And he did. Because Nakayama forgot to wash a cup. Was that why? If it was—if Kazuhiro had sensed Nakayama’s existence from the cup on the table, if that was really how he found out Takeru’s mother had another man—then it was all Takeru’s fault.
Yes. It was all his fault. When Nakayama left that day Takeru noticed he hadn’t picked up the cup as he normally did. In other words Takeru noticed that he didn’t wash it. But Takeru didn’t tell him. He should have. He’d noticed, so he should have said something. But was it really, truly because of the cup?
There was no point in wondering about that now. He was to blame. It was all his fault that he, and therefore of course his brother, couldn’t go to the aquarium.
In the middle of the night Takeru heard the ominous vibration of Kazuhiro’s engine in the street. It sounded angrier, more menacing than ever. The car door slammed. Takeru heard his mother fall down on the road. When she came in, her face was almost unrecognizable. There were cigarette burns on her arms. Takeru burst into tears. His mother cried too. Her eyelids were swollen purple-red, her eyes could hardly open, and beneath them ran streaks of tears and blood. His brother didn’t cry, though. He just stood motionless behind Takeru. If he’d swum with Johnnie he’d be crying now—the three of them would be able to cry together. He’d be capable of crying. Takeru had made that miracle impossible. He sobbed uncontrollably. His mother put her arms around the two boys and hugged them. Or rather, she clung to them. Takeru had not been held like that for a very long time.
After that, his mother decided to escape Kazuhiro. They moved from Momono to Akeroma in the next prefecture. Really she should have gone farther. The problem was finding somewhere. They chose Akeroma because Nakayama had a friend who ran a real estate agency there. Nakayama had asked him if he had any ideas, and he suggested the apartment block. The landlord had a lot of property in the area. He owned a number of similar buildings, some parking lots, and he had recently bought some newer condominiums as well. He also owned the orchard. Some of his apartment buildings were over thirty years old and had very few tenants. He’d asked Nakayama’s real estate agent friend to handle all of them for him. The agent had told them that, given the situation, it didn’t matter if the rent wasn’t always paid on time. “It’s just a kind of hobby for the owner,” he said. “I don’t think he’d notice.”
The landlord may not have been very conscious of his tenants, but Kazuhiro quickly sniffed them out.
It was he that had just climbed out of the foreign car parked by the orchard. Kazuhiro. No question about it.
Takeru ran up the rusty staircase, the manga book hugged to his chest. There were five apartments on each of the two floors of the building, but the only occupied one was theirs, on the second floor at the northern end. He went inside and locked the door. Fortunately, the lights were off. Maybe Kazuhiro wouldn’t notice the apartment. He looked in on his brother—sleeping in his underwear in one of the tatami rooms. He’d always slept a lot, but recently he spent almost all day fast asleep. There was no fear of him making a noise. Takeru pressed himself against the wall and, trying to keep his face out of view, peered through the corner of the window. Kazuhiro was coming closer. We’re finished, Takeru thought.
Then something entirely unexpected happened. As Kazuhiro reached the block’s unused, overgrown parking lot, someone suddenly called out to him from behind. He turned around. It was Joel, supermarket bags hanging from his long arms. He was at least a head taller than Kazuhiro. Kazuhiro was clearly astonished to be called to by a black man.
“Where are you going?” asked Joel in Japanese. “No entry!”
“I go tsu my garlfrend,” Kazuhiro said in English. This attempt at a foreign language seemed to make his voice even higher than usual. He was gesticulating pointlessly with his hands, his silver rings and gold bracelet glittering in the setting sun. Joel didn’t seem to understand what he was saying.
“Boy… meetsu… garlu!” Kazuhiro shouted desperately in English, then in Japanese, “Why the fuck can’t you understand?”
“No one there,” said Joel in Japanese. “No entry!”
“What?” said Kazuhiro in his own language. “You speak Japanese?” He was so tense he hadn’t noticed before.
“No one there.”
“Is that right?” said Kazuhiro, raising his sharp eyebrows suspiciously. He looked up at Joel.
“Soon demolish,” said Joel, pointing at the excavator on the construction site. “Danger!”
“You work for the developer?” Kazuhiro said. “We’re in the same business, you and me. Comrades! Colleagues! Come on, let me take a look around.”
“Danger,” said Joel, looking down at Kazuhiro. “Can’t go in.”
“Come on, my friend. Just a little look. Okay?”
Joel waved his big hand dismissively.
“Nobody there. Danger. Collapse. Can’t go in.”
Kazuhiro wavered in the face of Joel’s stubborn resolve.
“Okay. I’ve got the wrong place. Understood,” he said. And then in English: “Sank you. Sank you bery muchi!”
He went back to his car. Its chassis and wheels shone faintly in the evening light. Joel stayed standing in front of the block until the car drove off. His long shadow reached all the way to where Takeru was hiding in silence upstairs. Joel turned and waved up at the window. Then he disappeared from view around the corner of the building. A moment later Takeru heard footsteps on the stairs. He opened the door. Joel was standing outside.
“Konnichi-wa,” said Joel, and handed Takeru a large plastic bag.
“Thank you,” said Takeru, taking the bag. It was heavy.
Inside were sweet rolls, apples, aloe-flavored yogurt, and a carton of milk. Once he’d taken the bag, Takeru noticed that Joel was carrying another, smaller one. Joel put his big hand inside and pulled out a red baseball-style cap. On it was the Manchester United emblem. Joel placed the cap gently on Takeru’s head. It was slightly too big. Joel put his hand on top of the cap and adjusted its position.
“Thank you!” said Takeru. He tried to look up at Joel, but the cap slid forward over his face and he couldn’t see anything. He burst out laughing. Joel gently pushed the brim up again and then pulled another cap out of the bag.
“Pour ton frère.”
It was dark blue and had the FC Barcelona emblem.
“What?” asked Takeru.
“For your little brother,” said Joel in Japanese.
“Thank you!” Takeru said, worrying that his smile might look forced.
Obviously Joel, like the others, thought Takeru was the older of the two boys. Even so, Takeru was happy.
Joel had saved them. But how had he known Kazuhiro was looking for their mother? It all seemed odd to Takeru. But maybe for Joel the situation was quite simple. A young boy sat on the rusty old cast-iron bench reading manga, swinging his legs happily. Suddenly he froze. His face turned pale. He was looking at a man with spiky hair, precious metal adorning his neck and hands—a gangster, obviously. In just a glance Joel would have seen that Takeru was frightened, that he was trying to get away. But why would he want to protect Takeru? What made him do it? It had to be the same big thing that had been protecting Takeru all along—protecting him and his brother. The big thing—far, far bigger than the almost two-meter-tall Joel—had told him to keep an eye on the two brothers, to keep watch over them as they lived in the ramshackle old building next door, as good as abandoned by their mother. It had to be that. But if that big thing gave strength to those around him, why in the end did it abandon Takeru?