Villain

by Shuichi Yoshida

  That morning when she turned on the TV, the first thing she saw was a talk show reporting on the murder. They didn’t show Yuichi’s photo, but rather a graphic of Mitsuse Pass straddling the Saga and Fukuoka prefecture border, and the highway in both directions. Symbols indicated the murdered girl’s apartment in Hakata, the apartment on the outskirts of Saga City where Yuichi’s girl lived, and Yuichi’s home here in Nagasaki. One more symbol showed where Yuichi’s car had been abandoned, in Arita, and where a witness had seen them in a hotel.

  The report said it wasn’t clear yet whether Yuichi had forced the girl to go with him, or whether she’d gone along voluntarily. According to the employee of the hotel who had spotted them, “the girl seemed to be pulling him by the hand,” to which an ill-tempered commentator added disgustedly: “If they’re running away together, the guy’s an idiot, and so is she. What I mean is this is the kind of girl who latches on to guys like that. It’s disgusting.”

  Surrounded by reporters and cameras, Fusae finally made it to the bus stop. The microphones thrust at her occasionally brushed against her ears.

  Even at the bus stop, the barrage of questions didn’t let up. Fusae didn’t say a word, which led one irritated reporter to shout, “Does your silence mean that you admit it’s true?” trying to force her into making a comment.

  Luckily, there was no one else at the bus stop, but along the way, there were local housewives watching Fusae and the reporters, looks of pity on their faces. The bus finally arrived and Fusae, mumbling an apology, stepped forward. The reporters made room for her, though some clucked their tongues in disapproval. She grabbed the handrail and was climbing in when several reporters tried to get on as well. Five or six passengers were already aboard, all of them staring in amazement at the crowd at what was normally a deserted bus stop in a little fishing village.

  Fusae hunched over and sat down in the seat behind the driver. The reporters were all scrambling, vying to get aboard. Fusae sat there, staring at her shoes, their tips covered in mud and snow.

  “Just a second here. Who do you think you are?” the bus driver growled, his voice booming over his microphone. “You can’t do interviews in the bus. You have to get permission!” The reporters all froze.

  “It’s dangerous. You’d better all get out!” the driver shouted. He looked around to shove the reporters back.

  “Yelling at an old lady isn’t going to help anything,” the driver added, to everyone. Fusae recognized his face in the rearview mirror. This was usually an unfriendly driver, a bit erratic in his driving, the one driver along this route she always hoped to avoid.

  “Watch out now, I’m shutting the door!” The driver forced the door closed and the bus slowly pulled away.

  Fusae looked back down at her shoes. It wasn’t until they reached the next bus stop that she realized she’d been crying, thankful to the driver for his kindness.

  The bus left the road along the sea and headed into the city. Fusae felt as if everyone was staring at her and couldn’t bring herself to look up, but as new passengers boarded at each stop, the atmosphere inside the bus gradually changed. As they reached Katsuji’s hospital, Fusae pressed the button next to the window. “We’ll be stopping at the next stop,” said the driver curtly.

  The bus slowed down. Fusae waited until it came to a complete stop before she grabbed hold of the railing and stood up. She wanted to thank the driver but didn’t have the courage, and headed toward the exit at the back.

  The door hissed open. No one else was getting off. She glanced toward the driver and was stepping down when he suddenly said, “It’s not your fault. You hang in there now, y’hear?”

  A stir ran through the bus for a moment after the driver’s words echoed through the sound system. Fusae didn’t know how to react. The passengers turned to look at her, standing on the steps, and she fled. She turned around, but the door closed and the bus just drove away.

  It had all happened so quickly. Left behind, alone at the stop, Fusae could only stare blankly at the receding bus.

  You hang in there now, y’hear?

  The words echoed again in her mind, and she hastily bowed in the direction of the bus.

  It’s not your fault.

  She repeated the driver’s words to herself. Behind her was the hospital and going inside meant taking care of her ill-tempered husband, then back home to the crowd of reporters outside, and a night spent trembling in fear at more threatening phone calls.

