When Nakayama came into the apartment Takeru’s mother would offer to make tea, but he would stop her. Instead, he’d go into the little kitchen, boil some water himself, and make instant coffee. Takeru was always nervous that Nakayama might get angry about the state of the apartment, and one day Nakayama seemed to notice Takeru’s worried look.
“This is nothing,” he said calmly. “My place is much worse. It’s a pigsty.”
“I thought pigs were clean,” Takeru said. It seemed okay to say it to Nakayama.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry,” Nakayama said. “I wasn’t being fair to pigs. But my kids leave their manga and toys all over the place. They never clear them up, no matter what I say.”
Nakayama sighed.
“What grades are your children in, sir?” Takeru asked, when his mother had gone to the bathroom.
“The girl’s in her second year of junior high, and the boy’s in fifth grade,” Nakayama said, looking rather embarrassed.
“Is he at Momono?”
“No, it would be nice if he was, though. He’s at Yamashiro First.”
Nakayama had a gentle, low-pitched voice—very different from Kazuhiro’s shrillness. But when they panted and groaned they sounded exactly the same. Everyone must sound the same when they’re writhing in pain, Takeru thought, or close to death. Perhaps animals too. Had it been Nakayama with his mother earlier, shouting, writhing, clinging? But what about that “Kill me!”? Would his mother say that to Nakayama?
One day Nakayama and Takeru were alone together in the kitchen. Nakayama was drinking coffee as always, the little table strewn with empty prepackaged meal containers and instant noodle bowls.
“Takeru,” he said suddenly, “do you want to go to the aquarium next Sunday?”
“The aquarium?” The excitement in Takeru’s eyes soon abated. “Do you mean with your kids, Mr. Nakayama? Would we all go together?”
Nakayama shook his head as he sipped his coffee.
“My daughter’s in a brass-band competition that day, and my son’s got a football match. My wife’s going to go watch him play.”
“Don’t you have to go too, Sir?”
Nakayama smiled.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
Takeru was standing at the entrance to the tatami room. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Of course,” said Nakayama. “I’ll take you both.”
The narrow eyes behind the thick lenses narrowed further. Nakayama looked troubled by something.
“Takeru,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Nakayama?”
“You don’t have to be so polite when you talk to me. It’s too formal. It makes me uncomfortable.”
If Takeru had spoken to Kazuhiro in an informal way, he would have been in trouble. He’d have gotten a sharp smack on the head, or his cheek would have been pinched and twisted—as painful as a burn. In fact he had been burned once with a cigarette. He’d seen his mother punched and kicked and hadn’t been able to control himself:
“You stupid man!” he’d said. “Drop dead!”
Because he’d seen his mother punched and kicked? Is that why? Wasn’t it how the man looked at his brother, the way he tapped his brother on the head, as if to imply he wasn’t worth hitting properly? “You stupid man!” Takeru had muttered. “Drop dead!” Kazuhiro heard him. He threw Takeru to the floor and sat on him. He pinned Takeru’s arms with his knees and slapped his cheeks, first left then right. “Talk to me like that would you?” he said, spitting the words down at Takeru’s face. He took his lit cigarette and pressed it into the flesh at either side of Takeru’s mouth.
Takeru’s body convulsed. He’d remember this later when Ken Shiomi took him to see the yellowtail farmers at work in the bay. As he watched the fish being held down and gutted he’d remember writhing in desperation under Kazuhiro. The fish pens by the quay frothing and bubbling, torrents of water tumbling down from the nets as they were hauled high in the air by cranes. Takeru stared up at them, hypnotized. But now he was staring up at Kazuhiro. He didn’t regret what he’d said. He burned with hatred for this man who was too contemptuous to pin down and punch his brother, but who’d been on top of his mother and was now on him. Takeru’s mouth, burned on both sides by the cigarette, shouted just what his mother had shouted: “Kill me!” What was it that was grasped and squeezed flat in the man’s hand? Was it the cheek of a defiant child, or was it the naked white breast of a woman, the tip of its dark nipple sticking up between the man’s fingers? He didn’t know. Was it Takeru’s voice shouting, or his mother’s? He didn’t know. But it certainly, definitely, wasn’t his brother’s.
“What’s the matter, Takeru?”
Nakayama’s concerned voice broke Takeru’s trance.
Takeru shook his head. He tried to say something, but his throat was dry. His tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He ran his hand over his lips. The burn marks had almost disappeared now, but for a while he’d been unable to talk. Even smiling had been painful—stretching, breaking the healing wounds. He moved his mouth cautiously, as though the pain might return. But speaking without formality was easier than he’d imagined.
“The aquarium—you mean the place with the dolphin show?”
“Yes,” said Nakayama, nodding happily.
“Wow! That’d be great,” said Takeru. He wasn’t just saying it. He wanted to go.
“Okay. Let’s go next week. It’s a date.”
“Yeah! Great! Thank you.”
He’d been wanting to go to the aquarium for a long time. They had sea otters, penguins, and a huge tank where whale sharks swam around. What Takeru really wanted to see, though, were the dolphins. It wasn’t just a dolphin show—jumping through hoops and throwing balls with their noses—you could actually swim with them. His classmate Ippei Shimizu had been several times. He said it was amazingly fun and the dolphins were really smart. The other kids called Ippei “Animal Professor.” He always spent his breaks looking at books about wildlife, and knew a lot about it. His desk was next to Takeru’s for a while and he often showed him whatever book he was reading. Takeru found out something very important from Ippei: There was a bottle-nosed dolphin at the aquarium named Johnnie, and Ippei told Takeru that Johnnie had special healing powers and could get children to open up. By coming into contact with Johnnie, swimming with him in the water, children who’d never spoken before would start to talk. Takeru didn’t believe it at first. For one thing, how could those children swim? It seemed unlikely that children who were so cut off that they couldn’t speak would be able to swim. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Ippei, speaking as if he were an adult. “I didn’t explain it well. The kids are held in the water by the staff or their parents while Johnnie swims around them. He never takes his eyes off the child, and once he’s circled several times he swims in closer. He brings his long mouth right up to the child’s face and makes a noise—it’s as though he’s talking to the child, or maybe chanting or singing. And then a miracle happens…” Takeru was still a bit skeptical, but Ippei insisted it was true—and Ippei’s father was a doctor—so Takeru decided to believe him.
What if Johnnie and his brother could swim together? What if…
He waited eagerly for the day of the visit.
But the day never came, and it was all Takeru’s fault.
When Nakayama finished his coffee, he’d always stand up and carefully wash the cup in the sink before he left. He’d say goodbye to Takeru’s mother, embracing her by the front door without bothering to check whether Takeru was looking. He always said goodbye to Takeru too, and, most importantly for Takeru, said goodbye to his brother as well. Perhaps that was why Takeru thought Nakayama was a nice person. When he got up in the morning and found Nakayama drinking instant coffee in the kitchen, he was never particularly bothered that he’d stayed the night. Rather, he was worried about what might happen if Kazuhiro found out.