Fuminori Nakamura - Evil and the Mask

On TV every station was running the story of Mikihiko’s demise, of the explosion at his apartment, though they were saying they couldn’t confirm if it was suicide or murder.

“When I looked at the material you gave me,” I said, “it felt like a great weight had been placed on my shoulders. Mikihiko was raised by Shozo as a cancer. His father got tired of him partway through and let him go free, but by then it was already too late. Maybe, however, he believed that the discontinuation of his education was a sign of his father’s love …”

“That seems unlikely.”

He put the cup down quietly.

“His life was tragic. He looked like his spirit was broken. I …” I hesitated, then went on. “The estimated time of death was one thirty A.M.”

“Yes.”

“The same time the bomb went off. In other words, during that thirty minutes he didn’t leave the room or take his own life. He just sat there the whole time.”

Mikihiko’s last minutes were really bothering me. His delirious ranting about death — I couldn’t get it out of my head. I wondered if he was in that state of exaltation again at the moment of the blast. Did he feel everything soaking through him, feel himself becoming his true self? While he was sitting lethargically on the sofa, watching the numbers on the bomb growing smaller, did he feel it? Did he see the flash of the explosion?

“I don’t know if this is a good outcome or not.”

“I guess no one does,” he replied.

We were meeting in a room at the same hotel, where the detective had some kind of connection. A plane passing the window was just a shadow against the sun behind it. Perhaps the room was soundproofed, because there was no noise from outside.

“But I think you managed to change the course of events,” he said suddenly, “whether you wanted to or not.”

“What course of events?”

“I don’t know. But in return, you’ve been badly damaged.”

A banner was scrolling across the TV screen, saying that the body of a man who appeared to be the JL member wanted by the police had been found on the street. The cause of death was unknown.

“The press are having a field day, aren’t they?” the detective muttered. “I wonder what happened to him?”

“Who knows?”

I watched the broadcast, sipping my coffee. It didn’t taste of anything. Everything seemed to be passing me by without touching me.

“But I had nothing to do with that.”

“I guess they have their own story, even though they’ve been taken advantage of by people like Mikihiko Kuki.”

The presenter started reading the news flash out loud.

“But even assuming, for the sake of argument, that Mikihiko and his cronies planned it all, can people really be manipulated like that? Surely it can’t be that simple?”

“I don’t know. But there’s a rumor that pretty soon several politicians and government officials are going to be under the microscope over those illegal arms exports, based on that information. That might put the brakes on them for a while.”

The room was spotlessly clean. The heater was on, but my breath was coming out in white puffs. I stood up and started to walk away, but my legs went weak. I thought I was going to fall over.

“What are you …?”

From his tone I sensed that even from behind he could tell I was unsteady.

“What are you going to do next?”

I debated whether or not to turn around, but realized I had nothing to add.

“I don’t know, but for now, could you please make sure that Kaori is safe?”

I knew this was redundant, since the JL guy was dead and he’d just told me she was in no danger. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I WENT HOME and took off my coat. Pulled out a chair at the table, then went and sat on the bed instead. My pulse was uneven, so to take my mind off it I opened the fridge, took out a bottle of mineral water and drank. My heartbeat still wouldn’t settle. I switched on the TV, but they were still going on about JL. I turned it off again and stood up. My bag was still lying on the table, as though I’d left it there on purpose. Inside was the bottle of cyanide.

I hadn’t given it to Mikihiko because I figured that the bomb on its own would be enough. Though maybe that wasn’t the real reason. Maybe I’d held onto it and brought it home so I could use it myself. I realized that I was staring at the bag, forced myself to look away, but I could feel my eyes being drawn back to it. It would be so easy. All my suffering until now — my heartbreaks, my depression, my regrets — all I had to do was drink that poison and they’d all disappear.

I hunted for a distraction, found my cigarettes and lit one. Just like the coffee I’d drunk at the hotel, it had no flavor at all. My pulse started to beat even faster and it hurt to breathe. I sidled towards the bag, took out the bottle and gazed at it for a long time. Just looking, I thought. It was cold to the touch. That chill felt right in my hand.

Remembering my half-finished cigarette in the ashtray, I picked it up and took a drag. I couldn’t take my eyes off the bottle. It was like it was calling me. I’ll just take the top off and take a peek, I thought, my body trembling with indecision.

I drank more water, focused on its coldness in my mouth. I told myself to put the bottle away for now, replaced it carefully in the backpack. My eyesight was still contracted to a narrow circle. Suddenly I needed to use the toilet, but just as I was leaving the room my cell phone rang. It was Kyoko Yoshioka.

“What are you up to?” she asked in her high-pitched voice.

I remembered that I’d called her once when I was drunk. Letting her know my number by mistake.

“You could say I’m busy.”

It sounded like she was outside somewhere.

“Oh, okay, I’ll keep it short. Um, that movie I was watching at your place, with the story that didn’t go anywhere, what was it called?”

I walked slowly back into the living room.

“ Nostalgia . It’s Tarkovsky.”

“Ah.”

She fell silent. In the background I could hear the noise of cars, the shrill laughter of other pedestrians.

“Okay, thanks. Sorry. Bye.”

There was another long pause, and then she hung up.

A DROPLET FORMED, slid down under its own weight, joined with other drops to become a trickle. The water reflected the lights. When I picked up my glass the drops seemed to cling to it, then quivered soundlessly on the table top as though unsure what to do next. I stuck a straw in my iced coffee, but it didn’t taste of anything. I couldn’t even feel its coldness on my tongue.

The man sitting at the table on my left, his head looked soft like a fruit. It seemed to swell and collapse in on itself. I felt I was suffocating. At that moment the door opened and Kaori walked in. She nearly bumped into the waiter, bowed and then turned towards me with a smile. I sipped my water and raised a hand to wave, but my gesture was too small to be noticeable.

“Sorry,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No.”

Seeming not to notice the state I was in, she called the waiter and ordered Darjeeling tea.

“I’m sorry about today. I know we were supposed to meet at the club, but …”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah, there was …”

She looked down, as if reluctant to go on. I felt like the words were being dragged out of me. A customer nearby had put his briefcase on a chair, and for some reason I imagined that it contained a bottle of cyanide.