Yoko Ogawa - Revenge

“They haven’t come to take your order,” I said.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, adding another crease to the napkin. Her eyes never left my face.

“I’ll call the waiter,” I said, starting to signal him over, but she rose out of her chair and touched my arm. Her fingers were icy.

“I said you needn’t bother. I’m not hungry.” She fell back in her chair and I went on eating my salad.

“Do you like the tomatoes?”

I nodded and she let out a little laugh.

“They’re my little contribution ,” she said. The omelet lay half finished on my plate, surrounded by yolky tomatoes.

“I know,” I said, forcing down the rest of the egg. I wanted to escape as quickly as possible.

“I picked them up yesterday,” she said. “On a bridge.” My knife scraped disagreeably on the plate. I pretended not to hear. “A truck driver apparently fell asleep at the wheel and his truck turned over. You should have seen it: the bridge was covered with tomatoes. I couldn’t resist picking up a few. I’m afraid the driver died, though: the cab was crushed, and I suppose he must have been, too.”

I set my knife and fork on the plate, wiped my mouth, and then balled up my napkin and dropped it on the table. But before I could move, she rose from her chair.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said, and glided away through the crowded dining room.

For the rest of the morning, I was shown around the hotel by an assistant manager and allowed to take pictures of the three grades of rooms they had available: standard, deluxe, and suite. Bathrooms, decks, closets, amenities, slippers, minifridges. I took pictures of everything, from every angle I could think of, while the manager babbled on about the beauty and comfort and luxury of the hotel.

Then in the afternoon I went to check out the beach. A sky-blue sign in the shape of a dolphin stood at the entrance to what was named, appropriately enough, Dolphin Beach. Lines of umbrellas, snack stands, and public showers, and the cape running out beyond to the east side of the bay. Tour boats were tied up at a dock.

“What time does the dolphin-watching boat leave?” I asked a young woman who was selling shaved ice topped with syrup.

“Excuse me?” she said. Her tone suggested my question was unexpected or unwelcome or both.

“Dolphin-watching boats?” I repeated, a little louder this time. “It’s right here in the brochure.”

“They’re dead,” she said as she drizzled bright yellow liquid over a cup of ice. “All three of them.”

I sighed and shouldered the heavy pack I used to carry my camera equipment. The “D” and the “i” in the name of the boat were illegible; the chain to the dock was covered with dried seaweed.

After a couple of drinks at the bar, I took a walk behind the hotel. A full moon had turned the sea to liquid gold. The tennis courts and the archery range were deserted. A curtain was drawn at the reception window and the lights had been turned off. A dirty wristband was left lying on the ground. I cut across a putting green and climbed a hill planted with grapevines, my way lit by the moon. There was no breeze, but the midday heat was beginning to die down.

At the top of the hill, there was a small bench, a broken spyglass, and a greenhouse. I sat down on the bench. The sea was calm, and no one was down on the sand or in the water.

Then I heard footsteps on the grass, followed by a rustling sound and the soft clink of a chain. I knew who it was without turning around.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening,” I answered. Though there was almost no room on the bench, she sat down next to me. Her tiny body somehow fit right next to mine. As always, the dog was at her feet, the bundle on her lap.

“Has your work been going well?” she asked.

“Well enough,” I said.

“What sorts of things do you write about?” she said, cocking her head and turning to look at me. She was wearing a plain skirt and blouse with no jewelry—except for the dog’s leash, which was wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. Her cheeks were pale and translucent, and there were fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She clutched the bundle in her carefully manicured hands.

“‘The moment you enter, you feel you’ve stepped into paradise. Each Mediterranean-themed room has an ocean view. The staff is warm and the service impeccable. The beach is just seconds away, and the gentle surf is perfect for the kids. As an added attraction, you can go swimming with the dolphins just offshore…’ Something like that,” I said. “It’s pretty much the same for all these places—and I suppose I won’t mention that the dolphins are dead.”

I tapped my toe on the ground. The Labrador sneezed. His black coat melted into the darkness.

“Yes, I heard about that,” she said. “It’s an epidemic—a parasite attacked their lungs.” The moonlight shone on her face as she looked out at the sea. The pounding of the waves could be heard even at this distance.

“Why did you come up here?” I said, but as soon as the question was out of my mouth, I realized how rude it must have sounded.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You look just like a man who once saved my life,” she said, tucking her hair back to reveal pale ears. “It happened nearly thirty years ago. I was lost in a snowstorm. It had come down very heavily. Then the wind died and the world was very still. Much like tonight.” She looked up at the night, as though waiting for snow to fall out of it, but only the moon and stars were in the sky.

“If I had been alone, I think I would have died quite peacefully, without much of a struggle—or many regrets. But I wasn’t alone then. I had a child with me, a dear boy of ten. So I couldn’t die; I had to escape somehow.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” I said.

“Do you have children?” she asked.

“I do. My son is ten as well.”

“My, what a coincidence.”

“But my wife and I separated when he was three, and she hasn’t allowed me to see him since then.”

“Oh…” she said. We fell silent for a moment and listened to the sound of the sea.

“We were on our way home from the zoo,” she continued. “It was terribly cold and we had been the only visitors. I remember exactly the sort of coat the boy was wearing, the pattern on his scarf. He asked me why the giraffe’s neck was so long. He said it was ‘absurd.’ How did a ten-year-old child know a word like ‘absurd’?”

“He must have been very intelligent,” I said.

“He was, and I was so proud of him. At any rate, the snow kept falling and we were hungry. It was getting hard to walk, and he started feeling dizzy. He never complained, he just kept walking, but I could tell from how he gripped my hand that he was afraid.”

She stared at her palm, perhaps trying to remember the feeling of the boy’s hand.

“The road was deserted, but then the headlights of a car came out of the darkness with no warning at all. It pulled to a stop right in front of us, as though the driver had been out in the storm looking for us. ‘Can I take you home?’ he said. He was terribly polite—much like you.”

“Did he really look like me?”

“Exactly. I realized it the moment we met. The way you wear your hair, your eyes, your chin … you’re identical.”

I sat perfectly still as she reached over and traced my profile with her fingertips. Her cool, slender hand lingered for a long time on my face.

That night I dreamed about parasites wriggling in the dolphins. With each breath, their long bodies quivered in unison—like the motion of the woman’s finger. Blood oozed from the lungs.