The Gun

  “Is something the matter?” I said. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to, but if it’s better for me to know about it, then please just tell me. Okay? What is it—it’s all right, just go ahead and tell me.”

  My mother hesitated before saying, “Your father is in critical condition.” This made no sense to me, so I asked her to repeat what she had said. The last time I had been at home, my father had been in good health, so I couldn’t imagine him sick or in the hospital. We had drunk together, and I had listened to him talk at length about his beloved golf. I asked my mother, hadn’t he been fine since then? She fell silent for a moment, then apologized for not knowing how to put it. The person who was in critical condition, she said, was the father to whom I was related by blood.

  “Of course, your father and I think of you as our own son. That’s only natural—we’re parent and child—but, you know, I just couldn’t decide what to do, your father and I talked it over and we felt that it was better to tell you, okay, you know, you probably held a grudge against your father—no, not your father who’s here, I meant the other one—and I thought it would be best for you—as far as we were concerned—to have forgotten about all that, but then the orphanage contacted us, to say that he was, you know, about to die, and we just couldn’t decide what to do, but in the end, we thought we should tell you everything, and then leave it up to you to decide whether or not to go visit him. It must be fifteen years since you’ve seen him, I bet you wouldn’t even recognize him—that’s right, you were about six when you became our son. Okay, I’m sorry, you must be surprised, uh, how, you know, I’m sorry, I gave you quite a shock.”

  My mother rambled on, seeming to break down in tears midway. I had no idea why she was crying, but her voice choked up and she sounded like she was spilling it all out to me in one breath. I was a little surprised by the suddenness of it, but I had imagined something much worse, so I was sort of relieved. Nevertheless, I grasped that this was a grave scene. And I wondered what would be the best way to respond, as far as my parents were concerned. It was hard to say, but I thought I should probably say that I would go see him, without seeming to worry about it. If I were to state awkwardly that I didn’t want to see him, that would seem like I actually did care about it. It might appear as if in my heart I was still holding on to the idea of my real father. But the thought of gleefully going to see him didn’t seem right. It was a particularly tricky path between the two. Yet I was aware of an external pressure—though to do what exactly, I wasn’t sure.

  “Back then, you know, when you came into our family, the people at the orphanage told us that usually in these cases—especially when the actual parent is alive, right—the child’s mental condition can be unsettled, and it can take a while for the child to think of you as his parents, so we should take a long view and give you time. Often the child might stop eating meals, or try to run away—even if their birth parent was terrible, they might cry that they want to go back to them. But you—from the beginning, you called us Mother and Father, didn’t you—you smiled a lot, you didn’t brood on your own, you never cried, we were so happy, you know, we were so glad that you accepted us, but now when I think about it, it seems as if you were just looking out for us—you were such a thoughtful boy, you know, always so kind, weren’t you, unusually so for a child—I think you were sensitive to a lot of things.”

  She broke down midway, and handed the phone over to my father. The first thing he asked me was if I was surprised, and my response was, “Yeah, I guess so.” Then he said, “Take your time, give it some thought about whether or not to go see him.” Curious as to why he was home at this time of day, I asked him. He was getting close to retirement age, he said, and lately he’d been getting home early.

  “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine, I mean, well, this is all of a sudden, isn’t it. Sorry—well, take your time and think about it.”

  “No, well, I’ll go. He’s about to die and he wants to see me, right? It doesn’t really matter to me either way, but I’ll go—honestly, it’s kind of annoying. I’m afraid if I don’t go, he’ll resent me for it. Oh, right, sorry—things are a little tight this month, so . . . I wonder if you could send me ten thousand yen or so. I’m really sorry to ask. When I go out—ah, no, I’ve got a lot going on, I spent all my money buying a new dictionary.”

  “You just said you’ve been going out, huh?” my father said with a little laugh.

  “Not at all, that’s not what I meant. Really, I’m telling you—but, sorry though—I really need you to send it to me.”

  “I understand, what else can I do? Make sure you’re studying. Oh, and if you do go to see him, I think Mr. Yamane will go with you. I think you’ll likely hear from him too.”

  “Got it. Oh, listen, give Mom a hard time because it seemed like she was crying. Tell her she must be getting sentimental in her old age, okay? Ah, class is about to start,” I said and hung up.

  I thought about my biological father a little, but in all honesty, the whole thing made no difference to me. I had virtually no memory of the man, so I really didn’t harbor any sort of grudge against him. I had heard that the woman he had married had left him and all he had done was drink. And I also remember being told that, for a small child like me, it had been dangerous to live with him when he was in that condition. But as far as I was concerned, that was simply common sense dressed up in other words.

  Keisuke had been watching me with concern, but there was nothing to say. In the past, I would have taken this opportunity to tell him that neither of my parents were my real parents, that I had been in an orphanage, and then enjoyed watching his reaction, but of course I didn’t do that now. For whatever reason, Keisuke kept trying to be nice to me. He probably guessed something was up from what I had said on the phone.

