Cult X

  “Lines?”

  “Countless thin lines stretching everywhere . . . They’re all tangled together. There are lines for the powerful people who control the world, and lines for those people who don’t leave their homes . . . But believe it or not, they’re all the same.”

  Takahara stood there unable to move.

  “The lines intersect, and make all these things happen . . . Stories . . . Stories keep overlapping . . . I don’t know what will happen, but there will be a great tragedy soon. And I know I can no longer stop it. Even you all may not be able to stop it. Your consciousness . . . Even though you’re one of the main characters caught in the whirlpool of this story, you’re also just a spectator . . . The particles are making a lot of noise now. They’re going to keep going . . . But.” Matsuo looked straight at Takahara. “All I can do is ask you to help me. I’ll start with the things closest to me.”

  “I’m not sure I can do what you say.”

  Matsuo took a shallow breath to steady himself. “First, give back Mine-chan.”

  “What?”

  “Give Mine-chan back to herself.”

  Takahara stared at Matsuo. He was trying to smile.

  “She likes me. She’s not such a serious girl . . . And she has another, proper boyfriend.”

  “You must at least realize she’s lying about that.” Matsuo exhaled. “You know she’s lying, but you stay with her . . . Leave her. And,” Matsuo continued. “Make Ryoko-chan happy.”

  “Ryoko?”

  “You’re going to destroy yourself, so you don’t want to get her involved—that’s what you must be thinking. You’re siblings, but strangers.”

  Takahara’s father had married Tachibana’s mother. On paper, they were siblings, but they weren’t related by blood. They’d started having sex when they were thirteen. In that small room, without anyone noticing. Even after their parents got divorced, they’d stayed together.

  “If you told Ryoko-chan you wanted to break up, she wouldn’t listen or believe you. That’s why you started dating Mine-chan. To put distance between the two of you. What a stupid plan. And you pretend that you don’t know Mine-chan is seriously in love with you. You’re an idiot. It’s like you’re one big bundle of all men’s stupidity.” Matsuo’s voice dropped. “But even if you go through with this, even if there’s some sort of mistake . . . The great flow will swallow it all up and keep going . . . We’re powerless in the face of that flow. There is a great tragedy before us . . . But, please just remember this.”

  Matsuo stared into Takahara’s eyes. Takahara was overcome by fear. He had come to Matsuo wanting something. He had wanted to hear hopeful words. But he rejected everything the old man said. It was like he was being sentenced for a crime. Whatever Matsuo does, whatever I do, that great flow will swallow it up, and keep going? Matsuo’s eyes grew dim. His face and the upper half of his body stiffened.

  “Stand up straight, and be strong.”

  Takahara stood, stunned. His fear grew even greater. Matsuo opened his mouth, as if to say something else. Suddenly, Takahara couldn’t understand him. Was that really Matsuo there? Was it something else taking his shape? Who? No.

  “There is one way.”

  Takahara’s heart was racing. He felt as if it were Matsuo’s heartbeat. He could tell that Matsuo—no, that thing taking Matsuo’s shape—was growing excited. He opened his mouth. On/Off switch. The words sprang to his mind. He was trying to reach for some switch, for something he should not. Matsuo’s mouth kept trembling. Words were still falling from his lips. Several seconds passed, but it felt like minutes. Matsuo was still talking. There was a siren blaring somewhere in the distance. Takahara’s ears started ringing, and his arms and shoulders felt light. The room grew more relaxed, and he could hear his own breathing. Takahara couldn’t understand what had happened. Matsuo’s body was losing strength. Matsuo was turning back into himself. Takahara could do nothing but stand there.

  “But I can’t ask anyone to do that. I can’t say it . . . It may make this tragedy even worse . . . You may be saved, but many others would die . . . Sawatari is too much for me to understand. What should I do?”

  Takahara grabbed the bouquet he had brought and left. He wasn’t sure why he was leaving. He walked down the hall. It was as if he were simply watching himself walk away. The hallway was also cold. Just as cold as the room.

