Read Last Winter We Parted Online
Authors: Fuminori Nakamura
Last Winter We Parted (2 page)
I FELL ASLEEP in my desk chair. Now I have a headache.
There is still some whiskey in a glass that has been watered down by melted ice. I had started drinking in that bar, and had kept on going even after I came home.
Thinking about how icy the water from the tap is in winter does not motivate me to wash my face. I start up my computer and light a cigarette. It is eleven in the morning. I wonder how long I have been asleep.
I look at the archived materials that have been converted
to digital format. Compared to how he looked when he was arrested, his appearance now is considerably drawn and haggard.
Yudai Kiharazaka. Thirty-five years old. Charged with the murders of two women, and sentenced to death at his first trial. The defendant is currently awaiting his appeal to the High Court. He had been a photographer by profession, but he only worked in fine art, and had mainly lived off of an inheritance from his maternal grandfather.
When he was young, he and his older sister had lived in a children’s institution. Their mother had disappeared, and when the children had run away from their father, who was drunk all the time, they had been taken into protective custody by the police and then placed in the institution. It was unclear whether they were physically abused by their father, but both of them were suffering from malnutrition, so at the very least they had been neglected.
From then the records drop off for a while. It’s unknown how the siblings were raised in the children’s institution. But in due time the sister set out on her own and the brother started working at an auto parts manufacturer’s plant while he went to photography school.
Apparently the Kiharazakas’ mother had eloped when she married their father, and her family had disowned her. Even after she disappeared, there was no sign that she had tried
to return to her parents’ home. The children’s grandmother had died, and their grandfather who was still alive refused to acknowledge his own daughter ever again; it goes without saying that he never recognized the children she had given birth to. But after his death, there were no other relatives to claim his estate, so the two siblings inherited it.
As a photographer, Kiharazaka is rather highly regarded. He has been selected for numerous awards, and four years ago he won a mid-level international competition called the Imre Award with a photo called
Butterflies
. At first glance, it appears to be a composite picture, but it isn’t.
I open up the folder on my computer where I had saved the image. The photograph is a still from a film, and the whereabouts of the original photograph, along with the film, are unknown. The image I am looking at is a digital version that was published in a magazine when he won the award. When I click on the image, my breath catches. No matter how many times I see it, I still find it unsettling.
Countless black butterflies are flying about wildly inside a white room. Like smoke, the butterflies swirl in numerous eddies, seeming to burst from the center of the room and explode outward. Behind the disarray of the butterflies, there is a figure. A woman. But she is obscured by the shadows of such a vast number of butterflies. She is hidden. It is impossible even to tell if she has any clothes on. Or, at first glance,
whether it even is a woman. But it definitely is a woman. I’m not sure why, but
I know that it is
.
“True desire is hidden,” the Russian photographer who nominated the image for the award writes about the photograph. “Like Tarkovsky illustrated in his films, people’s entire lives are motivated by their true nature, which they don’t understand. When people look at this photograph, it inundates their inner selves. I don’t know whether these butterflies represent divine goodwill, or the way that viewers willingly hinder themselves by their desire not to know their true character. When these butterflies disappear, in what way will the world that surrounds the viewers, who now know their true inner nature, be transformed?”
His critique continues as follows.
“The hidden figure appears to be a woman, but it very well may not be. It may not be a man, either; it may not have a gender, or very well may not even be a human being.”
Certainly, it very well may not be a woman. But then, why had I immediately assumed that it was?
“There was a clergyman who prayed to God, asking for peace in the world.”
The Russian critic goes on further.
“And God, knowing what the clergyman really wanted, granted with a smile not world peace, but something more like a naked little girl. If God, all powerful in his cruelty as
well as his purity, had attempted to grant the clergyman’s true wish …”
As I look at the photograph, my heart starts to race a bit. I put the computer to sleep.
Those who saw the original of this photograph on display in a gallery abroad had experienced something similar.
“This photograph looks just like an engraving.”
“Like Van Gogh’s oils, painted with thick brush strokes. Even though this photograph is two-dimensional, it has a physical presence.”
I wish I could see the original. But its location is unknown.
I light another cigarette. Picking up the glass, I down the rest of the whiskey, which has been diluted by melted ice. I don’t stand a chance against this without the help of one thing or another. The image of the photograph is still branded on the black screen of my now-off computer. I shut my eyes, but there it is again behind my eyelids. I move away from the screen.
Other than the desk, I have nothing but a simple bed. There isn’t even a refrigerator in my apartment. It does not in any way appear to be the home of a living being.
How long ago did I lose interest in myself, I wonder.
As if to shake the thought from my head, I open my paper files. I decide to write a letter to Kiharazaka. If I keep meeting with him, I’ll be consumed. First I need to know more about
him. I figure if a send a letter, he’ll probably reply quickly. Disturbingly fast. Like he has been waiting hungrily for it.
As far as interview subjects go, Kiharazaka alone won’t suffice. His older sister is currently living on her own in Ueno. Will I be able to meet with her? It will be necessary.
And then there is Katani, the only person who could be considered Kiharazaka’s friend, as well as the members of K2.
K2. Why had I myself been drawn to a group like that?
“True desire is hidden.”
I try to smile but I can’t.
Like I told you before, don’t jump to conclusions. That’s the only rule I want you to follow.
You’re going to write a book about me. That’s fine. But I’d like you to stop trying to intrude on my mind. Because … for the time being, I’m still human. I may be sentenced to die, but I’m still a human being.
