“Okay, I get it, but you don’t need to be all over me — I mean, if you really want to do it, that’s fine. Just wait for the coffee. I have a boyfriend, but we can see each other when you like, if that’s all right with you,” she said, not taking me seriously.
I didn’t know how to react, but what she was suggesting didn’t sound all that bad to me. I decided that I would go home after I had some coffee.
I chain-smoked cigarettes while channel surfing on her television. I finally settled on NHK. Numerous people were climbing a snowy mountain in winter. A man whose face was snow-burned a deep brown said something to the men and women surrounding him, and everyone laughed out loud.
The girl placed the coffee and plates of toast on the table. The aroma of the coffee wafted through the room, and as I took a sip, the pleasing bitterness slid down my throat. I complimented her on the coffee, and she told me that she worked in a coffee house. “I get ground beans from there. You should stop by some time, it tastes much better in the café,” she said, taking a sip.
The program ended and the news came on the television screen. A man wearing a suit described the situation in Afghanistan, and the broadcast showed a hospital somewhere. A man missing a leg was lying on a dingy bed, and when he realized he was on camera, he scowled. The camera drew closer, focusing on his contorted face. He spoke in his cryptic language. I’m a mule trader. The Japanese subtitles flashed across the bottom of the screen. But all my mules were burned with my house, and I lost my leg. I know nothing about politics, and I don’t care. He appeared to still be talking, but the scene shifted to a desert landscape.
The girl talked about various things, and I made responsive sounds at the appropriate moments. I nibbled on the toast and drank the coffee. The bread was still warm, and I realized how long it had been since I’d eaten toast. I looked around her apartment, which was decorated uniformly with furniture in mellow shades of brown, and the walls were such a fresh white it almost hurt my eyes. There was a large stuffed bear on top of the bookcase, and when I stared at it she smiled and told me that her boyfriend had bought it for her.
The screen changed again, and I saw the words, man’s body found at arakawa river. I grasped the coffee cup with my fingers, my attention absorbed by the report. I experienced a sharp jolt to my heart; it felt as though I had been injected with something and couldn’t move. “Yesterday, the twenty-fourth,” the man on the television said, “the body of a man was discovered near the Arakawa River in Tokyo’s Itabashi Ward. The man had been shot in the head, and it appears that approximately five days had passed since the time of death. The man appeared to be in his forties or fifties; his identity has not been made public. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department is treating this as a homicide, and has begun a criminal investigation, including inquiries regarding the whereabouts of the possible murder weapon.”
The news then switched over to sports — Ichiro had a hit and the Mariners had won. A Westerner whom I didn’t recognize was holding a press conference and speaking proudly about something. Some guy on a golf course was holding a silver cup; horses were running. I had fallen silent, and the girl turned to say something to me. I responded to her, trying to maintain my composure.
“What’s the matter? You look white as a sheet.”
“What?”
“Your face — you’ve gone pale as a ghost.”
I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. Thinking she must be making fun of me, I laughed. I meant to laugh out loud, but my voice was hoarse, and all that escaped from my throat was a strained sigh. My vision became dim, and some time passed before I realized that I had been staring at her for quite a while. At the edge of my consciousness, the word “bathroom” flickered, and I managed to tell the girl that I was going to the bathroom. She said something to me about being worried. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face was ashen, as if white paint had oozed from every pore of my skin. There was sweat on my brow, and a chill went up and down my spine. I felt a tingle along the inside of both arms, like I had virtually no strength. I splashed water on my face, and then for some reason, drank some. I thought the contact with water would bring back some feeling to my face. There was a knock on the door, and it gave me quite a start. “Are you okay?” I heard a voice that must have been her. I muttered to myself, What the hell are you doing? Everything is going to be fine.
Through the door I said, “Uh, sorry, I, uh, kind of threw up. I’m really sorry. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“What? Oh, I was afraid of that. But the bread was still fresh — oh, no, I’m so sorry.”
“No, that’s not it — sometimes, this happens for no reason. I guess it’s just how I am.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, really — should I call an ambulance, or something?”
“No, no. I’m fine. It’s nothing, really. I’m better now. I always feel better right after.”
Staring in the mirror, I could feel laughter starting to well up. I was getting ahead of myself, I thought. After all, I didn’t kill that guy. For all I knew, he might have committed suicide. But then it occurred to me. Since I had made off with the gun from the scene, his death was considered a murder. If the weapon that caused his death were not at the scene, it was unlikely to be deemed a suicide, which must be why the police were treating it as a homicide. And, at least as far as the police were concerned, whoever had the gun was the criminal. I was still a little worked up, but I managed to pull myself back together. I had figured all along this would happen, ever since that night. None of this was outside of my expectations. At the time, I had been very careful when I left the scene of the crime — nothing there could be traced to me, and there were no witnesses. There was no way for anyone to know that I was in possession of the gun. I was safe, I thought to myself. And as long as I didn’t make any mistakes, the gun would remain mine.
Nevertheless, I was a little surprised that I hadn’t been checking regularly for this in the news. I ought to have been actively seeking information about when they would discover the man’s body, and how the police were conducting their investigation from the outset. The fact that I hadn’t done so was probably because I had been on such a high. It must have taken them so long to find him because of the days of rain. Under normal circumstances, nobody ever went near that darkened bridge, much less when it was raining. It seemed like I should be grateful that it had taken so long to discover him. I felt like I had been saved, despite my lack of attention. At least now, the police and I were on the same starting line, and I would be fine as long as I went about it carefully. There was no reason for anyone to associate me with the dead guy. At the thought that sooner or later the case would be forgotten, I felt a sensation of relief mixed with joy, as the strength once again seeped out of my body. I thought to myself, it was possible that this tension, and even my sense of relief at having overcome this looming crisis, could transform into a kind of enjoyment.