somewhat relieved, I exited the bathroom, stood in front of the sink, and stared into the mirror. Again my heart seemed to stop, for even there what I saw was me!
Then I realized that it was only natural for my reflection to be there. I was looking at myself, except that I wasn’t used to myself. I splashed water on my face, as if to wash away the feeling. The smile on her face appeared to have been glued in place with honey.
I returned to the living room. Mother was still leafing through the album, sitting with one knee raised. She turned her head toward me and asked: “Stomach trouble?” She smiled broadly.
This is bad, very bad, I thought to myself. “Oh, my cell phone!” I exclaimed, pretending that it had rung. I looked at the time: it was almost two. “I wonder who’s calling,” I muttered darkly before speaking into the phone. “What! Really? Please understand, I’m in Saitama at the moment . . . Well, that’s a bit inhumane, don’t you think? . . . All right. But in exchange I want a day off some other time. I won’t forget this . . .”
After putting on my one-man show, I reported to Mother that someone on the late shift had called in sick, leaving no one to man the counter. I would have to pinch-hit.
“You’re going to wreck your health if you give in so quickly. An easy mark like you will simply be used, and then when you keel over, that’ll be it. And you’ll get no gratitude.”
In the end I ignored her warning and left the Hiyama residence.
* * *
With noise-canceling headphones in my ears, I withdrew into the primitive world of Argentinian acoustic guitar music and hastened toward the station. I should have been able to remember the way but somehow managed to get lost: after failing to locate the supermarket, I eventually came to a broad river. I crossed the bridge and continued walking uncertainly.
Some ninety minutes later I reached Warabi Station. There, I inexplicably went the wrong way again, this time on a train headed toward Ōmiya. On the brink of tears, I suddenly realized that I was within two stations of Kita-Urawa.
I nearly tripped down the stairs after disembarking there. Pausing on the landing to get my bearings, I grew terribly hungry and I went into the McDonald’s in front of the station and gobbled down a Quarter Pounder with cheese, a Teriyaki Burger, and a salad. Sipping my vegetable juice, I imagined my old lady stiffening at the sight of me. I thought about her personality and further imagined that rather than receive a warm welcome, I was more likely to be on the receiving end of her wrath. (What would it be like if you paid a visit to your family home? Don’t you want to see it, the real thing? Head there and you’ll finally be back to normal, won’t you?)
Once I started this soliloquy, there was nothing else to do. I couldn’t help myself. Instead of getting off at Minami-Urawa, I continued on.
I hadn’t been home in quite some time, and that was because I didn’t want to see my father. At first that had been out of pride and stubbornness; now it was simply ingrained habit. My mother had pleaded with me to visit during the week, when he was out of the house, but for the last two years I had relied on various excuses to put her off. Somehow it had simply become too much trouble.
It occurred to me that I shouldn’t just show up without any warning, so I tried calling my mother’s cell phone. I got the answering machine and hung up without a word. Then I decided that sending a text message would merely pour oil on the fire.
I was vacillating, fretting about what to do. What would happen if I showed up to apologize and found my father there? Disgusted with myself, I let my head fall to the table.
It seemed that lack of sleep was catching up with me, for I quickly nodded off. When I awoke, I glanced down at my cell phone and saw that it was nearly six—dinnertime. My father was bound to be at home. My timing was completely off.
What a fool I was! I didn’t even have the guts to visit my own home . . . So this is what your life’s become, I told myself.
Churning over bitter thoughts, I resolved to go back to my apartment. As I disposed of my meal, I remembered when I had stolen Daiki’s cell phone and considered his phrase, holding back on a big turd. I went to the toilet, took a shit, washed my hands, looked in the mirror, and then immediately regretted having done so. I was so sick of that face. It was me and yet had nothing to do with me. I ran my wet hands roughly through my hair, stepped out of the restroom, and left the McDonald’s. Instead of crossing the street and heading to the station, I turned toward my parents’ residence.
With each step as I drew closer to my own home, I grew ever more tense, surrounded by others leaving work. I barely paid attention to the changes in the shops and houses that had happened during my absence.
At the house, three doors down from a famous and prestigious high school, the lights were on. I looked at the nameplate: Nagano. In the garage was our reliable old white Toyota Mark II. There were always quinces in front of the entrance this time of year, with red and pink blossoms. Still visible on the front door was the character for Hitoshi, which as a child I had scratched in with a nail. I felt some sort of toxin draining from me. My nerves were recovering from their paralysis. My goodness, I said to myself with a beaming smile on my face as I rang the bell, what sort of nonsense has all this been?
“Yes, who is it?” came the bold voice of my old lady.
“It’s meee, Hitoooshi,” I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster, putting my face right up to the intercom camera.
“You again! Look! Enough is enough!”
I was flummoxed by her reaction. “Are you being serious? All right, fine, so I haven’t been back for a while—I’m sorry. I trust you’ll forgive me.”
I was trying to brush off what had just occurred. I moved my face even nearer to the camera but then stepped back, realizing that I might be too close for her to recognize me.
“Please leave! Go home! If you don’t, you’ll face the consequences, the same as last time.” The tone of her voice clearly suggested she meant business.
“But I have come home. Where else am I supposed to go? I can understand if you’re angry that I’ve been out of touch for ages, and that I’ve shown up without calling ahead of time. And I apologize for that. I’m genuinely sorry.”
I bowed my head in front of the security camera with utmost seriousness.
“Just go away, whoever you are!”
“What are you saying? Are you disowning me? Is that what you’re doing? You could at least speak to me.”
“You really haven’t learned your lesson, have you?”
“I have learned my lesson. And I’ve said I’m sorry. Anyway, open the door, I’m begging you!”
The door opened and I stepped back slightly.
“Hey,” a young man said, “you must know that stalking is a crime, don’t you?”
I froze. It was the man I’d been seeing no end of all day. That is, it was a ME.
Chapter 2
Realization
The
