Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

In the now quiet apartment, my heart has started to race slightly. Through the wall I can hear the coughing start back up again. I get up, consciously draw in my breath, and grab my exhausted-looking cell phone. When I touch it, the overworked device still retains the slightest heat. I call the publisher. I want to investigate Akari Kiharazaka further. I need more time. I have the guy with a deep voice who answers the phone call the editor who is in charge. He isn’t there. That’s how it always is with them, I think. Despite the ridiculous number of times the editor called to hound me to take on the project, whenever I try to reach him, I can never get him on the line. He doesn’t even have a cell phone. I have no choice but to send him an email; he always takes forever to reply.

I am thinking about visiting the children’s institution where Akari Kiharazaka had lived. I wonder if anyone who was there at the time will still be around. Her scent spreads across my chest. I wonder why she seduced me.

Just then the doorbell rings.

The sound seems too loud for my quiet apartment. My heart starts to race a little again. Could it be Yukie? I wonder as I approach the door. But it could be Akari Kiharazaka, I think. What will I do if it is her? Most likely I will lose any hesitation the moment I see her. I’ll let her into the apartment and probably throw her onto the bed. If she tries to tease me or laugh, I’ll show her my dark side.

Amid the contemptuous roar of the rest of the world, together she and I …

I look out through the peephole. As if I am a criminal peering out at the money I am about to steal. There is a man I don’t know standing there.

Before I know it, I am opening the door. After I have done so, I realize I haven’t latched the chain. Just what do I intend to do if this guy turns out to be dangerous? But the man just stares at me, without trying to come inside. He is wearing a grey coat over a navy blue suit.

“… Who are you?”

“We spoke on the phone … I’m Saito.”

He is a member of K2. I have been trying to interview him for quite a while.

“… Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

The man is standing there, immobile. What is this guy doing here? He looks at me with jittery eyes.

“… Just a minute, please. I’ll get my things. We can go to a coffee shop in the neighborhood.”

“Here is fine.”

He keeps staring at me.

“… Here? My apartment?”

“Yes. I don’t mean to intrude on your privacy, but don’t you want to be somewhere safe?”

This is a strange visit. I start to feel nervous. But why should I? I smile.

“No, come in. There’s nothing here though.”

The man enters my apartment. He looks around the room. There is almost no furniture. I offer him the chair from the desk, but he stands there without moving.

“Aren’t you a member of K2? There’s no doll here.”

“… I don’t know if I’d call myself a member, I just hung out a lot at the doll creator’s house.”

“… That’s not the way I understood it.”

He stands there with his coat on. Both his suit and his coat are new, and tasteful. His features are relatively refined. If I saw him on the train, I would probably take him for a respectable company man.

“Just thinking about giving you an interview is enough to make me depressed. That’s why I figured, just hurry up and get this unpleasantness over with. Quickly. Before I change my mind.”

“I appreciate your allowing me to interview you.”

“The thing is … I’m also to blame.”

“To blame?”

“No … That’s enough about that.”

I am just about to make some coffee for him when suddenly he moves.

“… I just can’t. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“What?”

“Excuse me. I can’t do the interview.”

He makes as if to leave. I don’t understand what is going on. My cell phone rings — it is probably my editor calling. But I don’t have time to answer it now.

“… Please wait. At least let me walk you to the station.”

I run after the man as he leaves my apartment. I don’t even stop to lock the door. I soon manage to catch up with him.

He wants to talk, I think. People like him sometimes turn out to be chatterboxes. As if they overflow when their isolation is suddenly broken. Drawing abreast of him, I make a suggestion.

“Why don’t we go someplace else?… We can have a drink somewhere. It’ll be on me.”

WE ARE SEATED at a table at the back of a dim bar. I asked for a beer, but Saito has ordered a whiskey. An oversized ceiling fan is spinning above us without a sound.

“So you’re writing a book about Yudai Kiharazaka.”

He speaks softly, almost muttering.

“… You mean, you want to know about the psychology behind the crime. Like all those other nonfiction books … where you interview all kinds of people in order to expose his dark secrets … That kind of thing?”

He is right in front of me, asking these questions, but for some reason he seems to be looking at something behind me.

“… Yes.”

“Would my name be in it? Would I be able to check the manuscript?”

“You would, and I wouldn’t put your name in it. Whatever I would write about you, there’d be no way for anyone to know it was you.”

A woman in a short skirt brings over the beer and whiskey. A black bra is visible through her white blouse.

When the woman approaches our table, the man suddenly looks down. It’s as if he’s just trying to make it through the moment. First she places my beer on the table and then she sets down the glass of whiskey. While she does so, he doesn’t move. He seems to be waiting to confirm that she has left, disappeared again behind the counter. After a moment he brings the glass to his lips and takes in a quick breath.

“… First let’s get something straight … I didn’t kill her.”

“… Yes, I know that.”

He is that woman’s stalker.

“It was a traffic accident. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. It happened while she was on a trip with her bartender boyfriend. I don’t know. By that time, I no longer had any interest in her herself.”

“… Because you had the doll?”

“That’s right.”

He drinks his whiskey. I am the one sitting across from him, I am the one interacting with him, yet he won’t look me in the eye — it is as if he is having a conversation with someone else.

“… She wouldn’t have anything to do with me. But I was sure that was only because she didn’t really know me.”

He brings the glass to his lips again. The tone of his voice quickens a little.

“I thought that, in order for her to like me, I needed to know more about her. I was shocked when I heard the police use the word stalker.”

Saito shifts his gaze somewhat to the left of me.

“I didn’t think I was a stalker. I mean, stalkers are guys who are hated and feared by women. But I’m not like that. She just didn’t know me, that’s all, and she would like me once she had a chance … But, isn’t that what a stalker says? I was devastated.”

I nod vaguely. If I am overly sympathetic, I will come off as unnatural. The slowly turning ceiling fan casts a shadow over the right side of Saito’s body at regular intervals.

“But, you know, I really loved her … I doubt you could understand. I didn’t think it was worth living in a world where she didn’t exist … But you know, I never wanted to cause any trouble for her. I just really loved her smiling face.”

“I saw a photograph of her. She was a beautiful woman.”

“You don’t understand. Nobody else could fathom her true charm,” he says absentmindedly. “It pained me to cause her grief. But, I needed her. I wanted her so badly and there was nothing I could do about it. When I saw her walking with another man … Anyway, you know what I mean, don’t you? I attempted suicide. But I didn’t die. Because I was a coward. After that, things got worse and worse for me. Her smiling face that I had loved, it meant nothing to me anymore. I even thought about killing her along with myself. I couldn’t bear the idea of her being with another man. If I were to kill her, I’d have to kill myself too — I’d have no choice but to die.”