want? You don't need my permission. How can I know what's in your head?'
'I can't help it. Imagining something's very important, so I thought I'd better tell you. It has nothing to do with whether you know or not.'
'You are some kind of polite boy, aren't you,' she says, impressed. 'I guess it's nice, though, that you wanted to let me know. All right, permission granted. Go ahead and picture me nude.'
'Thanks,' I say.
'How is it? Is my body nice?'
'It's amazing,' I reply.
This languid sensation spreads over my lower half, like a liquid floating to the surface. When I tell her, she grabs some tissue from the bedside, and I come, over and over, like crazy… A little while later she goes to the kitchen, tosses away the tissue paper, and rinses her hand.
'Sorry,' I say.
'It's all right,' she says, snuggling back into bed. 'No need to apologize. It's just a part of your body. So-do you feel better?'
'Definitely.'
'I'm glad.' She thinks for a while, then says, 'I was thinking how nice it'd be if I was your real sister.'
'Me too,' I say.
She lightly touches my hair. 'I'm going to sleep now, so why don't you go back to your sleeping bag. I can't sleep well unless I'm alone, and I don't want your hard-on poking me all night, okay?'
I go back to my sleeping bag and close my eyes. This time I can get to sleep. A deep, deep sleep, maybe the deepest since I ran away from home. It's like I'm in some huge elevator that slowly, silently carries me deeper and deeper underground. Finally all light has disappeared, all sound faded away.
When I wake up, Sakura's gone off to work. It's nine a. m. My shoulder hardly aches at all anymore. Just like she said. On the kitchen table I find a folded-up morning paper, a note, and a key.
Her note says: I watched the TV news at seven and looked through the entire paper, but there weren't any bloody incidents reported around here. So I don't think that blood was anything. Good news, huh? There isn't much in the fridge, but help yourself. And make use of whatever you need around the house. If you aren't planning to go anywhere, feel free to hang out here. Just put the key under the doormat if you go out.
I grab a carton of milk from the fridge, check the expiration date, and pour it over some cornflakes, boil some water, and make a cup of Darjeeling tea. Toast two slices of bread, and eat them with some low-fat margarine. Then I open the newspaper and scan the local news. Like she said, no violent crimes in the headlines. I let out a sigh of relief, fold up the paper, and put it back where it was. At least I won't have to run all over trying to evade the cops. But I decide it's better not to go back to the hotel, just to play it safe. I still don't know what happened during those lost four hours.
I call the hotel. A man answers, and I don't recognize his voice. I tell him something's come up and I have to check out. I try my best to sound grown-up. I've paid in advance so that shouldn't be a problem. There are some personal effects in the room, I tell him, but they can be discarded. He checks the computer and sees that the bill's up-to-date. 'Everything's in order, Mr. Tamura,' he says. 'You're all checked out.' The key's a plastic card, so there's no need to return it. I thank him and hang up.
I take a shower. Sakura's underwear and stockings are drying out in the bathroom. I try not to look at them and concentrate on my usual job of thoroughly scrubbing myself. And I try my best not to think about last night. I brush my teeth and put on a pair of new shorts, roll up my sleeping bag and stuff it in my backpack, then wash my dirty clothes in the washer. There's no dryer, so after they go through the spin cycle I fold them up and put them in a plastic bag and into my pack. I can always dry them at a coin laundry later on.
I wash all the dishes piled up in the sink, let them drain, dry them, and place them back in the shelf. Then I straighten up the contents of the fridge and toss whatever's gone bad. Some of the food stinks-moldy broccoli, an ancient, rubbery cucumber, a pack of tofu well past its expiration date. I take whatever's still edible, transfer it to new containers, and wipe up some spilled sauce. I throw away all the cigarette butts, make a neat stack of the scattered old newspapers, and run a vacuum around the place. Sakura might be good at giving a massage, but when it comes to keeping house she's a disaster. I iron the shirts she's crammed in the dresser, and think about going shopping and making dinner. At home I tried to take care of household chores myself, so none of this is any trouble. But making dinner, I decide, might be going too far.
Finished with all that, I sit down at the kitchen table and look around the apartment. I know I can't stay here forever. I'd have a semipermanent hard-on, with semipermanent fantasies. Can't avoid looking at those tiny black panties hanging in the bathroom, can't keep asking her permission to let my imagination roam. But most of all I can't forget what she did for me last night.
I leave a note for Sakura, using the blunt pencil and the memo pad beside the phone. Thanks. You really saved me. I'm sorry I woke you up so late last night. But you're the only one I could count on. I stop for a moment to think what I should write next, and do a three-sixty of the room as I'm thinking. Thanks for letting me stay over. I'm grateful you said I could stay here as long I liked. It would be nice if I could, but I don't think I should bother you anymore. There're all sorts of reasons I won't go into. I've got to make it on my own. I hope you'll still think kindly of me the next time I'm in a jam.
I stop again. Someone in the neighborhood's got their TV on at full volume, one of those morning talk shows for housewives. The people on the show all yelling at each other, and commercials just as loud and obnoxious. I sit at the table, spinning the blunt pencil in my hand, pulling my thoughts together. To tell the truth, though, I don't think I deserve your kindness. I'm trying my best to be a much better person, but things aren't going so well. The next time we meet I hope I'll have my act together. Whether that will happen or not, I don't know. Thanks for last night. It was wonderful.
I slip the note under a cup, shoulder my backpack, and head out of the apartment, leaving the key under the doormat like she said. A black-and-white spotted cat's lying in the middle of the stairs, taking a nap. He must be used to people because he doesn't make a move to get up as I go down the stairs. I sit down beside him and stroke his large body for a while. The feel of his fur brings back memories. The cat narrows his eyes and starts to purr. We sit there on the stairs for a long time, each enjoying his own version of this intimate feeling. Finally I tell him good-bye and walk down the road. A fine rain's begun to fall.
Having checked out of the hotel and left Sakura's, I have no idea where I'll spend the night. Before the sun sets I've got to find a roof to sleep under, someplace safe. I don't know where to begin but decide to take the train out to the Komura Library. Once I get there, something will work out. I don't know why, but I just have a feeling it will.
Fate seems to be taking me in some even stranger directions.
Chapter 12
October 19, 1972
Dear Professor,
I'm sure you must be quite surprised to receive a letter from me, out of the blue. Please forgive me for being so forward. I imagine that you no longer remember my name, Professor, but I was at one time a teacher at a small elementary school in Yamanashi Prefecture. When you read this, you may recall something about me. I was the teacher in charge of the group of children on a field trip, the ones involved in the incident in which the children all lost consciousness. Afterward, as you may remember, I had the opportunity to speak with you and your colleagues from the university in Tokyo several times when you visited our town with people from the military to investigate.
In the years following I've often seen your name mentioned prominently in the press, and I have followed your career and achievements with the deepest admiration. At the same time, I have fond memories of when we met, especially your very businesslike, brisk way of speaking. I feel blessed, too, to have been able to read several of your books. I've always been impressed by your insights, and I find the worldview that runs through all of your
