Piercing

by Ryu Murakami

  ‘Hey! What’s going on in here? I’m opening the door!’

  No reply. He pushed the door wide and stepped into the bathroom. And as the steam began to dissipate, the girl materialised on the edge of the tub. She was sitting there completely nude, stabbing herself in the right thigh with the scissors of a Swiss Army knife. When she noticed Kawashima, she gave him a little smile and spread her legs as if to show him the bits of bloody flesh that had caught in her pubic hair. The wounds weren’t very deep, but she had gouged a good deal of flesh from the thigh, and blood was pooled on the tile floor at her feet.

  He instinctively moved to stop her, but at his first step the girl opened her mouth, drew a big breath, and let out a scream that rattled the mirror and chilled him to the bone. After a scream like that, someone might be pounding on the door any minute. He had to show the girl that he wasn’t going to approach any closer. He stepped back into the doorway, and she immediately reverted to her vacant little smile.

  If anyone were to search his bag they’d find the knife and the ice pick. Maybe he should call the girl’s office. There was a telephone receiver on the wall right next to him, but it was for incoming calls only. He took another step back, and the expression on her face underwent an immediate change. Terror showed in her eyes and brow, and she opened her mouth wide and sucked in another big breath. She was going to scream again.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Kawashima said quickly. ‘OK?’ He leaned against the doorframe. ‘Do you understand?’

  She nodded, very slowly and almost imperceptibly.

  I’ll be damned, he thought. She’s scared half to death. Just like the little kids back in the Home. She wants me here, but not too close. She panics if I approach, and she panics if I try to leave. Stabbing herself like that because she doesn’t know any other way to ask for help.

  The girl had been holding the knife down at her side since he’d appeared, but now she raised it and plunged the scissors into the blood-dark meat of her thigh again. It sounded like when you step in mud — splut. She didn’t look at the scissors or the wound but kept her eyes on Kawashima. And just then the telephone rang, giving him such a jolt that his shoulder slid off the doorframe and he nearly fell down. The girl screwed up her face and laughed in a wet, throaty voice.

  ‘Mr Yokoyama? Is everything all right, sir?’

  The call was from the front desk. No doubt someone in a neighbouring room, or a security guard maybe, had reported the scream. Everything’s fine, Kawashima said over the hammering of his heartbeat, trying desperately to sound calm.

  ‘As you may be aware, sir, all our rooms are occupied tonight, and some of our guests are already sleeping, so we would very much appreciate it if you could keep the volume as low as possible when enjoying music or television.’ The man went on to thank him for his cooperation and to bid him a formal and courteous good night.

  What a roundabout way of complaining, Kawashima thought. Somewhere a little kid was getting his brains beaten to a pulp because he’d wet the bed; somewhere a woman who’d broken some arbitrary rule was being taken to a room where unspeakable things could be done to her away from prying eyes; and meanwhile: Is everything all right, sir? Thank you so much for your cooperation, sir — a complaint that sounded more like an apology.

  ‘Who are you?’ the girl growled in her wet voice. He leaned back against the doorframe and didn’t answer. ‘Who are you!’

  He mustn’t say anything. No matter what he said, she would merely shout him down and refuse to listen. She was like a wounded animal. Try to get close and she’d bare her fangs; try to leave and she’d yowl for help.

  Kawashima held his right index finger up to his lips in a silent Shhh. He remembered the way he’d felt when he was first put in the Home, convinced that any adult who came up to him smiling and offering kindly words was the enemy. Right now they’re making nice, he’d tell himself, but sooner or later they’ll be pounding on me, for reasons I won’t even understand. As a little boy, Kawashima had never been able to fathom what it was about himself that made adults so angry, but the thought of being completely abandoned by them was even scarier than the unpredictable attacks. All he’d learned for certain in his few years on earth was that he was powerless, incapable of surviving on his own, and that the people he came into contact with all seemed to despise him. He knew from his own experience that he mustn’t approach this girl, and he mustn’t leave her, and he mustn’t speak directly to her or even answer her questions. She wants help, he thought, but she can’t let down her guard. That’s why she’s staring at me like that, watching my every move.

