36
May drifted past, slow as clouds. It had been two and a half months since I'd worked. Fewer and fewer work calls came in. The trade was gradually forgetting about me. To be sure, no work, no money coming in, but I still had plenty in my account. I didn't lead an expensive life. I did my own cooking and washing, didn't spend a lot. No loans, no fancy tastes in clothes or cars. So for the time being, money was no problem. I calculated my monthly expenses, divided it into my bank balance, and figured I had another five months or so. Something would come of this wait-and-see. And if it didn't, well, I could think it over then. Besides, Makimura's check for three hundred thousand yen still graced my desktop. No, I wasn't going to starve.

All I had to do was keep things at a steady pace and be patient. I went to the pool several times a week, did the shopping, fixed meals. Evenings, I listened to records or read.

I began going to the library, leafing through the bound editions of newspapers, reading every murder case of the last few months. Female victims only. Shocking, the number of women murdered in the world. Stabbings, beatings, stranglings. No mention of anyone resembling Kiki. No body resembling Kiki, in any case. Sure, there were ways to dispose of a body. Weight it down and throw it in the sea. Haul it up into the hills and bury it. Just like I'd buried Kipper. Nobody would ever find him.

Maybe it was an accident? Maybe she'd gotten run over, like Dick North. I checked the obituaries for accident victims. Women victims. Again, a lot of accidents that killed a lot of women. Automobiles, fires, gas. Still no Kiki.

Suicides? Heart attacks? The papers didn't seem interested. The world was full of ways to die, too many to cover. Newsworthy deaths had to be exceptional. Most people go unobserved.

So anything was possible. I had no evidence that Kiki was dead, no evidence that she was alive.

I called Yuki now and then. But always, when I asked how she was, the answer was noncommital.

"Not good, not bad. Nothing much."

"And your mother?"

"She's taking it easy, not working a lot. She sits around all day, kind of out of it."

"Anything I can do? The shopping or something?"

"The maid does the shopping, so we're okay. The store delivers. Mama and I are just spacing out. It's like ?up here, time's standing still. Is time really passing?"

"Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting."

Yuki let that pass.

"You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor," I said.

"Oh really?"

"Oh really?"

"What's with you?"

"What's with you?"

"Stop mimicking me."

"Who's mimicking you? I'm just a mental echo, a figment of your imagination. A rebound to demonstrate the fullness of our conversation."

"Dumb as usual," said Yuki. "You're acting like a child."

"Not so. I'm solid with deep inner reflection and pragmatic spirit. I'm echo as metaphor. The game is the message. This is of a different order than child's play."

"Hmph, nonsense."

"Hmph, nonsense."

"Quit it. I mean it!" yelled Yuki.

"Okay, quits," I said. "Let's take it again from the top. You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor, Yuki."

She let out a sigh. "Okay, maybe not. When I'm with Mama ?I end up with one of her moods. It's like she has this power over how I feel. All she ever thinks about is herself. She never thinks about anyone else. That's what makes her so strong. You know what I mean. You've seen it. You just get all wrapped up in it. So when she's feeling down, I feel down. When she's up, I'm up."

I heard the flicking of a lighter.

"Maybe I could come up and visit you," I said.

"Could you?"

"Tomorrow all right?"

"Great," said Yuki. "I feel better already."

"I'm glad."

"I'm glad."

"Stop it."

"Stop it."

"Tomorrow then," I said and hung up before she could say it.

Ame was indeed "kind of out of it." She sat on the sofa, legs neatly crossed, gazing blankly at a photography magazine on her lap. She was a scene out of an impressionist painting. The window was open, but not a breeze stirred the curtains or pages. She looked up ever so slightly and smiled when I entered the room. The very air seemed to vibrate around her smile. Then she raised a slender finger a scan five centimeters and motioned for me to sit down on the chair opposite. The maid brought us tea.

"I delivered the suitcase to Dick's house," I said. "Did you meet his wife?" Ame asked. "No, I just handed it over to the man who came to the door."

"Thank you." "Not at all."

She closed her eyes and put her hands together in front of her face. Then she opened her eyes again and looked around the room. There was only the two of us. I lifted my cup and sipped my tea.

Ame wasn't wearing her usual denim shirt. She had on a white lace blouse and a pale green skirt. Her hair was neatly brushed, her mouth freshened with lipstick. Her usual vitality had been replaced by a fragility that enveloped her like mist. A perfumed atmosphere that wavered on evaporation. Ame's beauty was wholly unlike Yuki's. It was the chromatic opposite, a beauty of experience. She had a firm grasp on it, knew how to use it, whereas Yuki's beauty was without purpose, undirected, unsure. Appreciating an attractive middle-aged woman is one of the great luxuries in life.

"Why is it ??" Ame wondered aloud, her words trailing off. I waited for her to continue.

"?why is it," she picked up again, "I'm so depressed?"

"Someone close to you has died. It's only natural that you feel this way," I said.

"I suppose," she said weakly.

"Still — "

Ame looked me in the face, then shook her head. "You're not stupid. You know what I want to say."

"That it shouldn't be such a shock to you? Is that it?"

"Yes, well, something like that."

That even if he wasn't such a great man. Even if he wasn't so talented. Still he was true. He fulfilled his duties nobly, excellently. He forfeited what he treasured and worked hard to attain, then he died. It was only after his death that his worth became apparent. I wanted to say that — but didn't. Some things I can't bring myself to utter.

"Why is it?" she addressed a point in space. "Why is it all my men end up like this? Why do they all go in strange ways? Why do they always leave me? Why can't I get things right?"

I stared at the lace collar of her blouse. It looked like pristinely scrubbed folds of tissue, the bleached entrails of a rare organism. A subtle shaft of smoke rose from her Salem in the ashtray, merging into a dust of silence.

