Dance Dance Dance (31 page)

38

I sat Yuki in the front seat and wound her window open. Soft rain fell, undetectable to the eye, though the asphalt was slowly staining black. There was the smell of rain. Some people had their umbrellas up, others walked along as if nothing was coming down. An outstretched hand would be retracted with only a hint of dampness. It was that fine a rain.

Yuki rested an arm on the door and her chin upon that, the tilt of her neck turning her face half out of the car. She held that pose for a good while, not moving except to breathe. Each tiny rise followed by a tiny fall, the slightest crest and trough of breath. How could anyone look so fragile, so defenseless? From where I sat, it seemed that the least impact would be enough to snap off her head and elbow. Was it merely that she was a child, not hardened to the ways of the world, while I was an adult, who, however inexpertly, had endured?

"Is there anything I can I do?" I asked. "Not really," said Yuki, swallowing as she spoke face-down. The saliva clearing her throat sounded unnaturally loud. "Take me somewhere quiet where there's no people, but not too far." "The beach?"

"Wherever. But don't drive fast. I might throw up if we bump too much."

I lifted her head inside onto the headrest, careful as if cradling an egg, and rolled up her window halfway. Then as slowly as the traffic would allow, we headed to the Kunifuzu seaside. We parked the car and walked to the beach, where Yuki vomited onto the sand. There'd been hardly anything in her stomach, only the chocolate and gastric juices. The most excruciating way to get sick. The body is in spasms, but nothing comes. You're wringing out your entire system, until your stomach is a knot the size of a fist. I massaged her back. The misting rain continued, but Yuki didn't notice.

Glyauughhh . . . Yuki's eyes welled up with tears as she retched.

I tried lamely to comfort her.

After ten minutes of this, I wiped her mouth with a hand-kerchief and kicked sand over the mess. Then holding her by the elbow, I walked her over to a nearby jetty. We sat down, leaning back against the seawall as the rain began to fall. We stared off into the waves, at the cars droning in the back-ground on the West Shonan Causeway. The only people around were standing in the water before us, fishing. They wore slickers and rain hats, their eyes trained somewhere below the horizon, their rods unbending. They didn't turn around to see us. Yuki lay her head on my shoulder, but didn't say a word. We must have seemed like lovers.

Yuki closed her eyes. Breathing so lightly, she seemed to be asleep. Her wet bangs were plastered in a clump across her forehead, her skin still tan from last month. But beneath the overcast sky, Yuki looked sickly. I wiped the rain and tears from her face. Rain kept falling silently over the boundless sea. Self-Defense Force submarine-spotting planes groaned past overhead like dragonflies in heat.

Finally, her head still resting on my shoulder, she opened her eyes and looked at me in soft focus. She pulled a Virginia Slim from her hip pocket and lit up. Or tried to repeat-edly—she barely had the strength to light a match. No lectures from me about smoking, not this time. Eventually she got it lit and flicked the match away. Then after two drags on the cigarette, she tossed it away too. It continued burning until the rain put it out.

"Your stomach still hurt?" I asked.

"A little."

"Let's just stay put a while though. You're not cold?"

"I'm fine. The rain feels good."

The fishermen were still transfixed on the Pacific. What was the attraction of fishing? It couldn't be merely catching fish. Was it just one of those acquired tastes? Like sitting out on a rainy beach with a high-strung thirteen-year-old?

"Your friend," Yuki ventured cautiously, her voice cracking.

"My friend?"

"Yeah, the one in the film."

"His real name's Gotanda," I said. "Like the station on the Yamanote Line. The one after Meguro and before Osaki."

"He killed that woman."

I squinted at Yuki, hard. She looked wan. Her breathing came irregularly, like a nearly drowned soul trawled up from the drink. What was the girl saying? It didn't register. "Killed what woman?" I asked.

"That woman. The one he was sleeping with on Sunday morning."

I didn't get it. I couldn't get it. What was she talking about? Halfconsciously, I smiled and said, "But nobody dies in the movie. You must be mistaken."

"Not in the movie. In real life. He actually killed her. I saw it," said Yuki, clutching my arm. "It scared me so much I could hardly breathe. That whatever-it-is came over me again. I could see the whole murder, sharp and clear. Your friend killed that woman. I'm not making this up. Honest."

