I have said, haven’t I, that I preferred a nondescript life. But in truth that’s not quite correct. All I ever wanted was not to be compared to Yuriko. And since I was going to lose whatever competition we had, I decided to withdraw from the game altogether. I was very strongly aware of the fact that I lived to be Yuriko’s other side, her negative image. A person like me—a negative image—is profoundly sensitive to the existence of shadows in those who live in sunlight. Those radiant creatures carry their black thoughts furtively, not wanting others to see. But they get no sympathy from me. I am immediately aware of their blackness, having lived so long as a negative myself. Far from sympathizing, it would be more accurate to say that I survive off the dregs I manage to collect from the shadows cast by those who live in the sun.
Kazue’s record of her life as a prostitute was so sad it gave me new will to go on living. The sadder she was, the more I resented her. I enjoyed her failures. Do you understand? And for the very same reason, Yuriko’s diary gave me nothing. Beneath it all, Yuriko was really a strong cunning woman. This much became obvious to me. She was absolutely hateful. And I had nothing I could use against her.
I was imprisoned by Yuriko. I had no choice but to trail after her all my life as though I were her shadow. Zhang’s deposition, therefore, held no surprises for me. It was a tedious affair. That’s because Zhang, a villain through and through, did not possess even a mote of shadow. There are villains, you see, who live in the sunlight.
Kazue’s journals were different. Zhang’s deposition may have been predictable, but not Kazue’s. The dissolute loneliness she depicted was awful. When I finished reading her words, I felt a change come over me—something I’d never felt before. Before I was even aware of it, I started to weep in sympathy. Me! I couldn’t hold back the tears as I thought about how completely alone Kazue had been: her outward appearance so grotesque she was like the Incredible Hulk. The reverberations that echoed through Kazue’s empty heart made my own heart tremble, paralyzing me so I couldn’t speak. I’ve never experienced an orgasm, but I wonder if this feeling was not similar?
Her journals fill two large notebooks, one bound in brown leather, the other black. Each is lined with neat precise handwriting, reminding me very much of the notebooks she used to keep in high school. Kazue recorded the amount of money she received from her customers with absurd vigilance. She had a personality that was so honest, so meticulous, she could not bear to go without writing about the encounters she had. Kazue, the excellent student who only wanted to be praised for her intelligence, the nice girl who longed to be admired for her proper upbringing, the professional who aimed for a career at the top levels. Even at her best, Kazue was always somehow lacking—and here she had unintentionally revealed herself and her spirit in the pages of her journals.
I suddenly recalled Mitsuru’s words: “You and I are the same. And Kazue too. We all had our hearts wrested away by an illusion. I wonder how it looked to others.” No, she was wrong. That’s wrong! I cried out in my heart. Don’t you see? “Hatred and confusion.” That’s what Yurio had said when he touched Kazue’s journals, and that’s what I held in my heart. It couldn’t be otherwise. I was a woman sensitive to the shadows in others. So where was the hatred and confusion in me? The dregs that I lived off were only what I gleaned from other people, their hatred and confusion. I was not like Kazue. I was not a grotesque monster.
I swept Kazue’s journals off the tabletop. And in an effort to calm myself, I touched the ring on my left hand, the one Mitsuru had made fun of. It is the source of all my feelings. What’s that? Yes, I am contradicting myself. I did make fun of the classist nonsense at Q High School for Young Women. But at the same time I liked that society. Don’t you suppose everybody lives a contradiction in one form or another?
“Is something wrong?”
Yurio, sitting beside me, could sense that I was trembling. He put his hands on my shoulders. Such a sensitive boy. He covered my shoulders with his strong young hands. I could feel the heat from his palms sinking into my skin. I wondered if sex was like this. I nervously pressed my cheek to those hands. Yurio sensed the dampness of my tears and asked in alarm, “Aunt, are you crying? Was there something in those notebooks that upset you?”
Alarmed, I pulled Yurio’s hands from my face.
“They’re sad. And they contain a few items about your mother too. But I don’t want to tell you what they say.”
“That’s because it describes hatred and confusion, right? But what? Tell me. I want to know. I want to know every single thing that’s written in those notebooks, from A to Z.”
Why did Yurio want to know? I wondered. I gazed up at the boy’s beautiful eyes. His irises were brown with flecks of green, the most exquisite color I’d ever seen. They were like perfectly clear pools, reflecting nothing. And yet, Yurio was like me. He too was sensitive to the dark shadows that others cast, wasn’t he? If he were able to perceive instantly the darkness in others and turn it into something that he himself could enjoy, then I most definitely wanted to share the contents of the journals with him. I had so sated myself on the remains of all the others that my heart had begun to throb. I wanted to sully Yuriko and Kazue with the poison of words and fill Yurio’s ears with those words so that he might grow up with the truth. I wanted to leave behind my genes. It was the same as wanting to give birth, was it not, because if I were able to fill Yurio with the poisoned truth, then wasn’t it likely that he too—this beautiful boy—would become just like me?
