Akakawa only had one public library, located on the other side of town from the Katou residence.
Upon entering the library, I walked over to the wooden cabinets where they kept archives of the local newspaper. I searched for the year 1989 and flipped through to the month of May. Removing the stack of newspapers, I carried it to an empty desk and went through the articles. It was a harder task than I’d imagined. After a while, I was dizzy from all the headlines. But I told myself this had to be done today, and continued to scan every single one.
An hour later, I’d only managed to get through half the stack. I was tired, and the tips of my fingers had turned gray. Exhausted, I stretched my neck until it cracked and forced myself to continue.
Halfway through, I finally found a short article about Miyuki Katou. The headline read: daughter of kosugi katou passes away. The piece, only six lines long, said she had died peacefully at the age of six due to terminal illness, but there was no specific information on exactly which illness it was.
In the same newspaper, I found her obituary. The column was small, listing her parents’ and grandparents’ names, and accompanied by a tiny black and white photograph.
The girl looked nothing like Pigtails—or rather, they were polar opposites. Unlike Pigtails, who was bright-eyed, Miyuki Katou appeared gloomy and thin. Her hair was cut like a boy’s, and she wore glasses.
Looking closely, I found traces of Mr. Katou’s features. His unapproachable air was reflected in Miyuki, who—like her father—appeared to be scowling.
So Pigtails wasn’t Miyuki, after all. But her father was a famous politician. In a small town like Akakawa, there should have been more write-ups about her death. I continued to go through the newspapers.
Finally, I found a longer article about Miyuki’s death in another local daily from a few days later. The news didn’t mention names, but it was obviously referring to her.
the mysterious death of a politician’s daughter:
a possible case of homicide
MK, the daughter of a politician in Akakawa, passed away three days ago in M Hospital at the age of six. The official cause of her death has been classified as multiple organ failures, but rumor has spread that the actual cause was inappropriate medical treatment requested by MK’s mother, HK.
MK was a regular patient at M Hospital. According to the family’s statement, she was born with poor health, which prevented her from attending school. Her symptoms have been described as resembling cancer. The diagnosis of her illness has never been made public.
S, a nurse at M Hospital, spoke to us on condition of anonymity. According to her, Dr. H—who was in charge of MK—administered many invasive treatments, including several that haven’t been approved by Japan’s Ministry of Health. The treatment decision remains questionable, as the cause of the illness had not been determined.
Our attempt to reach Dr. H has been unsuccessful. After MK’s death, he resigned from his post and left the town. Nobody we spoke to knew his current whereabouts.
We interviewed the patients at M Hospital, many of whom were familiar with HK, MK’s mother. “That lady used to come every day. She’s elegant and classy. It’s not hard to spot her,” said J, a patient who has been at M Hospital for a year and a half. But when we asked J about MK’s father, politician KK, she told us she had never seen him. She was surprised to learn that KK was MK’s father.
Our repeated calls to both KK and HK went unanswered. The white house where they reside in the upscale district of Segayaki has been shuttered. When we attempted to reach KK through his secretary, she told us the family was requesting privacy during their bereavement period and wouldn’t be accepting any interview requests.
And thus, the cause of MK’s death remains a mystery.
Returning to the Katous’ house, I spent an hour packing my sister’s belongings. I called to ask Honda if he wanted her cassettes, but he declined.
“They remind me too much of Keiko,” he said.
I felt the same way. I’d planned to keep the jazz cassettes and stereo, but browsing through her collection, I was overwhelmed. Echoes of her were all over them. I could imagine my sister sitting next to me, picking up one of the cassettes.
“This album, I love the third song when it gets to the chorus. It goes like this . . .” She would hum the melody while tapping her index fingers. After stopping, she would turn to me and ask, “You know which part, don’t you?”
I would shake my head. Only you knew which part, but it doesn’t matter any more since you’re dead.
No, I couldn’t keep the cassettes.
Mr. Katou’s words replayed my mind. “It’s easier to move on when you aren’t constantly reminded of the past.” This time, I agreed with him.
I sold the cassettes and stereo to a used music store. The shop hadn’t offered a good price, but that wasn’t important. I needed to get rid of my sister’s stuff. I donated the rest of her belongings to a charity with pickup service.
Finally, the only thing left was the urn with my sister’s ashes. I knew the moment I would have to part with it was getting closer.
I entered Mrs. Katou’s room with Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights in my hand. It was supposed to be my last day to read to her, and I hated leaving her alone in that condition, knowing no one else would come. She was alive, but her spirit was gone, ripped from her body. She needed someone to save her, anyone.
Putting the book down, I sat next to her on the bed. “Haruna,” I called.
No reaction. I reached for her hands and held them. They were cold and lifeless. She looked in my direction, but her gaze was as empty as ever.
I took a deep breath before speaking. “Miyuki was six. She was old enough to know she wasn’t sick, but she went along with it. For such a young girl, it must have been scary. Yet she put up with it.”
