Death and the Flower

by Kōji Suzuki

  At that point, Hikuma was turning the corner of the kiosk, and Yoshiaki unexpectedly got the chance to see his face up close. Hikuma was biting back a fit of laughter. Yoshiaki didn’t miss Hikuma trying to hide his puffed cheeks with the newspaper and letting out short bursts of air. The man’s face, which had worn a sullen, moody expression since that morning, was now giddily slack. Had the woman’s distress been amusing to him? Or did he relish the sensation of his cigarette pressing into a child’s cheek?

  As Hikuma fled running from the scene, Yoshiaki turned and started to pursue him. Hardly checking for traffic, Hikuma darted across the street, flailed his arms as he tripped on a bump, and plunged into a park. Yoshiaki walked toward the park as well. Yet, no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t shake off the child’s wails. Even an outbound train thundering into the station couldn’t block out the crying. A baby’s protests were fiercer yet than the chorus of cicadas that would soon be filling the air. Yoshiaki thought of his daughter’s soft cheeks.

  After a brief nap in the park, Hikuma returned to the processing center and didn’t come out for a full hour. He was probably sitting in some waiting area until the photos were ready. Yoshiaki, from his standby spot in the shadow of a fence, saw Hikuma coming out with a plump shoulder bag shortly after 4:00 p.m. He tailed him at a distance of about fifty yards. He wasn’t worried about losing his mark since he knew Hikuma was heading for the station.

  The cars of the inbound train originating from Nishi Funabashi were all fairly empty. Boarding the fourth one from the front, Hikuma flumped into a seat and stretched his legs out. As he had on the way out, Yoshiaki sat near the end of the next car over, positioning himself where he could observe Hikuma through the window.

  The car was only about a quarter full so there was little danger of another passenger blocking his view. A few minutes after the train pulled away, Hikuma abruptly stood up and retrieved his shoulder bag from the baggage rack and put it on his lap. Yoshiaki bent forward, his hips nearly off the seat, to get his face closer to the window. Hikuma opened his shoulder bag’s zipper, took out a bundle of envelopes, and pulled off the rubber band around them. He proceeded to remove the newly developed photos from their envelopes and to stare intently at each one. Yoshiaki pulled himself up to standing and looked down at Hikuma at an angle, his cheek right up against the window. Hikuma was far too absorbed in the photos to notice his presence on the other side of the glass.

  Even though Yoshiaki had tailed him since that morning, he still hadn’t gotten a single chance to hear the man speak. Excepting any exchanges inside the processing center, as far as Yoshiaki could tell, the man didn’t utter a word to anyone. But there was no longer a need for him to speak—Yoshiaki was witnessing the proof of his theory.

  Hikuma brought the photos to eye level and examined each as if glaring at them. When he was done with one envelope, he went on to the next, apparently planning to spend the whole half-hour until the transfer appreciating photography. Yoshiaki felt a chill run up his spine. Hikuma had been looking at other people’s photos ever since starting at the job in the beginning of February. One day, he’d discovered Eriko’s face in there by coincidence. The girl he’d tormented endlessly in junior high … Maybe at first he thought she was someone else who bore a resemblance. Fifteen years could alter one’s face significantly. But something rang a bell in his mind. As bully and victim, they had been no strangers. Next, he realized that there was a way to determine if it was indeed Eriko. He copied down the customer’s number written on the envelope and tried it when he got home. Upon hearing her voice, he grew certain. No mistake, it was Eriko. The victim he’d driven to tears and whose life he’d managed to derail.

  The pictures no doubt featured different compositions and people, but Hikuma continued to probe them with the same lifeless gaze. Yoshiaki tried to surmise what this man might have felt. Upon seeing the girl he’d tormented to hell all grown up, what ripples had disturbed his heart?

  The film Yoshiaki had had developed in early February were of a trip to hot spring resorts over the end of last year and into the new year. They’d spent four days staying at various B&Bs in Izu and visiting hot springs. The camera set on auto, Yoshiaki had his arms wrapped protectively about his heavily pregnant wife’s shoulders. From the photos, Eriko must have appeared unabashedly, innocently happy.

