The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories

by Kyotaro Nishimura

  I slammed the wardrobe door shut and, opening the drawer, took out my father’s hunting rifle. The British-made double-barreled weapon was the one thing my father left to me. He had often taken me hunting with him when I was a child. Hunting is a man’s sport, he had been fond of saying. I had enjoyed it, too. I found the solid weight of the rifle in my hands mysteriously calming. I did not know why. Maybe I felt cool handling a gun, or perhaps I felt the presence of my dead father in it.

  I loaded the rifle and slipped out of the villa with it. I had an irresistible urge to shoot something.

  I walked along the dark beach to the tip of the headland. There was nobody around. The wind howled and the waves crashed, but somehow I had an eerie feeling of being immersed in deep silence.

  The pine branches and undergrowth on the headland rustled. I planted my feet in the grass and, raising the gun, aimed out into the night sea. It was dark, and I had no idea what I was shooting at. Yukibe had told me harshly that we had to feel murderous against the system. She was probably walking the streets right now looking for an enemy to kill. Yukibe was happy. She had an adversary to fight, but I did not know who or what to shoot. I chewed my lip and, aiming out into the blackness, pulled the trigger.

  I felt a slight recoil. For a brief moment, the dark night was split by a blue-white flash.

  What had I just shot? Just his ugly potbelly? Her beautiful face? The little blonde girl on the beach? Or myself?

  That night in my dreams, I shot her.

  She was naked. Her body was beautiful. That’s why, in my dream, I had to shoot her. As she fell, with bright red blood streaming from her white breast, my entire body was pierced by an intense joy. Even after I awoke, the lingering effects of the ecstasy persisted. And I realized that the lower half of my body was wet from having ejaculated. Normally I would have jumped out of bed in confusion, but this morning I stayed with my eyes fixed on the glow of morning sunlight on the ceiling, ruminating on the dream like a cow chewing the cud.

  Why had I had a dream like that? I tried to recall passages I had read on Freud’s interpretation of dreams. But my memory was hazy, and I was not confident I would be able to come up with a good explanation. All I knew was that in the real world I would never shoot her. There was no way I’d be able to shoot her with the rifle. Even if she were to say that she was going to marry that novelist, for example, if I was going to shoot anyone it would be him.

  So why had I shot her in my dream? And why had I felt such an intense joy? Could it be that I harbored a secret desire to rape her? Flustered, I sat up in bed. Suddenly I felt revolted by the dampness in my groin. I grabbed a towel to dry myself and then pulled on my swimming trunks and rushed down to the sea. I wanted to punish my body.

  I had thought that nobody was on the beach, but he was standing there looking scruffy in singlet and long underpants.

  “Hey, good morning,” he said with a convivial smile. “Are you off for a swim at this ungodly hour?”

  “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?” I retorted sharply.

  “Oh,” he said foolishly, in an odd voice. “We are in a bad mood, aren’t we? But then, you seem to dislike me.”

  “I don’t like people who write novels.”

  “I see. So it must have been you then, I suppose.”

  “What was?”

  “Who threw my book in the sea. I found it washed up over there a while ago. I’m not going to get upset about it. From an author’s point of view, it’s an honor to have something you’ve written thrown into the sea or set fire to or whatever.”

  “You think so?”

  “By the way, I’d like to give you a bit of advice. Will you listen?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head vigorously, and walked off to the water’s edge. Advice? What sort of advice was he going to give me? Like, don’t go waving that rifle around? Like, study harder for university entrance exams instead of spending all your time swimming? He was probably feeling all fatherly. Asshole.

  I took a run up and dived headfirst into the sea. The water felt colder than it had yesterday morning, but it felt good.

  “Hey!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Don’t swim out too far!”

  In defiance of his order, I carried on swimming directly out to sea. I was young. I wasn’t old like him. I could easily manage a ten-kilometer swim there and back. When I had almost reached the tip of the headland, I took a deep breath and dived down under water. The sea, which at the height of summer had become dirty and had lost its vitality, was now returning to its original blue. A clear blue world enveloped my body. All sounds were muted. My hands fluttered silent and pale before my eyes. It was delightful. I dived down even deeper. But I had been lulled by the pleasantness, and had carelessly forgotten that the sea was still capable of ruthlessness. All at once a current of colder water took hold of my arms and legs. There was a ringing in my ears as my limbs stiffened and stopped moving. I lost my cool. As soon as I floated up to the surface, I shouted loudly for help in the direction of the shore.

  He was on the beach looking in my direction. Choking and swallowing water, I called out again and again to him, “Help me!”

  He must have heard me shouting. He took two or three steps, but then stopped. Then, to my astonishment, he turned his back. He was going to let me drown! He—

  I felt myself drawn into a deep dark void as I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was lying in my own bed. Blankets were piled high on me, but as I came round I started shivering with cold.

  I looked up to see her pale face peering down at me. For me, the fact that she was there was more of a miracle than having been rescued.

  “You’ve come round,” she said with a gentle smile. “Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.” She offered me some hot milk.

  I sat up in bed and drank some. At last I stopped shivering.

  “A fishing boat happened to pass by and saved you. No more swimming out so far, right?”

