“At first I thought that my older brother had come back. I wondered whether he was being diffident and putting on some weird show. But judging from his height and age, I knew that couldn’t be . . . You know what I mean? Anyway, the first time it was like grabbing a snake while weeding the garden and then flinging it away. And so that’s what I did: I drove him off. The second time I wanted to hear more from him, but Mother wouldn’t have it. She was convinced he was some sort of scam artist and carried on about calling the police. She took a photo, just as she did today, but no matter how much I pointed to how strangely similar we looked, she would respond that two people can resemble each other—say, like Keisuke Kuwata and Hiroyuki Nagato—without being related and that there is nothing creepy about it. But what does it mean if a parent can’t recognize her own two sons when they’re standing right in front of her? She was just that kind of parent, one who never understood her children . . . And then that older brother of mine . . .”
“Wait, who’s this older brother you’re talking about? Mother only had one child,” I said.
“You don’t have an older brother?”
I shook my head, as the other ME groaned and sank into thought.
“Did you think she’d recognize your brother as her own son?”
The other ME gave me a blank look. “She should. But then, he took off about ten years ago. He drifted around and never came back.”
“So she might not even recognize him after all that time.”
The other ME nodded. “That’s why when I saw you today, I thought maybe—”
“Is it possible that you’re just an only child and that you’ve simply imagined that you have an older brother?”
“No, he’s real. I still hear from him sometimes.” The other ME reached for his cell phone, pushed a few buttons, and showed me a list of messages. “Here’s a message from December 8.” The sender was indicated with the character for “large.” “His name is Hiroshi.”
“How much older is he?”
“Two years older.”
I read the text. “It’s a pretty bleak message.”
“Yeah, he’s a pretty bleak sort of guy. He was a bad student and could never get his act together. He had, like me, the personality to become a civil servant, but our parents constantly told him from when he was small to do his own thing. He decided to become a hairdresser and got as far as vocational school, but then he couldn’t get through his apprenticeship, and the salon owner finally told him that he wasn’t cut out for the job and ought to quit. And that’s when he disappeared.”
“So you’re a civil servant?” I asked.
“I work for the Saitama Municipal Office. What about you?”
“I’m a clerk at an electronics store.”
“How long have you been living alone?”
“Seven or eight years, I guess.”
“You said before that you haven’t been back home in two years. How come?”
I hesitated for a moment and then said gruffly: “I didn’t get along with my father.”
“Hmmm, a bit like my big brother,” he muttered. “What’s your father like?”
“You should know!” I said, irritated by the question.
“He’s not malicious, just a lowlife coward who makes excuses to justify peddling his son to the world.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“It’s the same with you, isn’t it?” the other ME asked. “Is she really your mother?”
“You don’t mix up your own parent . . .”
“But Mother doesn’t recognize her own children. She only sees what she wants to see. Once she thinks, This isn’t my son, she’ll lose the real one.”
“So if putting up with her is too much, why don’t you live by yourself? You make enough money to do that, don’t you?”
The other ME looked at me sharply, then nodded and said, “That’s the question: I wonder why I keep living with my parents. After all, I really wanted to be independent. So, again, why?”
“How should I know?”
“You stayed away for two years, didn’t you? What made you come back?”
I hesitated before replying. Would he believe my ridiculous story? Wouldn’t this give him further reason to think that I was a fraud from someone else’s household?
But then I let it all out, like so much pent-up steam with nowhere else to go. And I didn’t limit myself to the Daiki Hiyama business either. I told him about my father, about my mother, about failing to become a photographer, about feeling like some aging pensioner living out long but meaningless years. It wasn’t simply because the other ME had opened himself up to me, but rather that I actually wanted to trust him. After all, he was me, and it seemed that if one cannot trust oneself, then there is nothing more that can be done or said. I might not be able to count on anyone else, but at least I could put my faith in the other ME—and of that judgment I was confident. And it seemed that the feeling was reciprocal, for it was clear that the other ME had deliberately sought me out. We couldn’t help believing in ourselves, even though in our heart of hearts each of us was distrustful of himself.
“Is Daiki’s mother like the old lady?”
“Actually, she’s not at all like her: she doesn’t care about appearances and isn’t the least bit vain. In attitude and behavior there are some similarities, but Mother’s a neat freak, isn’t she? I can’t imagine her house to be anywhere near as messy as the one I’ve just seen. And Mother would never let herself get hooked on Korean soap operas, would she?”
“You’re right about that,” the other ME agreed. “What do you think of that auntie?”
“Daiki’s mother seems rather lonely. I feel sorry for her. But then I’ve got no real ties to her.”
The other ME glanced at his cell phone before gazing back at me. “So there’s really nothing for you to do but become Daiki, her kid. You’ve got no alternative, have you?”
For a moment I sat in stunned silence, but soon was fuming with the rage of the betrayed. “That must be so easy to say when you’re sitting comfortably in my house!”
“I’m just trying to be realistic. The old lady doesn’t recognize you, so there’s no way you can come back. On the other hand, Daiki’s mother is treating you like her own. So you have no choice but to look after her as your real mother. Right?”
“You’re just scheming to drive me out!”
“Not at all! The fact is that you ran off when you could no longer stand it at home. You’ve been gone for two years, and by now you’ve pretty much burned all your bridges. And how is this any different? You’ve got
