Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis

by Yoshikazu Takeuchi

  No, the man told himself. She wouldn’t do that to me.

  He thought of Mima’s manager, that ugly, bald, middle-aged bastard. Maybe she’s assuming it’s her manager calling.

  Thinking of how Mima must feel, having to dodge phone calls just to escape her manager, the man pitied her. He suspected the manager was a source of constant harassment. As the phone rang for the thirtieth time, a righteous indignation sprang to life.

  He wished he could go to her this very moment and comfort her.

  Just before the fortieth ring, the man finally gave up and placed the receiver back in its cradle. There’s only so much I can do by phone. I have to find her address. I need to meet her in person.

  Thinking about how badly he wanted to meet her, he hugged his arms around his chest. Waves of bittersweet emotion flooded him, almost tickling.

  The man had never been in love. He had no way of knowing what love felt like. But when he thought of her, his heart seemed to flutter, and he wondered if what he was feeling might be the same as love.

  Then, as had happened every time that notion crossed his mind, a dark and blue emotion raised its head from somewhere deep inside him.

  It’s not love! he told himself, flatly rejecting the idea. It’s not. It’s not love! The corners of his lips trembled in disapproval. I exist to save her. I exist to prevent her from going down the wrong path. He looked to the life-sized poster of Kirigoe Mima he kept on his wall. Youthful and pure, she smiled back at him.

  I am here to protect that smile, he reminded himself. I must never forget that.

  That reminder finally allowed him to regain control of his nerves—but he’d seen inside himself and found a man who needed to be more composed. When he saw that man, a bottomless terror came over him. He trembled like a little girl who had seen a ghost.

  He didn’t want to witness his own weakness. He wanted to be a strong man, if only when it came to her.

  The man retrieved a video tape from the rows upon rows of cassettes that filled the shelving unit. The tape contained a recording of Kirigoe Mima at the very beginning of her career. Among its contents were even some of the lessons she took before her debut.

  The man inserted the tape into the VCR and switched on his 29-inch TV. With a dull electric hum, the screen came to life.

  Beside the TV stood more shelves, also stuffed full of tapes, and topped with a seemingly careless pile of the things. In fact, tapes were everywhere in the modest, six tatami-mat-sized room, and almost every one contained footage of idol singers. Only one space remained vacant amid the mountains of cassettes and that was where the man sat.

  Though the piles appeared disorganized, the man knew the exact location of each and every recording. Eyes still locked on the TV, upon which a rookie Mima sang, the man reached automatically for another tape.

  This one contained his most recent recording of Mima. He put the tape into a second VCR and switched on a smaller TV adjacent to the larger one. On the small display appeared the Mima of today. On the larger one was Mima as she had debuted.

  Kirigoe Mima was known for largely sticking to the same image throughout her career—but compared side-by-side, the changes were significant and unmistakable.

  The man clenched his teeth and fought back his surging emotions. To him, the best Mima was the one directly after her debut. He almost wished she had never become a pop idol, though he felt strange thinking that way.

  The singer had survived childhood without losing her innocence; to submerge her in the polluted waters of the entertainment industry could only be described as the devil’s work. If she hadn’t become an idol, she likely would have remained the same person forever.

  The man believed that would have been the happiest outcome, both for her and for himself.

  Then again, if she had never become an idol, he never would have known her.

  Filled with mixed emotions, he watched the current Mima, a much more mature woman than she had been upon her debut. Softly he whispered, the words coming from deep within, “I don’t want you to change any more.”

  This most recent Mima had changed just about as much as he could tolerate.

  He didn’t want to acknowledge it—he really didn’t—but he couldn’t avoid the truth. She carried an air of sexuality now. It wasn’t yet so strong that he couldn’t bear it—for now, he could endure. But he couldn’t let it get any stronger.

  He didn’t want to see his most precious person succumb to corruption. That was why he needed to save her—no matter who tried to stand in his way.

