Part 3 (1/2)

”h.e.l.l, no. Only to people I feel good about. I like your spirit. They always say that when human beings are extinct, the only living thing left will be the c.o.c.kroach, but that's bulls.h.i.+t. It's the Oba-san.”

As she walked back to her apartment from the karaoke club, Iwata Midori was thinking about her s.e.x drive, or, rather, wondering why she didn't seem to have one. Tonight the Midori Society had met at the usual club with the silvery microphones, and a young sales rep type had flirted with her. She had visited the beauty salon that day and taken extra care with her makeup. All the Midoris prepared in a similar manner for karaoke nights, and they always wore suits or one-piece dresses to the clubs. Iwata Midori wondered if she was the only one who felt such grat.i.tude to the jacket of her suit. It efficiently covered her soft, bulging tummy and love handles, her dark, oversized nipples, and the three Pip Elekiban magnetic patches on her shoulders. Whenever the Midori Society met at a karaoke club instead of someone's apartment, Iwata Midori would spend several minutes trying to decide whether or not to remove the patches, which did so much to relieve the age-related stiffness in her shoulders and neck. She only went to these clubs to enjoy the karaoke and knew perfectly well she wasn't going to meet a man or anything, but-well, you never knew. What if she were to meet someone who was just her type and drink too much and lose her head and end up in a love hotel, and he, helping her undress, were to find the magnetic patches she'd forgotten all about? The shame would be unimaginable. It wouldn't simply be a question of a man she was attracted to discovering her Pip Elekiban. The shame would be in the fact that, just when she'd managed to awaken her s.e.x drive with alcohol, the man would glimpse her reality, thereby becoming a part of that reality, and she'd have to quit pretending there was any real libido at work inside her. she walked back to her apartment from the karaoke club, Iwata Midori was thinking about her s.e.x drive, or, rather, wondering why she didn't seem to have one. Tonight the Midori Society had met at the usual club with the silvery microphones, and a young sales rep type had flirted with her. She had visited the beauty salon that day and taken extra care with her makeup. All the Midoris prepared in a similar manner for karaoke nights, and they always wore suits or one-piece dresses to the clubs. Iwata Midori wondered if she was the only one who felt such grat.i.tude to the jacket of her suit. It efficiently covered her soft, bulging tummy and love handles, her dark, oversized nipples, and the three Pip Elekiban magnetic patches on her shoulders. Whenever the Midori Society met at a karaoke club instead of someone's apartment, Iwata Midori would spend several minutes trying to decide whether or not to remove the patches, which did so much to relieve the age-related stiffness in her shoulders and neck. She only went to these clubs to enjoy the karaoke and knew perfectly well she wasn't going to meet a man or anything, but-well, you never knew. What if she were to meet someone who was just her type and drink too much and lose her head and end up in a love hotel, and he, helping her undress, were to find the magnetic patches she'd forgotten all about? The shame would be unimaginable. It wouldn't simply be a question of a man she was attracted to discovering her Pip Elekiban. The shame would be in the fact that, just when she'd managed to awaken her s.e.x drive with alcohol, the man would glimpse her reality, thereby becoming a part of that reality, and she'd have to quit pretending there was any real libido at work inside her.

But why was she thinking thoughts like these as she walked the midnight streets home? Iwata Midori paused beneath a streetlamp to take some slow, deep breaths and try to sober up. The karaoke club was just outside Chofu Station, an easy walk from her condo. The other four Midoris had piled into a taxi at the station, singing a shrill Matsuda Seiko song. She'd waved goodbye as their taxi drove off, and as soon as she was alone something unpleasant took hold of her. She called this unpleasant something ”harsh reality,” but of course it was really just herself. She walked down the street in front of the station and turned the corner at a narrower, darker street, on the right side of which stood the grounds of a large shrine. The streetlamps were fewer and dimmer here. She pa.s.sed a video store that had recently gone out of business. Separating the shrine from the street was a narrow concrete irrigation ditch, and on her left were darkened houses. Iwata Midori always enjoyed this ten-minute walk to her condo. It was muggy tonight, though, and her underthings began to cling moistly.

