Every morning on their way to the construction site in Nagasaki City, Norio picked up three workers in this order: first Yuichi, then another man in Kogakura, and a third in Tomachi.
After his abbreviated greeting, Yuichi was invariably silent. As Norio accelerated he asked, “Not enough sleep again? Bet you were out driving around again till late.”
Yuichi glanced for a second at the rearview mirror. “Not really,” he said.
Norio knew it was hard for a young guy like Yuichi to be picked up at six every morning, but between his disheveled hair and his eyes still encrusted with sleep, he looked as if he’d been in bed until three minutes ago. Norio couldn’t help scolding him.
If Yuichi had been a total stranger Norio wouldn’t have found his appearance and attitude so irksome, but they were relatives. Norio’s mother and Yuichi’s grandmother were sisters, which made Yuichi and Norio’s only daughter, Hiromi, second cousins.
At the end of the alley was a communal parking lot used by local residents. Among the old cars and vans was Yuichi’s precious white Skyline, bathed in the morning sunlight as if it were just out of the showroom. Yuichi bought the car used, but he had still paid more than two million yen for it, taking out a seven-year loan.
“Can’t you buy something cheaper?” Yuichi’s grandmother Fusae said when he bought it. “I asked him this, but he insisted he had to have this one. Well, I suppose a big car is convenient, when we have to take Grandpa to the hospital.” It had been hard to tell if she was happy or worried about his purchase.
Fusae and her husband, Katsuji, who was bedridden most of the time, had two daughters, Shigeko and Yoriko. The older, Shigeko, was living in Nagasaki City with her husband, who ran a high-end confectionary shop. She’d put her two sons through college and now they were out on their own. According to Fusae she was “the daughter I never have to worry about.” In contrast, her second daughter, Yuichi’s mother, never seemed able to settle down. When she was young, she married a man she worked with at a bar and they had Yuichi. This was fine as far as it went, but around the time that Yuichi entered elementary school, his father ran off with another woman. Not knowing what else to do, Yoriko brought Yuichi back to her parents’ home and stayed for a time but then took off, leaving her parents with no choice but to raise him. Rumor had it that she was working as a maid in an inn in the resort town of Unzen. Norio thought that it had worked out better for the boy this way, better for him to be raised by his grandfather, who worked for years in the shipyard, and his grandmother, rather than be dragged all over the place by irresponsible parents. Because of this, when Yuichi entered junior high and his grandparents proposed to adopt him, Norio didn’t hesitate to support the idea.
When Yuichi was adopted by his grandparents his last name, naturally enough, changed, from Honda to Shimizu. At New Year’s the next year, when Norio stopped by to give Yuichi the traditional gift of money, he asked, half joking, “What do you think? Doesn’t Yuichi Shimizu sound better than Yuichi Honda?”
But Yuichi, who was getting interested in motorcycles and cars, replied, “No, Honda is way more cool,” as he traced the English letters on the tatami.
· · ·
Now, driving, Norio returned to the intersection—the spot where the giant’s land and the dwarves’ had been forcibly stitched together—and as they were waiting for the light to change, Yuichi spoke up from the backseat. “Uncle, this morning we’re gonna remove the blue sheet on the concrete, right?”
“We could wait till the afternoon,” Norio replied. “How long you think it’ll take to get rid of all of it?”
“If we leave just the front, about an hour should do it.”
At this time of morning the lane going in the other direction was packed with cars all headed toward the shipyard, full of men trying their best to suppress yawns.
The light changed and Norio stepped on the gas. The tools stacked in the back of the van clanked together. Yuichi must have opened the window, for the scent of the sea wafted into the van.
“What’d you do last night?” Norio glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. He saw Yuichi grow suddenly tense.
“Why are you asking?”
Norio actually wanted to ask about Yuichi’s grandfather Katsuji, who would probably have to go back in the hospital before long, but Yuichi’s response made him keep asking questions. “I just figured you must have been out driving around last night.”
“I didn’t go anywhere yesterday,” Yuichi replied.
