It was their fourth day tearing down a former maternity hospital, and two-thirds of it had now been mercilessly ripped apart. In a large-scale site like this, Norio had to subcontract out some of the work. His company owned a 15m heavy-duty power backhoe, but one machine wasn’t nearly enough to pull down a three-story steel-and-concrete structure.
Yuichi dried his hands on the towel around his neck. “You know,” Norio said, crushing out his cigarette in an ashtray, “it’s about time you got a heavy-equipment license.”
Yuichi turned toward him. “Yeah,” he replied listlessly, and began scrubbing his face with the towel. The more he scrubbed, the dirtier his face seemed to get.
“I’ll give you a week off next month. Why don’t you go get your license then?”
Yuichi pouted and nodded, but it was hard to tell if this meant he’d like to do it.
Norio had been waiting for a long time, hoping Yuichi himself would suggest that he take the licensing exam, but he never took the initiative.
As Yuichi was stowing away his rubber gloves in his bag Norio asked, “So, how are you feeling now?” Despite vomiting on the way to work, after they got to the site Yuichi worked quietly, as always. Norio had noticed, though, that he’d hardly touched the lunch he’d brought with him.
“You’ve got to take your grandpa to the hospital, right? As soon as you get home?” Norio asked.
“Probably after dinner,” Yuichi said absently as he shouldered his bag and stood up in the dusty wind.
Kurami, Yoshioka, and Yuichi climbed back into the van with Norio, just as they did every day.
The setting sun was bathing Nagasaki Harbor in red as they drove back down the highway, and Kurami popped open his usual can of shochu.
“You’ll be home in thirty minutes. Can’t you hold out till then?” Norio asked, frowning as the sharp smell of liquor hit him.
“I’ve been holding out for the last hour we were working, so how do you expect me to last another half hour?” Kurami gave a half-disgusted laugh, and lifted the single-serving can to his lips. Some of the liquid dribbled down and wet his thick whiskers. The window was open but still the van was filled with the odor of shochu and dried dirt.
“Hey, I heard a girl was murdered yesterday at the Mitsuse Pass in Fukuoka,” said Yoshioka, gazing out the window.
“They said she sold insurance. Her parents must be out of their minds,” said Kurami, who had a daughter about the same age, as he licked his shochu-smeared fingers.
Yoshioka, who lived with his common-law wife, didn’t have kids and probably couldn’t feel what the parents were going through. Yoshioka had never given them the details, but he lived with this woman in public housing, and though they’d been together ten years, she was still officially married to her husband. He changed the subject. “Mitsuse Pass,” he said. “When I drove trucks I used to use that road all the time.
“Yuichi, you go driving over Mitsuse Pass often, don’t you?” Yoshioka asked.
Yuichi was staring out the window. He shifted his gaze to the interior of the van. His face was reflected in the rearview mirror.
Traffic in the opposite direction heading back to town was starting to back up. The cars of the shipyard workers formed a long chain that stretched down the road. The faces of the men in the cars, lit by the setting sun, looked somehow demonic, like hannya masks.
“You drive there pretty often, right? Mitsuse Pass?” Yuichi hadn’t replied, so Yoshioka repeated his question.
“I don’t much like … Mitsuse Pass. It’s creepy at night.”
Somehow this reply of Yuichi’s stayed with Norio as he continued to drive.
After letting out Kurami, and then Yoshioka, Norio headed for Yuichi’s house.
They left the highway and drove into a narrow alley, so narrow their side mirrors nearly scraped the nameplates on the front of the houses. The alley wound its way toward the fishing village. The coastline had nearly disappeared when the sea around the village had been filled in, but a tiny harbor still remained, with a handful of fishing boats anchored there. The part of the harbor surrounded by piers was calm, the only sound the occasional creak of the boats tugging at their lines.
There were several warehouses around the harbor, all with their shutters down. At first glance it seemed as though they were connected to the fishing industry, but in fact they contained boats for the annual Chinese-style Peron dragon-boat racing festival.
