Cult X

  “Why didn’t you want to press him?” Yoshida asked from behind Mineno.

  She didn’t have the energy to turn around. “It seemed hard for him to talk about. We only had to talk about the group’s history. He would have had to tell us about himself.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Even if we’d asked, he wouldn’t have opened up right now. I also figured this is how Matsuo-san would handle him.”

  “I see.”

  Mineno’s heart fluttered. Even though the garden was so still, the trees, the gravel, and the gentle wind seemed to have wills of their own. They seemed to be waiting, menacingly, for something to happen.

  “Hey, Yoshida-san. What did you think of him?”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  They could hear the wind. It was getting cold.

  “He doesn’t seem like a bad person.”

  “But he has a nervous face. If we introduce him to Matsuo-san, I don’t know what would happen. He seems proud, and like he’s easily hurt, so it’ll probably take some effort before he opens up. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about him. I can’t quite put it into words, and I don’t think it’s his fault, but just the fact that he came here now . . .”

  “. . . I thought the same thing.”

  Like he’d destroy something. Without meaning to, just by being here. But to fix the current situation, something had to be destroyed. It would be fine if it was me, Mineno thought. If it benefits everyone else, I don’t mind being destroyed . . . Or do I? Mineno clenched her jaw and scratched her cheek. That’s not true, is it? You want to be destroyed, don’t you? Look, look at you! Mineno shook her head. It hurts.

  “Hey,” Yoshida said. Mineno caught herself recoiling at the kindness in his voice. “I’m sure you can talk to Matsuo-san, even about the things you can’t tell us.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hold it in. If you hold it in . . . you’ll die.”

  Mineno didn’t have the courage to turn around. She wasn’t sure what kind of face she was making. She breathed in deeply and made herself speak, just like she’d been doing since she was small. “What are you talking about? You idiot! Quit goofing off and start cleaning.”

  Not everyone can become happy by coming to this sort of place. Mineno stared blankly at the garden as she listened to Yoshida’s footsteps recede. She noticed herself clenching her jaw again. I’m so far from Matsuo-san’s ideals.

  5

  “What if we could start our lives over?” Ryoko Tachibana had asked. “Would you be content to live the life you lived and become the person you are now again?”

  What did I tell her then? Narazaki wondered. Did I lie, and tell her, Of course? No. I must have answered honestly.

  “It’s just as if ‘we’ are all sitting in seats called ‘the self,’ watching our own lives pass by.”

  That was what Shotaro Matsuo had said on the DVD. If that’s true, Narazaki thought, then the show in front of me is truly boring. I paid attention to what was going on around me and lived carefully. I took no risks. Even though there was nothing for me to protect. That’s why I cracked like that.

  Narazaki caught himself staring listlessly at all the empty cans on his table, each with just a little something left inside. The smooth aluminum of all those countless surfaces sent a sudden chill across Narazaki’s skin. I should just throw them out. Maybe if I clean my room I’ll feel a little better. But I have no energy. I’m drunk.

  He looked up at the ceiling, at the curtain hiding his window, at his dim bedside light. I’m looking at my room, he thought. If I put it in Shotaro Matsuo’s words, my room is being shown to my consciousness, which is me. I’m drunk with nowhere to go. Because I felt like there was nothing to do but get drunk. What a boring brain I’ve got.

  It was strange that he’d even met Ryoko Tachibana in the first place.

  It was a few weeks after quitting his job, when he was on his way home from the library. In the midst of his feverish lethargy, Narazaki had decided to start reading again. He used to read a lot. If he just turned the pages, the words would take him far away from this tiresome world. Now no new books really jumped out at him, so he went to the library to get some he’d read a long time ago. He could think of a few books where the main character was unemployed. He checked out some of them and bought a can of coffee. As he took a seat at a bench in a nearby park, someone called out to him. When he thought about it now, that’s where the strangeness had started.

  “You have lots of books.”

  What an odd way to approach someone. At the time he’d been tired. He liked being alone, but part of him wanted someone’s company. Maybe it was because Ryoko Tachibana was beautiful. Maybe it was because she knew about Sartre. How many people his age in Japan knew that much about Sartre? How many people had read Nausea?

  Her appearance was strange as well. There was no sense of “nowness” in her clothes or hairstyle. Her straight black hair was slightly too long. And her clothes looked less like fashion choices than like things she wore just to cover her skin. As if she were embarrassed to dress herself up—or maybe as if she had no concept of dressing up. Not the kind of woman who approached strangers. But Narazaki understood now, after hearing Yoshida’s story. She dressed like someone far removed from this world. He had seen that sort of plainly dressed woman back when the new religions were causing a stir.

  They parted that day, but when he went to return his books, she was at the library again.

  Was it a coincidence? Or was she just at the library every day? She had several books by contemporary writers he didn’t know, and a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, which she held as if she were trying to hide it. When he looked it up online he’d found it was a Hindu story. A young Hindu woman? he’d thought. Maybe she was just interested in India. Regardless, in the midst of his loneliness, he’d found himself strangely attracted to her. Was it because I’d quit my job? Narazaki wondered. It felt like my life had hit an air pocket. Back when I was going to work every day, I wouldn’t have felt so upended.