  “All right, then, I’m going to go to that girl’s place now,” I said, thinking I would leave Keisuke there.

  “Huh? Oh, the cute one? What’s her name?”

  “Ah, not that one—I meant the girl I slept with the other night, go over to her place. And, her name is Yuko. The one you were talking about. Yuko Yoshikawa. I’m just telling you so you’ll keep your hands off her.”

  “What? Why are you going there? I thought you were in love with this one? Hey, what are you doing? Break it off with the other one.”

  “Come on, nothing wrong with getting what I can, is there? I mean, I’d rather be with Yuko. I’m serious about her, man.”

  “Well, then, if you’re serious, what else can you do? Guess you’d better go. But you’d better not let Yuko find out.”

  “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

  From there, I decided to actually go to that girl’s apartment. I didn’t have any particular desire to see her, but since I was the one who suggested it, I figured why turn back now? In fact, I often acted according to the idea of “why turn back now?” I searched for the girl’s number on my cell phone, then called her. I hadn’t known her name, so I had put her in under T for “toast.” She answered cheerfully, and when I said I was coming over now, she breezily accepted. She asked if I was hungry, but I said I didn’t need to eat. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded eating something, but I wanted to see what would happen if I just went there to have sex. There was no reason for it, that’s just what I decided to do. I went to her place, and after a brief conversation, she and I had sex. But it didn’t go that well at the beginning. At first, I wasn’t all that into it, maybe because she didn’t feel new and exciting to me. I didn’t get fully erect until I was inside her. She moaned a lot, but I kind of doubted it was entirely for real. It made me wonder whether she had actually come, this time as well as the first time we had sex.

  Afterward I fell into a dream-filled sleep. Several times, within the dreams, I was aware of the fact that I was dreaming, yet I was unable to control my own actions. When I awoke, just like the last time, the girl was preparing something on the
other side of the curtain. I figured it might be toast again, but the only thing she had made was coffee. According to her, I had been asleep for sixteen hours. At first I thought she was making this up, but it was true. The gun sprang to mind, and my eyes hurriedly searched for my bag. But I quickly remembered that I hadn’t brought it with me that day. My cell phone rang: it was Yuko Yoshikawa. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to let it ring, waiting for the sound to stop. The girl showed no interest in my behavior. It seemed to take a very long time for the phone to stop ringing.

  9

  By the time I left the girl’s apartment, it was already getting dark, and I was too exhausted to do anything else. When I said I was leaving, the girl had pressed her body up against mine and thrown me forcefully onto the bed. I let her have her way with me, thinking that she must not have been able to satisfy herself the day before. She liked sex. There probably weren’t too many people who disliked it, but she seemed to particularly enjoy it.

  I gave up on going to scout out the mountain, aware that I was merely postponing it. Having made that decision, I was terribly relieved that it was still off in the future, and I could feel myself start to relax. Yet this seemed rather strange, because I had thought that I wanted to fire the gun.

  As if the act of shooting the gun had taken on a character of its own, the impending realization of this deed loomed over me, and from time to time this awareness gave me the creeps. I had the feeling that this summoning would gradually become unbearable, and that the only way to silence it would be to hurry up and fire it. But I also felt the need to establish some distance. It was in response to this inner awareness that I had come up with the idea of first going to scout out the mountain. But I worried that, when I was up there, the desire to fire the gun might drive me mad. Or rather, that I might be overcome by the reality of shooting it. I lit a cigarette and pondered this for a while. I knew that I wanted to fire the gun, and now I grew curious about where that desire originated. However, there seemed to be no doubt that I wanted to fire it.

  I wondered if I might be afraid. Scouting out a place would make me want to shoot it. And if I wanted to shoot it, at some point I definitely would do so. Shooting it once would make me want to shoot it again. I had the feeling that I was afraid of this cycle continuing, that it was this cycle itself that I feared. But just what, I wondered, was the reason for my fear? It couldn’t have just been about shooting the gun. Most likely I was afraid of being caught, which was why I was going to check out the mountain first, and I wasn’t going to fire the gun unless it was entirely safe to do so. I recalled the excitement I had felt when I first discovered the gun. In the midst of my exhilaration at the time, I had still made an effort to retain a clear awareness. The effort came from trying to keep a certain distance from my own enthusiasm. It felt as though now I was trying to maintain an objective opinion, as I had before, about my part in this process as it took its course. However, it had become more difficult to simply appreciate the feel of the gun without firing it. Once again, I thought about going back. Going back to the time when I discovered it, when it seemed as though we were, I don’t know, on equal terms. But that was impossible. The gun was already a part of me—it may have been an exaggeration to say this, but it had penetrated my sense of reason. Firing the gun was in the nature of the gun itself, and it would always motivate me to do so. By making the choice not to shoot it, I felt as if I must choose to return to my former self. Meaning going back to my previous existence, to when I didn’t have the gun. Not only would that be difficult, I also found the prospect extremely unpleasant. I could no longer imagine my life without the gun. I now experienced a boundless joy from my daily routine, built around the gun, and it seemed to me that enabling that process would at the same time advance my own development.

