When I walked up to my building, I saw the kid from the apartment next to mine. He had a plastic bag in his hand, and he was kicking a small rock as he walked along ahead of me. He had a bruise that looked like a red stain next to his right eye. I figured his mother must have given it to him. He was wearing a gray sweat suit that was a bit grubby, and he was terribly thin. His mother didn’t seem to be anywhere around. The boy piqued my interest. Or else it may just have been that I was looking for a distraction.
“Hey, did you buy some candy?”
I made an effort to put a relaxed look on my face as I called out to the kid. Up close, I could see that there was another red bruise in the middle of his forehead, he had a squint, and he gave off a slight stink, which probably came from his overgrown, unkempt hair. My instinct was to turn away to avoid the stench, but I resisted. Using the same calm voice I said, “How did you get those bruises?”
Something strange happened next. The kid cast a glance at me with his out-of-focus eye, and then he threw the plastic bag he was carrying at me and took off running. I was surprised, and I looked back over my shoulder to start running right after him. But the kid was fast, and he was already quite a bit farther away than I had expected. I hesitated for a moment but, thinking that I would look like some kind of criminal chasing after a kid, I let him go. I stood there for a moment, bewildered. Then, in an attempt to settle myself down, I lit a cigarette.
I was about to start walking when I noticed the plastic bag lying in the middle of the street, and I thought about moving it out of the way. But that’s when I saw that a crawfish had emerged from the bag on its own. Seeing the crawfish made me feel nostalgic, but as I reached out to touch it, I noticed that it was missing both of its claws. I picked up the bag and looked inside. There were many more crawfish jostling around in it. None of them had their front claws. The many crawfish legs were entangled with each other, and their short arms — the ones without the pincers attached — were moving as if trying to feint an attack. The collective mass seemed as if it formed a single living creature, writhing, appearing to express a uniform rigidity throughout its one body, and producing an odd squeaking sound. Disgusted, I reflexively flung the plastic bag with its red mass away from me. The weighted bottom made a faintly sharp noise when it met the surface of the asphalt. I immediately walked away, but it was a while before I could get the keenness of that sound out of my head.
When I returned to my apartment, the first thing I did was put on some music. But even over the stereo, as if she had been waiting for me, I could hear the woman next door yelling. There was the sound of glass breaking, and some sort of crashing that went on unendingly and with such intensity, it seemed like it might shake the wall itself. After some hesitation, I looked up the phone number for the child welfare office and called. I explained the situation, giving them the address of my building and the number of the apartment next door. The child welfare agent listened intently to what I said. It may have been the agent’s manner that made me feel a little better. According to the child welfare agent, this was not the first report of this incident, and they would be able to pay a visit here sometime tomorrow.
I couldn’t stand the people who lived next door. I had no interest in listening to that woman’s screaming, and I was sick of seeing the kid around. Now I could hear someone crying, but it sounded like the woman. I was starting to get depressed, so I put the gun in the leather pouch and went out. I thought I would just walk around the neighborhood.
I hid the leather pouch in the inside pocket of my coat. I didn’t think anyone could tell just by looking at me that I was carrying a gun. My cell phone rang; it was Yuko Yoshikawa. Perfect, I thought, and even though it was already late I invited her to meet me out somewhere. She wavered a bit, but — maybe because of my persistence — eventually she relented. Thinking I would meet up with her near the university, I headed in the direction of the station. At that moment, I recalled the stink coming off the kid, and I felt a little nauseated.
10
It was definitely the first time I had been to the university at night. The orange glow of the outdoor lights shone on the surroundings, and cast the buildings in a dim ochre silhouette. Light came from several windows, suggesting that there were still people inside. I assumed they were gathered for some kind of activity or group; there were people around outside as well, some of them couples with arms linked. For whatever reason, Yuko Yoshikawa had said that she wanted to walk around campus. I’d tried to get her to go somewhere for a drink, but she said that she felt like being somewhere quiet. I bought two cans of hot coffee from a vending machine and handed one to Yuko. She thanked me, although she seemed sort of depressed. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. I got tired of asking, and decided to light a cigarette. As I nonchalantly brushed over the outside of my jacket where the gun was, I thought about what we might do now.
She spoke at last. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not much company tonight. I don’t know, I can’t really put in into words, but sometimes I get like this. For no reason, just, you know? But it’s good for me to be with someone. I don’t like to let anyone see me when I’m like this but, well, I didn’t want to be alone. I’m not even sure what I’m talking about, but hey, thanks.”
She popped the tab on the coffee I had given her and took a sip.
“No, I’m the one who invited you out, right? — some friends were going out drinking, and they had their girlfriends with them, so I just thought, if you were free — but, no, it’s fine. I don’t really feel like drinking either.”
“What? Are you sure? You mean, you were with them? Are you sure it’s all right?”
“Don’t worry about it — when I heard your voice, I could tell something was wrong, so I decided to change my plans.”
“But what about seeing them?”
“It’s fine — they’re with their girlfriends, they can drink with them.”
I was a little disappointed that she was wearing jeans. Again I wondered about what to do now, then decided that we shouldn’t do anything. As I looked over her hair, which grazed her shoulders, her wide eyes, and her breasts, whose outline I could still make out through her sweatshirt, I imagined having sex with her. But because I had decided to take my time getting there, I tried as best I could to direct my attention elsewhere. Even though it didn’t really seem to matter, I figured I would keep trying to take it slow.