Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis

by Yoshikazu Takeuchi

  As he waited for the elevator to make its trip, Tadokoro thumbed through his books. His thoughts, however, were drawn inexorably toward the deviant harassing Mima. The guy must be some kind of freak, the manager thought. He says he’s going to come see her…but how many people actually follow through on something like that?

  Tadokoro pushed the delusional man from his mind and stepped out of the elevator.

  Opening the door to the agency’s office at the corner of the hall, Tadokoro found cameraman Murano Yuji already inside, seated in the small reception area. Tadokoro offered him a cheerful, “Good morning, be right with you!” and stepped into the interior office.

  His receptionist, a young woman named Tomo, continued reading her memo pad as she acknowledged the manager with a curt but formal, “Morning, sir.”

  “Tomo-chan, has Mima called?”

  Tomo shifted her eyes to the manager. “She said she’ll be here soon,” she said, then she went right back to the memo pad. Tadokoro suspected the receptionist was going over plans for a date with some guy friend. He returned to the reception area with a wry grin.

  He sat on the sofa opposite the cameraman, a table in between them. He lit a cigarette. “Yu-chan,” he said, using his nickname for Yuji, “Have you thought about it? Will you do it?”

  Yuji ran a hand through his shaggy hair and smiled pleasantly. The photographer’s facial features were on the larger side, and he typically came off as stern. When he smiled, though, those thick eyebrows lowered just a little, and it brought a gentleness to his face.

  “If Mima-san is up for it, I’m ready any time,” Yuji declared crisply.

  On the table, Tadokoro spread out his books—magazine-sized photo books of various idols. The market for photo collections was experiencing something of a boom at the moment. Many of the pictures were borderline pornographic. Yuji glanced to Tadokoro, who grinned and nodded.

  “A bit of a surprise—huh, Yuji-chan? This is how far the latest idols are going these days. Or rather, if they don’t, they won’t make it as idols for very long.”

  Yuji frowned with his eyebrows. “I know I don’t photograph women particularly often, and I’m not especially familiar with these kinds of collections—but when I think of idols, this isn’t at all what I’d imagine.”

  “Until just a few short years ago, you would have imagined right.” Tadokoro extinguished his dwindling cigarette in an ashtray on the table and gazed into the distance.

  “Wait a minute,” the cameraman said, his eyes locked on the manager. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Mima-chan is going to do a photo book like these, are you?”

  Tadokoro returned the stare with some surprise. “Of course I am. Why else would I have called you here?”

  Yuji slapped his hands to his cheeks and let out a deep breath. “How times change. I still think of her as a kid.”

  The manager smiled the bitter smile of someone who’d just gulped down a spoonful of stomach medicine. He looked to his wristwatch and said, “She should be here soon.”

  Then his expression turned serious. He leaned in toward Yuji and added, “Mima and I have already talked it over. She’s ready. But it’s like you say—she’s still a kid in a lot of ways. She’s hardly even taken any swimsuit photos, and now suddenly she’s jumping to this racy stuff. I know it’s going to be tough on her. That’s why I asked for you specifically to be the cameraman.”

  Yuji understood. Tadokoro’s compassion for Mima in this cutthroat business was painfully apparent.

  Yuji was a freelance photojournalist, and his subjects had never been sexual in nature. He’d only recently returned to Japan after covering guerrilla fighters in a Middle Eastern civil war. He’d resolved to take it easy in Japan for a while before another foray among the guerrillas when he received a phone call from his old acquaintance, Tadokoro.

  It seemed that no matter how much the manager considered the photo album a necessary part of the job, he refused to put Mima in the hands of a photographer who viewed women as mere merchandise. Yuji had little interest in working on an idol photo book, but once he understood his old acquaintance’s feelings, a heartfelt determination welled up within him.

  He had made up his mind—for Tadokoro, he would capture both sides of Kirigoe Mima—the incredibly cute and the incredibly sexy.

