Coin Locker Babies

by Ryu Murakami

  The concert was over, and with a manic wave of his hand toward the audience, he made his way back to the dressing room, only to find a whole wall of mirrors there, and in them reflected the face of a man who had held sway over a band and several thousand people for the past two hours.

  “Who the hell are you?” he muttered at his own reflection. He felt it wasn’t Hashi staring back at him. Though bleached by hundreds of popping flashbulbs, a smile still played across the face, turning quickly to a look of phony rage, but the mouth hurried on as if the question were urgent: “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my body?… Yeah, ever since then… I used to hate myself, I was a creep, a puny little guy who spent all his time worrying what other people thought of him. But then I realized I’d never become a great singer like that. I was taught how to put on an act, and I was good. Anyone can act in front of a camera, but I was really good. And the act was to pretend I didn’t give a damn what anybody else thought. Evade questions and just keep pounding away at my own opinions, rubbing their noses in bullshit and riddles. Once you’ve got that down, people have to start worrying about what you think… I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point I started growing this other thing inside me, all so people would notice… all so they’d have to listen to what I think.”

  Hashi could remember a story the nuns had read to them back in the orphanage about a man who had made a bargain with a goblin. In exchange for success in business, he had agreed to swallow a horrible little egg that was almost too tiny to see. The egg stuck to the wall of his gullet and made a cocoon out of spittle, eventually becoming a tough little chrysalis that started giving the man the advice he needed to succeed in business: “Why don’t you try holding your head up a little and sticking your chest out when you walk?” “Your best bet is to look the guy straight in the eye when you’re talking to him.” But when the chrysalis hatched and the bug itself began flying around inside the man, the suggestions turned to orders delivered in the bluntest terms.

  That was when the thing living inside me first started giving orders, Hashi told himself: “Cut off your tongue,” it had said. But what is this thing I’ve got growing in there? Some little bug with wings… When I cut my tongue, the bug didn’t feel anything. And when I picked up the tip, it was just a bit of gristle. I remember the sound it made when I squeezed it in my fingers, kind of spongy, and it must have been right then that the bug’s shell cracked; the second I squeezed that bit of my tongue, the bug hatched, wings and all. And now it’s taking over, eating me away to change me from the inside out. It’s the bug that’s going to make the tour a success; that’s why it’s always talking to me, giving me orders. But whenever I ask it anything, there’s no answer, there’s no way for me to talk to it. All I get is a string of abuse from it, the bug telling me I’m weak, the bug promising to make me strong…

  The night the group finished its last show in Kyushu, Hashi announced that he wanted to go home to the island, just for a day or so. Neva thought it was a good idea and wanted to go with him, but Hashi insisted on going alone. The band had a standing rule that off days were devoted to practice, so Neva was sent to make Hashi’s excuses, but instead of the objections she expected, she found that they also thought he needed a rest. It had become a visible strain for him to keep the manic concert atmosphere from overwhelming him, and he hardly answered any more when spoken to. Except for rehearsals, he stayed locked away in his own room, refusing to allow even Neva in to see him. Completely unable to sleep, he had apparently started taking her sleeping pills.

  He wasn’t the only one suffering, however; between morning sickness and worrying about her husband, Neva’s nerves were also shot to hell. She found herself constantly calling in the doctor who had been hired to look after them and asking him about Hashi.

  “Not to worry,” he told her. “Just about any performer will get a slight case of burnout over the course of a long tour. Add to that a natural fear of the responsibilities of becoming a father, and you’ve got a pretty normal reaction. He’ll be fine. You say he wants to take a look around his old stamping grounds? What could be better? That’ll fix him up in no time.”