“What kind of mileage do you get with that car, anyway?” Norio tried to change the subject but he saw a slightly disgusted look on Yuichi’s face. “Bet you get ten kilometers to the liter.”
“No way. It depends on the road, but if I get seven I’m doing okay.” Yuichi’s tone was curt, but he perked up at a conversation about cars.
Already the line of cars headed for the city was starting to show signs of turning into a traffic jam. If they had come thirty minutes later they would have been caught in a massive tie-up.
The road they were on was the only interstate that ran north and south along the Nagasaki peninsula. In the opposite direction, past the city, the highway ran past an abandoned offshore industrial island called Battleship Island, so named because of its shape; past Takahama Beach, crowded with people in the summer; then past the swimming beaches at Wakamisaki; and finally, at the end of the highway, the beautiful lighthouse at Kabashima.
“Hey, how’s your grandpa? Still not feeling so good?” Norio asked as they continued down the highway toward the city.
There was no response, so Norio asked, “Is he going to go back in the hospital?”
“I’m taking him there today after work.”
Yuichi was looking out the window, and his reply was half blown away by the breeze.
“You should have told me. You could have taken him first and then come to work.” Most likely Fusae had told him to go to work first, but Norio thought this was a little cold of her.
“It’s the same hospital as always, so it can wait till evening,” Yuichi said, protective of his grandmother.
For the last seven years Yuichi’s grandfather had suffered from a severe case of diabetes. He was getting on in years, and no matter how often he went to the hospital he never seemed to improve. When Norio called on him once a month to check on how he was doing, he was struck by the older man’s increasingly ashen complexion.
“I know it’s my own daughter’s fault, but I’m really happy Yuichi’s with us. Without him I’d have a heck of a time getting Grandpa back ’n’ forth to the hospital.”
Recently every time Norio and Fusae saw each other she’d say the same thing. Yuichi might be helpful to have around, but the more Fusae said this, the sorrier Norio felt for his quiet cousin—whom he treated like a nephew—as he was practically bound hand and foot to this elderly couple. Besides this, Yuichi was almost the only young person in his village. The rest of the residents were old couples, or old people living alone, and Yuichi was kept busy shuttling not just his grandparents but other elderly neighbors to the hospital. But he always brought his car around without a word of complaint.
For Norio, Yuichi was like the son he’d never had, which is why he’d been so upset when Yuichi had taken out a loan to buy his flashy car. Once Norio had calmed down, though, he started to feel sorry for him—since the whole point of having the car seemed to be to ferry old people back and forth to the hospital.
Unlike the other young guys on the construction site, Yuichi never overslept and he always worked hard. But Norio had no idea what made this young man happy.
On this particular day Norio made his usual rounds to pick up the other workers. Yuichi was the only one of all of them who wasn’t in his late fifties—the others, including Norio, filled the van with cigarette smoke and groans about married life, about how much their knees ached, or how much their wife snored.
They all knew Yuichi wasn’t talkative, so they barely spoke to him. When Yuichi h
ad first joined their construction gang, they tried to take good care of him, inviting him to boat races, or out to bars in Doza in Nagasaki. But at the races he wouldn’t even make a single bet, and wouldn’t sing even one karaoke song when they went drinking. Young guys these days are no fun at all, they concluded, and washed their hands of him.
“Hey, Yuichi! What’s the matter? You look pale.”
Norio glanced in the rearview mirror. He’d almost forgotten that Yuichi was there, but now he saw that his face was white as a sheet. They were just about to enter the city, at a spot where they could see the harbor between the row of warehouses along the coast.
“What’s wrong? You don’t feel good?” Norio asked.
Yoshioka, seated behind Yuichi, said, “You gonna throw up? Open the window! Right now!” and hurriedly leaned forward to roll it down.
Yuichi weakly brushed his hand aside and whispered, “No, I’m okay.”
Yuichi looked so bad that Norio decided to pull over. As he did, the truck behind them roared past, blaring its horn, the wind rocking their van.
