The referee blows his whistle for the second half. We lose possession of the ball three seconds later. Briefly I remember my deal with the thunder god. Fat lot of good he turned out to be. I do my best to look good for Ikeda’s camcorder—running around, shouting “pass,” groaning, and generally avoiding the ball as cleverly as I can. “Possess and push!” screams Ikeda. Our 4-3-3 formation buckles into 10-0-0, and our penalty area becomes a pinball zone of kicks, screams, and curses. I fake a spectacular injury but nobody is watching. Time after time Mitsui pulls off a brilliant save, a daring pounce, a midair punch. “Positions!” screams Ikeda. If only I could be as good as Mitsui. I would make the national sports papers tomorrow. Time after time the enemy launches an attack, but the mass of defenders reinforces our luck. The breeze rises to a wind. I make a daring aerial challenge—and win—but the ball hits the top of my head, squashing it, and carries on deeper into our half. I have to do a throw-in at one point, but the referee blows his whistle for a foul throw—I don’t know why, but Ikeda will make me pay anyway. Nakamori and Nakamura, our star strikers, are both given yellow cards for punching each other. I turn around and the ball bounces off my face. A corner. “Cretins!” screams Ikeda. Elbow fights with a mutant boy twice my height with a killer’s eyes. A tooth that is coming loose suddenly becomes very loose. Mitsui pulls off a diving save. An enemy supporter throws a rice ball at Nakata, our winger, who runs into the crowd and drop-kicks the offender when the ref is looking away. Nakayama takes a free kick, boots the ball up the field—the wind picks it up—and we all banzai charge after it. “Positions!” screams Ikeda. My tooth is hanging on by a strand of gum. The enemy appears to be falling back. We surge. I hear military bands. A wall of enemy strikers is surging this way—they have the ball—a trap? A trap! “Sphincters!” screams Ikeda. I have no breath left but I run back, hoping to salvage an iota of mercy from the postgoal trial. Mitsui is sprinting out to narrow the angle, roaring like a Zero. The enemy striker toe-pokes the ball under his nemesis a moment before impact—I hear the bones crunch—unable to brake in time I springboard over the bodies—the heel of my sneaker hits a nose—momentum rockets me forward, and without thinking I dive, skimming over the empty goalmouth of grit, and grapple the ball to a halt just this side of the goal line.
Rushing silence.
The referee’s whistle drills through my head. Red card for Mitsui, yellow one for me, a stretcher and a drive to the hospital for the striker, a verbal sewer from Ikeda, a penalty to the enemy, and yet another problem for our team. We now have no goalkeeper. Ikeda arrives in a whirl-wind of abuse and snarls down from his chariot of ire. “You looked pretty useful with your hands just then, Miyake. You go in goal.” My teammates adopt the proposal at bushfire speed. Sacrificial lambs cannot answer back. I traipse to the goalmouth. The skin is sandpapered off my knees and thighs. The enemy walls in the penalty area. Fathoms yawn either side of me. The ace enemy penalty kicker gloats, curling his rattail lock of hair around his little finger. Moments drum. The drumming slows. The whistle blows. The world sets. Here he comes. Thunder god. Remember me? We had a deal.
Suga empties the contents of his locker into his shoulder bag. I hear police sirens. This is when? Only yesterday. The long corridor that passes the lost-property office links two sides of Ueno, so it is always quite busy—but we hear a special commotion approach and lean out over the counter to see. A TV crew streams past—a presenter, an NHK cameraman bristling with lenses, a boom operator, and a young man heaving a trolley thing. They are not the usual local station film-the-fuzzy-duck crew. Their sense of mission clears a way through the oncoming commuters. “Looks worthy of further investigation,” says Suga. “Hold the fort, Miyake. I can sniff scandal.” He bolts off and the telephone rings—“Lost property? I’m calling about a friend’s wig.” I groan. We have hundreds of wigs.
Luckily it is a glam-rock wig with sequined spangles, so I can identify it in the five minutes it takes Suga to return. “Aoyama’s flipped!” Suga is feverish with gossip. “Deep-fried his circuitry! On my last day, too!”
“Aoyama?” I remember the telephone call.
