In the course of my life so far, I've been able to keep my world in a relatively stable state by avoiding most useless troubles through activation of this emotional management system. That I have succeeded in maintaining such an effective system all this time is a matter of some pride to me.
When it came to Noboru Wataya, though, my system refused to function. I was unable simply to shove Noboru Wataya into a domain having no connection with me. And that fact itself annoyed the hell out of me. Kumiko's father was an arrogant, unpleasant man, to be sure, but finally he was a small-minded character who had lived by clinging to a simple set of narrow beliefs. I could forget about someone like that. But not Noboru Wataya. He knew what kind of a man he was. And he had a pretty good idea of what made me tick as well. If he had felt like it, he could have crushed me until there was nothing left. The only reason he hadn't was that he didn't give a damn about me. I wasn't worth the time and energy it would have taken to crush me. And thats what got me about him. He was a despicable human being, an egoist with nothing inside him. But he was a far more capable individual than I was.
After that first meeting of ours, I had a bad taste in my mouth that wouldn't go away. I felt as if someone had force-fed me a clump of foul-smelling bugs. Spitting them out did no good: I could still feel them inside my mouth. Day after day, Noboru Wataya was all I could think about. I tried going to concerts and movies. I even went to a baseball game with the guys from the office. I drank, and I read the books that I had been waiting to read when I could find the time. But Noboru Wataya was always there, arms folded, looking at me with those malignant eyes of his, threatening to suck me in like a bottomless swamp. This set my nerves on edge and sent tremors through the ground on which I stood.
The next time I saw her, Kumiko asked me my impressions of her brother. I wasn't able to tell her honestly. I wanted to ask her about the mask he wore and about the twisted something that lay behind it. I wanted to tell her everything I had thought about this brother of hers. But I said nothing. I felt that these were things I would never be able to convey to her, that if I couldn't express myself clearly I shouldn't express myself at all-not now.
Hes ... different, thats for sure, I said. I wanted to add something to this, but I couldn't find the words. Nor did she press me for more. She simply nodded in silence.
My feelings toward Noboru Wataya never changed after that. He continued to set my nerves on edge in the same way. It was like a persistent low-grade fever. I never had a television in the house, but by some uncanny coincidence, whenever I glanced at a TV somewhere, he would be on it, making some pronouncement. If I flipped through the pages of a magazine in a doctors waiting room, there would be a picture of Noboru Wataya, with an article he had written. I felt as if Noboru Wataya were lying in wait for me just around every corner in the known world.
OK, lets face it. I hated the guy.
7 The Happy Cleaners
And Kano Makes Her Entrance
I took a blouse and skirt of Kumiko's to the cleaners by the station. Normally, I brought our laundry to the cleaners around the corner from us, not because I preferred it but because it was closer. Kumiko sometimes used the station cleaners in the course of her commute.
Shed drop something off in the morning on her way to the office and pick it up on the way home. This place,was a little more expensive, but they did a better job than the neighborhood cleaners, according to Kumiko. And her better dresses she would always bring there. Which is why on that particular day I decided to take my bike to the station. I figured she would prefer to have her clothes done there.
I left the house carrying Kumiko's blouse and skirt and wearing a pair of thin green cotton pants, my usual tennis shoes, and the yellow Van Halen promotional T-shirt that Kumiko had received from a record company. The owner of the shop had his JVC boom box turned up loud, as he had on my last trip. This morning it was an Andy Williams tape. Hawaiian Wedding Song was just ending as I walked in, and Canadian Sunset started. Whistling happily to the tune, the owner was writing in a notebook with a ballpoint pen, his movements as energetic as before. In the pile of tapes on the shelf, I spotted such names as Sergio Mendes, Bert Kaempfert, and 101 Strings. So he was an easy-listenin freak. It suddenly occurred to me that true believers in hard-driving jazz-Albert Ayler, Don Cherry, Cecil Taylor-could never become owners of cleaning shops in malls across from railroad stations. Or maybe they could. They just wouldn't be happy cleaners.
When I put the green floral-pattern blouse and sage-colored skirt on the counter, he spread them out for a quick inspection, then wrote on the receipt, Blouse and Skirt. His writing was clear and carefully formed. I like cleaners who write clearly. And if they like Andy Williams, so much the better.
Mr. Okada, right? I said he was right. He wrote in my name, tore out the carbon copy, and gave it to me. They'll be ready next Tuesday, so don't forget to come and get them this time. Mrs. Okadas?
Uh-huh. Very pretty, he said. A dull layer of clouds filled the sky. The weather forecast had predicted rain. The time was after nine-thirty, but there were still plenty of men with briefcases and folded umbrellas hurrying toward the station steps. Late commuters. The morning was hot and humid, but that made no difference to these men, all of whom were properly dressed in suits and ties and black shoes. I saw lots of men my age, but not one of them wore a Van Halen T-shirt. Each wore his company's lapel pin and clutched a copy of the Nikkei News under his arm. The bell rang, and a number of them dashed up the stairs. I hadn't seen men like this for a long time.
Heading home on my bike, I found myself whistling Canadian Sunset.
Malta Kano called at eleven o'clock. Hello. I wonder if this might possibly be the home of Mr. Toru Okada? she asked.
Yes, this is Toru Okada. I knew it was Malta Kano from the first hello.
My name is Malta Kano. You were kind enough to see me the other day. Would you happen to have any plans for this afternoon?
None, I said. I had no more plans for the afternoon than a migrating bird has collateral assets.
In that case, my younger sister, Kano, will come to visit you at one o'clock. Kano? I asked in a flat voice. Yes, said Malta Kano. I believe I showed you her photograph the other day. I remember her, of course. Its just that- Her name is Kano. She will come to visit you as my representative. Is one o'clock a good time for you?
Fine, I said. Shell be there, said Malta Kano, and hung up.
Kano? I vacuumed the floors and straightened the house. I tied our old newspapers in a bundle and threw them in a closet. I put scattered cassette tapes back in their cases and lined them up by the stereo. I washed the things piled in the kitchen. Then I washed myself: shower, shampoo, clean clothes. I made fresh coffee and ate lunch: ham sandwich and hard-boiled egg. I sat on the sofa, reading the Home Journal and wondering what to make for dinner. I marked the recipe for Seaweed and Tofu Salad and wrote the ingredients on a shopping list. I turned on the FM radio. Michael Jackson was singing Billy Jean. I thought about the sisters Malta Kano and Kano. What names for a couple of sisters! They sounded like a comedy team. Malta Kano. Kano.
My life was heading in new directions, that was certain. The cat had run away. Strange calls had come from a strange woman. I had met an odd girl and started visiting a vacant house. Noboru Wataya had raped Kano. Malta Kano had predicted Id find my necktie. Kumiko had told me I didn't have to work.
I turned off the radio, returned the Home Journal to the bookshelf, and drank another cup of coffee.