I stared at the white seal that was stuck on the IV, and noticed that the name written on it said Mr. Nishioka. I had no memory of that name. Realizing that I was standing over the wrong man, I chuckled to myself a little. Yet I felt as though I had already done what I had intended, and I thought about just going home. I was about to leave, but since I had come this far, I reconsidered, figuring I would just spend a little time with him, and approached another bed. I saw the name I recognized, and as I had done before, I looked down over the proprietor of this IV. This man was incredibly dark-skinned. His gray-flecked hair was receding, and something about it struck me as undignified. The man appeared to be awake; his eyes were wide open and fixed on me. With a slight tremor of his lips as though he wanted to say something, he peered intently, his gaze unwavering. Watching his eyes grow red, I got more and more fed up, yet at the same time, I found it amusing. There was something indescribable about the way he displayed such a classic reaction. His right arm trembled as it moved, but maybe because it was so leathery, I had no interest in catching hold of it. His voice so hoarse it sounded like an exhalation, he called out my name, “Toru?” Thinking about how funny it would be if I denied it, I slowly moved my head from left to right. But he seemed to have misunderstood, and the tears flowed even more as he muttered, “Aha, aha.” I was unsure of what to do; I had the urge to blame him for something — maybe for not being asleep. Again he moved his right arm slightly, but I still couldn’t bring myself to grasp it.
The sound of the man’s labored breathing seemed to cling to my ears. I could only stand there, rooted to the spot, looking down over him. There was nothing else for me to do, so I thought about just going home. But the man was working hard to open his mouth, trying again to say something. As I stared at the thickness of those two dark red lips, I continued to wonder why I had come here, after all this time. And moreover, why did I still feel an external pressure, as if there were something here I needed to do? I didn’t quite understand what that was about, but it didn’t seem all that complicated. Just then, I heard the man say in the same hoarse voice, “Can you forgive me?” I nearly burst into laughter, the boredom of a moment ago seemingly unreal, and I almost let out an awkward noise. There was something indescribably funny about how, in the face of death, he spouted such a melodramatic and trite line. I figured he must have seen a scene like this in a television show or a movie. But he was serious. His emotionally charged earnestness seemed curiously exaggerated. An idea occurred to me that made me grab his right hand. “I don’t care about that,” I said to him. “Just hurry up and get better,” I went on. As I spoke the words, I did a relatively good job of stifling my laughter. I’m sure if I had called him Father it would have been perfect, but for some reason I resisted. As he wept, he tried to bring his face closer to my hand. Something about this gesture made me think of a baby, and in that moment, I pulled my hand away. As soon as I had felt the tears from this man’s eyes on my own skin, my hand had recoiled as if it had a mind of its own. A chill ran through my body, and even though I knew it was an overreaction, it gave me the creeps. The man looked at me, flummoxed, and for some reason, I smiled back at him. I knew that wasn’t necessary, but I may have been trying to counteract his infantile creepiness, and I smirked with contempt as I looked down over him triumphantly. I thought about letting my saliva dribble onto his face, but of course I didn’t do that. However, I had looked at him for about as long as I could stand to, and I felt like I had done what I had come for. So I said, “I’m not Toru.” And then, “Wrong person, sorry,” and I left the room.
Out in the corridor, the man from the orphanage looked at me with concern. I was surprised to find him still here, but when I thought about it, I had to admit it was perfectly natural. “How did it go?” he asked, trying to gauge my state. The way that he asked irritated me, but on second thought, that too was a perfectly natural thing to ask. I hesitated for a moment. “We don’t look anything like each other,” I said, when in fact, his eyes and the shape of his nose had looked disturbingly familiar. “Uh-huh, but. . Well, I guess I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he said, turning to me with an even more concerned expression. I told myself that what he had done had been out of the kindness of his heart, and I forced myself to tough it out.
I called the toast girl, and went to her apartment. As I entered her from behind, I grabbed her hair and drew her body toward me. She was breathing very heavily, but while we were at it, things seemed to get awkward. In the same position, I ran my tongue along the side of her neck and sucked lustily. She started complaining that her boyfriend would notice, but even though I wasn’t all that into it anyway, I kept doing it over and over again. The whole time, I felt like I might fall asleep. For some reason, I started to get annoyed, so I figured I’d better come quickly, and I focused on that.
Afterward I did sleep, and woke up in the middle of the night. The girl seemed exhausted — maybe I had worn her out — and was sound asleep, breathing peacefully. I wrote a perfunctory note, left her apartment, and took a taxi home to my own place. After I got back there, I still felt pretty tired, and when I awoke, it was fifteen hours later. I may have slept too much, because I could feel an ache behind my eyes, yet I might have kept on sleeping for who knows how much longer. Then I remembered something from when I was little. I couldn’t be sure whether I remembered it from a dream, or if it happened when I was awake, but I pondered it idly. When I was at the orphanage, I had told myself that if I didn’t think about things, then I wouldn’t be unhappy. Even if I had already been visited by misfortune, so long as I was unaware of it, or didn’t think about it, the unhappiness could not materialize. I had realized this, and put it into practice. The orphanage was in a small white building. There was a piano, and stuffed animals, and a television. There was no outdoor space, but we had a soccer ball and baseball equipment. More and more memories seemed ready to flow out of me, if I had chosen to let them free.
12
What woke me up was the sound of the front door bell. It echoed sharply within my tiny apartment, loud enough to awaken me. I intended to ignore it, and reeled in my bedding that had been cast aside, but the sound rang out once more. Fed up, I got out of bed and lit a cigarette. I waited for whomever it was to give up, but the doorbell sounded again, and this time I also heard pounding on the door. Nothing to be done about it; I put out my cigarette and looked through the peephole to see who was there. It was a man I didn’t recognize. He was probably soliciting or canvassing, but something about him gave me a strange impression. He was middle-aged, short with black hair. He looked like an ordinary guy, but he had a certain overbearing quality. He banged on the door again and, because I was so close this time, it startled me. I opened the door, and he said to me, “Were you sleeping?” and “I’m sorry about that.” He was smiling, but his narrowed eyes were looking at me the whole time. This pissed me off, but I didn’t know what it meant. Then he said, “I’m a policeman,” and showed me his badge in a black case.
“Ah, I apologize for disturbing you, but I’d like to ask you about something. Is now a good time?”
He smiled as he spoke, as if he was trying to reassure me, but there was something calculating in his look. I was taut with anxiety; my mind went blank for a moment. My heart began to race, and I could feel sweat start to break out on my face. I tried not to let it show, telling myself to keep it together. But his eyes remained focused on mine. Unable to hold the man’s gaze, I looked away.