Coin Locker Babies

by Ryu Murakami

  “Hot, isn’t it?” she said to Kazuyo.

  “And terribly sticky,” answered Kazuyo pleasantly as the old woman spat in her mop bucket.

  “Hey, by the way, you two find anything weird in your toilet?” she asked suddenly. “Those Filipina whores been throwing some pretty strange stuff down the johns. It’s a bitch having to clean them out. Rubbers you expect, but this is getting ridiculous.”

  The elevator had reached the fifth floor, but when Kazuyo and Kiku got off, the woman left her bucket and mop and followed them.

  “Good night, then—we’re pretty tired,” said Kazuyo, trying to slip into the room, but she grabbed her arm.

  “I’m finding these big wads of pubic hair—must be shaving down there. Clogs up the pipes and I have to clean it out by hand. But that’s not the worst of it. A while back I found eggs stopping up one toilet, and I don’t mean chicken eggs. It was frog eggs—these huge frog eggs. Well, I thought that was a bit peculiar, so I did some asking around and found out those Filipina girls keeps the frogs as sort of special pets, real special. Seems they like to stick them up inside themselves… feels good and squishy. But somebody’s got to clean up after them, and what kind of job is that—pulling frog eggs out of a toilet?… Goddamn Filipino hookers and their goddamn frogs… I ask you!” Bursting into tears, the maid held tight to Kazuyo’s arm. Her mascara began to run and black canals formed along her wrinkles.

  At last Kazuyo managed to wriggle free and escape into the room. As Kiku stood for a moment looking at the weeping cleaning lady, he had the disturbing notion that she might be the woman who had left him in the locker. Then suddenly he was almost certain; this body of his—standing here anointed with the ripe scent of strippers, the ooze of cacao fizz, the aura of beggars, puke, and noise—probably had come from the belly of that broken-down old charwoman.

  All night they could hardly sleep for the giggling and groaning in the rooms on either side, and as they lay in the dark, wide awake, Kiku insisted they find another hotel first thing in the morning.

  “This place is full of creeps,” he muttered.

  “Yes, let’s move,” said Kazuyo, tossing and turning and finally drifting off with both arms wrapped around her head.

  In the morning they went to the police station, but since there was no news of Hashi, all they could do was reconfirm the missing persons report. It was hours till the appointment with the waiter from the bar, so Kazuyo suggested they see a movie and then go out for dinner.

  “Let’s find the best restaurant in town, better than any place we’ve ever been before,” she said as they strolled beneath a row of dusty trees. “We can’t do anything about Hashi right this minute, and this is the first time we’ve ever been in Tokyo together—and, who knows, maybe the last.”

  They went to see a movie at a big, elegant theater, about a Russian ballerina defecting to America who was forced to choose between love and dancing in her homeland. She had to make her decision while she was performing Swan Lake. To Kiku, she was an idiot: people who don’t know what they want, he firmly believed, never get it. During the last scene, as the heroine was dying in her lover’s arms, Kazuyo was crying out loud. Afterward, they went to an amusement park and rode the whirling teacup and the roller coaster.

  “I used to say I wanted to ride one of these just once before I die,” said Kazuyo, ecstatic.

  At dusk they walked through a park near the Imperial Palace eating ice cream, fed popcorn to the pigeons, and lay on the close-cropped grass. The smell reminded them of the hills back home. As she stared off into the distance, Kazuyo began to talk about her childhood in Korea.

  “Every day, when I got home from school, I’d throw my book bag in the house and head for the fields. About this time of year, the wild strawberries were ripe, and since we didn’t have any candy or things like that, we loved those strawberries. But I was the oldest, so by the time I got home, my little brothers and sisters would always have eaten all the ripe red ones. How many times did I eat myself sick on the green ones?… Someday, when you boys are older, I’d love to take you to Korea.” It was the first time she had ever spoken of her childhood to Kiku.

  “Fine by me,” he said softly, “but I never want to go back to see that orphanage where Hashi and I grew up.”

