13

The Waiting Man

* What Couldnt Be Shaken Off * No Man Is an Island Eight oclock went by and everything was dark when I opened the back gate and stepped out into the alley. I had to squeeze through sideways. Less than three feet high, the gate had been cleverly camouflaged in the corner of the fence so as to be undetectable from the outside. The alley emerged from the night, illuminated as always by the cold white light of the mercury lamp in the garden of May Kasaharas house.

I clicked the gate shut and slipped down the alley. Through one fence after another, I caught glimpses of people in their dining rooms and living rooms, eating and watching TV dramas. Food smells drifted into the alley through kitchen windows and exhaust fans. One teenage boy was practicing a fast passage on his electric guitar, with the volume turned down.

In a second-floor window, a tiny girl was studying at her desk, an earnest expression on her face. A married couple in a heated argument sent their voices out to the alley. A baby was screaming. A telephone rang. Reality spilled out into the alley like water from an overfilled bowl-as sound, as smell, as image, as plea, as response.

I wore my usual tennis shoes to keep my steps silent. My pace could be neither too fast nor too slow. The important thing was not to attract peoples attention, not to let that reality pick up on my passing presence. I knew all the corners, all the obstructions. Even in the dark I could slip down the alley without bumping into anything. When I finally reached the back of my house, I stopped, looked around, and climbed over the low wall.

The house crouched silently in the darkness like the shell of a giant animal. I unlocked the kitchen door, turned on the light, and changed the cats water. I took a can of cat food from the cabinet and opened it. Mackerel heard the sound and appeared from nowhere. He rubbed his head against my leg a few times, then started to tear into his food. While he was eating, I took a cold beer from the refrigerator. I always had supper in the residence-something that Cinnamon had prepared for me-and so the most I ever had here was a salad or a slice of cheese. Drinking my beer, I took the cat on my knees and confirmed his warmth and softness with my hands. Having spent the day in separate places, we both confirmed the fact that we were home.

Tonight, however, when I slipped my shoes off and reached out to turn the kitchen light on, I felt a presence. I stopped my hand in the darkness and listened, inhaling quietly. I heard nothing, but I caught the faint scent of tobacco. There was someone in the house, someone waiting for me to come home, someone who, a few moments earlier, had probably given up the struggle and lit a cigarette, taking no more than a few puffs and opening a window to let the smoke out, but still the smell remained. This could not be a person I knew. The house was still locked up, and I didnt know anyone who smoked, aside from Nutmeg Akasaka, who would hardly be waiting in the dark if she wanted to see me.

Instinctively, my hand reached out in the darkness, feeling for the bat. But it was no longer there. It was at the bottom of the well now. The sound my heart had started making was almost unreal, as if the heart itself had escaped from my chest and was beating beside my ear. I tried to keep my breathing regular. I probably didnt need the bat. If someone was here to hurt me, he wouldnt be sitting around inside. Still, my palms were itching with anticipation. My hands were seeking the touch of the bat. Mackerel came from somewhere in the darkness and, as usual, started meowing and rubbing his head against my leg. But he was not as hungry as always. I could tell from the sounds he made. I reached out and turned on the kitchen light.

Sorry, but I went ahead and gave the cat his supper, said the man on the living room sofa, with an easy lilt to his voice. Ive been waiting a very long time for you, Mr. Okada, and the cat was all over my feet and meowing, so-hope you dont mind-I found a can of cat food in the cabinet and gave it to him. Tell you the truth, Im not very good with cats.

He showed no sign of standing up. I watched him sitting there and said nothing.

Im sure this was quite a shock to you-finding somebody in your house, waiting for you in the dark. Im sorry. Really. But if I had turned the light on, you might not have come in. Im not here to do you any harm, believe me, so you dont have to look at me that way. I just need to have a little talk with you.

