He finished his coffee and lit up another cigarette.
“So we went to the captain for a search warrant. It took three days to come through. By the time we set foot in the place, the whole operation had been cleaned out. Spotless. Not a speck of dust. There’d been a leak. And where do you think that leak came from?”
I didn’t know.
“C’mon, man, you’re not dumb. The leak came from inside. I’m talking inside the police. Somebody on top. No proof, of course. But we grunts on the street know an inside job when we see one. The word goes out to get scarce. Sorry state of affairs. But predictable. And an operation like that one is used to this sort of thing. They can move in the time it takes us to use the toilet. They are gone. They find another place to rent, buy new phone lines, and just like that they’re back in business. No sweat off their back. They still got their subscriber list, they still got their girls lined up, they barely been inconvenienced. And there’s no way to trace them. The thread’s cut. With this dead girl, if we had some idea what type of customer was her specialty, we could do something. But as it is, we gotta throw up our hands.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said.
“You sure you don’t know anything?”
“Hey, if she was part of this exclusive call girl setup like you say, they’d know in an instant who killed her, right?”
“Exactly,” said Bookish. “So chances are the killer was probably someone not on the list. The girl’s own private lover, or else she was turning tricks on the side. We searched her apartment. Not a clue.”
“Listen, I didn’t kill her.”
“I know that,” said Bookish. “I already told you that. You’re not the killer type. I can tell by looking at you. Your type never kills anybody. But you do know something, I know that. You know more than you’re letting on. So why don’t you come out with it? That’s all I want. No hard-lining. I give you my word of honor.”
“I don’t know a thing,” I said.
“Figures,” Bookish mumbled, puffing his smoke. “This is going nowhere. Fact is, the boys upstairs aren’t crazy about this investigation. After all, it’s only a hooker killed in a hotel, no big deal. To them, that is. They probably think a hooker’s better off dead anyway. The guys on top, they hardly ever set eyes on a stiff. They haven’t got the vaguest idea what it’s like to see a beautiful girl naked and strangled like that. They can’t imagine how pitiful it is. And you can bet that it’s not just police brass in on this prostitution racket. There’s always a few upstanding public servants got their fingers in the pie too. You can see the gold lapel pins flashing in the dark. Cops develop an eye for this sort of business. We see the least little glint, and we pull in our necks, like turtles. Something you learn from your superiors. So that’s how it goes. Somehow, the drift is, our Miss Mei’s murder is just going to get buried. Poor thing.”
The waitress cleared away Bookish’s cup. I still had half of my coffee left.
“It’s weird, but I feel close to this Mei girl,” said Bookish. “Now why should that be? It doesn’t figure, does it? But when I saw her strangled naked on that hotel bed, she did a number on me. And I decided, I made this pledge to her, I was going to get the fucker who did it. Now, I’ve seen more stiffs than I care to. So what’s one more corpse, you say? This one was special. Strange and beautiful. The sunlight was pouring in through the window, the girl lying there, frozen. Eyes wide open, tongue hanging out of her mouth, stocking around her throat. Just like a necktie. Her legs were spread, and she’d pissed. When I saw that, I knew. The girl was asking me for help. Must seem remarkable to you, this soft touch I have. No?”
I couldn’t say.
“You, you’ve been away a while. Got a tan I see,” said the detective.
I mumbled something about Hawaii on business.
“Nice business. Wish I could switch saddles to your line of work, instead of looking at stiffs morning to night. Makes a fellow real fun company. You ever see a corpse?”
No, I hadn’t.
He shook his head and looked at the clock. “Very well, then, hope you excuse me for wasting your time. But like they say, small world running into you at a place like this. What do you got in your bag?”
A soldering iron.
“Oh yeah? I got some drainpipe cleaner. Sink in the house backed up.”
He paid the bill. I offered to pay my portion, but he insisted.
As we were walking out, I asked casually if prostitute murders happened a lot.
“Well, I guess you could say so,” he said, eyes sharpening slightly. “Not every day, but not only on holidays either. Any reason you’re so interested in prostitute murders?”
Just curious is all.
We went our separate ways, but the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach still hadn’t gone away the following morning.
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.
Amé 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 scant 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?” Amé 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.
Amé 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. Amé’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 …?” Amé 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—”
Amé 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 Amé we were going out for a bit.
Amé wasn’t listening. Yuki shouted, “Mother, we’re going out now,” but Amé scarcely nodded as she lit another cigarette.
We left Amé 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.
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. Amé 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.<
br />
“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?”