Carrot slowly raised his head and looked at me. He didn’t say a thing. I shut my eyes, sighed, and was silent for a while.
“I haven’t told anybody yet,” I said, “but during summer vacation I went to Greece. You know where Greece is, don’t you? We watched that video in social studies class, remember? In southern Europe, next to the Mediterranean. They have lots of islands and grow olives. Five hundred B.C. was the peak of their civilization. Athens was the birthplace of democracy, and Socrates took poison and died. That’s where I went. It’s a beautiful place. But I didn’t go to have a good time. A friend of mine disappeared on a small Greek island, and I went to help search. But we didn’t find anything. My friend just quietly vanished. Like smoke.”
Carrot opened his mouth a crack and looked at me. His expression was still hard and lifeless, but a glimmer of light appeared. I’d gotten through to him.
I really liked this friend of mine. Very very much. My friend was the most important person in the world to me. So I took a plane to Greece to help search. But it didn’t help. We didn’t find a clue. Since I lost my friend, I don’t have any more friends. Not a single one.”
I wasn’t talking to Carrot as much as to myself. Thinking aloud.
“You know what I’d really like to do the most right now? Climb up to the top of some high place like the pyramids. The highest place I can find. Where you can see forever. Stand on the very top, look all around the world, see all the scenery, and see with my own eyes what’s been lost from the world. I don’t know. . . . Maybe I really don’t want to see that. Maybe I don’t want to see anything anymore.”
The waitress came over, removed Carrot’s plate of melted ice cream, and left the check.
I feel like I’ve been alone ever since I was a child. I had parents and an older sister at home, but I didn’t get along with them. I couldn’t communicate with anyone in my family. So I often imagined I was adopted. For some reason some distant relatives gave me up to my family. Or maybe they got me from an orphanage. Now I realize how silly that idea was. My parents aren’t the type to adopt a helpless orphan. Anyway, I couldn’t accept the fact that I was related by blood to these people. It was easier to think they were complete strangers.
“I imagined a town far away. There was a house there, where my real family lived. Just a modest little house, but warm and inviting. Everyone there can understand one another, they say whatever they feel like. In the evening you can hear Mom bustling around in the kitchen getting dinner ready, and there’s a warm, delicious fragrance. That’s where I belong. I was always picturing this place in my mind, with me as a part of the picture.
“In real life my family had a dog, and he was the only one I got along with. He was a mutt, but pretty bright; once you taught him something he never forgot. I took him for a walk every day, and we’d go to the park; I’d sit on a bench and talk about all sorts of things. We understood each other. Those were my happiest moments as a child. When I was in fifth grade my dog was hit by a truck near our house and killed. My parents wouldn’t let me buy another dog. They’re too noisy and dirty, they told me, too much trouble.
“After my dog died I stayed in my room a lot, just reading books. The world in books seemed so much more alive to me than anything outside. I could see things I’d never seen before. Books and music were my best friends. I had a couple of good friends at school, but never met anyone I could really speak my heart to. We’d just make small talk, play soccer together. When something bothered me, I didn’t talk with anyone about it. I thought it over all by myself, came to a conclusion, and took action alone. Not that I really felt lonely. I thought that’s just the way things are. Human beings, in the final analysis, have to survive on their own.
“When I entered college, though, I made a friend, the one I told you about. And my way of thinking started to change. I came to understand that thinking just by myself for so long was holding me back, keeping me to a single viewpoint. And I started to feel that being all alone is a terrible thing.
“Being all alone is like the feeling you get when you stand at the mouth of a large river on a rainy evening and watch the water flow into the sea. Have you ever done that? Stand at the mouth of a large river and watch the water flow into the sea?”
Carrot didn’t reply.
“I have,” I said.
Eyes wide open, Carrot looked in my face.
“I can’t really say why it’s such a lonely feeling to watch all the river water mix together with the seawater. But it really is. You should try it sometime.”
