29
I got into the habit of talking to Crow at night as if he was lying beside me. I convinced myself that his reserve had to do with his fear of my father, not because he found me ugly. When we were together, I searched obsessively for traces of aversion. I didn’t find them. Sometimes I thought I saw admiration in his eyes, and one time he said that my height impressed him. I teased him: “Does it offend your masculinity?” His smile had nothing to hide: “I’m too young to be worried about my masculinity.” He was so smart, so mature for his age. I can’t remember how often I promised myself I would ask: “Do you find me beautiful?” I didn’t dare. I started to hate my father as a result. The place in my chest that used to be filled with fear made way for rage. I dreamt of escape, with Crow, hand in hand into the big wide world, the first kiss, his fingers running through my hair. I was already familiar with his smelclass="underline" leather, tobacco, a splash of the sea, and a hint of musk in the background. Fired by love and passion, that sinewy body of his would make me feel like a lady who entertains, basking in the glow of his youthful manhood.
I started to tease him more and make naughty remarks. He joined in with enthusiasm. One time we wrestled. I made sure I lost and ended up beneath him. His arms had brushed against my breasts and thighs as we wrestled. It was bliss. But he didn’t fall for it. He lay on top of me and then jumped to his feet like a puppy: “You did it on purpose! You can do a lot better, I’m sure of it! An ohimesama like you, invincible and proud.” He found it really funny and I laughed along. But in my heart I cried because he hadn’t said invincible and beautiful. I convinced myself that he wanted to say it but couldn’t, didn’t dare. When the laughter subsided he gallantly offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. At that moment I thought he was going to take me in his arms. Instead he turned around and looked at the sea. I saw the tension in his shoulders and held out my hand, but I couldn’t either. I didn’t dare.
It didn’t take long for me to convince myself that Crow didn’t take the plunge because he couldn’t set aside the class difference. The ominous shadow of my father hung between us. I didn’t blame Crow. He was still so young. The man he was going to be appeared every now and then but quickly vanished again. Our time would come.
30
When she’s having her period, Beate often feels as if she’s wearing a layer of hypersensitivity that makes the world chaotic. She now recognises precisely the same feeling, but this time it’s because of the young man with his backside against the bus, his hands on his knees, his head hanging forward as if he could throw up again at any moment. Stung by a poisonous jellyfish? Someone getting their own back because of a girl? She had trouble understanding his Dutch. He’s from Flanders, maybe that explains it. She asked him to speak English. She’s not quite sure what’s going on. The vinegary smell from the vomit on the ground between them only fortifies her confusion. He’s still young. Narcotics? Magic mushrooms? Possible. But tiny, poisonous jellyfish? She automatically lines up her camera and snaps a couple of shots. The boy seems groggy, clears his throat. By the time Beate hears the footsteps it’s too late. Beate is dumbstruck. The newcomer is a young woman, black tights and a short batwing coat, glossy thigh-length boots and stiletto heels. She has a mask on her chest with antennas sticking out. Her heavy breathing makes the antennas wiggle. When she catches sight of Beate she holds up both palms, clearly afraid. She’s wearing gloves made of shiny synthetic cloth. She mutters something in Japanese, realises that Beate doesn’t understand, and switches to rudimentary English: “Have Xavier Irukandji in body?” Beate says she doesn’t understand.
The young man opens his eyes. He still looks in a bad way, but he speaks to the young woman in Japanese. Their conversation is agitated. The Japanese girl lifts her hand to her mouth. Beate reacts: flash, flash, flash.
The boy shakes his head, apparently incredulous. The girl races to the driver’s side of the bus, yanks open the door and climbs in.
Beate asks the young man what the hell is going on. He stares at her, runs his fingers mechanically through his blonde hair.
“Come!” the girl shouts. She beckons Beate “To hospital!”
The boy starts to move. “They put a poisonous jellyfish on my chest,” he repeats in English. “It stung me. I could die.”
“Come!”
31
My father had gone to the mainland. I wanted to show Crow the place where he spent most of his time reading and hatching his plans. We had gone up to the eagle’s nest. There was something absent about Crow that day, as if he had forgotten something very important. I talked. He turned his back to me, rested his foot on the stone rampart that encircled Hashima and looked out across the sea. “You look like a pirate heading out into the briny deep,” I said. He wasn’t the same as before. I felt that I was making a fool of myself. He looked back at me and grinned, but I could still see his remoteness. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Mitsuko,” he said, as if he’d made a decision. In the couple of months that we had grown closer to one another the boy had changed. There was strength in his shoulders and the fluff on his upper lip had darkened. A desire to conquer twinkled in his eye, a need to show the world what he was made of.
“Later, perhaps, the two of us,” I said bluntly. I noticed him pull back his head slightly, but didn’t have the time to think about what it might mean. He was a little flustered, told me he had been selected to get some experience in one of my father’s smuggling organisations. He had to go to China, wasn’t sure for how long. When he came back he would no longer be a novice, fit only for unloading crates. His enthusiasm increased as he spoke. The wind played with my skirts. I felt ridiculous. I hadn’t put on a furisode that day, the classical kimono my father insisted I wore, but a dress. For him. Instead of looking at me he just stared out to sea, longing to leave, to be far from here.
“What about me?” The words were out before I was aware of it.
He seemed surprised. “We stay friends. I’m coming back.”
“When?”
Now he seemed shy. Or didn’t he understand? Had it taken him this long to realise what he had done to me?