The Gun

  “It’s fine—they’re with their girlfriends, they can drink with them.”

  I was a little disappointed that she was wearing jeans. Again I wondered about what to do now, then decided that we shouldn’t do anything. As I looked over her hair, which grazed her shoulders, her wide eyes, and her breasts, whose outline I could still make out through her sweatshirt, I imagined having sex with her. But because I had decided to take my time getting there, I tried as best I could to direct my attention elsewhere. Even though it didn’t really seem to matter, I figured I would keep trying to take it slow.

  “What about your boyfriend, can’t you talk to him about it?”

  “Boyfriend? I don’t have one. Not even.”

  “You don’t? Come on, don’t lie.”

  “I’m not lying. I mean, I don’t need anyone right now. I’m sick of it. I’m done. I don’t need anyone anymore. It seems like a waste of time. I mean, I feel worn out, and like, guys just don’t understand.”

  “Worn out? Really? But I guess I know what you mean.”

  “No, you don’t. Sorry, but that’s just how I feel. Still, I can’t stand it. I don’t need anyone right now—I don’t need the trouble, I don’t need the ridiculousness.”

  “Hmm, did something happen? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

  “No, nothing in particular. I think it happens all the time, this kind of thing. Happens all the time, but I mean, it just gets to me, you know? It’s absurd,” she said, and laughed to herself.

  She really did seem like she was down. Nevertheless I found myself in a very interesting position. Gauging her mood, and then trying to delve deeper into her thoughts, was a challenge, and that’s what made it interesting for me. I had the impression that, from a distance, we must have looked like a couple talking about something serious. And I bet that nobody would have thought that I had a gun stashed inside my coat.

  I soon realized that I was feeling extremely drowsy. It happened without any warning, coming over me suddenly like a veil. The orange lights grew blurry, and I couldn’t understand everything Yuko was saying. Trying to remain awake, I drank my coffee, and stood up forcefully. I asked if she wanted to walk a little.

  Instead of replying to me, she said, “I feel like I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ugh, it’s nothing. Just that, I feel strange today. Sorry. I can’t stop apologizing.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “Hmm?” I was so sleepy, I don’t know how many times I stifled a yawn. “Anyway, this kind of thing happens, I mean, no matter what you do, sometimes you feel bad. So don’t worry about it.” My head felt muddled, and I couldn’t quite grasp the words I wanted to say. I headed for the vending machine again, this time buying an iced black coffee. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Yuko eyed me, repeatedly asking if I was okay. I couldn’t think of an appropriate response, so I just tried to laugh it off.

  “Hey, it’s kind of cold,” she said. “Do you want to come to my place? It’s a mess but . . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s getting cold out, and well . . . my apartment is near here.” She looked at me as she spoke.

  I hesitated a little—I wanted to say something clever in response. I was a little nervous thinking about how she might react, and I enjoyed the feeling. I put on a troubled look, and told her that I would take a pass.

  “I don’t think I could control myself, if we went to your apartment. I’m weak, you know. And with you in a fragile state, I mean, I might try to take advantage. Cowardly, aren’t I? That’s what I mean. Maybe you should reconsider. I’d like to think I wouldn’t be like other guys, that I could take care of you. I get the feeling you know what you’re saying, but still, this is serious. That’s why, well, think about it. When you’re feeling better. You can let me know anytime.”

  I looked at her as I finished speaking, and she seemed to be a little taken aback. The expression on her face gave me a feeling of satisfaction. She said something briefly, but so softly that I couldn’t really hear her. I was worried that my face may have revealed my glee, which for whatever reason I didn’t want her to see, so I had looked away mid-sentence. She grasped my hand and leaned into me as we started walking again. I was again overcome with drowsiness; it took effort for me to remain alert.

