“Look, Nishikawa,” Yuko said. It took me a moment to realize that was my name. “There’s something strange about you. Something really strange. I have no idea what you’re thinking. I mean, there was something about you from the start — I was worried — but you’re being especially weird now. Look, what’s the matter? Did something happen? Come on, say something.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking?” I said.
“I have no idea.”
“So what difference does that make?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, who really cares if you don’t know what I’m thinking? What does that matter? What does anything really matter? I have no idea, I’m telling you, no fucking idea — if I die, if you die, if my father dies, if that guy dies, or doesn’t die — what does it matter? None of it is a big deal. None of it, at all. What matters doesn’t exist. But you know what? That’s all right now. Anyway, if I. . No, if I were to — it doesn’t matter — if I were to. .”
I stopped there, suddenly embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was self-conscious about, but I felt as though I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. Or rather, that’s how I wanted to feel — I wasn’t sure why, but I knew that I wanted to leave, so I just stood up. I put a thousand-yen note by the coffee shop’s register, thanked the waitress, and I left.
While I was walking, my cell phone rang — it was Yuko. At that moment, it occurred to me to toss my phone somewhere, so I threw it in the direction of an open sewer. The phone made a little clank, rolling in a slide across the asphalt and falling into the gap. I went to have a cigarette, but then I remembered I had left them in the coffee shop. In an attempt to calm my frayed nerves, I let out a little yell.
16
The next two days passed by swiftly. During that time, I was unable to complete any sort of mental preparedness or readiness. I spent most of those two days watching television. The strange thing was, that whole time, I didn’t even look at the gun once. Since I had found the gun, not a single day had passed when I didn’t look at it. For that to go on for two days in a row was really. . I don’t know, quite exceptional. The doorbell rang a few times, but I completely ignored it.
On Tuesday, I slept until evening, and when I opened my eyes, I took a deep breath. I remembered how, in a scene from a television show or movie I had seen — I wasn’t sure which one — a guy who was going to shoot someone that day, when he opened his eyes, he had taken a deep breath. I did that twice, and then I brushed my teeth more thoroughly than usual. For no particular reason, I brushed my teeth for about thirty minutes. I turned on the television, I put on some music, and before long seven o’clock had rolled around. It was dark outside my window, and the news had come on. I realized, at that point, that it was already past seven. I opened my bag, shoved the bare gun into my pocket, and put on the reversible black jacket. “Just kill her and get it over with,” I repeated several times.
It was cold outside, uncomfortably so. On my way, I became aware that the gun was stuck in the pocket of my jeans, and I moved it to my jacket. I made the transfer nonchalantly, as I continued to walk along. It wasn’t until afterward that I noticed there was no one else on the street around me. But I felt like it didn’t really matter — I might have even walked along with the gun in my hand. Still, I left it in my pocket.
My hands were chilled from the cold. I put them both in the pockets of my jacket to warm them up. I wish I had some gloves, I thought to myself, and then I remembered the leather gloves I had originally bought for this day. I also realized I had forgotten the flashlight. Fed up with myself, I considered going back to get them, but I didn’t have the courage. I don’t know why, but going back home would have taken a lot of courage. I kept going, headed for the construction site I had decided upon. The site was very close. This surprised me, and I was caught by a sudden feeling of desolation, seized with an urge to speak to someone. Looking at that big white sheeting, I realized that I was terrified of the building itself. I tried my best not to look at it as each step brought me closer and closer.
I made it to the parking lot, and then I tried to sneak into the area that was clad in that white. But the sheeting was tied up to the steel columns with cord, and I couldn’t find a place where I might be able to get inside. Those thin plastic cords, tight and secure, seemed like they were rebuffing me. But of course, that was just an illusion. I scanned my surroundings, making sure there was no one around, and then I held the flame of my lighter to the cord. Something about the orange of the flame that appeared within the darkness was nostalgic to me. What flitted through my mind was the light from candles atop a birthday cake — maybe that’s what I remembered. The cord warped, seemed to squirm, and then melted into shreds. I did that three times, then I raised the material at the gap it created and went inside. The structure of the restaurant was still there, but it was kind of creepy without any lights on. The restaurant seemed large and imposing, and I felt terribly small within it. I sat down on the few steps before the front door, and lit a cigarette. It would soon be eight o’clock.
Through the small gaps in between the scaffolding and the sheeting material, I could see what was on the other side, and I looked for the best position. After moving around from place to place, I decided that the best spot was right in the middle, facing the crosswalk. From here I could see straight ahead, even make out the face of whoever was walking in the pedestrian crossing that stretched out directly in front of me. The woman often passed through the crosswalk around this time. Or rather, almost anyone who walked along this street used this crosswalk. I could use the time while she was crossing the street to make sure who it was. And once she made her way across, just when she reached this side, she wouldn’t be more than two meters away from me. I waited for her to arrive, peering through the gap. I readied the gun with bated breath.
But, just then, I realized something important. The woman did not necessarily always take this street, at this time. Whereas she came through here quite often, it was not a certainty that she would today. I was astonished that now was the first time I had thought of this. Most of all, I was extremely annoyed with myself. If I was just going to kill the woman, I might as well do it without hiding in a place like this. I asked myself, once again, what was I doing here? It had seemed like there was a plausible reason to fire the gun here, but at that moment, I could no longer recall what it was. I felt ridiculous, and suddenly thought about going back to my apartment. There, I figured, I could wait for her to return home, then ring her bell, and shoot her when she came to the door. That seemed like a sure way to kill her, and more importantly, I thought, it would be easy. I decided that’s what I would do, if she did not show up. It was just past eight o’clock.
I found myself staring at the ground. For some reason, I couldn’t stop looking at the grass that was growing there. As I wondered why, I realized that there was no significance to the fact that I was staring at the grass. I wanted to warm myself up. It’s bitterly cold here, I thought. A scene from a television show I had watched the day before drifted through my mind, of a guy getting beaten up, and then, the image of the top of the utility pole I had seen at some point popped into my head. There was nothing special about this grass. Staring at it, I said out loud, “This grass is nothing special.” Then I thought about how bitterly cold it was here, and that I wanted to get warm. I told myself that I was about to kill someone, but it felt as though someone I didn’t know were committing this deed, far off in the distance. Rather than consciously thinking the words kill someone, it was as if they were ready and waiting, already arranged in my mind and repeating in an unstable cycle. My gaze remained fixed on the grass. I had no particular interest in staring at the grass but, how should I say, it would have taken a lot of courage to look away. “Kill someone, kill someone,” I repeated out loud, like a kind of incantation. The gun felt heavy, hanging loosely from my right hand. I had relaxed somewhat, but the gun continued to assert its heft. I had the impression that the echo carrying the words kill someone was, I don’t know, lulling me into idleness.