I shaved and changed my clothes. Just as I was looking over last night’s evening edition as I sipped my coffee, a bell again began to ring. It could not be the alarm clock this time … the telephone, of course … the only valuable fixture in my room. Though uneconomical, I had had it installed, thinking it would be of some use for my business. I was almost never at home, but on the rare occasions I overslept I could call in at the office. There had not been a single incoming call in over a fortnight. I wondered, indeed, whether I should not get rid of it. The bell rang a third time. It was unbelievable. Maybe a wrong number. No, maybe it was her. Some unforeseen happening that had made the curtain turn a lemon-yellow again. Or was it my wife? If it was my wife … at half past five in the morning … it must be something like an attack of appendicitis or maybe acute pneumonia. Without waiting for the fourth ring, I picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Were you asleep?” came a murky, effeminate voice. Good God, Tashiro!
“For Christ’s sake,” I blurted out angrily, “what time do you think it is?”
“If you hadn’t got up after one more ring, I was going to hang up. But really, I want to talk to you.”
“Listen, it’s still dark outside. Quit behaving like a spoiled child.”
“It’s not true. The sky’s beginning to change color … such a sad color. And where I am the milk’s been delivered and I can hear the paper boy. A dog’s barking, too. The first streetcar has already left the barns.”
“Stop it. I’m hanging up.”
“No! You’ll be sorry later if you treat a man’s parting words like that. You will … because I’m just about to kill myself. I’ve spent a sleepless night thinking, and I’m fed up. Hey, there’s the paper boy running. Oh, yes, the newspaper. Tonight’s edition’ll have an article on my death, you can bet. The reason … what is the reason? I wonder. A breakdown, I suppose.”
“I’m absolutely impressed by your big scene. But I’m busy, sorry. Let’s let the rest go till tomorrow, shall we?”
“You don’t believe me. You’re stupid. You absolutely can’t tell the lie from the truth in what I’ve said. As long as it’s expressed in words, any lie has some meaning. But I’m going to make you believe me this time. I’ll make you regret it your whole life long. It’s a good feeling. I’ll show you what it is to be insensitive.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Someplace … any place. Looks as if you’re beginning to get worried.”
“Do you really think I’d worry about you?”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Well … I’m hanging up.”
“Wait! I won’t take up your time. I’ll be dying pretty soon. I’d like you to hear what my voice sounds like when I do. Since you treat me like a worm, I wonder if it’ll have no effect on you to witness my death. Anyway, I’m sure you think I’m just faking again. That’s good enough. With that in mind, listen while you drink your tea.”
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“That’s even better. It becomes you. Are you listening? I’m up on the scaffold … it’s a suitcase … I’ll put the rope around my neck … no, I’ll stick my head in the noose.”
“Have you left a note?”
“No, I haven’t. I thought about it, but if I really started to write, I’d never stop. If I wrote a short note, it’d only be: Goodbye.”
“Don’t you have anything else to tell me about Mr. Nemuro?”
“You unfeeling bastard. You’re a pig, not a man. How can you say such a thing to somebody who’s on the brink of death? You’re ridiculous. I don’t give a damn about his disappearance. It’s pretty sneaky … something a coward’d do. What’s the point of putting up such a great fuss about somebody like him? I’d never do that. There … I’ve put the rope around my neck. The position is right, it’ll bite right in. Pretty soon I’m going to feel the blood coming out of my nose. I’ll be gone further than anyone who’s disappeared … much, much further.”
“Suicides and missing persons are pretty much alike, aren’t they? And a corpse is dirty. But a missing person’s as transparent as air, cleaner than glass.”
“Damn, somebody’s coming. Well, then, this is it. I’m going to kick away the suitcase I’m standing on … now. Tell Mr. Nemuro’s wife … it’s too much, hiring a detective for a missing person.”
“What’s too much? For whom?”
But there was no answer. I thought I heard a sound like someone stamping on a rubber bag filled with water, but even that was canceled out by a terrible noise of something violently hitting the receiver … that was all … I could hear nothing more. There was a soft sound like that of a puppy scratching itself in a box. Perhaps I only fancied it. It was unbelievable that he would commit suicide. What should I do? If by any chance he had actually done it, as the last person present at the time I would be raked over the coals unmercifully by the police. Aside from being gone over by the police, whatever explanation should I give? It was absurd. Should I say that I had been piggishly insensitive? As far as the police were concerned, a satisfactory explanation would be that I had kept badgering the poor fellow to the point of driving him to suicide. It was inevitable, since for them that would be the only convincing, logical one. He had taken fine revenge on me. Revenge for what? It was so beautifully done that I had no idea why he had acted as he had. Of course, it could not be suicide. He was a sort of madman. It was his nature, he had to get people’s attention by doing something especially spectacular. Like someone who likes to wear a breastful of decorations. In a minute, would his voice come snickering or sobbing over the receiver? There! A sound … the squeaking of a door hinge. But a man’s sonorous cry struck my ear … a hoarse, panic-stricken, screaming voice.