“A report was published today. The top Tokyo JR people decided to kick him sideways. All the big Tokyo stations are being shaken up by the new governor, and Aoyama is a symbol of the old school of untouchables. The consultant—this guy who spent ten years teaching at Harvard Business School—gave him the news in front of a gang of junior managers. It was like a ‘How to Demote Somebody’ seminar.”
“Grim.”
“Not as grim as what happens next. Aoyama gets out a crossbow, right—”
“A crossbow?”
“A crossbow! And aims it at the consultant’s chest, right. He must have seen the news coming. He tells all but one of the juniors to leave if they don’t want to witness a bolt puncturing a human heart. Deep madness. Aoyama then throws a reel of mountaineering rope to the remaining junior, and orders him to tie the consultant to the chair. Then he tells the junior to leave. Before Security can get there, Aoyama locks the door from the inside.”
“What does he want?”
“Nobody knows yet! The police were called, so the TV people came too. The director was up there, trying to fight the press hacks away, but we’re going to be on the evening news whatever happens! Deep thrill. The SWAT teams will be here soon, and negotiators in bulletproof jackets. Nothing this exciting ever happens in Ueno. National news!”
I dive left and I know the ball is veering right. The ground whacks the breath from my body, my skeleton crunches, and the enemy roars. I spit out my tooth. It lies there, no longer a part of me. White, a speck of blood. Why bother getting up? Ever? I have lost the match, my friends, my soccer, my fame, my hopes to meet my father—everything except Anju. I should never have left Yakushima. The islanders will remember my shame for all time. How can I go back now? I lie in the goalmouth dirt—if I begin to sob here, how can I—
“Get up, Miyake!” It’s Nakamori, the team captain.
I look up. The rattail kid is holding his head in his hands. The enemy is stalking away. The referee is pointing to the twelve-yard box. I look in our goal. Empty. Where is the ball? I realize what happened. The ball went wide. The thunder god musses my hair. Thank you. Oh, thank you. I place the ball for the goal kick. Can the thunder god save my luck for another twenty-five minutes? Please. “Nice save,” sneers an enemy supporter. “Positions!” screams Ikeda. “Go go go!” I look for a friendly face on our team, but nobody will make eye contact in case I kick the ball to them. What do I do? The wind increases. “Look,” I vow to the thunder god, “let me be as great a goalkeeper as Mitsui, just for this game, and my future is yours. I know you saved me just now. Don’t turn your back on me now. Please. Please.” I run back a few paces, turn, take three deep breaths, sprint at the ball, and—it is a perfect, clean, powerful, rocket-fueled, divine kick. The thunder god intercepts the ball at house height and volleys it over the field. The ball soars over the enemy strikers. Their defenders are still jogging back into their half, unaware the goal kick has been taken. Some spectators gawk. Some players look around, wondering where the ball has gone. The enemy goalkeeper is having his photo taken with a girl, and the ball falls to earth before he realizes his services are needed. He dashes out in panic. The ball bounces over the goalkeeper, the thunder god nods it back down into the back of the net, and the miracle is complete.
The walk back from Kita Senju Station to Shooting Star usually clears my head, but it is impossible not to think of Aoyama holed up in his office with a crossbow bolt aimed at the head of an executive with red suspenders and pinstripes. Suga stayed around after work, but I wanted to get away from the police and gaping crowds. I didn’t even say goodbye to Suga. At Shooting Star, Buntaro is glued to the TV, spooning green-tea ice cream. “My, my, Miyake. You are a harbinger of doom.” “What do you mean?” “Look at the TV! Nothing like this happened at Ueno until you started working there.” I fan myself with my baseball cap and watc
h the screen. The camera shows an outside zoomed-in view of Aoyama’s office, taken, I guess, from the Terminus Hotel. The blinds are drawn. Ueno Station Under Siege. “There is absolutely no question,” a policeman assures a cluster of interviewers, “of a forced-entry operation at this present moment in time.” “Lull him into a false sense of security,” says Buntaro. “What do you make of this Aoyama character? Does he seem like a man on the edge of grand lunacy? Or does he seem like a publicity stunter?”
“Dunno . . . just unhappy.” And I spat into his teapot. I retreat upstairs.
“Aren’t you going to watch?”
“No.”