As soon as the van stopped Yuichi tumbled out, holding his stomach, and vomited on the ground. Nothing seemed to come up from his stomach, though, and he just stayed there, his breathing ragged and labored.
“You got a hangover?” Yoshioka called out from the van. Yuichi, hands on the paving stones of the sidewalk, shuddered as he nodded.
Koki Tsuruta held the curtain, dyed in the evening sun, open a crack and peered down at the street below. From the twelfth-floor window he could see all of Ohori Park. Two white vans were parked on the street and the young detective who had just questioned him was climbing into one of them. His parents had bought this condo for him near the university, but Koki had never liked the view. The broad vista outside it made him feel small, like a worthless, spoiled rich kid.
The digital clock beside his bed showed five past five. The detective had banged on his door at four-thirty, and Koki, who’d just dragged himself out of bed, answered his questions for a half hour.
Koki sat down on his bed and took a sip of lukewarm water from a plastic bottle.
Until it dawned on him that the detective was after Keigo Masuo, Koki had answered him sullenly. He’d been watching videos until morning and couldn’t hide how upset he felt at having someone pounding on his door. When the detective, not too much older than himself, showed him his badge and said he’d like to ask him some questions, Koki figured that the guy who molested women in the park must have been at it again.
“I hear that you and Keigo Masuo are close.”
When he heard this, Koki put the two together, concluding that Keigo must have molested somebody—or maybe picked up some girl at a bar and raped her. Somehow the word raped seemed a better fit for Keigo than molested.
Koki was fully awake at last as the young detective summarized the facts as they knew them. Mitsuse Pass. Yoshino Ishibashi. Dead body. Strangled. Keigo Masuo. Disappeared. As he listened, Koki’s knees gave out. Keigo had done something far worse than rape, and had fled. Koki started to sink to the floor, and the detective said, “We don’t know exactly what happened, but thought that maybe you could tell us where Mr. Masuo might be. Has he gotten in touch with you recently?”
Koki lightly tapped his sleepy face and tried to remember. The detective stood there patiently, pen and notebook in hand.
“Well …” Koki began, gazing at the detective. “How should I put it.… I haven’t been able to get in touch with him the last three or four days. Everybody’s saying he just dropped off the grid for a laugh, but I figure he went off on a trip somewhere by himself.” Koki got this out in a rush of words, then stopped and glanced at the detective again.
“Yes, that seems to be the case. When was the last time you talked with him?” The detective’s expression remained unchanged, and he tapped the notebook with the tip of his pen.
“The last time? Umm … it must have been over the weekend.”
Koki searched his memory. He remembered talking to Keigo on the phone, but what day of the week that was, he couldn’t say. The signal had been bad and it was hard to hear him. “Where are you?” Koki had asked him, to which Keigo replied, laughing, “I’m up in the hills.”
He hadn’t called for any special reason. He’d just wanted to double-check the time for their seminar exam the following week. Koki was sure he’d been watching the movie Whacked on video that night. He remembered wanting to tell Keigo about it when the phone went dead.
Koki hurried to his bedroom and checked the receipt from the video store. “It was last Wednesday,” he told the detective standing in the entrance.
Whenever Keigo came over, Koki always made him watch videos that he liked. Keigo wasn’t interested in movies so he’d either fall asleep or go home; but Koki, who dreamed of making a film someday, had talked with Keigo about producing something together.
Sometimes Keigo would invite him out drinking at night, saying they could talk more about movies, but as soon as they arrived at a bar, Keigo would forget about movies and start trolling for girls. Keigo was a flashy guy—even other guys could see that—and it wouldn’t be long before he’d snag a girl. He’d bring her back to where Koki was sitting and introduce him, saying, “My friend here’s gonna make a film next year. You want to be in it?”
The girls Keigo picked up were themselves far from flashy. Koki had asked him about this and he’d replied, laughing, “It’s the down-and-out-looking ones that make me hard.”
