As far as interview subjects go, Kiharazaka alone won’t suffice. His older sister is currently living on her own in Ueno. Will I be able to meet with her? It will be necessary.
And then there is Katani, the only person who could be considered Kiharazaka’s friend, as well as the members of K2.
K2. Why had I myself been drawn to a group like that?
“True desire is hidden.”
I try to smile but I can’t.
Archive 2
Like I told you before, don’t jump to conclusions. That’s the only rule I want you to follow.
You’re going to write a book about me. That’s fine. But I’d like you to stop trying to intrude on my mind. Because … for the time being, I’m still human. I may be sentenced to die, but I’m still a human being.
Was that really your game plan? To get me to write it all in a letter? It’s true, I do get chatty in letters. They make me introspective … It’s not a bad idea. You must be a pretty sneaky guy. But I don’t like the one-sided intrusion.
Why don’t we try this. You share something about yourself with me. Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to say. You’re the one who’s so interested in me. What’s more, you’re a member of K2. In short, these are my conditions:
Instead of me sharing what’s inside my mind with you, I want you to share with me what’s inside yours.
You might call it an exchange of insanity.
How does that sound? I’m asking the question, but you really have no choice. You know that, don’t you? At any rate, I’ll start by saying a few things.
K2. What was that group about anyway? A bunch of guys who wanted their dolls; calling it a group provided the sense of acceptance they needed. But before I made my way to K2, I was a member of another group, a butterfly group. It was a small gathering of butterfly collectors.
There are butterfly collectors all over the world. Sometimes, people go mad over butterfly wings. And the butterflies, they dance through the air with those maddening wings. But the collectors—they chase after them, acquire them, and save them. One after another, after another. Unendingly.
There are many fascinating reasons for the various patterns of butterflies’ wings—to attract the opposite sex, to mimic as camouflage, to threaten predators, or to imitate poisonous butterflies. The males are the colorful ones, so that they may attract the more modestly patterned females. I bet the butterflies never suspect that their own wings drive other creatures to madness—that is to say, humans who have no relationship with their sphere of life. By the way, the collective noun for butterflies is a rabble. Did you know that?
I’ve seen many magnificent specimens. For example, I saw the collection of an Irishman who was so crazy about butterflies native to Japan that he lived in the mountains of Nagano. His collection was brilliant. The rainbow of butterflies in his shadow boxes seemed to radiate their colors almost explosively. He was very proud to show off his collection when I asked if it was all right to take photographs. But then—I still remember this—before I was finished he made me stop taking photos. It seemed almost as though he felt like I was going to steal his butterflies. As if he were afraid that they would be absorbed into my photographs.
“They fill a void.”
This is what the Irishman said after he stopped me from taking more photos.
“See, have a look. See the space in this shadow box? I can fit three more specimens here. I must fill this void.”
That was a matter of course; however, once this shadow box was filled, he would just start up another shadow box. And fill it. His so-called void.
He was particularly fond of butterflies that have an eyespot pattern on their wings. There are many of these kinds of butterflies. Originally these spots were to threaten birds away, or another theory is that the spots purposely lure predators into attacking their wings—where they will do less damage—rather than harming their bodies. They inspire fear, and seduce … I thought the inner mind of that Irishman must have been quite a morass, for him to be so attracted to those types of butterflies.
I had no interest in mounting specimens. I was simply drawn in by the beauty of their wings, and I had figured if I hung out with these guys, who were collectors, I might come across some unusual butterflies. Photographs were what I was interested in. Photographs of butterflies.
Except there was a problem. It was a problem with the photos themselves.
I wonder if you can understand what I’m saying. Photographs capture a moment within continuous time. There was this butterfly, this one butterfly that drove me crazy. I caught this butterfly and kept it as long as it lived so that I could take photos of it. But there was no end to it. When I took my eyes away for a single moment, a single second, the butterfly would appear completely different to me.
I would look away from the butterfly. For that instant, the butterfly was no longer mine. Or when I photographed it from the right side, I couldn’t capture its left side. That’s why you think it would make sense to film it, right? Wrong. What I wanted was a single moment. I wanted a single moment of that butterfly. Yet for the butterfly, that moment was one of countless moments. And there was no way that I could capture all of them.
I spent entire days clicking the shutter at that butterfly. I must have fallen in love with it. I don’t know. I put it in a cage and kept it, but I was in despair over the fact that I could never completely possess the butterfly. Well, actually, it was probably despair about the way that the world itself works. Why, when a “subject” is right in front of us, are we only capable of recognizing, of grasping, that one small part we see? That butterfly was the reason I was hospitalized the first time. I don’t remember, but apparently I wouldn’t stop taking photos—not even to eat—and when I collapsed, my sister was the one who took care of me. Then I went to the hospital. I was given a psychological diagnosis. Anxiety neurosis, I think it was. In the medical field, I guess they like to be able to put a name to it when people deviate from the norm.
