by Susan Barker
‘Listen carefully,’ he says in a low whisper. ‘I am going to shoot a hole in your face. But first I am going to give you the choice that I never had. I want you to pick a side: left or right. That will be the side I shoot.’
Finally Yuji feels something more than numbness. The route to his heart is through his vanity. To Yuji, ugliness is a fate worse than death.
‘Hurry up. Or I’ll get kitchen boy here to choose for you.’
Yuji looks at me in speechless recognition. He laughs feebly. ‘Left,’ he says.
‘Put your head back and open your mouth wide,’ Red Cobra instructs.
Yuji is shaking so much he can barely open his mouth. Red Cobra positions the gun between Yuji’s teeth, ready to shoot through his cheek. My advance ballistics calculations tell me that the Glock 18 is too close-range. By pulling the trigger he will kill Yuji. I hold my breath. Mouth around the gun nozzle, Yuji squeezes his eyes tight shut. I can hear muscle fibres in Red Cobra’s hand contract one by one as the trigger is squeezed.
‘Wait!’ I shout.
Red Cobra jerks and turns in surprise. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘What is it?’
My mouth falls open. Red Cobra’s mobile phone rings. We each leap out of our skins, all of us mistaking the first note as the misfire of the gun. Instead a shrill J-pop melody fills the crumbling ruins.
‘What the fuck?’ Red Cobra spits. He is breathing hard and fast.
The caller identity is concealed, so I follow the mobile phone signal back to the source.
‘Don’t answer that!’ I say.
But it is too late; he has the phone at his ear.
‘Red Cobra,’ Yamagawa-san oozes through the earpiece. ‘Put your gun down and step away from Mr Oyagi. He is not to be harmed. Do you understand? He is not to be harmed.’
18
MR SATO
I
The stars are out for my midnight jaunt, shining through the canopy of bamboo leaves. The air is balmy, perfumed by the rising sap and the fertile peat beneath my moccasins. I must look as though I am heading off to a woodland pyjama party, for I slipped out of the house tonight without my jacket or overcoat. Toads serenade me with their throaty song, the machinery of a nearby canning factory clanking in percussion. It does me good to breathe this air, to displace the traffic fumes and heaven knows what else from my lungs. Health benefits aside, though, I cannot help but think it a dismal state of affairs that I have had to walk all the way out here just to talk to you.
I endeavoured to reach you at the kitchen table, where I sat drinking a mug of hot cocoa after Mariko had gone up to bed. But I could not concentrate. I kept imagining the creak of bedsprings, the dull thud of a pillow being pumped, long after Mariko had, in all probability, fallen asleep. All these non-existent sounds conspired to remind me that for the third night in a row I had a visitor. I suppose other people might take the event of an overnight guest in their stride, but I am not yet used to having another living, breathing presence in the house. I washed up my cocoa mug and opened the kitchen window. A light breeze swept in, bearing with it the forest air, fresh and alive. I went and put on my shoes at once, and let it guide me to the woods, like an enchanted melody from the Pied Piper’s pipe.
I know that inviting Mariko to stay was the right thing to do. Newly orphaned and abandoned by her brothers as she was, the only place she had to go was back to the shady world of hostessing. A world where they prey on the young and vulnerable. When Mariko told me how desperate she was to leave the profession, my duty was evident at once. Nevertheless, it took me an hour or two to propose to Mariko that she stay in our house. As you know, my generosity lacks the natural spontaneity of yours. I am glad I did eventually, though. The worst thing Mariko could do at this unhappy time in her life is to return to that smoky, insalubrious hostess bar. Especially with her precarious medical condition.
Hearing the soil squelch underfoot brings me childish pleasure. From somewhere nearby comes the garrulous tinkling of a stream, though its exact whereabouts are a mystery to me. The breeze has lulled, yet all the leaves seem to whisper me on my way. I shall walk a little farther before I turn back.
I wish I knew how to counsel Mariko through her grief. I never know what she is thinking or feeling. Her emotions are kept hidden, and only surface when she thinks my attention is diverted elsewhere. Last night, for instance, as I took the rubbish out into the back yard I glanced back at the kitchen window, where Mariko stood drying a saucepan, and saw a solitary tear roll down her cheek. Yet in my company she is cheerful and studiously avoids the topic of her father. Instead we talk about the marigolds, or the best colour to paint the banister. If only you were here. You would know exactly what to say.