Dragon-boat racing was popular in this region, with districts competing against each other every summer. It was an inspiring sight to see a dozen or so men paddling in tandem, and every year the events attracted crowds of tourists.
“You’re going to be in the Peron next year, too, right?” Norio asked as he glanced at one of the warehouses, whose shutter was only half down. Yuichi had his bag in his lap and was getting ready to exit the van.
“When is it they start practicing?” Norio asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Same time as always,” Yuichi replied.
When Yuichi first participated in the Peron races, when he was in high school, Norio had been the district leader. Unlike the other young men, who were always moaning and groaning about practice, Yuichi silently paddled on. That was all well and good, but he overdid it, the skin on his hands scraped so raw that when it came time for the actual competition he couldn’t compete.
Ten years had passed since then and Yuichi had participated in the races every year. He always claimed he didn’t especially enjoy it—but when practice began, he was always the first one to show up at the warehouses.
“I think I’ll stop by and say hello.” Norio stopped his van in front of Yuichi’s house, and switched off the engine.
Yuichi, already halfway out, turned toward him.
“What time was it that you’re taking Uncle to the hospital?” Norio asked.
“After dinner,” Yuichi answered vacantly, and stepped down from the van.
Norio followed him in and as soon as he entered he was hit by the distinctive odor of a sick person’s house. Despite Yuichi’s presence, the house was that of an old couple, and as soon as you set foot in it, it was as if all color had drained away. The dirty red sneakers Yuichi kicked off at the entrance were the only bright spot.
“Fusae-san!” Norio followed Yuichi, who briskly strode inside, and called out toward the interior of the house. It bothered Norio how the young man just kicked off his shoes and didn’t neatly line them up at the entrance.
As Norio was removing his own shoes he heard Fusae’s voice: “Oh, is Norio with you? We haven’t seen him in quite a while.”
“You’re taking Uncle to the hospital?” Norio stepped up into the house as Fusae came out of the kitchen to greet him, wiping her wet hands on a dish towel.
“He just got released, but now he has to go in again.”
“Yeah, that’s what Yuichi was saying.…”
Norio strode down the hall and slid open the door into Katsuji’s bedroom.
“Uncle, I hear you’re going back in the hospital? Bet you’d rather stay at home, huh?”
As soon as he pulled back the sliding door, Norio caught a faint whiff of urine. The streetlight outside shone into the room, mixing with the blinking fluorescent light hanging over the faded tatami.
“As soon as he goes to the hospital, he says he wants to come home. But once we’re home, he says he prefers the hospital. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”
Fusae switched the fluorescent light off, and back on again. In the futon Katsuji gave a muffled cough.
Norio sat down next to the old man’s bed and roughly pulled back the futon. Katsuji’s wrinkled face was revealed, resting on the hard pillow.
“Uncle,” Norio said, and rested his hand on the old man’s forehead. Maybe his own hand was hot, he thought with a start, for the old man’s skin was chilly.
“Where’s Yuichi?” Katsuji asked in a phlegmy voice, brushing Norio’s hand off his forehead.
J
ust then Yuichi could be heard clomping around upstairs, making the whole house shake.
“You can’t rely on Yuichi to do everything,” Norio said, his words aimed not just at Katsuji, but at Fusae standing behind him.
“We don’t,” Fusae pouted.
“I know you don’t, but he’s still a young guy. If he spends all his time taking care of an old man and woman, he’s never going to get married,” Norio said, deliberately playful.
Fusae’s stern look softened. “I know, but if Yuichi wasn’t here I wouldn’t even be able to give Uncle a bath.”
“That’s why you should hire a caregiver.”
“Do you have any idea how much they cost?”
“That expensive?”
“Well, look at what the Okazakis are paying for—”
“Be quiet!” shouted an angry voice from the futon, followed by a painful cough.
“Sorry, sorry.” Norio lightly patted the futon, stood up, and guided Fusae out of the room.
A fresh-looking yellowtail lay on the cutting board in the kitchen, darkish blood spreading out on the board. The eyes looking at the ceiling and the half-opened mouth seemed to be complaining about something.