  His heart was racing. How much time had just passed? For some reason, the flowers he had thought he left Matsuo were in his right hand. When did I pick these up again?

  Takahara kept walking. Matsuo will probably die tomorrow, he thought.

  25

  A man lay on the floor of room 1603, on the 16th floor of the nameless cult’s compound. No one had found the body yet.

  In the room was a bed, a plain black desk, a small table, and two chairs. The man lay on top of the rug. Maybe he had been sitting, for one of the chairs on the side of the bed had toppled over, and a glass had also fallen to the ground.

  His name was Yoshioka. He was one of Takahara’s secret cell, a former member of the Self-Defense Forces.

  The cushion of the chair that hadn’t fallen was indented slightly, and was still warm.

  Around Yoshioka’s neck were vertical red scratches. Maybe he had scratched himself. They were so vivid, as if each was an expression of fear and desperation. Scars of fierce resistance. An attempt to force out of his body something that he couldn’t spit up. There was still some translucent liquid in the glass on the ground.

  Two believers walked past room 1603, chatting. They passed by the room and continued to their own rooms.

  The indented cushion of the chair that hadn’t been knocked over began returning to its original shape, little by little, so gradually that one couldn’t see it happen.

  Everything had been left where it was the moment Matsuo collapsed. Now that news had reached the mansion that Matsuo would return, the members began putting away the chairs in the garden. Some people remained at the mansion, and others left gloomily, saying they would come back the next day. About thirty people in the mansion remained.

  Mineno was asleep on a futon in a room on the second floor. She had a dream of when she was young.

  “Sit there,” her mother said. Mineno, who had just returned home and still had on her dirty backpack, sat on a cushion. Her mother always seemed to be glaring. Mineno couldn’t avoid that glare, even by averting her eyes. Mineno forced herself to look down, even though she wasn’t the one who had been bad.

  “No one will listen to what I say. You’re all I have left . . . You understand, right? Your father never came back yesterday.”

  Just like she did in this dream, Mineno’s mother used to tell her in detail about the bad things Mineno’s father had done. What her mother had to deal with every day. She told Mineno that he was a pathetic human. He was filthy, made her mother unhappy, and had ruined her future. Telling a child things like that—that must be one of the things one absolutely must not do when raising children. Because their hopes will vanish. Their hopes for adulthood. Their hopes to love someone, and start a family.

  “That woman is just obscene. Your father keeps going to her. And you know what they’re doing, right? I have to tell you, even though you’re just a child, so you can understand. Your father takes off all of her clothes. He gets her naked. Then he licks her body all over. He sticks his red tongue right out of that thick beard he can’t even shave off and he puts his mouth on that vile woman’s body! . . . Isn’t it disgusting? And filthy? That’s what your father is.”

  Her mother always said “Your father.” That made Mineno feel like she was being blamed, even when she was little. While her mother talked, she scratched her cheek. It was a habit. She was always scratching one of her cheeks. It was like there was something in there, and she was trying to dig it out with her long nails.

  But her mother wasn’t t
he only one who upset Mineno. Her grandparents did, too. They were also cold to her mother. When they visited her grandparents’ house, Mineno could sense that acutely. Her mother had always been either tortured or neglected. That’s why Mineno had to stay by her mother’s side.

  But gradually Mineno came to see her mother as an obstacle. She’d get irritated listening to her speak, and wanted to scratch her own cheek just like her mother. When she started high school, her grades, which had been really good, suddenly dropped, because she started hanging around boys. She tried to get away from her mother. But her mother clung to her. “You’re all I have,” she’d say. “It’s because I gave birth to you. Because I gave birth to you, I lost my future. I don’t have anything. That’s why you can’t abandon me.”

  But Mineno continued to run from her mother. Then, once when she spent four days at a man’s home, the cell phone her mother had given her rang.

  “Come home today. I’m getting in your way, right? Well, I’ll give you what you want, then.”

  When Mineno got home, she found her mother unconscious. She had taken sleeping pills. Mineno called an ambulance.