She thought about the songs she'd sung, and the slow dance with the young sales rep type. Henmi Midori had shouted into the microphone, ”All right everyone, it's cheek-to-cheek time!” and launched into a ballad in English-she couldn't remember the t.i.tle, but it had a nauseating, syrupy rhythm-and a group of young men had approached their table and asked them all to dance. Some of the young men were better-looking than others, but the sales rep with short hair was the handsomest by far, and he had taken Iwata Midori's hand. ”Waah! Wataa! No fair!” Tomiyama Midori had cried, pus.h.i.+ng out her lips in a mock pout. The one who'd held his hand out to Tomii was young but short and hairy and puffy-faced and looked rather dense. At first Iwata Midori had stood apart from the handsome young man with the short hair, holding his hands lightly, but he knew all the right things to say. He began by asking if she came to this place often. As they conversed, he slowly tightened his grip on her hands, then slipped one hand behind her back and let it wander a little, but his face was so beautiful that it didn't feel creepy at all.

”What a nice fragrance.”

”Complimenting me on my perfume-you're teasing me, right? Teasing the Oba-san?”

”Absolutely not. I don't normally care for perfume.”

”Oh? Why is that?”

”My mother was a d.a.m.n nightclub hostess.”

”You shouldn't talk about her that way.”

”I respect my mother, of course. But you can't make yourself like something you don't like.”

”That's true, I suppose.”

”I do like this fragrance, though. It's the first time I've ever felt that way.”

Iwata Midori became aware of herself standing under a streetlamp, smiling as she reconstructed the dialogue. She couldn't have noticed Yano lurking in the shadows of the dark shrine, breathing quietly.

”What kind of perfume is it?”

”It's called Mitsouko.”

III.

Iwata Midori was a little surprised to find that she remembered practically every word of her conversation with the young man with the short hair. In her mid-twenties she'd been married to a man whose face she could no longer remember clearly. The divorce had been such a foregone conclusion that there was no way even to explain to friends who asked, ”Why? What went wrong?” Not only had she forgotten what he looked like, she couldn't recall if he'd been a trading company man or a securities firm man or Ultraman or what, and couldn't care less anyway. She was unable to remember a single conversation she'd ever had with him. It wasn't that they'd never talked, of course. He was the type of man who liked to talk at noisy sidewalk cafes rather than a quiet bar or a park at sunset or the bedroom at night. He would sit in the sunlight drinking his coffee-refill after refill-and going on and on about all sorts of different things. Not inherently boring subjects like baseball or model trains or board games, but subjects that most people would consider interesting-powerful childhood experiences, for example, or the proper approach to interpersonal relations.h.i.+ps in the workplace, or what exactly were the things that made human life worth living-but Iwata Midori, walking along this dark, empty street, couldn't bring back a single word of any of it. And yet she remembered every detail of the silly, desultory conversation she'd just had with a young man she'd met and danced with at a karaoke club. Part of it, of course, was merely a question of time. Eight years had pa.s.sed since she'd split with her husband, their marriage having drained away as naturally and inevitably as sand in an hourgla.s.s, but it had been only half an hour or so since she'd permitted her dance partner a little kiss goodbye. Time was huge. In fact, maybe time was everything. Wasn't that what they always said? That time heals all wounds (and ”wounds all heels”)? But Iwata Midori wasn't so sure. A lot of songs too were about time solving problems or healing wounds, but the truth was that problems were solved by somebody taking some sort of concrete action, and as for wounds-well, for physical wounds there were white blood cells and whatnot. And for wounds of the heart? The only way to stop obsessing about hurtful things was to focus your energy, and your hopes or whatever, on something else. It wasn't that time did the work for you, it was just that the deeper the wound, the longer it took to heal. Midori was a little surprised to find that she remembered practically every word of her conversation with the young man with the short hair. In her mid-twenties she'd been married to a man whose face she could no longer remember clearly. The divorce had been such a foregone conclusion that there was no way even to explain to friends who asked, ”Why? What went wrong?” Not only had she forgotten what he looked like, she couldn't recall if he'd been a trading company man or a securities firm man or Ultraman or what, and couldn't care less anyway. She was unable to remember a single conversation she'd ever had with him. It wasn't that they'd never talked, of course. He was the type of man who liked to talk at noisy sidewalk cafes rather than a quiet bar or a park at sunset or the bedroom at night. He would sit in the sunlight drinking his coffee-refill after refill-and going on and on about all sorts of different things. Not inherently boring subjects like baseball or model trains or board games, but subjects that most people would consider interesting-powerful childhood experiences, for example, or the proper approach to interpersonal relations.h.i.+ps in the workplace, or what exactly were the things that made human life worth living-but Iwata Midori, walking along this dark, empty street, couldn't bring back a single word of any of it. And yet she remembered every detail of the silly, desultory conversation she'd just had with a young man she'd met and danced with at a karaoke club. Part of it, of course, was merely a question of time. Eight years had pa.s.sed since she'd split with her husband, their marriage having drained away as naturally and inevitably as sand in an hourgla.s.s, but it had been only half an hour or so since she'd permitted her dance partner a little kiss goodbye. Time was huge. In fact, maybe time was everything. Wasn't that what they always said? That time heals all wounds (and ”wounds all heels”)? But Iwata Midori wasn't so sure. A lot of songs too were about time solving problems or healing wounds, but the truth was that problems were solved by somebody taking some sort of concrete action, and as for wounds-well, for physical wounds there were white blood cells and whatnot. And for wounds of the heart? The only way to stop obsessing about hurtful things was to focus your energy, and your hopes or whatever, on something else. It wasn't that time did the work for you, it was just that the deeper the wound, the longer it took to heal.