Koki remembered hearing the name the young detective had mentioned, Yoshino Ishibashi. When the detective had told him that they’d discovered the body of a woman with that name at Mitsuse Pass, the first image that flashed in front of Koki’s eyes was from a film he’d seen sometime, of a white woman’s frozen corpse. But after the detective had repeated the name, it finally dawned on him that this was the name of a girl that Keigo had tried to pick up in a bar in Tenjin a few months ago.
Koki had been with him that night. They were playing darts, and Koki remembered sitting at the end of the bar and discussing the films of Eric Rohmer with the bartender. Keigo had just invited Yoshino and her two friends to go sing karaoke, but they’d demurred, saying they had a curfew and were about to leave. Koki and the bartender were deep into their debate over Rohmer’s films, the bartender arguing that Conte d’été was his best, while Koki insisted that Le genou de Claire was his masterpiece.
Keigo followed him to the counter and was standing just behind Koki when he said, “Tell me your e-mail address. I’ll take you out to dinner next time.” Koki turned around, and sure enough the girl wasn’t much to speak of. She quickly gave him her address.
As the girls walked up the stairs, Keigo gave them a casual, “Bye now! See you!” and then came back to the bar, ordered a beer, and showed Koki the coaster with the girl’s e-mail address on it. The name scrawled on the coaster was Yoshino Ishibashi.
Koki remembered the name since it was the same name, with just one character different, as that of a girl in the film club he belonged to who was below him in college.
As Keigo took the beer from the bartender, Koki had said, “The Ishibashi I know’s much cuter than this girl.”
Keigo continued to toy with the coaster. “Yeah,” he said, “but I like that kind of girl. The kind that you know isn’t quite grown up. She runs around, looking all cross, with her Louis Vuitton handbag, but still deep down is a farmer’s daughter. Give me a girl with a Louis Vuitton bag and cheap shoes walking on a path between rice fields and I’m all over her.”
When Koki first met Keigo in college he found it strange how, even though their likes and personalities were so different, they got along so well. It must have been because they were both from wealthy families and could afford to be laid-back. If Keigo were a prima donna movie star, then Koki was the director, the only one who could coax a good performance out of him.
Koki remembered a time when he and Keigo were eating ramen at an outdoor stand in Nag
ahama. Keigo had just bought a new car and spent all his free time tooling around town in it.
As they were slurping down their noodles Keigo asked him, “Koki, is your dad the type who cheats on his wife?”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering.”
Koki’s father owned a number of rental buildings in central Fukuoka. He’d inherited all of them from his own father, and even to his son he was a man with too much time and money on his hands. Koki found it hard to respect him.
“Well, I can’t say for sure he hasn’t played around.… But I imagine the most he’s done is just fool around with some bar hostesses or something.”
Keigo didn’t seem too interested. A pile of ramen still remained in his bowl, but he snapped his disposable chopsticks in half and dropped them into the bowl.
“How ’bout your dad?” Koki said, trying to be casual. Keigo took a sip of water from the worn-out plastic cup and said, “My dad? Well, remember he runs an inn.” He practically spat out the words.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Inns have maids,” Keigo said with a knowing grin. “Since I was a kid I saw my dad taking maids into one of the back rooms. I wonder about that.… Those women probably hated it, right? … No, of course they hated it, though it didn’t look that way to me.”
As they exited the ramen stand, Keigo turned to the owner and said, “Thanks for the meal. It was awful.”
For an instant the other customers froze. It was an awkward moment, but Koki liked this about Keigo. And in fact the stand they’d eaten at was aimed at tourists and charged way too much.
As Yuichi scrubbed away the dirt from his hands in the water-filled drum, Norio stood behind him, smoking and watching him. The drum was used for mixing cement and no matter how much clean water was poured in it, a snakelike pattern remained on your skin after your hands dried.
It was six p.m. and the various work crews on the site were getting ready to go home. Several pieces of heavy machinery now sat quietly in a row; only a few minutes ago, they were in use, tearing down a wall.
Villain Page 7