  Maybe her mother had purposely avoided taking enough pills to die. When she woke up in the hospital, she saw Mineno and wept. “You saved me,” she said. “I’m so happy. I knew you’d save me.”

  Mineno felt scared then. Her mother’s health declined rapidly, and a few years later, she died of pancreatic cancer. When she was in the hospital, Mineno would visit, and her mother would be happy, but she also noticed Mineno had already lost all love for her. And Mineno noticed that her mother was aware of that.

  “You are your father’s child,” her mother said quietly, as if to get revenge for the suffering she felt from her illness. “Even though I was the one who gave birth to you . . . You’re such a cold child . . . My life was so unhappy. There’s no god, there’s nothing.”

  When her mother died, Mineno did not feel like she’d been set free. She felt guilty. The roots of this guilt went deep, and no matter how much she scratched her cheek or clenched her jaw, she couldn’t get rid of it.

  Mineno woke up on the futon. There were tears streaming down her face. She wasn’t sure if they were tears from the dream or for Matsuo.

  There was a break in her memory. Narazaki had taken her from the hospital, and then what? I feel like I shouted at someone, crying. And then . . . That’s right! The recording.

  Before falling asleep, her mind hazy, she had tried to listen to the recording of herself and Takahara. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to listen to it then. But no matter how much she listened, she couldn’t understand. Well, she understood. But it wouldn’t stick in her mind.

  She put on earphones and played it again. She couldn’t focus, but her heart beat fast as though it understood everything.

  Machine guns? Trailers filled with explosives? . . . What was this? What does he mean, the leader hasn’t found out? . . . We love destruction. What is he saying?

  She picked herself up suddenly. Her heart beat even faster. There’s something wrong with Takahara-kun. Takahara-kun . . . Now is not the time to sleep. She called him, but he didn’t answer. That’s right. I can’t contact him . . . If he’d blocked her number, she couldn’t send a text message either.

  What should I do? I can’t just sit here. Even if I talked to him, would anything change? My head hurts. What should I do? . . . Oh, I’m almost ovulating.

  Mineno sat there dumbfounded. My child. Yes, I was pregnant. Wait, no, I wasn’t. I wasn’t pregnant? That’s right. That’s definitely it . . . My head hurts. If I had a child, Takahara-kun would come back to me, wouldn’t he? He would. He definitely would. That’s how my mother married my father.

  But Takahara-kun was always so careful when they had sex. He’s a coward . . . But diaphragms aren’t perfect.

  There was a knock at the door. Mineno almost shrieked in surprise. Narazaki came in. He said some worried words, but Mineno couldn’t hear them. Her mind had wandered far away and was only gradually returning. Yes. This man always looks at me so lustfully . . . Maybe this man can help me have Takahara-kun’s child. Yes, this man.

  Narazaki looked at Mineno and his mouth dried up. Were her eyes always like this? Is she herself right now? She certainly hadn’t been in her right mind when he’d brought her there. For some reason, she had screamed at Komaki, and then, crying, apologized.

  Narazaki placed the tea he had brought in front of Mineno. She reached for the buttons on her blouse, and undid one. Narazaki stared, shocked.

  Smiling, Mineno watched Narazaki with vacant eyes. Still sitting on the futon, she spread her legs and rolled up her skirt. Her mouth hung open. She undid more buttons until Narazaki could see her white shoulders and her black bra.

  “Narazaki-kun . . .” Mineno said quietly. Narazaki was breathless. “Take me.”

  When he had finished recording his last DVD in his hospital room, it was already night out.

  Matsuo and Yoshiko left the room together. Yoshiko held on to his arm, but Matsuo walked with confidence.

  The hospital staff loaded their things into the trunk of a taxi, and Matsuo and Yoshiko sat in the back. The driver asked for directions, and Matsuo answered. “Toyotama in Nerima.” His voice was relatively clear. “Yo-chan, let’s go see the place where we used to live.”

