Life for Sale, page 16
The fact that such a matter even bothered Hanio surely proved that life was dear to him. Why should anything worry him if he had no concern for his life? But was refusing to put his own death in the hands of another really the same as being attached to life?
Quietly, in the bright light, Hanio examined his naked thigh close up. He wiped away the remnants of the ointment, and scrutinized what was left of the splinter. For a splinter, it had a strangely precise shape. Its blackness was more reminiscent of wire than dark woody fiber. It seemed thicker and more of a spindle shape than he remembered. It had gone in quite deeply, apparently. No wonder it was festering.
He racked his brains, but could not think how he might have picked the splinter up. During his attempt to avoid those footsteps, he had hidden himself among garbage bins. Maybe he’d been pierced by some wire at that point? No, it almost certainly had to have been while he was walking. But how odd to get a splinter just then. On further thought, he seemed to remember hearing a whooshing sound like a shuttlecock cutting through the air when the splinter pierced him. But he couldn’t be sure now if he’d imagined it.
Hanio burst out laughing. Here he was, worrying himself to the bone: what a complete neurotic he had become! And yet he had not felt the slightest concern when the blood was being sucked out of him every day by the vampire woman!
Come to think of it, he remembered something he had learned long ago, but had subsequently forgotten—that living and worrying were one and the same thing. Perhaps this was evidence that he had got his “life” back, and he just hadn’t realized it until now.
“If the wound gets worse, I’ll see a doctor,” he promised himself.
He applied some ointment, took his antibiotics, and eventually fell into a pleasant sleep.
When he awoke, it was dark all around him. He was hungry and about to go down to the restaurant, but the thought of drawing any attention put him off the idea. He was afraid of something, that was for sure. He could just see himself going out there, on show to all and sundry: he worried about his fear becoming public. Why not have his meal in his room, without fear and just the way he liked it? He wouldn’t have to worry about others. And he had money to spare.
He used room service to order a tenderloin steak, a Waldorf salad, and a bottle of wine. When he saw the steward enter his room, pushing his creaky cart, Hanio couldn’t help stealing a look at his face.
Tall, and probably rather snooty, the steward had clearly just spent a lot of effort squeezing blackheads. But his unprepossessing appearance was no proof that he was unconnected to any organization. Everyone affiliated to an organization conspires to kill those who exist in complete isolation.
The meal and wine were delightful. He watched television until late, but then found it really hard to get to sleep. His afternoon doze came back to curse him. Staring at the gray, flickering static on the TV once the programs had run their course, he got a sudden premonition that the face of Ruriko, or Reiko, or the vampire woman was going suddenly to emerge and start talking to him. But the flickering gray sand on the screen never changed.
Around two in the morning, finally a yawn. This encouraged him to go to bed but, just as he was on his way to the bathroom, there was a discreet knock at the door.
A client, Hanio thought immediately. But how could a client find a way here to purchase his life? For one thing, he’d canceled the newspaper ad ages ago. And he’d checked in under an alias, so how would anyone know his whereabouts?
Who was it, then?
Another knock, this time a bit louder. Hanio took the plunge and threw open the door. In the corridor was a man in a raincoat and a felt hat.
“Who are you?” Hanio said.
“Are you Mr. Tanaka?” the man asked. He had a thick, viscous voice.
“No, I’m not.”
“Sorry to have troubled you.”
But there was a toneless quality to his voice. In fact, he did not seem the least bit sorry. Hanio watched as the man turned on his heel and went off down the corridor. Once he’d shut the door, he could feel his heart racing.
“Why ask the question and then just walk off? There’s something fishy going on. They must have tracked me down. I need to move to another hotel tomorrow.”
Brooding, he locked the door and got ready for bed. But there was no way he could sleep now.
The pain in his leg was bothering him less. But he couldn’t get out of his head the thought that the man might be loitering in the corridor outside his room. How fearless, utterly fearless he had felt when he first put his life up for sale! But now, a warm furry fear clung to his chest, digging its claws right in. Like lying in bed with a cat in his arms.
47
Hanio checked out first thing next morning, carrying nothing but an empty bag, and hid himself in another major hotel. He had no urge to go into town, so he lolled around all day in front of the TV. With no exercise, he didn’t even get hungry.
As night deepened and the hotel became quieter, anxiety settled thickly on his mind. He wanted to flee but no matter how far he fled, he felt certain that those unaccountable footsteps would come in pursuit.
For the first time in a long while, Hanio felt a sense of anticipation. In the past, when waiting for clients to turn up and buy his life, he would put aside all normal concerns with time and regular life, and remain untroubled. But now, he was feeling anxious about something he could not quite put his finger on: it was like dealing with a new lover. He had never before sensed that the future might embody something important and substantial.
Two in the morning. The corridor could well have belonged to a hospital, leading to a morgue. He opened the door a crack and peered out to make sure it was clear. A solitary red leather chair opposite the elevator gleamed dully under a sconce.
