Nan-Core

by Mahokaru Numata

  We approached a short crosswalk and I was about to step into the road when I felt the man’s arm press against my chest, like a crossing gate.

  “Careful!”

  I had been on autopilot when I had walked into his arm and pulled back slightly to see a taxi rush right before my eyes. He checked to the left and the right, still holding me back so I didn’t jump out, then finally pulled his crossing-gate-arm away.

  It was the first time anyone had done something like that for me.

  I crossed the crosswalk.

  “There it is. The food’s pretty decent considering how cheap it is.”

  I could see a small diner down the street. A split curtain hung over the entrance and the air smelled of broth. Already by then the awareness was growing inside me that I didn’t want this particular man to disassemble me. And perhaps taking the place of something else, I felt a warm rush of saliva along with something I had forgotten for a long time: hunger.

  In the numb half-awake, half-asleep daydreams that came to me the next day and the day after, and as I sat in various places around the city absorbed in the flow of people, I saw the arm holding me back like a crossing gate.

  Careful, came the whisper.

  Careful, careful, careful … I heard his voice over and over, his arm pressing me back over and over.

  It had come between me and the car as it shot by, and now, with the same casual ease, it also held me apart from other things, all the nameless, warped objects that were everywhere around me, from the life-sucking void in Michiru’s garden, and even from myself when I found I was being drawn inexorably towards the darkness within that void. Careful, it said, pulling me back. These things kept happening in my dreams.

  I got lost in those dreams, intoxicated, only now and then coming back to myself to gnaw at the chapped skin around my cuticles.

  It took about a week to use up the man’s 5,000 yen. He was there when I visited the park that night, sitting on one of the short stone pillars at the entrance. He hurried over when he caught sight of me.

  “Oh, good, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. Good evening.” He stood facing me, keeping a few feet away. “So …” He alternately worried his upper and lower lips, working out what to say. I had never turned down a client before, but I had decided I would say no if he asked to pay for my services. I think he must have seen through my thoughts.

  “Oh no, it’s nothing like that.” He waved his hand in front of his face, flustered. “I was wondering if you’d like to go back to the same place for dinner. The idea came to me earlier. You were eating with such relish, I thought maybe I could take you there every now and then …”

  “Thank you,” I said just like the first time and followed him there.

  After that night he made a habit of taking me out for dinner every few days. Each time I was careful to stop before the pedestrian crossing, making sure to avoid a repeat of what happened the first time. He didn’t speak much during our meals, or in general. His expression made it seem like he was concentrating on a sound only he could hear.

  Aside from paying for the food he sometimes tried to give me a 5,000-yen note, but I turned him down each time.

  “Why? You took some money the first time,” he said once, sounding irritated. We were back in the park after dinner and were about to go our separate ways.

  “That was because I was planning to work for it.”

  “So you won’t take anything if I don’t ask you to work for it?”

  “You’re always buying me dinner.”

  “Okay … But what do you normally do for food? Can’t say you’re putting on any weight.”

  I fell silent.

  “Well, I’m going to ask you to do some work. Five thousand yen’s worth. I’m afraid that’s the most I can afford right now.”

  I felt goosebumps prickle up on my back and arms. That surprised me. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t, not with you.”

  I felt strange as soon as I gave my answer. It only took a moment to understand why. I had never thought of someone as simply “you” before. I think it really was the first time. That was why I came close to being drowned by the unique sensation that came from saying it. My clients were clients, Mitsuko was Mitsuko. I used first names for acquaintances and terms like “Miss” for people I didn’t know. Teachers, cab drivers, and police officers I addressed as “sir” or “ma’am.” My mother was “Mom.” It seemed strange to me; I’d never intentionally avoided using a more familiar form of address. It felt like a switch being flipped on, like there had always been a place inside me set aside for the word, and “you” fit perfectly.

  Only this particular man. You alone were you.

  “Ah, don’t misunderstand me. When I say ‘work,’ I don’t mean that kind of work,” you added quickly, then explained, “I’m having trouble sleeping again, and it’s getting to me. Reading or drinking just makes it worse, and my mind goes to dark places when I’m awake in the middle of the night. So if it’s not a hassle, could I ask you to come to my place and sit by my bed, just for an hour or so? I think it might help me sleep to have someone there. I know, it’s like I’m a scared little kid. Don’t worry, I won’t ask for a bedtime story or anything.”

  I accepted a 5,000-yen note and followed you through the dark streets to your apartment. I lingered a half-step behind to look at the profile of the person who had become you.

  Your apartment was nicer than mine but it was still just a shabby single room. You switched on the heater and we had a glass of warm, sweet milk each, then you climbed into bed.

  “See? Just like a kid. My parents died in an accident when I was in grade school, and from that shock I can tell some part of my mind remained child-like.”

  The room was warm and I myself started to feel sleepy as I sat by your bed. You were silent for long periods, speaking only in brief sentences when you did, your voice growing increasingly muffled.

  “How old are you?”