My spine turned to ice, I couldn't utter a word. Every-thing was falling out of place, tumbling down, out of my hands. I couldn't hold on to anything.

"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," said Yuki. She sighed and let go of my arm. "The honest truth is, I don't know. I can feel that it's real, but I can't really be sure if it's real or not. And I know you'll probably hate me like everyone else for saying so. But I couldn't not tell you. Whether it's real or not, I saw it. I couldn't keep quiet about it. I'm really scared. Please don't get angry at me. I can't handle it. I feel like I'm falling apart."

"I'm not mad, so calm down and tell me what you saw," I said, holding her hand.

"It's the first time I've ever seen anything clearly like this. He strangled her, the woman in the movie. And he put the body in the car and drove a long, long way. It was that Ital-ian car you were driving once. That car, it's his, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's his car," I said. "Is there anything else? Slow down and think it over. Whatever comes to mind, no matter how small, tell me. I want to know."

She shook her head tentatively, twice, three times. Then she breathed deeply. "There's really not much more. The smell of soil. A shovel. Night. Birds chirping. That's about it. He strangled that girl to death, loaded her off somewhere in that car, and buried her. That's all. But—and this is the truly strange part—the whole thing didn't seem vicious or horrible or anything. It didn't even seem like a crime. It was more like a ceremony. It was a quiet thing, between the killer and the victim. But a very strange quiet. Like it was out on the edge of the earth or something."

I closed my eyes. My thoughts wouldn't go anywhere. Objects and events in my head were disintegrating, flying like shrapnel through the dark. I didn't believe what Yuki was saying; I didn't disbelieve what Yuki was saying. I let her words sink in. They weren't fact. They were possibility. Nothing more, nothing less, but the force of the possibility was shattering.

Any semblance of order I had come to know over the last few months was shot. Diffuse, uncertain, but it was order, and it had taken hold. No more.

The possibility exists. And in the moment that I admitted that, something came to an end. Ever subtly, yet decisively, it was over. But what? I couldn't think further. No, not now. Meanwhile, I found myself alone again. With a thirteen-year-old girl, on a rainy beach, desperately alone.

Yuki squeezed my hand.

How long she held it, I don't know. A hand so small and warm it almost didn't seem real. Her touch was more like a tiny replay from memory. Warm as a memory, but it doesn't lead you anywhere.

"Let's go," I said. "I'll take you home."

I drove her back up to Hakone. Neither of us spoke. When the silence became too oppressive, I put on the stereo. There was music, but I didn't hear it. I concentrated on driv-ing. Hands and feet, shifting gears, steering. The wipers going back and forth, monotonously.

I didn't want to have to see Ame, so I let Yuki out at the bottom of the steps.

"Hey," said Yuki, looking in through the passenger seat window, arms crossed tight and shivering, "you don't have to swallow everything I told you. I just saw it, that's all. Like I said, I don't know if it really happened. Please don't hat me. I'd die."

"I don't hate you," I said, coming up with a smile. "And I won't swallow anything, unless it's the truth. It's got to come out some time. The fog's got to pull away. I know that much. If what you say turns out to be true, okay, it just means that I got a glimpse of the truth through you. Don't worry. It's something I have to find out for myself."

"Are you going to see him?"

"Of course. I'll ask him if it's true. There's no other way."

Yuki shrugged. "You're not mad at me?"

"No, I'm not mad at you, of course not," I said. "Why would I be mad at you? You haven't done anything wrong."

"You were such a good guy," she said. "I never met any-one like you."

Why the past tense? I wondered. "And I've never met girl like you."

"Good-bye," said Yuki. Then she took a good, long look at me. She seemed fidgety. As if she wanted to add some-thing more or hold my hand or kiss me on the cheek.

Nervous images of possibility kept floating into my head all the way home. I made myself focus on the mindless music and tacked my attention to the road ahead. The rain let up just as I exited the Tokyo-Nagoya Expressway, but I didn't have the energy to turn off the wipers until I pulled into my parking space in Shibuya. My head was in a shambles. I had to do something. So I sat there in my parked Subaru, my hands glued to the wheel.