Mrs. Katou still didn’t move.
“I believe it was her way of saying she loves you, and she forgives you,” I continued. “That’s why you need to forgive yourself. For your sake, and hers.”
I let go of her hands, picked up the book, and left the room. After closing the door, I heard faint, muffled sobs. In that moment, I knew she wouldn’t need me or anyone else to read to her any longer.
After returning the book to its shelf, I took my belongings outside and waited for Honda on the porch. He had insisted on helping me move.
Passing time, I took one last look at the house. Silent as always, save for the tinkling sound of the wind chimes. The white curtains waved around, pulling me back to the first time I’d come to collect my sister’s things. Two months had passed, but I still wasn’t used to the place.
A black sedan pulled in front of the house. I opened the gate, and Honda came over to give me a hand. This time, I had a suitcase, a Boston bag, and a few large plastic shopping bags.
I loaded my belongings into the trunk of the car. “I don’t know how I ended up with more things.”
“That’s always the case,” Honda said with a laugh. “As time goes by, you get more and more baggage. It’s why we do spring cleaning every year, isn’t it?”
We got into the sedan and he drove me to my new apartment. It only took twenty minutes to get there, though, like he’d said, the building wasn’t the most accessible without a car. Maybe I should get myself a bicycle. When was the last time I’d ridden one? In high school, if my memory served me right. Would I need to relearn how to ride? Or was it like tying shoelaces—once you got the hang of it, you knew it by instinct for the rest of your life?
The car made a sharp U-turn, and something on the rearview mirror glistened. I stretched my neck to get a better view. A tiny white porcelain rabbit ornament was tucked behind the mirror; no wonder I hadn’t seen it before.
For a grown man, Honda had surprising taste.
19
The
House
<
br /> Behind
the
Flower
Bushes
When I’d first seen the apartment, it had been late afternoon, and the sunset might have romanticized the atmosphere of the building. But in broad daylight, the apartment looked more run-down than I remembered. The faded pink walls were peeling and stained with watermarks. There was rust all over the metal railings, and the wooden staircase was chipped. At least the overall construction looked solid.
“I’m surprised they haven’t torn this place down,” Honda said, climbing the staircase. “It’s been around since World War II and hasn’t once been renovated. The landlord should have at least added an elevator.”
“If they had, the rent wouldn’t be so affordable,” I said.
“Maybe the rentals are just a front, and some rooms store drugs or firearms.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Even if that were the case, I couldn’t have cared less. The rent was within my budget, and they accepted month-to-month occupants. I wondered whether the landlord actually turned a profit here, charging so little.
Breathing heavily, we finally reached the fifth floor. I took out my keys and opened the door. After setting down my belongings, I surveyed the unit. There was a lingering musty odor. I opened all the windows to let the air circulate.
In one corner of the living room, I saw a television coated with a thick layer of dust. I tried turning it on, thinking Honda might want to watch something, but it was broken. After fiddling with it for a while, I gave up and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. To my dismay, there was no hot water. No wonder the place was so unpopular. I could always boil water like in period films, but I knew I was too lazy to do that. Well, I’d gotten what I’d paid for.
“Is everything okay?” Honda asked.
“Yes, yes,” I answered, rinsing my hands under the tap.
The mirror in front of me was cloudy with dirt. It looked like my first task would be to clean the place thoroughly. I sighed. Not my favorite way to spend a day off.
The apartment was a five-story building, and each floor had eight units. A third were occupied, and several of the units weren’t available for rent—not that I bought Honda’s reasoning for that. In real life, things were seldom that interesting. Most likely, the units were damaged beyond repair.
As far as I knew, the first floor was fully rented out. The higher the floor, the fewer tenants there were. On my floor, there was only one renter apart from me.
The building’s occupants were a mix of college students and young professionals. It wasn’t hard to remember their faces, since there weren’t many of them. They all lived alone, except for one young couple.
“The landlord wants to rent it out to single occupants only,” the bespectacled building manager, Izumi, told me.
A week after my move, she called me to her apartment to pick up some documents. Room 304 doubled as her home and office. I paid rent each month through her. If there was any problem with the appliances, she was the person I should speak with. Though, in her words, “There’s nothing much I can do about it, so try not to disturb me.”
“There’s a couple on the third floor,” I pointed out to her.
“The girl is the only registered occupant, but her boyfriend comes every day. He’s as good as living here. The landlord wouldn’t be happy if he knew, but he won’t find out if no one reports it.”
I chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Izumi asked, crossing her arms.
“You look like a girl I knew in high school,” I said. “She wore the same glasses as you, and she was a model student. Class representative, member of the student council, things like that. But unlike you, she would report us to the teacher whenever we misbehaved.”
“Someone’s holding a grudge.”
“In a way.”
“I’m not that serious, you know.” She took off her glasses. “I just have not-so-good vision and not-so-good luck. I broke my usual pair, so I’ve got to use my old ones, which make me look like a dork.”