He was a short man, dressed in a suit. It was hard to guess his height with him seated, but he couldnt have been five feet tall. Somewhere between forty-five and fifty years old, he looked like a chubby little frog with a bald head-a definite A in May Kasaharas classification system. He did have a few clumps of hair clinging to his scalp over his ears, but their oddly shaped black presence made the bare area stand out all the more. He had a large nose, which may have been somewhat blocked, judging from the way it expanded and contracted like a bellows with each noisy breath he took. Atop that nose sat a pair of thick-looking wire-rim glasses. He had a way of pronouncing certain words so that his upper lip would curl, revealing a mouthful of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. He was, without question, one of the ugliest human beings I had ever encountered. And not just physically ugly: there was a certain clammy weirdness about him that I could not put into words-the sort of feeling you get when your hand brushes against some big, strange bug in the darkness. He looked less like an actual human being than like something from a long-forgotten nightmare.

Do you mind if I have a smoke? he asked. I was trying not to before, but sitting and waiting without a cigarette is like torture. Its a very bad habit.

Finding it difficult to speak, I simply nodded. The strange-looking man took an unfiltered Peace from his jacket pocket, put it between his lips, and made a loud, dry scratching sound as he lit it with a match. Then he picked up the empty cat food can at his feet and dropped the match into it. So he had been using the can as an ashtray. He sucked the smoke into his lungs with obvious pleasure, drawing his thick eyebrows into one shaggy line and letting out little moans. Each long puff made the end of the cigarette glow bright red like burning coal. I opened the patio door and let the outside air in. A light rain was falling. I couldnt see it or hear it, but I knew it was raining from the smell.

The man had on a brown suit, white shirt, and red tie, all of the same degree of cheapness, and all worn out to the same degree. The color of the suit was reminiscent of an amateur paint job on an old jalopy. The deep wrinkles in the pants and jacket looked as permanent as valleys in an aerial photograph. The white shirt had taken on a yellow tinge, and one button on the chest was ready to fall off. It also looked one or two sizes too small, with its top button open and the collar crooked. The tie, with its strange pattern of ill-formed ectoplasm, looked as if it had been left in place since the days of the Osmond Brothers. Anyone looking at him would have seen immediately that this was a man who paid absolutely no attention to the phenomenon of clothing. He wore what he wore strictly because he had no choice but to put something on when dealing with other people, as if he were hostile to the idea of wearing clothes at all. He might have been planning to wear these things the same way every day until they fell apart-like a highland farmer driving his donkey from morning to night until he kills it.

Once he had sucked all the nicotine he needed into his lungs, he gave a sigh of relief and produced a strange look on his face that hovered somewhere midway between a smile and a smirk. Then he opened his mouth.

Well, now, let me not forget to introduce myself. I am not usually so rude. The name is Ushikawa. Thats ushi for bull and kawa for river. Easy enough to remember, dont you think? Everybody calls me Ushi. Funny: the more I hear that, the more I feel like a real bull. I even feel a kind of closeness whenever I happen to see a bull out in a field somewhere. Names are funny things, dont you think, Mr. Okada? Take Okada, for example. Now, theres a nice, clean name: hill-field. I sometimes wish I had a normal name like that, but unfortunately, a surname is not something youre free to pick. Once youre born into this world as Ushikawa, youre Ushikawa for life, like it or not. Theyve been calling me Ushi since the day I started kindergarten. Theres no way around it. You get a guy named Ushikawa, and people are bound to call him Ushi, right? They say a name expresses the thing it stands for, but I wonder if it isnt the other way around-the thing gets more and more like its name. Anyhow, just think of me as Ushikawa, and if you feel like it, call me Ushi. I dont mind.

I went to the kitchen and brought back a can of beer from the refrigerator. I did not offer any to Ushikawa. I hadnt invited him here, after all. I said nothing and drank my beer, and Ushikawa said nothing and drew deeply on his cigarette. I did not sit in the chair across from him but rather stood leaning against a pillar, looking down at him. Finally, he crushed his butt out in the empty cat food can and looked up at me.

