Fuminori Nakamura - The Gun

If that woman were dead, I thought, not that it mattered, but maybe that kid would be able to have a decent life. His father probably wasn’t around, so he would end up with a relative, or in an orphanage, but in any case, I figured, wouldn’t it be a hell of a lot better than to go on being beaten by that half-crazed woman? Just like it had worked out for me, that kid might be able to have a better life. He wouldn’t have to pluck the claws off crawfish anymore, and he could take regular baths. They might even be able to fix his squint, and he would no longer be forced to imagine sexual scenes inappropriate for a child. With these thoughts passing through my mind, as if to justify myself, I forced a smile to cross my lips.

15

Keisuke brought Nakanishi over to my apartment. But they soon left, chatting for only a few minutes. I talked to them as usual, they seemed normal too, but after giving the excuse that they had to get to their part-time jobs, they had left right away. I thought something seemed weird, but since I wanted to be alone, it was just as well. I had the feeling that Keisuke was trying to talk to me about something, but it might have just been in my head. He was smiling the entire time, and as he left he said we should go out drinking soon.

I took out the gun and polished it carefully. There were rare occasions when when I looked at the gun and it frightened me. During one of those moments, I was completely startled to get a call from Yuko Yoshikawa. “Would you come meet me at the coffee shop in front of the station?” she asked me. I ended up just going straight there. My eyes darted restlessly at my surroundings, I felt like I was searching for something as I walked along, and halfway there, I felt nauseous for some reason. I figured it must have been from smoking too many cigarettes. Yuko was inside the coffee shop, drinking a black tea. She took one look at my face and said, “What’s the matter?” I responded, “Nothing, really,” thinking I must have looked drawn and haggard. She was silent for a moment, still staring at me.

A young couple sat at the table next to us; the girl was doing all the talking. Last night she had been at a Denny’s until really late, hanging out with friends, she saw a guy she was friends with in junior high, it really brought back memories. The guy DJ’ed at a club in Ikebukuro every Saturday night, and tonight was Saturday, so they should go together, she kept nagging the guy sitting in front of her. The guy replied noncommittally, eyeing the passing waitress in her short skirt with her dyed brown hair, on her way to take my order. I asked for a coffee and lit a cigarette, looking at Yuko across from me. The guy next to me, angry with the girl, said, “It’s just a bullshit act!” The girl was like, “That’s not true!” She went on and on, he had been in New York, he came back to Japan after the terrorist attacks.

“Hey, listen — I want you to be honest with me,” Yuko said, looking me straight in the eyes. “Right, I mean, well. You were just kidding around, weren’t you? With me, I mean. Because I couldn’t believe it, that you would do something like that. Seriously, because I half-thought you were messing with me, you know — I want you to tell me, if you were. So. Care to explain? I’m the kind of person who likes for things to be clear.”

As she said this Yuko’s eyes were still fixed on mine. She went on.

“You know, that was really awful, what you did. Honestly, I mean — are you listening to me? Don’t you have anything to say? That you hate me now, or you changed your mind — whatever you have to say, just tell me.”

For whatever reason, I felt an uncontrollable urge to tell her what I was about to do. It seemed absurd, but if I had had the gun with me, I think I might have laid it on the table right then. But if I were to tell her, I didn’t think she would understand, and anyway, it wasn’t the kind of thing that I could even explain to myself very well. And if I did tell her, she would probably decide that I was crazy, and try to stop me, and when she couldn’t, then I bet she would report it to the police. And that would create a serious problem for me. I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of problem, but I knew it would be bad. And maybe I really was crazy. Just then, inexplicably, I felt as though I wanted to burst into tears, and though I hadn’t cried in many years, overcome with that emotion, I actually choked up. Obviously, I was not about to cry in a place like this. What I did, instead, was say to Yuko simply, “It’s no big deal.” But even I wasn’t sure what wasn’t such a big deal.

“Look, Nishikawa,” Yuko said. It took me a moment to realize that was my name. “There’s something strange about you. Something really strange. I have no idea what you’re thinking. I mean, there was something about you from the start — I was worried — but you’re being especially weird now. Look, what’s the matter? Did something happen? Come on, say something.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking?” I said.

“I have no idea.”

“So what difference does that make?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who really cares if you don’t know what I’m thinking? What does that matter? What does anything really matter? I have no idea, I’m telling you, no fucking idea — if I die, if you die, if my father dies, if that guy dies, or doesn’t die — what does it matter? None of it is a big deal. None of it, at all. What matters doesn’t exist. But you know what? That’s all right now. Anyway, if I. . No, if I were to — it doesn’t matter — if I were to. .”

I stopped there, suddenly embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was self-conscious about, but I felt as though I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. Or rather, that’s how I wanted to feel — I wasn’t sure why, but I knew that I wanted to leave, so I just stood up. I put a thousand-yen note by the coffee shop’s register, thanked the waitress, and I left.

While I was walking, my cell phone rang — it was Yuko. At that moment, it occurred to me to toss my phone somewhere, so I threw it in the direction of an open sewer. The phone made a little clank, rolling in a slide across the asphalt and falling into the gap. I went to have a cigarette, but then I remembered I had left them in the coffee shop. In an attempt to calm my frayed nerves, I let out a little yell.

16

The next two days passed by swiftly. During that time, I was unable to complete any sort of mental preparedness or readiness. I spent most of those two days watching television. The strange thing was, that whole time, I didn’t even look at the gun once. Since I had found the gun, not a single day had passed when I didn’t look at it. For that to go on for two days in a row was really. . I don’t know, quite exceptional. The doorbell rang a few times, but I completely ignored it.

On Tuesday, I slept until evening, and when I opened my eyes, I took a deep breath. I remembered how, in a scene from a television show or movie I had seen — I wasn’t sure which one — a guy who was going to shoot someone that day, when he opened his eyes, he had taken a deep breath. I did that twice, and then I brushed my teeth more thoroughly than usual. For no particular reason, I brushed my teeth for about thirty minutes. I turned on the television, I put on some music, and before long seven o’clock had rolled around. It was dark outside my window, and the news had come on. I realized, at that point, that it was already past seven. I opened my bag, shoved the bare gun into my pocket, and put on the reversible black jacket. “Just kill her and get it over with,” I repeated several times.

It was cold outside, uncomfortably so. On my way, I became aware that the gun was stuck in the pocket of my jeans, and I moved it to my jacket. I made the transfer nonchalantly, as I continued to walk along. It wasn’t until afterward that I noticed there was no one else on the street around me. But I felt like it didn’t really matter — I might have even walked along with the gun in my hand. Still, I left it in my pocket.