39

I tried to put my thoughts in order. First question: Should I believe Yuki? I analyzed matters on the level of pure possibility, wiping the field clear of emotional elements as far as I could see. This required no great effort. My feelings had been numbed, as if I'd been stung, from the very beginning. The possibility exists. The longer I considered the possibility, the more the possibility moved toward probability. I stood in the kitchen making coffee. Then pouring myself a cup, I retreated with it to my bed. By the time I'd finished it, the probability had become a fair certainty. Yes, it was exactly as Yuki had seen it: Gotanda had murdered Kiki, hauled her body away, an buried it.

How absurd. There was no proof whatsoever. Only the dream of an oversensitive thirteen-year-old girl watching a movie. And yet, somehow, what she said could not be doubted. This was shocking. Still my instincts accepted it fully. Why? How could I be so sure?

I didn't know.

Next question: Why would Gotanda kill Kiki?

I didn't know.

Next question: Did Gotanda also kill Mei? Why? What would make Gotanda want to kill her?

Again I didn't know. I wracked my brains, but couldn't come up with a single reason why Gotanda would kill either Kiki or Mei.

There were too many unknowns.

I had to see Gotanda. I had to ask him directly. I reached for the phone but couldn't bring myself to dial his number. I set down the receiver, rolled over on the bed, and gazed up at the ceiling. Gotanda had become a friend. I would never have guessed how much of a friend. Suppose he did kill Kiki, he was still my friend. I didn't want to lose him. Not like I'd already lost so many things in this life. No, I couldn't call him.

I didn't want to talk to anybody.

I sat, and when the phone rang, I let it ring. If it was Gotanda, what was I going to say? If it was Yuki, or even Yumiyoshi, I didn't care. I didn't want to talk to anybody.

Four days, five days, I stayed put and thought. Why? I hardly ate, hardly slept. I didn't drink a drop. I stayed indoors. I lost touch with my body. With all that had hap-pened to me already, I was still losing. And now here I was, alone. It was always like this. In some ways, Gotanda and I were of the same species. Different circumstances, different thinking, different sensibilities, the same species. We both kept losing. And now we were losing each other.

I could see Kiki. What was that all about? But was Kiki dead, covered with dirt, in the ground? Like my Kipper? Ultimately, Kiki had to die. Strange how I couldn't see things any other way. The skin of my soul was no longer tender. I tried not to feel anything at all. My resignation was a silent rain falling over a vast sea. Even loneliness was beyond me. Everything was taking leave of me, like ciphers in the sand, blown away on the wind.

So another person had joined the group in that most bizarre chamber of my world. Four down, two to go. Sooner or later, bleached white bones ferried to that room via some impossible architecture. Death's waiting room in downtown Honolulu, connected to the dark chill lair of the Sheep Man in a Sapporo hotel, connected to the Sunday morning bedroom where Gotanda lay with Kiki. Was I losing my mind? Real events, under imaginary circumstances, filtering back, wild, distorted, bizarre. Was there nothing absolute? Was there no ... reality? Sapporo in the March snow could as easily not have been real. Sitting on the beach in Makaha with Dick North had seemed real enough—but a one-armed man cutting bread in perfect slices? And a Honolulu call girl giving me a phone number that I later find in the anteroom to the death chamber Kiki leads me to? Why isn't that real? What could I reasonably admit into evidence without caus-ing my whole world to shake at its foundations?

Was the sickness in here or out there? Did it matter? What was the line now? Get in step and dance, so that everyone's impressed. Keeping in step—was that the only reality? Well, dance yourself to the telephone, give your pal Gotanda a ring, and ask him casually: "Did you kill Kiki?"

No way. My hand experienced sudden paralysis. I sat by the phone, numb, shaking, as if I was in a crosswind. Breath-ing grew difficult. I liked Gotanda, I liked him a lot. He was my only friend, he was part of my life. I understood him.

I tried dialing. I got the wrong number, every time. On the sixth try, I hurled the receiver to the floor.

I never did manage to call. In the end it was Gotanda who showed up at my place.

It was a rainy night. He was wearing a rain hat and the same white trench coat as the night I drove him to Yoko-hama. The rain was coming down hard, and his hat was dripping. He didn't have an umbrella.

He smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, almost b reflex.

"You look awful," he said. "I called and called but never got an answer. So I decided just to come over. You been under the weather?"

"Under is not the word," I said.

He sized me up. "Well, maybe it's a bad time. I'll come back when you're feeling better. Sorry to come by unan-nounced like this."

