Nan-Core (11 page)

Before leaving I drove the base of the bin into his head a couple more times, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t start breathing again. I stopped halfway down the stairwell, then, after a moment’s deliberation, returned to the office and used the scarf I’d worn over my hair to clean my prints from the bin and the door handle.

There was another time when I killed someone like this, on the spur of the moment. That night I was with a first-time client. For no particular reason I took up a plaster statue of Venus in the room and smashed it into the man’s head as he slept. I can’t really think of anything I need to write about him, since I don’t even remember his face.

What I really hated was that I had gotten into the habit of killing people even when it had nothing to do with a sense of Nan-Core.

I still have the thought each time the media reports the arrest of a serial killer: another one who is possessed by the habit of killing. I wondered if the various issues listed in the papers like parental neglect during youth or physical or mental handicaps had really caused them to make a habit of murder.

They all received death sentences.

It would have been better for us—these people, myself—if we had been born during Japan’s Warring States period. It was a time when being a hero meant becoming addicted to murder, to killing
as many people as you could; it was your duty to kill the enemy even if they were people you’d never seen before. I’m sure it was the same during the two World Wars and other times like that. Nations with conflicting interests encouraged murder and awarded medals to those who would normally receive the death penalty.

After I hit the man with the figure of Venus I didn’t bother wiping off my prints, and I was sure the hotel cameras had images of me even though I had done my best to hide my face, a habit I’d developed because of the type of work I did. But I was never arrested, and I really can’t say why. It would have been right for me to have been caught. I didn’t feel guilt, but I knew it was wrong for people like me to be left alive. Not in this time and place.

I only had vague feelings on the above issues, though, since I didn’t give them any real thought.

There was another night, just like the others, when I called out to a man, also like the others. It was near the entrance to the park where the elderly man had first mistaken me for a prostitute.

“Do you have the time?”

He’d been walking with his eyes trained on the ground but stopped and checked his watch, answering straightaway, “Uhm, it’s quarter past nine.”

A response like that usually signaled a lack of interest. On any other day I would have backed off silently, but I had just been shooed away by two other men I’d approached.

“Do you have the time?” I repeated, ignoring his first reply.

“Uh, like I said, it’s quarter past—” He stopped mid-sentence, his face stiffening with surprise. He had finally worked out what was happening. He clamped his lips shut and tried to walk past me.

“I need money,” I said to his retreating back.

It was the truth. I was all but out of money to cover my living costs. To my surprise the man stopped and turned to walk back towards me, a hand rummaging through his pockets. He checked through a tired-looking wallet, then pulled out a single 5,000-yen note.

“I don’t have much myself. This is all I can really manage.”

He held out the bill and looked at me properly for the first time. A look of surprise crossed his features. I think it was because of how gaunt I had become. I certainly wasn’t as far gone as Mitsuko had been, but I was getting thinner by the day despite the fact that I wasn’t ill. Because I was so thin I was finding it hard to get clients and had started to really struggle with money.

“So, uhm, are you … okay? You look pretty pale.” He stared hesitantly into my face. “Are you maybe … really hungry?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, damn. Okay, let’s see. Uhm … There’s this restaurant I go to all the time, just down the road. It’s cheap. Would you like to go?”

I could tell from his demeanor that he hadn’t thought it through before speaking and that he immediately regretted his words. But I thanked him anyways and started to follow him. I didn’t actually feel hungry, but I went along because I figured I might be able to turn him into a client if I played things right after we’d eaten. I was so desperate for cash I would have let him disassemble me for another 5,000 yen.

The man seemed to be in low spirits, but he introduced himself as he walked and turned back every now and then to check I was still there. He offered small encouragements like, “Not long now,” or, “Just around the next corner,” and began to walk a touch more briskly.

We approached a short crosswalk and I was about to step into
the road when I felt the man’s arm press against my chest, like a crossing gate.

“Careful!”

I had been on autopilot when I had walked into his arm and pulled back slightly to see a taxi rush right before my eyes. He checked to the left and the right, still holding me back so I didn’t jump out, then finally pulled his crossing-gate-arm away.

It was the first time anyone had done something like that for me.

I crossed the crosswalk.

“There it is. The food’s pretty decent considering how cheap it is.”

I could see a small diner down the street. A split curtain hung over the entrance and the air smelled of broth. Already by then the awareness was growing inside me that I didn’t want this particular man to disassemble me. And perhaps taking the place of something else, I felt a warm rush of saliva along with something I had forgotten for a long time: hunger.

In the numb half-awake, half-asleep daydreams that came to me the next day and the day after, and as I sat in various places around the city absorbed in the flow of people, I saw the arm holding me back like a crossing gate.

Careful
, came the whisper.

Careful, careful, careful …
I heard his voice over and over, his arm pressing me back over and over.

It had come between me and the car as it shot by, and now, with the same casual ease, it also held me apart from other things, all the nameless, warped objects that were everywhere around me, from the life-sucking void in Michiru’s garden, and even from myself
when I found I was being drawn inexorably towards the darkness within that void.
Careful
, it said, pulling me back. These things kept happening in my dreams.

I got lost in those dreams, intoxicated, only now and then coming back to myself to gnaw at the chapped skin around my cuticles.

It took about a week to use up the man’s 5,000 yen. He was there when I visited the park that night, sitting on one of the short stone pillars at the entrance. He hurried over when he caught sight of me.

“Oh, good, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. Good evening.” He stood facing me, keeping a few feet away. “So …” He alternately worried his upper and lower lips, working out what to say. I had never turned down a client before, but I had decided I would say no if he asked to pay for my services. I think he must have seen through my thoughts.

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that.” He waved his hand in front of his face, flustered. “I was wondering if you’d like to go back to the same place for dinner. The idea came to me earlier. You were eating with such relish, I thought maybe I could take you there every now and then …”

“Thank you,” I said just like the first time and followed him there.