  The film dropped off after the May holidays must have fanned Hikuma’s jealousy even more. A brand new home, the happy expression of an expecting mother, delivery, childrearing … Eriko’s big task, all condensed into thirty-six photos. His former victim’s happy face and lifestyle had unfolded like a tapestry before his eyes. Comparing their respective circumstances, it would have been obvious that their positions had switched. The person he once beat down, made cry, and verbally abused now stood on a higher level and could look down on him. Doubtlessly, he couldn’t bear it. How kind of them to leave their new phone number right there on the envelope. Calling them at their new home was in fact all too easy, a no-brainer, for Hikuma.

  Perhaps due to having observed him since nine in the morning, Yoshiaki could almost hear Hikuma’s thoughts. Having seen how the man had spent the day, Yoshiaki could well imagine what kind of life Hikuma had led up until now. He had to be a weak person. Hikuma likely had no idea just how hard Eriko had struggled to patch up the yawning darkness that had opened inside her and to complete her training as a nutritionist when she’d never even really finished junior high. Instead of dragging others down to her level, she’d crawled up, embarking on a new path to overcome that darkness. Failing to picture that process and merely raging with jealousy in face of the result … Watching Hikuma, what Yoshiaki felt was less hatred than enervation. Just looking at the man threatened to diminish his own desire to face life.

  The Tozai subway train passed across Urayasu Bridge on its way into Tokyo. Noticing the altered sound of the rails, Hikuma looked up briefly from the photos and checked his wristwatch. He was probably estimating the time until his transfer at Nihonbashi. He gazed upward for a while, then shook his head back and forth and retrieved the next photo from the envelope.

  The train sank underground right before Minami Sunamachi station. Nearly every seat in the car was taken. With passengers standing in between them, Yoshiaki didn’t have a clear view of Hikuma without shifting. One stop before Nihonbashi, perhaps having finished looking at all the photos, Hikuma returned the bundle of envelopes to his shoulder bag and stood up. He leaned on a door and started rapping at the glass with his fist. Hikuma continued to punch the same spot with his lightly balled fist until he transferred.

  11

  A light in one apartment switched on within the gloom. The dim, vague illumination spilled from a wood-framed window on the rear of the second floor and seeped onto the downtown alleyway below. After a quick glance around, Yoshiaki confirmed that the only other light came from a room on the north side of the first floor. Hikuma had just now returned to his apartment after getting off work, walked through the entrance, and disappeared into the second floor. Following him with his eyes, Yoshiaki looked up at the apartment and made a note of its location. He then went around to the front entrance and copied down the address.

  “Ota Ward, Haneda 7th Street … Okada Lodgings.”

  Now that he had the address, the guy couldn’t escape. As Yoshiaki sighed with relief, he realized he was hungry. Too engrossed in tracking Hikuma, he hadn’t had anything to eat since nibbling at a sandwich a little before nine. Mentally retracing the route from Anamori-Inari station to where he stood now, he tried to remember if there’d been a suitable eatery. He recalled seeing a Chinese place right around the corner. He turned his back on the apartment building and walked several paces. His stride, however, began to shorten, and he soon came to a halt.

  I’m trying to run away.

  Yoshiaki realized that he was using hunger as an excuse to postpone a confrontation with Hikuma and to procrastinate at some Chinese restaurant. Not doing what he needed to
do at the right moment could lead to never finishing this at all.

  Under normal circumstances, Yoshiaki rarely missed a chance to act. He was blessed with enough dynamism to put his thoughts into action straight away. But after following Hikuma for over ten hours, he was flattened. It was as though Hikuma’s back emitted a powerful aura that negated people’s energy and willpower.

  Yoshiaki took a deep breath and walked into the apartment building.