I shook my head and exhaled. No words came. Gotanda waited patiently. "I'm not sick or anything," I assured him. "I just haven't been sleeping or eating. I think I'm okay now. Anyway I've been wanting to talk to you. Let's go some-where. I haven't eaten a full meal in ages."

We took the Maserati out into the rainy neon streets. Gotanda's driving was precise and smooth as ever, but the car now made me nervous. The deep soundproofed ride cut a channel through the clamor that rose all around us.

"Where to?" Gotanda asked. "All I care is that it's some-where quiet where we can talk and get decent food without running into the Rolex crowd." he said. He looked my way, but I said nothing. For thirty minutes we drove around, my eyes focused on the buildings we were passing.

"I can't think of any place," Gotanda tried again. "How about you? Any ideas?"

"No, me neither." I really couldn't. I was still only half present.

"Okay, then, why don't we take the opposite approach?" he said brightly.

"The opposite approach?"

"Someplace noisy and crowded. That way we can relax."

"Okay. Where?"

"Feel like pizza? Let's go to Shakey's."

"I don't mind. I'm not against pizza. But wouldn't they spot you, going to a place like that?"

Gotanda smiled weakly, like the last glow of a summer sun between the leaves. "When was the last time you saw anyone famous in Shakey's, my friend?"

Shakey's was packed with weekend shoppers. Crowded and noisy. A Dixieland quartet in suspenders and red-and-white striped shirts were pumping out The Tiger Rag to a raucous college group loud on beer. The smell of pizza was everywhere. No one paid attention to anyone else.

We placed our order, got a couple drafts, then found a table under a gaudy imitation Tiffany lamp in the back o the restaurant.

"What did I tell you? Isn't this more like it?" said Gotanda.

I'd never craved pizza before, but the first bite had me thinking it was the best thing I'd ever tasted. I must have been starving. The both of us. We drank and ate and ate and drank. And when the pizza ran out, we each bought another round of beer.

"Great, eh?" belched Gotanda. "I've been wanting a pizza for the last three days. I even dreamed about it, sizzling hot, sliding right out of the oven. In the dream I never get to eat it, though. I just stare at it and drool. That's the whole dream. Nothing else happens. What would Jung say about pizza archetypes?" Gotanda chuckled, then paused. "So what was this that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Now or never, I thought. But come right out with it? Gotanda was thoroughly relaxed, enjoying the evening. I looked at his innocent smile and couldn't bring myself to do it. Not now, at least.

"What's new with you?" I asked. "Work? Your ex-wife?" "Work's the same," Gotanda said. "Nothing new, nothing good, nothing I want to do. I can yell until my throat gives out, but nobody wants to hear what I have to say. My wife —did you hear that? I still call her my wife after all this time—I've only seen her once since I last saw you. Hey, you ever do the love hotel thing?" "Almost never."

"I told you she and I have been meeting at love hotels. You know, the more you use those places, it gets to you. They're dark, windows all covered up. The place is only for fucking, so who needs windows, right? All you got is a bath-room and a bed—plus music and TV and a refrigerator—but it's all pretty blank and anonymous and artificial. Actually, very conducive to getting down and doing it. Makes you feel like you're really doing it. After a while, though, you feel the claustrophobia, and you begin to sort of hate the place. Still, they're the only refuge we got."

Gotanda took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

"I can't bring her to my condo. The scandal rags would have a field day if they ever found out. I got no time to go off somewhere. They'd sniff it out too anyway. We've practi-cally sold our privacy by the gram. So we go to these cheesy fuck hotels and ..." Gotanda looked over at me, then smiled. "Here I go, griping again."

"That's okay. I don't mind listening."

The Dixieland band struck up "Hello Dolly."

"Hey, how about another pizza?" Gotanda asked. "Halve it with you. I don't know what it is with me, but am I starv-ing!"

Soon we were stuffing our faces with one medium anchovy. The college kids kept up their shouting match, but the band had finished their final set. Banjo and trumpet and trombone were packed in their cases, and the musicians left the stage, leaving only the upright piano.

We'd finished the extra pizza, but somehow couldn't take our eyes off the empty stage. Without the music, the voices in the crowd became plastic, almost palpable. Waves of sound solidifying as they pressed toward us, yet broke softly on contact. Rolling up slowly over and over again, striking my consciousness, then retreating. Farther and farther away. Distant waves, crashing against my mind in the distance.