  The cab started moving. Thirty years ago they’d found out that Matsuo’s father had left him a considerable inheritance. His other relatives had hidden that fact, and Matsuo wasn’t notified. But one of the honest descendants appeared at Matsuo’s home one day and split the fortune with him. Included in it was the mansion he now lived in with yoshiko.

  Matsuo thought about donating all of it, but he knew that by managing it he could make larger, regular contributions to charity. That’s how Matsuo had become wealthy after he was already quite old.

  The taxi got on the highway. Yoshiko’s right hand touched Matsuo’s left. His left hand shouldn’t have been able to move, but Matsuo squeezed her hand back gently. Yoshiko was surprised, but she didn’t say anything. If she pointed it out, she might jinx them.

  “Oh, the moon!”

  At Matsuo’s remark, she looked out the cab’s window and saw an enormous full moon rising over the city. Its color was deep and its light so strong she thought it would enter deep inside them. Just like her heartbeat, the moonlight twinkled, strong and then weak.

  “Driver,” Matsuo said. “The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The driver took a short glance out the window and said something.

  “I want to keep looking at it like this, so can you please stay on this highway till it ends?”

  The driver nodded, and slowed down the cab so it ran steadily along the highway.

  “Nature is fair . . . The moon will shine even on someone like me at the end of their life.”

  Yoshiko held his hand tight. She could smell him.

  “I . . .”

  When Matsuo said that, Yoshiko began to cry.

  “I was happy to be with you.”

  Yoshiko kept crying. Matsuo’s hand was just too warm.

  “Any man who gets to tell that to his wife . . . He’s a winner.” Matsuo laughed.

  “I was happy, too. Thank you so much.” Yoshiko smiled. “There were just two nights that I didn’t feel that way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hee hee hee.”

  Yoshiko leaned on Matsuo’s shoulder. Though he should have grown weak, he supported her firmly. His shoulder had no flesh on it, but its core was strong.

  “I can see it . . . I can see it . . . Nature is amazing,” Matsuo said, staring out the window. “All the particles. They’re shaking . . . They’re going to tell stories . . . This world is amazing.”

  Yoshiko nodded. The large moon shone on them.

  “Our story happened i
n this world, too.”

  “Yes, yes it did.”

  The moon shone bright outside their window.

  “Take care of them. Everyone at the mansion.”

  “I will.”

  “They still need help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yo-chan. Yoshiko,” Matsuo said. Her heart beat faster.

  “Will you kiss me?”

  Yoshiko wrapped her arm around Matsuo’s shoulder and kissed him.

  “Thank you. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They kissed again. Their second kiss was long.

  The longer they kissed, the larger Matsuo’s smile grew. Yoshiko sensed his death from the feeling of his lips.

  Part 2

  1

  The leader was sitting in the dark. At first the woman thought he was sleeping, but then he made a slight movement, as if something small had gotten caught in his throat. His eyes opened briefly.

  She examined his face carefully, but the leader closed his eyes again. It was like he had already forgotten the previous moment’s discomfort. He kept his eyes closed, even though right in front of him were many naked men and women with only bath towels covering their bodies.

  “Today is Monday,” Maeda-kun said. His voice carried well. He had good posture. He was kind. And he wasn’t the only one—everyone here was kind.

  “There is no need to think. The leader will take on all your suffering, your sadness, your doubt. You are free. You have been released from all the shackles of your lives. Become nothing. Today is Monday. The day the leader grants us.”

  She remembered having sex with Maeda-kun. He had moved patiently, gently, kindly, until she came, completely devoured by sensation . . . she got wet just remembering that.

  “So set it free. Set your madness free. And your love. We are one. We are all one being. There are no borders here. There is no need for the indecision you felt in your lives.” His voice grew a little louder. “When the god of the West first created man, Adam and Eve were naked and happy. When they ate the forbidden fruit of knowledge and gained reason, they grew embarrassed by their nakedness. As punishment, they were banished from paradise. God wanted us to be naked. Christianity’s strict rules about sex fundamentally contradict god’s wishes. We must spew back up the fruit of knowledge. Let’s forget ourselves!”