  “You hang in there now, y’hear?” she murmured again.

  Running away won’t help anything, she thought. And no help’s on the way, no matter how much I wait. It’s no different from when they threw those rationed potatoes and I had to scramble around to pick them up. I need to be strong. I’m not going to let them make fun of me anymore. Be strong. Nobody’s going to make fun of me anymore. No way. No way am I going to let that happen.

  When Yoshio awoke, he was on a makeshift bed in a hospital. He must have lost consciousness, but his mind was clear now. All he felt was pain.

  Yoshio looked around him. His bed was in a hallway, not a room. He tried to sit up, but a man’s arm shot out from the bench beside him and rested on his chest. “You better lie down for a while,” the man said, but Yoshio pushed back and sat up. A nurse was scurrying away down the long hallway.

  “You have a mild concussion.… They’re going to put you in a ward soon,” the young man beside him said uneasily, glancing back and forth between Yoshio and the retreating nurse. This was the young man who’d helped him up after he’d hit his head, Yoshio recalled, and he was about to thank him, when another memory came and he was silent for a moment.

  “You’re a friend of Keigo Masuo, aren’t you?” he said as he lowered himself from the makeshift bed. The young man’s face stiffened and he asked, more hesitantly, “What sort of … relationship do you have with Keigo?”

  Yoshio looked straight at him. The young man was tall and lanky, his eyes somehow lifeless. Trying to avoid Yoshio’s wordless stare, the young man said, bowing his head, “My name’s Koki Tsuruta. I know Keigo from school.”

  “If you’re his classmate, you must know where he is now, right?” Yoshio asked. He knew the boy wouldn’t answer him. He got up and set off toward the elevators.

  “Wait up!” Koki’s voice followed him from behind. “Are you … that girl’s …”

  Yoshio halted and turned to face Koki. He realized his jacket was lighter than before and he reached in his pocket. The wrench was gone.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” Koki pulled the wrench out of his yellow backpack.

  “You saw what happened, didn’t you? The guy kicked me, too, and made me lose consciousness. I can’t just go back to Kurume like this. I couldn’t stand it. But I don’t expect you understand how I feel.”

  Yoshio reached out and grabbed for the wrench from Koki. Koki hesitated for a moment. “All right,” he said. “But don’t try anything stupid, okay?” And he meekly handed over the wrench.

  As I was taking Yoshino Ishibashi’s father over to the café where Keigo always hung out, I called Keigo on his cell phone. When he answered, he sounded really worked up. “Koki, is that you?” he said. “Where are you? Get over here, okay?” He went on: “Something crazy just happened to me. Guess who I ran into? The father of that girl who died on Mitsuse Pass! Y’all killed mah daughter! the guy said and tried to grab me. God, it was wild! I gave him a good kick.” Keigo’s voice was loud, and I could picture his entourage around him, egging him on.

  After we left the hospital, Yoshino’s father walked beside me. I hung up the phone and said, “He’s in the usual place,” and he said “Is that right?” and nodded.

  At the time, I didn’t understand why I was taking him to meet Keigo. I can’t express it well, but when I saw Mr. Ishibashi in the snow, clinging to Keigo’s legs, it was like I was smelling the scent of a human being for the first time in my life. I’d never noticed the scent of humans before, but for some
reason Mr. Ishibashi’s scent came through clearly. Compared to Keigo, he looked so small, so small it made me sad.

  I spend most of my time holed up in my room, watching movies, so I’ve seen tons of people crying, being sad, angry, and full of hatred. But this was the first time I realized that people’s emotions have a distinct odor. I wish I could explain it better, but when I saw Mr. Ishibashi clinging to Keigo’s legs, it was like, I don’t know, like I could really feel this whole crime for the first time.…

  The feeling of Keigo’s foot as it kicked Yoshino out of his car, the cold of the ground as she touched it. The sky Yoshino saw as the criminal strangled her, the feeling of her throat under his hands as he wrung her neck. I could suddenly feel it all, as clear as day.

