offered me something to drink, so I asked for coffee. He ordered the same thing, and like me he lit a cigarette. Boy, he said, I was all grown up now; time really did fly.
“But, well, the person you’re about to see is your father, so you must be nervous. I know it’s really none of my business, but I think that later on, when you’re older, you would probably have regretted not seeing him. I wanted you to know about him, so when I heard you were coming, honestly, I was relieved and happy.”
“Is he really in critical condition?”
“Oh, they say it won’t be long now. He has cancer of the liver, you know. It’s already spread to his throat, that’s what the doctor at the hospital was saying. Even your father knows this. He’s conscious, but only just barely, you know, and he keeps repeating that he wants to see you.”
“But I wonder, why does he want to see me?”
“Oh, I can understand how you must feel, but I bet that, staring death in the face, he must want to apologize for things. I think I can understand that too. Lately, there are times when the faces of those I want to say I’m sorry to flicker through my mind.”
“You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, but I did some terrible things when I was young, too. It’s just that, when I look back, there are stories I’m ashamed of.”
I wanted to hurry up and get this over with. Ever since firing the gun, I had felt elated, and my general mood had been similarly improved. As far as I was concerned, going to the hospital meant killing my own buzz. I didn’t want to get involved with unnecessary things. I had used up two of the bullets the other night, and now I had to think about how I would get more bullets when I needed them. I also needed to consider whether anyone had actually seen me that night. I had a lot of things to do. I saw no reason to let someone I was merely related to by blood get in the way of all that. Wanting to deal with it quickly, I proposed to the director that we get going, then considered it further, and thought to add that I was anxious to see the man. The director nodded, and paid the bill. He suggested that it might be best for me to go in and see him on my own. “I’ll just wait somewhere,” he said.
The door was white, and the area near it was quiet. I opened the door, and as promised, the director made no attempt to enter, he simply nodded at me. I had known he would nod, so seeing him do so was satisfying somehow. The room was cramped, with three beds lined up in the center of it. Each bed had an IV drip attached, and various tubes extending off it; I felt as though I had stepped into some kind of laboratory. The white curtain over the window had been left closed, and there was a scrawny arrangement of sorry-looking flowers near it on a stand. The apparatus by the bed in the middle was larger than those by the other two, and seemed like it must have been expensive. I approached the bed that was closest to me, and looked down on the man who was lying there. He looked like an ordinary, unremarkable old man. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, and he was covered in wrinkles—he reminded me of a mummy. I had a hard time imagining that this person was my father, but what did I expect? I remembered the time long ago, when I learned about DNA on the television at the orphanage. It had given me a serious shock. I had thought that the idea of bloodlines was more like a kind of superstition or something, but DNA gave it the ring of truth, and I had to admit that heredity was an established fact. Biologically half of me was made up of genes from that bastard, and the other half from some woman I’d never known, who had disappeared. The realization had caused me to lose interest in myself. It was better not to engage in introspection or self-awareness; in order to go on with my life, I sort of shut down, in a childlike way. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to think about it; I had bummed myself out a little, but I quickly got over it.
I was conscious of the gun, and then I remembered that I had left it at my apartment that day. It wasn’t like I thought if I had it with me I might shoot my father, but I had the feeling it was better that I hadn’t brought it. To me, it seemed a shame for the precious gun to be in the presence of my father. In fact, as soon as I entered the room, I was glad I didn’t have it. The air was stuffy, the mood somber. It didn’t fit with the nature of the gun, which was much better suited to my apartment or the crisp air of the park that night.
The IV was filled with a dull yellow fluid, which passed through a translucent tube and was being infused into the man’s body. I became intrigued by the idea of what would happen to him if I were to yank this out. His eyes would probably pop open as he stared at me in surprise. It would likely create a scene. A son with a grudge pays a visit to his father and takes his life. I thought it would make quite a fascinating story for the public. But I wasn’t about to do that. I had no interest in this man, and resentment was one of several emotions that I didn’t really comprehend. It made no difference to me. I didn’t care if he died right here, or if he recovered and lived a happy life.
I stared at the white seal that was stuck on the IV, and noticed that the name written on it said Mr. Nishioka. I had no memory of that name. Realizing that I was standing over the wrong man, I chuckled to myself a little. Yet I felt as though I had already done what I had intended, and I thought about just going home. I was about to leave, but since I had come this far, I reconsidered, figuring I would just spend a little time with him, and approached another bed. I saw the name I recognized, and as I had done before, I looked down over the proprietor of this IV. This man was incredibly dark-skinned. His gray-flecked hair was receding, and something about it struck me as undignified. The man appeared to be awake; his eyes were wide open and fixed on me. With a slight tremor of his lips as though he wanted to say something, he peered intently, his gaze unwavering. Watching his eyes grow red, I got more and more fed up, yet at the same time, I found it amusing. There was something indescribable about the way he displayed such a classic reaction. His right arm trembled as it moved, but maybe because it was so leathery, I had no interest in catching hold of it. His voice so hoarse it sounded like an exhalation, he called out my name, “Toru?” Thinking about how funny it would be if I denied it, I slowly moved my head from left to right. But he seemed to have misunderstood, and the tears flowed even more as he muttered, “Aha, aha.” I was unsure of what to do; I had the urge to blame him for something—maybe for not being asleep. Again he moved his right arm slightly, but I still couldn’t bring myself to grasp it.
