Fusae watched as Katsuji, hunched over, slurped down his porridge. As she watched him, she remembered what her neighbor, old Mrs. Okazaki, had told her: “Every other month when I get a pension check I think, ‘Ah, he’s really dead, isn’t he.’”
The first time she heard this, Fusae thought about how this elderly woman had loved her husband. But as Katsuji’s condition deteriorated and he grew steadily weaker, the words took on a completely different meaning: when either a husband or wife died, your daily expenses were cut in half.
After his bath Yuichi sat cross-legged on a chair, wolfing down his meal. He must have been starving, for he followed each slice of sashimi with two or three huge mouthfuls of rice.
“I made some daikon miso soup,” Fusae called out to him, and ladled some into the soup bowl she’d turned over. Yuichi didn’t wait for it to cool but slurped it down as soon as she passed it to him.
“I should go along with you, don’t you think?” Fusae said, and sat down. She noticed a grain of rice stuck to Yuichi’s chin.
“No, you don’t need to come. All I have to do is take him to the nurse station on the fifth floor, right?” Yuichi mixed some wasabi in a plate of soy sauce, the sweeter variety found in Kyushu.
“We have a meeting again at seven in the community center. They’re talking about health foods. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to buy any. But hearing about it doesn’t cost anything,” Fusae said, pouring hot water out of the thermos into a teapot. The thermos made a gurgling sound as she pushed the button a couple of times to get out the last drops of water.
She stood up to add more water to the teapot, and that’s when it happened. Yuichi had been enjoying the sashimi and deep-fried fish paste, but he suddenly groaned and put a hand to his mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Fusae hurried around behind him and pounded him sharply on the back. She was sure that something was stuck in his throat, but he stood up, pushed her aside, and with his hand to his mouth he rushed to the toilet. Fusae stood there, flabbergasted.
She heard him retching. Flustered, Fusae sniffed the sashimi and the fish paste but neither one smelled off.
After throwing up for a while, Yuichi finally emerged, his face deathly pale.
“What’s wrong?” Fusae asked, gazing intently at him. Yuichi shoved past her, saying, “Nothing … Just got something stuck in my throat.” It was clear to both of them that this wasn’t the real problem.
“You sure? …” Fusae bent over and retrieved his chopsticks from the floor. Yuichi’s legs were right in front of her. She noticed that he was trembling—even though he’d just taken a bath and shouldn’t be cold.
Grumbling the entire time, Katsuji managed to get out of bed and get dressed, and Yuichi drove him to the hospital. It was only fifty meters to the parking lot where Yuichi had his car, and Katsuji should have been able to walk there, but he ordered Yuichi to bring the car around to the front door, which he did, reluctantly.
Yuichi tossed the bag into the backseat, raised the passenger seat up, and Katsuji, looking unhappy, struggled to sit down. Yuichi walked around to the driver’s side and Fusae said, “If the head nurse isn’t there, then Ms. Imamura will be in charge.”
Yuichi’s white car looked out of place in the dark alley alongside the row of old houses. Inside, the subdued glow of the car stereo and radio lights looked like out-of-season fireflies.
As soon as Fusae shut the passenger-side door the car roared off. For a brief moment the far-off sound of waves was drowned out by the engine.
After seeing them off, Fusae hustled back into the kitchen to straighten up after dinner. Once she was finished, she went around switching off the lights, then slipped on some sandals and headed to the community center.
The wind was cold, but the sea was calm. Moonlight bathed the boats anchored in the harbor, and an occasional burst of wind teased the electric lines overhead and made them hum.
When Fusae spotted Mrs. Okazaki on the wharf, with its sprinkling of streetlights, heading to the community center, she picked up her pace. In the moonlight of the tiny wharf, the older woman shuffling along looked eerie yet somehow comical.
“So, Grannie, you’re headed there, too?” As Fusae caught up with her, Mrs. Okazaki, who was using a shopping cart as a walker, halted and looked up.
“Oh, Fusae, it’s you.”