  A person disappearing from this world isn’t like the top stone of a pyramid disappearing. It’s more like one of the foundation stones at the base. You know what I mean?

  Truthfully, I don’t think Mr. Ishibashi could ever hurt Keigo. Not then, when they confronted each other, or later on in their lives. Keigo will always come out on top. Still, I wanted Mr. Ishibashi to stand up to him and say something. I didn’t want him to silently lose out.

  As she walked from the bus stop in front of the hospital, Fusae took her worn purse from the bag hanging heavily on her wrist. Inside was a sheaf of supermarket receipts, four-thousand-yen bills, a large five-hundred-yen coin all by itself, and a handful of other coins.

  The only snow left along the seaside road was underneath the trees lining it. On the road itself the snow had melted and the cars splashed muddy water.

  Fusae put her purse back in her bag. The bus driver’s words were helping her along, but something else had burst within her. She had finally shaken free of the fear that had controlled her these past few weeks. She left the seaside road and headed toward the back road that led to Dutch Slope.

  She was trying to recall the time when Katsuji’s second cousin Goro visited with his family, from Okayama, on a vacation to Nagasaki. They weren’t all that close to them, but Katsuji was enthusiastic about it and showed them all over town, then took them to a Chinese place for dinner. Yuichi must have been in elementary school back then, so it would have to be twenty years ago.

  Goro’s wife was a frumpy, strong-willed woman who was constantly complaining about how high the entrance fees were to places they visited, how expensive the coffee was. They had a daughter, Kyoko, who’d just gone into junior high, and she and Yuichi played together during the trip.

  Fusae recalled showing them Dutch Slope. She was tired of the complaints and so she walked ahead and caught up with Yuichi and Kyoko. As she did, she overheard Kyoko say, “Yuichi, you’re lucky your grandmother’s so pretty.” Yuichi didn’t seem interested and went on kicking pebbles as he walked, but Kyoko continued. “I wish my mom was like your grandmother and wore a pretty scarf when she went on a trip.”

  Fusae was embarrassed, and kept her distance. The scarf she was wearing was cheap, and these words of praise were coming from a girl in junior high, but Fusae couldn’t hide the pride she felt.

  Afterward, on visits to open-house days at Yuichi’s classroom and parent-teacher-conference days, Fusae was never without a scarf around her neck. Nobody ever told her how nice she looked again, but without the scarf she might not have had the courage to be among the young mothers.

  As she walked down the cobblestoned backstreet toward the shopping district, Fusae wondered how long it had been since she’d bought a new scarf. Not just a scarf—she hadn’t bought any new clothes in ages. What was the last thing she had bought? Was it that imitation-leather coat she got at Daiei? Or the light blue sweater from the local clothing shop?

  She’d walked down this street for years, but now she noticed a clothing store she’d never seen before. The place was small, the entrance nearly blocked by a wagon piled high with sweaters that were obviously catering to a middle-aged female clientele.

  Fusae stopped and gazed inside the shop. Perhaps because it was still light out, the inside of the store looked dark, with a couple of old mannequins set up as though they’d like nothing better than to flee. Large price tags were attached to the clothes on the mannequins, the printed price crossed out in red, the reduced price written over it. But that, too, was crossed out, without a new price written on the tag.

  Fusae walked over to the wagon outside and picked up the nearest sweater, a purple one. She held it up and saw that it was too small for her. The woman at the register stood up, and after a moment’s hesitation, Fusae returned the sweater to the wagon and went inside the dark store.

  Fusae merely nodded to the clerk when she greeted her, and as she fingered the white jacket one of the mannequins was wearing, the woman came over and said, “That material feels very nice. It’s so soft.”

  The original price on the tag said twelve thousand yen, but that was crossed out, and the reduced price of nine thousand was crossed out as well. She turned her eyes and saw colored scarves hanging next to the register. Noticing where Fusae was looking, the clerk said, “Those are on sale, too.”

  Fusae walked further back into the store and picked up a bright orange scarf. There was a mirror to one side reflecting her in her dark gray coat. Fusae slowly wrapped the scarf around her neck. Perhaps a bit too bright for her, she thought, but the color went surprisingly well with the coat.