Was that really your game plan? To get me to write it all in a letter? It’s true, I do get chatty in letters. They make me introspective … It’s not a bad idea. You must be a pretty sneaky guy. But I don’t like the one-sided intrusion.
Why don’t we try this. You share something about yourself with me. Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to say. You’re the one who’s so interested in me. What’s more, you’re a member of K2. In short, these are my conditions:
Instead of me sharing what’s inside my mind with you, I want you to share with me what’s inside yours.
You might call it
an exchange of insanity
.
How does that sound? I’m asking the question, but you really have no choice. You know that, don’t you? At any rate, I’ll start by saying a few things.
K2. What was that group about anyway? A bunch of guys who wanted their dolls; calling it a group provided the sense of acceptance they needed. But before I made my way to K2, I was a member of another group, a butterfly group. It was a small gathering of butterfly collectors.
There are butterfly collectors all over the world. Sometimes, people go mad over butterfly wings. And the butterflies, they dance through the air with those maddening wings. But the collectors—they chase after them, acquire them, and save them. One after another, after another. Unendingly.
There are many fascinating reasons for the various patterns of butterflies’ wings—to attract the opposite sex, to mimic as camouflage, to threaten predators, or to imitate poisonous butterflies. The males are the colorful ones, so that they may attract the more modestly patterned females. I bet the butterflies never suspect that their own wings drive other creatures to madness—that is to say, humans who have no relationship with their sphere of life. By the way, the collective noun for butterflies is a rabble. Did you know that?
I’ve seen many magnificent specimens. For example, I saw the collection of an Irishman who was so crazy about butterflies native to Japan that he lived in the mountains of Nagano. His collection was brilliant. The rainbow of butterflies in his shadow boxes seemed to radiate their colors almost explosively. He was very proud to show off his collection when I asked if it was all right to take photographs. But then—I still remember this—before I was finished he made me stop taking photos. It seemed almost as though he felt like I was going to steal his butterflies. As if he were afraid that they would be absorbed into my photographs.
“They fill a void.”
This is what the Irishman said after he stopped me from taking more photos.
“See, have a look. See the space in this shadow box? I can fit three more specimens here. I must fill this void.”
That was a matter of course; however, once this shadow box was filled, he would just start up another shadow box. And fill it. His so-called void.
He was particularly fond of butterflies that have an eyespot pattern on their wings. There are many of these kinds of butterflies. Originally these spots were to threaten birds away, or another theory is that the spots purposely lure predators into attacking their wings—where they will do less damage—rather than harming their bodies. They inspire fear, and seduce … I thought the inner mind of that Irishman must have been quite a morass, for him to be so attracted to those types of butterflies.
I had no interest in mounting specimens. I was simply drawn in by the beauty of their wings, and I had figured if I hung out with these guys, who were collectors, I might come across some unusual butterflies. Photographs were what I was interested in. Photographs of butterflies.
Except there was a problem. It was a problem with the photos themselves.
I wonder if you can understand what I’m saying. Photographs capture a moment within continuous time. There
was this butterfly, this one butterfly that drove me crazy. I caught this butterfly and kept it as long as it lived so that I could take photos of it. But there was no end to it. When I took my eyes away for a single moment, a single second, the butterfly would appear completely different to me.
I would look away from the butterfly.
For that instant, the butterfly was no longer mine
. Or when I photographed it from the right side, I couldn’t capture its left side. That’s why you think it would make sense to film it, right? Wrong. What I wanted was a single moment. I wanted a single moment of that butterfly. Yet for the butterfly, that moment was one of countless moments. And there was no way that I could capture all of them.
I spent entire days clicking the shutter at that butterfly. I must have fallen in love with it. I don’t know. I put it in a cage and kept it, but I was in despair over the fact that I could never completely possess the butterfly. Well, actually, it was probably despair about the way that the world itself works. Why, when a “subject” is right in front of us, are we only capable of recognizing, of grasping, that one small part we see? That butterfly was the reason I was hospitalized the first time. I don’t remember, but apparently I wouldn’t stop taking photos—not even to eat—and when I collapsed, my sister was the one who took care of me. Then I went to the hospital. I was given a psychological diagnosis. Anxiety neurosis, I think it was. In the medical field, I guess they like to be able to put a name to it when people deviate from the norm.
I wonder if I’ve made myself clear about the fact that I have no interest in butterfly specimens. I don’t understand why those guys like to collect and mount them. I mean, they kill the butterflies, thereby preventing any further possibility of their motion. Which means they will never possess the butterflies in their beautiful flight … Do you know what I mean?
K2. What I just described, that’s probably the reason why I shifted my attention from butterflies that move to dolls that don’t move. Then again, I can’t necessarily be sure of that. But doesn’t it make sense? I mean, who can say for sure that dolls never move, that they always appear the same way?
… I’ve rambled on. It seems as though your strategy worked out after all. I certainly do get introspective in letters. And on a night like this …
It’s almost time for lights out. I can hear the sound of doors opening on the floor above me. Since I’ve been here, I’ve learned to figure out what’s going on just by listening carefully. My hearing has grown more acute. It’s as if my eardrums have become integrated with the hard concrete and steel doors. With a sense of hearing like this, if I were to get out of this place, I might not really need to worry too much about my sense of sight. Well … I wonder. Are they really the same?
Soon I’ll hear the sound of footsteps coming this way. So I’ll finish this letter.
Now it’s your turn.