The sound of the man’s labored breathing seemed to cling to my ears. I could only stand there, rooted to the spot, looking down over him. There was nothing else for me to do, so I thought about just going home. But the man was working hard to open his mouth, trying again to say something. As I stared at the thickness of those two dark red lips, I continued to wonder why I had come here, after all this time. And moreover, why did I still feel an external pressure, as if there were something here I needed to do? I didn’t quite understand what that was about, but it didn’t seem all that complicated. Just then, I heard the man say in the same hoarse voice, “Can you forgive me?” I nearly burst into laughter, the boredom of a moment ago seemingly unreal, and I almost let out an awkward noise. There was something indescribably funny about how, in the face of death, he spouted such a melodramatic and trite line. I figured he must have seen a scene like this in a television show or a movie. But he was serious. His emotionally charged earnestness seemed curiously exaggerated. An idea occurred to me that made me grab his right hand. “I don’t care about that,” I said to him. “Just hurry up and get better,” I went on. As I spoke the words, I did a relatively good job of stifling my laughter. I’m sure if I had called him Father it would have been perfect, but for some reason I resisted. As he wept, he tried to bring his face closer to my hand. Some
thing about this gesture made me think of a baby, and in that moment, I pulled my hand away. As soon as I had felt the tears from this man’s eyes on my own skin, my hand had recoiled as if it had a mind of its own. A chill ran through my body, and even though I knew it was an overreaction, it gave me the creeps. The man looked at me, flummoxed, and for some reason, I smiled back at him. I knew that wasn’t necessary, but I may have been trying to counteract his infantile creepiness, and I smirked with contempt as I looked down over him triumphantly. I thought about letting my saliva dribble onto his face, but of course I didn’t do that. However, I had looked at him for about as long as I could stand to, and I felt like I had done what I had come for. So I said, “I’m not Toru.” And then, “Wrong person, sorry,” and I left the room.
Out in the corridor, the man from the orphanage looked at me with concern. I was surprised to find him still here, but when I thought about it, I had to admit it was perfectly natural. “How did it go?” he asked, trying to gauge my state. The way that he asked irritated me, but on second thought, that too was a perfectly natural thing to ask. I hesitated for a moment. “We don’t look anything like each other,” I said, when in fact, his eyes and the shape of his nose had looked disturbingly familiar. “Uh-huh, but . . . Well, I guess I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he said, turning to me with an even more concerned expression. I told myself that what he had done had been out of the kindness of his heart, and I forced myself to tough it out.
I called the toast girl, and went to her apartment. As I entered her from behind, I grabbed her hair and drew her body toward me. She was breathing very heavily, but while we were at it, things seemed to get awkward. In the same position, I ran my tongue along the side of her neck and sucked lustily. She started complaining that her boyfriend would notice, but even though I wasn’t all that into it anyway, I kept doing it over and over again. The whole time, I felt like I might fall asleep. For some reason, I started to get annoyed, so I figured I’d better come quickly, and I focused on that.
Afterward I did sleep, and woke up in the middle of the night. The girl seemed exhausted—maybe I had worn her out—and was sound asleep, breathing peacefully. I wrote a perfunctory note, left her apartment, and took a taxi home to my own place. After I got back there, I still felt pretty tired, and when I awoke, it was fifteen hours later. I may have slept too much, because I could feel an ache behind my eyes, yet I might have kept on sleeping for who knows how much longer. Then I remembered something from when I was little. I couldn’t be sure whether I remembered it from a dream, or if it happened when I was awake, but I pondered it idly. When I was at the orphanage, I had told myself that if I didn’t think about things, then I wouldn’t be unhappy. Even if I had already been visited by misfortune, so long as I was unaware of it, or didn’t think about it, the unhappiness could not materialize. I had realized this, and put it into practice. The orphanage was in a small white building. There was a piano, and stuffed animals, and a television. There was no outdoor space, but we had a soccer ball and baseball equipment. More and more memories seemed ready to flow out of me, if I had chosen to let them free.
