13



The Waiting Man
*
What Couldn't Be Shaken Off
*
No Man Is an Island



Eight o'clock went by and everything was dark when I opened the back gate and stepped
out into the alley. I had to squeeze through sideways. Less than three feet high, the gate had
been cleverly camouflaged in the corner of the fence so as to be undetectable from the
outside. The alley emerged from the night, illuminated as always by the cold white light of the
mercury lamp in the garden of May Kasahara's house.
I clicked the gate shut and slipped down the alley. Through one fence after another, I
caught glimpses of people in their dining rooms and living rooms, eating and watching TV
dramas. Food smells drifted into the alley through kitchen windows and exhaust fans. One
teenage boy was practicing a fast passage on his electric guitar, with the volume turned down.
In a second-floor window, a tiny girl was studying at her desk, an earnest expression on her


face. A married couple in a heated argument sent their voices out to the alley. A baby was
screaming. A telephone rang. Reality spilled out into the alley like water from an overfilled
bowl-as sound, as smell, as image, as plea, as response.
I wore my usual tennis shoes to keep my steps silent. My pace could be neither too fast
nor too slow. The important thing was not to attract people's attention, not to let that "reality"
pick up on my passing presence. I knew all the corners, all the obstructions. Even in the dark I
could slip down the alley without bumping into anything. When I finally reached the back of
my house, I stopped, looked around, and climbed over the low wall.
The house crouched silently in the darkness like the shell of a giant animal. I unlocked the
kitchen door, turned on the light, and changed the cat's water. I took a can of cat food from
the cabinet and opened it. Mackerel heard the sound and appeared from nowhere. He rubbed
his head against my leg a few times, then started to tear into his food. While he was eating, I
took a cold beer from the refrigerator. I always had supper in the "residence"-something that
Cinnamon had prepared for me-and so the most I ever had here was a salad or a slice of
cheese. Drinking my beer, I took the cat on my knees and confirmed his warmth and softness
with my hands. Having spent the day in separate places, we both confirmed the fact that we
were home.



Tonight, however, when I slipped my shoes off and reached out to turn the kitchen light
on, I felt a presence. I stopped my hand in the darkness and listened, inhaling quietly. I heard
nothing, but I caught the faint scent of tobacco. There was someone in the house, someone
waiting for me to come home, someone who, a few moments earlier, had probably given up
the struggle and lit a cigarette, taking no more than a few puffs and opening a window to let
the smoke out, but still the smell remained. This could not be a person I knew. The house was
still locked up, and I didn't know anyone who smoked, aside from Nutmeg Akasaka, who
would hardly be waiting in the dark if she wanted to see me.
Instinctively, my hand reached out in the darkness, feeling for the bat. But it was no
longer there. It was at the bottom of the well now. The sound my heart had started making
was almost unreal, as if the heart itself had escaped from my chest and was beating beside my
ear. I tried to keep my breathing regular. I probably didn't need the bat. If someone was here
to hurt me, he wouldn't be sitting around inside. Still, my palms were itching with
anticipation. My hands were seeking the touch of the bat. Mackerel came from somewhere in
the darkness and, as usual, started meowing and rubbing his head against my leg. But he was
not as hungry as always. I could tell from the sounds he made. I reached out and turned on the
kitchen light.
"Sorry, but I went ahead and gave the cat his supper," said the man on the living room
sofa, with an easy lilt to his voice. "I've been waiting a very long time for you, Mr. Okada,
and the cat was all over my feet and meowing, so-hope you don't mind-I found a can of cat
food in the cabinet and gave it to him. Tell you the truth, I'm not very good with cats."
He showed no sign of standing up. I watched him sitting there and said nothing.
"I'm sure this was quite a shock to you-finding somebody in your house, waiting for you
in the dark. I'm sorry. Really. But if I had turned the light on, you might not have come in.
I'm not here to do you any harm, believe me, so you don't have to look at me that way. I just
need to have a little talk with you."
He was a short man, dressed in a suit. It was hard to guess his height with him seated, but
he couldn't have been five feet tall. Somewhere between forty-five and fifty years old, he
looked like a chubby little frog with a bald head-a definite A in May Kasahara's classification
system. He did have a few clumps of hair clinging to his scalp over his ears, but their oddly
shaped black presence made the bare area stand out all the more. He had a large nose, which