This morning I heard Mariko rise before me and go down into the kitchen. The frying pan clanged on the hob, and drawers opened and closed as if troubled by a restless poltergeist. Though tempted to investigate, I did not want to miss my radio callisthenics broadcast. I contained my curiosity long enough to do my morning exercises, then shave and change into my suit and tie. As I left the bathroom, delicious cooking aromas climbed the stairs to greet me, possessing my nostrils with a rabbity twitch.
‘Mariko!’ I chided upon entering the kitchen. ‘Really, there is no need for all this.’
Mariko turned from the stove where she was frying prawn tempura. The brightness of her smile more than compensated for the absent sun. ‘Good morning, Mr Sato! I have made breakfast for you.’
Laid out for me on the table was a traditional feast of rice, miso soup, pickles, fermented bean paste and grilled fish.
‘Good Lord, Mariko! I usually have just toast and jam,’ I said.
Mariko laughed and gestured that I sit and eat. She did not join me, but busied herself preparing me a bento. I ate at a leisurely pace, listening to the parliamentary report on the radio as though it were a Saturday. At 7.35 Mariko gently reminded me that if I didn’t hurry I would be late for work. She placed my bento, bound in a lace-edged handkerchief, in a bag for me to carry. I took one last swallow of coffee and rose from the table.
‘Would you mind accompanying me into the garden, Mariko?’ I said. ‘There is a person I would like you to meet.’
Mariko glanced down at her muslin peasant blouse and blue skirt. She touched her hands self-consciously to her head, where her hair was tucked away beneath a yellow headscarf. She seemed quite dismayed. ‘But, Mr Sato, look at what I am wearing. I am a mess!’
Her eyes darted to the ceiling, betraying her desire to dash upstairs and pick out something smarter from the tiny suitcase of clothes and toiletries she brought to the house yesterday.
‘Really, Mariko, you look quite presentable. I only intend to introduce you to the lady you saw snooping about yesterday morning. Otherwise she will be at it again the minute I am gone. You will never get a moment’s peace.’
Mariko bit her lip. I could appreciate her reservations. For a good forty-five minutes yesterday morning Mrs Tanaka had circled the house, peering through all the windows, while pretending to water our rhododendrons. This made Mariko quite afraid to venture downstairs. I had also told Mariko Mrs Tanaka’s tale of their encounter at the front porch. Unsurprisingly she has no recollection of this.
‘OK,’ said Mariko, relenting gracefully.
The sky this morning was drab and dish-water grey. Birds lunged across its blank expanse like thrown stones. We stood side by side on the front lawn, facing the Tanaka residence. Armed with my bento and briefcase I felt rather confident, but Mariko nervously twisted the fabric of her skirt. I assured myself that once Mrs Tanaka sees what a sweet-natured girl Mariko is the pair will get along famously. Though separated by two generations I believe they had much in common, such as a mutual love of domestic duty and headscarves.
‘Mrs Tanaka won’t be long now,’ I promised.
Mr Ue marched by on his way to catch the 7.45 express, his briefcase in a high pendular swing. When he saw Mariko standing on my lawn, toying with the fabric of her
skirt, he spluttered on his can of Hercules Extra Strength coffee. Determined to conduct myself in an open, nothing-to-be-ashamed-of manner, I bid Mr Ue a lusty good morning. Mariko smiled coyly. As he progressed further up the street, Mr Ue nearly dislocated his neck twisting it to look back at her.
Mrs Tanaka kept Mariko and me waiting for a good long while. Just as my patience was about to give out, her front door opened. Out she stepped in her claret quilted housecoat, her curlers encased by a turquoise turban. I recognized this particular ensemble as the one she wore in hospital after her hip-replacement operation. I could not fathom her reasons for wearing it this morning. As she approached us she stopped to fuss over some skid marks Mr Tanaka’s wheelchair tyres had left on the lawn, tutting to herself in annoyance. As you know, Mrs Tanaka’s will to pry is all-consuming. It must have cost her a great effort to affect such apathy.
‘Good morning, Mrs Tanaka.’
‘Mr Sato. Good morning. I see you have a friend.’ Mrs Tanaka smiled thinly, her eyes keenly devouring every detail of Mariko’s dress and deportment. ‘I believe we have met before,’ she said.