Yuki reappeared, her clothes changed, and indicated that she wanted to leave. I got up and told Ame we were going out for a bit.

Ame wasn't listening. Yuki shouted, "Mother, we're going out now," but Ame scarcely nodded as she lit another cigarette.

We left Ame sitting on the sofa motionless. The house was still haunted by Dick North's presence. Dick North was still inside me as well. I remembered his smile, his surprised look when I asked if he used his feet to slice bread.

Interesting man. He'd come more alive since his death.

37
I went up to see Yuki a few more times. Three times, to be exact. Staying in the mountains of Hakone with her mother didn't seem to hold any particular attraction for her. She wasn't happy there, but she didn't hate it either. Nor did she feel compelled to look after her mother. Yuki let herself be blown along by the prevailing winds. She simply existed, without enthusiasm for all aspects of living.

Taking her out seemed to bring back her spirits. My bad jokes slowly began to elicit responses, her voice regained its cool edge. Yet, no sooner would she return to the house than she became a wooden figure again. Her voice went slack, the light left her eyes. To conserve energy, her little planet stopped spinning.

"Wouldn't it be better for you to be back on your own in Tokyo for a while?" I asked her as we sat on the beach. "Just for a change of pace. Three or four days. A different environment can do wonders. Staying here in Hakone's only going to bring you down. You're not the same person you were in Hawaii."

"No way around it," said Yuki. "But it's like a phase I have to go through. Wouldn't matter where I was, I'd still be like this."

"Because Dick North died and your mother's like that?" "Maybe. But it's not the whole thing. Just getting away from Mama isn't going to solve everything. I can't do anything on my own. I don't know, it's just the way I feel. Like my head and body aren't really together. My signs aren't so good right now."

I turned and looked out to sea. The sky was overcast. A warm breeze rustled through the clumps of grasses on the sand.

"Your signs?" I asked.

"My star signs," Yuki smiled. "It's true, you know. The signs are getting worse. Both for Mama and me. We're on the same wavelength. We're connected that way, even if I'm away from her."

"Connected?"

"Yeah, mentally connected," Yuki said. "Sometimes I can't stand it and I try to fight it. Sometimes I'm just too tired and I give in, and I don't care. It's like I'm not really in control of myself. Like I'm being moved around by some force. I can't stand it. I want to throw everything out the window. I want to scream 'I'm only a kid!' and go hide in a corner."

Before it got too late I drove Yuki home and headed back to Tokyo. Ame asked me to stay for dinner, as she invariably did, but I always declined. A very unappetizing prospect, the idea of sitting down to a meal with mother dreary and her disinterested daughter, both on the same wavelength, there in the lingering presence of the deceased. The dead-weighted air. The silence. The night so quiet you could hear any sound. The thought of it sank a stone in my stomach. The Mad Hatter's tea party might have been just as absurd, but at least it was more animated.

I played loud rock 'n' roll on the car stereo all the way home, had a beer while cooking supper, and ate alone in peace. Yuki and I never did much. We listened to music as we drove, lolled around gazing at clouds, ate ice cream at the Fujiya Hotel, rented a boat on Lake Ashinoko. Mostly we just talked and spent the whole afternoon watching the day pass. The pensioners' life.

Once, upon Yuki's suggestion that we see a movie, we drove all the way down to Odawara. We checked the listings and found nothing of interest. Gotanda's Unrequited Love was playing at a second-run theater, and when I mentioned that Gotanda was a classmate from junior high school, whom I got together with occasionally, Yuki got curious.

"Did you see it?"

"Yeah," I admitted, "I saw it." I didn't say how many times.

"Was it good?" asked Yuki.

"No, it was dumb. A waste of film, to put it mildly."

"What does your friend say about the movie?"

"He said it was a dumb movie and a waste of film," I laughed. "And if the performer himself says so, you can be sure it's bad."

"But I want to see it anyway."

"As you wish."

"You don't mind?"

"It's okay. One more time's not going to hurt me," I said.

On a weekday afternoon, the theater was practically empty. The seats were hard and the place smelled like a closet. I bought Yuki a chocolate bar from the snack bar as we waited for the movie to start. She broke off a piece for me. When I told her it'd been a year since I'd last eaten chocolate, she couldn't believe it.

"Don't you like chocolate?"

"It's not a matter of like or dislike," I said. "I guess I'm just not interested in it."

"Interested? You are weird. Whoever heard of not liking chocolate? That's abnormal."

"No, it's not. Some things are like that. Do you like the Dalai Lama?" "What's that?"

"It's not a 'what,' it's a 'who.' He's the top priest of Tibet."

"How would I know?"

"Well, then, do you like the Panama Canal?"

"Yes, no, I don't care."

"Okay, how about the International Date Line? Or pi? Or the Anti-Trust Act? Or the Jurassic Period? Or the Senegalese national anthem? Do you like or dislike November 8, 1987?"

"Shut up, will you? How can you churn out so much garbage so fast?" she struck back. "So you don't like or dislike chocolate, you're just not interested in it. Happy?"

Presently the movie began. I knew the whole story backwards, so I didn't bother paying a lot of attention. Yuki didn't think much of the picture either, if the way she muttered to herself was any indication.

On screen, the handsome teacher Gotanda was explaining to his class how mollusks breathe. Simply, patiently, with just the right touch of humor. The girl lead gazed at him.

"Is that guy your friend?" Yuki asked.

"Yeah."

"Seems like a real airhead," said Yuki.

"You said it," I said. "But only in the film. In real life, he's a good guy."

"Then maybe he should get into some good movies."

"That's what he wants to do. Not so easy, though. It's a long story."