  VI

  Mima exited the taxi into total darkness. Aging streetlights stood here and there along a stone retaining wall, but most of their lightbulbs had burned out, leaving them derelict of their duty.

  She leaned into the open taxi door and spoke to Rumi, still seated within. “Would you like to come up? If you’ve got something else to do, that’s all right, but I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “That would be great,” Rumi said. “I’ve got something to talk to you about, too.” Blushing a little, she stepped out from the taxi. Her pleasantly rounded eyes seemed alight with happiness.

  Oh, that’s right, Mima realized, I’ve never invited her to my place before. “You like black tea—don’t you, Rumi-chan?” she asked. “I’ll put on some Earl Grey for you.”

  “That sounds wonderful!” Rumi said. She wrapped herself around Mima’s arm and grinned like a spoiled child. The redness in her cheeks had spread all the way to her ears.

  Isn’t that cute, Mima thought, feeling a bit like an older sister.

  Stepping into the one-room apartment, Rumi exclaimed, “Your place is so clean!”

  The room was, in fact, clean and tidy—not stiflingly sterile, but relaxing and inviting. In that way, the space reflected its owner’s character: strict with herself, kind to others.

  Rumi sat in front of the big-screen 32-inch TV and gazed at the glass tube with admiration. “Wow, this is nice,” she said. “Really nice. I wish I had a big TV like this. Watching it must be intense.”

  “Not really,” Mima replied, as she filled the electric kettle with water. “You get used to it after awhile, and it stops feeling impressive.”

  “Oh!” Rumi exclaimed. “Mima-san, Mima-san!”

  Rumi seemed to have discovered something. Mima knew what her assistant had found even without looking.“You like anime too—don’t you, Rumi-chan?”

  “Like it? I love it.”

  Rumi had found Mima’s laserdisc collection. It was quite a large collection that consisted almost entirely of anime—from Toei animated classics like Magic Boy and The Wonderful World of Puss ’n Boots to more recent movies, such as Kiki’s Delivery Service and Grave of the Fireflies. If an anime had been pressed onto one of those record-sized video discs, she probably had it.

  Among their number were several foreign animated films unknown to Rumi. As an anime fan herself, the discovery made her as excited as a child.

  Happy to see the enthusiasm, Mima said, “You’re welcome to come watch them whenever you’re free. You can stay up all night, if you want to.”

  “R-really?” Rumi said. “I’d love to. Absolutely!”

  Mima found Rumi’s bubbly enthusiasm charming. Rumi had joined Moon Kids as an aspiring idol singer. She’d pushed past her parents’ protestations and moved to Tokyo from her rural hometown, which must have required a level of determination rare among her peers. Tadokoro put together several trial projects for her, but ultimately, Rumi simply didn’t have what it took to become an idol. She was more than cute enough to make the cut, and she possessed the drive, too—but she was missing that certain spark.

  When she realized she would never be an idol, Rumi kept on at Moon Kids as a member of the staff. She was a hard worker and quickly made the mental switch to her new role. Soon, the agency assigned her to be Mima’s assistant.

  Rumi never said a sour or blue word about her shattered dreams, and she gave her assignment her all. Even so, Mima worried about saying or doing something that might tear open Rumi’s old wounds, and consequently, she’d kept a certain distance from her assistant. But now that Mima knew of their shared passion for anime, she suddenly felt the gap betw
een them shrink. She thought Rumi might have felt it, too.

  Mima poured some of her fine Earl Grey tea into a cup and added plenty of milk before offering the drink to Rumi. Her assistant took a sip, then happily scrunched her eyebrows into an adorable face. “Yum! It’s really good.”

  As Mima watched her helper’s earnest expression, she felt keenly aware of how being an idol had changed her—into someone more focused on reading the room than conveying her true emotions—and that awareness saddened her.

