The Tatami Galaxy: a Novel, page 8
During the day it was hot, but the night air was cool. The university’s clock tower shone solitary in the darkness; there was almost no one along dimly lit Konoe-dori. About the only people passing by were nocturnal students reminiscent of deep-sea creatures.
If this were a sweet, late-night rendezvous with an innocent black-haired maiden, I wouldn’t have been averse to waiting all alone on the approach to Yoshida Shrine. I would have enjoyed the profoundly charming self-conscious giddiness that came with it. But the one showing up on this night was Ozu—a scheming yokai with a filthy Y chromosome. I considered just breaking the promise and going home, but then there would be no way I could face Master Higuchi. Thus cornered, I waited. Ozu had said he would come in a car he borrowed from Aijima, an upperclassman from a club he was in. I killed time by imagining him getting turned into wisps of shredded flesh in a self-contained car accident that inconvenienced no one.
Eventually a little bug of a car came down Higashi-Ichijo-dori and parked next to the university’s gate. A dark figure got out and walked toward me. Unfortunately, it was Ozu.
“Good evening to you. Did you wait long?” he said cheerily.
The reason his expression was extra intense, his face like he had just come around the corner from the first block of hell, had to be that he was just so excited for the night’s plan. This was a man who fueled himself on the misfortunes of others. Bear in mind that this shameless, vile operation came straight from his underbelly; none of it was my idea. I’m the exact opposite of him. I’m a saint. I’m a man of virtue. I participated against my will for the sake of our master.
We got into the car and entered the maze of a residential area that spread out to the south. Ozu was in a buoyant mood as he drove.
“Arrrgh, Akashi not agreeing to the plan really puts a wrench in things. Her compassion comes out in the most unexpected situations,” he said.
“No sane person would want to assist in this endeavor. I don’t want to, either.”
“Oh, come on. I know you’ve actually been looking forward to it.”
“Who would look forward to this? I’m just here on Master Higuchi’s orders—and don’t you forget it,” I snapped back. “You understand this is a crime, right?”
“Is it?” Ozu cocked his head. The cuteness of the motion disturbed me.
“It’s a bunch of crimes! Unlawful entry, larceny, abduction . . .” I listed them.
“It only counts as abduction if it’s a human, right? We’re stealing a love doll.”
“Do you have to say it like that? Have some tact, man.”
“You say that, but I’m sure you want to see what it’s like. I’ve known you for years, so I know. You don’t just want to look, you want to touch, too. Your horndoggery is out of control.” There was no excuse for the obscene face he made with this comment.
“Okay, I’m going home.”
When I took my seat belt off and tried to open the door, Ozu said, “Ohhh, come on,” in a coaxing voice. “I crossed a line there. Don’t be cranky. This is for our master, right?”
* * *
The beginning of it all is already buried in the darkness of history, but Master Higuchi called the battle the Masochistic Proxy-Proxy War. Still, all you can glean from that vague title is that it appears to be some kind of dishonorable competition.
About five years ago, a deep rift occurred between Master Higuchi and one Jogasaki; the dishonorable war pitting impure essence against impure essence was triggered. And it was continuing even now in this very neighborhood.
From time to time Master Higuchi suddenly remembered to perpetrate some sort of harassment, and Jogasaki would retaliate; this was the cycle that repeated over and over. The warriors who became Master Higuchi’s disciples in turn were all ensnared in this war, and the utter fruitlessness of it rode roughshod over their human dignity. And I was no exception. The only one who was perky as a fish in water was Ozu.
Jogasaki had been the head of a film club, and despite being enrolled as a PhD student, he boasted quite an influence behind the scenes. Unfortunately for him, Ozu was also a member. The previous fall, Ozu had schemed for all he was worth and ousted Jogasaki. Ozu is rotten to the core, so of course he played dirty. He incited Aijima to mount a coup d’état. Jogasaki still blamed Aijima as the ringleader behind his downfall, having no idea that it was actually Ozu pulling the strings.