The movie creaked along, obvious and mediocre plot. Mediocre script, mediocre music. They ought to have sealed the thing in a time capsule marked "Late 20th Century Mediocrity" and buried it somewhere.

Finally Kiki's scene came up. The most intense point in the movie. Gotanda and Kiki sleeping together. The Sunday morning scene.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on the screen. Sunday morning sunlight slanting through the blinds, the same light, same exposure, same colors as always. I'd engraved every detail of that room in my brain. I could almost breathe the atmosphere of that room. Zoom in on Gotanda. His hand moves down Kiki's spine. Sensuously, effortlessly, caressing. The slightest tremor of response runs through her body. Like a candle flame just flickering in a microcurrent of air that the skin doesn't feel. I hold my breath. Close-up of Gotanda's fingers. The camera starts to pan. Kiki's face comes into view. Enter lead girl. She climbs the apartment stairs, knocks on the door, opens it. Once again, I ask myself, why isn't it locked? Makes no sense. But it doesn't have to. It's just a film and a mediocre one at that. The girl walks in, sees Gotanda and Kiki getting it on. Her eyes register shock. She drops her cookies and runs. Gotanda sits up in bed, numbly observing what has transpired. Kiki has her line, "What was that all about?"

The very same as always. Exactly the same.

I shut my eyes. The Sunday morning light, Gotanda's hand, Kiki's back, everything floats up with singular clarity. A discrete little world existing in a dimension all its own.

The next thing I know, Yuki was bent forward, head on the backrest of the seat in front, with both arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold. Dead silent, not moving a hair. Hardly a sign of breathing.

"Hey, are you all right?" I asked.

"No, I don't feel very well," Yuki barely squeezed out the words.

"Let's get out of here. Do you think you can manage?"

Yuki half-nodded. I held her stiffened arms and helped her out of the theater. As we walked up the aisle, Gotanda was up on the screen behind us, lecturing the class in biology. Outside, the streets were hushed under a curtain of fine rain. The scent of surf blew in from the sea. Supporting her by the elbow, I walked her slowly to the car. Yuki was biting her lip, not saying anything. I didn't say anything either. The parking lot was scarcely two hundred meters from the theater, but it took forever.

38
I sat Yuki in the front seat and wound her window open. Soft rain fell, undetectable to the eye, though the asphalt was slowly staining black. There was the smell of rain. Some people had their umbrellas up, others walked along as if nothing was coming down. An outstretched hand would be retracted with only a hint of dampness. It was that fine a rain.

Yuki rested an arm on the door and her chin upon that, the tilt of her neck turning her face half out of the car. She held that pose for a good while, not moving except to breathe. Each tiny rise followed by a tiny fall, the slightest crest and trough of breath. How could anyone look so fragile, so defenseless? From where I sat, it seemed that the least impact would be enough to snap off her head and elbow. Was it merely that she was a child, not hardened to the ways of the world, while I was an adult, who, however inexpertly, had endured?

"Is there anything I can I do?" I asked. "Not really," said Yuki, swallowing as she spoke facedown. The saliva clearing her throat sounded unnaturally loud. "Take me somewhere quiet where there's no people, but not too far." "The beach?" "Wherever. But don't drive fast. I might throw up if we bump too much."

I lifted her head inside onto the headrest, careful as if cradling an egg, and rolled up her window halfway. Then as slowly as the traffic would allow, we headed to the Kunifuzu seaside. We parked the car and walked to the beach, where Yuki vomited onto the sand. There'd been hardly anything in her stomach, only the chocolate and gastric juices. The most excruciating way to get sick. The body is in spasms, but nothing comes. You're wringing out your entire system, until your stomach is a knot the size of a fist. I massaged her back. The misting rain continued, but Yuki didn't notice.

Glyauughhh .?Yuki's eyes welled up with tears as she retched.

I tried lamely to comfort her.

After ten minutes of this, I wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and kicked sand over the mess. Then holding her by the elbow, I walked her over to a nearby jetty. We sat down, leaning back against the seawall as the rain began to fall. We stared off into the waves, at the cars droning in the background on the West Shonan Causeway. The only people around were standing in the water before us, fishing. They wore slickers and rain hats, their eyes trained somewhere below the horizon, their rods unbending. They didn't turn around to see us. Yuki lay her head on my shoulder, but didn't say a word. We must have seemed like lovers.

Yuki closed her eyes. Breathing so lightly, she seemed to be asleep. Her wet bangs were plastered in a clump across her forehead, her skin still tan from last month. But beneath the overcast sky, Yuki looked sickly. I wiped the rain and tears from her face. Rain kept falling silently over the boundless sea. Self-Defense Force submarine-spotting planes groaned past overhead like dragonflies in heat.

Finally, her head still resting on my shoulder, she opened her eyes and looked at me in soft focus. She pulled a Virginia Slim from her hip pocket and lit up. Or tried to repeatedly — she barely had the strength to light a match. No lec- tures from me about smoking, not this time. Eventually she got it lit and flicked the match away. Then after two drags on the cigarette, she tossed it away too. It continued burning until the rain put it out.

"Your stomach still hurt?" I asked.

"A little."

"Let's just stay put a while though. You're not cold?"

"I'm fine. The rain feels good."

The fishermen were still transfixed on the Pacific. What was the attraction of fishing? It couldn't be merely catching fish. Was it just one of those acquired tastes? Like sitting out on a rainy beach with a high-strung thirteen-year-old?

"Your friend," Yuki ventured cautiously, her voice cracking.

"My friend?"

"Yeah, the one in the film."

"His real name's Gotanda," I said. "Like the station on the Yamanote Line. The one after Meguro and before Osaki."

"He killed that woman."