Mariko rushed in breathlessly: ‘Yes, I am so very sorry for my rudeness. I was unwell at the time, you see, and not my usual self.’ Mariko bowed, her face luminous with apology. I could see Mrs Tanaka begin to thaw at the edges. ‘My name is Mariko and I am very pleased to meet you.’
‘Mrs Tanaka,’ Mrs Tanaka said, tersely.
Mariko gave another generous bow, which Mrs Tanaka met with a parsimonious dip of the head.
‘Mariko is staying with me for a while,’ I said. ‘She was made redundant from Daiwa Trading the other week and I have offered her a place to stay while she seeks employment elsewhere. Her family live in Fukuoka, you see, but her job prospects are better here in Osaka.’
I scratched at an itch that felt like a tiny ant crawling over the bridge of my nose. That Mariko should pretend to be an employee of Daiwa Trading was an idea I had the night before whilst assisting her with the dishes. Though the topic of hostesses has never arisen in conversation between myself and Mrs Tanaka, I am certain that she frowns upon the profession.
‘Such a shame you were made redundant,’ Mrs Tanaka said, in a distinctly unsympathetic tone of voice. ‘You should count your blessings that Mr Sato has been so good to you.’
‘I am indebted to Mr Sato for his kindness,’ Mariko declared. ‘My father recently passed away, and . . . and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, I mean . . .’ Mariko flushed, her gaze fluttering down to the grass.
‘In which department did you work when you were at Daiwa Trading?’ asked Mrs Tanaka.
At this remarkably cold-hearted change of subject my stomach did a pancake flip. I had not briefed Mariko on the details of her pretend job and I doubted her knowledge of business and commerce would be enough to convince Mrs Tanaka.
‘I worked for the Public Accounts office,’ Mariko said.
‘The Public Accounts office,’ Mrs Tanaka parroted. ‘What did you do there?’
‘Oh, I was just an office lady,’ Mariko replied. ‘I am afraid I am not very clever when it comes to numbers and accounts.’
‘Well, let’s hope that you find another job quickly. I am sure you don’t want to be taking advantage of Mr Sato’s hospitality for too long,’ Mrs Tanaka said briskly.
Mrs Tanaka’s rudeness knocked me for six. Did she not hear Mariko say her father had just passed away? Mariko trembled with shame.
Determined that she should not pay any attention to Mrs Tanaka, I said: ‘Nonsense. Let’s not hear any talk of “taking advantage”. Mariko, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like. It is important you find yourself a decent, well-paid job. You mustn’t rush into anything unsuitable. Towards this end my hospitality is unlimited.’ A generous declaration indeed, provoked in part by my anger at Mrs Tanaka, who sniffed in a put-out manner, and patted the ruche of her turquoise turban. Mariko smiled weakly, flinching still from Mrs Tanaka’s remark.
At this inopportune moment it occurred to me that I had missed two trains and would be late for work. Though reluctant to leave Mariko in Mrs Tanaka’s interfering clutches, I had little choice. As Section Chief of the Finance Department it would not do to be unpunctual. I bid them both farewell and left them on the lawn, praying, as I proceeded to the station, that the mysterious alchemy of female bonding would occur in my absence.
At my late arrival Matsuyama-san’s eyebrows lifted over the rim of the cup of coffee he was drinking. Taro winked and greeted me with a chirpy ‘Good evening, Mr Sato!’ I apologized to my colleagues and confessed that I had carelessly lost track of time. Then I went to my desk, where Miss Yamamoto was busy examining the contents of my in-tray. Though she had stayed late the night before to finish the Hashimoto file, Miss Yamamoto was bright-eyed and perky, not to mention stylish in her white blouse and pin-striped skirt.
‘Mr Sato. Good morning. I was just checking your mail – I hope you don’t mind.’
Guilt stirred like a nest of snakes. Had I been on time Miss Yamamoto would not have felt obliged to check my mail for me. I hung up my coat and laid my briefcase on the desk.
‘Of course not. Thank you, Miss Yamamoto. Anything important for me today?’
‘Just an email from Murakami-san reminding you the budget dissemination for the export department is overdue.’
I sighed. My memory has been as effective as a sieve of late.
