Last Winter We Parted

  I’m sure you don’t want to hear this from me now, but you have a bad habit, sis. You have a tendency to want to ruin people—or actually, you want to ruin yourself by causing ruin to others.

  The other day I remembered something from back in school, when we used to make things out of clay in art class.

  It was summer, and in the heat of the classroom, the clay model I had made had melted into the clay model that was next to it. Both of them were reduced to a puddle. There was nothing to do with them but throw them away. But as they were falling into the garbage can, I could have sworn that one of them—my clay model, that is—had been smiling. I didn’t see the expression on the face of the other clay model.

  Sis, you never fall alone. You’re always caught up with someone else.

  … Don’t take it the wrong way. I don’t depend on you, since I can no longer depend on anyone. I heard from the lawyer that you’ve suffered emotionally. It’s my fault. I know that. It’s all my fault.

  I distinctly remember when you told me to throw away all of the photographs I’d taken of you. It was a shock to learn that my photos had always made you feel strange. But the truth is, I didn’t get rid of all of them. That’s why, now … I’m sending this back to you. I’m enclosing it with this letter.

  Sis, you’re my closest loved one. You’re the only person in the world whose happiness I care about. It’s all right. I’m no longer jealous of the men in your life. I just want you to be happy.

  Isn’t that right? Both you and I are hated by everyone out there. That doesn’t mean it isn’t frustrating, though. Being happy would be the best revenge … Be happy enough for me too.

  I know about your bad reputation too. And about the nasty remarks you made to the victim’s family after the first incident. But that was just because you cared too much about me. Right? And already at that point, sis, you weren’t in your right mind. You know … you’ve said all along that I was innocent, but you’re wrong. I did it. I killed them. How many times have I told you?… I really hope you can forgive me.

  You keep telling me to file an appeal. Just like the lawyer does. But there’s no more use for me. Just be happy yourself. Let this photo be a clean break from me.

  … It’s a good one, isn’t it? It seems like all of you is in here. This is one of the photos I’m most proud of. The young girl in a white dress, nervously facing the camera. Actually, you faced the whole world nervously, didn’t you, sis? And behind this expression lies your true self. Everything is apparent on your face. I captured it all in that one moment … I think it’s a terrifying image. It was cruel for me to have taken a photo like this.

  Ultimately, sis, your way of dealing with the world is wrong.

  The same way mine is.

  4

  YUKIE DOESN’T JUST leave a message; there is also an email from her. A brief one.

  I’m not happy with you. Please contact me. Don’t you think it’s cowardly not to answer your phone?

  Still, I don’t reply. I need to break things off with her. I have known all along that a guy like me never should have gotten involved with her.

  An old coffee shop. I am waiting for Katani. It is five minutes past the time we were supposed to meet. He is the only person whom Yudai Kiharazaka could call a friend.

  I light my second cigarette. Weary-looking men sip their coffee without any apparent pleasure. I realize I am about to check the screen on my phone again, so I open the folder and delete her message. The moment I do so, as my finger touches the pads on my phone, I feel a slight sense of discomfort. Although it is only email, it is still completely erasing someone’s words. Will my involvement with that person be erased as well? I sense someone’s presence; I look up to see a man there. It is Katani. I stand up to greet him.

  “… I’m a little late. Uh …”

  “No, it’s fine. Thank you for coming.”

  Katani had been in graduate school researching mathematics, but he had quit suddenly, got his certification in accounting, and is now working for a mid-sized auto parts manufacturer. His hair is trimmed short, and he has a thin beard. He looks like one of the young people these days who are concerned about their appearance. He is tall.

  Katani orders a caffè latte. I put my cigarette out.

  “Um … Actually, I almost didn’t come.”

  Katani shifts his gaze slightly downward.

  “You’re writing … a book about him? Will my name be in the book too?”

  “I’ll use an alias. You can also check the manuscript before it’s published. If for any reason you object to something I’ve written, you can say so … Do you mind if I record this?”

  Katani looks at the silver recorder on top of the table. It catches the light in the coffee shop with a cold gleam.

  “Well … is it a problem if you don’t?”

  “No, not at all.”

  The waitress sets Katani’s coffee on the table. It should have been a caffè latte, but Katani doesn’t say anything.

  “… You’ve known Kiharazaka since you were elementary school students, right?”

  “… Yes.”

  “What was your impression of him back then?”

  “Hmm.”

  Katani puts his hand in his pocket and abruptly withdraws a cigarette and lights it. He exhales the smoke. Calmly, quietly.

  “Well, uh …” He speaks with a certain determination. “Why are you writing a book about him?”

  He looks me directly in the eye until it seems he can’t stand to anymore, and then he drops his gaze. The waitress passes by his side. Her white legs stick out under her short skirt.

  “Because it’s what I decided to do.”

  “But why? Are you fascinated by him? He …”

  As he speaks, he meets my gaze again, then looks down again.

  “He burned two women to death.”