I squinted at Yuki, hard. She looked wan. Her breathing came irregularly, like a nearly drowned soul trawled up from the drink. What was the girl saying? It didn't register. "Killed what woman?" I asked.

"That woman. The one he was sleeping with on Sunday morning."

I didn't get it. I couldn't get it. What was she talking about? Half-consciously, I smiled and said, "But nobody dies in the movie. You must be mistaken."

"Not in the movie. In real life. He actually killed her. I saw it," said Yuki, clutching my arm. "It scared me so much I could hardly breathe. That whatever-it-is came over me again. I could see the whole murder, sharp and clear. Your friend killed that woman. I'm not making this up. Honest."

My spine turned to ice, I couldn't utter a word. Everything was falling out of place, tumbling down, out of my hands. I couldn't hold on to anything.

"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," said Yuki. She sighed and let go of my arm. "The honest truth is, I don't know. I can feel that it's real, but I can't really be sure if it's real or not. And I know you'll probably hate me like everyone else for saying so. But I couldn't not tell you. Whether it's real or not, I saw it. I couldn't keep quiet about it. I'm really scared. Please don't get angry at me. I can't handle it. I feel like I'm falling apart."

"I'm not mad, so calm down and tell me what you saw," I said, holding her hand.

"It's the first time I've ever seen anything clearly like this. He strangled her, the woman in the movie. And he put the body in the car and drove a long, long way. It was that Italian car you were driving once. That car, it's his, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's his car," I said. "Is there anything else? Slow down and think it over. Whatever comes to mind, no matter how small, tell me. I want to know."

She shook her head tentatively, twice, three times. Then she breathed deeply. "There's really not much more. The smell of soil. A shovel. Night. Birds chirping. That's about it. He strangled that girl to death, loaded her off somewhere in that car, and buried her. That's all. But — and this is the truly strange part — the whole thing didn't seem vicious or horrible or anything. It didn't even seem like a crime. It was more like a ceremony. It was a quiet thing, between the killer and the victim. But a very strange quiet. Like it was out on the edge of the earth or something."

I closed my eyes. My thoughts wouldn't go anywhere. Objects and events in my head were disintegrating, flying like shrapnel through the dark. I didn't believe what Yuki was saying; I didn't disbelieve what Yuki was saying. I let her words sink in. They weren't fact. They were possibility. Nothing more, nothing less, but the force of the possibility was shattering.

Any semblance of order I had come to know over the last few months was shot. Diffuse, uncertain, but it was order, and it had taken hold. No more.

The possibility exists. And in the moment that I admitted that, something came to an end. Ever subtly, yet decisively, it was over. But what? I couldn't think further. No, not now. Meanwhile, I found myself alone again. With a thirteen-year-old girl, on a rainy beach, desperately alone.

Yuki squeezed my hand.

How long she held it, I don't know. A hand so small and warm it almost didn't seem real. Her touch was more like a tiny replay from memory. Warm as a memory, but it doesn't lead you anywhere.

"Let's go," I said. "I'll take you home."

I drove her back up to Hakone. Neither of us spoke. When the silence became too oppressive, I put on the stereo. There was music, but I didn't hear it. I concentrated on driving. Hands and feet, shifting gears, steering. The wipers going back and forth, monotonously.

I didn't want to have to see Ame, so I let Yuki out at the bottom of the steps.

"Hey," said Yuki, looking in through the passenger seat window, arms crossed tight and shivering, "you don't have to swallow everything I told you. I just saw it, that's all. Like I said, I don't know if it really happened. Please don't hate me. I'd die."

"I don't hate you," I said, coming up with a smile. "And I won't swallow anything, unless it's the truth. It's got to come out some time. The fog's got to pull away. I know that much. If what you say turns out to be true, okay, it just means that I got a glimpse of the truth through you. Don't worry. It's something I have to find out for myself."

"Are you going to see him?"

"Of course. I'll ask him if it's true. There's no other way."

Yuki shrugged. "You're not mad at me?"

"No, I'm not mad at you, of course not," I said. "Why would I be mad at you? You haven't done anything wrong."

"You were such a good guy," she said. "I never met anyone like you."

Why the past tense? I wondered. "And I've never met a girl like you." "Good-bye," said Yuki. Then she took a good, long look at me. She seemed fidgety. As if she wanted to add something more or hold my hand or kiss me on the cheek.

Nervous images of possibility kept floating into my head all the way home. I made myself focus on the mindless music and tacked my attention to the road ahead. The rain let up just as I exited the Tokyo-Nagoya Expressway, but I didn't have the energy to turn off the wipers until I pulled into my parking space in Shibuya. My head was in a shambles. I had to do something. So I sat there in my parked Subaru, my hands glued to the wheel.

39
I tried to put my thoughts in order. First question: Should I believe Yuki? I analyzed matters on the level of pure possibility, wiping the field clear of emotional elements as far as I could see. This required no great effort. My feelings had been numbed, as if I'd been stung, from the very beginning. The possibility exists. The longer I considered the possibility, the more the possibility moved toward probability. I stood in the kitchen making coffee. Then pouring myself a cup, I retreated with it to my bed. By the time I'd finished it, the probability had become a fair certainty. Yes, it was exactly as Yuki had seen it: Gotanda had murdered Kiki, hauled her body away, and buried it.

How absurd. There was no proof whatsoever. Only the dream of an oversensitive thirteen-year-old girl watching a movie. And yet, somehow, what she said could not be doubted. This was shocking. Still my instincts accepted it fully. Why? How could I be so sure?

I didn't know.

Next question: Why would Gotanda kill Kiki?

I didn't know.

Next question: Did Gotanda also kill Mei? Why? What would make Gotanda want to kill her?