  “That’s because you’re still young,” she said, staring off into space. “When you grow up, I promise you, you’ll want to see the old places.” Kiku realized then that he knew nothing about his foster mother. He was just about to tell her that he’d take her to Korea himself when she jumped up, brushing the grass from her dress, and pointed in the direction of the palace: some children, using a hook and a piece of string, had caught an enormous, brilliantly speckled carp. As the children must have known, fishing in the palace moat was strictly forbidden, but they probably hadn’t counted on catching anything; so now as they stood with their huge, struggling prize, they were frantically looking around for someone to help them out. The scene was so innocent and charming Kazuyo clapped her hands and laughed with pleasure.

  In the restaurant that evening, surrounded by cool white walls and thick red carpeting, they feasted on things they’d never even dreamed of. A blind pianist in the center of the room was taking requests, and Kazuyo asked for “Morning in the Meadow” as the waiters appeared with exotic dishes: sautéed scallops served in the shell, a chilled soup in hollowed-out halves of cantaloupe, steamed pheasant with currants. Again and again she asked Kiku if he was enjoying the meal, and laughed contentedly when he said he preferred her rice omelettes.

  “You boys certainly are fond of those omelettes,” she said. When the pianist began playing “Morning in the Meadow,” the fork dropped from her hand and fell to the carpet. She bent over to retrieve it, but before she had straightened up again, a waiter had appeared with a clean one and a towel for her hands. Suddenly, as she was settling back into her seat, her shoulders began to heave and she covered her face with the cloth.

  “I know you’re feeling burned-up inside,” she said at last. “I wish you’d tell me if there’s something that’s happened since you came to us to make you and Hashi feel this way. If you told me what we’ve done, I could apologize, try to find a way to make it up to you.”

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but Kiku couldn’t find the words to explain. He tried to remember if there was something in Apples and Hot Water that might do, but his mind drew a blank. He bit into the scallop he’d just put in his mouth and a lump of butter melted on his tongue.

  The street outside the restaurant was full of fortunetellers, and Kazuyo took her place at the end of the longest line to ask about Hashi. A few minutes later, a gang on roller skates came barreling down the street. One girl had grabbed the bumper of a car to hitch a ride, and they sped by, horn and radio blaring. Another skater, out of control, slammed into a serious-looking youth in a student’s uniform just getting out of a cab, and they both went flying. The student recovered first and kicked the skater in the face as he tried to get up.

  “Dumb punk.”

  A fight broke out, and the people waiting in line for the fortuneteller scattered. Kazuyo, however, stood shouting encouragement to the student and his friends who were, it seemed, outnumbered. Just then, one of the skaters darted away from the group to avoid a beating and hurtled in Kazuyo’s direction. He was skating wildly, as fast as he could, and as he came up to Kazuyo his arm swung out and caught her shoulder, knocking her to the ground with a thud. Without thinking, Kiku grabbed him and smashed his fist a few times into his face; then he dropped the limp boy and gathered Kazuyo in his arms. He had seen her hit her head on the root of a tree as she’d fallen, but she nodded woozily and managed to get to her feet. She looked awful, but Kiku was relieved to see her laughing and brushing the dirt from her dress.

  A patrol car appeared and the fight was stopped. Not long afterward, however, Kazuyo was pale, sweaty, and complaining of chills, though she refused to let Kiku take her back to the hotel, despite the fact
that she could hardly stand; she agreed to give up on the fortuneteller for now, but they had to keep their appointment with the young man from the bar. Slowly, leaning on Kiku’s shoulder, she made her way through the streets of Shinjuku.

  The waiter was shaving in the staff room when they arrived. They could hear the noise of the bar through several doors over the buzz of his electric razor. When he finished, he took a yellow bottle of aftershave from his locker, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette in what remained of his tea. Kazuyo lay on the couch with a damp cloth over her face.

  “This cheap-shit lotion burns your skin,” he grumbled, turning to face them. “Well, I think I’ve found your boy, folks.” Kazuyo cried out and tried to get up. “Whoa, lady,” he said, restraining her, “you’re in no shape to go anywhere. Anyway, I think it’d be better if your son here went by himself.”

  She tried to protest, but the waiter insisted that Kiku go alone, explaining that the place was a little rough. Kiku eyed the tiger-and-bamboo design embroidered in gold thread on his shirt.