“Oh, by the way. About your cat. The cat.”
I peer down. “You found her owner?”
Buntaro keeps one eye on the TV. “No, kid, but she found her maker. Unless she has a secret twin she never told you about. Real coincidence. I was cycling here this morning and what did I see by the drainage channel down the side of Lawson’s? One dead cat, flies buzzing. Black, white paws and tail, a tartan collar with a silver bell, just like you described. I did my civic bit and called the council when I got here, but someone had already reported it. They can’t let things like that lie around in this heat.”
This is the worst day on record.
“Sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings and all.”
The second worst, I mean.
“Only a cat,” I mumble. I enter my capsule, sit down, and appear to lack the will to do anything except smoke the rest of my Dunhills. I don’t want to watch TV. I bought a noodle cup and a pint of mushy strawberries walking back from Kita Senju, but my appetite has vanished. I listen to the street fill up with evening.
Yakushima never returns to its full size when the ferry takes us back the following morning. The day is glossy with sunshine, but that heightens the illusion that this boundless island is a scale model. I look out for Anju on the seawall—and when I can’t find her I have to admit my elation is dented. Anju is a gifted sulker, but a thirty-six-hour sulk is a long haul, even for my sister. I zip open my sports bag—the man-of-the-match trophy glints back. I look for the thunder god’s shrine on its cliff—and this time I find it. The passengers pour down the gangplank, my teammates disappearing into waiting cars. I wave goodbye. Mr. Ikeda claps me on the shoulder and actually smiles. “Want a lift?”
“No, thanks, sir, my sister’ll be walking down to meet me.”
“Okay. Practice first thing tomorrow. And well done again, Miyake. You turned the game around. Three–nil! Three–nil!” Ikeda is still fat with revenge. “That wiped the snotty, shitty sneer off the fat face of their moron coach! I caught his despair on camera! I’ll get that shot made into New Year’s cards, eh? Show his shame to the world!”
I kick the same stone from the harbor up the main street, over the old bridge, and all the way up to the Neck. The stone obeys my every wish. Sun mirrors off the rice fields. I see the first dragonflies. This is the beginning of a long road. At the end is the World Cup. The abandoned house stares with empty sockets. I pass the torii gate, and think about running up to thank the thunder god right now—but I want to see Anju first. The hanging bridge trembles under my footsteps. Tiny fish cloud the leeward sides. Anju will be at home, helping our grandmother make lunch. Nothing to worry about. I slide open the front door—“I’m back!”
Anju’s foot thumps—
No, it was only the old house. I can tell from the shoes that my grandmother is out too. They must have gone to see Uncle Tarmac, but somehow missed me around the new harbor building while Mr. Ikeda was talking to me. I pour myself a glass of milk, and dive onto the sofa. On the insides of my eyelids I watch the exact parabola of the soccer ball curving over a volcano and under a distant crossbar.
“Miyake!” Buntaro, of course. I lift my head too quickly and yank my neck cords. A hammering on my capsule door. “Come quick! Quick! Now!” I clatter downstairs, where customers cluster around Buntaro’s TV. The outside of Aoyama’s office, high above the tracks. Live from Ueno Station Hostage Crisis Center. The picture is being taken with a night camera—light is orange and dark is brown. I don’t need to ask what is happening because the commentator is telling us. “The blind is up! The window is being opened and—a figure, Mr. Aoyama has—yes, that is him, I can confirm that, the figure climbing out of the window is Mr. Aoyama—he is on the ledge—the light is going on behind . . . please wait while—I’m receiving . . .” Background radio scratchings. “The hostage is unharmed! The police have taken the office! Whether they broke down the door or—now, Aoyama appears to have honored his promise not to—but the question now is— Oh, oh, he surely isn’t thinking of jumping . . . The face at the window, I can confirm that is a police officer, attempting to talk Aoyama out—he is dealing with a very disturbed man at this moment in time—he will be saying that—”
Aoyama jumps from the ledge.
Aoyama is no longer alive but not yet dead.
His body cartwheels, and falls for a long, long time.
Footsteps in the hallway wake me up. I open my eyes—my trophy shines on the table, proof that I didn’t dream the whole glorious afternoon. Evening lights the worn wooden room where my uncles and mother spent their childhoods. And here are my grandmother and Mr. Kirin, one of Yakushima’s four police officers. “I’m back,” I say, worried. “We won.”