  The coffee shop is poorly lit. I wonder why I chose this place.

  “Akiko Yoshimoto and Yuriko Kobayashi. They were both so young. Why write a book about a man like that?”

  “… Because I have my doubts.”

  “About what?”

  I light my own cigarette. I exhale the smoke. As if that is all I can manage. Katani goes on before I say anything.

  “… I had a bad feeling. He had transferred his obsession with his sister onto butterflies. That would have been fine. But then it shifted to dolls, before finally coming back to people. I thought it was risky. He put too much of himself into his photographic subjects. I recognize that’s precisely what made him a brilliant artist. But it’s a thin line, and dangerous if he were to cross it.”

  I am silent. Katani starts to speak again.

  “Shall I guess what your doubts are?”

  He is no longer looking at me. He keeps his gaze down.

  “Why would Kiharazaka have murdered and burned his beloved photographic subjects? No, that’s not quite right … It’s horrific, but here is probably where your doubts really lie. When those subjects, I mean, when those women were on fire, why didn’t Kiharazaka photograph the scene?… Isn’t that it? Especially if that was the reason why he burned them in the first place.”

  I am positively speechless. I can feel sweat break out on my back.

  “Are you familiar with the story by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa called ‘Hell Screen’?”

  I nod.

  “It tells the tale of a crazed painter, who watches as his own daughter literally burns to death, and then he paints the scene. Afterward the painter commits suicide, but the folding screen that he leaves behind, with its depiction of hell, evokes a terrific artistry … Is this what you had in mind? If that were the case—if it were the mad act of a person crazed with his art—in a way it would be easier to understand. But that’s not what he did. He simply burned them. Despite the fact that he was an artist, he didn’t take a single photograph.”

  No longer able to stand it, I tear my gaze away from Katani for a moment and from a distance catch the eye of the waitress. Not hav
ing been listening to our conversation, she smiles. Unsuspectingly.

  “… I studied mathematics at university. I mentioned Akutagawa just now—I became interested in him and read some of his work because he had said that his writing required certain mathematical skills … Still, there is something familiar to me about that thin and dangerous line … Numbers are beautiful. They seem to line up coherently, but behind their logic lies an overwhelming chaos. And there is a pleasure to be found in proceeding to create beautiful order out of that chaos … Only, I knew the limits. I don’t mean something as simple as the limits of my own mathematical ability. I mean the limits of my brain. Have you ever grasped the limits, not of your own skills, but of your brain’s capabilities?”

  “… I don’t think so.”

  “Most people are unaware of the true limits of their own brain. In reality, though, what would they do with that knowledge anyway? In certain areas of expertise, it’s necessary to use the brain at the utmost limits of human potential … There’s a fear of knowing just what that is. The brain tries to deny its own limits. Then numbers get distorted. Once, among the numbers, I discovered a formula that shouldn’t have existed … It really was an odd formula. Not a breakthrough—because the equation was flawed, you see. But I realized that I was obsessed with the flaw itself. I was delirious with joy. That joy enabled me to keep working on the flawed equation, which brought me into strange territory. I was thrilled when I realized it. I was able to leave mathematics … To this day, I still wonder what the hell that damn formula was about.”

  Katani suddenly falls silent, as if he realizes he talked too much and is embarrassed. Or perhaps he is distracted by something serious. I think if I don’t speak he won’t say anything more.

  “… Kiharazaka’s photograph, Butterflies …”

  He doesn’t respond to what I say. Despite the fact that a moment ago he had been speaking with such enthusiasm.

  “For me, there’s something about that photo of his … This all started when my editor asked if I might be interested in writing about him. That’s how it happened, no dramatic connection. But then, just … when I looked at that photo, I realized I was on the verge of a morbid fixation on it. So the concept of writing a book on him is simply expanding the original assignment, taking it far beyond.”

  He still doesn’t respond. It seems as though he might have regressed to the time when he was doing mathematics.

  “I was interested in the man who took that photograph. Then I looked at the archives that were supplied to me. Both women were murdered. When the first incident happened, the fire was not treated as arson—but after the second murder, it became clear that he was responsible for both. It’s not as if one could be deemed an accident and the other a murder … It’s just like you said. I have various doubts, and that’s one of them—why aren’t there any photos of the corpses burning? Wouldn’t an artist like him—one who sought out the bizarre—have been expected to take pictures?”

  “I think you may have missed …” he says suddenly. “The relevant point here … You’re subtly avoiding the question. What I wanted to know was, why are you writing this book? You said it was because there was something about that photograph. But that’s just the semblance of an answer—there’s nothing substantial about it. Pay attention to what I’m asking you now. What was it that drew you to that photograph? I would like you to explain by focusing on the question of what it was exactly. I expect the real answer is to be found there.”

  I get the feeling that he is not just an ordinary guy. It may not be outwardly apparent, but it seems as though something inside him might go off at any moment.

  “You want to know what it was about the photo. I doubt the answer will satisfy you.”

  “All right.”

