Grotesque (50 page)

My wife died three years ago of cancer. My younger son’s family took care of the funeral. I have no idea if Takashi knows of his mother’s death. My younger son has also cut ties with him. Although he did not understand the reason why, he had to change schools when Takashi was expelled and I was dismissed from the Q School system.

My wife loved Takashi dearly, and she was consumed with regret over the turn our life took. She could never forgive me.

But whether she liked it or not, hadn’t our son introduced his own classmate to customers and accepted the money he got from the transaction? What Takashi did was shameful and 3 i 4

G R O T E S Q U E

deviated from my own sense of values. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that what Takashi did led to my destruction.

Based on an investigation the school conducted, Takashi had earned several hundred thousand yen! He took the money he earned and his license and went out and got a foreignimport car. He sneaked around behind my back, living a wild and extravagant life. He paid Miss Hirata nearly half of the money he pulled in. His behavior was despicable, no better than that of a beast. He was lining his pockets by wounding her body and spirit. My wife and I had no inkling of any of this. We all lived in the same house; how could we have not noticed? I’m sure you find it hard to accept. But when he was at home, my son kept everything secret and acted just as he always had. He lived a double life.

Now I’ve come to the conclusion that Takashi must have harbored some kind of resentment of me, some need for revenge. I was his father, but I was also an instructor at the school he attended. And my feelings for Miss Hirata defy easy explanation. If Takashi had really shared my feelings for the girl, could he have prostituted her like that? To think of calling what he was doing a business is so cold-blooded it makes me tremble with horror. Depriving me of my love for another person and for my enjoyment of my imagination was another way he wounded me. Gradually I began to realize the grievous mistake I’d made in enrolling my sons in my own school.

That is what started it all off. I am responsible, therefore, for everything that happened afterward.

I suppose you could say that mine was a strange fate. I knew that Miss Sato had sent my son any number of letters. At the time, I told Takashi, “Reply in all sincerity.” I said this because I knew he had no interest in the girl. I have no way of knowing if he followed my advice or not. But the fact that Miss Sato developed an eating disorder leads me to wonder if perhaps Takashi was involved. There is nothing I could have done about it, but I do feel pangs of regret for having placed Takashi in the school.

3 1 5

N A T S U O K I R I NO

Mitsuru, dear,

I’m nearly seventy years old, and here I am reflecting on the past, seeing how cruel youth was. It’s not unusual for young people to be overly fixated dn themselves and to exclude others. But the students in the Q system were far worse than most. And it’s not just the Q system that is at fault. Surely, Japanese education as a whole should accept the blame. Earlier I wrote that all I taught students was to think and feel scientifically.

But now I have somethingfar worse to write about.

Not only did I not teach the truth at school, I was beside myself with worry that I would end up burying a different kind of “weight” in my students’ hearts. That was brought on by the fact that I participated in encouraging their belief in an absolute value system, a system in which one sought to outdo everyone else. In a word, I am afraid I advocated a form of mind control. And that is because those students who worked as hard as they could but received no reward for their efforts have been forced to live a life burdened by this weight. Wasn’t this the way it was for Kazue Sato or even for Miss Hirata’s older sister? Both were different from the other girls, but they were no match for you, my dear, when it came to scholastic abilities.

The weight we buried in their hearts was powerless against those who would destroy them. They lacked beauty. And no matter how hard they tried, there was nothing they could do to change that.

Mitsuru, dear,

In a letter that you sent to me earlier from prison you confessed to having been attracted to me. Your letter surprised and gladdened me. To be perfectly honest, while I was teaching you in high school, my heart was captivated by the beautiful Miss Hirata. She was so much more beautiful than any woman I’d ever seen before, that just to gaze upon her filled me with joy. I suppose this is what rendered me powerless in the face of the tremendous weight we all felt—the need to be better than others. Or rather, I should say, the weight became 3 1 6

G R O T E S Q U E

utterly meaningless. You see, natural beauty creates such excitement that the existence of the weight is negated. And once it is negated, the heavier it is to bear. Therefore, Yuriko Hirata was hated just for existing. We could not help but want to run her out of school.

