“You shouldn’t have left. We were doing all right here.”
“Don’t worry, Ren. I’m fine, and I know you’re going to be fine too. You have to trust me.”
I couldn’t believe she was saying this. “You would have been better off staying here.”
“You really think so?”
I didn’t answer.
“Hey, Ren,” she said softly, “I’m going to call every week, I promise. So you won’t be lonely.”
“Who says I’m lonely?” And I didn’t believe she would call every week, but she kept her promise until the day she died.
Keiko Ishida, you were such a liar. You would have been better off staying in Tokyo. And you told me we were going to be fine.
I dried my face and wiped my body with the wet towel, then put on a fresh T-shirt. I knew I should go back to sleep, but I was afraid of slipping into another nightmare.
Sitting at the desk, I took out one of my sister’s notebooks and opened it to a blank page. I drew horizontal lines, stretching all the way from the left to the right of the paper, over and over until there was no more space. I tore it out and did the same thing on the next page. My sister was the one who had taught me to do that.
That day, I’d had a minor squabble in school. I couldn’t recall what it was about any more. But my teacher had called my sister, and she went to my room to talk to me.
“Whenever you’re feeling sad and frustrated, don’t keep it inside,” she said. “You need to write it out.”
“But I’m not good with words,” I said.
“Then draw it.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “You know I can’t draw, either.”
“Just draw a line. A straight line. You can manage that, can’t you?”
“How’s that supposed to make me happy?”
“I didn’t say it would make you happy. But you’ll definitely feel better after letting off steam, and you’re not harming anyone in the process. It’s a form of self-expression.”
My sister gave me a blank piece of paper and a pen. Halfheartedly, I drew some lines.
“Honestly? I don’t feel any better,” I protested.
My sister didn’t seem to hear me. Looking out the window, she said, “Remember this, Ren. Sadness alone can’t harm anyone. It’s what you do when you’re sad that can hurt you and those around you.”
Even now, her words lingered in my mind.
12
What
She
Couldn’t
Say
“Abe told me you were sick,” Honda said. “Didn’t I tell you to take care of your health?”
I laughed. “Stop nagging, I’m all right now.”
Neither of us felt like going out, so we’d settled on instant noodles for dinner again. I dispensed hot water into the cups and waited for the three minutes to pass.
Recalling my dream, I asked Honda, “Have you ever dreamt of the same person more than once?”
“Yes, one of the teachers in my primary school. She was so fierce, she gave me nightmares.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I searched for a better way to phrase it. “Not someone you know, but a total stranger.”
He thought about it for a while. “I’m afraid not. Though I did once dream of a memorable stranger.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I dreamt that I’d met a girl in a park. We got along fine, and I knew somehow that I was inside a dream. But hey, I liked this girl and thought maybe I could find her in real life. So I asked for her name and promised to look for her after I woke up.”
Intriguing. “Did you manage to find her?”
“That’s the thing.” He sighed. “I couldn’t remember her name. I know it starts with an M, but that’s about it.”
“Maria, Mariko, Mai, Maki, Manna, Mina, Mika, Michi—”
“It’s no use, Ishida.” He gave a dry laugh. “I won’t remember.”
“But you have a girlfriend now?”
He shook his head. “I’m not seeing anyone. I’ve only had one girlfriend before, and her name doesn’t start with an M.”
“Really? Only one?” That seemed impossible for someone his age.
“I do have some close female friends, but I’ve never see them as potential girlfriends. Only this one woman. I met her a few years back and was convinced that she was the one. But things didn’t work out.”
He seemed solemn about this, so I didn’t probe further.
“What about you?” Honda asked. “Did you meet your perfect girl from your dream?”
“I’m not that lucky; the stranger in my dreams is a five-year-old girl with pigtails.”
“How odd. Perhaps she’s someone you’ve seen before, but don’t remember?” Honda checked the instant noodles. “Let’s eat now before they turn soggy.”
“Uh-huh.”
Slurping the noodles, I came up with a few possibilities.
In my bereavement, I could simply have invented Pigtails. But Honda had a point, and the more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. Why would a total figment of my imagination consistently be invading my dreams?
Another possibility was that the girl was my sister, whom I hadn’t known at that age. Pigtails had appeared after my sister died. If she knew who her murderer was, and had the power to do so, she could reveal who was responsible in this way. Yet, for some reason, I was certain Pigtails wasn’t my sister. Both of them had similar bright, intelligent eyes. But unlike my sister, Pigtails didn’t smile much.
One more possibility entered my mind. What if Pigtails had something to do with the Katous and their deceased child? The dreams had started after I moved into the politician’s house. I had no idea how their child had died. What if she had a message to pass along? Then again, why through me? Why not go to her parents instead? The more I sought an answer, the more questions I found.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Honda asked.
“Not really,” I answered. “Do you?”
“I’m not into any particular religion, but I do believe in reincarnation. It’s a convincing explanation of how things turn out. For instance, why someone has good luck. Maybe he was charitable in a past life.”