may have been somewhat blocked, judging from the way it expanded and contracted like a
bellows with each noisy breath he took. Atop that nose sat a pair of thick-looking wire-rim
glasses. He had a way of pronouncing certain words so that his upper lip would curl, revealing
a mouthful of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. He was, without question, one of the ugliest
human beings I had ever encountered. And not just physically ugly: there was a certain
clammy weirdness about him that I could not put into words-the sort of feeling you get when
your hand brushes against some big, strange bug in the darkness. He looked less like an actual
human being than like something from a long-forgotten nightmare.
"Do you mind if I have a smoke?" he asked. "I was trying not to before, but sitting and
waiting without a cigarette is like torture. It's a very bad habit."
Finding it difficult to speak, I simply nodded. The strange-looking man took an unfiltered
Peace from his jacket pocket, put it between his lips, and made a loud, dry scratching sound as
he lit it with a match. Then he picked up the empty cat food can at his feet and dropped the
match into it. So he had been using the can as an ashtray. He sucked the smoke into his lungs
with obvious pleasure, drawing his thick eyebrows into one shaggy line and letting out little
moans. Each long puff made the end of the cigarette glow bright red like burning coal. I
opened the patio door and let the outside air in. A light rain was falling. I couldn't see it or
hear it, but I knew it was raining from the smell.
The man had on a brown suit, white shirt, and red tie, all of the same degree of cheapness,
and all worn out to the same degree. The color of the suit was reminiscent of an amateur paint
job on an old jalopy. The deep wrinkles in the pants and jacket looked as permanent as valleys
in an aerial photograph. The white shirt had taken on a yellow tinge, and one button on the
chest was ready to fall off. It also looked one or two sizes too small, with its top button open
and the collar crooked. The tie, with its strange pattern of ill-formed ectoplasm, looked as if it
had been left in place since the days of the Osmond Brothers. Anyone looking at him would
have seen immediately that this was a man who paid absolutely no attention to the
phenomenon of clothing. He wore what he wore strictly because he had no choice but to put
something on when dealing with other people, as if he were hostile to the idea of wearing
clothes at all. He might have been planning to wear these things the same way every day until
they fell apart-like a highland farmer driving his donkey from morning to night until he kills
it.
Once he had sucked all the nicotine he needed into his lungs, he gave a sigh of relief and
produced a strange look on his face that hovered somewhere midway between a smile and a
smirk. Then he opened his mouth.
"Well, now, let me not forget to introduce myself. I am not usually so rude. The name is
Ushikawa. That's ushi for 'bull' and kawa for 'river.' Easy enough to remember, don't you
think? Everybody calls me Ushi. Funny: the more I hear that, the more I feel like a real bull. I
even feel a kind of closeness whenever I happen to see a bull out in a field somewhere. Names
are funny things, don't you think, Mr. Okada? Take Okada, for example. Now, there's a nice,
clean name: 'hill-field.' I sometimes wish I had a normal name like that, but unfortunately, a
surname is not something you're free to pick. Once you're born into this world as Ushikawa,
you're Ushikawa for life, like it or not. They've been calling me Ushi since the day I started
kindergarten. There's no way around it. You get a guy named Ushikawa, and people are
bound to call him Ushi, right? They say a name expresses the thing it stands for, but I wonder
if it isn't the other way around-the thing gets more and more like its name. Anyhow, just think
of me as Ushikawa, and if you feel like it, call me Ushi. I don't mind."
I went to the kitchen and brought back a can of beer from the refrigerator. I did not offer
any to Ushikawa. I hadn't invited him here, after all. I said nothing and drank my beer, and
Ushikawa said nothing and drew deeply on his cigarette. I did not sit in the chair across from
him but rather stood leaning against a pillar, looking down at him. Finally, he crushed his butt
out in the empty cat food can and looked up at me.