  They’d gone to a café and exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. They ate together several times. It had been years since Narazaki had slept with a woman, and he wanted to sleep with her as soon as he could. When they held hands on the way back from the restaurant, her palm had been strangely sweaty. She must not be comfortable around men, he thought. But he didn’t feel the need to hold back. They stopped in the dark and he tried to kiss her. Her body grew stiff, but she tried to accept his kiss. In the end she turned her face away and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Narazaki responded reflexively. He didn’t know what to do.

  “It’s . . . Just give me a little time.”

  Was she that inexperienced with men? Narazaki was confused. But he’d seen the lines. When she moved suddenly to avoid Narazaki’s kiss, her long sleeve fell back. Under the strap of her wristwatch, which was thick for a woman’s, he could see the thin lines. Narazaki stopped himself from trying to pull her in again.

  Ryoko averted her eyes and spoke softly. “I’m sorry . . . Will you see me again?”

  Maybe she was trying to get over something. Narazaki forced a smile.

  “Yeah, I want to see you again. As long as it’s all right with you, that is . . . I won’t do that again.”

  They met once a week after that. What a strange relationship. They’d hold hands, but they wouldn’t kiss. There were times when Narazaki would notice she was crying as they walked together. When that happened, he’d ask her questions, but she’d remain silent and shake her head.

  Two months passed, then three. She came to his room and Narazaki tried to pull her body to his. She went stiff. When Narazaki stepped away from her, she cried.

  “Did something happen to you before?” Naraza
ki asked quietly.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry . . . I . . .”

  “Don’t worry. We can sleep together like this, holding hands.”

  Narazaki offered his hand. She just stared at it.

  “I’m no good . . . I’m not good for anything. I . . . I should just die already. Maybe . . . Maybe if I died . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “No. Don’t worry. I can’t die. I’m sure I still can’t die. And I . . . I . . .”

  “Tachibana-san?”

  All the while, Narazaki continued to offer her his hand. She stared at him like he was a dead man, like he was burned into her retina. Like she was looking at a dog she was about to abandon. She cried and stared, and then turned suddenly and left the room, taking her plain clothes and her too-long hair. Narazaki didn’t have the energy to follow her.

  The next day, Narazaki was unsure of what to do, but he called her. Her phone number had been changed. He remembered the strange things she’d said about death. Should I go to the police? Yet he was overcome by listlessness. Come to think of it, I don’t know where she lives. I don’t know anything about her. What would I even tell the police? “She went missing, and she may try to kill herself.” “Where does she live?” “I don’t know.” “How can we contact her?” “I’m not sure.”

  Narazaki took a coin from the drawer in his desk. EXE had been carved into it. He’d found it on the counter of his bathroom sink. The only people who had been in this room in the past few years were Kobayashi and Ryoko Tachibana. He had asked Kobayashi about it, but he said he’d never seen it. So it must have been hers. Now for some reason it began to bother him. What is this? Some sort of commemorative token? It was too poor in quality to be foreign currency. Maybe it was a decorative button from a bag or something?

  A month after Ryoko Tachibana left, Kobayashi told Narazaki he had spotted her. Narazaki felt relieved to know that she was still alive, but he didn’t have the courage to go see her. So he asked Kobayashi to investigate her. Part of him was still clinging to something. But to what? To her? What could it be?

  Cult X. The coin said EXE. This is too suspicious. Why did she talk to me in the first place? Come to think of it, he had sensed someone watching him before she’d approached him that day as he was leaving the library.

  The people at Shotaro Matsuo’s mansion had told him Cult X had lured away educated people. But I’m not educated. They wouldn’t scout someone useless like me.

  Narazaki didn’t know what to make of it all.

  6

  Because of his headache, Takahara couldn’t focus on the words. He put the book he was trying to read down on his desk, placed a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it.

  He looked at the cell phone he had left on his bed. He thought about picking up the book again, but did not. He couldn’t calm himself down. He’d promised himself that no matter what life threw at him, he’d remain calm. But here he was, unable even to read because he was waiting on a call. Takahara got up from his chair and turned on the radio. Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 1. He tried to give himself up to the melody, but his head continued to throb. He looked at his phone again. It was already fifteen minutes past the time they’d agreed on.

  It’s disgustingly quiet, Takahara thought. The adherents all lead quiet lives. Who would imagine that one of these apartment buildings is actually a compound operated by a religious group? Who would imagine that there was an organization hiding from the Public Security Bureau here?

  Takahara began to write aimlessly. He heard a knock. Upset with himself for being surprised, he crumpled up the paper and put it in his drawer. A woman entered. She was thin, young, and had short brown hair. Takahara had talked to her two or three times before. She was one of the Cupro girls, the sex workers who had been recruited by believers. The Cupro girls were here as professionals, not initiates.