“In that case, you probably dumped a lot of girls in your past life.”
He laughed. “Maybe. But it’s comforting to be able to think that, maybe in my next life, I could be with that girl.”
“The one from your dream, or your ex-girlfriend?”
“My ex,” he said. “This way, it would be sort of a happy ending.”
I nodded in agreement.
If reincarnation existed, what kind of life would my sister have next? She had been caring and gentle. Maybe she would be given something better. Born to doting parents. Knowing her penchant for jazz, she would go for piano classes. She had always wanted to learn to play. Then, she could moonlight at a hotel jazz lounge, where she would meet the kind manager with a gentle smile. They would date for a couple of years, get married, have three kids. She would live a long, fulfilling life and pass away from old age, surrounded by her loving family.
A happy ending did sound comforting.
I had seen the book in the reading room a number of times, but never picked it up. I thought it might seem too childish. But that day, I decided to read from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale collection. I needed something with a happy ending.
“I hope you don’t mind a children’s story,” I told Mrs. Katou.
As always, she was silent.
The gentle wind rippled her thin blouse. The tips of her fingers peeked out from the long sleeves. I sat next to her and opened to the index page. After some deliberation, I chose “The Little Mermaid.”
A young mermaid gave up her life in the sea to gain the love of a human prince. But when I reached th
e last few paragraphs, I remembered that Andersen’s version concluded with the little mermaid dissolving into foam.
I closed the book. Not a happy ending after all.
Another gust of wind blew. It was getting chilly, so I closed the window. Hearing Mrs. Katou cough, I picked up the glass of water that had been left on the bedside table and placed it in her limp hands. As she sipped it, her sleeves dropped to her elbow, revealing the blue veins under her pale skin and the scars on her left wrist. Some looked like old wounds, faint and fading, but others were fresh.
I felt a lump in my throat. How had I failed to notice it for so long? She always wore long sleeves, regardless of the weather.
Fifteen years ago, one of my sister’s classmates had committed suicide. She’d downed a bottle of sleeping pills and slashed her wrists with a kitchen knife while soaking in the tub. When her family found her, she was already dead, and the bathwater was a deep red. The case was reported in the national newspapers. My sister had said the school was in a frenzy.
I knew the girl. She was a friend of my sister’s who had come to our house twice. My sister told me she was good in school and at sports. Everything was going well for her, except that her boyfriend had just left her for another girl.
“It must have hurt a lot,” my sister said to me.
“I guess so. You need to cut deep to die from massive loss of blood, and it’s a slow death. It takes a lot of courage to commit suicide that way.” If it were me, I would have preferred to jump off a building. Not that I ever planned to do that.
“I wasn’t talking about that. I meant the pain she must have felt inside.” My sister cracked her knuckles. “The trouble with emotional pain is, you can’t see the wound. But it’s still there. It’s real.”
Her serious tone made me uneasy. “Hey, you sound depressed.”
She ignored me and continued talking. “She probably wanted to express her pain. It was her attempt to communicate her feelings. She needed help, but nobody noticed until it was too late.”
“It sounds like you need help, too.”
“Shut up.” She nudged my shoulder.
To my relief, my sister returned to her usual self. Back then, I didn’t fully grasp the meaning of what she’d said or how she could understand that girl so well.
I took the glass from Mrs. Katou’s hands and put it on the table. Leaving her alone, I returned to my room. I sat on the bed and tried to get over my discomfort, but couldn’t.
Even at work, I kept thinking about Mrs. Katou’s bony left wrist. Her skin was so thin, almost translucent. And those scars . . . What was she thinking? Whatever had caused them—was that also why she refused to speak?
Knowing Mr. Katou’s background and profession, it was likely that he was hiding his wife’s condition from the public for the sake of keeping up appearances. Perhaps that was why his wife was cloistered at home instead of receiving medical help. It pained me to think about it. Was she less important than his career? I hoped someone would see her pain, before it bubbled over.
The bell rang, and I stood up. The first session had ended.
“That’s all for today,” I said before reciting the usual wrap-up lines. “Please leave your answer sheets here, and make sure nothing is left behind. I’ll see you next class, and don’t forget to study hard.”
Conditioned to this routine by now, the students packed their belongings, grabbed their bags, and walked to the front to pile their papers on the desk. A few nodded at me as they left the classroom. Soon, only one was left. Seven Stars came to me and laid her answer sheet squarely on top of the pile.
“My father would like to invite you to our house this weekend,” she said carelessly.
“Your father?” I asked, taken aback by the offer. “But why?”
She shrugged. “How should I know?”
I looked at her, and she narrowed her eyes at me defiantly. She had laid out a challenge.
“I’m free Sunday morning,” I said. “What’s your address?”
She gasped, probably not expecting me to accept so easily. But in a split second, she regained her usual cold demeanor. “You know where it is,” she said. “You pass our house every morning on your jog.”
I forced a laugh. “So you’ve seen me. Still, I cover quite a long route, so you need to be more specific.”
