by Isis, Justin
—Now tell me, honestly, why.
—I’m just curious. I like meat, and I’ve tried everything else.
—You’re just curious? That’s it?
He seemed about to laugh. Ayano was a little annoyed.
—No, I’m sorry... he said. For me, it goes pretty far back, I think...
He took up the other cup and continued staring at her. In the light of the overhead lamp, his eyes took on a watery look.
—You are twenty, aren’t you? You’re at least that old, right?
Ayano nodded.
—Good. I’d feel too bad otherwise. What are you, a university student?
—Yeah.
—What do you study?
—Medicine.
—Which university?
—Does it matter?
—I’m sorry, Yamada said. I’m sure it probably doesn’t matter.
Then he said:
—Were you... abused, or something?
—No. Were you?
—No.
He finished his sake and refilled the cup. She waited for him to continue.
—I’ve had these dreams all my life. I started when I was young, dreaming about giant body parts. I was walking between a giant pair of legs, as big as marble pillars. Or I was sleeping curled up inside a giant fist. It was a peaceful feeling at first. But when I got older the dreams started to change. I kept dreaming about giant penises with teeth... a forest of fanged penises that I was flying over in an airplane and the airplane was running out of gas... so I’d parachute out and then my legs would be running in the air like a cartoon... I usually woke up then.
He put the cup down and rubbed his forehead.
—It’s not easy talking about this.
—I know what you mean.
He leaned forward.
—Do you? Or are you just saying that?
Ayano looked back at him. Yamada’s expression was neutral, but sometimes he looked at her sharply, as if waiting for her to divulge a secret. Then when she said nothing he would draw away from her and shake his head. He was making her feel uptight.
—Let’s go, she said after a while, without having anywhere in mind.
He offered her the sake again.
—Don’t you want any?
—No.
—All right.
He poured the last of it into his cup and drank it.
—We’ll go, then.
He paid the bill and they made their way back to the elevator. On the street again, Yamada made his way north, towards Dogenzaka. His movements until now had been relatively composed, but as she followed him up the hill Ayano saw that he was staggering slightly. As they rounded the corner he turned and walked towards a convenience store. Inside, without saying anything, he took a small bottle of whiskey from the shelf and walked up to the counter. He had it opened before they left the store. They continued on, Yamada walking quickly now, Ayano following from a slight distance. Eventually he stopped at a love hotel and scanned its registry for empty rooms. When he found one, he took the key and motioned for her to follow.
Upstairs, he found the room, unlocked the door and placed his briefcase on the edge of the bed. Reaching down, he unlatched the top and opened it. Inside were a number of smaller cases neatly packed together. He took them out and arranged them on top of the bed. Ayano sat next to them, then changed her mind and sat on the floor. Before long Yamada joined her, bottle in hand. A dull glow lit up his face. For a moment he seemed about to pitch forward, then he sat up and fixed his eyes on her.
—The whole world, it’s all gotten worse. I can remember when I was your age — it seemed like everything was going to be all right. I never worried about the future. You don’t understand how fast time goes — it feels like it was just hours ago. Then you see it’s all for nothing.
He stared at her
—I want that peaceful feeling again. I never feel anything now. Do you understand? I want to give myself to you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted — to belong to someone. I was expecting someone my own age, but that’s okay. I can give myself to you — a beautiful young girl.
Ayano’s expression hardened. She was not, and never would be, beautiful. The word itself seemed ugly to her.
—Please don’t say that.
—It’s true — all young girls are beautiful. You won’t realize it until you’re older...
Looking at the longing in his eyes, she felt that she hated him. He was too intense, too fixated, his gaze never straying from her face. His cheeks were covered with rough patches of stubble, his thick hair threaded with grey. And his suit was all wrong — at least a size too large, its sleeves were long and rumpled, his thin arms disappearing inside them. He’d loosened his tie, and now its slack knot hung carelessly around his collar. As she watched, he placed the bottle on the floor beside him and started unbuttoning his shirt. Then, becoming impatient halfway through, he ripped off the remaining buttons and cast it onto the floor. Exposed to the air, his stomach was pale and hairless.
—I feel better like this. This is how I came into the world and this is how I’m going to leave.
She watched him unbuckle his belt and slip off his pants, pulling his underwear down with them.
—It seems strange that I was born at all, he went on. I guess we never realize how strange life is. You understand, right?
Ayano moved back, her shoulders pressing against the edge of the bed.
—I’m not having sex with you.
Yamada laughed.
—No, that’s fine. You can have my dick, though. I don’t mind if you cut it off — I never had much use for it anyway.
He took one of the small cases from the bed and opened it. Inside was an instrument resembling a sharpened spoon.
—Here. You can take out my eyes with this. I always imagined they’d taste like oysters — slippery, sort of.
She looked over and saw that his penis was standing. He followed her gaze.
—I’m sorry. I can’t help it, it’s being in this situation. You can cut it off now, if you want.
He reached over and opened the rest of the cases. Most of them contained various kinds of knives. There was a meat cleaver and an array of scalpels, their blades protected by plastic covers. Other cases held more complicated instruments: a long tube, several fragile-looking glass vials, and something that looked like a pump. The simplest came last; at the bottom of the briefcase was a cutting board.