  “I’ll draw you a little map so you don’t get lost,” he said, taking out a pen and some paper, and explaining as he drew. “It’s around behind Seibu Shinjuku Station. There’s a big restaurant there, the Futatsu-ya. Out front they have this fish tank—you can’t miss it. The place you’re looking for is in the building right across from the restaurant. The first floor is a pinball parlor, but I think it’s closed by now. Anyway, you want to find the stairs—looks pretty much like a fire escape—and go up to a place with a green door. The sign should say Blind Mice. Go inside and tell a middle-aged guy with a lump on his neck—right about here—tell him you want to hear his Lee Connitz records. That’s the password. Look, I’ll write it down so you don’t forget: ‘his Lee Connitz records.’ When he hears that, this guy is supposed to tell you where your brother is. But watch yourself: this is a serious music bar—you know these types—touchy, hard to talk to.”

  A few minutes later, Kiku was staring at skewers of shrimp grilling over coals and the fish tank beyond. It might have been the light, but though the fish—all mackerel—were still swimming around, they looked sluggish, as if they’d been lying in the sun for the better part of a day. Kiku located the staircase and then stood gazing at the cloudy tank a while longer. Two of the fish were clearly dying, and another had a bent backbone, probably some kind of birth defect. As it had grown, the deformed body had apparently put pressure on the gills, and now the fish could barely move. Yet another fish, the victim apparently of its companions’ hunger, trailed ragged strips of its own guts as it swam in diminishing circles in one corner of the tank. A trickle of blood—fish blood turned out to be gray in the water—was escaping from the wound, mixing with the general slime to cloud the tank.

  There was no sign on the door; instead, “Blind Mice” was carved right into the wood. Inside, Kiku found a room whose walls were completely covered with old records. There were no other customers. On a shelf behind the bar was an impressive tape deck. Just the kind of place Hashi might like, thought Kiku. The squint-eyed man at the counter wore glasses and had a fist-sized lump on his neck. The pores of his skin were so large, Kiku could make out each one individually even in the dim light.

  “If you’re selling theater tickets, we don’t want any,” said the man.

  Kiku took the slip of paper he’d been given from his pocket and read out the password:

  “Uhh… I’d like to hear some Lee Connitz… records, I mean…”

  The man looked startled for a moment and then gave a wide grin.

  “What’s that? Did you say ‘Lee Connitz’? Hey, I’m impressed; for such a young guy, you really know your jazz. Nobody comes in here asking for the old West Coast stuff any more. Well… let’s see what we’ve got in this treasure trove. How ‘bout this little number: a duet with Miles Davis. It’s out of print now in the States, and it never even sold in Japan. I picked it up long ago in New York…

  “You hot, kid? The air conditioner’s broken and it gets pretty steamy in here. Still, makes it feel a bit like summer in the Big Apple. Not bad, huh? Hot night, cool sound…

  “Hey, by the way,” he went on, wiping his steamed-up glasses on his shirt, “you didn’t come in here looking for somebody, did you?” Kiku, who was himself drenched in sweat, tried to answer but the man stopped him. “Never mind, you don’t have to say a thing. And there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve heard the whole story. They tell me you’re a pole vaulter; that for real?” Kiku slumped onto a stool, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and nodded.

  “So where is he?” he asked.

  “Who?” chirped the bartender.

  “Him. The guy I’m looking for,” said Kiku.

  The man with the lump began to whistle casually as he crushed some ice. “You shouldn’t call him a ‘guy,’” he said. “But don’t you worry, I’ll make a phone call and he’ll be here in half an hour. I already told him you’d be coming today, and he was pretty happy to hear it. He said it’s been a long time. But you have to do these things at the customer’s convenience, so we weren’t that definite about the time. You get me?…” So saying, he went to the phone and, after a brief conversation in a hushed voice, came back to the bar with a wink for Kiku.

  “You know, kid, I like you. You’ve got style. While we’re waiting, mind if I come around and take a seat out there with you?” The skin on the lump strained as he made his way around the bar, and Kiku caught a glimpse of bulging bluish veins. Just like a fish belly full of eggs, he thought, remembering the cold, early morning boat trips with Kuwayama when they had often cut the roe out a fish while it was still squirming and eaten it with a little hot salt water to keep warm.

  The man sat next to Kiku and put his hand on his shoulder. His fingers were hot and trembled slightly. The room was shut tight, and Kiku was dripping.