My grandmother doesn’t care. “Did Anju say she was going anywhere?”
“No. Where is she?”
“If you’re lying I’ll, I’ll, I’ll—”
Mr. Kirin gently sits my grandmother down and turns to me. “Eiji . . .”
I want to be sick. “What happened to Anju?”
“Anju seems to have run away . . .”
He knows more.
“She wouldn’t, not without telling me. Never.”
My grandmother’s voice is broken. “So what did she tell you? She told me she was going to Uncle Tarmac’s yesterday evening. He called me this lunchtime to find out why she had changed her mind. If this is a game you two cooked up, you are in a sackload of trouble!” Mr. Kirin sits down on the other end of the sofa. “I want you to think, Eiji. Is there a secret place where she might have gone?”
First I think of trees. Then, with sickening certainty, I think of the whalestone. To get even with me. Her swimsuit . . . I run upstairs. I open our drawer. I was right—it’s gone. I think of the thunder god. Anything that I can give you, you can have. Take it. Mr. Kirin fills the bedroom doorframe. “What is it, Eiji-kun?” I get the words out before everything crashes down. “Look in the sea.”
Nearly five o’clock, says FUJIFILM. I get up and piss. In my toilet-cube mirror a drone looks back at me in mild surprise. I need a cigarette. The packet of Dunhills is empty, but I find one rolled under the ironing board. I light it on the gas stove, and go onto the balcony to smoke it. Dawn sketches outlines and colors them in. Tokyo roars, far off and near. So that is the end of Mr. Aoyama. He ran out of minutes, so he jumped. I wash the fungus out of a mug and make myself a cup of instant coffee. I take Anju’s photograph out to the balcony, and drink my coffee in her company. I think about the letter from my mother, and a deal presents itself. Should I? I must wash my dishes today. I look in the cockroach motel—I look again. Cockroach escaped. A leg and a smear of cockroach shit remain. I take in my laundry and fold it into a neat pile. I tune my guitar and run through some bossa nova chords, but all those sunlit breezes are not how I feel. Very well, Mother. You are my Plan B. I’ll give you what you want, if you tell me how to find our father. Nearly six o’clock. Early, but people at clinics get up early. That’s the point. Before I change my mind I dial.
“Good morning, Miyazaki Mountain Clinic.”
“Morning. Could you put me through to Mariko Miyake’s room, please.”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Is it too early?”
“Too late. Mrs. Miyake checked herself out yesterday evening.”
Oh, no. “Are you sure?”
r /> “Quite sure. She even took our towels as a souvenir.”
“Look, this is her son. I need to contact her. It’s urgent.”
“I’m sure it is, but once our guests decide to leave us they never hang around.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
She doesn’t bother to pretend to check. “No.”
“How was she?”
“You’d need to talk to her counselor—”
“What time does he start work?”
“She. But Dr. Suzuki would never discuss a patient with anyone. Even the patient’s son.”
If only I had called yesterday, if only, if only. “Did you meet her?” “Mrs. Miyake? Of course. I’m a senior nurse.”
“Can you tell me if she was—okay?”
“It depends what you mean by okay.”
“Well, you’ve been really helpful. Thanks so much.”
She uppercuts my irony. “It was my pleasure, sir.”
Click, buzz, click, purrrrrrrrr.........
Plan B down the drain. The submarines are running, and I feel wide awake, but it is still too early to leave for work. What a night. I feel I lived through it, rather than just remembered it. Buntaro called me down for a smoke later, in the quiet hour between eleven and midnight. We talked for a little while. I nearly forget that he is not a decent human being but my bloodsucking landlord. I put Plastic Ono Band into my Discman and lie down on my futon, just for a moment. Deep bells and beatboxes.
Plastic Ono Band is long over when a pattering sound pads into my dreams. At first I think it is a pipe dripping splashes, but then I feel her settling inside the curl of my body. I open my eyes. “Hey.” My voice is a croak. “I thought you were supposed to be dead.” She yawns, indifferent to what I think or thought. She regards me with her bronze-spark Cleopatra eyes.