  As we descended a stone staircase, she chattered away randomly. About how she couldn’t abide cheating, about places she wished she could travel to—those kinds of things. Struggling through my stupor, I managed to smile and respond to her. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, suddenly she pressed her body against mine. I was a little caught off guard, but I didn’t lose my balance. She put her arms around me, so I put mine around her. At that moment, I caught the scent of her hair. There was something familiar about it, yet for some reason, I felt uneasy. As that uneasiness gradually spread throughout my body, it seemed to make me forget all about my drowsiness. I felt a dull ache in my heart, and I was seized with an inexplicable desire to flee—the sensation seemed to take my breath away. Dazedly, I just kept holding her in my arms. As I stood there, I felt the oddest sensation—I can’t really describe it—as if I were in limbo and I couldn’t move.

  “I feel like,” she started to say, and apparently she was already in tears. “Sometimes, I just feel like crying. I don’t know why, all these feelings well up inside. But, right now, I guess I feel better. No doubt you’ll see this side of me again, but hey, thanks.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t really thinking about anything. Then I walked her back to the building where she lived, and left her there, hoping it wasn’t too awkward. Along the way, for some reason, I broke into a run. As I ran, the gun in my jacket jostled up and down. Each time it did so, the gun struck up against my left lower torso. It hurt, but I didn’t do anything about it. In an attempt to calm myself down, I stopped and smoked a cigarette, inhaling repeatedly as I mindlessly ran my hand over the leather pouch that contained the gun.

  I took the train, getting off at the station near my building. The entire time, I never let go of the leather pouch, reassuring myself of its weight, occasionally putting my hand inside the pouch and touching the gun itself. My mind was almost completely blank. I just kept touching the gun, making sure that it was at my side.

  I took the gun out of the leather pouch and put it directly in my jacket pocket. Within the pocket, I gripped the gun, relishing the feel of it there. Something about that action was incredibly reassuring to me. The metal of the gun was cool—no matter how much I handled it, it still didn’t warm up—and yet it felt like a part of me. I had put my finger on the trigger, but the trigger offered up its own resistance. I worried that the gun might fire even without the hammer being lowered, so I stopped fingering the trigger. At that moment, I realized that I still didn’t know much about the gun. The thought saddened me for some reason, yet I did not release my grip. It seemed as though I had never held onto anything so tightly in my life. I squeezed my hand even more firmly, as if I wanted the gun to like me, but the gun showed no reaction. This was to be expected, and yet for some reason it pained me. Nevertheless, I felt the gun remain at my side.

  I went up the stairs to the pedestrian bridge, walking across it slowly as I looked down on the street below. The path on the bridge was enclosed on both sides with plastic fencing, obscuring me from view from the waist down. So I took the gun out from my pocket and walked along with it in my hand. It made no difference, but I carried it all the way to stairs on the other end, where I put it away, and it gave me a little jolt of satisfaction. I walked slowly, and when I could see my building, I turned and went in the opposite direction. For some reason, I had no interest in going home. I don’t know why, but that was very clear to me. I bought a hot coffee from a vending machine a
nd, as I drank it, I figured I would walk around until I was tired. I felt like I was in a daze, but not from drowsiness—this time it seemed like something different. I walked slowly though the hushed and darkened streets, gripping the gun inside my pocket. I passed through a residential area, then went over the railway tracks at a crossing and walked along a street beside a park.

  At that moment I heard a sound, like the grass rubbing intensely against itself. I thought it could have been a cat or a dog running through a clump of bushes, but the simple thought occurred to me that it might be another dead body. I had nothing else to do, so I headed to the other side of the park fence where I had heard the sound coming from. If it was another dead body, I might find a second gun, but the idea didn’t really interest me. This gun was enough for me—the fact was, I didn’t need another gun. As I was walking I thought, there was no way I would just happen upon another dead body, and I laughed to myself a little. And, if it was a dead body, there was no reason to think it would have made a noise.