  “Excuse me. I brought you coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Takahara replied. Did his words sound gentle, as he intended? “But you don’t need to do that, you know. You’re not a maid. I can make my own coffee.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t worry. I’m not mad. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  The woman placed the coffee cup on the table. There was no sign she was going to leave.

  “Where’s your cup?”

  “My cup?”

  “Since you went to the trouble of bringing this to me, let’s have a cup of coffee together. I’ll make you one.”

  “No, really, I don’t need any.”

  “It’s no problem.” Takahara forced a smile. She probably didn’t drink coffee. He took a bag of black tea from his shelf. “Is it okay for you to be here?” he asked. “It is Monday.”

  “Yeah, I took a day off today. What about you, Takahara-san? Since it’s Monday . . .”

  “Ha ha ha.” Takahara forced a laugh. “I don’t go. If an officer were there, it would be hard for everyone to do what they wanted.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Takahara looked at the phone on his bed. Still no call. What would he do when the phone rang? He’d have to send the woman outside.

  “How much longer are you with us?” Takahara asked as he placed the tea in front of her.

  “Two more months.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “Yes . . . Thank you . . .”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s just . . .”

  Is something wrong? What am I saying? Takahara thought. I shouldn’t let myself act so superficially. All of my words are hollow. My whole life is hollow.

  “It’s . . . It’s scary.”

  “Going out into the world?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Takahara turned off the music. Everything was ready. He better hurry to the main act.

  “I just think that when I leave, it’ll start all over again. I think I’ll fall for some strange man again. I’ll suffer and go broke again . . .”

  “I see.”

  At times like this one must not say, “It will be okay.” After all, things aren’t okay.

  “I know it’ll happen again. That’s how it always was. I know in my head . . . But . . .”

  “You don’t know anything about what’s going to happen. All you know is how it was before.”

  She looked like she was thinking. Takahara took a breath.

  “In the end, you wound up that way because it’s what you wanted. That pain . . . Pain has its own gravity. Even though it’s so awful you don’t know what to do, you want to stay in that pain.”

  “That may be true.”

  Instinctively, Takahara faced the woman. He had expected her to disagree.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “It may be because you hate both yourself and your partner. And being in that painful situation feels real—it has a certain pull. It’s like a bad habit.” Takahara stopped speaking. He wouldn’t tell her she reveled in her pain because it made the sex better. He wouldn’t suggest she did this to make herself feel alive despite her vain existence, which she hated so much she wanted to end herself. He wouldn’t say sleeping with a man she didn’t love was too great a pleasure, or that sex tinged with hate and love and unhappiness was a wonderful thing.

  “I’m scared . . . I might have to stay here a little longer.”

  “So you want to go to the twenty-first floor?”

  “Would I have to?”

  “Not necessarily. But probably.”

  Takahara lit another cigarette. His phone still hadn’t rung. It was an important call. It was so important it might decide everything . . . His head began to hurt again.

  “Of course, the leader is an amazing person . . . He’s amazing, but . . . there’s something about him. I can’t quite put it into words, but . . .??
?

  “Don’t worry. What you say will stay between us.”

  “I feel like . . . I’d lose myself. If I was with him. And I’m scared of that.”

  She’s smarter than I realized, Takahara thought. Which would mean the scouts had failed.

  “I see . . . But it’s not hard, is it? Being here?”

  “No, everyone treats me well, and there aren’t any dirty people. And it’s just once a week . . . And I can have time off like this. It’s so different. From the places I’ve been before here.”

  “Really?”

  Then what kind of happiness are you hoping for? But Takahara didn’t say that. Nor did he ask if she’d be satisfied to give herself over to passion. And after that, why not move on, do drugs, and chase the very limits of pleasure until you turn to ash? Or compromise a bit and marry some dull man? Words kept racing through Takahara’s mind. Then you could have a child, and live your life saying, “I’ve found fulfillment in the home!” You could stick your kid’s picture on your New Year’s card and make a point of sending it to as many people as possible. What about the happiness that comes from your child leaving your side while you try not to let them, continuing to cling to them? What about doing a great job at work, being praised by everyone, and getting interviewed by a magazine, even though secretly you might still be insecure? Or what about giving yourself up entirely to religion? What about the pleasure that comes from despising the external world, and believing that god will protect you, and that when you die you’ll go to heaven, and then actually dying and becoming nothing more than space dust, but since you’re dead at that point, not feeling any unhappiness? What about the joy of believing in that hackneyed message that you must love your everyday life, forgetting about dissatisfactions and material wants, and actually going through with it and loving what you do every day? So, what’s it going to be? There are other kinds of happiness, too. In this life, there are many things that bring people happiness. You can knock down others to achieve your own happiness. Your happiness brings unhappiness to others. Your unhappiness was probably the result of someone else’s happiness. Our happiness exists in a space created by ignoring the world’s starving people. What do you think about that? Would you like to become a monk in India and transcend everything? Takahara smiled. He wouldn’t say any of that.