Perhaps not knowing what to do with all his vitality after losing his position in the club, Jogasaki began harassing Master Higuchi again. After some mild skirmishes, a tragedy occurred at the end of April: Master Higuchi’s beloved navy yukata was dyed pink. Master Higuchi ordered Ozu to mastermind a retaliation. Ozu put his talents for wicked intrigue on display and drew up this indefensibly cruel plan.
We would kidnap Kaori.
* * *
Jogasaki lived at the foot of Mount Yoshida in Yoshida Shimoojicho. It was a recently renovated two-story apartment building with a bamboo grove next door and some atmosphere. Under cover of night, Ozu and I got out of the car and pressed ourselves against the apartment building’s concrete-block wall. I felt like I, too, had become a messenger from hell, and from Jogasaki’s point of view, it was true. We had come to abduct—with the cruelest intentions—something he loved, so if we got labeled gods of death, we deserved it.
Ozu looked up along the wall. Jogasaki’s room was on the southern end of the second floor. His light was still on.
“Huh? What’s he doing? He’s still in his room,” Ozu said in frustration. “We need him to keep his promise to Akashi.”
“She’s got blood on her hands, too. We shouldn’t have put her up to it.”
“Eh, she’s a fellow disciple, so it’s not like this is so much to ask. Idiocy doesn’t discriminate between sexes.”
We stood in an alley sandwiched by concrete-block walls. Fidgeting in the darkness the streetlights didn’t reach, we gave free rein to the sketchiness that would have led anyone who saw us to report us on the spot.
As we huddled there in the shadows, it seemed as though Ozu’s dark essence had melted into the night and seeped into my body. If it had been a black-haired maiden, I’d have been willing to endure some huddling in the dark, but it was Ozu. Why did I have to be cuddling with this sinister-faced guy? Did I make a mistake somewhere along the way? Was I at fault? I wanted at least to be with someone whose spirit was a bit more kindred (or a black-haired maiden).
“Jogasaki being here complicates things. It’s quite a wrench in our plan,” Ozu said.
“We can’t make Akashi an accessory to the crime. Let’s call it off for today.”
“That won’t do. I even borrowed Aijima’s car; we can’t quit now.” Ozu frowned and pressed himself to the wall like a gecko.
“What the hell happened between Master Higuchi and Jogasaki anyway? Why do they prolong this pointless conflict? And why do we have to take part in this stuff?” I asked.
“It’s the Masochistic Proxy-Proxy War.”
“What’s that?”
“Who knows?” Ozu cocked his head. “I sure don’t.”
“Should we really be wasting our precious youth facilitating someone else’s beef if no one even remembers how it started? Don’t we have better things to do?”
“This is training in order to become a bigger person. That said, standing here in the dark with you is obviously pointless, yes.”
“That’s my line.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Hey, don’t hang all over me,” I said.
“But I’m looonely. And the night breeze is so cold.”
“You’re always lonely.”
“Eek!”
Eventually, imitating senseless lovers’ talk to kill time wore thin as well. And somehow I had the feeling we’d had a similar exchange before, which swept me up in an anger that had nowhere to go.
“Hey, didn’t we have this conversation before?”
“I think not. We’re not that dumb. You’re just having déjà vu, that’s all.”
Ozu suddenly crouched down, and I followed his lead.
“The light went off,” he said.
As we held our breath in darkness, a man’s footsteps clanked as he came down the stairs. He brought a scooter out of the bicycle parking area. I had seen Jogasaki a few times before; he was a handsome guy who almost certainly had better things to do than pour his energy into the Masochistic Proxy-Proxy War. He was so handsome, and what was I? Basically just the nasty palm sweat.
“He’s gorgeous,” I groaned.
“You mustn’t judge people by appearance. He may have a nice face, but all he thinks about is tits.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“How rude. Tits are just one of the many areas I’m proficient in.”
Without noticing us pressed against the wall talking about tits, Jogasaki put his helmet on, mounted his scooter, and drove off to the east.
We slid out from our hiding place and went around to the staircase.
“He won’t be back for a while now,” snickered Ozu.
“Where did he go?”