“Did you try the Chinese herbal medicine from last time?” Fusae asked.
The old woman started walking again, slowly, and replied, “Yes, and I feel a bit better.”
“Me, too. I had my doubts it would work at first, but the morning after I drank some, I did feel better.”
Starting a month before, a pharmaceutical company, headquartered in Tokyo, apparently, had been holding health seminars at the community center. Fusae hadn’t been interested, but the head of the local women’s association had invited her, and after that she hadn’t missed a session.
As she walked along the wharf, the cold sea wind made her joints ache. The distinctive fishing-harbor tidal smell mixed in with the cold wind and tickled her nose, which had started to lose all feeling. Fusae deliberately walked on the seaward side to block the cold wind from hitting the elderly Mrs. Okazaki.
“I was wondering if I could bother Yuichi to buy some more rice for me,” Mrs. Okazaki said just as the community center came into view. “Whenever you go out shopping is fine.”
“You should have asked me sooner. I just had him do some shopping.” Fusae put her hand on the old woman’s back and guided her into the center.
“The Daimaru store will deliver, but they charge four thousand yen for ten kilograms of rice, and on top of that a three-hundred-yen delivery fee.”
“Don’t ever shop at Daimaru. Four thousand yen for ten kilograms? If you drive to the bargain store, you can get it at half price.”
Mrs. Okazaki had stepped up onto a stone step and Fusae took her arm. The older woman grabbed tightly on to her wrist.
“I knew that, but I don’t have anyone like you do, Fusae, with a car who can go shopping for me.”
“We’re friends, so don’t hesitate to ask us. We’ll be happy to. I’m always asking Yuichi to go shopping for us. It’s no trouble for him to pick up a few things for you, too.”
Directly ahead of the short flight of steps was the community center, which with its imposing gate resembled a shrine. Fluorescent lights lit up the interior, reflecting a shadow of someone looking down at them.
“But you do still have some rice left, right?” Fusae asked.
As she stepped up the last stone step Mrs. Okazaki said, in a forlorn voice, “I should be okay for another four or five days.”
“I’ll have Yuichi pick up some tomorrow.”
Just as she spoke, a voice came from the community center. “Is that Mrs. Okazaki?” it called. It came from the shadow, who was, in fact, the instructor of the seminar, a plump medical doctor named Tsutsumishita. As he spoke, he hurried down to them.
“Did you try the herbal medicine from last time?” he asked.
Mrs. Okazaki strained to stand up straight and smiled happily.
Dr. Tsutsumishita guided them into the community center and they found many of their neighbors already there, seated on cushions spread out at random on the floor and chatting with each other.
Fusae went to get cushions for herself and Mrs. Okazaki, then sat down next to the head of the women’s association, Mrs. Sanae, and eavesdropped as she chatted with Mrs. Okazaki about how well the herbal medicine had worked, how their legs weren’t so cold when they went to bed.
Dr. Tsutsumishita brought over a paper cup with hot tea. “That’s so kind of you,” Fusae said gratefully. “I shouldn’t be having a man wait on me.” She took the cup from the tray.
“Grannie, I wasn’t lying about that herbal medicine, now was I? Didn’t you still feel hot even after you came out of the bath?” Dr. Tsutsumishita patted Mrs. Okazaki’s shoulder and sat down beside her.
“It’s true, I did feel wa
rm. Though when I first got it I thought it had to be a joke.” Mrs. Okazaki spoke in a loud voice, and around the hall other people laughed, agreeing with her.
“Well, I’m not about to come all this way on my short little legs just to pull a fast one on you.” Still seated, Dr. Tsutsumishita wiggled his short legs, evoking a burst of laughter.
For the last month Dr. Tsutsumishita had been lecturing on how to maintain good health after age sixty. Fusae at first had gone unwillingly, but she gradually found this doctor—who used his own shortcomings as grist for his talks—an enjoyable speaker, and since the afternoon had been counting the minutes to this evening’s seminar.