—Cut me into sections. You can eat me after. You know how to do it, right? And drink my blood. Drain it before it congeals — you’ll have to.
Ayano backed away from him. Strange, how thin his frame seemed, how shabby. Dry, sallow flesh clung to the bones of his arms and legs. She no longer felt any desire other than to leave. But Yamada had fallen to the floor in front of her and was licking her ankles, kissing her feet. Drawing back, she kicked him in the face. He looked up and moaned, smiling as the blood poured from his nose.
—Don’t stop, he whispered. Keep going. Kill me...
He was crying now, his blood and tears running together.
—Please kill me...
She kicked him harder. He fell onto his back and clutched at his eyes.
—No, I’m not going to kill you. You have to keep living.
Before he could look up she made it through the door and closed it behind her. Then she took the elevator down to the ground floor. Outside, on the street, nothing had changed. Across from her, close to a different love hotel, a prostitute was talking to a foreigner. The neon light from the signs washed over them. Ayano checked her watch and saw that only fifteen minutes had passed. Around her couples were strolling arm-in-arm, looking for available rooms. One of them passed close to her and she saw the girl, around her own age, resting her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The boyfriend was tall, his handsome face impassive. They were both expensively dressed. Ayano gazed at them as they crossed, but neither of them looked back. As she made her way back down the hill no one else looked at
her either; no one noticed the blood on her sneakers.
She caught the train back and changed to the local line for her stop. As she stood waiting at the station a cloud of stray thoughts filled her mind. She tried to ignore it, but there was nothing else to focus on, and before long she found herself reliving the events of the past few hours. Each repetition seemed worse than the last. What happened wasn’t her fault — Yamada had expected to load his problems onto her, so that he could die and she would be faced with the consequences. He didn’t care whether her life would be ruined as a result of his death. And most people were like that, she thought — they didn’t care about the consequences for anyone else as long as they got what they wanted.
At home, she had to open the door slowly so as not to wake her parents. Stepping lightly on the stairs, she made her way up to her room. Inside the lights were off, so she turned on a night lamp next to the dresser. Before long her sister stirred and sat up in bed.
—Uh? So what happened?
Instead of answering Ayano moved closer and sat down beside her. In the dim light from the night stand, her sister’s face was soft and pale. She reached out and stroked it. Ayako smiled and moved closer as Ayano reached out for her. Her breasts were big but not particularly firm; under her faded pajamas they resembled large milk puddings. Ayano pressed her hands against them, kneading them through the soft fabric of her nightshirt. Ayako moaned softly, her eyes closed as if she were still in a dream.
Silently Ayano reached over and pressed their lips together. After a few moments she felt the warmth of Ayako’s breath as her mouth opened wider. She pressed her tongue against the edge of her teeth and felt them opening, felt Ayako’s tongue rising from between them, lapping at the edge of her lips. Ayano pulled back and took it, gently, in her teeth.
Then she closed her eyes, took Ayako’s hand, and bit down as hard as she could.
Ayako drew back and started to struggle, but Ayano held on, her other hand firm on her sister’s shoulder. The tongue clenched between her teeth swelled under the pressure. Even as she bit deeper it refused to yield, pushing against her teeth with the mindless resistance of a muscle. Ayako’s hands beating against her shoulders, the muted scream rising in her ears — these were only phantoms distracting her. Only the taste of blood and the feel of the tongue were real. She drove her teeth down through it until she felt them going numb.
With a sudden movement Ayako pulled away from her and covered her mouth with her hands. In the same moment Ayano saw something fall from between them. She looked down. On the sheet in front of her was a tiny bud of flesh covered in black blood. Without thinking she snatched it from the bed and swallowed it, quickly, like a bird.
The Eye of the Living Is No Warmth
On the morning of February 9th, 2006, word reached the internet that Ai Kago of the pop idol group Morning Musume had been suspended for smoking. The magazine Friday had photographed her in an Ebisu restaurant, and at seventeen years of age, Kago was breaking Japanese law. As yet, there was no word when the suspension would be lifted.
Tatsuya Shiba was alone in his room when Masa called him. He’d just woken up, and in the quiet of the morning Masa’s shrill voice felt like a razor sliding across his eardrum.
—Did you read? Aibon was just in a scandal, she got caught smoking.
Tatsuya was not especially surprised. These kinds of scandals had been going on for some time. Usually an idol would be caught with a boyfriend — last year Mari Yaguchi, or ‘Marippe’, as Tatsuya thought of her, had been forced to leave the group because of an affair with a young actor. It seemed as if the media were deliberately trying to ruin the idols’ careers. Or were the idols themselves trying to break out of the lifestyle somehow? Tatsuya couldn’t tell, but the news vaguely depressed him. He thought of Kago and wondered what she’d been doing that night, who she’d been with. Although he saw her on the Hello! Morning television show every Sunday, it occurred to him that there was a lot about her he didn’t know.
—This is fucking bullshit, Masa said. The Up Front Agency are fascists.
—Man, I don’t know... I feel kind of disappointed. Why was she smoking, anyway?