  Shoes had to be removed at the entrance, forcing residents and visitors to make their way upstairs barefoot in a setup akin to a boarding house. The steep stairwell squeaked as Yoshiaki climbed up, gripping the railing as he went. There were four rooms on each side of a hallway lined with a stained, dark-red carpet. The farthest room on the right had to be Hikuma’s. Yoshiaki stood before it and pressed an ear against the sliding door to discern what was happening inside. He heard a voice. It wasn’t a conversation but a one-sided harangue. Was he making another prank call? Yoshiaki listened intently. Even through the door, he could confirm that it was the same voice as the prank caller’s.

  Fragments of speech reached Yoshiaki’s ear.

  “… moron.… shit doesn’t work … carin’ for that brat … listen … I’ll make you cry … Put you and your kid underwater and … a pool.… Who was the one who bawled …”

  He was calling Yoshiaki’s home. Realizing that right now, at this very moment, his wife was at home listening to this voice and trembling violently, Yoshiaki let his rage get the better of him and flung the door open with all his might. As it was unlocked, it slid freely along the track and slammed into the wooden frame with a bang.

  Hikuma, who was lying sprawled out with the receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder, sprang into sitting as the words died in his throat. Yoshiaki stepped inside the apartment and pressed the record button on the tape recorder hidden inside his jacket pocket.

  “Who were you calling?” Yoshiaki asked before Hikuma could speak.

  Eyes wide open, Hikuma flapped his mouth briefly before voicing a quiet “Oh.”

  “Seems you’ve figured out who I am.” Yoshiaki closed the door behind him and stood blocking the way.

  The lone ten-watt fluorescent bulb above the sink did little to brighten the four-and-a-half-tatami space saturated with cigarette smoke. An empty socket dangled from a lamp cord hanging from the center of the ceiling. Outside, Yoshiaki had spotted the same weak beam given off by the ten-watt florescent bulb above the sink. He glanced around briefly but didn’t note any other source of light. It seemed very much like Hikuma to live under dim fluorescent lighting. The man embraced darkness, and not just inside him.

  Looking cowed, Hikuma returned the receiver to the hook.

  “Who were you calling?” Yoshiaki repeated.

  “How dare you barge in,” Hikuma pouted.

  “You son of a bitch. You’re the bastard who barged in over the phone!”

  Falling silent, Hikuma looked searchingly at Yoshiaki, who still blocked the doorway. The prank caller was sizing up his opponent. Confronted by a clearly hostile man in a small room, the first thing you needed to do was gauge your relative physical prowess. In Hikuma’s case, it didn’t take long for realization to set in. He had no chance of coming out on top against Yoshiaki in a tussle, so he turned his face away, leaned against the wall, and hugged his knees.

  Then he gave an unctuous smirk. “Thought you looked familiar. Weren’t you around Nishifuna today?”

  He probably remembered seeing Yoshiaki once or twice. Without deigning to answer, Yoshiaki knelt on the edge of the carpet, pulled the phone over, and pressed redial to confirm the number Hikuma had been calling.

  The phone beeped out the sequence. The call connected, rang five times, and a machine picked up. Yoshiaki heard his own voice: “Hello, this is the Fukazawa residence. We cannot take your call right now …”

  Yoshiaki pushed down the hook to disconnect the call. “Why do you do this?” he asked.

  Hikuma, still avoiding eye contact, drew his lighter closer. His temple quivered as he lit a cigarette. Yoshiaki, who had been glaring wordlessly at Hikuma, surveyed the room in an effort to calm down.

  It was a dingy place with no private bath or toilet. This had to be the best Hikuma could afford on the less than hundred thou a month his part-time job brought in. The only luxury in his apartment was the touchtone phone, which sat directly on the carpet, the coiled cord tossed into a corner against the wall. Everything had a sense of imbalance. A few t-shirts, briefs, and socks were hung up to dry on a clothesline by the window, underneath which was a cheap metal bed frame. As Yoshiaki’s gaze continued further down, he noted that the beige carpet was covered in countless burn marks that looked like creeping caterpillars. As the burns were concentrated around the bed, it was clear that they were caused by Hikuma smoking in bed. Some marks had burned so deep they went through the carpet to the tatami matting underneath. Below the kitchen sink were empty bottles of shochu gin and beer cans.