“Well, let’s get started.” Dr. Tsutsumishita stood up and addressed the group of old people scattered around the hall. One old man in the group had a red face, and must have been imbibing some shochu before he came.
“Today’s topic is blood circulation.” Dr. Tsutsumishita’s voice carried well throughout the hall. As he stepped up to the podium, the audience smiled in anticipation, as if they were about to hear a performance of comic rakugo.
Right beside the podium was a colorful Big Catch flag that nowadays was used only during the dragon-boat races.
At night the atmosphere in the hospital changed. There was a heaviness, a sadness in the air, a total absence of anything cheerful or happy.
That evening, Miho Kaneko sat down on a bench in the waiting room and started flipping through a magazine she’d brought from the hospital recreation area.
It was not yet eight p.m., but the light in the outpatient reception desk was off and the worn-out benches in the waiting area were illuminated only by the remaining fluorescent lights overhead. The waiting area was so small it was hard to believe that during the day over a hundred people crowded in, waiting their turn.
With everyone gone now the only things left in the waiting area were the benches and the color-coded arrows painted on the walls indicating the different wings of the hospital. The pink arrow for the ob-gyn wing, yellow for pediatrics, light blue for neurology. Under the fluorescent lights, the arrows looked colorful and out of place.
A patient would occasionally hurry down the hall to go outside to smoke. At nine the front door was locked and they couldn’t go outside to the designated smoking area. So out they went for the final smoke of the day—patients pushing IV poles, some holding colostomy bags in one hand, some leaning on canes, others in wheelchairs. One man past middle age, and a young man, probably from the same ward, were discussing baseball as they made their way outside. A woman in a wheelchair was talking to her husband on a cell phone. Each of them, each with his own illness or injury, headed out into the cold for the final smoke of the day.
When she turned to look farther down the hall, Miho saw, as she had on other nights, an old woman with dyed red hair, seated in front of the large TV that was left on during the day. A baby carriage was in front of her. She was just sitting there, doing nothing, though occasionally she’d rouse herself to rock the baby carriage and speak gently to the baby boy inside. “Hmm? What is it?” she asked him. Inside the baby carriage was a boy with polio. He was a little too big for the frilly carriage, and his twisted hand stuck out of it.
The old woman came here every night at this time. She sat here, speaking to this boy who couldn’t respond, stroking his painful, twisted body.
Miho figured the ward that housed the boy must be filled with young mothers. She didn’t know the story, but she decided that the red-haired old woman must feel uncomfortable among them, so she brought the boy out here to the hall every night.
Miho sat there, turning the pages of the magazine and half listening to the voices of the patients going out for a smoke, and the voice of the old woman soothing the boy.
It was a glossy women’s magazine, and she was slowly reading through each page of a report on the marriage of an actress and a Kabuki actor. She’d read about a third of the article when the nurse in charge of her case rushed out from the elevator and approached her. “Ah, Miss Kaneko,” she said, and Miho nodded a greeting.
As she approached, the nurse noted her magazine and said, grimacing, “It’s hard to read a magazine on the ward, isn’t it.”
“No, not really. It’s just that spending the whole day on the ward gets a little depressing.…”
“Did Dr. Moroi talk to you this morning?”
“He did. He said that if the test results are good, I can be released on Thursday.”
“That’s wonderful. You look so much better than when you were first admitted.”
Two weeks ago Miho had a fever that lasted three days. She’d just opened her own little diner and couldn’t very well take time off, even though she knew she was pushing herself too hard. Soon afterward she’d suddenly collapsed, and fortunately a regular customer was at her place and called for an ambulance.
The diagnosis was overwork. She was also on the verge of getting pneumonia, the doctor told her. Her diner was small, but still she’d overdone it. She’d finally been able to open her own place, something she’d always wanted to do, and now had to close it just two months later. Miho couldn’t believe her luck.
The nurse stood up and went over to the red-haired old woman.
