Cult X

by Fuminori Nakamura

  “Absolutely not.”

  Narazaki stared at the two of them, flabbergasted.

  “Why not? Isn’t that fair?”

  “No, it isn’t fair.”

  “Are you saying that men and women aren’t equal?”

  “That’s right. Women are better.”

  “Narazaki-kun.”

  “Yes,” he answered, startled at being called on.

  “Will you ask her?”

  “Ask her what?”

  “About her boobs.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Really. This is your training.”

  Training? What is he saying? Has he gone mad?

  “I . . . can’t.”

  “I told you. It’s training.”

  “Training . . . ?” Narazaki looked at Mineno. She seemed upset. “Umm, may the leader touch your breasts?”

  “No.”

  “Failure!” The old man was upset.

  What is this? Narazaki was getting caught up in something bad, but he wasn’t sure what.

  “You failed! And I thought I was going to make you a . . . what’s it called? Uh, an officer. But if Mine-chan won’t let me touch her breasts, you fail. If you change your mind you can come back, Mine-chan.”

  Mineno left.

  What’s going on? I thought she was this old man’s disciple.

  “But, Narazaki-kun, if I did touch Mine-chan’s boobs, if she wanted me to, what would I do then?”

  “What?”

  “I’m asking you what would I do if she changed her mind. I’d have to take a Viagra.”

  “Oh . . . Really?”

  “Really! Well, maybe not. Maybe I could manage without it.”

  The old man scrunched his eyebrows. One of his sleeves was slightly pushed up; Narazaki noticed he was wearing a Doraemon wristwatch. Unbelievable. This group was in the worst possible state. Their leader was going mad.

  “How is Sawatari doing?”

  “. . . What?”

  The old man was looking at him. But he hadn’t spoken particularly harshly. His voice remained soft. “Oh, right. You can’t tell me about that. But he’s probably doing okay, right?”

  Narazaki was at a loss for words. He couldn’t get his thoughts straight.

  “. . . Uh.”

  “Well?”

  “How—?” Narazaki blurted. His heart was racing.

  “How? Oh, how did I know you were there? Well, you came here looking for Tachibana-chan, right? And then you vanished for a month, and showed up again. So wouldn’t it be normal to think that in that time you’d been lured in by them, and they sent you back here again? Also, you look so gaunt.”

  “I . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry! You don’t have to say anything. If you tell me anything, you’ll be betraying them, right? But since I know, you can stay here without feeling guilty. I am the leader of this place, after all.”

  Narazaki stood stunned. What was this old man? His heart beat even faster.

  Come to think of it, he still hadn’t introduced himself.

  “If—if you assume that’s true, would that be all right with you?”

  “All right how?”

  “Well, I mean, it might be . . . disadvantageous for you to have me around.”

  The old man stared into Narazaki’s face with interested eyes, and then burst into a grin.

  “Disadvantageous? There’s no helping that. But you came here because you wanted to talk to me about something, right? Why would I turn you away? Even if you hate me, I like you. Isn’t that good enough?”

  Mineno washed Matsuo’s dishes.

  He seemed to be eating properly. But he was picky. Soon he’ll come saying he wants a snack. I wonder if he’ll take a manju. But he must be healthy if he can harass me so much.

  Yoshiko came into the kitchen. Over the past few days Yoshiko had tried to stay near Mineno. But Mineno couldn’t talk to her about it.

  “Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do them,” Yoshiko said.

  “I’m almost done.”

  Every time Mineno saw Yoshiko she thought the same thing, that she must have been very beautiful when she was young. Even now she was rather pretty. She was short, but her back was straight. Yet she must have been well over seventy.

  “Don’t worry about the snacks. You can leave him.”

  The back of Mineno’s head hurt. Maybe she’d tied her hair too tight.

  “No, I’ll take them.”

  “He’s going to harass you again.”

  Mineno smiled slightly. “He doesn’t have the courage to actually touch me, so it’s fine.”

  “That’s true, but doesn’t it bother you? You should just pull out his dentures and shove that manju down his throat.”

  As Yoshiko opened the refrigerator, she began to sing. It felt like the moment was almost right. Will she say something, I wonder? But she might think that if she says something, I’ll stop coming here. Cowardly humans. Cowardly and kind. She definitely won’t say anything. But still . . .

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  Mineno looked at Yoshiko, surprised. Yoshiko was smiling.

  “You’re really stubborn—you really weren’t going to say anything. You can’t see it in your body yet, but I can see it in your attitude and your face . . . And the aura you’re giving off.” Her face grew wrinkly when she smiled. Something scratched at the edge of Mineno’s memory. Not an image, but an absence. Mineno’s mother had never looked at her with a face like that.

  “The father’s Takahara-kun, right? That would be my guess, anyway.”

  Mineno couldn’t say anything. She was about to cry. Her eyes fixed on Yoshiko’s thin hand as it shot out and grabbed the faucet handle, turning off the running water.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it? You know he has another lover, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Mineno noticed that she was responding as if by reflex. Why does Yo-chan-san even know about Takahara-kun’s relationships? Takahara-kun was one of the people who helped scam Matsuo-san. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight.