"I'm sure you're wondering how I got in here, Mr. Okada. True? You're sure you locked
the door. And in fact, it was locked. But I have a key. A real key. Look, here it is."
He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a key ring with one key attached, and
held it up for me to see. It certainly did look like the key to this house. But what attracted my
attention was the key holder. It was just like Kumiko's-a simple-styled green leather key
holder with a ring that opened in an unusual way.
"It's the real thing," said Ushikawa. "As you can see. And the holder belongs to your
wife. Let me say this to avoid any misunderstanding: This was given to me by your wife,
Kumiko. I did not steal it or take it by force."
"Where is Kumiko?" I asked, my voice sounding somewhat mangled.
Ushikawa took his glasses off, seemed to check on the cloudiness of the lenses, then put
them back on. "I know exactly where she is," he said. "In fact, I am taking care of her."
" 'Taking care of her'?"
"Now, don't get me wrong. I don't mean it that way. Don't worry," Ushikawa said, with a
smile. When he smiled, his face broke up asymmetrically from side to side, and his glasses
went up at an angle. "Please don't glare at me like that. I'm just sort of helping her as part of
my work-running errands, doing odd jobs. I'm a gofer, that's all. You know how she can't go
outside."
" 'Can't go outside'?" I parroted his words again.
He hesitated a moment, his tongue flicking across his lips. "Well, maybe you don't know.
That's all right. I can't really say whether she can't go out or doesn't want to go out. I'm sure
you would like to know, Mr. Okada, but please don't ask me. Not even I know all the details.
But there's nothing for you to worry about. She is not being held against her will. I mean, this
is not a movie or a novel. We can't really do that sort of thing."
I set my beer can down carefully at my feet. "So anyway, tell me, what did you come here
for?"
After patting his knees several times with outstretched palms, Ushikawa gave one deep,
sharp nod. "Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that, didn't I? I go to all the trouble of introducing
myself, and then I forget to tell you what I'm here for! That has been one of my most
consistent flaws over the years: to go on and on about foolish things and leave out the main
point. No wonder I'm always doing the wrong thing! Well, then, belated though it may be,
here it is: I work for your wife Kumiko's elder brother. Ushikawa's the name-but I already
told you that, about the Ushi and everything. I work for Dr. Noboru Wataya as a kind of
private sery-though not the usual 'private sery' that a member of the Diet might have. Only a
certain kind of person, a superior kind of person, can be a real 'private sery.' The term covers
a wide range of types. I mean, there are private series, and then there are private series, and
I'm as close to the second kind as you can get. I'm down there-I mean, way, way down there.
If there are spirits lurking everywhere, I'm one of the dirty little ones down in the corner of a
bathroom or a closet. But I can't complain. If somebody this messy came right out in the
open, think of what it could do to Dr. Wataya's clean-cut image! No, the ones who face the
cameras have to be slick, intelligent-looking types, not bald midgets. 'How-dee-doo, folks,
it's me, Dr. Wataya's private sec-ruh-teh-ree.' What a laugh! Right, Mr. Okada?" I kept silent
as he prattled on.
"So what I do for the Doctor are the unseen jobs, the 'shadow' jobs, so to speak, the ones
that aren't out in the open. I'm the fiddler under the porch. Jobs like that are my specialty.
Like this business with Ms. Kumiko. Now, don't get me wrong, though: don't think that
taking care of her is just some busywork for a lowly hack. If what I've said has given you that
impression, it couldn't be further from the truth. I mean, Ms. Kumiko is the Doctor's one and
only dear little sister, after all. I consider it a consummate honor to have been allowed to take
on such an important task, believe me!
"Oh, by the way, this may seem very rude, but I wonder if I could ask you for a beer. All