I wonder if I’ve made myself clear about the fact that I have no interest in butterfly specimens. I don’t understand why those guys like to collect and mount them. I mean, they kill the butterflies, thereby preventing any further possibility of their motion. Which means they will never possess the butterflies in their beautiful flight … Do you know what I mean?
K2. What I just described, that’s probably the reason why I shifted my attention from butterflies that move to dolls that don’t move. Then again, I can’t necessarily be sure of that. But doesn’t it make sense? I mean, who can say for sure that dolls never move, that they always appear the same way?
… I’ve rambled on. It seems as though your strategy worked out after all. I certainly do get introspective in letters. And on a night like this …
It’s almost time for lights out. I can hear the sound of doors opening on the floor above me. Since I’ve been here, I’ve learned to figure out what’s going on just by listening carefully. My hearing has grown more acute. It’s as if my eardrums have become integrated with the hard concrete and steel doors. With a sense of hearing like this, if I were to get out of this place, I might not really need to worry too much about my sense of sight. Well … I wonder. Are they really the same?
Soon I’ll hear the sound of footsteps coming this way. So I’ll finish this letter.
Now it’s your turn.
3
A ROOM AT a musty old ryokan. The elderly woman who showed me in spoke so softly I could barely hear her.
There are two cushions on the floor around a shoddy table. From the window, all I can see are the slender trees that stand right outside. A cluster of branches is too close to the window—the tips of the leaves are touching the glass. Although there are no actual tears in the paper of the shabby fusuma sliding door, a pattern that looks uncannily like a black forest is well worn into its surface.
Kiharazaka’s older sister, Akari, was the one who—after I had contacted her who knows how many times—had designated this i
nn as our meeting place. She said that she doesn’t want to attract attention. I don’t blame her. She is the sister of a convicted murderer. Who knows what kind of connection she has with a place like this.
I open the window to smoke a cigarette. It seems as though the tree branches might reach all the way into the room. Taking my eyes off the branches, I am conscious of the recorder in my bag. I wonder if she will consent to letting me use it.
The fusuma door opens. A tall woman enters the room. It is Akari. I recognize her from an archive photograph that had been released by her family. Akari murmurs something, and the elderly woman who had shown me in nods and retreats into the corridor. Or perhaps there are two elderly women. It may be a different one than before.
Akari sits down across the table from me. My gaze is drawn instinctively to her eyes. It had been the same when I saw her in the photo. I feel the desire to look directly at something that I’m not supposed to.
“… I am Kiharazaka’s older sister … Akari.”
“Yes, and I am …”
I hand her my card. She makes no effort to look at it.
“Um.” Her voice is tenuous and low. “How did you find my address?”
She looks directly at me as she asks this. No idle chitchat or banter.
She is in hiding now. Her lawyer is functioning as intermediary, acting as shelter for her. I doubt anyone else knows her whereabouts.
But for the sake of this interview, I have the assistance of the editor at the publisher that plans to put out this book. They have their own means. Other than the police, that is.
“… Because I’m working on this … I don’t mean to be rude but I’m … Kiharazaka’s …”
“You’re writing a book about him. Why?”
She is looking my way guardedly. But why am I writing the book? She doesn’t really look all that wary. It is almost as though she is pretending to maintain that expression, when inwardly she seems to be smiling. She is a strange woman. And I doubt I am the only one to think so.
“I’m … not sure myself.”
“Is it because you saw that photograph?… The one my brother took, Butterflies?”
Suddenly I have an image of countless butterflies bursting into flight all around her. My heart is beating slightly erratically. I try to light a cigarette, but my lighter isn’t working.
“Have you been captivated too? By that type of thing?”
“… No.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
She fixes her gaze on me again. There is something about her eyes. As if she is actually concerned about me. Concerned, and yet still trying to draw me in. She keeps looking at me as she opens her mouth to speak.
“Have you spent a long time looking at that photo?”
“… No.”
“There are people who say that it seems like it moves … Something, there in the background.”
I have the urge to close the window. But it is too far away from where I am sitting. I feel as though the branches are coming in toward me. Countless branches, coming into the room.
“… Is it all right if I record this?”
“No, it isn’t. Please just listen.”
My lighter is never going to work. I put my cigarette back into the pack.
“… You and your brother Yudai have always managed to get by together. What kind of boy was he, when you were kids?”
She doesn’t say anything. She just keeps staring at me.
“When you were kids, was Yudai …”
She maintains her silence. I have another urge to shut the window. This window isn’t there to open onto the scenery outside. Instead it seems more as if it is there to protect the room from the trees that surround it.
