The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (21 page)

I rinsed my mouth and went on looking at my face for a time.

I can’t find the image, I said to myself. I’m thirty, I’m standing still, and I can’t find the image.

When I went from the bathroom to the bedroom, Kumiko was asleep.

Three days later, Tokutaro Mamiya called. At seven-thirty in the morning. I was eating breakfast with Kumiko at the time.

“I am very, very sorry to be calling you so early in the morning. I do hope I haven’t awakened you,” said Mr. Mamiya, sounding genuinely apologetic.

I assured him that it was all right: I woke up every morning shortly after six.

He thanked me for my postcard and explained that he wanted to reach me before I left for work this morning, adding that he would be most grateful if I could see him briefly today during my lunch break. He was hoping to take an evening bullet train back to Hiroshima. He had planned to have more time here, he said, but something had come up that made it necessary for him to return home as soon as possible.

I pointed out that I was presently unemployed, that I was free all day, and that I could see him at his convenience, be it morning, noon, afternoon, or whenever.

“But surely you must have something planned at some point in the day?” he inquired with the utmost politeness.

I had no plan at all, I replied.

“That being the case, might I be permitted to call upon you at your residence this morning at ten o’clock?”

“That would be fine.”

Only after I hung up did it occur to me that I had forgotten to tell him how to find our house from the station. Oh, well, I figured, he knows the address; he can make his way here if he wants to.

“Who was that?” asked Kumiko.

“The guy who’s distributing Mr. Honda’s keepsakes. He’s going to bring mine here later this morning.”

“No kidding?” She took a sip of coffee and spread butter on her toast. “That’s very nice of him.”

“Sure is.”

“By the way,” she said, “shouldn’t we—or at least you—go to pay our respects at Mr. Honda’s: burn a stick of incense, that sort of thing?”

“Good idea. I’ll ask him about that.”

Preparing to leave the house, Kumiko asked me to zip her dress up. It was a tight fit, and closing the zipper took some doing. She was wearing a lovely fragrance behind her ears—something perfect for a summer morning. “New cologne?” I asked. Instead of answering, she glanced at her watch and reached up to fix her hair.

“I’m late,” she said, and took her handbag from the table.

•

I had straightened up the little room that Kumiko used for work and was emptying the wastebasket when I noticed a yellow ribbon she had discarded. It was peeking out from under a crumpled sheet of writing paper and a few pieces of junk mail. Its bright, glossy yellow was what had caught my eye. It was the kind of ribbon used to wrap presents, the bow tied in the shape of a flower. I lifted it from the wastebasket and examined it. The ribbon had been discarded along with some wrapping paper from the Matsuya department store. Under the paper was a box with the Christian Dior label. The lining inside the box formed the shape of a bottle. Judging from the box, this had been a pretty expensive item. I took it with me to the bathroom and opened Kumiko’s cosmetics cabinet. Inside was a virtually unused bottle of Christian Dior eau de cologne, shaped like the hollow in the box. I opened the bottle’s gold-colored cap and took a sniff. It was the same fragrance I had smelled from behind Kumiko’s ears.

I sat on the sofa, drinking the rest of my morning coffee and collecting my thoughts. Someone had obviously given Kumiko a gift. An expensive gift. Bought it at the Matsuya department store and had it wrapped with a ribbon. If the person who did this was a man, he was someone close to Kumiko. Men didn’t give women (especially married women)
cologne unless their relationship was a close one. If a woman friend had given it to her … But did women give eau de cologne to other women? I could not be sure. One thing I could be sure of, though, was that there was no particular reason for Kumiko to be receiving presents from other people at this time of year. Her birthday was in May. So was our anniversary. She might conceivably have bought herself a bottle of cologne and had it wrapped with a pretty ribbon. But why?

I sighed and looked at the ceiling.

Should I ask her about it directly? “Did somebody give you that cologne?” She might answer: “Oh, that. One of the girls at work had a personal problem I helped her out with. It’s too long a story to go into, but she was in a jam, so I did it to be nice. This was a thank-you gift. Wonderful fragrance, don’t you think? It’s expensive stuff!”

OK, that makes sense. That does it. No need to ask the question. No need to be concerned.

Except I
was
concerned. She should have said something to me about it. If she had time to go to her room, untie the ribbon, tear off the wrapping paper, open the box, throw all three in the wastebasket, and put the bottle in her cosmetics cabinet, she should have been able to come to me and say, “Look at this present I got from one of the girls at work.” Instead, she had said nothing. Maybe she had thought it wasn’t worth mentioning. Now, however, it had taken on the thin veil of secrecy. That was what was bothering me.

I looked at the ceiling for a long time. I tried to think about something else, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. I kept thinking about Kumiko at the moment I zipped up her dress: her smooth white back, the fragrance behind her ears. For the first time in months, I wanted a smoke. I wanted to put a cigarette in my mouth, light the tip, and suck the smoke into my lungs. That would have calmed me down somewhat. But I didn’t have any cigarettes. I found a lemon drop and sucked on that.

At ten of ten, the phone rang. I assumed it was Lieutenant Mamiya. This house was not easy to find. Even people who had been here more than once got lost sometimes. But the call was not from Lieutenant Mamiya. What I heard coming from the receiver was the voice of the enigmatic woman who had phoned me the other day.

“Hi, honey, it’s been a while,” she said. “How’d you like it last time? Did I get you going a little bit? Why’d you hang up on me? And just when things were getting interesting!”

For a split second, I thought she was talking about my recent wet
dream of Creta Kano. But that had been a different story. She was talking about the day she called me when I was cooking spaghetti.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I’m pretty busy right now. I’m expecting a visitor in ten minutes, and I’ve got to get the place ready.”

