Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

“IT’S SAFE TO say you killed them … Isn’t that right?”

The man’s expression does not change when I say this to him. He is wearing a black sweat suit, his body leaning lazily in his chair. If the transparent acrylic glass weren’t between us, would I be afraid? His cheeks are hollow, his eyes slightly sunken.

“I’ve had my doubts all along but … why did you … after the murder, Akiko’s …”

— Don’t jump to conclusions , he says.

He remains expressionless. He seems neither sad nor angry. He just seems tired. The man had been born tired.

— I think I’ll ask the questions, for a change .

I can hear his voice quite clearly even through the acrylic glass.

— Are you … prepared?

“Huh?”

The air suddenly grows chilly.

— I’m asking if you’re prepared .

The man is looking straight at me. He hasn’t shifted his gaze once, not for some time now.

— You want to know what’s inside my mind. Isn’t that right?… Why I committed a crime like that. You want to know about the deepest reaches of my heart. But up till now, nobody has come to see me in person … Do you know what that means?

He moves only his mouth — otherwise not a single muscle in his face shifts.

— That I would talk to you. And probably eagerly. Loneliness can turn a person into a great talker. You seem like you can manage to sit with me as long as you’re on the other side of this acrylic glass. But here’s what it feels like to me. Like we’re sitting face to face in a small enclosed room, having a chat. Try to imagine it. Having a conversation with a person who committed a bizarre crime, and at such close range, listening to everything that’s inside his mind … It would be as if I were putting myself inside of you .

“… Inside me?”

— That’s right. Whatever’s inside me, it would end up inside you. Whatever’s inside you would probably be activated by the process … As if I — a man who’s going to be executed — as if I could go on living inside of you. Are you okay with that?

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I’ve decided to write a book about you.”

The room grows chilly again. The place must be cleaned daily; although the floor is worn, there isn’t a speck of dust on it.

— Why?… Because you’re also a member of K2?

The guard in uniform behind him is staring at me. The walls of the room are starting to get to me. It’s as though, little by little, the room is closing in around the man. I draw in my breath. I am conscious of the acrylic glass in front of me. It’s all right, I murmur inside my head. This is surely an opening in the conversation. But the gap is small. We aren’t even alone. And there is a time limit.

“… I’m just interested in K2.”

— Interested … That could be dangerous .

The guard in uniform stands up and informs us of the time. I let out my breath. The man is aware of my relief. He is watching me. He sees the state I am in.

— Okay … You can come back again , he says in parting. The door behind him opens.

— But I’m still not sure whether I’m going to tell you anything. I’m not too good at analyzing myself. So .

As the man is led away, he continues.

— Together, I guess you and I can think about things … I mean, like why I did what I did .

AS I LEAVE the prison, dusk is falling.

I take in a breath. But there is no freshness to be had in the exhaust-choked air. When I realize that I am fumbling around in my pocket, I still my hand. In the distance I can see the lights of a convenience store. The man’s voice still echoes in my ears.

I cross a wide road that is wet from rain and go inside the convenience store. I stare at the cigarette display for a moment, grab a pack, and set it along with a lighter on the counter by the register. When I touch the gloss of the plastic-wrapped package, my fingers feel a trace of warmth.

The thin cashier takes the scanner and starts reading the barcodes with distracted movements. For some reason, I feel oppressed by the cashier’s gestures. I go outside and light a cigarette. Even though I quit smoking.

My throat feels parched. This thirst is not likely to be quenched by water.

I scan my surroundings futilely and start walking. My notebook and recorder are in my bag. They feel terribly heavy all of a sudden. I hadn’t been able to bring the recorder into the visiting room.

A hard rain begins to fall. The ground is already wet so this must have just been a temporary lull. People run to get out of the rain. They glance at me, standing there getting wet, as they pass by. Like they see something bizarre that they don’t want to have anything to do with. I hold my hand over my head and start to trot. The fact is, it really doesn’t matter to me whether I get wet.

Take another look at me, I want to say, but to whom I don’t know. I’m running like this, to get out of the rain. Just like you all.

At the edge of my vision, I can see that the lights are on in a small bar. In the evening dusk, the lights seem tentative as they flicker off and then dimly back on again.

Just as a shelter from the rain, I try to tell myself. I draw closer to the lights of the bar. I open the glass door, which has no trace of fingerprints yet, sit down at the counter, and order a whiskey on the rocks. Bartenders are wary of customers who arrive just as the bar is opening.

“It’s raining.”

“… What?”

“Uh, the rain.”

I am at a loss for words. He serves me the whiskey, and I bring the glass to my lips. I put the liquid on my tongue, and the moment I feel the expanse of sweet warmth, I gulp it down. It is as if my throat has no patience, and needs to hasten it down all at once. The man on the other side of the bar is watching me. He must be used to seeing the moment when someone who abstains decides to give up.

“Are you … prepared?” The other man’s voice floats through my mind. Prepared? I attempt a smile. I bring the whiskey to my lips again. As if I’m a ravenous insect. The warmth of the alcohol spreads to my brow and into my chest.

I don’t need to be prepared. I have nothing left to protect.

Dear Sister,

Prison is not as bad as you’d think. But it’s been quite a long time … I hope you’ll forgive me for writing another letter like this. I can’t help but get introspective in letters. I don’t want to upset you all over again.

But I wonder why that is — why do people feel the need to reveal things? I don’t know. Stuff about me has probably been wrongly reported out in the world. That doesn’t matter. Because I don’t even understand it myself — I mean, why I did such a thing. And why I’m going to be executed.

I hope you can forgive your brother. Well, to be more precise, I hope you can cope with it. But here, there’s no chance of me coping with it all. I know I just wrote that prison isn’t so bad, but there are exceptions. Like the nights. When I can’t sleep, I get very frightened by this place. In solitary confinement in prison (those of us who commit incendiary crimes are thrown into solitary) the concrete walls and the iron doors that shut me off from the outside world seem only to heighten that feeling of terror. Every sound echoes coldly against the concrete and iron. It’s the heaviness and the indifference of such hardness that scares me, more than being locked up in here. I wonder if you can understand.