Without her glasses, Izumi looked less like that girl I’d known.
“Okay, enough staring. I need to wear these all the time, or I’m literally blind.” She put her glasses back on. “Before I forget, I have something in here to give you. Just a moment—my place is messy, so I don’t normally invite people in.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll wait here.”
She left me standing at her door. I couldn’t tell how chaotic the place was because a decorative curtain blocked my view, but I could hear Izumi rummaging around.
A couple of minutes later, she returned with a booklet. “Rules and regulations of the building, to read at your leisure,” she said. “You’re free to go now.”
I tried hard not to look baffled. “Thank you, I’ll definitely read it.”
“Ah, one last thing. I’ve told you before, but I’ll repeat it. Try not to bother me. Even if you tell me the washing machine isn’t working, or the water isn’t running, there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re better off knocking on someone else’s door and asking if you can use theirs. I can only report to the landlord when his secretary comes once a month. Even then, his office is unresponsive.”
“You sound like you hate managing this place,” I couldn’t help remarking. “Why did you volunteer in the first place?”
She looked surprised. “I didn’t volunteer. You think I’d take on all that extra work for nothing? The landlord deducts half my rent for the trouble.”
“Wow, that’s a good deal. And if you smuggle someone else into your apartment, like that girl did, you could divide your rent even further.”
I was teasing her, so I didn’t expect a response.
“Brilliant idea, except I snore loudly. The only living being I’ve ever slept in the same room with is Midori, the cat I had in primary school.”
“Good thing you know,” I said. “Did Midori tell you that?”
Izumi smirked.
“Have you ever met our landlord?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I only communicate with his secretary.”
“Then how did you become building manager?”
“I took over the position from a cousin. She moved out when she got married,” Izumi said. “Anyway, enough about me. How about you? Have you managed to settle in and unpack?”
“I guess so,” I said. “It’s quiet here.”
“Yeah, especially since you’re on the fifth floor. There’s only you and that skinny guy.”
“Do you know him?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Have you talked to him?”
“Not yet.”
Despite living a door away from him, I’d never spoken to my next-door neighbor and had seen him only twice.
The first occasion was when he returned to the apartment in the middle of the night, carrying two big plastic grocery bags. At the time, I was hanging the laundry I’d forgotten to take out of the washing machine.
My neighbor was tall and thin, with scruffy hair. He wore heavily layered clothes, as if he were in Hokkaido in the winter. But it wasn’t even chilly that day. Even more peculiar was that, despite his thick clothing, on his feet he only wore zori, traditional straw sandals.
The second occasion I saw him, I was hanging around the common corridor because I couldn’t sleep. It was around two in the morning. This time, too, he went off somewhere and returned with two plastic bags. His zori made a loud noise as he walked up the staircase. As he passed, I nodded at him and he nodded back.
The rest of the time, his door and windows were shut. I never heard a noise from his unit, and he didn’t seem to hang any laundry outside. From the corridor, it looked as if nobody lived there.
“I speak to him, of course, when I collect the rent,” Izumi said. “We never have any conversation beyond what is
necessary. You could say I don’t know him any better than you do. I heard he was a songwriter, but I’ve never heard any music coming from his unit, so that can’t be true.”
“Maybe he does it digitally,” I said. “Connects his keyboard to headphones or something.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. He’s an oddball. I remember seeing him at the park around midnight once. I greeted him, but he ignored me.”
“Maybe he didn’t hear you.”
“I’m pretty sure I was loud enough. I practically shouted at him,” she insisted. “Anyway, I’m going for my nap. Try not to—”
“Bother you unnecessarily.”
“Good,” she said before shutting the door.
I looked at the booklet in my hand. Fifty pages of photocopied documents held together by a ringed binding. The cover had an illustration of a house behind flower bushes, and welcome written in large letters.
Once I was in my apartment, I chucked it into a dresser drawer, where it would never see the light of day again.
My routine hadn’t changed much after my move. In the morning, I went to the nearby park to exercise. I jogged for an hour before returning to my apartment for a quick shower. Then, I headed to work.
The nearest bus stop was a twenty-minute walk away, served by one bus service, which came every fifteen minutes. Nine out of ten times, I had to wait a while.
On the way to the office, I bought my lunch and ate it before the first class. I usually had dinner with Honda, and he almost always gave me a lift home.
“I live near you, anyway,” he had said. “And it’s more fun to have someone to talk to when I’m driving.”
After work, I was too tired to turn down his offer. I wanted to get home as soon as possible and throw myself on the bed. Honda, on the other hand, was full of energy during the nighttime drive. He seemed relaxed whenever he sat behind the steering wheel.
“I love driving at night with the windows down,” he told me, smoothly shifting gears. “The sound of the engine and the wind blowing on my face always calms me down.”
“Do you often drive at night to no particular destination?” I asked.
Rainbirds Page 14