It was true! I replaced the receiver, confirming the truth around me.
AND AGAIN the dark street. The dark, dark street. The women out shopping for the evening meal of course, and the baby carriage and the silver bicycle were already painted out by the darkness; most of the commuters too were already in place in their filing-drawer houses. A half-forsaken chasm of time where it was still too early for some laggards, playing at being truants, to return home. I stood still … precisely where he had vanished. The brown-and-white striped design hung in her window as it had the night before. There was a lot I should have to report … starting with Tashiro’s suicide, but somehow I hesitated. At least, when I pulled into shape the report on the Camellia, that would definitely touch on the husband’s movements. For instance, even if it were against the facts, by claiming I had made some progress, the outcome would be good, one I need not be ashamed of. But thanks to Tashiro my plans had gone completely awry. There was nothing for it but to go around to the Camellia tomorrow morning after all.
The wind whistled through the spaces between the buildings. The stream of cold air striking the corners set up a low, almost inaudible howl. Before I was aware of it, my pores froze over and my icy blood reached my heart where it became a red, heart-shaped ice bag. The ravaged asphalt side walk … and as usual the abandoned white rubber ball on the lawn … and my dust-covered shoes that shone as if they were gilded, under the street lights … and the crack-filled corpse of the street … and the manhole under the dry grass quite as forsaken as I.
Today I handed in my written resignation. If by chance Tashiro had left any evidence, any place, that I was the one who had spoken to him last over the telephone, I should not be able to escape being found by the police, and my position would be all the more disadvantageous for not having reported at once to them. It was an extremely touchy situation, which the chief wanted to avoid at all costs. The chief had not particularly urged my resignation, but neither did he refuse it when I handed it in. He repressed any expression, and only his eyes were more than usually kind when he suggested that I might indeed work independently but that fellows like me would run wild if not held in by somebody like him, and that judging from past experience independent men ended in failure. “You s
eem rather well controlled,” he had said, “but imagine committing such a blunder. In this business the future’s full of pitfalls. Don’t take it amiss, but you might have the courage to change professions now. The world’s a big place; there are all kinds of livelihoods. Next time you’ll come here as a first-rate paying client. Out of our long friendship I’ll do you a big favor and assign you a top-flight man.”
I waited in the apartment a half day. Good news or bad news, it would be worst of all for me to be suspected of running away. The police hadn’t appeared after all. Apparently, I had escaped the worst. The danger was not entirely gone, but the only ones who knew of my discussions with Tashiro were my client, the chief, and, of course, Tashiro himself.
Waiting was a bore. With work one understands one’s own effort is everything, but in waiting one can’t use one’s own strength. Furthermore, my hangover had got worse and my stomach was in knots. But perhaps beyond the window she too was waiting. Evidently the striped curtains were not necessarily a sign that the husband had come back. If he had, she would have called the office and I would have had a report from the chief. They must have some other, some different meaning. I suppose she was waiting, too. Yet I did not have the courage to ring her bell. Like the transformation of the curtains, some change had definitely taken place inside, even if not the husband’s return. A big change had occurred for me too. I had already resigned from the office where she had filed her request for the investigation. I was no longer an investigator working there; and she too had stopped being a client. As my last job, I had been ordered by the chief to check directly with the client herself as to whether she had the intention of proceeding further with the investigation, even though the investigator was changed. That too, if possible, I wanted to do after exploring the Camellia tomorrow morning. Perhaps I was reluctant to give up the case, but there was nothing left for me to do, there was no goal to walk toward.
The husband had disappeared, the wife’s brother had been killed, the clerk Tashiro had committed suicide, and I had not even had a call from my wife. The only thing left before me was my waiting client. Everyone had vanished. From the standpoint of my colleagues at work, I too was one of those who had disappeared. But I was not the only one; what really proved the existence of my client, talking to herself, living on her beer, was that she was on the government tax lists. A comical game of hide-and-seek where nonexistent players hunted and searched for each other.
Despite the glare of the street lights I could see nothing but the darkness. Now and then a bus would pull up, and there would be the thin sound of someone walking, but not a soul was visible. The black, vacant perspective in which I wearily waited was all there was. But I kept waiting, walking slowly in one direction, stopping, turning round, and walking back again. I would wait forever. As long as she went on waiting I too would wait with her. In the distance an iron grill was violently slammed shut, sounding through ramifications of pipes, finally striking my ears as a sigh from the earth. The faint howling of a dog came rushing through space. How could everyone have ceased to exist?
I COULD only assume someone was watching me. Outside it was all white, and although colors had not yet returned to objects, it was already light enough to distinguish clearly the shapes of things, and drivers were beginning to turn off their headlights. Yet the inside of the shop was still lighter, and through the loose weave of the Camellia’s black curtains I could clearly make out the interior. The shop, which had always been so deserted and forlorn that it made me ill at ease, was now a confusion of closely packed black figures. Just by changing the fourteenth to the fifteenth in my report I could let it stand as it was, apparently. People on the inside could not yet see out very well, and as a matter of fact everyone was facing the counter, his attention focused on something or other. There was absolutely no indication they were keeping watch outside or being particularly vigilant. It was conceivable that the attendant in the parking lot somehow or other could secretly contact them.