  When he put his finger to his lips, the girl studied the gesture curiously and let the knife dangle at her side again. Kawashima slowly took off his gloves and dropped them in the wastebasket next to the door. He showed her his bare palms, as if to say: Calm down. Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you. As he did this, and without turning his head, he looked down at her open purse, which was sitting beside the sink. He could see cosmetics, a memo pad, and a small envelope of the sort hospitals dispense medicine in. Handwritten in ink beneath the gothic-style printing that said Shiroyama Medical Clinic — Dr Shiroyama Yasuhiro, Director was the name Sanada Chiaki.

  He mustn’t speak directly to her, even to answer a question, so he needed some sort of intermediary. He lifted the telephone receiver from the wall unit and held it to his ear, tucking his free hand underneath to surreptitiously hold down the hook. The last thing he needed was to connect to an emergency operator while pretending to speak on the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right. Sanada Chiaki is here with me now.’

  He looked over his shoulder at the girl. The hand holding the knife still hung at her side, and she was watching him closely, trying to comprehend what was happening. The first order of business was to get that knife away from her.

  ‘She still doesn’t really trust me. I’m completely on her side, and I’d never do anything to hurt her, but she doesn’t understand that yet.’

  When the man first came into the bathroom, Chiaki had felt her face light up with a smile. This must be him, she thought — the one who always takes me to the hospital. When she began stabbing herself in the thigh, she’d had, as usual, no idea who she was or where she was, and naturally she hadn’t felt any pain. Unfolding the little scissors, she’d remembered wanting to do something fun with them but couldn’t remember what. She knew what she was going to be doing, however. It was what she always had to do whenever that face appeared before her eyes, the face of You-know-who with his bright white shirt. She didn’t know who she was. But she knew what her name was, because You-know-who kept whispering it in her face. Chiaki. My name is Chiaki. I’m someone they call Chiaki. He calls me that, and he’s licking me down there, so there’s no doubt about it — Chiaki is me.

  But who was she? And where was she? That was the question, but the answer didn’t really matter. What mattered was that she needed to be punished. And the one who knew she needed to be punished was the real her. Chiaki was just a name. There was nothing in it. Chi-a-ki — three empty little syllables. Die, said a voice. And it was her, the real her, moving her lips and using her voice to say the word. She was the one telling herself to die — that was all she could be sure of right now. Die, why don’t you? Why don’t you just drop dead, Chiaki?

  How proud I’d be if I could actually kill her, she thought. Stab her in the thigh and hear the skin puncturing, like when you spear a sausage with a fork. But then things get hazier and hazier, and finally you wake up in the hospital. Somebody always takes me there. Kazuki said it was him who called the ambulance last time, but that was a lie. It’s someone I’ve never met, and it definitely isn’t You-know-who. All You-know-who ever did was lick me down there and suddenly start yelling at everybody. I’ve always wanted to meet him, the one who takes me to the hospital. I’ve always hoped to see his face just once, but I never really thought it would happen. He’s somebody very special, a very im
portant person. It’s not so easy to meet people like that.

  And yet, this man just might be him. That’s what she’d thought when he opened the bathroom door, but of course there was no way to be sure. Maybe it’s someone completely different, she cautioned herself. A bad person. Someone who hates me and wants to get rid of me. But she’d asked him who he was, and he hadn’t answered. That was a good sign. A bad man would’ve made up some lie. At least she knew he wasn’t a liar. And now he was saying her name to someone on the telephone. Who was he talking to? The hospital?

  ‘Yes, Chiaki is here. She’s hurt. I want to help her, but she still doesn’t trust me. What? Is that so? All right, then, I’ll put her on the phone.’

  The man held the receiver out to her. Who could it be? She rose unsteadily to her feet, and all the blood that had collected in the wounds washed down her leg.

  The moment the girl was within reach of the receiver, Kawashima made his move. He snatched hold of her right wrist with one hand and prised her fingers open with the other. The Swiss Army knife clattered to the floor. The girl stared blankly at the hand that held her wrist for some moments, as if unable to process what had just happened, and then, suddenly, she was twisting and thrashing and kicking. With a flick of his shoe, Kawashima sent the knife skittering over the tiles to the far corner of the bathroom. He then pivoted behind the girl and threw his arms around her wet body, pinning her own slender arms to her sides. She glared at him over her shoulder with wide, wild eyes, opened her mouth, and took a deep, wheezing in-breath.