It came as no surprise when, at two thirty, there was another knock on the door. And, when Hanio failed to answer, another knock. After much hesitation, Hanio finally opened the door. A short, stout man in a striped suit stood before him. A different man from the one the previous night.
“Who are you?”
“Are you Mr. Ueno?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sorry to have troubled you.” The man bowed politely and walked off calmly in the direction of the elevator.
Hanio locked the door and returned to bed. His chest was pounding. Just then, pain ran through his thigh again. Hanio had a sudden flash of inspiration.
“Of course! Damn! That’s what it is.”
Using the lamplight to locate his wound, he wiped it clean of ointment and touched it with his finger. Then, bending his body, he placed his ear against it. An almost imperceptible vibration was coming from the black splinter left in him. Someone had fired an exquisitely small mini-transceiver into his thigh. Which meant that, wherever he fled, they would find him.
He made an attempt to gouge it out with his nails, but it was too deeply embedded. He took a moment then to work out a strategy.
“OK, maybe I shouldn’t try to remove it now. Clearly it’s already sent a signal to my adversaries saying where I am—that’s why they came to check. I should take it out when I leave in the morning, and then go to ground. No doubt I’ll need to go to the hospital, but I’d rather that than have it taken out by a doctor and blow my cover, I’ll do it myself and get treated afterward.”
Sleep came easily to him once he’d worked out his plan. The ordinary knife that arrived at his room with breakfast the next morning was not up to the job, he decided, so he ordered a steak despite having no appetite for it. Hanio heated the steak knife’s sharp blade with the flame of a match, then dug it into his own thigh.
He stuck the blade in, gave it a flick up, and a tiny steel wire popped out along with a gush of blood.
48
The doctor examined the wound in Hanio’s thigh and frowned. He was young with a self-confident manner and a long nose that gave him a supercilious look.
“How on earth did you get this wound? It looks like the flesh has been gouged out with a sharp tool. If this was done in a fight, I need to report it to the police.”
“You’re right. My flesh has been gouged out. But I did it myself.”
“So what happened?”
“I caught my leg on a rusty old nail. I was worried I might get tetanus.”
“A bit of an overreaction, I would say…You amateurs…”
The doctor asked nothing more. He lined up the sutures, then injected Hanio with a local anesthetic. The injection was painful, but the thought that “they” would have no idea of where he was provided an indescribable sense of relief. This place was all white walls, shelves lined with scalpels, and metal basins full of antiseptic, without a shred of comfort on offer. But the certainty that his whereabouts were unknown was comfort enough.
Hanio closed his eyes. The pain had gone completely. The sensation was as if someone were stitching together two stiff pieces of leather over his wounded thigh.
He left with instructions to return one week later to have the stitches removed. It was unlikely that he would come back here, he thought. He could drop into any old clinic to get the job done.
As might be expected, Hanio kept to the shadows under the eaves. It was a new habit for him. Whenever he emerged into the light, he would keep a lookout for anyone tailing him. He took particular care at corners.
Where should he go?
First thing was to get out of Tokyo. No use lying to himself anymore. It was the fear of death that was driving him now.
49
Nothing is safer than not even knowing your destination yourself.
The anesthetic was wearing off. He dragged his aching leg as far as Ikebukuro, and then looked around various counters in S— department store. The menswear fashions, shirts, the fridges, rattan blinds, fans, and air conditioners all suggested that, even before the June rainy season had begun, spring had had its day and it was already almost summer. The huge number of products spoke of compact little families, in their compact little houses, where these goods would ultimately end up. The thought almost suffocated him. Why are people so desperate to live? Isn’t it unnatural that people who have not even been exposed to the danger of death should feel a desire to live? It was only people like himself who should have the right to cherish such a desire.
Boarding a Seibu Line train with no destination in mind, Hanio found himself captivated by the view of fields in the suburbs. He had the odd feeling that the passengers were all pretending not to know him even though they did. A young man who looked like a member of some radical students’ group, a schoolgirl dressed in a beautiful traditional kimono, a middle-aged man with a square-set physique who looked as if he might once have served as a noncommissioned army officer: there they stood, hanging on to their straps, stealing looks at him. They might have been checking portraits of criminals on “Wanted” posters you find pasted up in front of a police station.
“That’s him there. I’ll pretend not to notice now, but I’ll inform the station staff later when I get off at the next stop.”
They seemed to have detected in Hanio’s face the hint of an enmity toward society.
The warm air of May mingled with the odor of people’s bodies in the carriage, bringing home to him for the first time in ages the unbearable smell of communal living. He wanted to live, that was now certain. But could someone who had once managed to escape society’s clutches find the courage to commit himself again to that pungent stench? Society operates smoothly precisely because people remain unaware of their own smell. The student’s stinking socks that haven’t been washed in a week, the sweet underarm odor of a schoolgirl, and her distinctively world-weary “virginal scent,” the middle-aged man who reeks like a chimney covered in soot. People never hold back when it comes to giving off their own scents. Hanio liked to think he produced no smell or odor, but he could not be certain.