Furthermore, even I took no precautions. My goal was simply to glean some clue concerning the husband by seeing a familiar face, but they were close-mouthed fellows and I had no intention of forcing anyone to talk. Out of work I was, but I hadn’t yet thought of trying a shakedown by exposing the unlicensed operation. My eye was caught by the rewritten help-wanted ad, Female Clerk Wanted, and I calmly pushed open the accustomed door and shouldered into the heated atmosphere and commotion.
It was impossible to discern exactly what was going on. Two or three men standing at the front turned and looked at me with hostile eyes; the next instant I was seized by the collar by hands extended from the corner near the door, while an arm violently beat on my head, which unexpectedly began to reel. No, it was not an arm, but a blackjack perhaps … something soft and limp like a rubber truncheon. The heavy dizziness in my chest was an inverted cone. I could taste the bitter gastric juices dripping from its point. My face was struck or I was kicked, but I felt no particular pain. That came when I was carried unconscious outside. Beside my car, parked immediately in front, I was kicked about the neck and hips. A sharp pain exploded with a flash like shooting fireworks, piercing my heart. Perhaps it was that that brought me back to consciousness. Someone opened the car door and two others, supporting me on both sides, thrust me in. My legs were folded in under the dashboard and the door was violently closed. They were experts. Unfortunately I was unable after all to see the faces of the men who had manhandled me.
The pain brought back my energy. I tried moving my shoulders; fortunately the ache had nothing to do with them. My two hands were covered with blood. Looking into the rear-view mirror, I could see splotches of blood on my face, as if someone had been playing tricks with paint. My nose was blocked, and it was difficult to breathe. I took out from under the seat the old towel I used for cleaning off the windshield and wiped away the blood. But I couldn’t do much against the slimy red that clung to my face. My nose hadn’t stopped bleeding yet. I pinched my nose with two fingers and, leaning my head against the back rest, I waited for some time with my face upward. But I could not spend a long time like this. There were almost no passers-by yet, but the window of the Camellia had already become a black mirror, and the surroundings had taken on color with the onset of morning. Then the quiet and deserted street was suddenly swarming with people. I could not let a face like mine be seen. I rolled up a Kleenex and plugged my nose. Aware of the eyes that were surely peering at me from the window of the Camellia, I started the car and slowly pulled away. The booth at the parking lot was still dark, and fortunately the figure of the old man was not to be seen.
AND AGAIN the white sky … to which the white road seemed directly connected. The street lights had already closed their eyes; the street had broadened to about ten yards at a rough estimate. Only in the open mouths of the various buildings and in the entrances to stairways did a remembrance of the night still linger; a boy on a bicycle had just made the last milk delivery and now passed the car on his way down the slope amid the clicking of empty bottles in his sack.
Fortunately there was still no one else around. I rushed up the stairs, two at a time, and rang the white bell in the white iron door, bordered with its dark green frame. Although it had only been on a day since I had been here, I felt like someone who has been on a ship and touches land for the first time in a month. Whatever the meaning of the curtains that had changed to stripes, this blood-spattered face of mine should afford me free admission.
At the second ring the cloth over the peephole was rolled up. It was not surprising she had taken so long, considering the hour. I heard the chain being hurriedly unfastened. The handle turned, the door opened wide.
“What has happened to you? It’s so early in the morning …” she gasped in the amazement I had anticipated.
“It was the Camellia. Will you let me wash up my face?”
At least there were no men’s shoes in the entryway. She wore a net over her hair and had on a strange pajamalike quilted garment
that made her look like a young girl. I still couldn’t make her fit in with the impressions I had gleaned from the photo that I had spent two successive evenings intently studying.
“When you say ‘Camellia,’ you mean that coffee house?”
I took off my topcoat and my jacket; my sleeves and my collar were blood-soaked. As I carefully wiped away the stains with absorbent cotton, which I dipped into the basin of lukewarm water she had brought me, I briefly explained the situation to her. With exaggeratedly painful breathing I told her about the worrisome information I had got out of the parking lot attendant … and the driver Toyama’s story which supported it … and the unlicensed employment agency for temporary drivers that was forbidden by law.
“You’d best not touch the cuts too much. Shall I change the water?”
“A nose bleed, I guess. The cuts don’t amount to much. They sting, but they’re no more than bruises.”
“Why did they have to be so violent, I wonder.”
“I guess they had to be.”
“Anyone who takes refuge there must be desperate not to be found out.”
“Did you know that Tashiro committed suicide?”
“Suicide?”
“Why does everybody want to run away?”
“What was his motive? I suppose he had some reason.”
“Motives … I have some things to tell you about when I get the time, but … To make a long story short, he got lost … where was he? … did he really exist the way he thought he did? It was others who proved both his existence and his whereabouts, but since not a single one took any notice of him …”