She withdrew a hundred thousand yen for the trip. She went to the ward office by herself, booked their stay at the health retreat by herself, and bought the tickets for the bullet train by herself. All the preparations she did by herself.
When finally she returned home, everything as ready as it could be, she found Taichi watching TV, as usual. It was some kind of show about an unbelievably wealthy man. But she too was carrying in her wallet ten notes of ten thousand yen apiece. She held back her obscure sense of excitement and looked to the screen. The man owned a hotel in Monaco and so could go there whenever he felt like it, and for free at that. But then there she was too—she who had made the daring decision to withdraw a hundred thousand yen. Immersed in that curious feeling of elation, her mobile began to ring. She looked at the number. It was her mother. She left it alone for a moment, merely staring at the display. She was caught by a vague premonition that if she were to answer, the whole trip might evaporate before her very eyes. “Aren’t you going to pick it up?” Taichi asked. Unable to explain her reluctance, she finally pressed the answer button.
Hey, what are you doing? I’m laid up in bed, as usual. Has anything interesting happened? her mother began fawningly. Put simply, she had nothing to do. Surely she could have found something to occupy her time? Housework, a hobby, anything? But her mother’s inability to find anything to do was like a chronic illness, and quite beyond helping. By the way, did you get my cardigan? It’s mohair, my favorite, pink, fluffy, with ribbons, and pearls on the knots of the ribbons. I was really taken by it.
I’m watching TV, Natsuko said, trying to hang up. What are you watching? Her mother wasn’t about to let her go. For her, finding some way to distract herself from her endless boredom was surely a matter of great importance, a matter, even, of life and death. It’s a show about rich people from all over the world, Natsuko answered. They’re talking about a man who can go to Monaco for free, whenever he wants.
What? her mother spat out, before falling silent. From her tone of voice, Natsuko could tell that she was going to use her as an outlet for her anger. I want to go to Monaco! Why is he allowed to go whenever he wants? And for free!
I’m sorry, Natsuko apologized reflexively. She shouldn’t have mentioned it. All she could do was apologize. I don’t know how, how much money he has, how he’s able to do it… I don’t know.
Oh? I see.
Her mother went on and on about how her free time was driving her crazy, before finally hanging up. She surely saw herself as the victim. She, who couldn’t go to Monaco for free whenever she wanted, was the victim. Natsuko knew that much.
As she retraced her memories, she heard Taichi call out—“No more ice-cream!”—and was pulled back to the present.
Glancing across at him, she saw that he had carefully taken off his protective cap, probably because the train carriage was so warm inside. His hair was sticking out in every possible direction.
“I was finally able to give it a good wash yesterday.”
“Thank goodness it’s healed.”
Taichi narrowed his eyes, as if ruminating over some pleasant feeling. It was a pitiful expression, the expression of a man who believed that there was no such thing as maliciousness in the world, that even if it did exist out there somewhere, it could be consigned to the past and quickly forgotten. Natsuko could only offer a bitter smile at that way of thinking.
“There was so much dandruff, I had to wash it three whole times.”
Taichi didn’t understand much about himself. He probably didn’t even properly understand just what his wife thought about him. And no doubt he had no interest at all in whether or not he was loved by others, respected, or made a fuss over.
Around ten days ago, unable to control his movements, he had fallen over and struck his head. The injury had required four stitches, so he hadn’t been able to wash it. Natsuko had been planning to take him to a hot spring. To her, that was her sole way of atoning. So she had felt a rush of fear at the thought that she wouldn’t be able to do that for him. One’s torment is greater when they can’t atone for their sins, she thought. But he made it in time. At the doctor’s surgery, watching first one thread being cut from her husband’s head, then the next, she felt a thrill that she hadn’t experienced even in the throes of sex. When the stitches were all removed, Taichi looked around restlessly, scratching his dandruff-coated head.
Though he was but thirty-six-years old, his hair had already turned white from the repeated attacks. They came without any warning. One morning, a cry like that of a beast erupted from somewhere deep inside him, his body going rigid, his eyes rolling back in his head, foam building up around his mouth as he lost consciousness. For a few seconds, they were visited by a profoundly sacred silence, and Natsuko could hear only the sound of birds chirping. It felt as if another person had usurped her husband’s body, and was saying to her: “No matter what kind of man you’re with, you’ll never be happy. You understand that now, don’t you?” But it was just a cerebral attack.
Natsuko had felt a sense of déjà vu when the first attack struck eight years ago, as if she had already witnessed that very scene somewhere once before. But the attack that seemed to lurk at the corners of her memory was more abstract, more ideal. And she had been repeatedly tormented by the experience ever since.
When the seizures came, as they inevitably did, whatever it was that repeatedly took over Taichi’s body would say to her: “You will never be happy.” And then, without waiting for a response, it would disappear back where it had come. But she managed to get used to it. She wasn’t worthy of finding happiness. That was what she felt, day after day, while she listlessly carried out her household chores, or played with the children at her part-time job at the children’s center. Like a wound healing—naturally, slowly.
She felt a strange dryness on her lips. Right, she remembered, she had put on some makeup before leaving home this morning. She hardly ever wore makeup. She must have looked just like her mother, back when they had all gone to the hotel together as a family. Her mother—she had been wearing a new eye shadow from Yves Saint Laurent that had been all the rage at the time. A former airline stewardess, she took pride in her skill at applying makeup. “You’re going to be a stewardess too, right?” Ever since Natsuko was little, her mother would always ask her that question, as if there could be no room for doubt. But Natsuko’s reaction never satisfied her. Lots of women long to become stewardesses, but only a chosen few are able to do it. You have to be beautiful, and tall, and mustn’t wear glasses. It’s all very exciting, travelling through the sky, going to foreign countries. And you might even get the chance to marry a pilot. When Natsuko responded that she didn’t see what was so exciting about all that, her mother would stare at her with pity in her eyes, and fall silent. But she would soon bring the subject up again. After all, being a stewardess was every girl’s dream. She acted as if she believed, since she had given birth to a healthy daughter, that that daughter too should yearn to become a stewardess. But Natsuko was interested in simpler, manual labor, even if it didn’t end up being exciting, even if it meant that she wasn’t one of the chosen few. Between her mother and herself, she still didn’t know who was the more run-of-the-mill. She had no idea at all.