Richard House - The Kills

When they showed him the footage the secretary Sandra burst into tears and had to leave the room. The police, uncomfortable with the procedure, continued, their faces red, flustered. Yee Jan wondered to whom they felt the most sympathetic, him, or the man who’d mistaken him for a woman — as this was the scenario from their perspective.

Everyone knew the story about the language school and the disappearance of the Japanese student (which explained Sandra’s tears), but none of the students were aware that this had any effect day to day on the school or had anything much to do with the slightly heightened security around the palazzo, because, let’s face it, this is Naples, so a camera above the intercom wasn’t odd. A camera above the courtyard doors wasn’t odd. A camera mounted in the window of the antiques store wasn’t odd. The police knew next to nothing and seemed genuinely bored. They couldn’t even be sure how many times the man had followed him. Three times captured on tape, but maybe four. Four or five, then.

In gritty black and white, from three separate vantage points, the image showed a man standing, and sometimes leaning, by the wall opposite the entrance. In the first tape the man stood with his arms at his side, he wore an unmarked baseball hat and a lightweight jacket despite the heat and humidity. Yee Jan thought he looked a little (and while he didn’t like the word, he couldn’t avoid it) retarded. No one stands that still for that long without having some kind of an issue going on. It didn’t help that the crudeness of the image flattened everything into tonal plains. The longer Yee Jan looked, the harder he concentrated, the more the grey plains appeared to vibrate. In two of the segments other students came out and the man showed no interest, but as soon as Yee Jan emerged with his bag tucked under his arm (that handsome ersatz-Ferragamo with a white and brown body and long double-stitched brown straps, a serious piece of equipment), the man turned his head, then, once Yee Jan walked away, he followed after, looking ever-so-slightly undead. It was the walk. Definitely the walk. Evidently, Yee Jan or his bag had some kind of zombie-magnetism going on.

In the set of images from the second day the man waited in almost the exact same spot. This time he leaned back, shoulders against the wall, and bowed forward as soon as Yee Jan came out of the doors and followed after, not quite so zombie-like (in fact pretty ordinary, though somewhat languid) one hand running along the brim of his cap, a ring on his finger. The ring passed too quickly for him to see which finger (he suspected it was a signet ring, it would be too much to hope that a married man with some secret vice was following him, smitten). On the third day the man waited, hands in pockets, a little more anxious perhaps and wary of the street. When Yee Jan came out, among a burst of other students, he waited, held back, his right hand wiped his face and he walked out of view, more zombie than not, again following Yee Jan.

The director of the language school cleared her throat throughout the viewing. She spoke softly with the two policemen, then directly addressed Yee Jan in English.

‘This isn’t the first time. I think the film, it’s possible, is making things worse.’

Yee Jan sucked the skin on his knuckles — which film? Did she mean the movie they were shooting on the seafront? The policemen didn’t appear to care and he wondered at how Italians seemed to love their uniforms, however stupid they appeared wearing them because they always looked a size too small and were over-dressed in ornament. Just dumb.

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘No. Most of the people who come, come only once. And sometimes, once they’re here, they wait for a while. It’s not clear why, exactly.’ But this time there was a complaint from one of the students about a man waiting outside, and when the secretary checked the tapes, she noticed it was the same man coming time after time. ‘We don’t know for how long.’

Yee Jan sat forward, and repeated his question. ‘Why is he here?’

The director shifted back in her seat. ‘There isn’t much we can do. It’s a public street. There is the sign outside. Every time something comes out in the newspapers or a book — and now this film — we have people who come to the school, they go to the palazzo on via Capasso, then they come here to look at the sign outside. I have asked them to take down the sign. But I don’t think it would make a difference.’

It sounded to Yee Jan like this would be the preferred option. Take down the sign, rename the school. Easy.

‘Why is he following me?’

‘Was. He was following you. This footage is from last week. He hasn’t come back this week.’

‘So why was he following me?’

At this the director looked deeply pained. ‘Because,’ she answered carefully, ‘one of the people who disappeared was one of our students. A Japanese student.’

Yee Jan nodded, he knew the story. ‘I’m American. The features are Korean.’

‘I don’t understand it either. But it’s always the same. People are curious. It’s an unfortunate mistake. I think this is what happens when an idea spreads. I think someone has seen you and just become fascinated with the idea.’

While the error was just about plausible — in a general sense — it was a simple fact that Yee Jan looked nothing like a Japanese housewife, not even close. In any case, Yee Jan had shown utmost sensitivity for the first couple of weeks at the school over the issue of his mannerisms and his clothes, and toned everything down. He’d kept to a simple wardrobe of dark T-shirts and black jeans. Although he sometimes changed after lessons, not one person from the school had seen him. Only slowly, over several weeks (and the difference becoming more noticeable this week), had he allowed himself to relax, to return to being human, feminine; his body becoming less constricted, his gestures broader, larger, and he’d started wearing a few more bangles, a little more make-up. He’d began to laugh again, that double laugh, the supple ripple that underscored and lit up conversations, and that coarse horny bellow that singled him out of any crowd. Yee Jan’s laughter was a gift given generously. He began to address himself in the third person when he was forgetful, or if he made a mistake. He began calling the boys girlfriend, girl, ragazza, or sometimes she, in a manner which suggested affection, and enjoyed making a mess of the genders in class to amuse himself, his tutors, the other students.

It was possible with his black hair, the occasional clasp, the eye-shadow, the hint of eye-liner (nothing even close to the amount of make-up he wore at home), the plucked eyebrows, his mannerisms (that lazy, sexy walk, those smooth gestures where his hands followed one beat behind every motion), his height, his skinniness, that he could be mistaken for a girl — a girl — but not, no way, a middle-aged Japanese housewife.

There were too many questions. Did this man follow him because he looked the type — Asian and petite? Did the man have some kind of problem with his sight, or was he crazy? Was he certain about his choice, or did he consider, vacillate, become certain then uncertain? How long did he follow? Did he come all the way to Vomero, door to door, or did he give up at the funiculare? Did he intend to harm him? Or was it something else? Yee Jan had seen in movies how a slight gesture made without deliberate intention could fashion a whole world of consequences, happenstances, and while he didn’t believe that this would occur in life, he wanted to know if the man believed that he had given him a signal, a please follow me? In any case: how curious was he, this man who wore jackets in the middle of the summer?