Again I didn't know. I wracked my brains, but couldn't come up with a single reason why Gotanda would kill either Kiki or Mei.

There were too many unknowns.

I had to see Gotanda. I had to ask him directly. I reached for the phone but couldn't bring myself to dial his number. I set down the receiver, rolled over on the bed, and gazed up at the ceiling. Gotanda had become a friend. I would never have guessed how much of a friend. Suppose he did kill Kiki, he was still my friend. I didn't want to lose him. Not like I'd already lost so many things in this life. No, I couldn't call him.

I didn't want to talk to anybody.

I sat, and when the phone rang, I let it ring. If it was Gotanda, what was I going to say? If it was Yuki, or even Yumiyoshi, I didn't care. I didn't want to talk to anybody.

Four days, five days, I stayed put and thought. Why? I hardly ate, hardly slept. I didn't drink a drop. I stayed indoors. I lost touch with my body. With all that had happened to me already, I was still losing. And now here I was, alone. It was always like this. In some ways, Gotanda and I were of the same species. Different circumstances, different thinking, different sensibilities, the same species. We both kept losing. And now we were losing each other.

I could see Kiki. What was that all about? But was Kiki dead, covered with dirt, in the ground? Like my Kipper? Ultimately, Kiki had to die. Strange how I couldn't see things any other way. The skin of my soul was no longer tender. I tried not to feel anything at all. My resignation was a silent rain falling over a vast sea. Even loneliness was beyond me. Everything was taking leave of me, like ciphers in the sand, blown away on the wind.

So another person had joined the group in that most bizarre chamber of my world. Four down, two to go. Sooner or later, bleached white bones ferried to that room via some impossible architecture. Death's waiting room in downtown Honolulu, connected to the dark chill lair of the Sheep Man in a Sapporo hotel, connected to the Sunday morning bed- room where Gotanda lay with Kiki. Was I losing my mind? Real events, under imaginary circumstances, filtering back, wild, distorted, bizarre. Was there nothing absolute? Was there no ?reality? Sapporo in the March snow could as easily not have been real. Sitting on the beach in Makaha with Dick North had seemed real enough — but a one-armed man cutting bread in perfect slices? And a Honolulu call girl giving me a phone number that I later find in the anteroom to the death chamber Kiki leads me to? Why isn't that real? What could I reasonably admit into evidence without causing my whole world to shake at its foundations?

Was the sickness in here or out there? Did it matter? What was the line now? Get in step and dance, so that everyone's impressed. Keeping in step — was that the only reality? Well, dance yourself to the telephone, give your pal Gotanda a ring, and ask him casually: "Did you kill Kiki?"

No way. My hand experienced sudden paralysis. I sat by the phone, numb, shaking, as if I was in a crosswind. Breathing grew difficult. I liked Gotanda, I liked him a lot. He was my only friend, he was part of my life. I understood him.

I tried dialing. I got the wrong number, every time. On the sixth try, I hurled the receiver to the floor.

I never did manage to call. In the end it was Gotanda who showed up at my place.

It was a rainy night. He was wearing a rain hat and the same white trench coat as the night I drove him to Yokohama. The rain was coming down hard, and his hat was dripping. He didn't have an umbrella.

He smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, almost by reflex.

"You look awful," he said. "I called and called but never got an answer. So I decided just to come over. You been under the weather?"

"Under is not the word," I said.

He sized me up. "Well, maybe it's a bad time. I'll come back when you're feeling better. Sorry to come by unannounced like this."

I shook my head and exhaled. No words came. Gotanda waited patiently. "I'm not sick or anything," I assured him. "I just haven't been sleeping or eating. I think I'm okay now. Anyway I've been wanting to talk to you. Let's go somewhere. I haven't eaten a full meal in ages."

We took the Maserati out into the rainy neon streets. Gotanda's driving was precise and smooth as ever, but the car now made me nervous. The deep soundproofed ride cut a channel through the clamor that rose all around us.

"Where to?" Gotanda asked. "All I care is that it's somewhere quiet where we can talk and get decent food without running into the Rolex crowd." he said. He looked my way, but I said nothing. For thirty minutes we drove around, my eyes focused on the buildings we were passing.

"I can't think of any place," Gotanda tried again. "How about you? Any ideas?"

"No, me neither." I really couldn't. I was still only half present.

"Okay, then, why don't we take the opposite approach?" he said brightly.

"The opposite approach?"

"Someplace noisy and crowded. That way we can relax."

"Okay. Where?"

"Feel like pizza? Let's go to Shakey's."

"I don't mind. I'm not against pizza. But wouldn't they spot you, going to a place like that?"

Gotanda smiled weakly, like the last glow of a summer sun between the leaves. "When was the last time you saw anyone famous in Shakey's, my friend?"

Shakey's was packed with weekend shoppers. Crowded and noisy. A Dixieland quartet in suspenders and red-and-white striped shirts were pumping out The Tiger Rag to a raucous college group loud on beer. The smell of pizza was everywhere. No one paid attention to anyone else.

We placed our order, got a couple drafts, then found a table under a gaudy imitation Tiffany lamp in the back of the restaurant.

"What did I tell you? Isn't this more like it?" said Gotanda.

I'd never craved pizza before, but the first bite had me thinking it was the best thing I'd ever tasted. I must have been starving. The both of us. We drank and ate and ate and drank. And when the pizza ran out, we each bought another round of beer.

"Great, eh?" belched Gotanda. "I've been wanting a pizza for the last three days. I even dreamed about it, sizzling hot, sliding right out of the oven. In the dream I never get to eat it, though. I just stare at it and drool. That's the whole dream. Nothing else happens. What would Jung say about pizza archetypes?" Gotanda chuckled, then paused. "So what was this that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Now or never, I thought. But come right out with it? Gotanda was thoroughly relaxed, enjoying the evening. I looked at his innocent smile and couldn't bring myself to do it. Not now, at least.