  Cigarettes, alcohol, and prank calls, Yoshiaki thought to himself.

  Hikuma, eyes narrowed, took shallow, fidgety drags off his cigarette. He gripped the lighter in his right hand and seemed determined to avoid eye contact.

  The man started to get on Yoshiaki’s nerves to an unspeakable degree. He wanted to punch the guy in the face until he vomited blood. The urge was transmitted from his chest, to his arm, to the tips of his fingers.

  “Say something, dammit!”

  He struck the wall with his fist, causing the cups in the sink to rattle.

  “Say something, like what?”

  The lazy vowels, followed by a sloppy grin. Hikuma repeatedly sparked and clicked off his lighter. If he’d had a knife, he’d no doubt have flashed it. The lighter was standing in for one. Hikuma probably didn’t realize himself that he was drawing on the power of fire to try to intimidate his adversary.

  “Why did you prank call Eriko?” Yoshiaki bit out.

  “No reason.” Hikuma’s smirk didn’t fade.

  “Knock that idiotic smile off your face,” Yoshiaki growled menacingly.

  He could hear a gulp as Hikuma swallowed. “I called ’cause I wanted to. That’s all.”

  “So you’re admitting to placing those prank calls.”

  Hikuma, cigarette in mouth, garbled, “The hell you saying?” His cigarette dropped to the carpet, leaving a new burn.

  “Please, I’m asking you to stop calling us.”

  In response to Yoshiaki’s shift in tone, Hikuma relented a little. “Dunno. I can’t promise anything.”

  “I need you to.”

  Hikuma laughed out loud. “What happens if I don’t?”

  “We’ve already reported your calls to the police. All I have to do next is tell them I’ve identified the culprit and produce this tape.”

  Yoshiaki took out the small recorder from his pocket.

  “I’ve been taping this conversation. It’s clear that you’re the caller.”

  “I never said I made those calls.”

  “You fucking idiot. Did you forget that we have an answering machine? Your voice is recorded on it. Anyone could tell it’s the same voice.”

  Hikuma’s eyes turned grim as he sparked his lighter with increasing frequency. Where previously he’d kept his gaze averted, he now stared tenaciously at Yoshiaki. He looked peeved, seemingly lost in thought, but then suddenly his face went slack. The persistence of the guy’s smirk was unsettling to Yoshiaki.

  “Do not call us again, got it? Or I’ll report you to the police,” Yoshiaki repeated for emphasis, tucked the recorder back into his pocket, and got to his feet. The tape was still recording. He didn’t want to stay in the room any longer. It wasn’t just the gloom or the smell—something about the room made it intolerable.

  When Yoshiaki made to open the sliding door, suddenly that drawling, viscous voice uttered, “Hey, maybe I should just toss your brat out the window, like a ball, ah?”

  Hand still on the door, Yoshiaki
didn’t even turn around. Shaken, he must have stood there for a good ten seconds. Yet, during those moments, the menace Hikuma’s words portended played in its entirety across his mind’s eye.

  Indeed, even if he were to turn Hikuma in to the police, they wouldn’t throw him in jail just for prank calls. He’d probably get a thorough scolding, but that would be it. Yoshiaki was well aware that Hikuma was one to hold a grudge. If he resented Yoshiaki’s actions there was no telling what he might do. He might even throw their baby out the window just as he’d said. He thought he could hear his wife’s tearful screaming. There were many ways to get her to open the front door while her husband wasn’t home. Hikuma would wrestle with his wife, race down the hall, grab the sleeping baby, tuck her under his arm … His wife begging for mercy … Such scenes pulsated in Yoshiaki’s mind; at the same time, rage surged through him. It may have been an empty threat, but as long as Hikuma lived, Yoshiaki and his family would have to live in fear. He knew the man didn’t mean it. He knew that placing prank calls was the most Hikuma could do, that he wasn’t the type to actually take drastic measures. But there was always a tiny chance … Every day during the week from 7:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., Yoshiaki wasn’t at home. At work, even that slight chance would rob him of all focus. Was there no way to remove the danger once and for all?