"Why did you kill Kiki?" I asked Gotanda. I didn't mean to ask it. It just slipped out.

He stared at me as if he were looking at something far off. His lips parted slightly. His teeth were white and beauti-ful. For the longest time, he stared right through me. The surf in my head went on and on, now louder, now fainter. As if all contact with reality was approaching and receding. I remember his graceful fingers neatly folded on the table. When my reality strayed out of contact, they looked like fine craftwork.

Then he smiled, ever so peaceably. "Did I kill Kiki?" he enunciated slowly.

"Only joking," I hedged.

Gotanda's eyes fell to the table, to his fingers. "No, this isn't a joke. This is very important. I really have to think about it. Did I kill Kiki? I have to give this very serious thought."

I stared at him. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren't.

"Could there be a reason for you to kill Kiki?" I asked.

"Could there be a reason for me to kill Kiki? I don't even know myself. Did I kill Kiki? Why?"

"Hey, how would I know?" I tried to laugh. "Did you kill Kiki, or didn't you kill Kiki?"

"I said, I'm thinking about it. Did I kill Kiki, or didn't I?"

Gotanda took another sip of beer, set down his glass, and propped his head up on his hand. "I can't be sure. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? But I mean it. I'm not sure. I think, maybe, I tried to strangle Kiki. At my place, I think. "Why would I have killed Kiki there? I didn't even want to be alone with her. No good, I can't remember. But anyway, Kiki and I were at my place—I put her body in the car and took her someplace and I buried her. Somewhere in the moun-tains. I can't be sure if I really did it. I can't believe I'd do a thing like that. I just feel as if I might have done it. I can't prove it. I give up. The most critical part's a blank. I'm. try-ing to think if there's any physical evidence. Like a shovel. I'd have to have used a shovel. If I found a shovel, I'd know I did it. Let me try again. I buy a shovel at a garden supply. I use the shovel to dig a hole and bury Kiki. Then I toss the shovel. Okay, where?

"The whole thing's in pieces, like a dream. The story goes this way and that way. It's going nowhere. I have memories of something. But are the memories for real? Or are they something I made up later to fit? Something's wrong with me. It's gotten worse since my wife and I split up. I'm tired. I'm really . . . lost."

I said nothing.

After a pause, Gotanda went on. "Well, what's real anyway? From what point is it all phobia? Or acting? I thought if I hung around you, I'd get a better grip on things. I thought so from the first time you asked me about Kiki. Like maybe you'd clear away this muddle. Open a window and let some fresh air in." He folded his hands again and peered down at them. "Let's say I did kill Kiki—what would be the reason? I liked her. I liked sleeping with her. When I was down, she and Mei were my only release. So why kill her?"

"Did you kill Mei?"

Gotanda stared at his hands for an aeon, then shook his head. "No, I don't believe I killed Mei. Thank god, I have an alibi for that night. The day she was killed, I was at the stu-dio until midnight, then I drove with my manager to Mito. What a relief. If no one could swear I was at the studio that night, I'd worry that I killed Mei too. But I still feel responsi-ble for Mei's death. I don't know why. I wasn't there, but it's like I killed her with my own hands. I have this feeling that she died on account of me."

Another aeon passed while he stared at his fingers.

"Gotanda, you're beat," I said. "That's all. You probably didn't kill anyone. Kiki just vanished somewhere. When we were together, she used to disappear like that. It wouldn't be the first time. You're riding yourself too hard. Don't do it."

"No, it's not like that. Not that simple. I probably did kill Kiki. I don't think I killed Mei, but, yes, I think I killed Kiki. The sensation of the air going out of her throat is still in my fingers. I can still feel the weight of the dirt in the shovel. In effect, I killed her."

"But why would you kill Kiki? It doesn't make sense."

"No idea," he said. "Maybe an urge to self-destruct. It's happened before. I get this gap between me Gotanda and me the actor, and I stand back and actually observe myself doing shit. I'm on one side of this very deep, dark fault, and then unconsciously, on the other side, I have this urge to destroy something. Smash it to bits. A glass. A pencil. A plastic model. Never happens when other people are around, though. Only when I'm alone.