  I went over the fence and entered the small park. It was pretty typical, with swings and a slide. I could still hear the sound. I walked around, and realized that I had passed where it was coming from. Just in front of the fence, a part of the rough and overgrown bushes was moving slightly. The sound was coming from there. It gave me the creeps, but I had come this far, and I was curious to know what was making that noise. I approached slowly, trying to determine what was moving within the grass. I was a little nervous, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of how I felt before, when I approached the man lying by the Arakawa River. Based on the way it was moving, I tried to imagine what could be in the grass. Trying hard to pay attention, I moved closer and gripped the gun in my pocket, just in case.

  The first thing I saw was a black clump. The clump was writhing and twitching violently, while still attempting to stand on its feet. It took a while for me to realize that it was a black cat—at first all I could do was just stare at it uncomprehendingly. The wet fur along the cat’s spine reflected the light from the streetlamp, and the white line that shone there was so bright it almost hurt my eyes. It also took me a while to realize that the wetness along its spine was blood. The grass near the black cat was matted down, perhaps from its writhing, and the surrounding weeds had formed a sort of depression in a small space that encircled the cat. Looking closer, I saw the black cat was in the center of a pool of blood—it was all over everything, even at my feet where I was standing two meters away. I was surprised by how much blood there was, yet more than anything, I was transfixed by the sight of the cat’s violent convulsions—I couldn’t look away. Its head and forepaws were down on the grass, and it was straining to stand up with its hind legs. Then, the convulsions that began at the nape of its neck and continued along its spine would extend to the rest of the cat’s body, causing it to shake intensely and irregularly in every direction. The black cat’s neck was on the ground at a strange angle, and the way it was bent made it seem as though the cat would no longer be able to stand up normally. I recoiled, thinking I wanted to get away, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to leave, and I just stood there watching the spectacle. The black cat coughed up something, and there was blood mixed in with whatever filth came out. In the pool of blood around the cat, I caught sight of what looked like fragments of crawfish shells, which took me a little by surprise. The crawfish made me think of that kid, connecting them in my mind. For a moment, I thought the kid might have done this, but that was hard to imagine. He was still pretty small, and there was no way he could have caused such injury to this cat. The black cat must have eaten these crawfish in a pond or marsh somewhere, and here were the remnants. Or maybe the cat had eaten that mass of crawfish that were missing claws after I had tossed it aside the other day. I figured this cat must have been run over by a car, or maybe some junior high student had injured it, and I wished I hadn’t seen it. And yet, the fact that I had seen it made me feel as though I was now inevitably entangled with this black cat.