  I hadn’t ever thought about my age. I guessed I was something like twenty-two but I couldn’t be sure, so I told you the date I was born instead.

  “So … five years younger than me.”

  “You look …” You had your eyes closed, so I could watch your face as much as I wanted.

  “I look …?” you prompted, eyes still closed.

  “You look … tired.”

  “Could you put your hand on my forehead for a little bit?”

  I did as you said.

  “Ah, that’s nice. The human hand is a strange thing. Feels like it’s drawing out the pain.”

  Tiny particles of air tingled, vibrating between my hand and your forehead.

  “Mom used to do this when I stayed home from school with a cold. My fever would go right down, didn’t need any medicine. Her hand felt like it was magic …” You snored a little, then twitched awake. “Oh, could you turn off the heater when you go? No need to lock the door. And … thank you for this.”

  After that we continued to have dinner together at the small diner and I would help you sleep when you needed it.

  The first thing I did every night was visit the park to check if you were there. On nights when I couldn’t find you I would go somewhere else and approach men, asking the time. You knew I was still selling myself on days we didn’t meet. Sometimes I couldn’t work when you asked me to sit at your bed for a few days in a row, but on such occasions you always made sure to give me a 5,000-yen note. This was you, but I needed the income.

  You said there were periods that came every couple of months when your insomnia became unbearable. It was at the beginning of these periods that you seemed to suffer the most. You turned pale like you were ill, bags forming under your eyes, and stayed silent longer than usual. Sometimes you would still be awake after I’d been with you for two or three hours, and when that happened you apologized and told me I could leave. Most of the time, however, you told me about little things from your childhood as your voi
ce grew nearly inaudible, and you managed to sleep for a little while, even if you woke again before morning.

  As I watched you, asleep and defenseless, I entertained myself with thoughts about how I would kill you. It was the only conclusion I understood in a relationship like ours. The act of killing was the only way I knew of getting closer to another person.

  It was only the money that stopped me from doing it there and then. I made an effort not to kill men who gave me money. I told myself I didn’t have any reason to kill you, not while you kept giving me those 5,000-yen notes. I know my reasoning was foolish. But whenever I tried to think deeply about the phenomenon that you were, I experienced a sudden, uncontrollable rush of anxiety and confusion. I would end up completely muddled.

  Your eyes shut reflexively when I put my hand on your forehead, but one night they came open again and you looked up at me from your bed.

  “I’ve been wondering why I feel so relaxed around you.” Your eyes were a mysterious color that night. I’d read in a book once about a color called hazel. I think that’s what they were. “It’s some kind of atonement, right? You’re trying to make up for doing something bad, that’s why you’re a prostitute?”

  That was the first time you’d ever said “prostitute.” I pulled my hand back from your forehead.

  “That’s what it is,” you said. “We’re both sinners. That’s why we’re in tune with each other.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never atoned for anything.”

  “So I’m wrong …” You looked away to glare at the ceiling as though something was hiding in there. “But you’ve noticed that I’m really odd, right? Don’t you think it’s weird that I haven’t tried to sleep with you, even after all these nights together?”

  “Because I said I couldn’t when I first met you.”

  “I’d try regardless, if I wanted to.”

  “Then it’s because I’m a dirty whore.”

  “No! It’s nothing like that. Could I … Could I tell you about the sin I committed? I haven’t ever told anyone about it.”

  “Please. Tell me whatever you want.”

  “I killed someone. A child.”

  “I’ve killed as well. Four, maybe five people.”

  “Ha ha. Are you just trying to make me feel better by saying that?”

  “No. It’s the truth.”

  You ignored me and furrowed your eyebrows tight, trying to work up the strength to say what you needed to.

  “I’m … impotent,” you spat, then clamped your lips shut again. Then you continued, the words rushing out. “I can’t sleep and I can’t have sex, all because of what I did.”

  I couldn’t tell if you were suffering because of the impotence or because of the sin thing in your past, but I realized that I was impotent in some way as well and decided that was why it felt like we were on the same wavelength.

  But what you said next caught me completely off guard. The kid you’d killed had been a small boy of eleven years. You told me how, years ago, you’d tried to help a boy who had been trying to recover a hat that had fallen into a roadside gutter; how you’d lifted up the heavy iron grate but after a while couldn’t handle the weight any longer; and how you dropped it on the kid whose head was still inside the mouth of the gutter.

  Could such a thing even be possible?

  “Where did this happen?”

  I already knew your answer before you told me. I was covered in a sheen of sweat, making my skin feel slimy and frog-like. All my emotions back then had been intensely drawn towards the boy on the brink of death. For the man holding up the grate, instead of his face I mostly remembered his trembling and bunched-up muscles along his neck and arms. I recalled that he’d had long, wavy hair that fell to his shoulders.

  “What happened afterwards?”

  “They ruled it involuntary manslaughter, and I was given a suspended sentence. I managed to pay the settlement by selling the property my parents left me. I was left without a yen to my name but was allowed to live freely, as you see me now.”