—Does it matter? She can smoke if she wants to. The point is they’ve gone too far. And the new W album is supposed to come out next month, so what’s going to happen to that?
—I don’t know, Tatsuya said. It’s probably leaked already, just download it.
—Yeah but what about the packaging? It’s different when you have it in your hands.
—I know.
A pause.
—I feel really weird, Masa said. Aibon’s not going to be on Hello! Morning anymore.
Tatsuya thought about it. When Ai Kago had joined Morning Musume after the Fourth Generation auditions, he had hated her. She’d seemed too childish, too insistent, her gimmicks forced and obvious. He preferred the elegance and style of the older members like Aya Ishiguro and Yuko Nakazawa. But as he adjusted to her personality and sense of humor, she and her counterpart Nozomi Tsuji — or ‘Tsujikago’ as they were collectively known — became another fixture of his mental landscape. The two twelve-year-old girls were the same height, wore their hair in a similar style, and were inseparable on-set. Kago had the stronger personality, but Tsuji was capable of standing up to her. The unforced affection between the two was clear, and it fascinated Tatsuya. Perhaps he was being naive, he told himself — they were performers, after all. But sometimes it seemed only by chance that they had become as famous as they were. He could imagine them playing the same kind of games at school: singing the latest songs, imitating celebrities, taking pictures of each other and laughing at their own expressions. It was a beautiful thought, and one that excluded him entirely — although he was not sad about it.
—I’m sure she’ll come back, he said. They can’t suspend her forever, she’s too popular.
—Im still pretty worried about it. I think it’s pretty clear we have to do something.
Tatsuya looked around the room. He was hungry already, and thought of getting something from downstairs. But Masa had called him on the normal line instead of his cell phone, and so he needed to hang up before he could go.
—Masa, what are you talking about? What could we do? We don’t know anyone, we don’t have any connections. What are we going to do, write a letter? They won’t even open it.
—I’ve got connections, Masa said, and Tatsuya could hear the smile in his voice. You think I don’t know anyone, right? I’ve got connections, just wait, I’ll come over and tell you all about it. I’m working this out already.
—Are you really coming over?
—Yeah, I’m on the train right now.
Tatsuya hung up, went to his desk, and took out a large Campus notebook. Several similar notebooks were piled beside the bed; taken together they comprised a single manuscript, a philosophical treatise opposing the value of human life, which he had titled The Book Against the Human Race. It was not an especially angry book, Tatsuya told himself, more a kind of lament. In it he described a hypothetical planet where human life had never evolved — a world of silence and forests, without sadness or loss. The descriptions were supplemented by long essays in which he argued that no positive human experience could ever justify the sum of human suffering, and so it would be better for humans to stop reproducing. Tatsuya had no intention of publishing or distributing the book; he wrote it because he had nothing else to do. He was ‘between jobs’, as he said whenever one of his parents’ friends stopped by. In truth he had never had a real job. After finishing a post-graduate course in journalism, he had retreated to his room to sleep, read, write, and listen to music. At twenty-six, the outside world had already lost its appeal. He realized his family thought of him as a parasite, but he was never obtrusive, and they were too accustomed to his presence to turn him out entirely. His mother continued to leave breakfast out for him in the morning, and at night he joined the family for dinner when his father came home from work. None of them
had anything in common.
Stepping downstairs, notebook in hand, he noticed a bento lunchbox resting on the table. After getting some chopsticks from the kitchen, he sat down and was about to start eating when he heard his mother’s voice from the bathroom. Tatsuya was a little disappointed; he had assumed she had already gone to work. He needed to be alone to work on the next section of the treatise, but now he would have to talk to her. Though he depended on her greatly, he always felt uncomfortable around his mother. She was an intelligent and attractive woman, but Tatsuya and his father took her for granted. Bored, she had taken up a part time job at a bank last year. Sometimes she went out drinking with her coworkers on Friday night, and although Tatsuya’s father didn’t like her associating with anyone he didn’t know, he mostly kept quiet. It wasn’t worth the effort to argue, he had decided. And he was usually too tired from work to worry about anything else.
—So, any plans for today? she asked him, as he opened the lunch box and picked up his chopsticks.
—Not really. Masa might come over in a bit.
—Oh. Going to go out shopping?
This was a little joke on his mother’s part, as Tatsuya constantly spent above his means. His room was crowded with idol posters and photobooks, trading cards and T-shirts, CD cases and concert DVDs. To Tatsuya, none of these items was more important than any other — although he did have his treasures — instead, all of them contributed to a general comforting atmosphere, a sense of protection from the rest of the world. He liked to think that the interior of his room reflected the interior of his mind, and so stepping inside was like stepping into his personal history, itself entwined with the progression of his interests. When he looked at a certain poster, for example, he was reminded of the innocence of the five-member first-generation Morning Musume lineup (the assembled rejects from a television show contest), or the short-lived shuffle groups which formed every summer, combining members from the fifty girls under the Hello! Project label. There was always something for him to read, watch, or listen to; and at night the last images before his eyes as he fell asleep were always the faces of the idols, their pristine smiles lulling him to rest.