  I nodded wordlessly, but deep down I was feeling acutely ashamed. I had wanted so badly for her to see me as a powerful young man, yet I had shown myself up as a pitiful weakling. My only vindication was that the water had been colder than I had expected. Even that wasn’t very convincing. In any case, I had been careless and was saved from drowning by a fishing boat. Even my bronzed body had lost its meaning as a symbol of youth, and had ended up looking ridiculous.

  “What about Mr. Takeda?” I asked, averting my eyes. He must be feeling disappointed that I had been rescued. I was furious with him, but at the same time I felt deeply grateful that I had not been rescued by him. If he had saved me, I would certainly have felt doubly humiliated before her.

  “He’s downstairs working on his novel,” she said.

  “How long is he planning on staying?” I asked reproachfully.

  “Well,” she said looking doubtful, “until we go back to Tokyo, I guess.”

  “Didn’t he say anything about his book?”

  “His book?”

  “The book of his that you were reading on the beach, Parting One Rainy Morning.”

  “Oh, that book.”

  She put her hands together before her breast and smiled. Just like yesterday, she had painted her nails prettily. She had been doing so ever since he had arrived. I looked away.

  “Now that’s a funny thing. I thought I had lost it, but it seems it had fallen into the sea. Mr. Takeda fished it out and brought it to me this morning.”

  She was beaming with delight as if recounting an entertaining anecdote or something. I was taken aback. I had expected him to snitch on me.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes. Why, is anything wrong?

  “No.”

  I looked out of the window. He clearly hadn’t covered up the matter of the book out of any kindness to me, I thought. It was probably just the capriciousness of a novelist, or perhaps the conceit of having me in his debt. Given what had just happened, it was obvious that he didn’t like me. When I had
called to him for help, he had turned his back. I would never forget that as long as I lived. Just as I hated him, he also hated me. I knew the reason. It was because she would be free if it wasn’t for me. I was in the way of him winning her for himself.

  “Would you like another cup of milk?” she asked gently.

  When I was feeling a little better, I went down to the living room to find them drinking tea together. Beside him lay some sheets of manuscript paper, but he hadn’t written a single line. It was a blatant lie that he had come here looking for inspiration for his next novel.

  “You shouldn’t be up yet!” She looked at me with big eyes.

  “Your mother’s right. You should get more rest,” he piped up next to her.

  I deliberately ignored him and said to her, “I’m better now. I feel like going out for a walk.”

  “Don’t be long. It looks like rain,” she said.

  I went down to the beach.

  It did indeed look as though it would rain. The sun was shining, but heavy black clouds were racing up from the south. A typhoon was probably on the way.

  I gazed at the droning sea. It had been my ally until now.

  But you betrayed me…

  A week before, she had applauded me as I swam out to a small island. The sea had made me look like a hero to her. Yet this time it had severely betrayed me. It had tried to drown me and had made me a miserable loser in her eyes. I would no longer be able to take pride in my youth and strength before her.

  It’s all your fault, I muttered at the sea.

  When I reached the rock pools, I saw that the crab was still lying awkwardly where it had fallen yesterday, its white belly showing. No doubt when I was rescued, I had looked as ungainly as that crab. And no doubt she had seen me lying unconscious in that unseemly state.

  I started slipping into depression. I kicked the remains of the crab as hard as I could into the ocean. Startled flies swarmed up from the small, wretched corpse as it landed on the water and sank.

  As if on cue, suddenly the sun went in and rain started falling; as I watched, little ripples formed and quickly became a flood of countless rings in the water. The rain fell in large drops like a storm burst. The raindrops hit the sand, throwing it up over my bare feet. The grains of wet sand clung to me. The raindrops stung my face and shoulders. But I remained motionless where I was. I felt a masochistic pleasure at being beaten by the rain. If it was the same sense of defeat, then the harder, the better. I opened my mouth and swallowed the rain as it poured in.

  The downpour stopped as quickly as it had started, and the sun came out once again. At the same time, the pleasurable self-torment also vanished, and all I was left with was the pitiful sense of defeat.

  I rinsed my feet in the sea and started walking aimlessly toward the headland. Little by little, the clinging sense of defeat turned into a frustrated rage against myself.

  Useless!

  As I walked, I muttered the same word over and over. Useless, useless!

  A car was parked at the beginning of the headland. Two guys of about twenty got out when they saw me.

  “Do you know any good places for fishing around here?” asked one.

  I saw fishing rods on the back seat of the car. But I really couldn’t be bothered to answer. I didn’t know why. It was probably because I was angry with myself, or perhaps because I was tired after having been beaten by the rain.

  As I stood there without answering, the two frowned at each other.

  “What a weirdo,” said the taller one, scrutinizing my face. His provocative look really got to me. It probably would not normally have bothered me, but with my nerves on edge, his petty attitude rubbed me up the wrong way.

  “What’s it to you?” I snarled.

