I let the phone ring seven times, and then I hung up. I figured she might be with another guy or something right now. I just had a feeling, even though I had no idea if she was seeing anyone in particular. If she were dating a guy who played it cool, I would need to be a good listener, but if, on the other hand, he were the jealous, needy type, then I would have to be the cool one. In either case, blowing up her cell phone was not the thing to do, so I had to give it up for today. And — who knows — she might very well just call me up herself.
The gun was inside my bag. I had placed it in a black leather pouch, the opening of which was tied up securely, and put the pouch in my university bag. The pouch was American and expensive; it was well-made and completely concealed the gun, and most importantly, I liked its plain and simple design. Since I had started carrying the gun around with me, I had been going about my life very conscientiously. If I were to leave the bag somewhere, or if I were mugged, that would be the end of me. Now, every day was filled with a pleasant tension, and I felt a constant, piercing excitement that welled up from deep inside my body. The knowledge that I was carrying a gun made me hyperaware of almost everything else in my life. In the middle of a lecture, I often pulled the leather pouch out of my bag and left it sitting on top of my desk. The leather was stiff enough to conceal the angular outlines of the gun, making it difficult to tell just what it contained. I stared at it, sometimes touching it, as I endured the boring lecture. Needless to say, I avoided doing this whenever Yuko Yoshikawa or Keisuke or anyone else I knew was around. If for any reason one of them were to pick up the pouch, it would create a real problem for me, one that went beyond mere tension and excitement.
I sat by myself in a chair in the smoking area inside the unfamiliar literature department building. Bored, I took the leather pouch out of my bag. There was no one around, maybe because lectures were in session. I was tempted to pull the gun from the pouch, but of course I restrained myself from doing so. I lit a cigarette, and thought about what to do next. I considered calling that girl I’d recently had sex with, but it was more trouble than it was worth.
Just then, I thought about shooting the gun. This wasn’t the first time it had occurred to me, but lately I had been thinking about it frequently. The act of firing the gun had always existed within me, and now I realized that, as its presence intensified, my efforts to keep it under control were diminishing. Up until now, I had amused myself with simply the prospect of shooting the gun, but gradually it had taken on a tinge of reality, almost as if I had caused it to proliferate, and it was starting to worry me. Previously, the act of firing the gun had belonged to the potentially distant and uncertain future. Yet, since I had started carrying it around with me, I had the feeling that it was only a question of time. The fact of the matter was that I could use the gun at any time, and it loomed over me as a practical reality that the possibility mounted proportionately with each day. The sight of the gun, the feel of it, evoked a concrete image in my mind of me firing the gun, as if it threatened to break out from within the narrow confines of my fixed imagination, seeking a connection with an actual, physical sensation. The fact that someday I would shoot the gun — I had come to believe that this was an absolute certainty. Being in possession of the gun meant that each day was filled with the potential experience of actually discharging it, and without a doubt there would come a day when I would want to do so — that is to say, I was sure I would fire it. That conviction brought the once-distant future closer, almost as if it had taken on a life of its own, and would compel the first shot to happen. This clearly defined future outcome wanted me to make it materialize, and soon. This demand was gradually intensifying, to the point where it was making me deranged — it had a hold on me, and wouldn’t let go. I felt the necessity of it — that I needed to fire it, at least once. Otherwise, this same internal argument would go on forever, and I thought I might just lose my mind.
I had the feeling that firing the gun had begun to shift from a conscious choice to a foregone conclusion without my noticing it. The progression made me a little anxious, and I attempted to think through it carefully, but it made my head hurt and I abandoned the idea. I felt like, regardless of what I came up with, it was already determined anyway. So I decided that it didn’t really matter.
My cell phone rang: it was Yuko Yoshikawa. Feeling as though I had been saved, I answered in a cheerful voice. She told me that she had been asleep, going so far as to yawn loudly, but I didn’t believe her. In my mind, she had been with another guy. I thought about it for a moment, then said that it was no big deal, I had some time and just wondered if she wanted to get lunch together. She said that, now that she was awake, she would make her way to campus. She added that she would call when she got here, and then she hung up.
I figured I might as well find a way to kill time while I waited for her. After running through various ideas, I thought I would go to the library and look at newspapers. The news on television was all about what was going on with the U.S. and Afghanistan, and information had dropped off about the dead man who had been found at the Arakawa River. I thought there might be something about it in the newspapers, and that I would be able to peruse several days’ worth at the library. And yet, I was a little surprised that this had only first occurred to me as a way of killing time. This ought to have been something I was focused on all along. I had realized as much back when I was in the bathroom at that girl’s apartment, and you would have thought that I would be more meticulous about it. For a while I sat there in the smoking area, vacant and motionless. The idea that I might actually be too distracted by the gun was slightly terrifying. I was finely attuned to the gun itself, but not so much to the environment around me. I took notice of a policeman coming my way, but I hadn’t thought to make any advance preparations or take preliminary measures. In a panic, I practically ran to the library. Even if the police had shifted their investigation and ruled the Arakawa death a suicide, there was no doubt they would still be trying to determine the whereabouts of the gun. And once the investigation moved in that direction, they would probably start to scrutinize all kinds of people.
I put in a call to Yuko Yoshikawa to push back our plans by an hour, and she said okay. I scanned as many newspapers as I could, focusing on the smaller items while still paying attention to the big stories. The vast majority of the articles were completely irrelevant to me. Whether the Americans had dropped a bomb somewhere in Afghanistan, or whether their strategy would succeed — these kinds of things had nothing to do with me right now. What Japan’s reaction would be, or whether Japan would become entangled with it — such questions did not interest me at the moment either. A kid had died after being bullied, and his parents had sued the school and the bully. There was a fire somewhere, and it was difficult to say whether it had been arson or an accident. There was a festival. Funds were embezzled, and the culprit had fled. There was a scientific discovery. Two trucks had collided. Someone had been run over. An intellectual whose name I didn’t recognize gave his opinion about the United States, offering advice to the Japanese government. Politicians quarreled, talking earnestly about something or other. Two entertainers died. It seemed like the information I was looking for was not to be found in any of these newspapers. I continued to leaf through various broadsheets, my eyes intently devouring the words. Each day had been filled with news. Yet it seemed the dead man by the Arakawa River did not merit a mention. This project would take time. I kind of regretted not asking Yuko Yoshikawa for two hours instead of one. But I realized that if I did this every day, it wouldn’t take as long to stay on top of it. I began to tire from the effort of concentrating, half dragging myself through the task as I continued to scan the papers.