  Being an idol was a nerve wracking job. An idol always had to smile and pay strict attention to her behavior. The media was always hunting for a scandal, and the fans could get nasty. Spurred by those thoughts, her mind replayed the voice that tormented her over the telephone. The memory sullied an otherwise peaceful, if bittersweet moment.

  Mima had only been an idol for three years, but mentally, she felt like an old woman, well over thirty. She doubted she could ever be as unguarded as Rumi again.

  What would happen to me if I quit? Mima wondered.

  She took a drink from her own cup of Earl Grey and kept her deep sigh bottled up inside.

  Some time later, Mima held a wine glass. Her words came out just slightly slurred. “Rumi-chan, I’m going to do a photo book. You’ve heard, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, Tadokoro-san told me.”

  “And what did he tell you about it?”

  “Well, he said you were putting out a photo book…”

  Mima pressed, “That’s all he said?”

  “That’s all he said,” Rumi said.

  Mima hummed in thought. She swirled her wine slowly, a seemingly subconscious action. Then she said, “Here’s the thing—the photo album, it’s going to be really racy.”

  “Racy?” Rumi said, blinking rapidly.

  “You know, sexy. Dirty. We had the planning meeting today. Bon-chan said that if I’m going to do a photo book, I’ve got to really go for it.” Mima grinned. “Maybe even full frontal.”

  Rumi looked uncertain as to how she ought to respond. Cautiously, she said, “And did you agree to it?”

  “Of course I did. These days, an idol can’t survive on just being cute.”

  Rumi bobbed her head in understanding, but her expression carried a hint of dejection.

  Mima continued. “What I wanted to talk with you about was how far I should go. How much do you think I should expose?”

  Rumi took in the question, then said with tact, “You know better than I do, but I think you should hold back as much as you can. You’re still selling singles and albums as you are now.”

  “Fifty thousand copies, maybe.”

  “Then I think you shouldn’t change your image too much. I’d rather Kirigoe Mima remain the pure girl. And…” Rumi stopped herself.

  “And?” Mima prodded softly.

  Rumi turned her face away and covered it behind her hands.

  “Rumi-chan, what’s wrong? If there’s something you want to say, you can say it.”

  Mima took Rumi’s hand. Rumi shook her head from side to side. After a moment, she seemed to have gathered herself, and she looked Mima in the eye and said, “Mima-san. Please don’t be mad at me when I tell you this.” Her eyes were serious. She pressed on. “I’m… I’m worried about your fans.”

  “My fans? You mean that my current fans might leave me,” Mima said, failing to see why that had gotten Rumi so shaken up. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. If I worried about that sort of thing, I’d never be able to do anything.”

  “No,” Rumi said with a big shake of her head. “That’s not it. I’m not worried about those fans. I’m worried about the…obsessive fans.”

  Obsessive fans. Mima’s expression stiffened. What is she trying to tell me? She couldn’t mean…

  Thoughts of the man on the phone returned to her again.

  Her voice rising, Mima demanded, “Just who are you talking about?”

  “Some of your fans don’t like the idea of you changing your image,” Rumi said.

  “Sure they don’t, but so what? Who cares about what those fans think?”

  “But… but…” Rumi was shaking her head more fiercely now. “Mima-san, please listen to me. The truth is… the truth is…”

  Crying, Rumi told Mima about her encounter with the shadowy figure outside the green room.

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to have to tell you,” Rumi said, sniffling. “I thought he was just some freak. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I read the letter he gave me. And—and…”

  Mima could never have imagined someone like that could have gotten so close to her—right outside the room where she herself had been. “What did it say?” Mima demanded, half shouting. “Tell me, what did it say?”

  Reluctantly, Rumi dug through her purse and withdrew a crumpled scrap of paper.

  Mima took the page—snatched it, really. “This is his letter?”

  It was a perfectly ordinary piece of stationery. She placed the paper on the table and carefully smoothed it out. The words had been written with a ballpoint pen. She poured over the message, intently focused.