  “You’ve got a city feel to you somehow,” the man continued. “But it beats me how someone so young could have developed so much style. I bet I know, though: I’d say it’s because you’ve suffered. But, of course, there’s suffering and there’s suffering. I suppose you could say a hick suffers smelling cow shit and rolling around in the weeds all day, but that’s not you. Then there’s the guy who rows a little boat around a fishing port that smells like dirty cunt, just to support his sick mother; but that’s not you either. You’re more like me: born with that big-city sophistication that breeds its own kind of pain… Aren’t you?” As he stopped talking, the man began to run his fingers through Kiku’s hair and along his neck, making little lapping sounds in the sweat as he caressed and stroked.

  “I couldn’t be wrong,” the man went on, “otherwise, why would you be coming in here asking for Lee Connitz. You and me, we’re two of a kind. We’re guys who like noise and good friends, who sit down in front of a juicy steak, rare, of course, and work out how much jogging we’ll have to do—and how much fucking we’ll miss out on—to burn off the extra calories; but we eat the steak!

  “It blows your mind, doesn’t it, a city? You feel yourself—your body, your mind—being worn down, the life being sapped out of you by the energy of the place. It’s that energy blows you away. Guess that’s the best way of putting it: that easy-come kind of pleasure that just sneaks up on you. But I don’t have to tell you any of this. There’s no getting around it, this sleek, crazy energy. Yeah, that’s not bad… ‘sleek, crazy’… right kind of words. It’s a sleek, crazy life; that’s me, that’s Tokyo… that’s you, kid. It’s West Coast, it’s Lee Connitz. It’s this sad, crazy wreck of a city.”

  As he finished his soliloquy, the lump-man plunged his free hand into Kiku’s lap and began to rub, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Kiku looked at the lump, now red and swollen with blood, and realized that the bad feeling he’d had the minute he walked in the bar was right on the mark. Whenever one of these sinister premonitions came true, Kiku thought of a magnet: somehow, the bad feelings started aligning everything around him, giving them an actual shap
e. The sweat, the whining alto sax, the lump, and that hand groping him intently; he decided to put up with it for another ten seconds.

  “You’re beautiful,” the man was saying, “incredibly beautiful. Just relax. They told me it would be your first time, but there’s nothing to worry about. It’s easier than pole vaulting, I can promise you that. The guy who’s coming owns a stationery business. Not a bad guy, in a way, but… don’t laugh… hasn’t got much to work with, if you know what I mean. Smaller than a fountain pen… But that’s good for you, means he probably won’t even get it in… He’s a sucker, I hear, real tongue man.”

  Kiku finished his deliberate counting and then shoved him off the stool onto the floor. As the man tried to retrieve his glasses and scramble to his feet, Kiku grabbed his greasy collar in one hand and the ice pick on the counter in the other. Spinning him around to almost throttle him, he caught the tip of the pick on the lump, drawing a dark ooze of blood and soon a bigger glob of clear, sticky liquid.

  “Don’t!” the man screamed. “I’m sorry! I know it’s wrong! I deserve it, you’ve every right to hurt me, but please…” Suddenly, Kiku noticed that they were being watched impassively by a little girl in pajamas clutching a stuffed turtle. Tiny teeth peeked through her slightly parted lips as she peered out from behind the counter. The whitish pus was running more freely now, down the man’s neck and onto Kiku’s hand.

  Back in the movie district, Kiku scrubbed his hands in a fountain. The white stuff, it turned out, wouldn’t dissolve in water but formed cloudy clumps that sank to the bottom of the pool. As he washed, a drunk lying slumped against the fountain grabbed hold of his leg and asked for a cigarette.

  “Don’t touch me!” cried Kiku, loud enough to turn the heads of people walking by, but the drunk just whimpered and held tight. “Don’t touch me!” he said again, more quietly, and tried to pull free, but the drunk slithered along with him. Then I’ll fuckin’ kill you, Kiku thought, aiming a kick at the man’s head but stopping inches short. He couldn’t help thinking of the lump-man at Blind Mice: these guys are brain-dead; you could kick them or beat them senseless and they wouldn’t lift a hand to save themselves. Probably wouldn’t even feel it. Hurts my foot more than it does him. He dropped three hundred-yen coins at his feet and walked away.