  Was there a connection between that incident and the fact that you had become you? It was surely your guilty conscience that had caused you to give five thousand yen to me, a mere passerby, that first night. So does that mean we would never have known each other if you hadn’t committed that sin?

  “When I close my eyes to try and sleep I see his thin legs on the backs of my eyelids. I see those legs when I’m on top of a woman, no matter how hard I try to lose myself in the act. I can see his blue sneakers as his legs spasm, kicking one last time into the ground.”

  I knew what guilt was in theory, but I’d never witnessed firsthand anyone suffering from it.

  “The kid’s little sister saw it all. I was told she started to have bad panic attacks after that. It wasn’t just her. Their mother and father, too … The wounds I gave them won’t heal for the rest of their lives. There was another girl there, too. Probably middle-school age, although I was too caught up to properly see her face. She was passing by and tried to lend a hand, holding up the grate. Even then I couldn’t …”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was gone by the time I thought to look. She must have been terrified. She was just a passerby, yet I did something regrettable to her. She, too, was probably so damaged she never recovered.”

  There was an odd feeling of something itchy and unpleasantly warm spreading in my lungs, making me feel like I couldn’t breathe properly. When I sucked in some air as deeply as I could my throat trembled like I was panting. By the way you looked I realized that guilt, the sense of having done something wrong, could be so intense as to tear a person to shreds.

  “The other girl is fine.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Well, what I mean is, if she was someone weak-willed, she wouldn’t have tried to help with something so dangerous. So I’d say she’s pretty strong.”

  You stared at me for a while, looking mystified. Then you unfolded your arms and reached out, gently placing a palm on my cheek.

  “Thanks. You really are very sweet.”

  It was around then that I started to feel ill. Nothing I did seemed to help. I became completely hypersensitive and didn’t want to do anything. It was like being constantly motion sick.

  I couldn’t eat anything at our usual place—just the smell of food I caught from ducking under the entryway curtain was enough to make me retch.

  You were the one to suggest that I might be pregnant. It wasn’t unusual for me to miss periods so I hadn’t given it much thought. Besides, I always used contraceptives at work. That was only because my clients were scared of catching something. The idea of getting pregnant had always seemed completely irrelevant to me, whether I used a condom or not. I was a vessel, but I was already full—with Mitsuko and Michiru, with the boy you thought you’d killed, with Ramen and the others.

  Yet it happened anyway. I was pregnant despite not knowing who the father was or how I’d slipped up. How disappointingly easy it is to get pregnant.

  I refrained from seeing a doctor even after I was sure of my condition. I figured that any seed that had taken root in my worn-out body would get flushed away soon enough. More importantly, I didn’t have the money for an abortion.

  I was amazed to find out that you were considering something completely different.

  “Let’s marry. We can get married and raise the kid together,” you said.

  We were in your room one night and we were sitting opposite each other, drinking milk before you went to bed. I felt my throat clench painfully.

  “I can’t. I can’t have a child.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t be someone’s mother. That’s too strange. I’m afraid bad stuff might happen later on if I act weird.”

  “Weird or no, you’ll still be a mother when the baby’s born.”

  “It won’t be born. I’m sure I’ll miscarry.”

  “No, don’t say that. We’ve been gifted with this
baby. It’s fate, it has to be. Let’s raise it together.”

  You said “fate” with a kind of solemnity, like the word itself was special. You’d decided it was providence: You had taken the life of one child, so you would raise another whose paternity was unknown. Does fate amount to forgiveness of one’s sins? Is fate the same as my Nan-Core? But does something like destiny really exist? Were you my destiny? I was seized by a type of chaos I’d never experienced before you entered my life.

  Little by little, my stomach swelled. I was no longer able to keep working. On the day we officially registered our marriage, you gave me a ring with a little blue stone. A keepsake from your mother, you said. By then we were already living together, sharing a small three-room apartment, and you had managed to leverage your qualifications to land a job with a proper company. Just like that, you put an end to your life of dropping in and out of part-time work.

  The baby was born on a rainy morning.

  My phone rang. The display said it was a payphone but I knew it was Yohei.

  “What is it, where are you calling from?” Jolted by the sudden return to reality, my tone came out sharp and demanding.

  “The hell is your problem, man. You sound like you’re being strangled.”

  “Why are you calling me from a payphone?”

  “Because I’m still at Gran’s. They don’t allow mobiles here. Lots of people with pacemakers and things.”

  “And Dad?”

  “He said he wasn’t feeling too good so he just left. He said there’d be taxis out front so he’d catch one of those and go home. I hope he’s all right. He was kind of pale, I think he was feeling sick.”

  I remembered how ill he’d looked just a few hours earlier when I’d seen him from the window of the coffee shop, but I didn’t have time to start worrying about that. “Exactly how long ago did he leave?” I asked, shaking the notebook impatiently.

  “About ten minutes?”

  “You … Why didn’t you call me right away?”

  “I couldn’t help it. Dad passed the baton to me so I had to look after Gran. I couldn’t leave her alone and make a call in the middle of dinner, could I? It’s hard enough to make her eat as it is.”