‘I can do it if you want,’ Miss Yamamoto volunteered, with her usual eagerness.
‘No. I should do it. It is very important and there cannot be any mistakes.’
‘Well, why don’t I take care of some of your accounts, then?’ Miss Yamamoto said.
As a rule I do not give out assignments entrusted to me, but Miss Yamamoto is more than competent, and there is no harm in a little delegation now and again. I handed her the files and she smiled and told me she would do her best, before trotting back to her desk with them, pleased as a dog with a frisbee in its jaws.
At lunch-time I untied the lace-edged handkerchief and opened up my bento. Matsuyama-san was quite envious when he saw my high-quality lunch box. His wife had given him cold meatballs in tomato sauce and rice. Mariko had given me rice with bamboo shoots, prawn tempura, grilled eel, carved radishes and a variety of other gourmet treats.
‘Nice lunch, Sato-san,’ he said. ‘Make it yourself?’
I gave a half-nod and took out my chopsticks.
‘Not bad. I haven’t seen you with a fancy lunch like that for a long time, not since we worked in Transport and—’ Matsuyama-san broke off quickly and looked down at his cold meatballs. ‘Ugh,’ he groaned. ‘She means to poison me.’
After polishing off the last of my rice I put my lunch box away and picked up the latest issue of Kansai Jobs. I thought Mariko might appreciate some help job hunting, as it is quite hard to motivate oneself after the loss of a loved one. The task was harder than I had anticipated, as Mariko has little more than a high-school diploma to her name. Most office work, even clerical jobs, require further qualifications. After a good twenty minutes of disillusioned scanning I struck upon a suitable position. A fishmonger’s in Namba required an apprentice. The pay was low but they offered benefits, a pension scheme and the prospect of promotion. I circled the ad in red and felt very pleased with myself. I wanted to rush home and tell Mariko straight away.
The remainder of the day went by quickly. I should have worked into overtime to finish redrafting the budget plan, but I wanted to get back to Mariko, who was probably awaiting my return after so many hours spent alone. At five minutes to five I found myself sitting at my desk with my briefcase packed, ready to leave before the company chime. It was a scenario that less than a week ago would have been unheard of. Also waiting to leave was Taro, his parka zipped up over his suit as he sat grinning out from the depths of its fur-lined hood. At the chime we said goodbye, and excuse-me-for-leaving-early, and left the office together. I was quite ashamed by my premature depar
ture, but Taro seemed rather jolly. Outside the office he snapped his heels together and began gyrating his hips and clicking his fingers as though he were no longer a graduate trainee from the Public Accounts office, but John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.
‘Hey, Mr Sato. I’m meeting Ace Ishino at the bar opposite City Hall for some drinks. D’you want to come?’
Ace Ishino is a motorcycle courier for Daiwa Trading, whose greatest joy is near-fatal traffic accidents. Whenever he comes to our office he recounts them for Taro with the same dreamy nostalgia others use to hark back to exotic holiday destinations. Once Ace was thrown clear of a pile-up on his way to deliver a contract for the Finance Department. After twenty minutes of treatment for concussion in Osaka hospital Accident and Emergency Ace detached himself from his drip and went to fetch his bike, in order to finish delivering our contract before the four o’clock deadline.
‘Are you joking, Taro?’ I asked suspiciously.
Taro was side-tracked for a moment as he waved to Miss Akita from Marketing, who passed us by with a clippety-clip of heels and a lipsticked smile.
‘Yeah, I’m joking,’ Taro admitted with a grin. ‘I know you can’t make it anyway. Got a hot date, haven’t you? What’s her name again? Michiko or something, isn’t it?’
I staggered a step, queasy with shock. The fiery itch of shame spread across my face. How did Taro know about Mariko?
‘What did you say?’ I replied, in a strangled voice.
‘Ha! Knew I was right. Who is she? It’s Miss Kano at reception, isn’t it? Taking her out somewhere swanky? Octopus Hut? The Big Echo?’
Relief came in a huge wave. Taro was only teasing me, clowning around as usual.
‘Yes, that’s right, Taro,’ I said drily as we drew towards the stairway. ‘I am taking Miss Kano from reception out to Octopus Hut. Never mind the fact she is married, in the third trimester of her pregnancy, and I am easily twice her age.’