I picked up my jacket and the check and slowly stood up. I rested a hand on Carrot’s shoulder, and he stood up, too. I paid and we left the shop.
It took about thirty minutes to walk to his house. We walked together, and I didn’t say a word.
Near his house was a small river, with a concrete bridge over it. A bland little thing, really, less a river than a drainage ditch that had been widened. When there was still farmland around here it must have been used for irrigation. Now, though, the water was cloudy, with a slight odor of detergent. Summer grasses sprouted in the riverbed, a discarded comic book lay open in the water. Carrot came to a halt in the middle of the bridge, leaned over the railing, and gazed down. I stood beside him and looked down, too. We stood like that for the longest time. He probably didn’t want to go back home. I could understand that.
Carrot stuck a hand inside his trouser pocket, pulled out a key, and held it out toward me. Just an ordinary key, with a large red tag on it. The tag said STORAGE 3 on it. The key for the storage room that the security guard, Nakamura, was looking for. Carrot must have been left alone in the room for a moment, found it in the drawer, and tossed it into his pocket. This boy’s mind was a bigger enigma than I’d imagined. He was an altogether strange child.
I took the key and held it in my palm and could feel the weight of the countless people that had seeped into it. It struck me as terribly wretched, dirty, small-minded. Flustered for a moment, I ended up dropping the key into the river. It made a tiny splash. The river wasn’t very deep, but the water was cloudy, and the key disappeared from sight. Side by side on the bridge, Carrot and I gazed at the water for a time. Somehow it made me feel cheerful, my body lighter.
“It’s too late to take it back,” I said, more to myself than to him. “I’m sure they have a spare somewhere. It’s their precious storage room, after all.”
I held my hand out, and Carrot softly took it in his. I could feel his slim, small fingers in mine. A feeling that I’d experienced somewhere—where could it have been?—a long long time ago. I held his hand and we headed for his home.
His mother was waiting for us when we got there. She’d changed into a smart little white sleeveless blouse and a pleated skirt. Her eyes were red and swollen. She must have cried alone the whole time after she got home. Her husband ran a real-estate agency in the city and on Sundays was either at work or out playing golf. She had Carrot go to his room on the second floor and took me not to the living room but to the kitchen, where we sat down at the table. Maybe it was easier for her to talk there. The kitchen had a huge avocado-green fridge, an island in the middle, and a sunny window facing east.
He looks a little better than he did before,” she said weakly. “When I first saw him at that security office, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him look that way. Like he was off in another world.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Just give it time, and he’ll get back to normal. For the time being it’d be better if you don’t say anything to him. Just leave him alone.”
“What did you two do after I left you?”
“We talked,” I said.
“About what?”
“Not much. Basically I did all the talking. Nothing special, really.”
“Would you like something cold to drink?”
I shook my head.
“I have no idea how to talk to him anymore,” she said. “And that feeling just grows stronger.”
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“There’s no need to force yourself to talk with him. Children are in their own world. When he wants to talk, he will.”
“But he barely talks at all.”
We were careful not to touch as we faced each other across the kitchen table. Our conversation was strained, the kind you might expect of a teacher and a mother discussing a problem child. As she spoke she played with her hands, twisting her fingers, stretching them out, grasping her hands. I thought about the things those hands had done to me in bed.
I won’t report what’s happened to the school, I told her. I’ll have a good talk with him, and if there’s any problem, I’ll take care of it. So don’t worry about it. He’s a smart boy, a good boy; give it time and he’ll settle down. This is just a phase he’s going through. The most important thing is for you to be calm about it. I slowly, calmly repeated all this over and over, letting it sink in. It seemed to make her feel better.
She said she’d drive me back to my apartment in Kunitachi.
Do you think my son senses what’s going on?” she asked me when we were stopped at a traffic light. What she meant, of course, was what was going on between her and me.
I shook my head. “Why do you say that?”