“By the way, was Yuichi out late last night?” Norio said casually, standing behind Fusae, who was back at the cutting board, cleaver in hand. He was remembering how that morning Yuichi had looked so pale and had jumped out of the van and vomited.
“I don’t know. He must have gone out.”
“I was surprised he had a hangover.”
“A hangover? Yuichi?”
“He was white as a sheet.”
“He went drinking? But he was driving.”
Fusae was slicing up the yellowtail with a practiced hand, the bones of the fish snapping as she cut through them.
“How about you take one of these yellowtail back to Michiyo? Mr. Morishita from the fishing co-op gave them to me this morning, and Yuichi’s the only other one here who’ll eat them.” Fusae turned around and pointed to beneath the table. A single drop of water dripped down from the tip of the cleaver onto the dark, shiny floor.
Norio looked under the table and found a single yellowtail in a Styrofoam container. He carried the yellowtail, case and all, over to the front hall, then went upstairs. The door to Yuichi’s room was right at the top of the stairs.
Norio felt a bit hesitant about knocking, and instead called out “Hey!” and opened the door.
Yuichi was in his underwear, probably about to take a bath, and he nearly collided with the door as Norio opened it.
“You going to take a bath?” Norio said, gazing at Yuichi’s upper body, the muscles visible under a thin layer of skin.
“A bath, then eat, and then the hospital.” Yuichi nodded and started out of the room. Norio twisted to one side to let him pass.
Norio was going to follow him downstairs, but he saw a pamphlet entitled Getting Your Crane License that had fallen on the floor.
“Ah, so you are thinking of getting your license.”
There was no reply, just the sound of Yuichi stomping down the stairs.
Norio drifted into the room and picked up the pamphlet. Yuichi’s footsteps faded off down the hallway downstairs.
Norio sat down on a flattened cushion and let his eyes wander about the room. On the tan walls there were several car posters, fixed to the wall with yellowed Scotch tape, and a pile of car magazines on the floor. But other than that the room was empty. No pinups, not even a TV or a radio/cassette player.
Fusae had once said, “Yuichi’s real room isn’t here, but his car,” and Norio could see that this was no exaggeration.
Norio tossed aside the pamphlet and picked up the pay envelope on the low table. He’d given the envelope to Yuichi last week, but the moment he felt it he knew it was empty. Next to the envelope was a receipt from a gasoline station. Norio hadn’t planned to look at it, but found it in his hand anyway. It was from a station in Saga Yamato, for ¥5,990.
“Yesterday,” Norio said, looking at the date.
Yuichi had insisted that he hadn’t driven anywhere far yesterday. Norio tilted his head, puzzled.
Fusae slipped the head of the yellowtail off the cutting board. It hit the sink with a loud thunk and slid toward the drain, its half-open mouth facing her.
She turned at the sound of footsteps in the corridor and saw Yuichi, in only his underwear, chewing on a piece of kamaboko he’d grabbed from the table as he headed toward the bath.
“Did Norio go home already?” she asked his retreating figure.
Still chewing on the kamaboko, Yuichi turned and silently pointed upstairs to his room.
“What’s he doing in your room?”
“No idea,” Yuichi said, sliding open the door to the bath. The door, glass set in a wooden frame, creaked loudly like a thin sheet of corrugated iron as it bowed inward.
There was no changing room attached to the bath, so Yuichi just dropped his underwear where he was and, shivering, rushed into the bath, his white rear end like a blurred afterimage. There was another loud bang as he slammed the door to the bath shut.
Fusae shifted the cleaver in her hand and began slicing up the flesh of the yellowtail.
Footsteps rang out coming down the stairs, and when Norio called out “Auntie, I’ll be going,” Fusae was dissolving miso into a pot and couldn’t see him off.
“Thanks for stopping by,” she called out.
The old front door creaked and then slammed shut, shaking the whole house. After the sound of Norio’s footsteps faded, the only sound was the pot, bubbling away.