  “Do you know who Takahara-kun’s lover is?

  “No.”

  “It’s Rina-san.”

  Mineno couldn’t breathe. Her heart began to race.

  “Well, she told us her name was Rina, but we all found out that was a fake name when Narazaki showed up. Ryoko Tachibana. He came here to look for her, too, right? . . . How complicated.”

  When Mineno had first heard the name Ryoko Tachibana from Narazaki, she hadn’t recognized it. But then he’d showed her Rina’s picture. Even then Mineno hadn’t known that this woman was Takahara’s lover. She’d known he had someone, but never imagined it was Rina—she’d thought Rina and Takahara were only business partners. It doesn’t matter. I have to apologize. Mineno had started seeing Takahara after he’d scammed them. He betrayed us, and I . . . And it hadn’t only been once. So many times. So many times I could forget who I was.

  “Don’t worry. Shotaro knows, too.”

  “What?”

  “We know everything, you know. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “But . . .” Mineno’s voice cracked. “It was after they tricked Matsuo-san.”

  “It’s fine. There’s no problem. That’s love for you . . . Shotaro was more disappointed that you obviously like young, cool guys.”

  Mineno stared at Yoshiko, dazed.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just take care of your body. I can tell from looking at your face you’re going to keep it. Now you can give birth with one less thing to worry about.”

  Her hand touched Mineno’s cheek. Mineno realized she was crying.

  “I don’t have any children, so I can’t give you much advice.”

  Yoshik
o left, singing another song Mineno didn’t know. Mineno watched her back as she walked away.

  But Matsuo-san and Yo-chan-san don’t know, she thought. They don’t know that even though I’m sorry for what I did, I don’t regret it. She really did want to apologize to them, but if Takahara called her now, she’d go running to him. She’d happily give herself to him. If he told her to steal something from Matsuo, she’d cry the whole time, but she’d do it.

  She clenched her teeth.

  I want to die.

  Mineno had gone to the obstetrician twice in the past few days, and twice had been told that she wasn’t pregnant. Even though she knew she must be. Takahara’s child must be inside her. It absolutely, absolutely is.

  Mineno placed her hand on her stomach, as she had done many times since her period, which was rarely late, had failed to come.

  The doctors don’t understand. I must be pregnant. I must be careful. I must protect this child.

  Matsuo was sitting on the toilet.

  He thought to himself that he was preventing the expansion of entropy, and laughed.

  Narazaki had looked so young, only a little over thirty. A young man trapped in a tiny hell. But probably surrounded by women—that sort of hell was enviable.

  Matsuo coughed, gently at first, but the cough grew stronger, so he covered his mouth with toilet paper. There was blood.

  “I know,” he whispered. He tossed the toilet paper away unhappily. “I know,” he whispered again. But let me last just a little bit longer.

  It would be nice if it was painless, he thought listlessly. How tragic would it be if this long life of mine ended with pain? Matsuo laughed. How many people really believed it was hemorrhoid surgery?

  He left the bathroom as if nothing had happened.

  The air was damp. It was like the moisture had failed to become mist and was just clinging to his body instead. It will probably rain tomorrow.

  12

  The lobby of the Publikum Hotel. A massive chandelier hung from the high ceiling. If there was an earthquake, would it fall? If it did, all the glass would shatter and pierce everyone below. Though it wasn’t pleasant work, he had to keep track of these sorts of contingencies.

  Takahara passed through the lobby and entered the adjoining café. He was wearing a suit and carrying a newspaper as instructed. He took a seat and ordered an iced coffee. He opened the newspaper like an actor in a play.

  A thin waitress brought him his iced coffee. He took it with a smile. Her eyes lingered on Takahara. She’s beautiful, he thought.

  Before sitting down, Takahara had checked his surroundings. There were no cameras. The other customers had grim looks on their faces. It seemed they were all carrying some private burden. Takahara had been told to sit and read the newspaper, that someone would approach him. He lit a cigarette and scanned the paper. All the articles in the politics section reported the successes of government officials.

  The customer next to Takahara was eating pasta. Takahara imagined the shreds of noodles he bit off mixing with the saliva in his mouth and falling back to his plate. He felt the urge to vomit, so he turned back to the newspaper to make himself feel better.

  News of starving people in Africa. Lives that could be saved for the cost of one rich person’s dessert. People who killed each other in the name of god. The people who used them.

  There was a man sitting at a somewhat distant table. He was a Westerner. Takahara’s head began to hurt. His pulse sped up. Is it him? It must be. But I can’t get flustered. There is nothing at stake.

  He turned back to the paper. He couldn’t read because of his headache. He could process the individual words, but not the overall meaning.