  He understood her better than anyone else. If he didn’t rescue her, then who would?

  He was prepared to give his life, if that’s what it took to save her. He just didn’t know how it could be done. He had spent days thinking of nothing else. Time was running out. If he didn’t act soon, she would become someone other than herself.

  The man reached for a plain paper bag on his desk. From inside the bag, he withdrew a long, skinny object wrapped in a piece of cloth. When his eyes rest upon the cloth, relief softened his expression.

  Slowly, he unwrapped it. The contents fell onto the desk with a dull thud.

  It was a knife with a white grip and a long, gleaming blade. He gripped the weapon by the handle, and his mouth twisted into a smile.

  This was it. If all else failed, this was how he could save her.

  For that reason, he cherished the knife deeply. He patted the flat side of the blade against his cheek and took pleasure in the sensation of cold metal against his skin.

  II

  Mima felt a bit feverish; she wondered if it was because she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Usually she felt excited before recording a song, but instead she felt blue. She’d been in poor form lately, and it was all that freak’s doing.

  Not only had he called her, he’d gotten a letter to her as well—going so far as trespassing in the television studio. It was too much for her to forgive. At first, when Rumi told her about the stalker’s visit, Mima had been overcome by incredible terror. But now, the fear had turned to anger.

  Whoever this obsessive fan was, he was probably a bitter, pathetic excuse of a man, someone who never went out on dates, never played any sports, and just sat shut away in his room all alone. When she pictured him in her mind, the image filled her with bristling irritation.

  Though the more unsavory type of fan had been more prevalent in the past, these days, the men who followed idols were a mostly pleasant sort. Fan or not, she wished the police—or anyone, really—would crack down on all the nasty ones like him.

  She couldn’t even relax in her own bed anymore. How could she, when he could call again at any moment? Each time her phone rang, her heart froze for just a second. Even worse, he might have tracked down her address by now. What if he came in person?

  She made a sour face, like she’d just stepped on a slug with her bare foot.

  Sniffling, Mima told Rumi, “I’ve decided to tell Bon-chan.”

  With her hair artlessly gathered in the back and her face showing little if any makeup (though naturally still cute), her outward appearance spoke of an inner weariness.

  Rumi set a cup of coffee in front of the idol. The assistant nodded and said, teary-eyed, “I was wrong for thinking to keep it to myself. I hope you can forgive me…”

  “It’s fine, Rumi-chan. What’s done is done. The person I can’t forgive is that creep. Look at all the trouble he’s caused us—that so called ‘Darling Rose.’ Give me a break!”

  When Mima debuted as an idol, she’d been given the slightly offbeat English tagline, “The Charming Rose.” That must have been where the man came up with his pen name.

  “I’m going to talk with Bon-chan,” Mima said. “We’ll come up with a plan. I’ve told him about this guy before. Bon-chan thought he was merely some dreary, miserable fan and that we should just leave him be. But now that this freak came into the studio, we can’t ignore him anymore.”

  Mima balled one hand into
a fist and punched at the air. “If he shows up in front of me, I’ll beat the living daylights out of him.”

  Mima grinned devilishly, and Rumi, taken in by the smile, formed a small one of her own. The sight came as a relief to the idol, who hadn’t seen her assistant smile since the night Rumi admitted to hiding the letter.

  Rumi said, “And if I see him again, I’ll grab him with my own two hands and give him what he has coming.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Mima said. “You know he’s bound to be a total wimp. If we stand up to him, he’ll go running with his tail between his legs.”

  Mima gave Tadokoro the letter to read. Later, in a small storage room at the rear of the recording studio, perched upon folding chairs, Mima and Rumi told him what had happened at the television station.

  “Did you see his face?” he asked, drawing in one corner of his mouth and pushing air out through his teeth.

  “No. The light was coming in directly behind him.”