  “How much is this?” she asked.

  “The color looks really good as an accent,” the clerk said while she straightened the scarves. “Let me see,” she added, checking the price tag. “This one would be three thousand eight hundred.”

  Fusae had no makeup on, and the scarf was all it took to make her face look much brighter. She had only four thousand yen with her, but she unwound the scarf from her neck and handed it to the clerk. “Here you go. I’ll take it,” she said.

  “Here you go.”

  The policeman in the driver’s seat held out his hand, which held a handkerchief. The handkerchief, pure white cotton, looked strange in his rough fingers. He must be married. The handkerchief was nicely ironed and had a faint scent.

  Mitsuyo was seated in the backseat of the patrol car. Beside her was the plastic bag full of food she’d bought at the convenience store. The heaters clouded the windows and she couldn’t see outside. She took the handkerchief and wiped away her tears.

  When the patrolman had her sit in the backseat, Mitsuyo cried. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he asked about her health, about where Yuichi was, and then contacted his precinct via radio. But Mitsuyo was so shaken she could barely hear her own voice, let alone his.

  She held the handkerchief against her face, and the patrolman hung up the radio and said, “Miss Magome, we’re going to go to the station first. A policewoman will be there and we’ll talk more.” He started the engine.

  The patrol car pulled out of the convenience-store parking lot. Mitsuyo could just make out the clerk and the customers in the store watching them. She realized that she was trembling and pulled the bag of groceries onto her lap and hugged it tightly.

  Would Yuichi realize what was going on? Would he run away?

  The car was heading toward the intersection where the logging road went up to the lighthouse. Turn left here and they could see the thicket where Yuichi was hiding. Mitsuyo couldn’t bring herself to look in that direction, and held on more tightly to the shopping bag. She squeezed it too hard, and a sweet bun popped out and fell to the wet floor near her feet.

  Yuichi … Yuichi …

  Until the car completely passed the intersection, Mitsuyo repeated his name to herself over and over.

  She wanted to force the door open and leap out, but the car was racing along too quickly. It had happened too suddenly, with no time to say goodbye. She held the handkerchief to her face all the way to the police station. The policeman helped her out of the car, and they went into the small, deserted local station. The inside smelled of kerosene from the heater, and curried rice.

  “Just—just
sit here for a while.”

  The patrolman guided her to a bench next to the window. Cold wind blew in the open front door, scattering papers on the desk. The phone on the desk was ringing. The policeman hesitated, but decided to close the front door first. As soon as he shut it, the phone stopped ringing.

  Mitsuyo sat down on the cold, hard bench and grasped the plastic shopping bag to her again. The handkerchief in her hand was damp with sweat and tears.

  The patrolman was about to say something to her, but he seemed flustered and stopped. He took off his cap, laid it on the desk, and lifted the receiver of the phone.

  “Yes. We just arrived.… No, she isn’t hurt. She is a little upset, yes.… No, I haven’t asked her yet.”

  Mitsuyo listened to the patrolman’s replies, and thought again of Yuichi, hiding in the thicket. With the light covering of snow, he must be freezing. The frozen leaves and branches must be stabbing his numb hands and cheeks.

  On the wall opposite the bench was a local map taped to the wall. The station was marked in red. She saw the village where the convenience store was, and the lighthouse where they’d hid.

  “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom,” Mitsuyo said, standing up. The patrolman put his hand over the receiver and after a moment’s hesitation, opened the door to the back room. Mitsuyo nodded her thanks to him, then gestured to ask whether it was all right to close the door. The patrolman, phone to his ear, nodded, and she shut the door.

  The back room was six mats in size and a futon was spread out on the tatami for the policemen to use for naps.

  “I’m sure the man is still around here.… No, there’s no place where they could hide out for long.…”

  Mitsuyo heard the patrolman’s voice through the door. Next to a door that said Restroom was a window. On impulse, she opened the window. She stood on top of a metal folding chair and scrambled out.