  I promised myself to always remain calm no matter what. He lit another cigarette. My hand isn’t shaking, is it? His headache grew worse. The other tables grew blurry. His vision began to go out of focus at the periphery. With his slightly blurred vision, he noticed that the Westerner was looking at him. The man seemed frozen, like a sticker pressed onto the scene. Was this some sort of signal? I need to understand what he’s saying. “Outside?” Takahara mouthed the word in Japanese. The man didn’t respond. Next, Takahara tried English. “Outside?” Still no response. His hair was long, and his eyes were blue. Just when Takahara thought he must be wrong, a Japanese man at a table even farther away moved his fingers slightly. He was pointing outside. Despite his headache, Takahara stood. He paid. The Westerner showed no signs of moving.

  He left the hotel, and after a moment his phone rang. Takahara answered in a serious tone. There was a lot of noise in the background, but it didn’t sound like the café he’d just left.

  “You’re being followed. I’m sure of it.” It was a man’s voice. Deep.

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know. Probably someone from your cult.”

  Takahara tried to think. He had come here by taxi. Who would follow him?

  “The meeting is canceled.”

  “Wait!”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll contact you again.”

  They hung up. Takahara could do nothing but listen to his own heartbeat.

  What was happening? Had his subordinates followed him? Takahara considered the possibility. No, that can’t be it. They still don’t know that I’ve been in touch. It couldn’t be . . . Has the leader found me out? Did someone confess to him? No. No one I’ve involved can contact him directly. I can trust them. They have blind faith. They believe in our cult, and the leader, and me. They all believe that this plan is the leader’s. They believe themselves to be the best of the best, hand-picked by the leader. They also believe that if they tell anyone else, they’ll lose their position. I couldn’t have been found out. Everything must be going according to plan.

  I have to find the culprit, Takahara thought. I have to find the culprit.

  13

  Matsuo-san’s Lectures, III, Part 1

  Today I’d like to talk about these beings called humans.

  First of all, what do you all think happens to our bodies after we die? If your family’s Buddhist, you’re cremated, so you’ll be taken to the crematorium and burnt, and everything but the bones becomes smoke.

  But actually, even when the human body is burnt in a crematorium, it doesn’t disappear. As I’ve told you before, our bodies are made entirely of atoms. When your body is burnt in a crematorium, the bonds between atoms are broken at the molecular level, but the atoms that make up our bodies are not actually destroyed in that process. Of course they don’t vanish. The atoms that made up our bodies rise into the sky as smoke and spread everywhere. In other words, we continue existing across the surface of the earth.

  And then those molecules may become part of someone else’s body. They may bond with other atoms in the air, become molecules again, be taken up inside some other living thing, and if someone eats that living thing, they may become part of a human again. For example, the atoms that made up the body of Himiko, the ancient empress of Japan, may be in your body now. Please look hard at your hand, your fingers. There is a chance that the parts of people who lived long ago, and even those who died just recently, may be in there.

  It is thought that since the birth of the planet, none of the atoms here have vanished. To destroy the nucleus of an atom requires certain conditions found in outer space, or special tools like a particle accelerator. So you could also say that all the components of people’s bodies have been being reused since long ago. Of course, this includes not only humans, but all living things. All things, generally speaking, have been being recycled since long, long ago. Looking at it this way, don’t you think it’s sort of amazing? There are many pieces that made up many ancient things inside our bodies now. When some living thing is born, it does not just appear here out of nothingness. Materials that already exist in space and on earth come together, and as they fit together, they form something larger. That
’s all.

  Here I’d like you to remember something I’ve discussed before. Within a year, all the atoms that make up a human body will be replaced completely. The materials that make up our bodies have been being reused since long ago and will continue to be replaced. So what are we?

  In this world, individuals may not exist, at least not on a material level. We are constantly changing, and when a human dies, the substances that made up their body are recycled to make something else. It’s as if we are part of some larger, constant flow that has continued from long ago up to the present. There really is no such thing as the individual here. People say, “We’re all one,” but that’s not just a saying or abstraction. It’s actually true on the material level.

  So why do we think we exist as individuals? That is the work of the brain.

  Our brains make us think humans are all individuals. Our brains produce the concept of the individual (me), and even though all our cells are constantly being replaced, that individual, that me, is passed on from instant to instant. How strange is that! Even though the material that makes up our brains is constantly changing, I continue to exist as I was. How is this possible?

  Remember that my consciousness and I cannot act on the collection of atoms that make up my brain. We have been reusing the same materials that built bodies long ago, and even now they are constantly changing. And yet this thing called me continues to exist from one second to the next until I die. This “I” that is passed on from moment to moment, which I recognize as myself, can’t act on anything. It is the atoms that make up our bodies that have always had the power to produce this “I” by joining together.

  This is too strange.

  What does this all mean?

  What are we?

  We’ll think about these questions as I continue my talk. But for now, let’s talk about human fate.

  Imagine you hit a billiard ball. Once it’s hit, we can predict what will happen to it. Of course, we can’t do the precise calculations, but logically we could figure it out based on the force and angle with which the ball was hit, the friction of the table, air resistance, and—if an earthquake were to occur right afterward—the tension of the earth’s plates, et cetera. Right after the cue ball is hit, the balls it will go on to strike have already been determined, as have the specific pockets they’ll fall into.