Fuminori Nakamura - The Gun

Nevertheless, I thought over my assumption that the man had killed himself. When I found him, the man’s left hand had been limply stretched up, with his right hand hanging down. And the gun had been lying by his right hand, which was likely his dominant hand. If the man had been shot by someone, would that person have left the gun behind? If the shooter was a gangster, wouldn’t that be all the more reason he would need the gun? Otherwise it became evidence, which to him would only be a disadvantage, right? I turned this over in my mind, spinning out conjectures. But it made sense that, not finding the gun at the scene, the police would have no choice but to rule it a homicide. Had they found a suicide note at the man’s home? I thought about it but couldn’t recall seeing any kind of paper resembling that in the vicinity. It could have been stashed in his breast pocket or something, but then I realized that it must not have been, or the police wouldn’t be treating it as a murder. Considering all these things, I seemed to be the one closest to the truth. Obviously, I was the only person who knew that the gun had been at the scene, and that it could have been a suicide. The police were likely confused, and in their confusion, they had probably pared down their investigation. But, I doubted it would go that smoothly. I figured I should avoid making any rash decisions. And I needed to remain aware of these things at all times. I needed to constantly remind myself that this was the situation I was in.

My cell phone rang — it was Yuko Yoshikawa. She mentioned she was hungry a few times, and that she was in the cafeteria, then quickly hung up. I headed for the cafeteria and looked for her, but she wasn’t there. For a moment I wondered what had happened, but gave up and just figured I would sit down somewhere. The cafeteria was remarkably empty, so I had no trouble finding a seat. I smoked a cigarette and contemplated the cause of death of the man from the Arakawa River, about gathering information from now on, and about what sort of danger I risked by neglecting to do so.

Someone tapped me on the head, and I turned around to see Yuko Yoshikawa. I complained to her, asking why she always hit me on the head, but she said I deserved it. She had a surly look on her face as she looked back at me. For some reason, I suddenly felt annoyed.

“Come on, you should have looked harder. You give up too easily. I hate that. It gets on my nerves.”

“It gets on your nerves? Well, I just figured you must have gone to the bathroom or something. So I thought the best thing to do would be to sit near the door.”

“Hmm, well, when you put it that way, I guess that sounds reasonable, but it still gets on my nerves,” she said, and then went on complaining for a while. She was persistent, and I went along with her but soon tired of it. According to her, I was lacking in something. Since I didn’t understand what she meant, I listened very closely to what she was saying. The way she saw it, I seemed rather cavalier toward her — apparently I didn’t take her seriously enough. I was a little surprised to hear this. I had invited her to lunch, I had gone to the place where we were meeting, and I was consistently talking to her at length. When I said as much to her, she looked me in the eye and made a face as if she were thinking about something.

“You’re wrong — well, I guess since you’re not my boyfriend, I can’t really expect much more than that but — I don’t know how to say it, well, this may not come out right but — you’re probably like this with everyone. That’s how you are — um, I mean, I don’t know what it is you’re thinking.”

“I guess I don’t really know either.”

“Well, anyhow, I really hate being treated so dismissively,” she said. Then she sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette. “And because of you I’ve picked up this habit again,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but I figured she probably meant smoking, and I gave a little laugh. Then I was seized with the desire to say something clever. “But,” I said, “you’re probably right, maybe I can be cavalier, but not with you. It may sound strange, but I do act differently depending on who I’m with.”

“You’re full of it. Isn’t that just how you manage to put one over on people?”

“Fine, okay, it doesn’t matter.”

With that, I cut off the conversation and randomly changed the subject. However, I had a hard time concentrating on anything. She took in what I said and replied in turn, but I wasn’t really listening. I thought about how the only way the police could know that I had anything to do with the man from the Arakawa River would be from an eyewitness account — I hadn’t seen anyone that night but they might have been there somewhere, and that was how they would know. And if that were the case, I would be in serious trouble. But then again, if that possibility actually existed, wouldn’t I already have been approached by the police? I thought about this during my conversation with Yuko. We had lunch, and I sat there with her until evening.

When I returned home to my building, it was completely dark outside, and it had gotten quite chilly. I bought a can of hot coffee from a vending machine next to my building and shook it up as I walked the short distance to my apartment. In that time, I was mostly thinking about Yuko. Today she had again been wearing a short skirt, and when she leaned forward I had seen her pale breasts. I felt satisfied with the way I had behaved today. Tomorrow, I thought, I would ask her out for a drink. But then again, if we ended up doing it, I felt as if the fun would end for me there. I wanted to have sex with her, but once we had done it, I would probably get bored. In my experience so far, that had usually been what happened to me. The anticipation that it would happen again is what made me lose interest. And ultimately — eventually, I thought — it always happened that way, so I quit thinking about it. As I reminded myself, to think too hard about it made doing almost anything impossible. I had found that putting unnecessary emphasis on expectation or supposition rendered me useless. Thinking about all this, I gave a little laugh.

When I had just reached my front door, I heard the sound of a child crying from the apartment next to me. Somehow or other, I was aware that there was a woman and boy of about kindergarten age living there. I often heard the child crying and I always found it annoying, but crying was what kids did, so there wasn’t much to be done about it. But now, the crying sounded a little different. This time, I could also hear a woman’s screaming coming from that airtight room.

Once inside my own apartment, I could hear two distinct voices even more clearly. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell that the woman was laughing her head off, and the kid was crying his eyes out. The crying sounded like it poured out from deep within his belly, so loudly that it was a little creepy. I recalled that the boy was quite small, and such a loud cry seemed disproportionate to his size. Aside from the laughing woman, I could also hear a woman yelling, and I was confused. After a little while, though, I figured out that these two voices belonged to the same person.

Eventually I got fed up and put on some music to drown out their voices. It called for something aggressive, so I picked a CD by the German band Rage. As I listened to it, I was reminded of how much I enjoyed hearing music played really loud. Then I took the gun out of the leather pouch, polished it, and carefully put it back in the satchel.

8

I thought about where to fire the gun, and decided on somewhere in the mountains. I figured that the area around the mountain that I could see from the window of the train on my way to university would not be dangerous. I didn’t know what the mountain was called, but there weren’t many houses nearby, and I supposed that, if I went further into the interior of the mountain, the sound wouldn’t reach even the ones that were there. Actually, it had occurred to me that, conversely, if I did it in a noisy place, people might not even notice, but I wanted to hear it for myself. The explosive sound the gun made when it discharged its bullets, the corresponding impact transmitted from hand to body, the smoke, the force — I wanted to experience all of these things fully. Thinking about it, I was filled with excitement mixed with nervous tension. I could hardly wait to shoot it, I thought to myself. It was a strange sensation, but it made me happy.