“Kazue’s journals depict an absolutely sublime struggle, the struggle between an individual and the rest of the world. Kazue lost the battle, ended up completely alone, and died hungry for some measure of kindness from another person. Don’t you think it’s a sad story?”
Shock flashed in Yurio’s face. “Was it the same for my mother?”
“It was. Yes, you’re right. You were born of a woman just like that.”
I lied. Yuriko was far from being like Kazue. From the very start, Yuriko had never believed in the rest of the world—in other people. Yurio lowered his eyes, took his hands off my shoulders, and pressed them together as if he were praying.
“Your mother was weak. She was worthless.”
“It’s just so sad. If I’d been there, I could have helped her.”
“How?”
No one could have done anything, I thought. Besides, you were just a child, you couldn’t possibly have understood. I wanted to challenge Yurio’s idealism, but he continued with determination.
“I don’t know what I would have done, but I would have done something. If she was lonely, I would have lived with her. I would have selected music for her and let her listen to it. And I would have made music for her that was even more beautiful. That way I would have helped to make her at least a little happier.”
Yurio’s face glowed as if he’d thought of the most wonderful solution. I could not get over how beautiful he was, and how tender. His notions were childish and yet weren’t they particularly sweet? Was this a man’s true form? Before I was even aware of it, a new emotion began to bud within me: love. But that’s impossible. Yurio is your nephew! So? What’s wrong with that? I could hear the angel and the devil inside me doing battle.
“You’re exactly right, Yurio-chan. Your aunt is too easily discouraged. I wonder why Yuriko didn’t take you in. I just can’t imagine.”
“I was strong enough not to need my mother.”
“Are you saying I’m weak?”
Yurio pressed his hands to my shoulders and back, as though to understand how I was built. I trembled under his touch. It was an entirely new feeling. I was being evaluated by someone else. No, not evaluated. I was being experienced by another.
“Aunt, I don’t think you’re weak. I think you’re poor.”
“Poor, you say? More like impoverished. There’s no doubt that I’m impoverished.”
“No. What I mean is that your heart has grown thin. It’s a shame. It’s just as that woman
said earlier. But it’s not too late. I agree with her on that.”
I thought he’d been listening to his rap music through his headphones. But given his keen sense of hearing, Yurio had picked up everything Mitsuru had said. I felt that Mitsuru and Yurio were in cahoots, and it made me so bitter that I ached with resentment.
“Are you strong, Yurio-chan?”
“That’s right. I’ve always lived alone.”
“Well, the same goes for me. I’ve always lived alone too.”
“Really?” Yurio tilted his head to the side. “I get the sense that you depended on my mother.”
Living in Yuriko’s shadow: was that a kind of dependence? It was a form of weakness and poverty, surely. The realization stung. I stared at Yurio’s fleshy lips. Tell me more! Teach me more about myself. Guide me.
“By the way, Aunt. About the computer. When am I going to get it? If I had a computer, I could make your life a lot easier.”
“But I don’t have the money.”
Yurio’s cheeks drained of color. To see him gazing off into space—a space he could not see—while lost in thought was adorable, I thought.
“You don’t have any savings?”
“I’ve got about three hundred thousand yen. But that’s it. And I’m holding on to it for an emergency.”
Yurio turned suddenly. “Ah, there’s the phone.”
I hadn’t heard anything, but the phone started ringing. I knew Yurio’s intuition was acute, but this was overwhelming. I picked up the receiver with a feeling of dread.
The call was from the ward-sponsored old-people’s hospital. It was Grandfather: he’d passed away a few minutes before, at the age of ninety-one. What need did I have to know about his last moments? In his senility he’d returned to a period fifty or sixty years in his past, when he was a young man. My bonsai-freak con-artist grandfather had forgotten all about his daughter’s suicide, and he never knew his granddaughter had been murdered. He slipped into death while enjoying himself in the euphoria of his senility. But talk about timing! Here we’d just started to discuss finances. I assumed I’d have to apply the meager savings I had to my grandfather’s funeral expenses. And that wasn’t the worst of it. With my grandfather dead I’d have to vacate the apartment, because the lease was in his name. There’d be the moving expenses. And now I had to buy a computer.
“Yurio, Grandpa has died. I can’t let you use my savings. Plus, we’re going to have to leave this apartment. Why don’t you ask Johnson to buy you the computer?”
“Why don’t you go out and earn money?”
“Earn money?”
“On the streets. Like my mother.”
What on earth was he thinking? I slapped his cheek with my palm. Not hard, of course. But when my palm struck his soft cheek, I could feel the row of his pretty teeth. His youthfulness made me tremble. Yurio said nothing but pressed his hand to his cheek and looked down. Such cool beauty. Just like Yuriko. I could feel my breast swell with love, and I knew from the depths of my heart that I wanted the money. No, it wasn’t just the money that I wanted. Nor was it the computer. It was the boy who wanted the computer. I wanted Yurio. I wanted a life together with Yurio. Because that is where I could find happiness.