  Tadokoro downed the rest of his now tepid coffee and ran his hands through his thinning hair. He glanced at Mima, who gave him the sort of smile that didn’t really say anything.

  Tadokoro said, “This guy must be a fan—albeit a crazed one. He’ll have shown himself at concerts and events. Rumi-chan, are you sure you can’t remember anything?”

  Rumi shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. Between the sunlight and how scared I was, I didn’t see much of him at all.”

  “It happened so suddenly, Bon-chan,” Mima intervened. “No one could be expected to remember what he looked like. What we need to discuss is what we’re going to do about him.”

  “Do you think it’s the same man who’s been calling you?” her manager asked.

  “I’m almost certain of it. The man on the phone said he’d come see me, and the letter talked about having tracked down my phone number.”

  Tadokoro spread open the crumpled letter and read it again. He’d already read it many times since Mima had brought it to him. Each time he did, he felt even more deeply disturbed than before.

  Almost to himself, he muttered, “At first, I dismissed the calls as just the work of some obsessive fan. But now that he’s come to the TV station and gotten a letter to you, we can’t wave this away as simple harassment.” He gave an exasperated shrug.

  Sounding less than confident, Rumi offered, “Do you think we should notify the police?”

  Tadokoro hummed in serious thought. He wanted to tell the police, but as of this moment, the stalker hadn’t committed any crime. He hadn’t made a direct threat or caused any harm. The police wouldn’t act just because the guy was being unpleasant. And if word of the matter leaked to the public, the entertainment media would make a big joke out of it at Mima’s expense. It could harm her image.

  “Maybe I’m being selfish here,” Tadokoro said, “but from the agency’s standpoint, I don’t want this to become a police matter. We need to find this man by our own means and set him straight.”

  Mima understood where he was coming from. Part of her thought she shouldn’t let herself be so afraid of some troubling phone calls and a letter. But another part of her thought Tadokoro didn’t understand how frightening the stalker was.

  “Regardless,” Tadokoro said, patting her firmly on the back, “we’ll wait and see what he does next. In the meantime, worrying about it won’t get us anywhere.”

  Mima and Rumi looked at each other and sighed. The idol said, “You’re right. There’s nothing else we can do now but wait and see.”

  Tadokoro stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Mima, I want you to take a quick break, and then we’ll go over your new song. Forget about that creep and focus on the music.” With a small wave, he rose and left them.

  Mima and Rumi stood immediately and followed Tadokoro out. As the three walked down the dim hallway, he muttered to no one in particular, “There’s so many freaks and weirdos these days. Crazed fans, pedophiles… Speaking of which, they never found the guy who killed that girl—the one who cut the skin from her leg. Who the hell goes around cutting off people’s skin, anyway?”

  Over his shoulder, Tadokoro tossed Mima a grin. “Mima, be careful not to get your skin cut off.”

  For a moment, Mima felt a jolt of pain, as if she could feel the knife in her flesh.

  The manager gave her a carefree chuckle and said, “I’m kidding, Mima. It’s just a joke.”

  But Mima didn’t laugh. It may have been meant in jest, but it was nasty, all the same. And as little as she appreciated the joke, she hoped it would stay one.

  III

  The man’s body shook in big, shoulder-rocking waves. He sensed that some great calamity was going to befall him, though he didn’t know what it was, or when it would come, or what form it would take. An immense and shapeless dread had grown deep within his heart, and it warned him that the thing he held dearest would be brought to ruin.

  But what did he hold dearest? He searched inside himself for the answer.

  Was it love? Was it dreams? Family?

  No, it wasn’t any of those things. Not a chance.

  His own life? Now that was something dear. But was it the dearest? He wasn’t confident that it was. There had to be something more important than that.

  Suddenly, in his innermost thoughts, a word formed: purity.

  At that moment, convulsions shot through his body. Purity. That which was unsullied, unspoiled. Yes, the man’s inner voice cried out, that’s it!