After that night he made a habit of taking me out for dinner every few days. Each time I was careful to stop before the pedestrian crossing, making sure to avoid a repeat of what happened the first time. He didn’t speak much during our meals, or in general. His expression made it seem like he was concentrating on a sound only he could hear.

Aside from paying for the food he sometimes tried to give me a 5,000-yen note, but I turned him down each time.

“Why? You took some money the first time,” he said once, sounding irritated. We were back in the park after dinner and were about to go our separate ways.

“That was because I was planning to work for it.”

“So you won’t take anything if I don’t ask you to work for it?”

“You’re always buying me dinner.”

“Okay … But what do you normally do for food? Can’t say you’re putting on any weight.”

I fell silent.

“Well, I’m going to ask you to do some work. Five thousand yen’s worth. I’m afraid that’s the most I can afford right now.”

I felt goosebumps prickle up on my back and arms. That surprised me. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t, not with you.”

I felt strange as soon as I gave my answer. It only took a moment to understand why. I had never thought of someone as simply “you” before. I think it really was the first time. That was why I came close to being drowned by the unique sensation that came from saying it. My clients were clients, Mitsuko was Mitsuko. I used first names for acquaintances and terms like “Miss” for people I didn’t know. Teachers, cab drivers, and police officers I addressed as “sir” or “ma’am.” My mother was “Mom.” It seemed strange to me; I’d never intentionally avoided using a more familiar form of address. It felt like a switch being flipped on, like there had always been a place inside me set aside for the word, and “you” fit perfectly.

Only this particular man. You alone were you.

“Ah, don’t misunderstand me. When I say ‘work,’ I don’t mean
that
kind of work,” you added quickly, then explained, “I’m having trouble sleeping again, and it’s getting to me. Reading or drinking
just makes it worse, and my mind goes to dark places when I’m awake in the middle of the night. So if it’s not a hassle, could I ask you to come to my place and sit by my bed, just for an hour or so? I think it might help me sleep to have someone there. I know, it’s like I’m a scared little kid. Don’t worry, I won’t ask for a bedtime story or anything.”

I accepted a 5,000-yen note and followed you through the dark streets to your apartment. I lingered a half-step behind to look at the profile of the person who had become you.

Your apartment was nicer than mine but it was still just a shabby single room. You switched on the heater and we had a glass of warm, sweet milk each, then you climbed into bed.

“See? Just like a kid. My parents died in an accident when I was in grade school, and from that shock I can tell some part of my mind remained child-like.”

The room was warm and I myself started to feel sleepy as I sat by your bed. You were silent for long periods, speaking only in brief sentences when you did, your voice growing increasingly muffled.

“How old are you?”

I hadn’t ever thought about my age. I guessed I was something like twenty-two but I couldn’t be sure, so I told you the date I was born instead.

“So … five years younger than me.”

“You look …” You had your eyes closed, so I could watch your face as much as I wanted.

“I look …?” you prompted, eyes still closed.

“You look … tired.”

“Could you put your hand on my forehead for a little bit?”

I did as you said.

“Ah, that’s nice. The human hand is a strange thing. Feels like
it’s drawing out the pain.”

Tiny particles of air tingled, vibrating between my hand and your forehead.

“Mom used to do this when I stayed home from school with a cold. My fever would go right down, didn’t need any medicine. Her hand felt like it was magic …” You snored a little, then twitched awake. “Oh, could you turn off the heater when you go? No need to lock the door. And … thank you for this.”

After that we continued to have dinner together at the small diner and I would help you sleep when you needed it.

The first thing I did every night was visit the park to check if you were there. On nights when I couldn’t find you I would go somewhere else and approach men, asking the time. You knew I was still selling myself on days we didn’t meet. Sometimes I couldn’t work when you asked me to sit at your bed for a few days in a row, but on such occasions you always made sure to give me a 5,000-yen note. This was you, but I needed the income.

You said there were periods that came every couple of months when your insomnia became unbearable. It was at the beginning of these periods that you seemed to suffer the most. You turned pale like you were ill, bags forming under your eyes, and stayed silent longer than usual. Sometimes you would still be awake after I’d been with you for two or three hours, and when that happened you apologized and told me I could leave. Most of the time, however, you told me about little things from your childhood as your voice grew nearly inaudible, and you managed to sleep for a little while, even if you woke again before morning.

As I watched you, asleep and defenseless, I entertained myself with thoughts about how I would kill you. It was the only
conclusion I understood in a relationship like ours. The act of killing was the only way I knew of getting closer to another person.

It was only the money that stopped me from doing it there and then. I made an effort not to kill men who gave me money. I told myself I didn’t have any reason to kill you, not while you kept giving me those 5,000-yen notes. I know my reasoning was foolish. But whenever I tried to think deeply about the phenomenon that you were, I experienced a sudden, uncontrollable rush of anxiety and confusion. I would end up completely muddled.

Your eyes shut reflexively when I put my hand on your forehead, but one night they came open again and you looked up at me from your bed.

“I’ve been wondering why I feel so relaxed around you.” Your eyes were a mysterious color that night. I’d read in a book once about a color called hazel. I think that’s what they were. “It’s some kind of atonement, right? You’re trying to make up for doing something bad, that’s why you’re a prostitute?”

That was the first time you’d ever said “prostitute.” I pulled my hand back from your forehead.

“That’s what it is,” you said. “We’re both sinners. That’s why we’re in tune with each other.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never atoned for anything.”

“So I’m wrong …” You looked away to glare at the ceiling as though something was hiding in there. “But you’ve noticed that I’m really odd, right? Don’t you think it’s weird that I haven’t tried to sleep with you, even after all these nights together?”