He bought a ticket to Hannō, which was the end of the line, so he could alight wherever the fancy took him, but he became anxious again that someone might be following him. He suspected that, if he were suddenly to make a show of getting off at a station, someone would come hurrying after him. To test this out, he made a dash to the doors a second before they were about to close.
But he stopped in his tracks, without getting off. A thin man sporting a wispy beard had been trying to scramble off behind him but, his way suddenly blocked, he missed his chance and the doors closed in his face. All the way to the next station, the man stared hard and long at Hanio. Though Hanio found this very annoying, he took great comfort in the fact that he was being stared at with such naked animosity.
At Hannō, Hanio was relieved when the passengers who got off with him all went their own separate ways. He walked to the quiet square in front of the station where he noticed a large map displaying hiking routes. He was too exhausted even to think about any more walking, however.
Not far away from him was a seedy-looking inn. All Hanio had to do was to stand at the entrance in his smart clothes for them to come out and guide him to a room.
He opened the round window in the room and whiled away the time gazing at the sky until the evening. What a flat, thoroughly matter-of-fact town Hannō was! The blueness of the sky quietly faded as evening encroached. And then he noticed a spider dropping down rapidly from the top of the window.
The spider stopped in front of Hanio’s eyes, its single thread of silk glittering in the evening light.
The spider was tiny. It was hard to make out clearly, but what looked like a black scrap of yarn rolled into a ball dangled from the end of the thread. The ball reminded him of silkworm gut. The sight was unpleasant, but Hanio couldn’t tear his eyes away. The spider started to sway on its thread, back and forth, as if it had decided to put on a circus display.
Think you can impress me? Hanio thought, idly.
Next moment, the swinging grew violent, and the spider began to grow in size before his eyes. It also seemed to be changing into something else. It was now an axe with a sharp blade. The thread turned into a thick, sparkling, silvery web. The axe made a cutting sound through the air, aiming straight for Hanio’s face. There was a white glint to its blade.
Hanio fell back onto the tatami floor, his hands covering his face. When he came to, there was no sign of the spider: a faint three-day moon floated in the center of the round window. Perhaps he had mistaken the crescent moon for the blade of an axe.
“They’re even screwing with my head!”
Terrified, he suddenly recalled Reiko’s illness.
50
But after that, nothing happened.
Hanio went out several times to get to know his new neighborhood, but there was really nothing worth seeing in the streets. A manufacturer of wooden bathtubs, an old-fashioned confectioner’s shop with overhanging eaves, on a wide road whose beauty had otherwise been destroyed by extensive redevelopment. Row after row of insignificant homes surrounded by hedges. It looked like the sort of town inhabited by truly apathetic people. Surprisingly, he found that comforting.
One evening, he was strolling through one of these completely deserted parts of town. He approached a small raised level crossing in the road when a truck suddenly came hurtling toward him across the track.
As it came his way it looked menacingly huge, but Hanio found himself gazing at it with a sense of awe. Framed against the dusty evening sky, it reminded him of one of those kabuto helmets worn by savage tribes in ancient times.
The truck bounced over the track and came straight toward him as he stood on the wide, empty road. Was this a bad dream? he thought, and jumped out of its way. He fled to the other side of the road, but the truck turned toward him. There were no shops around into which he could dive and seek assistance: just long, expressionless lines of hedges and modest wooden fences. Whether he fled to the left or right, the truck pursued him, as if hunting a human just for the fun of it. He could see the faint reflection of clouds in the windshield inundated with evening sky. It was impossible to make out the driver’s face.
Without waiting to read the license plate, Hanio escaped into a little lane that branched off the road. Surely, the truck would not be able to follow him up here? He slowed down, and gradually edged further into the narrow lane.
But the truck still pursued him. Hanio found himself trapped against an old, stone-pillared gateway with its doors firmly shut. There was no way out: the truck pressed up to him, to within an inch of his nose. Then suddenly it went into reverse, and withdrew from the lane like a steely black roiling wave.
Hanio’s heart beat crazily, and he had to crouch down. That time when he collapsed with anemia while walking with the vampire, he had experienced the most exquisite sense of loss, but this was different: a terror that he had never tasted before.
51
Hanio did not want to go back to his inn: their dinners were nothing to get excited about. Not even Hannō offered a safe haven for him.
After making sure the truck had truly disappeared, Hanio decided to venture into the brightly lit shopping arcade, so he cautiously stepped back onto the broad, dusty, excessively manicured streets. But now lots of people seemed to be walking around—where could they have come from?—and this actually made him feel even more uneasy.
To describe it as a shopping arcade was stretching it. It was little more than a series of shops on the outskirts of town. One particularly soulless store had a dingy display window filled with nothing but great mounds of sports shoes. The countless shoes looked as if they had been collected from deceased inmates of an internment camp. They were crushed out of shape, with their rubber soles and limp, dangling laces pressed against the glass. There were piles and piles of them.