  Kawashima clamped his left hand over her mouth before she could scream. There was so little of her that he needed only his right arm to keep her more or less immobile. She was kicking his shins with her bare heels, but feebly, and he scarcely felt it. The problem was the hand on her mouth. Curling back her lips like a cornered dog, the girl bit into the base of his middle finger, where it met the palm. She was biting as hard as she could, squeezing her eyes shut and scrunching up her face, and her teeth broke the flesh and severed a nerve. A sickening chill shuddered through Kawashima’s body, but he fought off the impulse to pull his hand away and began whispering in her ear:

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, it’s all right. I would never hurt you, I would never hurt you.’

  This isn’t my pain! he was shouting inwardly; but it wasn’t working — his finger hurt like hell. He had to hand it to this girl. She was worthy of the ice pick, and she was going to get it as soon as she calmed down.

  ‘Don’t be angry,’ he whispered gently. ‘Don’t be angry. Don’t be angry, everything’s all right. It’s all right, OK? Everything’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  The man’s voice was deep and soft and nice, but he was holding her from behind, and all Chiaki could think was that someone was trying to take control of her. There was a coppery taste and the sticky texture of blood in her mouth. The voice in her ear saying ‘Don’t be angry’ never varied in tone or volume. Don’t be angry, don’t be angry. You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of. And slowly, as the words were repeated again and again, they began to sink in. It was true: she really was angry, and afraid of something. No one had ever pointed that out to her before. She decided it was all right to relax her guard and promptly wilted in the man’s arms.

  Kawashima carried the girl to the sofa and laid her limp body down. Her eyes were half-closed and bleary, her mouth open, her lips and teeth flecked with blood, her breathing faint and slow. He dried her with a bath towel and inspected the scissor wounds. The skin of her thigh was punctured in ten or more places, but the cuts weren’t deep and some had already stopped bleeding. It’s not too late to murder her, he thought. She was lying before him, perfectly still, and the knife and ice pick were right there under the sweatshirt in his open bag. He lightly touched one of her wounds, and she didn’t react in any way. She’s all numbed out, he thought. Stabbing someone in a state like this would be like stabbing a mannequin. She probably wouldn’t even try to scream if he cut her Achilles tendons; she’d probably greet death with this same out-of-it expression on her face. And besides, he ruminated, balling a tissue in his left fist to stop his own bleeding. .

  Besides, she’s one of us. A kindred spirit. Are you going to stab a woman who’s hacked her own leg into a bloody mess and who’s lying there looking like death warmed over? Best to give up on the whole idea. The plan had gone completely awry. His suit was wet, and there was blood on the cuffs of his trousers. He’d taken off the gloves, his fingerprints were all over the place, and his left hand was gouged and bleeding. It would be impossible to hide the wound, and bits of his skin would be stuck to her teeth. No, he’d have to abort and start all over again from scratch.

  He took off his shirt and used the knife to cut out a long strip of cloth. Doubling up a clean face towel, he placed it over the wounds on the girl’s thigh, then wrapped the strip of cloth around it. He was fairly sure this would stop the bleeding. As he changed into the jeans and sweatshirt, he shook his head ruefully: he’d bought a combat knife with a blade as long as his forearm and ended up using it to slice through a cheap shirt instead of a pair of Achilles tendons. The girl’s eyes were closed now, and her naked breast rose and fell slowly with her breathing, but he couldn’t tell if she was actually asleep or not. He got a blanket from the closet and draped it over her.

