by Ryu Murakami
Aoyama looked into her eyes. She was clearly holding back the tears through sheer force of will. He searched for the right words to say, and finally decided just to express his feelings honestly, without embellishment.
‘I don’t know what I’d do if you left,’ he said. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. And what you’ve just told me doesn’t change anything.’
She nodded deeply, and quietly began to weep.
In the taxi later, en route to the restaurant in Nishi-Azabu, Aoyama said there was just one thing he didn’t understand.
‘Ask me anything,’ she said. ‘I’d die rather than hide anything from you ever again.’
It was as if her confession had relieved her of a burden. She sat relaxed, casually leaning towards him in the seat. Aoyama, too, strangely enough, was much more relaxed now. He thought it must be because they’d shared something so intimate, and so powerful.
‘I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but obviously you suffered severe abuse as a child, both physical and emotional. And to my knowledge, people with that sort of background generally have a difficult time relating to others. They tend to be riddled with complexes and basically unpleasant to be around. I once read that when victims of child abuse grow up they unconsciously do things to make other people dislike them, because they actually feel more at ease being disliked, which makes a certain twisted sort of sense, I suppose. But you’re not like that at all. You don’t seem like someone who’s been – how to put this? – scarred by it all.’
She nodded several times, as if to herself, then leaned against him and said in a barely audible voice, ‘Thank you.’ Her face was close to his, and as he looked at her long, drooping eyelashes, a tremor ran down his spine.
The restaurant was on a relatively quiet little street just up the hill from the Nishi-Azabu intersection. It was famous for its Tuscan cuisine, but it wasn’t listed in guidebooks, and the management actually discouraged media coverage. The interior was immaculate, the service was excellent, and none of the diners looked as if they’d stumbled into the wrong place. Anyone coming here for the first time would experience, if not awe, at least a pleasant sort of tension on seeing the exquisite engraved designs on the glass partitions around each table and the magnificent tapestry, of which the manager was especially proud – it depicted seventeenth-century Florence and covered one entire wall. It was not a large place, and you couldn’t get reservations without a formal introduction from a trusted customer. Yamasaki Asami’s eyes sparkled as they sat down. When the waiter asked if they’d like an aperitif, she ordered a Campari and orange in an appealingly girlish voice and looked at Aoyama as if to ask if she wasn’t making a faux pas. He winked at her reassuringly and ordered the carpaccio, a speciality of the house, and another starter consisting of three types of pasta. He chose Florentine T-bone steak for the main course, and a bottle of 1989 Barbaresco.
The aperitifs arrived, and Yamasaki Asami took a sip of her Campari.
‘I think it’s because of ballet,’ she said. For a moment Aoyama had no idea what she was talking about. ‘You mentioned that I don’t seem scarred by the abuse. I was really glad to hear you say that, and I think it’s true, but it made me wonder: why is it that I don’t still carry the scars? I thought about it when we were in the taxi but couldn’t really come up with a good answer. And then, when we came in here, it’s such a fantastic place . . .’
She paused and smiled. It was a perfect smile, Aoyama thought. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by this smile?
‘I guess my attention span isn’t all it might be,’ she said, ‘but maybe that’s one reason I don’t get too depressed about things. When we sat down here, and I saw this tablecloth, and these candlesticks and napkins, and especially the beautiful designs on this glass – these grapes and the little birds and these musical instruments, the curving lines . . . Do you think they’re all handmade? The designs are different at each table.’
‘I wonder. Maybe they are engraved by hand.’
‘I’m sure of it. They’re so warm and intimate . . . Anyway, as I was looking at all these things, forgetting all about my question, the answer popped into my mind: ballet.’
‘So you’re saying that ballet helped you heal the scars?’
‘Yes. I was in the fourth grade, and we were living in that small apartment in Suginami. Just down the street was a little ballet school, run by an elderly woman and her daughter. The lessons were cheap, and my mother suggested I give it a try. Apparently I have the right build for ballet – at least, that’s what I was told – and after a year the teacher, the elderly one, told me I should switch to a bigger school. She wrote a letter of introduction for me, and I ended up getting a scholarship to a place in Minami-Aoyama, one of the biggest ballet studios in Japan.’
She looked down at the tablecloth, and Aoyama waited for her to continue.
‘I don’t know how to express this very well,’ she said, ‘but when you work up a sweat dancing, it’s as if all the bad things, all the bad thoughts, pour out of you. You can almost see them evaporating. You know the big mirrors they have in dance studios? When I’d watch myself in the mirror after mastering a new pas, a new step, I’d feel, well, purified. To see that I was able to some extent to become one with something beautiful, with this graceful image I had in my head, was . . . Well, I can’t explain it. But it helped me forget my troubles, and I think that’s how I managed to overcome it all.’
The sommelier uncorked the Barbaresco, freeing its distinctive bouquet, and poured some into Aoyama’s glass. As he took a sip and rolled it over his tongue, he had to make an effort to stifle the tears. He nodded, and the sommelier retreated. A waiter placed the carpaccio on the table before them, and when they were left alone again, all Aoyama could manage to say was, ‘I see.’
A moment later he added: ‘You’re amazing.’