this talking has made me very thirsty. If you don't mind, I'll just grab one myself. I know
where it is. While I was waiting, I took the liberty of peeking into the refrigerator."
I nodded to him. Ushikawa went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the
refrigerator. Then he sat down on the sofa again, drinking straight from the bottle with
obvious relish, his huge Adam's apple twitching above the knot of his tie like some kind of
animal.
"I tell you, Mr. Okada, a cold beer at the end of the day is the best thing life has to offer.
Some choosy people say that a too cold beer doesn't taste good, but I couldn't disagree more.
The first beer should be so cold you can't even taste it. The second one should be a little less
chilled, but I want that first one to be like ice. I want it to be so cold my temples throb with
pain. This is my own personal preference, of course."
Still leaning against the pillar, I took another sip of my own beer. Lips tightly closed in a
straight line, Ushikawa surveyed the room for some moments.
"I must say, Mr. Okada, for a man without a wife, you do keep the house clean. I'm very
impressed. I myself am absolutely hopeless, I'm embarrassed to say. My place is a mess, a
garbage heap, a pigsty. I haven't washed the bathtub for a year or more. Perhaps I neglected
to tell you that I was also deserted by my wife. Five years ago. So I can feel a certain
sympathy for you, Mr. Okada, or to avoid the risk of misinterpretation, let me just say that I
can understand how you feel. Of course, my situation was different from yours. It was only
natural for my wife to leave me. I was the worst husband in the world. Far from complaining,
I have to admire her for having put up with me as long as she did. I used to beat her. No one
else: she was the only one I could beat up on. You can tell what a weakling I am. Got the
heart of a flea. I would do nothing but kiss ass outside the house; people would call me Ushi
and order me around, and I would just suck up to them all the more. So when I got home I
would take it out on my wife. Heh heh heh-pretty bad, eh? And I knew just how bad I was,
but I couldn't stop. It was like a sickness. I'd beat her face out of shape until you couldn't
recognize her. And not just beat her: I'd slam her against the wall and kick her, pour hot tea
on her, throw things at her, you name it. The kids would try to stop me, and I'd end up hitting
them. Little kids: seven, eight years old. And not just push them around: I'd wallop them with
everything I had. I was an absolute devil. I'd try to stop myself, but I couldn't. I couldn't
control myself. After a certain point, I would tell myself that I had done enough damage, that
I had to stop, but I didn't know how to stop. Do you see what a horror I was? So then, five
years ago, when my daughter was five, I broke her arm-just snapped it. That's when my wife
finally got fed up with me and left with both kids. I haven't seen any of them since. Haven't
even heard from them. But what can I do? It's my own fault."
I said nothing to him. The cat came over to me and gave a short meow, as if looking for
attention.
"Anyway, I'm sorry, I wasn't planning to exhaust you with all these boring details. You
must be wondering if I have any business that has brought me here this evening. Well, I have.
I didn't come here for small talk, Mr. Okada. The Doctor- which is to say, Dr. Wataya-
ordered me to come to see you. I will now tell you exactly what he told me, so please listen.
"First of all, Dr. Wataya is not opposed to the idea of reconsidering a relationship between
you and Ms. Kumiko. In other words, he would not object if both of you decided that you
wanted to go back to your previous relationship. At the moment, Ms. Kumiko herself has no
such intention, so nothing would happen right away, but if you were to reject any possibility
of divorce and insist that you wanted to wait as long as it took, he could accept that. He will
no longer insist upon a divorce, as he has in the past, and so he would not mind if you wanted
to use me as a conduit if there was something you wanted to communicate to Ms. Kumiko. In
other words, no more locking horns on every little thing: a renewal of diplomatic relations, as
it were. This is the first item of business. How does it strike you, Mr. Okada?"
I lowered myself to the floor and stroked the cat's head, but I said nothing. Ushikawa