Im sure youre wondering how I got in here, Mr. Okada. True? Youre sure you locked the door. And in fact, it was locked. But I have a key. A real key. Look, here it is.

He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a key ring with one key attached, and held it up for me to see. It certainly did look like the key to this house. But what attracted my attention was the key holder. It was just like Kumikos-a simple-styled green leather key holder with a ring that opened in an unusual way.

Its the real thing, said Ushikawa. As you can see. And the holder belongs to your wife. Let me say this to avoid any misunderstanding: This was given to me by your wife, Kumiko. I did not steal it or take it by force.

Where is Kumiko? I asked, my voice sounding somewhat mangled.

Ushikawa took his glasses off, seemed to check on the cloudiness of the lenses, then put them back on. I know exactly where she is, he said. In fact, I am taking care of her.

Taking care of her?

Now, dont get me wrong. I dont mean it that way. Dont worry, Ushikawa said, with a smile. When he smiled, his face broke up asymmetrically from side to side, and his glasses went up at an angle. Please dont glare at me like that. Im just sort of helping her as part of my work-running errands, doing odd jobs. Im a gofer, thats all. You know how she cant go outside.

Cant go outside? I parroted his words again.

He hesitated a moment, his tongue flicking across his lips. Well, maybe you dont know. Thats all right. I cant really say whether she cant go out or doesnt want to go out. Im sure you would like to know, Mr. Okada, but please dont ask me. Not even I know all the details. But theres nothing for you to worry about. She is not being held against her will. I mean, this is not a movie or a novel. We cant really do that sort of thing.

I set my beer can down carefully at my feet. So anyway, tell me, what did you come here for?

After patting his knees several times with outstretched palms, Ushikawa gave one deep, sharp nod. Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that, didnt I? I go to all the trouble of introducing myself, and then I forget to tell you what Im here for! That has been one of my most consistent flaws over the years: to go on and on about foolish things and leave out the main point. No wonder Im always doing the wrong thing! Well, then, belated though it may be, here it is: I work for your wife Kumikos elder brother. Ushikawas the name-but I already told you that, about the Ushi and everything. I work for Dr. Noboru Wataya as a kind of private sery-though not the usual private sery that a member of the Diet might have. Only a certain kind of person, a superior kind of person, can be a real private sery. The term covers a wide range of types. I mean, there are private series, and then there are private series, and Im as close to the second kind as you can get. Im down there-I mean, way, way down there. If there are spirits lurking everywhere, Im one of the dirty little ones down in the corner of a bathroom or a closet. But I cant complain. If somebody this messy came right out in the open, think of what it could do to Dr. Watayas clean-cut image! No, the ones who face the cameras have to be slick, intelligent-looking types, not bald midgets. How-dee-doo, folks, its me, Dr. Watayas private sec-ruh-teh-ree. What a laugh! Right, Mr. Okada? I kept silent as he prattled on.

So what I do for the Doctor are the unseen jobs, the shadow jobs, so to speak, the ones that arent out in the open. Im the fiddler under the porch. Jobs like that are my specialty. Like this business with Ms. Kumiko. Now, dont get me wrong, though: dont think that taking care of her is just some busywork for a lowly hack. If what Ive said has given you that impression, it couldnt be further from the truth. I mean, Ms. Kumiko is the Doctors one and only dear little sister, after all. I consider it a consummate honor to have been allowed to take on such an important task, believe me!

Oh, by the way, this may seem very rude, but I wonder if I could ask you for a beer. All this talking has made me very thirsty. If you dont mind, Ill just grab one myself. I know where it is. While I was waiting, I took the liberty of peeking into the refrigerator.

I nodded to him. Ushikawa went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. Then he sat down on the sofa again, drinking straight from the bottle with obvious relish, his huge Adams apple twitching above the knot of his tie like some kind of animal.