  When I walked up to my building, I saw the kid from the apartment next to mine. He had a plastic bag in his hand, and he was kicking a small rock as he walked along ahead of me. He had a bruise that looked like a red stain next to his right eye. I figured his mother must have given it to him. He was wearing a gray sweat suit that was a bit grubby, and he was terribly thin. His mother didn’t seem to be anywhere around. The boy piqued my interest. Or else it may just have been that I was looking for a distraction.

  “Hey, did you buy some candy?”

  I made an effort to put a relaxed look on my face as I called out to the kid. Up close, I could see that there was another red bruise in the middle of his forehead, he had a squint, and he gave off a slight stink, which probably came from his overgrown, unkempt hair. My instinct was to turn away to avoid the stench, but I resisted. Using the same calm voice I said, “How did you get those bruises?”

  Something strange happened next. The kid cast a glance at me with his out-of-focus eye, and then he threw the plastic bag he was carrying at me and took off running. I was surprised, and I looked back over my shoulder to start running right after him. But the kid was fast, and he was already quite a bit farther away than I had expected. I hesitated for a moment but, thinking that I would look like some kind of criminal chasing after a kid, I let him go. I stood there for a moment, bewildered. Then, in an attempt to settle myself down, I lit a cigarette.

  I was about to start walking when I noticed the plastic bag lying in the middle of the street, and I thought about moving it out of the way. But that’s when I saw that a crawfish had emerged from the bag on its own. Seeing the crawfish made me feel nostalgic, but as I reached out to touch it, I noticed that it was missing both of its claws. I picked up the bag and looked inside. There were many more crawfish jostling around in it. None of them had their front claws. The many crawfish legs were entangled with each other, and their short arms—the ones without the pincers attached—were moving as if trying to feint an attack. The collective mass seemed as if it formed a single living creature, writhing, appearing to express a uniform rigidity throughout its one body, and producing an odd squeaking sound. Disgusted, I reflexively flung the plastic bag with its red mass away from me. The weighted bottom made a faintly sharp noise when it met the surface of the asphalt. I immediately walked away, but it was a while before I could get the keenness of that sound out of my head.

  When I returned to my apartment, the first thing I did was put on some music. But even over the stereo, as if she had been waiting for me, I could hear the woman next door yelling. There was the sound of glass breaking, and some sort of crashing that went on unendingly and with such intensity, it seemed like it might shake the wall itself. After some hesitation, I looked up the phone number for the child welfare office and called. I explained the situation, giving them the address of my building and the number of the apartment next door. The child welfare agent listened intently to what I said. It may have been the agent’s manner that made me feel a little better. According to the child welfare agent, this was not the first report of this incident, and they would be able to pay a visit here sometime tomorrow.

  I couldn’t stand the people who lived next door. I had no interest in listening to that woman’s screaming, and I was sick of seeing the kid around. Now I could hear someone crying, but it sounded like the woman. I was starting to get depressed, so I put the gun in the leather pouch and went out. I thought I would just walk around the neighborhood.

  I hid the leather pouch in the inside pocket of my coat. I didn’t think anyone could tell just by looking at me that I was carrying a gun. My cell phone rang; it was Yuko Yoshikawa. Perfect, I thought, and even though it was already late I invited her to meet me out somewhere. She wavered a bit, but—maybe because of my persistence—eventually she relented. Thinking I would meet up with her near the university, I headed in the direction of the station. At that moment, I recalled the stink coming off the kid, and I felt a little nauseated.

  10

  It was definitely the first time I had been to the university at night. The orange glow of the outdoor lights shone on the surroundings, and cast the buildings in a di
m ochre silhouette. Light came from several windows, suggesting that there were still people inside. I assumed they were gathered for some kind of activity or group; there were people around outside as well, some of them couples with arms linked. For whatever reason, Yuko Yoshikawa had said that she wanted to walk around campus. I’d tried to get her to go somewhere for a drink, but she said that she felt like being somewhere quiet. I bought two cans of hot coffee from a vending machine and handed one to Yuko. She thanked me, although she seemed sort of depressed. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. I got tired of asking, and decided to light a cigarette. As I nonchalantly brushed over the outside of my jacket where the gun was, I thought about what we might do now.

  She spoke at last. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not much company tonight. I don’t know, I can’t really put in into words, but sometimes I get like this. For no reason, just, you know? But it’s good for me to be with someone. I don’t like to let anyone see me when I’m like this but, well, I didn’t want to be alone. I’m not even sure what I’m talking about, but hey, thanks.”

  She popped the tab on the coffee I had given her and took a sip.

  “No, I’m the one who invited you out, right?—some friends were going out drinking, and they had their girlfriends with them, so I just thought, if you were free—but, no, it’s fine. I don’t really feel like drinking either.”

  “What? Are you sure? You mean, you were with them? Are you sure it’s all right?”

  “Don’t worry about it—when I heard your voice, I could tell something was wrong, so I decided to change my plans.”

  “But what about seeing them?”