If I'd been trying really hard not to forget him, I'd probably remember some of the things he said, she thought. Or, then again, maybe not. In school I used to write down things I wanted to remember, things I'd heard or read that seemed really important, and now I couldn't tell you what any of them were. And what do I remember about all those books that made me cry when I read them back in middle school? Nothing. Words themselves aren't that important. Even if somebody says words that shock you, or make you want to kill them, or make you tremble with emotion, the words themselves you tend to forget in time. Words are just tools we use to express or communicate something. Or no, they're not even tools, they're more like means to an end. Maybe words are like money. Money's just a tool for transactions, right? What's important is the thing you buy with the money, not the money itself. So what's important about words is the thing they communicate...which is-what? Or, then again, maybe not. In school I used to write down things I wanted to remember, things I'd heard or read that seemed really important, and now I couldn't tell you what any of them were. And what do I remember about all those books that made me cry when I read them back in middle school? Nothing. Words themselves aren't that important. Even if somebody says words that shock you, or make you want to kill them, or make you tremble with emotion, the words themselves you tend to forget in time. Words are just tools we use to express or communicate something. Or no, they're not even tools, they're more like means to an end. Maybe words are like money. Money's just a tool for transactions, right? What's important is the thing you buy with the money, not the money itself. So what's important about words is the thing they communicate...which is-what?

She was reminded again of the scene in that trashy novel. The adulterous protagonist, before going out for her afternoon rendezvous, had sat at her dressing table applying perfume to her private parts. It was just something in a cheap, soft-p.o.r.n novel, and she'd had difficulty believing that anyone would do such a thing, and yet she still remembered it so vividly. Why would she still remember a chapter out of some third-rate serialized novel she'd happened to read in a magazine long ago? It's not about the words, but about something much stronger than words It's not about the words, but about something much stronger than words, Iwata Midori was thinking, slowing her steps again. At the heart of that much stronger ”something” was s.e.x, to be sure, but s.e.x wasn't just about two people getting naked and tangled up together. A lot of other things were involved, things that make you feel so good you forget who you are, and things that feel so creepy you literally get goose b.u.mps, and things you hold so dear you're afraid to go to sleep, and things that make you so happy you want to bounce up and down-layer after layer of things like that, all mixed up into a sticky mess with the blood and sweat and love juice. Those things got imprinted in your body-not the way the brain remembers words, but engraved or branded on your internal organs. She remembered the anatomy pictures in science cla.s.s all those years ago-the reddish brown liver and red and blue blood vessels, and the nerves like tree roots, and the cells. An emotion occurred, and the nerves threw switches to alter the blood pressure and heartbeat, and electric pulses shot through the cells, so it wasn't just a metaphor-these things got imprinted in a solid, physical, biological way.

Three and a half years I was with that man, and he didn't imprint anything at all on my body. He was like one of those dolls whose tummy you press to make them talk. And the young man with the short hair? Did he imprint something?

”You're not saying I remind you of your mother, are you?”

”Of course not.”

”I am quite a bit older than you, after all.”

”I think age is irrelevant, in a sense.”