  He reddened and glared at me. “If it’s a fight you’re after, I’m up for it,” he said in a low, threatening voice. The sun was beating down from the west, and I had the light directly in my eyes. I was getting annoyed. Saying nothing, I stepped forward and abruptly hit the guy in the face. A sharp sound rang out as he staggered and fell beside the car. “Bastard!” With a savage roar, he got up and came swinging furiously at me. His friend stood petrified and watched in dumb amazement.

  I went beserk. All my pent-up rage found an outlet as I rained down blows him. His fists slammed into my face and belly. I was bleeding from a split lip, but I felt no pain.

  The guy was about the same height as me, but my build was stronger from baseball practice. As we fought dementedly, he suddenly dropped to the floor and stopped moving. His face was covered in blood. I grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet, then hit him again.

  “Stop!” yelled the other guy on the verge of tears. “Stop, please stop! You’ll kill him!”

  His sobbing brought me to my senses. The savagery that had taken hold of me slowly dissipated.

  “You’re crazy! He’s half dead,” he screamed at me as he dragged his unconscious friend into the car. I watched numbly as the car sped away. I felt no sense of triumph. I began to feel even more wretched than before. I had needlessly beaten someone up.

  I looked at my own hands covered in blood. Pain swept over me. I wanted there to be another storm to wash away all the blood. Thick rain clouds were still racing fiercely northwards, but no rain fell.

  I went back to the villa still covered in blood and got into the shower. The dried blood caked my skin and would not come off. My body was throbbing with pain, but the mental anguish was worse. Why had I gotten into that fight? I recalled the guy’s face as he lay there covered in blood, and the voice yelling, “Please stop! You’ll kill him!” rang in my ears and would not go away. Why had I hit that guy? I had absolutely nothing against him. Nothing at all had warranted hitting him. But I had hit him anyway. Even after he passed out, I hit him again. There was no sense of accomplishment or exhilaration at winning. Yukibe would probably laugh at my behavior and say it was nonsensical. I deserved to be laughed at. I was a worthless human being.

  I wanted someone to comfort me. I didn’t need words. It would be enough for someone to silently watch over me as I grappled with my own wretchedness. Anybody would do. No, that was a lie. I wanted her to comfort me. Nobody else would do.

  I tiptoed down and peeked into the living room. She lay on the sofa with her eyes shut. He wasn’t there. The fact that she was alone struck me as a miracle.

  I went up to the sofa. She had her hands folded on her breast, and was breathing lightly in her sleep. Her sleeping face was beautiful and sensual.

  I’m in love with her.

  Since she was asleep, I could be honest about my feelings. I was in love with her.

  I knelt down and there before my eyes was her face, her breast, alive. What long eyelashes she had! Such white skin!

  I touched my lips to the back of her hand, which was folded on her breast. She was so cold! She carried on sleeping unawares. That emboldened me, and I grew more daring. Timidly I touched her slightly parted lips. A sweet fragrance enveloped me and a stab of ecstasy pierced my chest. I had kissed Yukibe sometime or other, but I had merely felt embarrassed. But this was different. My body trembled with joy. I forgot all about almost drowning, about my meaningless fight. My consciousness had been taken over by just one fact. I had kissed her. I had kissed her!

  When I looked up, I noticed a single small spot vivid against her white bosom. It was my blood. When I touched my lips to her, blood had fallen from my wound onto her breast. A moment of panic strangely dissipated as I stared at the spot of red blood. It was stunningly red. It was beautiful. I remembered the dream I had the night before. In the dream, when I fired, her naked white body had been stained red. I was seized by the sweet illusion that the dream had come true. Furthermore, this was my blood. My blood was staining her breast red. A desire to color her breast bright red swept over me. I went to touch her lips again. But just then, with a jolt I felt someone’s presence in the room.

  I turned around to see him standing in the doorway watching me
. I disliked him, but until that moment I had not thought of him as hateful.

  I went over to him and fixed him with a glare, “Do you want something?” He smiled oddly, and said, “You shouldn’t do that” in a warning tone. “You shouldn’t do that sort of thing to her. You’ll just get hurt. You’re seventeen—it’s normal to start liking women at that age, but not her.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that!” I yelled.

  My heart felt heavy with anger and sadness at having been witnessed by such a man. The blend of anger and sadness was making me feel ferocious. She belonged to me! She was not his.

  “But she’s your mother. And what’s more, she—”

  He continued talking in a hoarse voice, still with that unpleasant smile.

  “Shut up. Shut up!” I yelled, and hit his face as hard as I could. On the headland I had beaten up a man towards whom I felt absolutely no anger or hatred. But now I hit him with the full force of my loathing.

  His skinny frame flew back against the window. The glass shattered with a tremendous crash. A shard pierced his arm, and I saw blood spurt out.

  “Stop this idiocy now!” he screamed. I paid no attention, and grabbing his shirt I shoved him up against the wall, banging his head against it with dull thuds.

  “Stop that!” I heard her voice behind me. As if repelled, I let go of him.

  Glaring at me with fierce eyes, she went over to him and helped him up.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded accusingly.

  Consumed with fierce jealousy, I stared at her as she gently stroked his forehead and cheeks.

  “Shinichi and I were just play boxing,” he said, puckering his cheeks. So, did he mean to cover up for me? I felt so humiliated, I wanted to throw up.