“While I was alone at home, waiting for you to come back, the thought just struck me. I have nothing to go by, it’s just a feeling. He’s very intuitive, and I’m sure he’s picked up on how my husband and I don’t get along well.”
I was silent. She didn’t say any more.
She parked her car in the parking lot just beyond the intersection where my apartment building stood. She set the parking brake and turned off the engine. The engine sputtered out, and with the sound from the air conditioner off, an uncomfortable silence fell over the car. I knew she wanted me to take her in my arms right then and there. I thought of her pliant body beneath her blouse, and my mouth got dry.
“I think it’d be better for us not to meet anymore,” I came right out and said.
She didn’t say anything. Hands on the steering wheel, she stared in the direction of the oil gauge. Almost all expression had faded from her face.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I said. “I don’t think it’s right that I’m part of the problem. I can’t be part of the solution if I’m part of the problem. It’s better for everyone that way.”
“ ‘Everyone’?”
“Especially for your son.”
“For you, too?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What about me? Does ‘everyone’ include me?”
Yes, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t get the words out. She took off her dark green Ray-Bans, then slipped them on again.
“It’s not easy for me to say this,” she said, “but if I can’t see you anymore it will be very hard on me.”
“It will be hard on me, too. I wish we could continue the way we are. But it’s not right.”
She took a deep breath and let it out.
“What is right? Would you tell me? I don’t really know what’s right. I know what’s wrong. But what is right?”
I didn’t have a good answer.
She looked like she was about to weep. Or cry out. But somehow she held herself in check. She just gripped the steering wheel tightly, the backs of her hands turning slightly red.
“When I was younger all kinds of people talked to me,” she said. “Told me all sorts of things. Fascinating stories, beautiful, strange stories. But past a certain point nobody talked to me anymore. No one. Not my husband, my child, my friends . . . no one. Like there was nothing left in the world to talk about. Sometimes I feel like my body’s turning invisible, like you can see right through me.”
She raised her hands from the steering wheel and held them out in front of her.
“Not that you would understand what I’m trying to say.”
I searched for the right words. And nothing came.
“Thank you very much for everything today,” she said, pulling herself together. Her voice was nearly its usual, calm tone. “I don’t think I could have handled it alone. It’s very hard on me. Having you there helped a lot. I’m grateful. I know you’re going to be a wonderful teacher. You almost are.”
Was this meant to be sarcastic? Probably. No—definitely.
“Not yet,” I said. She smiled, ever so slightly. And our conversation came to an end.
I opened the car door and stepped outside. The summer Sunday-afternoon sunlight had gotten considerably weaker. I found it hard to breathe, and my legs felt strange as I stood there. The Celica’s engine roared to life, and she drove out of my life forever. She rolled down her window and gave a small wave, and I lifted my hand in response.
Back in the apartment I took off my sweaty shirt and tossed it in the washing machine, took a shower, and shampooed my hair. I went to the kitchen, finished preparing the meal I’d left half done, and ate. Afterward, I sank back in my sofa and read a book I’d just started. But I couldn’t finish five pages. Giving up, I closed the book and thought for a while about Sumire. And the storage room key I’d tossed in the filthy river. And my girlfriend’s hands gripping the steering wheel. It had been a long day, and it was finally over, leaving behind just random memories. I’d taken a good long shower, but my body was still steeped in the stink of tobacco. And my hand still retained a sharp sensation—as if I’d crushed the life out of something.
Did I do what was right?
I didn’t think so. I’d only done what was necessary for me. There’s a big difference. “Everyone”? she’d asked me. “Does that include me?”
Truthfully, at that time I wasn’t thinking about everyone. I was thinking only about Sumire. Not all of them there, or all of us here.
Only of Sumire, who wasn’t anywhere.