I tell you, Mr. Okada, a cold beer at the end of the day is the best thing life has to offer. Some choosy people say that a too cold beer doesnt taste good, but I couldnt disagree more. The first beer should be so cold you cant even taste it. The second one should be a little less chilled, but I want that first one to be like ice. I want it to be so cold my temples throb with pain. This is my own personal preference, of course.

Still leaning against the pillar, I took another sip of my own beer. Lips tightly closed in a straight line, Ushikawa surveyed the room for some moments.

I must say, Mr. Okada, for a man without a wife, you do keep the house clean. Im very impressed. I myself am absolutely hopeless, Im embarrassed to say. My place is a mess, a garbage heap, a pigsty. I havent washed the bathtub for a year or more. Perhaps I neglected to tell you that I was also deserted by my wife. Five years ago. So I can feel a certain sympathy for you, Mr. Okada, or to avoid the risk of misinterpretation, let me just say that I can understand how you feel. Of course, my situation was different from yours. It was only natural for my wife to leave me. I was the worst husband in the world. Far from complaining, I have to admire her for having put up with me as long as she did. I used to beat her. No one else: she was the only one I could beat up on. You can tell what a weakling I am. Got the heart of a flea. I would do nothing but kiss ass outside the house; people would call me Ushi and order me around, and I would just suck up to them all the more. So when I got home I would take it out on my wife. Heh heh heh-pretty bad, eh? And I knew just how bad I was, but I couldnt stop. It was like a sickness. Id beat her face out of shape until you couldnt recognize her. And not just beat her: Id slam her against the wall and kick her, pour hot tea on her, throw things at her, you name it. The kids would try to stop me, and Id end up hitting them. Little kids: seven, eight years old. And not just push them around: Id wallop them with everything I had. I was an absolute devil. Id try to stop myself, but I couldnt. I couldnt control myself. After a certain point, I would tell myself that I had done enough damage, that I had to stop, but I didnt know how to stop. Do you see what a horror I was? So then, five years ago, when my daughter was five, I broke her arm-just snapped it. Thats when my wife finally got fed up with me and left with both kids. I havent seen any of them since. Havent even heard from them. But what can I do? Its my own fault.

I said nothing to him. The cat came over to me and gave a short meow, as if looking for attention.

Anyway, Im sorry, I wasnt planning to exhaust you with all these boring details. You must be wondering if I have any business that has brought me here this evening. Well, I have. I didnt come here for small talk, Mr. Okada. The Doctor- which is to say, Dr. Wataya- ordered me to come to see you. I will now tell you exactly what he told me, so please listen.

First of all, Dr. Wataya is not opposed to the idea of reconsidering a relationship between you and Ms. Kumiko. In other words, he would not object if both of you decided that you wanted to go back to your previous relationship. At the moment, Ms. Kumiko herself has no such intention, so nothing would happen right away, but if you were to reject any possibility of divorce and insist that you wanted to wait as long as it took, he could accept that. He will no longer insist upon a divorce, as he has in the past, and so he would not mind if you wanted to use me as a conduit if there was something you wanted to communicate to Ms. Kumiko. In other words, no more locking horns on every little thing: a renewal of diplomatic relations, as it were. This is the first item of business. How does it strike you, Mr. Okada?

I lowered myself to the floor and stroked the cats head, but I said nothing. Ushikawa watched me and the cat for a time, then continued to speak. Well, of course, Mr. Okada, you cant say a word until youve heard everything I have to say. All right, then, I will continue through to the end. Here is the second item of business. This gets a little complicated, Im afraid. It has to do with an article called The Hanging House, which appeared in one of the weekly magazines. I dont know if you have read it or not, Mr. Okada, but it is a very interesting piece. Well written. Jinxed land in posh Setagaya residential neighborhood. Many people met untimely deaths there over the years. What mystery man has recently bought the place? What is going on behind that high fence? One riddle after another Anyhow, Dr. Wataya read the piece and realized that the hanging house is very close to the house you live in, Mr. Okada. The idea began to gnaw at him that there might be some connection between it and you. So he investigated ... or, should I say the lowly Ushikawa, on his short little legs, took the liberty of investigating the matter, and-bingo!- there you were, Mr. Okada, just as he had predicted, going back and forth down that back passageway every day to the other house, obviously very much involved with whatever it is that is going on inside there. I myself was truly amazed to see such a powerful display of Dr. Watayas pene- trating intelligence.