“You’re awfully busy for somebody who’s supposed to be out of work,” she said, with a sarcastic edge. The same thing had happened last time: her tone of voice changed from one second to the next. “You’re cooking spaghetti, you’re expecting a visitor. But that’s all right. All we need is ten minutes. Let’s talk for ten minutes, just you and me. You can hang up when your guest arrives.”

I wanted to hang up without saying a word, but I couldn’t do it. I was probably still upset about Kumiko’s cologne. I probably felt like talking to someone, and it didn’t much matter who.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t have any idea who you are.” I picked up the pencil lying beside the phone and twirled it in my fingers as I spoke. “Are you sure I know you?”

“Of course you do. I told you last time. I know you and you know me. I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. I don’t have time to waste calling complete strangers. You must have some kind of blind spot in your memory.”

“I don’t know about that. Really, though—”

“Enough,” she said, cutting me off. “Stop thinking so much. You know me and I know you. The important thing is—well, look at it this way: I’m going to be very nice to you. But you don’t have to do a thing. Isn’t that marvelous? You don’t have to do a thing, you have no responsibilities, and I do everything.
Everything
. Don’t you think that’s great? So stop thinking so much. Stop making everything so
complicated
. Empty yourself out. Pretend you’re lying in some nice, soft mud on a warm spring afternoon.”

I kept silent.

“You’re asleep. You’re dreaming. You’re lying in nice, warm mud. Forget about your wife. Forget you’re out of work. Forget about the future. Forget about everything. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it. Finally—Oh, by the way, Mr. Okada, when was the last time you had sex with your wife? Do you remember? Quite some time ago, wasn’t it? Yes, indeed, maybe two weeks now.”

“Sorry, my visitor is here,” I said.

“
More
than two weeks, wasn’t it? I can tell from your voice. Three weeks, maybe?”

I said nothing.

“Oh, well, never mind,” she said, her voice like a little broom sweeping off the dust that had piled up on the slats of a venetian blind. “That’s between you and your wife. But I will give you everything you want. And you, Mr. Okada, you need have no responsibilities in return. Just go round the corner, and there it is: a world you’ve never seen. I
told
you you have a blind spot, didn’t I? You still don’t understand.”

Gripping the receiver, I maintained my silence.

“Look around,” she said. “Look all around you and tell me what’s there. What is it you see?”

Just then the doorbell rang. Relieved, I hung up without a word.

•

Lieutenant Mamiya was a bald old gentleman of exceptional height, who wore gold-rimmed glasses. He had the tan, healthy look of a man who has done his share of manual labor, without an ounce of excess flesh. Three deep wrinkles marked the corner of each eye with perfect symmetry, as if he were on the verge of squinting because he found the light harsh. It was difficult to tell his age, though he was certainly no less than seventy. I imagined he must have been a strapping fellow in his prime. This was obvious from his erect carriage and efficient movements. His demeanor and speech were of the utmost respectfulness, but rather than elaborate formality, this gave an impression of unadorned precision. The lieutenant appeared to be a man accustomed to making his own decisions and taking responsibility for them. He wore an unremarkable light-gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray and black striped tie. The no-nonsense suit appeared to be made of a material that was a bit too thick for a hot and humid June morning, but the lieutenant was unmarked by a drop of sweat. He had a prosthetic left hand, on which he wore a thin glove of the same light-gray color as the suit. Encased in this gray glove, the artificial hand looked especially cold and inorganic when compared with the tanned and hairy right hand, from which dangled a cloth-wrapped bundle, knotted at the top.

I showed him to the living room couch and served him a cup of green tea.

He apologized for not having a name card. “I used to teach social studies in a rural public high school in Hiroshima Prefecture, but I haven’t done anything since I retired. I raise a few vegetables, more as a hobby than anything, just simple farm work. For that reason, I do not happen to carry a name card, although I realize it is terribly rude of me.”

I didn’t have a name card, either.

“Forgive me, but I wonder how old you might be, Mr. Okada?”

“I’m thirty,” I said.

He nodded. Then he took a sip of tea. I had no idea what it meant to him that I was thirty years old.

“This is such a nice, quiet home you live in,” he said, as if to change the subject.

I told him how I came to be renting it from my uncle for so little. Ordinarily, with our income, we couldn’t afford to live in a house half the size, I added. Nodding, he stole a few hesitant glances around the place. I followed his lead and did the same.
Look all around you
, the woman’s voice had ordered me. Taking this newly conscious look at my surroundings, I found a certain coldness in the pervading atmosphere.

“I have been in Tokyo two weeks altogether on this trip,” said Lieutenant Mamiya, “and you are the very last person to whom I am distributing a keepsake. Now I feel I can go back to Hiroshima.”

“I was hoping I could visit Mr. Honda’s home and perhaps burn a stick of incense in his memory,” I said.

“That is a most laudable intention, but Mr. Honda’s home—and now his grave—are in Asahikawa, Hokkaido. The family came from Asahikawa to sort out the things he left in his house in Meguro, and now they have gone back. There is nothing left.”

“I see,” I said. “So Mr. Honda was living alone in Tokyo, then, far away from his family.”

“That is correct. The eldest son, who lives in Asahikawa, was concerned about leaving his old father to live by himself in the big city, and he knew that it did not look very good. Apparently, he tried to persuade his father to come and live with him, but Mr. Honda simply refused.”

“He had a son?” I asked, somewhat taken aback. I had always thought of Mr. Honda as utterly alone in the world. “Then I assume Mr. Honda’s wife must have passed away some time ago.”

“Well, that is a rather complicated story. Mrs. Honda committed a lovers’ suicide with another man after the war. In 1950 or 1951, I believe. The details of that event are not something that I would know about. Mr. Honda never said too much about it, and of course I was in no position to ask.”