  The more she read, the more the color drained from her face.

  Dear Mima-sama:

  I expect that you might never read this letter.

  That’s because I am unable to mail it to you. I don’t know your address. I’ve tried as best I can to learn it, but to no avail.

  I found your phone number from your appearance on Oshare Fifties. (You may recall the segment where you called your own answering machine. I recorded it on video tape and played it back hundreds of times until I figured out your number. It was a lot of hard work.) I thought I might be able to look up your address from the phone number, but that ended up being wasted effort.

  That’s when I got the idea to go meet you directly at the television station and hand deliver this letter.

  But that might not be possible. There is a chance you will never read this letter, but I am writing it with the belief that you will read my message to you.

  Here it is.

  Please stay the way you are.

  I hope you will never change and that you will always stay the same.

  I heard a rumor—which I highly doubt is based on any merit—among a fraction of your devoted fans that you are going to put out a risqué photo book. Personally, I can’t believe such a nasty rumor.

  But if someone is pressuring you, forcing you to do it against your will, I will stake my life to protect you.

  You are Kirigoe Mima.

  Please go on being Kirigoe Mima.

  If you were to change, I don’t know what I would do. I might even lose myself completely… The next thing I know, we both could be dead. I don’t want that to happen, so please, stay as you are.

  Sincerely,

  Your Darling Rose

  P.S. I’m worried that this letter might not reach you. I will call you soon to find out. I promise.

  When she’d finished reading the letter, Mima glared at Rumi and shouted, hysterical, “Rumi-chan, why did you hide this letter from me? Why didn’t you tell anyone about that man?”

  Rumi shook her head like a little child scolded by her mother. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was wrong. I…”

  Mima took in a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. She took several such breaths until she gradually felt more in control.

  Seeing Rumi a sobbing wreck before her, Mima realized this was no time to let her own emotions run away from her. Rumi kept quiet because she didn’t want to upset me, Mima told herself. She was only trying to do right by me.

  Mima gently grasped Rumi’s hand and said, “Rumi-chan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s all right now. I won’t yell at you anymore. You can relax.”

  Rumi squeezed Mima’s hand back tightly, then looked at the idol with teary eyes and said, “I-I was scared. That man scared me. There was something wrong about him—something really wrong.”

  Mima put her ar
ms around Rumi and hugged her tight. “It’s all right. It’s all right,” she said, as much to herself as to her assistant. “He can’t come here. We’re safe.”

  Rumi was nodding, her head against Mima’s chest, when the phone’s ring split the night.

  Mima’s body stiffened. Her heart threatened to jump from her throat.

  I will call you soon to find out, the ominous letter had said.

  Mima reached for the receiver.

  Rumi jolted as if she had touched a high-voltage current. “Don’t answer,” she shouted. “You can’t answer! It might be him…”

  Mima pulled back her hand. The two women, frozen like statues in their embrace, stared at the phone as its ringing droned ominously on.

  Chapter 3

  SEARCH

  I

  Ring. Ring. The sound of the phone on the other end came through the receiver.

  Each ring was another dagger in the man’s chest.

  His emotions had been thrown into disarray. One moment, he worried what he would do if she answered. The next, he worried what he would do if she didn’t—and back and forth again.

  A minute ago, he had intended not to call her. He didn’t want to cause her any distress if it could be at all avoided. But he couldn’t stop wondering if she had read his letter, and—a blush tinged his dark complexion—he wanted to hear her voice, even if only for a fleeting moment.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone had sounded over twenty times now.

  He was positive she must be home. It was after midnight. Surely she was home by now. He possessed nearly complete knowledge of her schedule, gleaned from fan magazines and other sources. Her only appearance today had been as a guest on a radio show.

  If she was out having fun with someone—the very thought sent another sharp pang through his chest—she would have left her answering machine on.

  Could it be? The man ran his bony fingers back and forth through his long, unkempt hair. Could she be pretending not to be home?