CHAPTER 16
I hadn’t heard a word from Miu since the day we’d said goodbye at the harbor. This struck me as odd, since she promised to get in touch whether or not there was any news about Sumire. I couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about me; she wasn’t the type to make promises she didn’t intend to keep. Something must have happened to keep her from contacting me. I considered calling her, but I didn’t even know her real name. Or the name of her company or where it was. As far as Miu was concerned, Sumire hadn’t left behind any solid leads.
Sumire’s phone still had the same message on it, but it was soon disconnected. I thought about calling her family. I didn’t know the number, though it wouldn’t have been hard to find her father’s dental clinic in the Yokohama Yellow Pages. But somehow I couldn’t take that step. Instead, I went to the library and looked through the August newspapers. There was a tiny article about her, about a twenty-two-year-old Japanese girl traveling in Greece who disappeared. The local authorities are investigating, searching for her. But so far no clues. That was it. Nothing I didn’t already know. Quite a few people traveling abroad disappeared, it seemed. And she was merely one of them.
I gave up trying to follow the news. Whatever the reasons were for her disappearance, however the investigation was proceeding, one thing was certain. If Sumire were to come back, she’d get in touch. That was all that mattered.
September came and went, fall was over before I knew it, and winter set in. November 7 was Sumire’s twenty-third birthday, and December 9 was my twenty-fifth. The new year came, and the school year ended. Carrot didn’t cause any more problems and went into fifth grade, into a new class. After that day I never really talked with him about the shoplifting. Every time I saw him, I realized it wasn’t necessary.
Since he had a new teacher now, there were fewer times I’d run across my former girlfriend. Everything was over and done with. Sometimes, though, a nostalgic memory of the warmth of her skin would come to me, and I’d be on the verge of picking up the phone. What brought me to a halt was the feeling of that supermarket storage room key in my hand. Of that summer afternoon. And of Carrot’s little hand in mine.
Whenever I ran across Carrot at school, I couldn??
?t help thinking that he was one strange child. I had no inkling of what thoughts were brewing behind that thin, calm face. But something was definitely going on beneath his placid exterior. And if push came to shove, he had the wherewithal to take action. I could sense something deep about him. I believed that telling him the feelings I held inside was the right thing to do. For him, and for me. Probably more for my sake. It’s a little strange to say this, but he understood me then and accepted me. And even forgave me. To some extent, at least.
What kind of days—the seemingly endless days of youth—would children like Carrot go through as they grew into adulthood? It wouldn’t be easy for them. Hard times would outnumber the easy. From my own experience, I could predict the shape their pain would take. Would he fall in love with somebody? And would that other person love him back? Not that my thinking about it mattered. Once he graduated from elementary school, he’d be gone, and I’d see him no more. And I had my own problems to think about.
I went to a record store, bought a copy of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing Mozart’s lieder, and listened to it again and again. I loved the beautiful stillness of the songs. If I closed my eyes, the music always took me back to that night on the Greek island.
Besides some very vivid memories, including the one of the overwhelming desire I felt the day I helped her move, all Sumire left behind were several long letters and the floppy disk. I read the letters and the two documents so many times I nearly had them memorized. Every time I read them, I felt like Sumire and I were together again, our hearts one. This warmed my heart more than anything else could. Like you’re riding a train at night across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in a window of a farmhouse. In an instant it’s sucked back into the darkness behind and vanishes. But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely, for a few moments.
I wake up in the middle of the night and get out of bed (I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway), lie down on my sofa, and relive memories of that small Greek island as I listen to Schwarzkopf. I recollect each and every event, quietly turning the pages of my memory. The lovely deserted beach, the outdoor café at the harbor. The waiter’s sweat-stained shirt. Miu’s graceful profile and the sparkle of the Mediterranean from the veranda. The poor hero who’d been impaled standing in the town square. And the Greek music I heard from the mountaintop that night. I vividly relive the magical moonlight, the wondrous echo of the music. The sensation of estrangement I experienced when I was awakened by the music. That formless, midnight pain, like my body, too, was silently, cruelly, being impaled.