  Purity was what he held dearest. Purity was the only thing he could trust in this world of lies.

  To protect it, he would willingly give his life.

  Kirigoe Mima’s presence as a symbol of purity was the reason the man was so inordinately drawn to her.

  A long time had passed since idol singers were synonymous with purity. These days, they all sold their sex appeal as a commodity. To the last, those women weren’t idols. They were nothing more than prostitutes.

  He hated them. He scorned their use of sex. Females were always using their sex to lead men astray. They stripped men of moral integrity and made them into sexual slaves. As far as he was concerned, they were witches who cast misfortune upon the world.

  Except… The man’s expression brightened. Kirigoe Mima is different.

  She was pure to the core of her being, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. At least, that’s what he believed—and he didn’t want to lose her purity. Her purity was his only reason to go on living.

  Slowly, he began to see the form of the great calamity he feared. An unease spread within him. What if she were to change into something completely different?

  That would never happen, he told himself, banishing the thought. But even after he cast the thought away, his mind filled with an indescribable fear.

  Tears filling his eyes, he entreated her, Mima-san, I’m begging you. Please don’t change. Please don’t change any more than you already have.

  He turned those teary eyes onto the small table in front of him. On the table was the magazine that had been the source of his anxiety. The front cover—a bright, solid red—read: “From Pure to Sexy: Kirigoe Mima to Attempt a Photoshoot!!”

  As he stared at the words, he started to believe the only course left for him was to take action.

  IV

  Mima didn’t get back to her apartment until two in the morning. She’d been a guest on a late-night radio talk show where she’d mostly discussed her upcoming song. Mima counted the single as her seventh commercial release, though the true number was at least ten, when 12-inch vinyl variant releases were included. In any event, this was to be the seventh song intended for on-air rotation.

  Her manager had a lot riding on this song. He wanted nothing less than the top of the charts.

  In truth, it was a great song. It had a driving house-music beat and pop essence to spare. An idol singer couldn’t ask for anything more. Still, Mima had trouble believing she would make number one.

  Of her past so
ngs, the highest charting had been about a year ago, a 12-inch remix version of “Innocence Forever!” That one might have reached number five. At best, the others had barely squeaked into the top ten.

  To aim for number one was a lofty aspiration.

  Bon-chan is getting out of touch, Mima thought. A traditional type like me is already behind the times, and idols as a whole don’t have as much pull as they used to. I wish he wouldn’t let his expectations get too high.

  Tadokoro had winked at her and said he had a surefire plan to get her to number one, but she hadn’t understood what he meant. But now she made the connection—she saw what he had in mind. Her new song was slated to release alongside her new photo book. The release of that risqué volume would get people talking, and the publicity would boost her CD sales.

  Mima exhaled a puff of air. If selling CDs were that easy, she wouldn’t have to work so hard.

  She doubted any photo of her would convey much selling power. No matter how risqué these pictures were, she wasn’t about to appear in anything so extreme as to land her in a plastic-wrapped book, or in an urabon—the “books in the back,” so named because the illegal nature of their uncensored pornographic images meant their purveyors kept them in back rooms and under the counter.

  I’ll be lucky to chart at number nine, she thought, alongside a sense of guilt for not believing in her manager.

  Of course, when the radio host asked her, she’d said, “I’m taking this song all the way to number one. You can count on it!”

  To tell the truth, though, Mima’s manager wasn’t the only one who had a lot riding on this release—she did, too. One fact was as clear as day: if she kept on following this same course as a traditional idol, her success would slowly and inevitably dwindle. Her more popular peers were all searching for a new trend, taking influences from rock, Eurobeat, and elsewhere. Were Mima alone to remain stagnant, staying her course, she would face an all-too-inevitable outcome.

  Certainly, some said that Mima’s traditional nature was her appeal. With the broadening and diversifying ideas of what an idol could be, some fans appreciated Mima’s unchanging stance.