12
What woke me up was the sound of the front door bell. It echoed sharply within my tiny apartment, loud enough to awaken me. I intended to ignore it, and reeled in my bedding that had been cast aside, but the sound rang out once more. Fed up, I got out of bed and lit a cigarette. I waited for whomever it was to give up, but the doorbell sounded again, and this time I also heard pounding on the door. Nothing to be done about it; I put out my cigarette and looked through the peephole to see who was there. It was a man I didn’t recognize. He was probably soliciting or canvassing, but something about him gave me a strange impression. He was middle-aged, short with black hair. He looked like an ordinary guy, but he had a certain overbearing quality. He banged on the door again and, because I was so close this time, it startled me. I opened the door, and he said to me, “Were you sleeping?” and “I’m sorry about that.” He was smiling, but his narrowed eyes were looking at me the whole time. This pissed me off, but I didn’t know what it meant. Then he said, “I’m a policeman,” and showed me his badge in a black case.
“Ah, I apologize for disturbing you, but I’d like to ask you about something. Is now a good time?”
He smiled as he spoke, as if he was trying to reassure me, but there was something calculating in his look. I was taut with anxiety; my mind went blank for a moment. My heart began to race, and I could feel sweat start to break out on my face. I tried not to let it show, telling myself to keep it together. But his eyes remained focused on mine. Unable to hold the man’s gaze, I looked away.
“No, I’m just surprised. It’s so out of the blue . . . Wow, it’s like on TV, I mean, you really show your badge and everything . . . Oh, sorry. Uh . . . What is it? I was sleeping,” I said, smiling as I looked at the man.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s nothing really.” But I didn’t believe him. In my head, I said to myself over and over, You really don’t know anything, the police have nothing to do with you.
“Well, the other day, a stray cat—ah, it’s a terrible story—it was found dead and covered in blood, you see. In the park over there. The park is pretty close to where you live. To think there’s someone out there who did this really awful thing—it’s just that I have a cat myself—well, that’s not really the point, no, no, I’m getting away from the story. Now, the thing is, I’m going around the neighborhood, calling on people like this, to see whether you might know something about it. That . . . incident . . . do you know anything?” He smiled again as he looked at me.
I managed to listen calmly to his story. I was a little surprised by my own behavior, but at the same time, I felt like I would be able to make it through this. However, I would have to be sure to choose my words prudently. Trying to avoid looking at the man, I nodded several times.
“Wow, that’s terrible, but why are the police investigating something like this? Ah, I mean, please excuse me for asking, I mean, sorry, I don’t know anything. But I’d like to help.”
“Oh, well, that’s not what I’m investigating,” the man said with a curt laugh. “The problem is, we retrieved a bullet from the cat’s body. It’s a shell—the real thing, .357-caliber magnum. That’s powerful. What’s more, it’s not the kind of gun that’s widely available in Japan. Really, it’s quite rare. Which means that, whoever did this to the cat must have the gun, right? This is a serious incident. And in such a quiet residential neighborhood. What do you think? Now it’s not so unusual that the police are involved, is it?”
“I see, that’s horrible. I hope you catch the person soon.”
Conscious of maintaining an expression of mild surprise, I looked the man in the face. Anyone in Japan would likely be a little shocked when they heard the word “gun.” He was studying my face seriously; I could tell that he was trying to read even the slightest shift that registered there. He hastily flashed a smile, as if noticing his own behavior, but the whole thing seemed like an act to me. I had the feeling this guy was convinced of my involvement, and for a moment I was seized with fear, but I knew that I could still keep my cool. So, with feigned detachment but full attention, I waited for what he would say next.
“Do you have a white jacket?”
“What do you mean?”
“A white jacket, you see. A white jacket, about hip length. Do you have one?”
“I do but . . .” As I said this, I felt a dull thud in my heart.
“We have someone who heard something that sounded like gunshots that night. Using that date, we could determine when the cat died. And on that day, we have someone who saw a young man wearing a white jacket running near there. The guy who witnessed this works as a clerk in a convenience store. No one wears a jacket like that to go jogging. And, he said that there was something strange about the young man. He said he seemed, you know, very happy. The clerk knew who you were. He said you co
me into the store often. It would seem that . . . that might have been you.”
“But, how did he know my address . . . ?”
“The parcel delivery service. The same clerk works the convenience store’s parcel delivery service. The sender’s address is clearly specified. The store keeps a duplicate copy on file, in case something goes wrong with the delivery. You used it once to try to send your parents a picture frame. Such a good son, was it for their anniversary or something? But because of the store’s error, it got broken. But you—and I was a little surprised when I heard this—he said you didn’t get angry. On the contrary, you never even looked upset. You never even claimed the amount of the damages—nothing. The clerk who is the eyewitness, he is the person who dropped it. He remembered what happened very clearly. And yet, to this day, you still come in to buy things at the store that was at fault. The clerk knows you. He knows your face, and he also knows the clothes that you usually wear.”
This time, the man wore a different smile than before. It was difficult to keep my cool. But I knew this still wasn’t enough to connect me with the gun.
“When was this? The day the cat was shot. There was definitely a time recently when I was running through the neighborhood. I needed to get back to my apartment right away.”
“Really? What for?”
“Do I really need to say?”
“Yes, for reference.”
The Gun Page 8