She'd been particularly struck by the words ”in a sense.” The young man with the short hair looked at first glance as if he might be somewhat frivolous-interested only in things like fas.h.i.+on, for example-but his subtly nuanced conversation had impressed her. And she felt as if those words had indeed been imprinted on her body. Some part of her had reacted directly to them. It was similar to the sensation of someone's tongue reaching for your throat in a deep kiss, or the p.e.n.i.s being inserted in the act of love. ”Meaning” was something that entered your body.

”What do you mean, 'in a sense'?”

”I think there's either a mutual attraction or there isn't. Maybe it's chemical. Some guys like women with very pale white skin, for example, and others like a darker look. Some like serious, quiet women, and some seem to go out of their way to find women like crazed witches.”

At the words ”mutual attraction,” her body had responded again. Now that she thought about it, though, there were any number of men who used words like that. It was because he, the young man with the short hair, had spoken them, that they'd entered her body. Having reasoned this far, Iwata Midori suddenly sensed that she was on the verge of realizing something important, and once again she stopped beneath a streetlamp. She felt that she finally understood why it was that she remembered nothing about the man she'd spent three and a half years with, locked in the powerful inst.i.tution called marriage. There were things that got imprinted on you and things that didn't. These were different for each individual, but there were things that got imprinted on most people, and things that almost everyone was drawn to-the way all the members of the Midori Society were drawn to Janis Ian songs.

Something tantalizing swirled around in Iwata Midori's head, something that hadn't yet crystallized into coherent thought. It was like the little winged creatures of the night flocking to the streetlamp above her, as if trying to coalesce into a single ent.i.ty.

”Well, I don't feel like anyone's ever gone out of his way to find me me.”

”I'm sure you're wrong about that. Maybe you just didn't notice.”

When the young man had said this to her, she knew there was something she wanted to say in reply, but she didn't know what it was. Now, as she stepped out from beneath the streetlamp, the words she should have said came to her.

It wasn't that I didn't notice. I didn't want want to notice. to notice.

And if, after that, she had said, But what if it were someone like you...? But what if it were someone like you...?

What would have happened then? She gave a self-conscious little laugh and walked on, imagining her own face as it might look if she were naked in the arms of the short-haired young man. The image was by no means unpleasant and even produced a certain dampness in the crotch of her panties, but then a series of other images followed-the strangely shaped bed of some love hotel, the cheap side tables, the hideous tile in the bathroom, the tacky curtains.... And in the end she decided that the young man and her own elusive libido would never have meshed. As soon as she decided that, she drew once again to a halt, her heart pounding. Wasn't this exactly what she'd been trying to get at? She'd simply never found anyone whose libido meshed with her own!

Such was the epiphany she was experiencing, when an oddly shaped black thing materialized before her eyes. It was the Tokarev, and it was in Yano's hand. Who are you? Who are you? Iwata Midori was about to ask when the black thing spat out a short Iwata Midori was about to ask when the black thing spat out a short bang bang, and she felt something drill through her face.

5.

A Hill Overlooking the Harbor

I.

It wasn't as if the bullet pierced cleanly through her face. Because it was spinning like a drill, the slug pulled her whole face inward, twisting the flesh as if it were a wrung rag. Of course, Iwata Midori was aware of this for only the fraction of a second it took the bullet to reach her brain, at which point physical sensation ended. Strangely enough, however, though all physiological functions had ceased, her consciousness remained in operation for some moments. She tried to scream: wasn't as if the bullet pierced cleanly through her face. Because it was spinning like a drill, the slug pulled her whole face inward, twisting the flesh as if it were a wrung rag. Of course, Iwata Midori was aware of this for only the fraction of a second it took the bullet to reach her brain, at which point physical sensation ended. Strangely enough, however, though all physiological functions had ceased, her consciousness remained in operation for some moments. She tried to scream: I don't want to die! I don't want to die! It wasn't fair that her life should end before she'd ever found an individual who could unlock her libido. She didn't waste time wondering who'd killed her, therefore, but raged against the fact that she had to go now, so suddenly, with so much left unresolved. And then her consciousness too disappeared in the milky white mist. It wasn't fair that her life should end before she'd ever found an individual who could unlock her libido. She didn't waste time wondering who'd killed her, therefore, but raged against the fact that she had to go now, so suddenly, with so much left unresolved. And then her consciousness too disappeared in the milky white mist.

Yano, sniffing the gunpowder on his hand, gazed at the splattered blood and the scattered bits of bone and brain tissue for some time, then whispered, ”Ready, set, GO!” and began running as fast as he could.