Theres only been one article so far, with no follow-up, but who knows? Dying embers can always rekindle. I mean, thats a pretty fascinating story. So Dr. Wataya is more than a little nervous. What if his brother-in-laws name were to come out in some unpleasant connection? Think of the scandal that could erupt! Dr. Wataya is the man of the moment, after all. The media would have a field day. And then theres this difficult business with you and Ms. Kumiko. They would blow it up out of all proportion. I mean, everybody has something he would rather not have aired in public, right? Especially when it comes to personal affairs. This is a delicate moment in the Doctors political career, after all. He has to proceed with the utmost caution until hes ready to take off. So what he has in mind for you is a little deal of sorts hes cooked up. If you will cut all connection with this hanging house, Mr. Okada, he will give some serious thought to bringing you and Ms. Kumiko back together again. Thats all there is to it. How does that strike you, Mr. Okada? Have I set it out clearly enough?

Probably, I said. So what do you think? What is your reaction to all this? Stroking the cats neck, I thought about it for a while. Then I said, I dont get it. What made Noboru Wataya think that I had anything to do with that house? How did he make the connection?

Ushikawas face broke up again into one of his big smiles, but his eyes remained as cold as glass. He took a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up with a match. Ah, Mr. Okada, you ask such difficult questions. Remember, I am just a lowly messenger. A stupid carrier pigeon. I carry slips of paper back and forth. I think you understand. I can say this, however: the Doctor is no fool. He knows how to use his brain, and he has a kind of sixth sense, something that ordinary people do not possess. And also let me tell you this, Mr. Okada: he has a very real kind of power that he can exercise in this world, a power that grows stronger every day. You had better not ignore it. You may have your reasons for not liking him-and that is perfectly fine as far as I am concerned, its none of my business-but things have gone beyond the level of simple likes and dislikes. I want you to understand that.

If Noboru Wataya is so powerful, why doesnt he just stop the magazine from publishing any more articles? That would be a whole lot simpler.

Ushikawa smiled. Then he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

Dear, dear Mr. Okada, you mustnt say such reckless things. You and I live in Japan, after all, one of the worlds most truly democratic states. Correct? This is no dictatorship where all you see around you are banana plantations and soccer fields. No matter how much power a politician may have in this country, quashing an article in a magazine is not a simple thing. It would be far too dangerous. You might succeed in getting the company brass in your pocket, but someone is going to be left dissatisfied. And that could end up attracting all the more attention. It just doesnt pay to try pushing people around when such a hot story is in- volved. Its true.

And just between you and me, there may be some vicious players involved in this affair, types you dont know anything about, Mr. Okada. If thats the case, this is eventually going to include more than our dear Doctor. Once that happens, we could be talking about a whole new ball game. Lets compare this to a visit to the dentist. So far, were at the stage of poking a spot where the novocaines still working. Which is why no ones complaining. But soon the drill is going to hit a nerve, and then somebodys going to jump out of the chair. Somebody could get seriously angry. Do you see what Im saying? Im not trying to threaten you, but it seems to me- to old Ushikawa here-that you are slowly being dragged into dangerous territory without even realizing it. Ushikawa seemed finally to have made his point. You mean I should pull out before I get hurt? I asked. Ushikawa nodded. This is like playing catch in the middle of the expressway, Mr. Okada. Its a very dangerous game.

In addition to which, its going to cause Noboru Wataya a lot of trouble. So if I just fold up my cards, hell put me in touch with Kumiko.