“It’s one of the two-story houses across the valley. Ours is number twenty-three.”
13
The
Days
of
Bubbles
That Sunday, I made an effort to dress smartly: beige sweater over white shirt, khaki trousers, and brown leather loafers. I’d informed Mr. Katou that I had an early appointment and couldn’t buy lunch for his wife. He said nothing, only nodding once.
I left the house and walked along my usual jogging route. When approaching the valley, instead of going down the declining road, I turned into the residential area. All the houses in the complex looked identical. White walls, tall windows, a garage, and perfectly tended gardens. Without the numbered gold placards, it would be difficult to tell them apart.
I found house number twenty-three, pressed the bell, and waited. The door swung open and a bespectacled man appeared. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. He should have been the father, but his soft features and remarkably wide-set eyes bore no resemblance to Seven Stars.
We looked at each other. Neither of us spoke. For a moment, I thought I saw his eyes widen as he stared straight at me. I kept my eyes on him, unable to move.
“You must be Mr. Ishida,” he finally said, breaking into a gentle smile. “I’m Nakajima, Rio’s father. Thank you for coming.”
I lowered my head. It must have been my imagination. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Come in and make yourself comfortable.”
I took my loafers off and entered. The place wasn’t large, but it was cozy. Not much furniture either, yet the arrangement was aesthetically pleasing. A tall wooden shelf separated the living room from the entryway, stairwell, and door to the kitchen.
“Take a seat, Mr. Ishida.”
I did as he asked, looking around for Seven Stars. There was no sign of her. I assumed a comfortable sitting position and waited for Mr. Nakajima to speak.
He shook his head and sighed. “I heard about what happened at the convenience store. One of the police officers is a friend of mine, and he saw Rio’s name in the daily list of write-ups. I didn’t believe it at first. How could my daughter steal? She’s only seventeen, and I give her enough pocket money. But when I asked my daughter, she didn’t deny it.”
So this was what the invitation was about.
“They let her go with just a verbal warning, since they couldn’t catch her red-handed. Thankfully, a family acquaintance is quite a high-ranking officer here, and he managed to convince his colleague not to file Rio’s particulars. Regardless”—he bowed to me—“thank you for helping my daughter. I’m in your debt.”
“Don’t mention it.” I felt awkward. “It seemed like the right thing to do as her teacher.”
“This is my failure as a parent. She’s my only child, and I’ve spoiled her too much. From now on, I’ll be more strict.”
I kept my opinion to myself. Knowing how strong-willed that girl could be, she wouldn’t behave just because of a stern warning from her parents.
“Have you had breakfast, Mr. Ishida?” Mr. Nakajima asked.
“I’m going to grab a sandwich later,” I answered.
“Why don’t you let me fix you some sandwiches instead?”
I hesitated. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble at all. I need to make breakfast for Rio and myself anyway,” he said. “Do you prefer chicken or tuna?”
He looked determined, so I relented. “I’m fine with either.”
“I’ll do
a mixture, then. And to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee, please, no sugar.”
“Got it.”
He went to the kitchen, leaving me alone. Without anything to do, I glanced around aimlessly. Photographs lined one of the walls; I counted twenty-five in total. Printed in eight by ten and framed in black wood, most were photographs of women. A few were of food, fashion accessories, and electronic gadgets. I guessed Mr. Nakajima was a photographer, but he didn’t strike me as the artistic type.
I heard clanking noises, followed by the sound of a coffee grinder. Mr. Nakajima returned with a tray of sandwiches and two cups of coffee.
“Long black,” he said, placing a cup in front of me.
I thanked him and took a sip. The flavor was rich. It felt good to have a cup of freshly brewed coffee after weeks of drinking the instant kind. He took the first sandwich, and I followed suit. He had cut them into uniform bite-sized pieces and secured them with toothpicks.
“Are you a photographer?” I asked.
He smiled. “What makes you think so? Is it those prints?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Ishida. Those are photographs of my wife.”
I wanted to ask which one, since they showed different women, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I kept quiet.
“She’s in all of these photographs, somehow or another,” he explained. “My wife is a hand model.”
“A hand model?” I’d never heard of that, but an image flashed into my mind of Seven Stars, holding a cigarette with her beautiful fingers, looking vacantly at the rain.
“Yes, sort of like a body double, but only for hands.”
He gave me a quick tour of the highlights of her career. She had graced the cover of this fashion magazine and that, her hands passed off as those of famous supermodels and actresses. I’d heard of a few, but most I didn’t recognize. I’d never been into celebrity culture.
“Your wife has an interesting job,” I told him after he’d finished talking. “How did she get into the profession? Was she already a model?”
“No, she was an ordinary housewife. An agent spotted her in the supermarket and convinced her to give it a try,” Mr. Nakajima said. “At first, she just did it for fun. It was a nice outlet, an activity of her own. Then she got a job in a national hand soap campaign, and her popularity shot up. Are you familiar with the Matsuyama Corporation?”
Rainbirds Page 9