"What's new with you?" I asked. "Work? Your ex-wife?" "Work's the same," Gotanda said. "Nothing new, nothing good, nothing I want to do. I can yell until my throat gives out, but nobody wants to hear what I have to say. My wife — did you hear that? I still call her my wife after all this time — I've only seen her once since I last saw you. Hey, you ever do the love hotel thing?" "Almost never."

"I told you she and I have been meeting at love hotels. You know, the more you use those places, it gets to you. They're dark, windows all covered up. The place is only for fucking, so who needs windows, right? All you got is a bathroom and a bed — plus music and TV and a refrigerator — but it's all pretty blank and anonymous and artificial. Actually, very conducive to getting down and doing it. Makes you feel like you're really doing it. After a while, though, you feel the claustrophobia, and you begin to sort of hate the place. Still, they're the only refuge we got." Gotanda took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

"I can't bring her to my condo. The scandal rags would have a field day if they ever found out. I got no time to go off somewhere. They'd sniff it out too anyway. We've practically sold our privacy by the gram. So we go to these cheesy fuck hotels and ? Gotanda looked over at me, then smiled. "Here I go, griping again."

"That's okay. I don't mind listening."

The Dixieland band struck up "Hello Dolly."

"Hey, how about another pizza?" Gotanda asked. "Halve it with you. I don't know what it is with me, but am I starving!"

Soon we were stuffing our faces with one medium anchovy. The college kids kept up their shouting match, but the band had finished their final set. Banjo and trumpet and trombone were packed in their cases, and the musicians left the stage, leaving only the upright piano.

We'd finished the extra pizza, but somehow couldn't take our eyes off the empty stage. Without the music, the voices in the crowd became plastic, almost palpable. Waves of sound solidifying as they pressed toward us, yet broke softly on contact. Rolling up slowly over and over again, striking my consciousness, then retreating. Farther and farther away. Distant waves, crashing against my mind in the distance.

"Why did you kill Kiki?" I asked Gotanda. I didn't mean to ask it. It just slipped out.

He stared at me as if he were looking at something far off. His lips parted slightly. His teeth were white and beautiful. For the longest time, he stared right through me. The surf in my head went on and on, now louder, now fainter. As if all contact with reality was approaching and receding. I remember his graceful fingers neatly folded on the table. When my reality strayed out of contact, they looked like fine craftwork.

Then he smiled, ever so peaceably. "Did I kill Kiki?" he enunciated slowly. "Only joking," I hedged.

Gotanda's eyes fell to the table, to his fingers. "No, this isn't a joke. This is very important. I really have to think about it. Did I kill Kiki? I have to give this very serious thought."

I stared at him. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren't.

"Could there be a reason for you to kill Kiki?" I asked.

"Could there be a reason for me to kill Kiki? I don't even know myself. Did I kill Kiki? Why?"

"Hey, how would I know?" I tried to laugh. "Did you kill Kiki, or didn't you kill Kiki?"

"I said, I'm thinking about it. Did I kill Kiki, or didn't I?"

Gotanda took another sip of beer, set down his glass, and propped his head up on his hand. "I can't be sure. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? But I mean it. I'm not sure. I think, maybe, I tried to strangle Kiki. At my place, I think. "Why would I have killed Kiki there? I didn't even want to be alone with her. No good, I can't remember. But anyway, Kiki and I were at my place — I put her body in the car and took her someplace and I buried her. Somewhere in the mountains. I can't be sure if I really did it. I can't believe I'd do a thing like that. I just feel as if I might have done it. I can't prove it. I give up. The most critical part's a blank. I'm. trying to think if there's any physical evidence. Like a shovel. I'd have to have used a shovel. If I found a shovel, I'd know I did it. Let me try again. I buy a shovel at a garden supply. I use the shovel to dig a hole and bury Kiki. Then I toss the shovel. Okay, where?

"The whole thing's in pieces, like a dream. The story goes this way and that way. It's going nowhere. I have memories of something. But are the memories for real? Or are they something I made up later to fit? Something's wrong with me. It's gotten worse since my wife and I split up. I'm tired. I'm really ?lost."

I said nothing.

After a pause, Gotanda went on. "Well, what's real any- way? From what point is it all phobia? Or acting? I thought if I hung around you, I'd get a better grip on things. I thought so from the first time you asked me about Kiki. Like maybe you'd clear away this muddle. Open a window and let some fresh air in." He folded his hands again and peered down at them. "Let's say I did kill Kiki — what would be the reason? I liked her. I liked sleeping with her. When I was down, she and Mei were my only release. So why kill her?"

"Did you kill Mei?"

Gotanda stared at his hands for an aeon, then shook his head. "No, I don't believe I killed Mei. Thank god, I have an alibi for that night. The day she was killed, I was at the studio until midnight, then I drove with my manager to Mito. What a relief. If no one could swear I was at the studio that night, I'd worry that I killed Mei too. But I still feel responsible for Mei's death. I don't know why. I wasn't there, but it's like I killed her with my own hands. I have this feeling that she died on account of me."

Another aeon passed while he stared at his fingers.

"Gotanda, you're beat," I said. "That's all. You probably didn't kill anyone. Kiki just vanished somewhere. When we were together, she used to disappear like that. It wouldn't be the first time. You're riding yourself too hard. Don't do it."

"No, it's not like that. Not that simple. I probably did kill Kiki. I don't think I killed Mei, but, yes, I think I killed Kiki. The sensation of the air going out of her throat is still in my fingers. I can still feel the weight of the dirt in the shovel. In effect, I killed her."