“You’re lucky, Mamoru, that your grandmother’s always with you.” The nurse’s gentle voice as she spoke to the boy in the baby carriage echoed in the still waiting area. As if replying to her, the motor of the vending machine kicked in with a groan.
Miho closed her magazine and stood up to return to her ward. Just then the automatic front door slid open, the cold air rushing in, and she casually glanced over, expecting it to be some patients coming in after their final cigarette. Instead, it was a tall young man with dyed blond hair supporting an old man who was walking gingerly inside. The faded pink warm-up clothes the young man wore went well, oddly enough, with his blond hair. He was staring at his feet as he walked. He had his arm under the old man’s armpit, supporting him, and it was clear the old man was leaning on him heavily.
As she casually watched the two of them, Miho went over and stood in front of the elevator. She pushed the Up button and the door opened right away. She was planning to wait for the two men coming in the entrance. She went inside the elevator and pushed the Open button and the two of them appeared again from the shadows of a pillar. And that’s when she realized who it was.
Miho hurriedly lifted her finger from Open and stabbed the Close button. The door slid shut. Just before it did, the young man had started to look up and she’d seen his face. There was no doubt about it. The young man supporting the older man was Yuichi Shimizu. As the elevator started Miho instinctively edged backward, her back bumping against the wall.
Two years ago, when Miho had worked at a massage parlor, Yuichi had come there almost every night, always asking for her.
The parlor, which was in the busiest shopping district in Nagasaki City, had just opened. There was a game center on the first floor and a river just across the street. On the street along the river, girls who worked at the cabaret clubs stood outside, dressed up as sexy nurses and high school students, trying to induce men passing by to come in. It was that sort of neighborhood.
Yuichi never asked her to do anything weird, but in the end it was because of him that she quit working there, feeling as if she were fleeing. The only way she could explain it was to say that she was frightened by him. If pressed to explain how he frightened her, she could only say that it was how very ordinary Yuichi was, despite the kind of establishment he was patronizing.
When the elevator reached the fifth floor, Miho walked back to her ward, casting nervous glances behind her. All of the visitors had left and of the six beds, three lined up on each side of the room, only Miho’s had its curtain open.
Miho headed to her bed and quickly pulled the curtain shut. From the bed next to her she heard the elderly Mrs. Yoshii, asleep already and snoring. Miho sat down on her bed and told herself, There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing t
o be afraid of.
The first time Yuichi Shimizu had come to the massage parlor was, as she recalled, a Sunday. The parlor opened at nine a.m. on weekends, and at this time of day they could mostly expect married men who had slipped out of the house on some excuse. That morning Miho was running the parlor with just one other woman, an Osaka native who was already in her midthirties.
As always, after the client had chosen the girl he wanted from the photo list, the manager called Miho. She’d just gotten to work and hurriedly slipped into an orange negligee and headed for one of the rooms.
Five identical rooms were on one corridor, and when Miho opened the door to the tiny, two-mat room furthest back, she found a tall man standing there. Miho smiled and introduced herself, then guided the awkward young man to the bed, where she had him sit down.
Clients who came at this time of day usually started by sheepishly explaining why they were there. The most common explanation was that they had worked the whole night through and hadn’t caught a wink of sleep. Miho didn’t care one way or the other, but men who came this early in the morning were invariably apologetic.
Yuichi sat on the bed, looking nervously around the cramped room as if to confess that he’d never been in a place like this before. Following the training manual, Miho invited him to take a shower, but he said, in a forlorn vice, “But I’ve already taken a bath.…”
Yuichi didn’t appear to be one of those clients who wanted a girl to touch him when he was dirty, and indeed he smelled as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.
“I’m sorry, but those are the rules,” Miho told him.
The shower was in a tiny bathroom, so cramped that if two people were in it their bodies couldn’t help but touch.
Miho asked him to take off his clothes, while she touched the water to make sure the shower was the right temperature. When she turned around, Yuichi was still wearing his underwear, his thighs pushed tightly together. He looked around the tiny room as if he didn’t know where to rest his eyes.
Villain Page 9