They clinked their glasses in a toast.
‘You really do understand, don’t you?’ she said. ‘That makes me so happy. I put everything I had into ballet, for so long, but there was no one I could really talk to. And after I hurt my hip . . . It’s not that I don’t have friends, or many opportunities to meet people, but there was no one really to comfort me. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve ever talked to like this, about my mother’s new husband and everything. I’ve never told anyone about these things, ever . . .’
7
Aoyama escorted her home in a taxi. They’d taken their time during the meal, following the wine with grappa and lingering over dessert, and now it was past eleven. He was sure she’d gladly have gone along if he’d suggested they have another drink somewhere, but he felt that dinner was enough for tonight. The exhilarating sort of tension he’d experienced for the past five hours was taking its toll, and besides, he didn’t want to press his luck. How much happiness, after all, would the gods allow one man?
Mushy with wine and grappa, he wanted to hold her hand in the taxi, but decided after some mental wrestling to resist that impulse too. And thought: a 42-year-old man who frets over whether or not to hold hands – how ridiculous is that?
‘Let’s have dinner again soon,’ he said when the taxi stopped to let her out near Nakameguro station.
‘When?’ she said immediately, then looked embarrassed at having let her eagerness show. Like a child caught in some harmless mischief. The subtle play of facial expressions – the momentary blush of embarrassment, followed immediately by a droop of the head and a smile that betrayed the joy bubbling up inside her – was more eloquent than any words, and Aoyama found it intoxicating.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and she quietly replied:
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Sorry to bother you so late.’
He was using his mobile to telephone Yoshikawa on the way home. He could scarcely believe how well the date had gone. The back seat of the taxi might as well have been a cloud, and he felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to honey. Catching a whiff of he
r cologne on the headrest beside him, he remembered agonising over whether or not to hold her hand. But his euphoria painted the memory in a romantic light and reassured him that love could make a man feel that way, even a man his age. He’d taken the phone from his briefcase thinking he’d like to share these feelings with all the forty-something men of the world, but of course Yoshikawa was the only one he could actually call.
‘Were you sleeping?’
‘What’s up? It’s nearly midnight.’
Yoshikawa sounded tired. Or possibly drunk. Aoyama had been to his house a few times, and imagined him sitting in his narrow den, drinking Cordon Bleu after the wife and kid had gone to bed. He would have taken the bottle and a glass from the shelves that also held his golf trophies, sliced himself a little cheese in the kitchen, and sat down to pass some quiet time with a magazine or a video. Poor bastard, thought Aoyama – getting drunk all alone before bed. I have to let him know that being middle-aged doesn’t mean all your opportunities are behind you, that you can’t just give up.
‘I had a date tonight.’ Aoyama tried to keep the elation out of his voice.
‘Oh yeah? And?’
‘Learned all about her sublime past.’
‘Such as?’
‘I can’t give you the details – it’s very personal stuff – but I can tell you she had an incredibly difficult childhood and managed to rise above it, all on her own. Of course, that may not mean much to a cynic like you . . .’
He paused, but Yoshikawa didn’t say anything.
‘Hello? You there?’
‘I’m here.’
The irritation in Yoshikawa’s voice dampened the euphoria somewhat. Why couldn’t the bastard rejoice a little over his friend’s good fortune? Aoyama remembered reading an article by a famous lady columnist about how our ability to feel and express emotions – to distort our faces with joy, or wail and weep with sorrow, or collapse in agony, or wallow in sentimentality – wasn’t an inviolable human trait but something we can lose simply by leading dull and dreary lives. ‘A rich emotional life,’ she’d written, ‘is a privilege reserved only for the daring few.’ Maybe Yoshikawa just wasn’t one of the few.
‘Anyway, I was really impressed.’
‘That’s great,’ Yoshikawa said.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t just irritation. He sounded almost despondent.
‘Anything wrong?’
Yoshikawa didn’t answer. Aoyama wondered if he should cut the conversation short.
‘Well, I’ll call again some other—’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I just . . . I didn’t want to bring you down when you’re in such a good mood, is all. My mother – you met her, right?’
‘Of course. Did something happen?’ She must’ve died, thought Aoyama. Good grief. He calls to send glad tidings from the mountaintop and his friend is sinking in the abyss. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘No, it’s not that. Just the old story – getting a little senile, and now she falls down the stairs. I’m telling you, there are times you think we’d all be better off if she’d just . . . Sorry. Pretty grim stuff, I know.’
‘I’m the one who should apologise. Calling you about something like this, when—’
‘Hey, I’m happy for the distraction. It has been pretty depressing, though. I mean, you always hear that once the dementia starts they can become like a completely different person, but when it’s your mother . . . Of course, the one who’s really suffering is my wife. I should’ve moved my mother into a home of some sort right from the beginning. But I kept procrastinating, and the next thing I know seven years have gone by. Terrible thing to do to her – my wife, I mean. She worries more about the old lady than I do, even. Sometimes she bursts into tears and says it’s her fault. Of course, she and my mother have a sort of bond that I don’t even completely understand.’
‘She’s all right, though, isn’t she? Your mother.’