“To the Karafuneya Coffee on Shirakawa-dori. Well, he’ll drink a barrel of coffee and wait for probably like two hours. Without realizing that Akashi will never show up. The fool.”
“We seriously suck.”
“Okay, okay, let’s get to work.”
Ozu went up the stairs. And so we illegally entered Jogasaki’s place of residence, but it’s not as if I’m an experienced lock-picker. Ozu had gotten ahold of a key through Jogasaki’s ex-girlfriend. And not only a key: Ozu had acquired knowledge of even the most personal details of Jogasaki’s life. He was so meticulous in his craft that he even had in his possession letters Jogasaki had been writing to a certain woman. Ozu would say grandiose things like “the one who rules the information rules the world,” and in reality, he was a regular Enma, king of hell. His register was packed so densely it was like a Heibonsha World Encyclopedia of people’s embarrassing secrets. Every time I thought of it, I got impatient to cut ties with this warped guy.
When we opened the door, there was the kitchen, a room about the size of a four and a half tatami mats, but with flooring. A glass door led into the next room. Ozu entered ahead of me and turned on the kitchen light, as if he lived here. He seemed to know the apartment inside and out. When I mentioned this, Ozu nodded.
“I mean, we’re in the same club. Even now I sometimes come over to let him vent at me. It’s a pain, though. Once he starts complaining, he doesn’t stop,” he said with a totally complacent face.
“You’re a heinous fiend.”
“I prefer ‘tactician.’”
I didn’t want to do anything that would land me in prison, so after entering like a gentleman through the door, I stayed where I was.
“C’mon, this way.”
Ozu pressed, but I stood my ground.
“You go find it. I’m staying put. I at least want to have some manners.”
“It’s a bit late for that, no? There’s no point in acting like a gentleman now.”
We argued a bit, but eventually Ozu gave up and went into the back room on his own. The sounds of him rummaging around in the darkness suddenly turned into the sound of him knocking something over by accident. “Ee-hee-hee.” His joy grated on my ears as he fooled around. “C’mon, Kaori, don’t be shy. Leave Jogasaki, and let’s get out of here.”
When I saw the woman he eventually carried into the kitchen, I was astounded.
“This is Kaori,” Ozu introduced her. “But dang, I had no idea she’d be this heavy.”
* * *
Surely many people are aware of the heartbreaking object known as a “Dutch wife.” Even I am. My basic understanding of Dutch wives was that pitiful men driven by unstoppable urges purchased one against their better judgment and then sobbed tears of regret—i.e., it was incredibly prejudiced.
According to intel Ozu obtained in May, Jogasaki secretly owned one of these Dutch wives. He emphasized that this wasn’t just any Dutch wife, but an extremely high-end silicone one that cost tens of thousands of yen. Nowadays they’re called “love dolls,” he explained.
If, after being ousted from the club he had once lorded over and losing his girlfriend at the same time, Jogasaki hit the rock bottom of despair and, spurred by loneliness, ended up shelling out for a love doll, there was a logic to it even if it seemed highly unlikely. But that wasn’t the case. Word was he had had her for at least two years. During that time he was also associating with real women, so in a sense he must be a true love doll fan. It was something I couldn’t quite fathom.
“There’s meaning in living alongside a doll you care for. Owning a love doll is entirely different from dating a woman. A barbarian like you who only sees them as tools for sexual gratification probably can’t understand, but what we’re dealing with here is a highly evolved form of love.”
This was Ozu talking, so I didn’t believe it one bit.
But that night, when Ozu pulled this doll, Kaori, out of the back room, she was so beautiful and delicate that she didn’t seem doll-like at all. Her black hair was smoothed nicely down, and her refined blouse even had a proper collar. Her dreamy eyes were looking my way.
“That’s the doll?!” I blurted in admiration.
“Shh, not so loud!” Ozu said, laying a finger against his lips. Then, “Right, this is the one. Careful or you’ll fall for her,” he quipped with a proud grin.