  Hashi took the train to Sasebo, where he had a longish wait for the bus that would drop him off at the ferry terminal. He decided to go and have a look around a certain department store: the one with the roof garden where he’d been hypnotized all those years ago. Just as he had always found before, Sasebo was a town where the sun never seemed to shine. Along the shadowless streets, he felt as if a wave were being generated by the people passing, the buildings, every feature of the scene. It was something he’d come across before in the other, nameless towns they had visited on tour; not sound or color, not a smell or some vague breeze, but a warping of the space between himself and the people and buildings as the distances that separated them continually expanded and contracted. Yet the city itself hadn’t changed at all. He and Kiku had enjoyed walking along this wide street from the station to the shopping district. In the tinted windows of the dance halls that lined both sides, languid couples clung to one another as they swayed to the music, while flocks of birds wheeled in the air high above the spire of a nearby church. Wherever there was room, someone had set up a stand to peddle fruit or spices or something, and fishmongers pushed their carts between them. Nothing had changed in the cloudy city.

  Hashi decided to make a detour through the market. Near the entrance he noticed a water tank that was writhing with hundreds of eels. He could remember how he used to watch a man wearing white gloves trying to scoop them out in his hands. The process had fascinated him, and he had stayed watching for as long as he was allowed. Once, the man had thrust an eel in front of the boys and the squirming, slimy body had slapped them both across the face. Their screams had sent the adults standing around them into fits of laughter. The eels today had all gathered in one corner and were lined up in the same direction, piled one on top of another, like a woman’s long black hair floating in the bath. Hashi was sure the same thought had occurred to him the last time he’d looked into this tank.

  Leaving the market, he passed a movie theater and then crossed the street. As he cut through a little park, he caught sight of the department store. Once inside, he took the elevator straight to the floor where the restaurant was and ordered a rice omelette, but it was disappointing when it came. Worse, one of the waitresses had started to stare at him, and no matter how hard he tried to avoid her, she was constantly craning her neck around to get a better view. Finally she called another waitress over and whispered something as she pointed in his direction. When they approached his table, he could hear them egging each other on: “You say it.” “No, you say it.” Hashi stared resolutely at his plate.

  “Uhhh, sorry to bother you, but you’re Hashi, aren’t you?” one of them finally managed, her face turning bright red. Hashi wanted to tell them they were wrong, wanted to send them away thinking they’d made a mistake, but he heard himself say something altogether different when he looked up.

  “Yes, I’m Hashi. What can I do for you?” The two girls clapped their hands and jumped up and down.

  “Oooooh! Ya see! I told you it was him!” By this time the other customers were looking. The waitresses had already produced autograph books, and the kitchen staff were peering out from behind the counter chattering among themselves.

  “He looks shorter than he does on TV,” someone said. Hashi signed whatever was put in front of him with a practiced hand. A woman in a kimono came up with her child and spread out a handkerchief for him to sign.

  “Would you mind shaking hands?” the woman asked. Hashi went one better; taking her hand, he gallantly kissed the back of it. At this, there was a general uproar, and the customers and employees—waitresses, cooks, manager and all—came pressing in around his table.

  “Hang on, folks!” he called, standing up and smiling at the crowd. “I’m not going anywhere, so let’s just take our time. How about forming a line, and everybody’ll
get a chance.”

  “Do you like rice omelettes?” asked a shopgirl as she had him sign the back of her sweaty blouse. Hashi nodded, noticing his own warped face reflected on the back of his spoon. The face was laughing.

  A business card was shoved under his nose and a man who introduced himself as a reporter from the local newspaper launched straight into a string of questions while a photographer’s flash went off in intermittent bursts.

  “When will your new record be coming out?” the reporter wanted to know. A girl in a school uniform standing behind Hashi was trying to touch his hair, and the next person in the autograph line was a woman with a dye job who wanted him to sign a pair of panties she’d just bought.

  “I’ll sign ’em for ya, honey,” yelled an old man who had been drinking. “My autograph good enough for you, baby?” Pushed by the crowd, a child started to fall, and its mother, trying to catch it, knocked into a table and sent dishes and bottles flying. One bottle burst as it hit the floor, and the reporter’s suit was ruined.

  “Quit pushing!” someone yelled.

