There was shelving over the laundry machine with a fluorescent light installed underneath. Hashiba switched it on and peered into the machine. Inside, there were a number of items of clothing that still hadn’t been washed. These were heavier items, like jeans and track pants, and a scoop of detergent had already been sprinkled on top. Something must have happened to Mrs. Fujimura after she’d transferred the first load of laundry into the basket and was about to start a second.
Still leaning forward to gaze into the laundry machine, Hashiba took a step backwards. His heel stepped on something thick and soft. He looked down, and what he’d taken for a bathmat in the dim light was actually a stray garment on the floor. Hashiba was standing on the leg of a pair of denim trousers that must have belonged either to Mr. Fujimura or his son.
The polka dot bathmat was in fact hanging on a nearby towel rack, and two pairs of waterproof slippers were propped nearby. All the footwear in this home seemed to come in units of two pairs.
Hashiba turned on the light in the bathing area and opened the inward-facing folding doors that led inside. The tub was pale pink and seemed much newer than the rest of the home. The Fujimuras had probably had the bathroom redone not long ago.
The tub was in a state similar to the beer glass. The bathwater that had been left when the family disappeared ten months ago had cooled and evaporated, leaving behind a film of hair and dead skin. A layer of mold had grown on top in a mottled pattern only to dry up and die.
Hashiba exited the bathroom and crossed through the hallway into the tatami-floored master bedroom.
It opened up onto a southern-facing veranda that was still warm from the rays of the sun. An old-fashioned wicker chair sat on the veranda, with a hand-knit cardigan draped across its back. Hashiba could imagine Haruko, the wife, wearing the cardigan as she sat in the chair, basking in the sun as she gazed out at the garden. He followed her gaze in his imagination and noticed an insect chirping in the grass outside. Its thin, reed-like voice wafted into the room with a scent of soil as Hashiba turned his attention back to the bedroom.
In between two closet doors was a black Buddhist altar, with a half-used-up candle. The shelf in front of it held a teacup and four medicine capsules neatly lined up, and next to them were two long, smooth stones that had been propped up in the shape of the character for “person,” almost like some sort of religious ritual.
The photograph displayed in the altar was probably of the family’s paternal grandfather. It was hard to tell how old he was in the picture, but his face was the shape of a watermelon seed and his head was completely bald. His wrinkled face bore a striking resemblance to Seiji’s. Since they were father and son, perhaps it was to be expected. With his bald head, the man brought to mind the image of a snake in Hashiba’s mind.
Just in front of the photograph of the Fujimura patriarch was something black and shiny. Hashiba picked it up. It was a leather-bound day planner. The year 1994 was printed on its cover in gold foil, and for some reason the dull glint aroused Hashiba’s curiosity. Given its age, function, and location, it seemed like just the thing for Torii to use for her readings.
One of the cameras shot a view of the table from over Shigeko Torii’s shoulder. The dark brown dining table was strewn with various daily necessities belonging to the Fujimuras: the toothbrushes and the hand-towels and undergarments dried in crumpled clumps that Hashiba had collected; the pencil boxes, pajamas, and Walkman that Kagayama had brought down from the children’s bedrooms.
Torii picked up the objects one by one, holding them to her forehead, sniffing them, observing them, and sorting them into categories. Soon there were four small piles on the table. Based on the fact that there was a toothbrush in each pile, it seemed she had divided them according to their owners. Each pile included roughly three items, four at the most.
That was when Saeko noticed a small, black, rectangular object set off to the side, separate from the four piles.
Behind the camera, Saeko craned her neck, trying to see what the lone item was. A cigarette case? No. It looked more like a day planner. Saeko found herself intrigued by that specific object. Somehow, it struck her as familiar. “Please be as specific as you can about their locations,” Hashiba was instructing Torii, but Saeko was oblivious, focused solely on the black day planner.
Hashiba didn’t just want a vague image — he wanted a detailed description that would enable them to pinpoint a location. A river, a bridge, a lake … He realized that it was unlikely that the four Fujimuras were still alive, but as the director, he wanted his project to help resolve the mystery. If the Fujimuras’ bodies had been hidden somewhere, he wanted his program to lead to their recovery. That was the whole point of featuring Shigeo Torii.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to put Torii under undue pressure or stress. “Take your time now, and relax. Could you tell us a bit about the image you’re getting?” he prompted.
Torii’s breath grew suddenly labored. She clutched her chest, tilting her throat towards the ceiling. Her trembling spread from her fingertips to her hands and arms, and then her entire body, making the table rattle.
The psychic’s body lengthened slightly. Suddenly she sprang out of her chair and darted across the room to the kitchen. She flung open one of the cabinets as if she knew exactly what was inside and removed a bottle of sake. Taking a measuring cup from the counter near the sink, she filled it to brimming and downed the liquid. Then she set the bottle down on the counter top and looked up, turning her head this way and that as her eyes scanned the room busily. The rapid movements of her pupils seemed to suggest a corresponding intensity in the images flashing through her mind. After a moment, her gaze quieted, focusing on a single point.
Meanwhile, Saeko found herself increasingly fascinated by the black book on the table. She leaned towards it, trying to get a better look while the cameras were focused elsewhere. Its black cover was worn and tattered, and the leather was peeling at the corners. Near the top of the cover, it bore a logo inscribed in gold foil that was now mostly worn away.
A familiar logo.
Saeko reached for the book, but her hand froze in mid-air. Was it all right for her to touch it? It occurred to her that her touch might somehow compromise Torii’s ability to get a psychic reading from the object.
But Saeko was certain she recognized that logo. The design was clever and appealing, featuring a semi-circle-shaped boat with a sail shaped like the letter K, inscribed in a circle. The year 1994 was printed beneath the logo — the year chronicled in its pages.
Nineteen ninety-four — the year bore special significance for Saeko.
The cameras were following Torii back towards the table. Quickly, before the cameras focused on it, Saeko snatched up the little book and moved back towards the edge of the room.
“If that’s what you want, fine. I won’t stop you!” a man’s voice echoed suddenly in Saeko’s head.
She flinched, looking quickly from side to side. Was a member of the staff reprimanding her for touching things without permission? But nobody was. It had been a completely unfamiliar voice. Each word had rung out clearly, and Saeko had the distinct impression that she had been given permission to take the book.
The voice lingered indelibly in her mind, dark and ominous, leaving an unpleasant feeling that slowly permeated her body. Slowly, Saeko came to the realization that the voice hadn’t come from an external, physical source. It was an imaginary voice that had been somehow triggered by the act of touching the book. Was it a sign that Saeko was coming to possess powers similar to Torii’s? Saeko didn’t welcome the prospect of acquiring Torii’s ability to derive flashes of insight about an object’s history whenever she touched something.