Perhaps what I’ve written is a bit exaggerated. But am I wrong? I do not know. When I spend these quiet days here in Oiwake, I remember bits and pieces about the past. If only I’d done this, that person would not be dead now, I think to myself. Or if only I’d said such-and-such, that person would not have done those things. I am overwhelmed with shame.

Mitsuru, dearest,

I can see the good and the bad in the actions you and your husband took. What you did was absolutely unforgivable. I say this because I believe your religious faith is another problem altogether. Religious faith in and of itself is neither good nor bad. But how could it lead you to believe it was all right to kill other people? You were such a superior student, easily a match in your own way for Miss Hirata. But you lost the power to reason. And Miss Hirata? Did she think she had no other way to survive in this world than as a prostitute, accepting any man who came along and selling herself to him? How is that possible? Was the education she received so easily overturned?

I wrote that I want to throw myself at the feet of Kazue Sato’s family and beg their forgiveness. In the same way I would like to meet Miss Hirata’s older sister and apologize for the horrible mess my selfish whimsy created. A precious life has been lost. It’s such a tragedy.

While I go about my study of insects, I shall remain tucked away here in my frozen mountain fastness. It is for the best, I think. But what shall I do to relieve myself of the mourning I feel for you, my dear, for Miss Hirata’s older sister, and for Miss Said’s family? Ah, I shall never rid myself of this turmoil.

Well, here I’ve gone and written another long and meandering letter to you, just as you have been released from 3 1 7

N A T S U O K I R I NO

prison. Please forgive me. And when you are feeling stronger, please come to Oiwakefor a visit. I should like to show you my fieldwork.

Most sincerely,

Takakuni Kijima

What do you think? Aren’t these letters from Professor Kijima a riot?

It’s a little late to be feeling regret now, but he goes on with his tedious convictions. I really can’t make any sense of them. I’d completely forgotten that Kijima’s son’s name was Takashi. When I saw the name in his letter, I burst out laughing. Mitsuru’s husband is also named Takashi.

Neither one has the kind of looks I fancy. And then Professor Kijima goes and writes that he’s completely forgotten me! “I forget her name, but you must remember her; she was in your class, a fairly drab person.”

Shit! A little rude, don’t you think? And he a former teacher! What a farce! The old fart must be going senile. And now all I am is “Yuriko’s older sister.”

Professor Kijima wrote about the intensification of the individual’s sense of self and the changes in the shape of life-forms and such, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Mitsuru and Yuriko and Kazue didn’t mutate; they simply decayed. A biology professor certainly ought to be able to recognize the signs of fermentation and decay. Isn’t he the one who taught us all about these processes in organisms? In order to induce the process of decay, water is necessary. I think that, in the case of women, men are the water.

• 2 •

The next hearing was a month later. It was to begin at two o’clock, so I asked my boss if I could leave the office early that day. I was a parttimer, and the boss was none too happy about my arriving late and leaving 3 1 8

G R O T E S Q U E

early. But when I told him I was asking because I wanted to go to the trial, he completely changed his tune. “Fine, line. Go on then,” he said, and waved me off. Zhang’s trial was becoming a convenient excuse for getting out of work. But I really did not look forward to attending the hearings. I did not enjoy seeing the prisoners gloomy face, for a start, and trying to dodge the media was getting to be annoying. Still, Mitsuru had made me promise to give Kijima’s letters back to her at the next trial, so I couldn’t very well avoid going. I’m a stickler for following through on responsibilities. And I was eager to see what kind of weird outfit Mitsuru would show up in. Curiosity on a number of fronts drew me to the courthouse.

When I reached the courtroom early, a woman with a short haircut waved me over. She had on a yellow turtleneck sweater, a brown skirt, and a stylish scarf wrapped smartly across her shoulders. I cocked my neck to the side, pretty certain that I didn’t know anyone that well dressed.

“It’s me! Mitsuru.”

That’s when I saw the big front teeth and the bright eyes. What had happened to that strangely outfitted middleaged woman?

“You’ve changed,” I said.

I threw my belongings roughly down on the seat behind me. When I did, I knocked Mitsuru’s purse to the floor and she bent over to pick it up, a frown on her face. Gone was the frumpy canvas bag. This was a black Gucci shoulder bag.

“What’s with the bag?”