  “So your trip here is strictly personal?” the man continued. The schoolgirls just behind him were taking turns touching Hashi’s hair, while the wall of people on all sides grew thicker. Somewhere a child was crying. Hashi went on signing: autograph books, scraps of paper, handkerchiefs, satchels, shopping bags, wrapping paper, underwear, blouses, hands, jewelry, socks, and so on. His table had begun to list to one side, and flashbulbs exploded again and again in front of his eyes. A pair of glasses fell from the face of one of the hair feelers, sending her diving down to retrieve them from under a crush of feet.

  “Would you say there’s any connection between your concerts and culture in the provinces?” the reporter was asking as the table went into its final dive. The plate with what was left of the rice omelette, spoon still aboard, came sliding by, giving Hashi a final glimpse of that bulging face.

  “Who are you?” he murmured at it.

  “Whatda, whatda, whatda, whatda fuck’s goin’ on here?” roared a young drunk, wading onto the scene at this point. “Whatda… hey, waida minute. You really Hashi?” The funhouse face tumbled with the spoon to the floor where the girl was still groping about in a pool of ketchup for her glasses. “Heeeeeey! You really Hashi?!” the young man went on shouting. His feet squirming on bits of rice, ketchup, egg, and broken lens, Hashi nodded.

  There were fewer ferry boats running to the island than there had been, and the little stand that sold soft drinks and snacks next to the bus stop had been torn down—the stand where long ago the welfare officer had bought Kiku and Hashi a half-melted ice cream. An old familiar sign showing a young girl licking a stick of candy lay buried beneath a layer of dust. The island crouched on the horizon like a sleeping animal.

  Hashi’s reason for going home was simple: he wanted to see the dog. He wanted to see Milk, Kiku’s present to him as a child. He liked the idea that the dog wouldn’t know he was now a famous singer with over a million records sold. He wondered whether Milk would remember him, how the dog would react if the bug inside him really had gained control and he was now someone else. If Milk barked and tried to bite him, then that would decide it: he would give in, become the bug’s slave. But if Milk was the same old Milk, whimpering and rubbing against his leg, then perhaps they could go down to the beach and have a romp together. That was all he wanted; that would probably be enough for him to remember… whatever it was. Maybe he would recall some shining time, long before the bug was born. Maybe.

  Aboard the ferry, nothing had changed: the oily smell you never got used to, the rusty rails, the frayed seat covers, the rumbling of the engine that shook you deep down. The island grew gradually larger until it filled the windows of the cabin, and Hashi came out on deck. The sea was calm, with only the gentlest swell and almost no spray where the bow cut the water. The breeze carried off the stench of oil and brought a salt sea smell in its place. The green lump on the horizon had gradually taken shape, slowly increasing in substance until now it dominated the whole scene. As it loomed nearer every second, with the engines humming in his gut, Hashi found himself groping for some much earlier memory, but what it was he couldn’t think, and all he could call to mind was his first ride on this ferry with Kiku. For a moment, the sticky sensation of the ice cream melting in his mouth came back to him vividly, and his eyes misted over. The ship slowed, and a rope was thrown over to the pier. Halfway up a hill in the distance, the rows of abandoned apartment blocks were visible.

  “I’m home,” Hashi muttered just loud enough to be heard.

  “Milk!” Hashi called as he neared the lane leading up to his foster father’s house. The distance from the paved bus route seemed shorter than he remembered it, the slope less steep, but the left bank was still thick with clumps of canna lilies. At one spot where they had been cleared away, a telephone pole had been put up with a small streetlight attached. Hashi remembered that if you turned to look exactly three steps after the pole, you could see the ocean. He stood looking out over the water for a moment and then retreated to the road. On the right bank some white flowers were in bloom; though he could never remember what they were called, he did remember that just where the smell of these flowers was strongest you came to a kumquat tree, and a little beyond it, if you called out “Milk,” a billow of white fur would come swooping around the corner ahead. Finding the spot, he stood and called the dog’s name again and again, but Milk did not appear. Maybe he’s tied up, Hashi thought to himself. But that wouldn’t stop him barking. Beginning to feel uneasy, he climbed the last few steps to the house.