watched me and the cat for a time, then continued to speak.
"Well, of course, Mr. Okada, you can't say a word until you've heard everything I have to
say. All right, then, I will continue through to the end. Here is the second item of business.
This gets a little complicated, I'm afraid. It has to do with an article called 'The Hanging
House,' which appeared in one of the weekly magazines. I don't know if you have read it or
not, Mr. Okada, but it is a very interesting piece. Well written. 'Jinxed land in posh Setagaya
residential neighborhood. Many people met untimely deaths there over the years. What
mystery man has recently bought the place? What is going on behind that high fence? One
riddle after another
"Anyhow, Dr. Wataya read the piece and realized that the 'hanging house' is very close to
the house you live in, Mr. Okada. The idea began to gnaw at him that there might be some
connection between it and you. So he investigated ... or, should I say the lowly Ushikawa, on
his short little legs, took the liberty of investigating the matter, and-bingo!- there you were,
Mr. Okada, just as he had predicted, going back and forth down that back passageway every
day to the other house, obviously very much involved with whatever it is that is going on
inside there. I myself was truly amazed to see such a powerful display of Dr. Wataya's pene-
trating intelligence.
"There's only been one article so far, with no follow-up, but who knows? Dying embers
can always rekindle. I mean, that's a pretty fascinating story. So Dr. Wataya is more than a
little nervous. What if his brother-in-law's name were to come out in some unpleasant
connection? Think of the scandal that could erupt! Dr. Wataya is the man of the moment, after
all. The media would have a field day. And then there's this difficult business with you and
Ms. Kumiko. They would blow it up out of all proportion. I mean, everybody has something
he would rather not have aired in public, right? Especially when it comes to personal affairs.
This is a delicate moment in the Doctor's political career, after all. He has to proceed with the
utmost caution until he's ready to take off. So what he has in mind for you is a little deal of
sorts he's cooked up. If you will cut all connection with this 'hanging house,' Mr. Okada, he
will give some serious thought to bringing you and Ms. Kumiko back together again. That's
all there is to it. How does that strike you, Mr. Okada? Have I set it out clearly enough?"
"Probably," I said.
"So what do you think? What is your reaction to all this?"
Stroking the cat's neck, I thought about it for a while. Then I said, "I don't get it. What
made Noboru Wataya think that I had anything to do with that house? How did he make the
connection?"
Ushikawa's face broke up again into one of his big smiles, but his eyes remained as cold
as glass. He took a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up with a match. "Ah,
Mr. Okada, you ask such difficult questions. Remember, I am just a lowly messenger. A
stupid carrier pigeon. I carry slips of paper back and forth. I think you understand. I can say
this, however: the Doctor is no fool. He knows how to use his brain, and he has a kind of sixth
sense, something that ordinary people do not possess. And also let me tell you this, Mr.
Okada: he has a very real kind of power that he can exercise in this world, a power that grows
stronger every day. You had better not ignore it. You may have your reasons for not liking
him-and that is perfectly fine as far as I am concerned, it's none of my business-but things
have gone beyond the level of simple likes and dislikes. I want you to understand that."
"If Noboru Wataya is so powerful, why doesn't he just stop the magazine from publishing
any more articles? That would be a whole lot simpler."
Ushikawa smiled. Then he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
"Dear, dear Mr. Okada, you mustn't say such reckless things. You and I live in Japan,
after all, one of the world's most truly democratic states. Correct? This is no dictatorship
where all you see around you are banana plantations and soccer fields. No matter how much
power a politician may have in this country, quashing an article in a magazine is not a simple