“I bought it.”

Didn’t she tell me the last time we met that she had no money? And there I’d stupidly split the bill with her like I had to dole out charity.

With the money she spent on her Gucci bag, I could have bought at least ten of the bags I was carrying. I wanted to chew her out but I just nodded.

“That’s nice. You look well.”

“Thank you. I’ve been feeling a bit more settled.” Mitsuru smiled slightly. “The last time I saw you I was a nervous wreck. I think I’ve grown more accustomed to being back in society, but for a while there I felt like Rip Van Winkle. Everything was so different. The neighborhood had changed, prices had gone up. Every part of me was aware of how different things had become in the six years I’d been away. Actually, I went 3 i 9

N A T S U O K I R I NO

to visit Professor Kijima at his dormitory last week. We talked about all lands of things, and I felt better after that. I’m going to start over.”

“You saw Professor Kijima?”

Why, I wondered, did Mitsuru’s cheeks suddenly redden?

“That’s right. I thought about the letters I lent you and began to feel so nostalgic that I decided to go see him. He was delighted. We walked together through the woods of Karuizawa. It was freezing, but I was overwhelmed to realize there really are such warm people in the world.”

I was shocked. I stared at Mitsuru, as she sat there blushing, and pressed the packet with Professor Kijima’s letters into her hand.

“Professor Kijima’s letters,” she said. “Did you read them?”

“I read them. But I can’t make much sense of them. Are you sure he’s not senile?”

“Why? Because he couldn’t remember your name?”

Mitsuni was perfectly serious—which made me even more annoyed.

“That’s not why.”

“I told Professor that I showed you his letters, and he seemed to grow concerned for you. He was afraid you’d think badly of him for writing the things he did. He’s worried that you’re depressed over what happened to Yuriko.”

“Well, I’m not! Even if I am just Yuriko’s older sister.”

Mitsuru released a long sigh. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but you’ve been warped for as long as I can remember. I feel sorry for you, I really do. I wish you could pull yourself out from under whatever spell Yuriko cast over you. Professor Kijima said what you were suffering was nothing short of mind control.”

“Professor, Professor … you sound just like a broken record. Did something happen with the two of you?”

“Nothing happened. But his words touched a chord in my heart.”

It sounded like Mitsuru was in love with Professor Kijima, just like she had been in high school. There are people who make the same mistakes over and over without ever learning. I couldn’t take any more of Mitsuru, so I turned around and faced the front of the courtroom. Zhang was being led into the room, sandwiched between two guards, his hands in manacles connected to a cord around his waist. He looked over at me timidly and quickly glanced away. I could feel all the others in the courtroom staring over at me. They didn’t want to miss the showdown 3 2 0

G R O T E S Q U E

between the victim’s family and the assailant, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I glowered at Zhang for all I was worth. But Mitsuru interrupted me. “Look over there,” she said as she grabbed my arm. “Look at that man.”

Annoyed, I turned to look. Two men had just claimed empty seats in the spectators’ gallery. One was fat, the other a handsome youth.

“I wonder if that’s Takashi Kijima.”

Takashi Kijima had the same perversely precocious look that I had despised. But what was mortifying was that he was still so attractive and youthful. His body was long and slender: snakelike. And his head was small, compact and nicely shaped. His face had delicate lines, and his nose was high and thin, reminding me of the blade of a finely honed knife. His lips were fleshy, the kind girls would surely find sexy and swoon over. Right, girls like Kazue Sato. But surely he was too young.

Besides, Kijima was never quite as attractive as this boy. I could hardly take my eyes off him. When the judge entered the courtroom, I looked back at the men again and stared at them.

The man I took for Kijima held a duffle coat that he had folded neatly.

When we had to rise for the judge, he got to his feet clumsily. After everyone else had taken their seats again, he still stood there, staring into space. The fat man had to grab him by the arm and pull him down. The bones in his shoulders and the muscles of his chest that I could detect through the simple black sweater he wore were perfecdy balanced. He was at that age caught between childhood and youth where he was growing like a young tree. His face was lovely—the features as becoming for a woman as they were for a man. The shape of his dark eyebrows was beautiful, a perfect arch as if formed by hand. No, this wasn’t Kijima. I was certain.