In her diaries, Yuriko made some interesting comments about prostitution. If you’ll indulge me, I will quote them here:
I suspect there are lots of women who want to become prostitutes. Some see themselves as valued commodities and figure they ought to sell while the price is high. Others feel that sex has no intrinsic meaning in and of itself but allows individuals to feel the reality of their own bodies. A few women despise their existence and the insignificance of their meager lives and want to affirm themselves by controlling sex much as a man would. Then there are those who are actuated by violent, self-destructive behavior. And finally we have those who want to offer comfort. I suppose there are any number of women who find the meaning of their existence in similar ways. But I was different.
Yuriko was different. As she continues she explains that she became a prostitute because she was lascivious to the very core of her being.
Now, if I were to become a prostitute, my reason would be different still. Unlike Yuriko, I don’t crave sex. I don’t even like men. They’re sneaky, and their faces, their bodies, and the way they think are boorish. They’re selfish and will do anything to get what they want, even if it means injuring the people close to them; they don’t care. Besides, all they worry about is the façade; they have absolutely no concern for what’s beneath. Do you think I’m exaggerating? Well, I don’t agree. Every man I’ve ever met over the forty years or so of my life has been pretty much the same. My grandfather was a pleasant fellow but not particularly attractive. Takashi Kijima, by contrast, was attractive but completely twisted.
But now I’ve found an exception: Yurio. I don’t think there’s another man around who’s as attractive and gentle in spirit as Yurio. When I think of the possibility of his turning into one of those horrid men when he grows older, it makes me miserable! What if I did become a prostitute? I would then have the money to ensure that Yurio would never turn into a repulsive man and the two of us could live happily together forever. How’s that for a reason? Pretty original, wouldn’t you say? I wonder what my life as a prostitute might be like.
I see myself walking through Maruyama-ch wearing a black wig that comes down to my waist, blue eye shadow, and bright red lipstick. I flow through the streets and alleys. I see a middle-aged man standing in front of a hotel, looking like he wants something. He has a lot of hair on his body and little on his head. I call out to him.
“I’m a virgin, you know. I really am. A virgin at forty. Why don’t you give me a try?”
The man looks at me with mild annoyance, but I can see he’s curious. Has he seen the determination in my eyes? Suddenly he turns serious, and I find myself crossing the threshold of a love hotel for the first time in my life. Needless to say, just imagining what will happen next makes my heart race. But my determination takes control. I have been confronted with a desire to transform both myself and the hatred I feel for Yurio, who has begun to despise me. I struggle to breathe under the man’s weight, and as I accept his caresses, which lack even a mote of gentleness, you can be sure this is what I am thinking. Kazue grew hideous and exposed her ugly body to others. She took her revenge on herself and on the rest of the world by making men buy her. And now I am selling my body for the same reason. Yuriko was wrong. Women have only one reason for turning to prostitution. It’s hatred for others, for the rest of the world. No doubt this is incredibly sad, but then men have the capacity for countering such feelings in a woman. Still, if sex is the only way to dissolve these feelings, then men and women really are pathetic. I will launch my boat on a sea of hatred, my eye on the far shore, wondering when I might make land. Ahead I hear the roar of water. Might my boat be headed for a waterfall? Perhaps I must first plunge into the falls before I can set out upon the sea of hatred. Niagara? Yguazu? Victoria? My body trembles. But if I can make the first descent, the path that opens from there will be surprisingly pleasant, won’t it? That’s what Kazue expressed in her journals. So let me shoulder my baggage of hatred and confusion and set sail undaunted. In honor of my courage, there on the other shore, Yuriko and Kazue are waving to me, urging me on, applauding my gallant determination. Hurry up! they seem to say. I recall what Kazue recorded in her journal, and I too want to enfold myself in a man’s embrace.
“Be good to me, please.”
“I will. And in return, you be good to me.”
Was I with Zhang? I strained my eyes to see.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natsuo Kirino, born in 1951, is the author of sixteen novels, four short-story collections, and an essay collection. She is the recipient of six of Japan’s premier literary awards, including the Mystery Writers of Japan Award for Out, the Izumi Kyka Prize for Literature for Grotesque, and the Naoki Prize for Soft Cheeks. Her work has been published in
nineteen languages worldwide; several of her books have also been turned into movies. Out was the first of her novels to appear in English and was nominated for an Edgar Award. She lives in Tokyo.
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Rebecca L. Copeland, professor of Japanese literature at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, was born in Fukuoka, Japan, the daughter of American missionaries. She received her Ph.D. in Japanese Literature from Columbia University in 1986. She has published numerous scholarly studies on and translations of modern Japanese women’s writing.
ALSO BY NATSUO KIRINO
Out
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Translation copyright © 2006 by Natsuo Kirino
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Cananda Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com