She shrugged her shoulders but didn't say anything. I made no effort to probe further.
«Want some gum?» she asked after a bit.
«No thanks.»
By now, the two of us were chiming in on the back chorus of the Beach Boys' «Surfin' U.S.A.» All the dumb parts.
The snow was starting to lighten. We headed back to the airport, turned in the keys at the car rental, checked in, and thirty minutes later were at the gate.
In the end, the plane took off five hours late. Yuki fell asleep as soon as we left the ground. She was beautiful, sleeping next to me. Finely made, exquisite, and fragile. The stewardess brought around drinks, looked over at Yuki, and smiled broadly at me. I had to smile too. I ordered a gin and tonic. And as I drank, I thought about Kiki. The scene played over and over again in my head. Kiki and Gotanda are in bed, making love. The camera pans around. And there she is. «What was that all about?» she says.
Yes,
16
After collecting our bags at Haneda, Yuki told me where she lived. Hakone.
«That's a pretty long haul,» I said. It was already past eight in the evening, and even if I got a taxi to take her, she'd be wiped out by the time she reached there. «Do you know anybody in Tokyo? A relative or a friend?»
«No one like that, but we have a place in Akasaka. It's small, but Mama uses it when she comes to town. I can stay there. Nobody's there now.»
«You don't have any family? Besides your mother?»
«No,» answered Yuki. «Just Mama and me.»
«Hmm,» I said. Unusual family situation, but what business was it of mine? «Why don't we go to my place first? Then we can eat dinner somewhere. Then afterward, I'll drive you to your Akasaka apartment. That okay with you?»
«Anything you say.»
We caught a cab to my apartment in Shibuya, where I got out of my Hokkaido clothes. Leather jacket, sweater, and sneakers. Then we got in my Subaru and drove fifteen minutes to an Italian restaurant I sometimes go to. Call it an occupational skill; I do know how to locate good eating establishments.
«It's like those pigs in France,» I told her, «trained to grunt when they find a truffle.»
«Don't you like your work?»
«Nah. What's to enjoy? It's all pretty meaningless. I find a good restaurant. I write it up for a magazine. Go here, try this. Why bother? Why shouldn't people just go where they feel like and order what they want? Why do they need someone to tell them? What's a menu for? And then, after I write the place up, the place gets famous and the cooking and service go to hell. It always happens. Supply and demand gets all screwed up. And it was me who screwed it up. I do it one by one, nice and neat. I find what's pure and clean and see that it gets all mucked up. But that's what people call information. And when you dredge up every bit of dirt from every corner of the living environment, that's what you call enhanced information. It kind of gets to you, but that's what I do.»
She eyed me from across the table, as if she were looking at some rare species in the zoo.
«But still you do it,» she said.
«It's my job,» I replied, then suddenly I remembered that I was with a thirteen-year-old. Great. What did I think I was doing, shooting my mouth off like that to a girl not half my age? «Let's go,» I said. «It's getting late. I'll take you to your apartment.»
We got in the Subaru. Yuki picked up one of my cassettes and put it on to play. Driving music. The streets were empty, so we made it to Akasaka in no time.
«Okay, point the way,» I said.
«I'm not telling,» Yuki answered.
«What? «I said.
«I said I'm not telling you. I don't want to go home yet.»
«Hey, it's past ten,» I tried reasoning with her. «It's been a long, hard day. And I'm dog-tired.»
This made little impression on her. She was unbudgeable. She just sat there and stared at me, while I tried to keep my eyes on the road. There was no emotion whatsoever in her stare, but it still made me jumpy. After a while, she turned to look out the window.
«I'm not sleepy,» she began. «Anyway, once you drop me off, I'll be all alone, so I want to keep driving and listening to music.»
I thought it over. «All right. We drive for one hour. Then you're going home to bed. Fair?»
«Fair,» said Yuki.
So we drove around Tokyo, music playing on the stereo. It's because we let ourselves do these things that the air gets polluted, the ozone layer breaks up, the noise level increases, people become irritable, and our natural resources are steadily depleted. Yuki lay her head back in her seat and gazed silently at the city night.
«Your mother's in Kathmandu now?» I asked.
«Yeah,» she answered listlessly.
«So you'll be on your own until she returns?»
«We have a maid in Hakone.»
«Hmm, this sort of scene happens all the time?»
«You mean Mama up and leaving me?»
«Yeah.»
«All the time. Work is the only thing Mama thinks of. She doesn't mean to be mean or anything, that's just how she is. She only thinks about herself. Sometimes she forgets I'm around. Like an umbrella, you know, I just slip her mind. And then she's outa there. If she gets it into her head to go to Kathmandu, that's it, she's off. She apologizes later. But then the same thing happens the next time. She dragged me up to Hokkaido on a whim—and that was kind of fun—but she left me alone in the room all the time. She hardly ever came back to the hotel and I usually ate by myself. . . . But I'm used to it now, and I guess I don't expect anything more. She says she'll be back in a week, but maybe from Kathmandu she'll fly off to somewhere else.»
«What's your mother's name?» I asked.
I'd never heard of her.
«Her professional name,» she tried again, «is Ame.
That's why I'm Yuki.
Of course I'd heard of Ame. Who hadn't? Probably the most famous woman photographer in the country. She was famous, but she herself never appeared in media. She kept a low profile. She only accepted work that she liked. Well-known for her eccentricity. Her photos were known for the way they startled you and stuck in your mind.
«So that means your father's the novelist, Hiraku Makimura?» I said.
Yuki shrugged. «He's not such a bad person. No talent though.»
Years back I'd read a couple of his early novels and a collection of short stories. Pretty good stuff. Fresh prose, fresh viewpoint. Which is what made them best-sellers. He was the darling of the literary community. He appeared on TV, was in all the magazines, expressed an opinion on the full spectrum of social phenomena. And he married an up-and-coming photographer who went by the name of Ame. That was his peak. After that, it was downhill all the way. He never wrote anything decent. His next two or three books were a joke. The critics panned them, they didn't sell.
So Makimura underwent a transformation. From naif novelist he was suddenly avant-garde. Not that there was any change in the lack of substance. Makimura modeled his style on the French