"But why would you kill Kiki? It doesn't make sense."

"No idea," he said. "Maybe an urge to self-destruct. It's happened before. I get this gap between me Gotanda and me the actor, and I stand back and actually observe myself doing shit. I'm on one side of this very deep, dark fault, and then unconsciously, on the other side, I have this urge to destroy something. Smash it to bits. A glass. A pencil. A plastic model. Never happens when other people are around, though. Only when I'm alone. "But once, when I was in elementary school, I knocked into this friend of mine, and he fell off a small bluff. I don't know why I did it. But the next thing I knew, he was down there. It wasn't a big fall, so he wasn't hurt too bad. It was supposed to be an accident. I mean, why would I push this friend of mine over the edge on purpose? That's what everyone thought. I wasn't so sure. Then high school, I set fire to these mailboxes. I'd put a burning rag down the slot. Not just once, not even as a prank. It was like I was compelled to do it. Like it was the only thing that'd bring me to my senses. Unconsciously, that was what I thought. But afterwards I would remember the feel of things. I could still feel it in my hands. And I wouldn't be able to wash it off. God, what a horrible life. I don't know how I can stand it." Gotanda shook his head.

"How do I check if I killed Kiki?" Gotanda went on. "There's no evidence. No corpse. No shovel. No dirt on my trousers. No blisters on my hands. Not that digging a hole is going to give you blisters. I don't even remember where I buried her. Say I went to the police and confessed, who'd believe me? If there's no body, it's not a homicide. She disappeared. That's all I know for sure. There've been times I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn't. I thought it'd wipe out whatever closeness we had. Whenever I'm with you, I feel so relaxed. I never feel the gap. You don't know how precious that is. I don't want to lose a friendship like ours. So I kept putting off telling you, until you asked, like this. I really ought to have come clean."

"Come clean? When there's no evidence you did anything?"

"Evidence isn't the issue. I ought to have told you first. But I concealed it. That's the problem."

"C'mon, even if it were true, even if you did kill Kiki, you didn't mean to kill her."

He held out his palms, as if he were going to read them. "No. I didn't mean to. I didn't have a reason. I liked her, and in a small way we were friends. We could talk. I could tell her about my wife, and she'd listen, honestly. Why would I want to kill her? But I did, I think, with these hands. Maybe I didn't do it willfully. But I did. I strangled her. But I wasn't strangling her, I was strangling my shadow. I remember thinking, if only I could choke my shadow off, I'd get some health. Except it wasn't my shadow. It was Kiki.

"It all took place in that dark world. You know what I'm talking about? Not here in this one. And it was Kiki who led me there. Choke me, Kiki told me. Go ahead and kill me, it's okay. She invited me to, allowed me to. I swear, honestly, it happened like that. Without me knowing. Can that happen? It was like a dream. The more I think about it, the more it doesn't feel real. Why would Kiki ask me to kill her?"

I downed the last of my lukewarm beer. A dense layer of cigarette smoke hovered like an ectoplasmic phenomenon.

"Feel like another beer?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I could use one."

I went to the bar and came back with two mugs, which we drank in silence. The turnover at the place was as busy as Akihabara Station at rush hour, customers coming and going constantly. Nobody bothered listening in to our conversation. Nobody even looked at Gotanda.

"What'd I tell you?" Gotanda summoned up a smile as he spoke. "Not a star in sight." Gotanda swished his two-thirds empty glass around like a test tube.

"Let's forget it," I said quietly. "I can forget it. You forget it too."

"You think I can forget it? Easy to say, but you didn't kill her with your own hands."

"Hey, you hear me? There's no evidence you killed Kiki. Stop blaming yourself for something that might not have even happened. Your unconscious is using Kiki's vanishing act as a convenient way to lay a guilt trip on you. Isn't that a possibility?"

"Okay, let's talk possibilities," said Gotanda, laying his palms flat on the table. "I've been doing nothing but considering possibilities lately. All sorts of possibilities. Like the possibility that I'll kill my wife. Am I right? Maybe I'd strangle her if she allowed me to, like Kiki did. Possibilities are like cancer. The more I think about them, the more they multiply, and there's no way to stop them. I'm out of control. I didn't just burn mailboxes. I killed four cats. I used a slingshot and busted the neighbors' window. I couldn't stop doing shit like this. And I never told anyone about it, until this minute. God," he sighed deeply, "it's almost a relief, telling you.

"What goddamn thing am I going to do next? That gap — it's too big, too deep. Professional hazard, huh? The bigger the gap, the more weird the shit I find myself doing. Is it in my genes? God, I'm afraid that I will just kill my wife. I haven't got any control over it. Because it won't take place

in this world."

"You worry too much," I said, forcing a smile. "Forget this nonsense about genes. What you need is a break from work. Stop seeing your wife for a while. It's the only way. Throw everything to the wind. Come with me to Hawaii. Lie on the beach, drink pina coladas, swim, get laid. Rent a convertible and cruise around listening to music. And if you still want to worry, you can do that later."

"Not a bad idea," he said, the folds of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "We'll get us two girls and the four of us can fool around till morning again. That was fun." Shoveling that good snow. Cuck-koo. "I can take off any time," I said. "How about you? How long will it take you to finish up what you're doing?"

Gotanda gave me the oddest smile. "You don't understand a thing, do you? There's no such thing as finishing up in my line of work. All you can do is toss the whole thing. And if I do that, you can be sure I'll never work again. I'd be drummed out of the industry, permanently. And, I'd lose my wife, permanently."

He drained the last of his beer.