It’s so quiet, Fusae thought. Only Katsuji, nearly bedridden, and me, an old woman in the house. And young Yuichi, of course, there in the bath. But the house was so still it was scary.
As she leaned over to sniff the miso, Fusae called out to Yuichi. “I hear you had a hangover this morning?” Instead of a reply there was a loud splash of water.
“Where did you go drinking?”
No reply, just the sound of Yuichi pouring water over himself.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive, you know.”
By this point Fusae no longer expected any response.
She turned off the nearly boiling pot of soup and put the cutting board, bloody from slicing up the fish, into the sink to soak.
So Yuichi could eat as soon as he came out of the bath, she sliced up a healthy portion of sashimi and put it out with the fried ground fish meat she’d cooked the night before. She opened the rice cooker and the fluffy hot rice sent a cloud of steam into the chilly kitchen.
Before Katsuji became bedridden she’d always cooked three cups of rice in the morning and five in the evening. Sometimes she felt like all she’d done for the last fifteen years was rinse rice to make sure these two men had enough to fill their stomachs. Yuichi had loved rice, ever since he was a child. Give him a couple of daikon pickles and he could easily down a large bowl.
And everything he ate made him grow. From the time he entered junior high Fusae could swear she actually saw him growing taller by the day. Sometimes she couldn’t believe it, found it incredible how the food she provided him helped him blossom into a grown man. She’d had only daughters herself, and could sense how raising a boy, her grandson, struck a chord deep within her, some female instinct she’d never felt with her daughters.
In the beginning she deferred to Yuichi’s mother, Yoriko. After Yoriko ran off with a man, leaving behind Yuichi, who was in elementary school, and Fusae knew it was up to her to raise the child, she naturally enough was upset by her daughter’s unfaithfulness. But more than that, she felt a new energy rising up within her. Fusae was just about to turn fifty at the time.
When Yuichi had first come to live in this house, after his mother had been abandoned by her husband, he’d already lost all trust in her. He’d call out “Mom!” to her and act spoiled, but he really wasn’t focused on her at all.
Once Fusae had taken out an old photo album to show Yuichi, taking
care that Yoriko didn’t see them. “Don’t you think Grandma was prettier than your mother?” she asked. She’d meant it as a joke, but as she pulled the dusty old album out of the closet she felt a certain tension within her. Yuichi gazed at the photo she pointed out and was silent. Looking down on his small head from behind, Fusae suddenly realized what a terrible thing she had done. She quickly snapped shut the album. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was never, ever beautiful.” Despite her age, she found herself blushing.
At Katsuji’s bedside, Fusae packed some underwear and toiletries in his leather bag. She’d bought the bag the first time he’d gone into the hospital. Figuring they’d use it only one time she’d chosen a cheap one, but with him in and out of the hospital all the time the bag, even the stitching, had started to fall apart.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring you some tea and furikake,” Fusae said. Katsuji’s mouth must have been dry, for he swallowed audibly.
“Has Yuichi eaten already?” Katsuji slowly rolled over and half crawled out of bed toward the dinner Fusae had brought on a tray.
“He had yellowtail sashimi. If you’d like, I’ll bring you some,” Fusae hurriedly added. Katsuji had let out a sigh when he saw the bland boiled vegetables and rice porridge.
“I don’t need any sashimi. But I want you to make sure to give something to the nurses at the hospital.” Katsuji picked up his chopsticks, his hands trembling slightly.
“What do you mean, give something?”
“Money, of course.”
“Money? Again with the money. Nurses these days don’t accept money from patients.” As she always did, Fusae turned this notion down flat. She hated this aspect of Katsuji’s personality, something she saw in all men and disliked intensely. It was fine to think about giving tips to the nurses, but where did he imagine the money was going to come from?
“Even if you give them something extra, they’re not going to do anything special for you. They’re respected professionals nowadays, and if you give them money they’ll think you’re looking down on them,” Fusae said, and slowly rose to her feet with a grunt. These days if she got up too quickly, her knees hurt.
Villain Page 8