thing. It would be far too dangerous. You might succeed in getting the company brass in your
pocket, but someone is going to be left dissatisfied. And that could end up attracting all the
more attention. It just doesn't pay to try pushing people around when such a hot story is in-
volved. It's true.
"And just between you and me, there may be some vicious players involved in this affair,
types you don't know anything about, Mr. Okada. If that's the case, this is eventually going to
include more than our dear Doctor. Once that happens, we could be talking about a whole
new ball game. Let's compare this to a visit to the dentist. So far, we're at the stage of poking
a spot where the novocaine's still working. Which is why no one's complaining. But soon the
drill is going to hit a nerve, and then somebody's going to jump out of the chair. Somebody
could get seriously angry. Do you see what I'm saying? I'm not trying to threaten you, but it
seems to me- to old Ushikawa here-that you are slowly being dragged into dangerous territory
without even realizing it." Ushikawa seemed finally to have made his point. "You mean I
should pull out before I get hurt?" I asked. Ushikawa nodded. "This is like playing catch in
the middle of the expressway, Mr. Okada. It's a very dangerous game."
"In addition to which, it's going to cause Noboru Wataya a lot of trouble. So if I just fold
up my cards, he'll put me in touch with Kumiko."
Ushikawa nodded again. "That about sums it up." I took a swallow of beer. Then I said,
"First of all, let me tell you this. I'm going to get Kumiko back, but I'm going to do it myself,
not with help from Noboru Wataya. I don't want his help. And you're certainly right about
one thing: I don't like Noboru Wataya. As you say, though, this is not just a question of likes
and dislikes. It's something more basic than that. I don't simply dislike him: I cannot accept
the fact of his very existence. And so I refuse to make any deals with him. Please be so kind
as to convey that to him for me. And don't you ever come into this house again without my
permission. It is my house, not some hotel lobby or train station."
Ushikawa narrowed his eyes and stared at me awhile from behind his glasses. His eyes
never moved. As before, they were devoid of emotion. Not that they were expressionless. But
all he had there was something fabricated temporarily for the occasion. At that point, he held
his disproportionately large right palm aloft, as if testing for rain.
"I understand completely," he said. "I never thought this would be easy, so I'm not
particularly surprised by your answer. Besides, I don't surprise very easily. I understand how
you feel, and I'm glad everything is out in the open like this, no hemming and hawing, just a
simple yes or no. Makes it easier for everybody. All I need as a carrier pigeon is another
convoluted answer where you can't tell black from white! The world has too many of those as
it is! Not that I'm complaining, but all I seem to get every day are sphinxes giving me riddles.
This job is bad for my health, let me tell you. Living like this, before you know it, you
become devious by nature. Do you see what I mean, Mr. Okada? You become suspicious,
always looking for ulterior motives, never able to put your faith in anything that's clear and
simple. It's a terrible thing, Mr. Okada, it really is.
"So, fine, Mr. Okada, I will let the Doctor know that you have given him a very clear-cut
answer. But don't expect things to end there, you may want to finish this business, but it's not
that simple. I will probably have to come to see you again. I'm sorry to put you through this,
having to deal with such an ugly, messy little fellow, but please try to accustom yourself to
my existence, at least. I don't harbor any feelings toward you as an individual, Mr. Okada.
Really. But for the time being, whether you like it or not, I'm going to be one of those things
that you can't just sweep away. I know it's an odd way to put it, but please try to think of me
like that. I can promise you one thing, though. I will not be letting myself into your house
again. You are quite right: that is not a proper way to behave. I should go down on my knees
and beg to be let in. This time I had no choice. Please try to understand. I am not always so
reckless. Appearances to the contrary, I am an ordinary human being. From now on, I will do
as other people do and call beforehand. That should be all right, don't you think? I will ring


once, hang up, then ring again. You'll know it's me that way, and you can tell yourself, 'Oh,
it's that stupid Ushikawa again,' when you pick up the phone. But do pick up the phone.
Otherwise, I will have no choice but to let myself in again. Personally, I would rather not do
such a thing, but I am being paid to wag my tail, so when my boss says 'Do it!' I have to try
my best to do it. You understand."
I said nothing to him. Ushikawa crushed what was left of his cigarette in the bottom of the
cat food can, then glanced at his watch as if suddenly recalling something. "Oh, my, my, my-
look how late it is! First I come barging in, then I talk you to death and take your beer. Please
excuse me. As I said earlier, I don't have anybody to go home to, so when I find someone I
can talk to, I settle in for the night. Sad, don't you think? I tell you, Mr. Okada, living alone is
not something you should do for long. What is it they say? 'No man is an island.' Or is it The
devil finds mischief for idle hands'?"
After sweeping some imaginary dust from his lap, Ushikawa stood up slowly.
"No need to see me out," he said. "I let myself in, after all; I can let myself out. I'll be sure
to lock the door. One last word of advice, though, Mr. Okada, though you may not want to
hear this: There are things in this world it is better not to know about. Of course, those are the
very things that people most want to know about. It's strange. I know I'm being very
general.... I wonder when we'll meet again? I hope things are better by then. Oh, well, good
night."



The quiet rain continued through the night, tapering off toward dawn, but the sticky
presence of the strange little man, and the smell of his unfiltered cigarettes, remained in the
house as long as the lingering dampness.