  Just then, something bizarre happened. With its head as a pivot on the ground, the black cat moved its hind legs slowly and started turning, as if drawing a circle around the spot. I gasped—I could do nothing but stare at such a display of futile motion, as if the cat were abandoned to instinct. But that movement brought the front of the cat’s head in my direction. Not surprisingly, I found myself staring it in the face. The black cat’s gleaming eyes were both open wide, its mouth contorted into a strange shape—its face was filled with such agony, its expression even looked human. At that moment, the black cat let out a little cry. It repeated the sound three more times, calling out to me. I was listening to its cry for I don’t know how long, and the whole time, a single thought kept running through my mind. I surveyed the area, and after making sure no one was there, I looked around again. But this second glance wasn’t meant to check on my immediate surroundings; what I was looking at was the row of three darkened houses in the distance, as well as the utility pole next to them, the street, the tree towering behind me, the parked white van, the area around the slide, the sky and where it verged with several angular buildings, the grass, the white fence, and so on. However, in this series of movements, I didn’t see a single soul. I was sweating, my arms were numb, and my legs felt disturbingly unstable. The expression on the black cat’s face was too creepy; the cat made no effort to look at anything other than me. I kept hearing the cat’s cry, but I was gradually overcome with the delusion that it was coming from within my own head, and then my mind went blank. I pulled the gun out from my pocket, though it didn’t feel like I was moving on my own. Lodged in my pocket, my right hand had been damp with perspiration, and I felt an immediate chill as it met the outside air. Out in the open, the gun seemed to take on more of a presence and grow heavier, at the same time appearing even more beautiful to me. I extended my right hand out in front of me and pointed the barrel of the gun at the black cat, but I still didn’t think I would fire it. All I wanted was to assume that position—I remained rigid in the pose. Then I slowly cocked the hammer. It was heavier than I had imagined; it took strength to lower it. Once it was cocked, with a metallic clink the trigger moved ever so slightly toward me. When I saw this, I thought that it might fire just from cocking the hammer, but the trigger stopped there. The rest of the effort was left to my index finger. I felt an ache in my chest; I heard my own heart beating. It was such a strange sound, I didn’t think it could possibly be coming from me. I faced the black cat, and in my mind, I said to it, Stay right there. It was clearly frightened but, I thought, it wanted to be out of its misery. Still facing me, the black cat didn’t move. At that moment I had the impression that, somehow, the cat understood precisely what I was about to do. The feeling had come over me that the gun and I had become one. My entire being had become an extension of the gun. The full-body sensation of merging with this overwhelming presence, with the palpable intention of this gun, filled me with an exhilaration that I had never before experienced. Yet at the same time, I also noticed a presence within me that would interfere with it. That resistance wanted to stop me somehow. But it seemed like too much trouble to give it my full attention and—as if to skip over the thought process yet without mentally preparing myself for the moment of firing—I squeezed the trigger. There was a fiercely explosive sound that echoed throughout the hushed silence, and at that moment, I saw a violet flame escape the barrel. A plume of gray smoke burst forth, and an intense reverberating shock ran up my arm. I had expected it, but it was so strong that it knocked me off balance. The black clump rolled over, splattering fluid as it appeared to be blown to bits. I had imagined that it would leave a hole in the black cat, but the reality was that the bullet had gouged out its body like an explosion. The first thing I was aware of thinking was, That was a direct hit. And right away I had the desire to experience the sensation that went along with that action again. I cocked the hammer once more, aimed at the black clump, and squeezed the trigger a se
cond time. The same impact as before had already transformed into an intoxicating pleasure. Within that, my original intention—to put an end to the black cat’s suffering—had vanished. The bullet may have only grazed it, because this time the clump didn’t roll away, it stayed in the same place, only changing shape. The smell of gunpowder had reached my nostrils, and I could almost taste the numbness that was left in my arms. Then I looked around me, as if something had attracted my notice, and as I made sure no one was there, I cowered with an unfamiliar fear, almost dropping the gun. Realizing that I needed to hurry up and get out of there, I put the gun in my pocket and started off at a half-run. Aware of the excitement welling up inside me, yet thinking only of getting away from there, midway I broke into a full sprint. I had no idea what I was running past—I didn’t care, I just ran. It took a while for me to realize that running made me even more conspicuous. I became intensely anxious, worrying that someone might have seen me, yet the anxiety was surpassed by the joy I felt at the same time. It occurred to me that I was not the person I used to be. You could say that I had discovered a supreme joy, and I savored it. I felt grateful to the gun for enabling me to experience this, and I knew I would do anything for it. I had no doubt that this thing I felt was love. I wanted to get back to my apartment and polish the gun thoroughly, as soon as I could. Filled with the joy that spontaneously rose up within me, I wanted to affirm everything in this world. I felt happiness—a happiness that I thought would last until the day I died.

  11

  The inside of the hospital reeked of antiseptic. The orphanage director walking alongside me had shrunken into old man. When I had been at the orphanage, he had still been spry in his middle age. When he first saw me again, he had smiled and embraced me happily, saying, “You’ve grown.” Then he asked me in detail about university, about my family, about my life. I answered each question in turn, but, maybe because of the stench of the antiseptic, I grew irritable. He talked a lot about me when I was little. About how—for a child at the orphanage—I had caused surprisingly few problems, about how I did what I was told, about how I studied hard—he spoke without pausing; I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Then, just as I expected, he said, “But that was exactly why, on the contrary, I was worried about you.” He went on, “Though seeing you now, there was no need to worry.”