‘Yeah. It’s just her leg. My wife’s with her at the hospital right now. Her legs were shot anyway, but she broke an ankle. It’s not like when you’re young and it breaks cleanly, you know. Apparently the doctor’s colourful explanation was that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to a brick of charcoal. Just powdered, in other words, and no chance that it’ll ever be whole again. I was sitting here thinking, well, it looks like there’s no choice now but to put her in a home, but then I had a drink or two, and . . . What a loser, eh?’
‘Don’t say shit like that.’
‘There are great places nowadays, you know, with round-the-clock care.’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen pamphlets.’
‘They’re not cheap, but . . . Well. Sorry to lay all this on you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I envy you, Aoyama. Same age as me, and look at the difference. Dating a 24-year-old.’
Aoyama didn’t reply. His friend, the very one who’d created the opportunity for him to meet Yamasaki Asami, was suffering. He wanted to say something helpful but was still under the influence of his euphoria, and it wasn’t easy to empathise with someone else’s depression.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Yoshikawa said, then fell silent a moment and sighed. ‘Nah, never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What.’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Just say it.’
‘It’s just a stupid rumour I heard. From a hostess in a bar, no less. Not exactly a reliable source.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s about that guy at the record company, Shibata. Speaking of legs.’
Legs? Hearing the name Shibata brought Aoyama crashing to earth. The womanising record producer who’d had an indirect connection to Yamasaki Asami. Or had there in fact been more to their relationship? Just to think of that possibility filled him with hatred for the man. Shibata had probably wined and dined beautiful young women on a nightly basis. Someone of his ilk wouldn’t have agonised, as Aoyama had, about holding Yamasaki Asami’s hand. He’d have been all over her at the first opportunity. Aoyama felt as if he could murder a slimeball like that. Thankfully Shibata was already dead.
‘Supposedly he was from a pretty well-connected family, and things were hushed up to prevent a scandal, but . . . Well, according to the rumour his heart attack was caused by someone trying to cut off his feet, from the ankles down. In other words he was murdered, supposedly, but again, I got this from a bar hostess. Sounds like something out of Friday the 13th. Probably not even worth checking out.’
Aoyama was relieved. At least the rumour had nothing to do with Yamasaki Asami. And if it was true, he thought, the bastard only got what was coming to him. Aoyama’s euphoria and jealousy joined forces with the alcohol to banish the whole matter from his mind, and he didn’t give it another thought. Nor, unfortunately, did he make any connection to the youth in the wheelchair, in the hotel café.
‘Oh, it’s you, Pops. The way Gangsta was carrying on, I thought it must be a burglar or something.’
Aoyama had opened the front door to find Shige standing there in his pyjamas, with a combat knife in his hand.
‘Where the hell did you get that thing?’
It was a big knife, with a blade about thirty centimetres long.
‘You don’t remember? You bought it yourself, Pops, in Singapore or Hong Kong or somewhere.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ Aoyama said, walking through the living-room to the kitchen. ‘You’re right.’
About ten years ago he’d travelled in South-East Asia. It was at an open-air market in Manila, if he remembered correctly, that he’d purchased the knife on a whim. Ryoko had confiscated the weapon, scolding him for bringing such a dangerous thing into the house, and he hadn’t seen it or thought about it since.
‘Where was it?’ He selected a cold Evian from the refrigerator, came back to the living-room, plopped down on the sofa and took a swig.
‘I just found it recently,’ Shige said, sliding the knife back into its hard plastic sheath.
; ‘Where?’
‘In the drinks cabinet.’
‘I never noticed it.’
‘In the bottom part, where the expensive wine is? It was behind all the bottles. That’s Mum for you.’
The bottom compartment had double doors and a built-in lock, and it was there that Aoyama stored the Château d’Yquem and Romanée-Conti and other famous wines he brought back each time he went to Europe on business. He had a collection of fourteen or fifteen bona fide monsters.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She never throws anything away,’ Shige said, keeping it in the present tense. ‘She might get mad and say she’s going to toss something, but she can’t do it.’
‘That’s true.’ Aoyama nodded, lowering his eyes and smiling. They were both silent for a moment. He was picturing Ryoko’s face and imagined Shige was doing the same.
‘It’s not even rusty or anything,’ Shige said. ‘Perfect place to store it, really. No humidity.’
‘When did you find it?’
‘Couple of months ago. Remember when that friend of mine stayed over? The tall, skinny guy?’
Shige was popular in school and his friends often spent the night at their house. Aoyama tended to make himself scarce when that happened, but Rie-san always enjoyed taking charge and preparing lots of food for the boys – rice curry and sushi rolls and spaghetti and so on.
‘He’s really into wine.’
‘Wine? A first-year high-school student?’
‘Yeah. He wants to be a . . . what do you call those guys?’
‘A sommelier?’
‘Right. Said he wanted to see your collection.’
‘At fifteen he’s already decided what he wants to be?’
‘Lots of guys have.’
‘Is that wise? To limit your options at such a young age?’
‘Welcome to the new world, Pops. It’s not like the golden days of your youth. The world’s gone to hell, right? Corruption and everything.’