"But that's fine. Back-to-nothing is fine. At this point, I'm ready to call it quits. I'm tired. Time I went to Hawaii and blanked out. Okay, let's scrap it all. Let's go to Hawaii. I can think things over later. I'll ?become a regular human being. Maybe too late, but worth a try. I'll leave everything up to you. I trust you. Always did, from the time you first called me up. You seemed like such a decent guy. Like what I'd always wanted to be."

"No such decent guy here," I protested. "I'm just ?keeping in step, dancing along. No meaning to it at all."

Gotanda spread his hands a body-width apart on the table. "And just where, pray tell, is there meaning? Where in this life of ours?" Then he laughed. "But that's okay. Doesn't matter anymore. I'm resigned to it. I'll follow your example. I'll hop around from elevator to elevator. It's not impossible. I can do anything if I put my mind to it. I'm sharp, handsome, good-natured Gotanda after all. So, okay, Hawaii. We'll get the tickets tomorrow. First class. It's gotta be first class. It's in the cards, you know. BMW, Rolex, Azabu, and first class. We'll leave the day after tomorrow and land on the same day. Hawaii! I look good in an aloha shirt."

"You'd look good in anything."

"Thanks for tickling what remains of my ego."

Gotanda gave me a good, long look. "You really think you can forget I killed Kiki?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, one other thing you don't know about me. Remember I told you I got thrown in confinement for two weeks?"

"Yeah."

"That was a lie. I blabbed everything and they let me out right away. I wasn't scared. I wanted, in some sick way, to do something gutless. I wanted to hate myself. I'm such a louse. You didn't know that when you clammed up to save my face, you also saved my rotten hide. You did something for me that I wouldn't do for myself — wash away my dirt. And I was glad, you know. It gave me the chance to finally be honest with myself. I feel like I've come clean at last. Man, I bet it wasn't too pleasant to watch." "Don't worry about it," I said. It's brought us closer together, I wanted to say. But I didn't. I decided to wait for a time when the words would mean more. So I just repeated myself, "Don't worry about it."

Gotanda took his rain hat from the back of his chair, checked to see how damp it was, then put it back. "I got a favor to ask you," he said, "as a friend. I'd like another beer, but I don't have it in me to get up and go get one."

"No problem," I said.

I stood up and went up to the bar. There was a line, so it took me a while. By the time I waded back to the table, mugs in hand, Gotanda was gone. Ditto his rain hat. And no Maserati in the parking lot either. Great, I shook my head, just great.

There was nothing I could do. He had disappeared.

40
The following afternoon they dredged the Maserati out of Tokyo Bay. As I expected. No surprises. As soon as he disappeared, I saw it coming.

Another corpse. The Rat, Kiki, Mei, Dick North, and now Gotanda. Five. One more to go. What now? Who was the next in line to die? Not Yumiyoshi, I wouldn't be able to bear that. Yumiyoshi was not meant to die. Okay, then Yuki? The kid was thirteen. I couldn't let that happen to her. I was going down the list, as if I were the god of doom, dealing out orders for mortality.

I went down to the Akasaka police station to tell Bookish that I'd been with Gotanda the previous night until right before his death. Somehow I thought it was the right thing to do, though naturally I didn't mention Kiki. That was a closed book. Instead, I talked about how exhausted Gotanda had been, how his loans were piling up, the problems with work, the stresses in his personal life.

Bookish took down what I said. Unlike before, he made simple notes. Which I signed. It didn't take an hour. "People dying left and right around you, eh?" he said. "At this rate, you'll never make friends and influence people. They start hating you, and before you know it, your eyes go and your skin sags. Not a pretty prospect."

Then he heaved a deep sigh. "Well, anyway, this was a suicide. Open and shut case. Even got witnesses. Still, what a waste. I don't care if he was a movie star, he didn't have to go blitzing a Maserati into the Bay, did he? Ordinary Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla would've done the job."

"It was insured."

"No sir, insurance never covers suicides," Bookish reminded me. "Anyway, you can go now. Sorry about your friend. And thanks for taking the trouble to come in," he said as he saw me to the door. "Mei's case isn't settled yet. But the investigation's still going on."

For a long time after, I walked around feeling as if I'd killed Gotanda. I couldn't rid myself of the weight. I went back over all the things we'd talked about that night. If only I'd given him the responses he'd needed to save himself, the two of us might be relaxing on the beach in Maui right now. No way. Gotanda had made up his mind from the beginning. He'd been thinking about plowing that Maserati into the sea all along. He'd been waiting for an excuse. It was his only exit. He'd already had his hand on the doorknob, the Maserati in his head sinking, the water pouring in, choking him, over and over again.

Mei's death had left me shaken, Dick North's death sad and resigned. But Gotanda's death lay me down in a lead-lined box of despair. Gotanda's death was unsalvageable. Gotanda never really got himself in tune with his inner impulses. He pushed himself as far as he could, to the furthest edge of his awareness — and then right across the line into that dark otherworld.

For a while, the weeklies and TV and sports tabloids feasted on his death. Like beetles on carrion. The headlines alone were enough to make me vomit. I felt like throttling every scandalmonger in town.

I climbed into bed and shut my eyes. Cuck-koo, I heard Mei far off in the darkness. I lay there, hating everything. The deaths were beyond comprehension, the aftertaste sickening. The world of the living was obscene. I was powerless to do anything. People came and went, but once gone, they never came back. My hands smelled of death. I wouldn't be able to wash it off, like Gotanda said.

Hey, Sheep Man, is this the way you connect your world? Threading one death to another? You said it might already be too late for me to be happy. I wouldn't have minded that, but why this?

When I was little, I had this science book. There was a section on "What would happen to the world if there was no friction?" Answer: "Everything on earth would fly into space from the centrifugal force of revolution." That was my mood.