99
Strange. But the realization that Father was hiding something too, this realization comforted me, that he too, overwhelmed with shaking, had forced it under his skin. At least for a while. It was simply like that, as he said: You must have a goal. You must do your best. You must achieve it. To be happy at some point. Only a little jump was needed. Over to the safe side, over to those who don’t think too much, about how much it hurts to have betrayed others as well as oneself. I wanted to get there, made a run for it, was still running. Would have jumped, had not Kumamoto, the relay runner, passed me the baton of sincerity at the last moment. Admit it. Was that what he shouted? Finally admit it, you suffer from the same illness. My Yes was the door closing behind me. Father’s despair. It came too late. When he stormed into the room bellowing and raised his hand against me, I had long been untouchable. He saw it, I am sure of it. In reality he was the one who shied away from me. He deliberately missed.
Pale evening sky.
The park began to empty. The lights went on. One more minute. Perhaps he would come now. Just then when I stood up. Happy! Stay here! A straining leash. Warm dog’s nose on my neck. Happy! Stop that! Happy! Come here! Happy! Be good! The Shiba did not obey. Again and again he jumped at me and licked my face. Rough tongue. He wagged his tail. I pushed him aside and stood up. Happy! Come! I heard him barking for a long time after I left our bench.
100
A week passed this way. Nine o’clock, I was there. I would see him appear and then have to accept: It wasn’t him. I mistook a high school student, a career woman who smoked, a dancing shadow, for him. I invented stomach pains, the unexpected visit of an old friend, a trip to the mountains, a sudden whim. When I ran out of reasons the rainy season began.
MILES TO GO.
The umbrella I’d left behind stood in the corner. It proved nothing. No voice called out to me. I actually began to doubt whether we had met. Whether I hadn’t, was it possible, invented him, like I’d invented the many reasons for his absence. The tie was the only reliable assurance. I touched it and knew, he exists. A tingling on my scalp. My hair was growing again. In the café, on the other hand, time stood still. The same music. To want a love that can’t be true. Sometimes I wished I could lie flat on the floor and soak it through and through with my tears. No, you don’t invent something like that, something like that is true. I sank down and ordered a cola. Coming right up. With eyes closed I tried to remember his face. But the contours had lost their definition. As with Yukiko and Kumamoto, it was a particular expression I retained. A sad charm. With him it was a sad weariness. When I opened my eyes I noticed that the people surrounding me were mired in this weariness, and we all appeared to be waiting for someone who would set us free. A cold hell we persevered in. Now and again a sentence recurred: You must do something.
It took six more weeks, countless utterances spoken to him, the one who never came, until I found an answer.
101
His business card. I had memorized it. With the address in my head I decided to seek him out at his home, and I didn’t think any further than that point, where I would press the bell, ding dong, and wait for some sound behind the door. The first real decision since I nodded to him. I made it early yesterday. I woke up. In front of me the crack in the wall. If only one were crazy enough to do everything differently. To break out just once. Kyōko. I felt she was connected to me as well. I quickly got dressed. With each movement my decision grew firmer. I would wait for a sound and then. Not contemplate how it would work out. It would work out. I slipped out. The tie in my jacket pocket. I touched it at each corner I passed. It propelled me onward. Into the crowds. Bought a ticket. I had not forgotten how. Crossed the turnstile. Into the subway. His world, day after day, his hand holding the strap. I stood a bit sideways, with bent shoulders, rowed against the current. While everyone went into the city, I went out. I saw the things he must have seen. The billboards. The posters. The garbage cans. Full to bursting. My gaze glanced around, not only mine now, as it observed and was observed. I got onto the train. Father’s shoes everywhere. I repeated the address to myself. Seven weeks have passed. A period of mourning*. Why does that occur to me now? And got out. There is the platform where he had stood, the platform on which he asked himself whether anyone would miss him if he were not there. Nobody there. I slowed my steps. What would I say if the door were to open? Was my hope of seeing him behind it any different from my parents’ hope, right at the beginning, when they thought I would come out and tell them: Everything’s all right? I got on the bus. It drove off. Beside me, on the seat, a book left behind. Proof. Of what? The driver called to me: You must get out here. Hot air engulfed me. I had arrived. A short walk. Then.
102
Tsik-tsik-tsik. The cry of the cicadas. I captured one and released it again. I was walking through a commuter town, a slumbering community. White shirts on the clothes lines, each house like the next. Parched gardens like handkerchiefs. Potted palms. Women and babies. The children were at school, the men at work. Over there! The gnarled root. Cracked asphalt everywhere. The garden gate. I looked up. A window was open. Fluttering curtain. I rang. Now the door would open. Kyōko’s flower pots. The glove. I rang again. From the house next door came gentle piano music, interrupted by the clatter of silverware. Soon it would be midday. I sat down on the curb. Felt: So this is what it’s like. When the door stays closed. So this is what it’s like. When you stand outside and wait in vain for a human sound. The sun burned down. I blinked.
Hello? A bright female voice. She was coming up the street.
Still blinking, I tried to make out her shape. She was coming towards me. I jumped up. Ohara-san?
Yes, that’s me. And you are? Taguchi Hiro? A friend of my husband’s? Please forgive me. He never.
I pulled out the tie.
Or perhaps he did? She pushed open the garden gate, invited me in. She took the tie with a greedy gesture. Two steps at a time. As I took off my shoes in the entrance, I saw his, painfully neat. The briefcase beside them. A sports jacket hung on the hook. It smelled of cigarettes, bittersweet.
103
I followed Kyōko through the hall and into the living room. No rattle on the floor. It was silent. While she put the water on in the kitchen for tea, I sat on the couch, a cushion at my back, and looked around. At home. In front of me was the television. To the left, the sideboard. The snow globes and musical clocks. The ballerina revolved around herself on the side table. The naked lady hung on the wall, her body a knot, and the sailor, a girl beneath his gaze, rising smoke. Pink artificial flowers. A swan with a curved neck. Crystal figurines. A full ashtray. I had a hole in my sock, I curled up my toes. Soft carpet. Books. Stacked in piles. The shelves were full. They could have used a new one.