Ushikawa nodded again. That about sums it up. I took a swallow of beer. Then I said, First of all, let me tell you this. Im going to get Kumiko back, but Im going to do it myself, not with help from Noboru Wataya. I dont want his help. And youre certainly right about one thing: I dont like Noboru Wataya. As you say, though, this is not just a question of likes and dislikes. Its something more basic than that. I dont simply dislike him: I cannot accept the fact of his very existence. And so I refuse to make any deals with him. Please be so kind as to convey that to him for me. And dont you ever come into this house again without my permission. It is my house, not some hotel lobby or train station.

Ushikawa narrowed his eyes and stared at me awhile from behind his glasses. His eyes never moved. As before, they were devoid of emotion. Not that they were expressionless. But all he had there was something fabricated temporarily for the occasion. At that point, he held his disproportionately large right palm aloft, as if testing for rain.

I understand completely, he said. I never thought this would be easy, so Im not particularly surprised by your answer. Besides, I dont surprise very easily. I understand how you feel, and Im glad everything is out in the open like this, no hemming and hawing, just a simple yes or no. Makes it easier for everybody. All I need as a carrier pigeon is another convoluted answer where you cant tell black from white! The world has too many of those as it is! Not that Im complaining, but all I seem to get every day are sphinxes giving me riddles. This job is bad for my health, let me tell you. Living like this, before you know it, you become devious by nature. Do you see what I mean, Mr. Okada? You become suspicious, always looking for ulterior motives, never able to put your faith in anything thats clear and simple. Its a terrible thing, Mr. Okada, it really is.

So, fine, Mr. Okada, I will let the Doctor know that you have given him a very clear-cut answer. But dont expect things to end there, you may want to finish this business, but its not that simple. I will probably have to come to see you again. Im sorry to put you through this, having to deal with such an ugly, messy little fellow, but please try to accustom yourself to my existence, at least. I dont harbor any feelings toward you as an individual, Mr. Okada. Really. But for the time being, whether you like it or not, Im going to be one of those things that you cant just sweep away. I know its an odd way to put it, but please try to think of me like that. I can promise you one thing, though. I will not be letting myself into your house again. You are quite right: that is not a proper way to behave. I should go down on my knees and beg to be let in. This time I had no choice. Please try to understand. I am not always so reckless. Appearances to the contrary, I am an ordinary human being. From now on, I will do as other people do and call beforehand. That should be all right, dont you think? I will ring once, hang up, then ring again. Youll know its me that way, and you can tell yourself, Oh, its that stupid Ushikawa again, when you pick up the phone. But do pick up the phone.

Otherwise, I will have no choice but to let myself in again. Personally, I would rather not do such a thing, but I am being paid to wag my tail, so when my boss says Do it! I have to try my best to do it. You understand.

I said nothing to him. Ushikawa crushed what was left of his cigarette in the bottom of the cat food can, then glanced at his watch as if suddenly recalling something. Oh, my, my, my- look how late it is! First I come barging in, then I talk you to death and take your beer. Please excuse me. As I said earlier, I dont have anybody to go home to, so when I find someone I can talk to, I settle in for the night. Sad, dont you think? I tell you, Mr. Okada, living alone is not something you should do for long. What is it they say? No man is an island. Or is it The devil finds mischief for idle hands?

After sweeping some imaginary dust from his lap, Ushikawa stood up slowly.

No need to see me out, he said. I let myself in, after all; I can let myself out. Ill be sure to lock the door. One last word of advice, though, Mr. Okada, though you may not want to hear this: There are things in this world it is better not to know about. Of course, those are the very things that people most want to know about. Its strange. I know Im being very general.... I wonder when well meet again? I hope things are better by then. Oh, well, good night.

The quiet rain continued through the night, tapering off toward dawn, but the sticky presence of the strange little man, and the smell of his unfiltered cigarettes, remained in the house as long as the lingering dampness.