  The styrofoam press Kuwayama should have been running at this hour was silent. The garden was overgrown and littered with trash. And the doghouse he and Kiku had built was rotting, with ants nesting in the ruins, and Milk’s water dish was tipped on its side and covered with mud. Seeing this, and the fact that the house itself was tightly shuttered, it occurred to Hashi for the first time that Kuwayama had probably moved elsewhere. Still, the name-plate was hanging by the door, and he could see the little metal clips on the gas and electric meters that indicated a recent inspection. In the mailbox he found a notice saying the water supply was about to be cut off. So Kuwayama was still here; he would have to ask him what had happened to Milk. The door wasn’t locked, but when he opened it, the stench made him reel: five parts booze and five parts shit. Rows of empty bottles almost filled the hallway. Whiskey and grain alcohol. Inside, somebody was coughing.

  “Who’s that?” It was Kuwayama’s voice.

  “Me,” said Hashi. For a moment there was silence, and then Kuwayama appeared, headphones lifted from one ear only.

  “Hashi? That really you?” Hashi nodded, and the little radio dropped from Kuwayama’s hand. “They just this minute mentioned your name on the radio. It was that Yumemaru who was talking about you. You two friends?”

  “Who’s Yumemaru?” asked Hashi.

  “He’s that young comedian. You know him?”

  “Know him?—I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Well, doesn’t matter. Come on in! Aren’t you coming in?” Retrieving the radio and turning it off, he took Hashi by the arm and led him into the house.

  “Where’s Milk?” Hashi asked, but Kuwayama didn’t answer.

  “My eyes have gone bad,” he said instead. “Hurts to go out in daylight.” The light in each room was limited to one tiny bulb that did little to dispel the gloom. “Is it dark in here? We can turn on some lights. I’m OK if I wear these,” he said, putting on a pair of welder’s goggles as he switched on the light. For the first time Hashi could make out the contents of the rooms; Kuwayama’s bed was laid out in the inner room, and the family altar for Kazuyo had been set up in the parlor.

  “Business got pretty bad there toward the end, but I had my pension coming to me, so I closed up the workshop a while back. Knew I wouldn’t get much for the press anyway, so I left it out there in the shed… Just the day before yesterday I went ove
r to have a look at your mother’s grave. Bet that’s why you’re showing up here all of a sudden; bet she brought you here.”

  “Where’s Milk gone?” Hashi interrupted.

  “I gave him away.”

  “Who to?”

  “To a guy who works as a guard down at the salt factory. Said he’d make a perfect watchdog, so I gave him away.” Shedding the padded jacket and light kimono he was wearing, Kuwayama pulled a shirt and some pants from a chest and began dressing. “Now you just have a seat and wait for me a minute. I’m going to do some shopping and then I’ll be right back.” So saying he bustled out through the door, leaving Hashi staring at the old clothing spilling from the dresser drawer. He pulled out some things; familiar outfits of tiny shirts and tiny pants, two sets each. To avoid any hurt feelings, Kazuyo had always bought them both exactly the same clothes: two little summer shirts with sailboats on them, two checked cardigans, and two pairs of shorts, one with a large stain on the bottom—the shorts they had worn the day they’d been attacked by the dogs.

  Hearing voices outside, he went to the hallway still holding the shorts. There he found a goggled Kuwayama pointing a finger in his direction.

  “See, didn’t I tell you? There he is. The same Hashi you see on TV.” A dozen neighbors were crowded into the area behind him.

  “Hashi? You sure have done yourself proud!” bellowed the old lady who ran the grocery store. Everyone laughed. Slowly they drew in closer: the young man who had opened a shoe shop next to Kazuyo’s beauty parlor, the fellow who ran the candy store on the main street, the stationer, the cab driver, and all their wives. After the shoe man had shaken Hashi’s hand, everyone else wanted a turn.

  “Welcome home, Hashi.”

  “The whole island’s proud of you!”