  After devising a smaller bandage for his left hand, Kawashima wrapped up the knife and the ice pick again. The bundles were fairly bulky, what with all the layers of cardboard and paper and duct tape, and surprisingly heavy. He had to dispose of them somewhere — the farther away the better, ideally, but these weren’t ideal circumstances. Maybe he could just dump them in one of the trash receptacles near the elevator, though on a different floor of course. Then he’d call the S&M club and have them come get the girl. They probably wouldn’t report anything to the hotel or to the police. But since there was no way to be sure of that, or of what sorts of characters they might send to retrieve her, it would be foolhardy to have weapons in the room. He didn’t want to throw away the notes, though. They’d cost him a lot of time and effort, and the thought of starting all over again was daunting. Anyway, having notes was no crime. He’d be all right as long as the knife and ice pick weren’t found in the room.

  Checking to see that the girl’s eyes were still closed, he picked up the vinyl bag containing the two bundles, slipped the room key into his pocket, and stepped out into the corridor. He closed the door behind him and stood there a moment, getting his bearings. Room 2902 was at the very end of the twenty-ninth floor. There was a certain surreal quality to the long corridor, and it took him some time to realise that the faint buzzing in his ears was in fact the sound of a TV somewhere. But merely stepping outside the room, away from the girl, had helped dissipate some of the tension — which perhaps explained why his finger was suddenly hurting like hell again. The gash was a deep one, and his tissue-paper and shirt-cloth bandage wasn’t doing much to stop the flow of blood.

  He was slowly making his way down the corridor when a door opened just ahead and an elderly couple emerged. They were speaking together in English and dressed as if they’d just returned from a round of golf. Kawashima was walking past with his head down, when the woman startled him by flashing a big smile and saying, ‘Excuse me, sir!’

  He felt as if both she and the man were eyeing the vinyl bag and the bandage on his hand, but apparently she was asking him about restaurants. Kawashima’s English was shaky at best, but she seemed to be saying that they’d been told the restaurants in Tokyo hotels were outrageously expensive. Could he recommend a nice place nearby, preferably Italian or Continental? The husband protested that she should ask the front desk or concierge, that it was rude to bother a complete stranger with such things, and gestured for Kawashima to walk on and pay no attention to her, but he too was wearing a big smile. They reminded Kawashima of the sort of eld
erly couple you see in old American movies. He excused himself, ducking his head apologetically, and continued down the corridor towards the elevator, but of course the elderly pair were going that way too and walked along behind him, talking quietly. It would not be good to get on the elevator with these two, he thought. Getting off at any level other than the lobby or the restaurants would strike them as odd, and they might even remember which floor it was. If calling the S&M club should lead to any sort of complication, he couldn’t risk having the ice pick and knife discovered and linked to him.

  He stopped and pretended to search his pockets as if he’d forgotten something. As the couple passed him, he wished them a good evening and did an about-face to head back towards his room. And no sooner had he spun on his heel than he saw the door to room 2902 open and Sanada Chiaki come staggering out into the corridor, completely nude. Kawashima froze, and the vinyl bag nearly slipped from his hand. If he broke into a run, the elderly couple would hear his footsteps and turn to look. And what they would see was like a scene from a nightmare — a thin, naked, blood-smeared Japanese girl with a crude bandage wrapped around her thigh, stumbling down the corridor of their hotel. Glancing back at them, he saw that they hadn’t yet noticed anything and were about to turn the corner to the elevator hall. The girl was slumped against the wall, looking around her in a bewildered way, as if wondering where she was and which way to run.

  The moment the elderly couple disappeared around the corner, Kawashima broke into a sprint. He prayed that no other doors would open before he got to her.

  When she saw the man running towards her Chiaki gave a little squeal. She turned to flee but ran into the wall, scraping her knee on the plaster and falling back on to her rear end. When Kawashima caught up to her she was scrambling to escape on all fours. He bent down to reach under her arms and drag her back to the room, but it was no easy job moving an unwilling woman — petite or not — even a few metres. Pinning her under his left arm, with the vinyl bag still dangling from that hand, he searched his right-hand pocket for the key. As the girl thrashed about, the bouncing bag dislodged his bandage and the wound at the base of his finger began bleeding freely again. He somehow managed to get the key in the lock and to open the door, and just as he tumbled inside with the girl, throwing her to the carpet as if tackling her, he heard another door closing somewhere down the corridor. The pain in his left hand was intense, and his heart felt as if it were going to explode.