Yoko Ogawa - Revenge

I was out of breath from talking so much. At some point he had let go of my hand.

We fell quiet after that, but it was an uncomfortable silence, different from the peaceful moment we had been sharing just a few minutes ago. The wineglasses shone on the table. Steam was rising from the pot on the stove. And the noises upstairs had stopped.

“Do you find it amusing that someone died?” he asked.

“Oh, I forgot to make the coffee,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard him, and then ran to the kitchen. I clattered the cups against the door of the cupboard as I took them out, hoping the noise would break the silence—and deflect his question. But it was no use.

“Do you find it amusing that someone died?” he repeated in the exact same tone, now standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed.

“What do you mean?” I said. “There’s nothing amusing about it. It’s just that I…” But before I could finish, he grabbed his coat and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, alone. The water boiled, but I realized I no longer needed it. I put the coffee cups back in the cupboard. Then I went out.

I had no intention of running after him. It was as though he had already gone somewhere far away, and I could run and run but I would never catch him.

What had I done to deserve such treatment? I may have let myself get a little carried away, but I didn’t think there was anything funny about the murders. I was truly sorry about what had happened. I’d been very serious when talking to the detective and the reporter. If I got excited, it was just because I was so happy to see him.

In the end, I guess my explanations were no use—there was no one to hear them anyway.

It was a weekday afternoon, the plaza in front of the city hall was almost empty. The ice-cream cart and balloon vendor came only on Sunday. A man was taking a nap on a bench. Some young people were reading on the steps in front of the clock tower. The bakery where I bought the cakes this morning was quiet now. A flock of pigeons flew into the air and then settled around a bench.

Four o’clock sounded, the door in the tower opened, and the wooden figures—soldier, rooster, and skeleton—marched out for their little parade. A few tourists gathered around to take pictures.

Since my boyfriend and I had usually met at the plaza, I had seen the show so often I was sick of it. Especially since he was usually late.

The angels appeared with golden wings fluttering. The left wing on one of them was loose and looked like it was about to fall off, while the jaw of the skeleton seemed to be stuck. Paint was chipping from the rooster’s comb. I knew every last ugly detail.

The angel at the back of the line turned on its spool, the skeleton rang the final bell, and the door closed. The tourists wandered off. I skirted the tower and took the road behind the city hall. Most of the souvenir shops were closed.

I had a friend once who was dumped by her boyfriend because he didn’t like a coat she had bought. It was a very nice cashmere coat, but for some reason it disgusted him to see her wearing it. At least that’s what he told her. She cut it up, doused it in lighter fluid, and burned it, but her boyfriend never came back.

Another girl I know lost her boyfriend for using eyedrops in bed. They were just normal drops, but he said he couldn’t stand seeing her put them in. Strange that a little thing like a coat or an eyedrop can ruin everything.

I walked for a long time, turning down narrow and deserted streets, hoping to avoid people—because every time I saw another person, I thought it might be my boyfriend. I passed the library, a dry cleaner, a beauty parlor that had gone out of business. A little playground with just a swing and a sandbox. A hedge of Red Robin. A puppy playing in the grass. At some point I lost sight of the clock tower.

When I finally got tired of walking, I stopped in front of an old stone house. A huge oak tree grew in the front yard. There were lace curtains in the windows, and bright red flowers in the planters. An elaborate design had been carved into the paneling on the front door. There was no sign of anyone in the house, only the sound of oak leaves rustling in the breeze.

The rusted sign on the gatepost was hard to read, but I managed to make out the characters for “Museum of Torture.” Just the spot for me right now.

Bright colors streamed in through a stained-glass window high above the lobby. There was a curved staircase at the back of the room. An umbrella stand with a mirror, two high-backed chairs, a piano that looked like it hadn’t been played in years. A hat rack and a few other carefully arranged pieces of furniture. The rug on the floor was soft and deep. An empty vase had been set on a side table, and a porcelain doll with curly hair sat on one of the chairs. A lace runner with a pattern of swans covered the shoe cupboard. Everything was very elegant.

But the air was stale, as though the room were holding its breath, and the only thing that moved was the light from the windows when the oak leaves fluttered outside.

I looked around for a reception desk, but there was nothing like that—no pamphlets or arrows showing where the tour started, no ticket machine or anything else you might expect to see in a museum. The doors on either side of the lobby were closed.

I screwed up my courage and called out, “Excuse me!” To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the Museum of Torture, but for some reason I couldn’t stop myself. After all, torture might have been better than going home to my silent apartment.

“Excuse me!” I called again, but my voice seemed to die away. I thought for a moment, and then chose the door on the left. I always go left when I have to choose. He was left-handed.

“Welcome,” said an old man in a bow tie. He held out his arm to show the way, as though he had been expecting me. But I was startled and froze for a moment. “Please come in,” he said, running his hand through his white hair. His cologne smelled like a fern. The handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket matched his tie; his cufflinks were set with pearls.

“I tried calling from the lobby, but no one answered. I apologize for barging in like this.”

“Not at all,” he said. “But tell me, have you come to see the collection? Or are you here to contribute a piece?”

“A piece?” I said.

“An instrument of torture,” the man answered, smiling just a bit. I shook my head. “I see,” he said. “Very well then, I would be happy to give you the tour.”

We were standing in the living room. The furniture included a pair of couches; a claw-foot cabinet; a long, narrow table like something from a church; a rocking chair; and a record cabinet. There was a real wood-burning fireplace at the end of the room.

It was a fancy room for a rich man, the kind of place I’d like to live in myself. But there was one strange thing about it: every bare space was covered with some device for torture.

They were crammed in the cabinet and lined up on the table, stacked in the bay window, on the mantel, under the chairs, behind the curtains. Even hanging on the walls.

“Are all these yours?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, as though the idea seemed ridiculous. “I simply look after the collection. I give tours for our visitors, take care of the items on display, and appraise new acquisitions. We have to guard against fakes and forgeries.”

“Is there a difference between the genuine article and a fake when it comes to things like this?”

“Why, of course there is. We consider an item genuine only if it was actually used to torture someone. If it was simply intended as a decoration, it’s a fake.” Then he turned and pointed at the wall. “Well then, shall we begin here?”