She must have been awfully heavy; Ozu had a tough time setting her on the floor. The scene that played out before my eyes—this weird, oh-so-loathsome yokai crouched next to a pristine beauty lying on the ground—was like an illustration from some tale of the bizarre from the early Showa era.
“C’mon, we gotta carry this to the car,” he said, all business despite his nasty appearance. Then he urged me to pick her up.
She had an adorable face. Her skin was completely human in hue, and when I gently touched it, there was a springy firmness. She had well-kept hair and was immaculately dressed. She looked like a lady of noble birth—except she didn’t move at all. It was as if she had been frozen the instant she cast her eyes into the distance.
As I gazed at her, I got turned on—no, I got riled up.
I didn’t know Jogasaki personally, but though this was a very closed-off kind of love, I was also forced to admit it was indeed evolved. Take Kaori’s elegant expression. It wasn’t the face of someone lost in an immoral lifestyle. Her smooth hair and neat clothes indicated the depth of Jogasaki’s love. A barbarian like Ozu who only saw her as a tool for sexual gratification probably couldn’t understand, but destroying this delicate world Jogasaki and Kaori had built together, even on our master’s orders, would be unforgivable, the height of inhumane brutishness. Taking Kaori away would be too cruel for words.
So, despite having diligently walked the fruitless path where not even weeds grow, never defying our master’s teachings, I couldn’t approve of this heartless endeavor. O Master, I am incapable of it.
Ozu was about to eagerly touch Kaori’s hands, but I grabbed him by the collar.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“I won’t let you take Kaori,” I said.
Jogasaki, keep right on walking your path with your head held high. There is no road before you, but there will be one in your wake. I sent him a passionate cheer in my head. And, of course, Kaori, too.
* * *
That night, I dragged Ozu, who protested by shrieking like a little animal, out of there and repaired to Shimogamo Yusuiso.
My base of operations was a room at Shimogamo Yusuiso in Shimogamo Izumikawacho. From what I had heard, it had been standing there since being rebuilt after burning down in the disorder accompanying the last days of the Tokugawa shogunate. If there hadn’t been light seeping through the windows, the building would have been taken for abandoned. I thought I must have wandered into the walled city of Kowloon when I first visited the place on the university co-op’s introduction. The three-story wooden structure caused all those who saw it anxiety; it seemed ready to collapse at any moment. Its dilapidation was practically Important Cultural Property level. Certainly no one would miss it if it burned down. In fact, there was no doubt in my mind that this would be a load off for its landlady, who lived just to the east.
It was already the dead of night.
Ozu and I climbed the stairs. I lived in 110 on the first floor, but Master Higuchi’s room was the far one on the second floor, room 210.
Light spilled out from the little window above the door facing the hallway; apparently he was waiting for us to return from our successful operation. To be honest, it pained my conscience to betray his expectations and abandon the proxy war. I would have to present him with something I knew he liked.
When we opened the door, Master Higuchi and Akashi were seated politely on their knees facing each other. I figured the master was admonishing his disciple, but it turned out that Akashi was the one doing the admonishing. When we entered empty-handed, Akashi looked relieved.
“So you gave up on the plan.”
I silently nodded, and Ozu sulked.
“Hey there. Welcome back, fellows,” said Master Higuchi, his butt fidgeting on his ankles.
I shoved Ozu aside and explained everything.
Master Higuchi nodded casually, took out a cigar, and emitted a huge cloud of smoke. Akashi also puffed on the cigar he had given her. It appeared that, while we were gone, the two of them had gotten into some kind of argument, which ended with Akashi unquestionably on top.
“Well, that’s fine for tonight,” said our master.
When Ozu tried to express his discontent, Master Higuchi snapped at him. “Shut up! There’s a limit to these things. Getting my yukata dyed pink was one of the rare truly regrettable incidents of recent years. But I must say that ripping apart Jogasaki and Kaori, who have had a good relationship for years, in such a despicable way would be entirely too merciless a retaliation, even if Kaori is a doll.”
“Huh? That’s not what you said last time we had this conversation.”
When Ozu protested, Akashi said, “Ozu, please shut up.”
