Масахико Симада - Death by Choice

“Eh?” said the old man, but he ignored this and went on, “What problems do you both have?”

“I’ve got cancer. They took it out of the oesophagus, but now it’s gone into the lymph glands. I’m finished.”

The other man let the old man finish his announcement, then he said, “I’ve got diabetes and cirrhosis of the liver. How do you know you’re about to die?”

“I’ve decided on it.”

The two looked at each other, the unspoken question “Why?’ frozen on their faces. Just at this moment, the elevator door opened, and Mizuho Nishi appeared.

“Good luck,” Kita said to them, and set off after her. As she was stepping out of the hospital entrance, he spoke.

“Mizuho-san.”

Though her name had been called, she didn’t turn immediately. She walked on three paces, then slowly turned to face him. Even once her eyes behind their sunglasses had fixed on him, she didn’t react.

“You’re Mizuho Nishi, aren’t you?” Kita asked a little anxiously.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice pitched high.

“I’m Yoshio Kita.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Mizuho raised her voice in a little cry that could have been either a scream or a cry of delight. Then she stood still, lost for words. At least she hadn’t forgotten him, apparently.

“Could we have a bit of time to talk? I won’t be a nuisance,” Kita began, but at this she seemed to return to her senses.

“Why are you here?” she asked accusingly.

“I’m sorry. I followed you by taxi from your house. I wanted to meet you one more time before I die.”

“I can’t do anything for you. Please go home.”

“I didn’t have any other way to meet you. I’ve only got a little time left.”

“Goodbye. I’m sorry.”

Mizuho hid her face with her left hand, and turned to escape in the direction of the parking lot. She walked with a somehow unnatural rhythm to her step. Kita ran quickly up behind her, slipped around in front of her, and continued his pleas.

“Wait. Please. Just hear me out for five minutes. I won’t ever come to you again, I promise. I don’t want to destroy the life you’ve made for yourself. Believe me. At least please take these flowers. Show me some pity, I won’t be here any more after this Friday. Just five minutes please.”

Kita blurted out his stream of imprecations, but Mizuho seemed not to hear a word. Kita couldn’t fathom why she was being so cold.

They arrived at the white Mercedes. Kita redoubled his pleas.

“Why are you so scared? I won’t do anything. I was wrong to just show up out of the blue like that. I can see why you were surprised. I just suddenly thought of doing this. I thought I have to see Mizuho. Just five minutes! Come and have tea with me. I beg you on my life.”

Mizuho put the key into the door, then turned to Kita. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she declared. “It’s just that the worst possible thing has already happened.”

Mizuho seemed so stern and cold it was as if she was keeping her distance from the very air around her, let alone Kita’s words and bouquet. She looked as if at the slightest touch she would murder him. Her face was like a demon’s mask. Kita put the flowers on the bonnet of the car, and stood back in silence, waiting for her to leave.

Mizuho ignored the flowers, and got into the car. “Good riddance, and I hope you have an accident,” Kita thought vindictively as he watched her through the window. But then the lock on the passenger door clicked open, and she was beckoning him to get in. Clueless about what was going on in her mind, Kita picked up the bouquet again, and gingerly climbed into the passenger seat.

There was nothing of the Mizuho he knew. He could only guess that some dreadful thing must have happened that had put her so on edge. But he still didn’t have the courage to ask what it was. Mizuho started the engine, and took Route 246 out in the direction of Aoyama.

It was she who finally broke the painful silence.

“Thanks for the flowers.”

“Why did you decide to visit me? You were saying something rather odd just now.”

“Forget it.”

“You won’t be here after Friday, you say?”

“Certain circumstances mean I can’t be in this country any more. I’m leaving on Friday. Thank you so much for changing your mind. I’m so happy we can talk like this.”

“I’m sorry about how I was just now. I just couldn’t control my emotions. I’m impressed you recognised me. I’m a different person from six years ago, aren’t I? That person’s quite invisible now.”

“Are you ill?”

“I have nerve pain all over my face, and palpitations. I was having fainting fits earlier, but that’s subsided now. I’ve been forbidden to drive, in fact, but I don’t want to see anyone, so I need to use the car. I have to be able to control my emotions while I’m driving, so it’s actually quite a good form of rehabilitation.”

Mizuho wasn’t the sort to openly express emotions as far as Kita could recall. Her feelings were always well hidden under her skin. Kita knew. He’d been so thoroughly taken in by her straight face that he’d let the Finance Ministry man get under his guard, after all.

“Your marriage must be good I guess. You live in a house that would even stand up to an earthquake, and I’ll bet your kid is cute, too.”

“You don’t know anything, do you?” Mizuho moaned softly. She stopped the Mercedes on a side road that led to the Outer Gardens of Meiji Shrine, and turned off the engine. A wood shielded the area from the noise of the city beyond. There was nothing but a single restaurant and a wedding parlour on the quiet street. Mizuho rested her cheek on the steering wheel and closed her eyes, trying to control the emotion that rose in waves through her body. It was as if she was resisting a wave of nausea and swallowing down the urge to vomit. She gave a sigh, cast him a sidelong glance, and suddenly murmured, “He died. My child died.”

Kita was dumbfounded. He had simply had the image of a happy family life in a plush part of town. Now at last it was all clear to him – the urge not to see anyone, and the nervous problems.

“I’ve finally got to the point where I can talk about it. If you want to know, I’ll tell you. If you don’t, I’ll go back home now.”

“Tell me,” said Kita. He knew there was nothing he could do for her, but he hoped he could at least atone for the mistaken assumptions he’d made about her and the grudges he’d held against her all this time.

He was a child of four, named Shingo. One day he’d suddenly developed a fever of forty degrees, and lost consciousness. Antibiotics failed to work, and after ten days of battling the mystery virus, he had succumbed. He had been at his most delightful. He was learning to ride a bicycle. He’d named his bike “The Dinosaur Tank,” and was always riding off on it to play with his little friend Takuya nearby, a toy car in the basket. He was in the infants grade at kindergarten, and he went happily along there each day. He was good at playing up to adults, and he would constantly snuggle up on his teacher’s knee, and never do any harm to his friends.

He was a child who was gentle both with people and with things.

He had a pet goldfish, but when he came back from a trip to find it dead, he was inconsolable. They made a grave for it together, and when she said “Let’s pray that he can swim around happily in the next world,” he’d asked her innocently what “the next world” was. It’s another world where dead people go, she replied. What kind of people are there? he asked. Your granddad from Kagoshima, and fine people from the past, and Charlie Chaplin, she said. And then he’d said, “I’d like to go too, then.” He loved Chaplin movies, and used to imitate the way he walked. There’s a scene in the film called Circus where Chaplin walks along a tightrope, and a lot of monkeys come along and get in his way. Shingo laughed uproariously at that. The monkeys swarm over Chaplin’s face and bite his nose, and Shingo imitated it in bed that night, trying to bite his mother’s nose.