Масахико Симада - Death by Choice

“Why don’t you want to kill yourself? You can save someone else by dying yourself, you know.”

“No, being alive allows me to save you. But in any case, the world doesn’t give a damn whether I live or die, it doesn’t suffer either way. Even if nothing much happens in the world on any given day, a lot of people still die. And we’re both going to join the anonymous dead sooner or later. The world at large doesn’t have anything to do with each and every person who dies, now, does it? We’re part of the world, but once we go the gap’s soon filled. My, what a cold hard world it is, how easily it forgets! How many of the dead do we each personally remember, hey? Family, close friends, important people we’ve respected, famous artists – probably no more than ten or so, right? But just think of the millions who die during our lifetime.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“The world will abandon you.”

“So?”

“So haven’t you felt that before you die you’d like to do something that would lodge you in people’s memory somehow?”

“Not really, no. I don’t give a damn whether I’m forgotten or not.”

“Do you believe in the next world?”

“There’s no such thing. What was it Shinobu said? The next world is just the worst place, or something.”

“Even so you want to die?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You have no regrets? Nothing to tie you to life?”

“Nothing.”

“You have some grudge against the world perhaps?”

“When I die, my world will disappear. I can’t destroy the world. No matter how many people you kill, the world will still keep going. Mao Tse-tung, Stalin, Hitler – they all massacred vast numbers, but the world kept going. So you see, you should give up murder and kill yourself instead. That way you can at least get rid of the world you personally live in.”

“You say this, Kita, but surely you’ve struggled with the world? You’re actually a hero in disguise. The fight begins now.”

“You have a strong will to live. That’s why you kill others instead of yourself. You must be motivated deep down by hatred and malice, even if you can’t really comprehend yourself, I think. This will of yours to live’ll get the better of you one day, and you’ll die. Just like your father died from over-eating.”

Kita yawned and stood up.

“Where are you going?” cried the doctor, leaping hastily to his feet.

Kita smiled at him. “My father died a bland, kindly man. He was used by others all his life, he had no friends, he was abandoned by the world, and he died quietly alone. No one remembers him now. My mother’s lost her marbles, his son’s about to die. All that will be left is his grave. But most people in the world live like him, and die like him. Mao Tse-tung and Stalin and Hitler killed anonymous millions just like him. They killed some famous folk too, of course, but they were in the minority. So at least where dying’s concerned, I’m one up on my Dad. I managed to get a bit of my own back on the world, and I met the woman of my dreams.”

Kita put on his coat, shouldered his backpack, and disappeared into the crowded streets of Susukino. The doctor in turn picked up his heavy bag and set off after him, maintaining a steady distance.

All that remained by now in Kita’s wallet was two thousand five hundred ninety yen. Whatever he did now, his range of choices would be pretty limited – a nap in some sauna, for instance, or a couple of cheap drinks in a bar. Perhaps he should set himself up to sleep the night in a park or doss down between a couple of high-rises. No doubt he could dip into the doctor’s pocket for expenses, of course, but it felt somehow right to spend his last night on earth sleeping out in the open. It was time to gaze up into the sky in this northern city, ask the doctor to keep his mouth shut, and make some final decisions about how to carry out his imminent execution.

He walked slowly north from Susukino along Minami Shijo, heading for Odori Koen. The benches around the fountain were all occupied by couples, but along the street under the trees was emptier. He chose a spot between two trees, and the two of them spread out some newspaper salvaged from a garbage bin, and settled down for the night. Kita closed his eyes and concentrated on the question of how to kill himself, dimly aware of the distant cacophony from passersby in the park and its surrounding streets. Then it suddenly struck him that he wanted to try ski jumping just once before he died. Well how about throwing himself off the Okurayama ski jump where Sasatani had performed his feats back in the Sapporo Olympics? With luck, he’d smash himself up badly enough to die. As luck would have it, though, he might manage a successful jump. Either way, it was worth a try. How about tossing back the remaining bottle of vodka from the Russian sailors and then speeding down the ski slope on a bicycle? Even his internal organs would squirm with excitement, for sure.

As Kita lay there grinning to himself, the doctor suddenly sat up. “Sorry, but there’s something I forgot,” he said. “As I understand it, Shinobu’s in love with you.”

What was the use of hearing this now? Kita had lost his love four hours before he flew to Sapporo. “I’m grateful to her. She’s managed to make my suicide into a kind of art.”

The doctor drew a deep breath through his nose. “An art, eh?” he said softly. “I finally get it, Kita. You, my father, even me – we’re all death artists.”

Kita lay there breathing in the fragrance of the damp stone in the night air. He took a swig from his last bottle of vodka, then got to his feet. “Well then,” he said to the doctor. “Shall we be off?”

“Where to?” asked the doctor, but Kita didn’t reply. He simply walked off through the park, as if carried on the wind. This park felt too comfortable. He wasn’t inclined to fall for the temptation of settling in to live here on the streets. Why not leave his backpack here for someone else to use? He only had a few more hours of life left, after all. He needed to get on with finding his execution ground and setting things up.

He tried vaguely to picture the place he was after. Somewhere completely undistinguished, he decided. Somewhere wild and natural. There’d be birds flying about in the clouds overhead, and no sign of anyone about; his scream would vanish in the wind, his corpse would be hidden in the deep grass. He’d set off in search of just such a place, and when he got there, he’d find a flat rock just the right size to lay himself down on. It would serve very nicely as an operating table.

The doctor followed him wordlessly, but his left shoe rubbed, and the limp slowed his pace. The fifteen-pound bag dragging on his shoulder felt more like thirty pounds. He wished he could have a good long soak in a bath and settle his exhausted body between some freshly starched sheets. Why oh why should it be so tiring to save someone’s life, while the guy he was saving could follow his every whim? It was one thing to save someone lying meekly on the operating table, but there wasn’t much he could do with this particular patient when he kept moving restlessly about, stubbornly intent on dying. He was only a surgeon, not a professional counsellor who could talk Kita out of suicide; the only thing left for him to do under the circumstances was to watch him kill himself, perform a swift operation to remove his organs, and deliver them to the organ market. Good grief, he thought, let me have a quick rest before we get on with it.

What kind of organ thief was he right now, anyhow? He had no desire to get himself caught, but exhaustion compounded his fear, and made him desperate. He was also a murderer, and there’s nothing scarier than a desperate killer. Yet Kita was using him as his manager, for Heaven’s sake.