Akari is wearing a red sweater over a black skirt. Beneath her dark shoulder-length hair, she wears tiny earrings that catch and reflect the light. Just when I think she is going to crack a sudden smile, she begins to speak unexpectedly.
“My brother used a camera as though it were merely an extension of his own body.”
I can’t seem to follow her pace. All there is for me to do is play along.
“Something that I thought was a little strange … when was this?… I don’t remember, but one time … that’s when it was. The two of us had decided to run away from our father—from home—and Yudai took my picture. And he said …‘Now it’ll be all right.’ That’s what he said.”
“… ‘All right’?”
“What could he have meant by that? Here’s what I think it must have been. If we got caught, or even if we were killed, it would be all right because he had taken a photo of me when I was safe … That’s what he meant.”
I ponder what she says.
“… I don’t understand.”
“I’m not surprised. At the time, we’d run away whenever we’d see a policeman. Isn’t that strange? If we had just acted normal, he would have simply passed us by, but since we fled … that’s how we got put into protective custody and placed in an institution. In hindsight, I guess that was a good thing.”
“… What kind of institution was it?”
“You know … the usual.”
“Are there photos from that time?”
“None … I threw them all away.”
She looks at me. Her eyes have a wondering look that is out of context with our conversation. Just what is it about this woman? I can’t figure it out.
“… You threw them away?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She smiles.
“It must sound odd, but … when Yudai would take my picture, it made me feel strange. As if I myself were being cropped. As if my true nature were being stolen. It slipped away into the photograph, my real shape … I found this unsettling so I got rid of everything—all the photos my brother had taken of me, whatever I could find.”
“… Everything?”
“Well … there is a single photo left. But it’s from when we were kids. It’s the only one I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. It’s special to me.”
“… Since the first murder, you’ve maintained all along that Yudai was innocent.”
“I still do. But … now that things have come to this, it’s too late.”
“About that photo …”
“You mean Butterflies?”
“… Yes. Isn’t that you, the model in the photo?”
She smiles again when I ask this.
“By modeling for it, Yudai was able, through you, to express his special feelings, I mean, feelings more than just between a brother and sister.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Maybe Yudai was using you, to say something about your long-gone mother.”
“… Don’t jump to conclusions.”
I recall how Yudai Kiharazaka said the same words to me.
“And you’re wrong. You don’t know anything. At the very least you need to have the ability to understand that.”
She continues to stare at me. With pitying eyes.
“You can’t handle this.”
“What?”
“You cannot simply come into our realm.”
“Your realm?”
“There’s no way you are capable of writing a book about us.” I again have the urge to shut the window. The branches are growing. Into the room.
“What a pity you are. Have you read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood?”
“… I have.”
“Really? I’m surprised. Capote wrote his nonfiction novel, and he lost his mind. Writing that book about the criminals who brutally murdered that family … At least he was able to finish it. I bet you’ll give up halfway, won’t you?”
The temperature in the room grows chilly.
“… But you’re still writing it.”
“… Yes.”
What else could I have said? Consciously I draw in a breath. I look at her.
“That … the old photo, would it be possible to see it? The one of you and Yudai.�
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“It’s in my apartment … Would you come over?”
She looks at me. With concern. And yet, she still seems to be trying to draw me in. A smile plays about her lips. She narrows her eyes.
“This is too much for you.”
“… I’ll be there.”
“Don’t feel like you have to.”
She smiles again.
“Another day, then …”
I LEAVE THE inn. For whatever reason, she stays behind in the room. Maybe there is something she needs to talk to those elderly women about. Why had she pulled such attitude with me, even though she is the one who is related to a brutal murderer? They are twisted, that brother and sister …
I rub my lighter over and over, until finally it produces a small flame. As I take a drag off my cigarette, the energy suddenly drains out of my body. I shake off a sense of eeriness.
The light on my cell phone is blinking.
I look at my incoming call list. Yukie.
She called fifteen minutes ago. What timing, I think.
Archive 3
Hey sis, the stuff about the trial, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing’s going to change my sentence. So I couldn’t care less about anything in your letter.
Sis, how are you getting by these days? That’s what I’d really like to hear about—what is your life like now?
Are you on your own right now, sis? After the first murder, you had said that you weren’t seeing anybody in particular, but I sensed otherwise. You met a nice guy, didn’t you. I guess it’s kind of like brotherly intuition, but I’m often right about these things. I don’t know what kind of guy he was, but he must have been a good person. I just have a feeling about this too … you’ve already broken up with him, haven’t you, sis. And … yet again, my intuition tells me that very soon, you’re going to meet someone else. Your letter just has the whiff of a man. I’ve got a feeling.
Last Winter We Parted Page 2