  “… When I saw that photo, I felt like I wanted to push my way through.”

  As I speak, my heart pounds slightly.

  “Through all those disruptive butterflies. I felt like I wanted leave everything behind, to push my way through those butterflies, and give it all up. It seemed to me that my own essence was to be found there. That until now, my entire life had been completely distorted … I’m a member of K2.”

  I take in a breath. As deeply as I can.

  “However, I had never lost anyone close to me. So there was no reason for the doll creator to construct a memento doll for me. I had no interest in one of those ridiculous real-woman dolls. Nor did I have any proclivity for forcing myself on a doll … Nevertheless, I spent all my time at his mansion.”

  “… I don’t understand.”

  “Right.”

  It has been quiet this whole time in the coffee shop. There are several crude lights suspended from cords, and they dangle like hanged men.

  “K2,” Katani murmurs. “I had been in regular contact with him up until about when he was chasing after butterflies. By the time he was in K2, when he had turned his interest toward dolls, we had pretty much drifted apart. To begin with, although we may have spoken to each other often, we never had very meaningful conversations … You ought to ask the other members about that period. You must know about the time when he was hospitalized after taking too many pictures of the butterflies. He was certainly acting strange after that, but when he really started to go off the rails was probably around the time he became a member of K2. He just … Here’s what he told me, a long time ago. ‘Photography is an imitation,’ he said.”

  “… An imitation?”

  “Yes, he meant, there is always an object. As opposed to something like an abstract painting, there is always a distinct object, beyond what you are seeing through the camera. Since you take a picture of that object, I guess you could say that the finished product is an imitation of that object … But he also said this: a photograph may be an imitation, but it transcends imitation.”

  Katani cracks a faint smile. I realize it is the first time I have seen him do so.

  “Another thing he said is, art is a form of revelation.”

  “That sounds like something Sartre said. He wrote about how literature functions in the world—in particular how it serves to reveal man to the world.”

  Katani smiles once again as I speak.

  “I don’t know how he knows so much about so many things. That’s just the kind of guy he is.”

  Archive 4

  What you said about the inside of your mind was quite boring.

  Because you’re hiding behind your cowardice. It seems like you are refusing to share your true self with me—no, refusing to share it with yourself, even. How do you expect to intrude upon someone else’s mind, when you yourself are cloaked in layer after layer of disguise? For most people, things are only ever permissible inside their own mind. The palatable dark places. Shady areas beyond censure. If people can accept those kinds of things, don’t you think they’d want to read a book about whatever that might be for you?

  … Last time I wrote, I made it to the point of the butterflies. Including the part about being hospitalized afterward. I’m not going to write about what you want to know until you show me your true nature. But I will give you just a little bit more. Why?… Because I’m lonely.

  When I was in the hospital, there was a man there named R. He had lost his younger sister, and he had not been able to adjust mentally, so he had been admitted to the psychiatric hospital. He is the one who told me about K2. That there was a gifted doll creator. That he had constructed a sister-doll for him, but his family refused to let him be with it. It seemed that his family had put him in the hospital as a means of keeping him away from the doll.

  He said that he could hear her voice. That he felt as though the doll were actually speaking to him. People who have lost a part of their body say that they can still feel pain in the limb that is gone, but he said that he could hear his sister’s voice coming from the doll. And though it’s extremely disgusting, eventually he confessed to me that he had become aroused by his sister … She said, Make love to me.

  It
must have been his own desire. By making a doll his lover, he could learn what his true desires were toward his sister. But he was a sensible person, so he could reject his sister’s provocations. When he did so, the sister-doll then started saying that they should kill their parents. If their parents weren’t around, it would just be the two of them … It’s a good thing that he was hospitalized. But they almost put him in the single room next door to me.

  My interest had been piqued, so when I was released from the hospital, I went to meet the doll creator. I’m sure you’re aware, but I think most people are surprised at first when they meet him. They expect to see a creepy, jittery man, and instead here is this cheerful, unassuming person waiting for them. But that’s just appearances. He’s a genius. Those kinds of people are the most dangerous, as far as I’m concerned. When he showed me the dolls that he had constructed … I was amazed. It was the first time I had ever been so astonished by someone’s talent.

  I wonder if you’ve noticed? A particularly creepy tendency about the way he makes the dolls? He doesn’t attempt to accurately reconstruct the subject of the doll. He subtly emphasizes one trait that suits the client who has hired him, and then he goes on with the restoration. What the doll creator seeks is not integrity, but rather imperfection. The soul dwells in the distorted part, in the instability that maintains such imperfection. But it’s a soul that suits the client.

  Being a photographer, I was deeply interested in the work he was doing. In both aspects of it—that first there was an object, and that there was an art to creating an “imitation” in a particular sense. I took dozens of photographs of his creations … I was creating another imitation of things that were imitations themselves. At that point, I felt as though I had ventured into territory where what was original no longer mattered. Do you get it now? The sensation of being in that place was very soothing.