Audition (11 page)

    ‘Let’s have dinner again soon,’ he said when the taxi stopped to let her out near Nakameguro station.

    ‘When?’ she said immediately, then looked embarrassed at having let her eagerness show. Like a child caught in some harmless mischief. The subtle play of facial expressions – the momentary blush of embarrassment, followed immediately by a droop of the head and a smile that betrayed the joy bubbling up inside her – was more eloquent than any words, and Aoyama found it intoxicating.

    ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and she quietly replied:

    ‘I’ll be waiting.’

‘Sorry to bother you so late.’

    He was using his mobile to telephone Yoshikawa on the way home. He could scarcely believe how well the date had gone. The back seat of the taxi might as well have been a cloud, and he felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to honey. Catching a whiff of her cologne on the headrest beside him, he remembered agonising over whether or not to hold her hand. But his euphoria painted the memory in a romantic light and reassured him that love could make a man feel that way, even a man his age. He’d taken the phone from his briefcase thinking he’d like to share these feelings with all the forty-something men of the world, but of course Yoshikawa was the only one he could actually call.

    ‘Were you sleeping?’

    ‘What’s up? It’s nearly midnight.’

    Yoshikawa sounded tired. Or possibly drunk. Aoyama had been to his house a few times, and imagined him sitting in his narrow den, drinking Cordon Bleu after the wife and kid had gone to bed. He would have taken the bottle and a glass from the shelves that also held his golf trophies, sliced himself a little cheese in the kitchen, and sat down to pass some quiet time with a magazine or a video. Poor bastard, thought Aoyama – getting drunk all alone before bed. I have to let him know that being middle-aged doesn’t mean all your opportunities are behind you, that you can’t just give up.

    ‘I had a date tonight.’ Aoyama tried to keep the elation out of his voice.

    ‘Oh yeah? And?’

    ‘Learned all about her sublime past.’

    ‘Such as?’

    ‘I can’t give you the details – it’s very personal stuff – but I can tell you she had an incredibly difficult childhood and managed to rise above it, all on her own. Of course, that may not mean much to a cynic like you  . . .’

    He paused, but Yoshikawa didn’t say anything.

    ‘Hello? You there?’

    ‘I’m here.’

    The irritation in Yoshikawa’s voice dampened the euphoria somewhat. Why couldn’t the bastard rejoice a little over his friend’s good fortune? Aoyama remembered reading an article by a famous lady columnist about how our ability to feel and express emotions – to distort our faces with joy, or wail and weep with sorrow, or collapse in agony, or wallow in sentimentality – wasn’t an inviolable human trait but something we can lose simply by leading dull and dreary lives. ‘A rich emotional life,’ she’d written, ‘is a privilege reserved only for the daring few.’ Maybe Yoshikawa just wasn’t one of the few.

    ‘Anyway, I was really impressed.’

    ‘That’s great,’ Yoshikawa said.

    On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t just irritation. He sounded almost despondent.

    ‘Anything wrong?’

    Yoshikawa didn’t answer. Aoyama wondered if he should cut the conversation short.

    ‘Well, I’ll call again some other—’

    ‘No, no, it’s all right. I just . . . I didn’t want to bring you down when you’re in such a good mood, is all. My mother – you met her, right?’

    ‘Of course. Did something happen?’ She must’ve died, thought Aoyama. Good grief. He calls to send glad tidings from the mountaintop and his friend is sinking in the abyss. ‘Don’t tell me  . . .’

    ‘No, it’s not that. Just the old story – getting a little senile, and now she falls down the stairs. I’m telling you, there are times you think we’d all be better off if she’d just . . . Sorry. Pretty grim stuff, I know.’

    ‘I’m the one who should apologise. Calling you about something like this, when—’

    ‘Hey, I’m happy for the distraction. It has been pretty depressing, though. I mean, you always hear that once the dementia starts they can become like a completely different person, but when it’s your mother . . . Of course, the one who’s really suffering is my wife. I should’ve moved my mother into a home of some sort right from the beginning. But I kept procrastinating, and the next thing I know seven years have gone by. Terrible thing to do to her – my wife, I mean. She worries more about the old lady than I do, even. Sometimes she bursts into tears and says it’s her fault. Of course, she and my mother have a sort of bond that I don’t even completely understand.’

    ‘She’s all right, though, isn’t she? Your mother.’

    ‘Yeah. It’s just her leg. My wife’s with her at the hospital right now. Her legs were shot anyway, but she broke an ankle. It’s not like when you’re young and it breaks cleanly, you know. Apparently the doctor’s colourful explanation was that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to a brick of charcoal. Just powdered, in other words, and no chance that it’ll ever be whole again. I was sitting here thinking, well, it looks like there’s no choice now but to put her in a home, but then I had a drink or two, and . . . What a loser, eh?’

    ‘Don’t say shit like that.’

    ‘There are great places nowadays, you know, with round-the-clock care.’

    ‘Yeah. I’ve seen pamphlets.’

    ‘They’re not cheap, but . . . Well. Sorry to lay all this on you.’

    ‘I don’t mind.’

    ‘I envy you, Aoyama. Same age as me, and look at the difference. Dating a 24-year-old.’

    Aoyama didn’t reply. His friend, the very one who’d created the opportunity for him to meet Yamasaki Asami, was suffering. He wanted to say something helpful but was still under the influence of his euphoria, and it wasn’t easy to empathise with someone else’s depression.

    ‘Oh, by the way,’ Yoshikawa said, then fell silent a moment and sighed. ‘Nah, never mind. It doesn’t matter.’

    ‘What.’

    ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

    ‘Just say it.’

    ‘It’s just a stupid rumour I heard. From a hostess in a bar, no less. Not exactly a reliable source.’

    ‘Go on.’

    ‘It’s about that guy at the record company, Shibata. Speaking of legs.’

   
Legs?
Hearing the name Shibata brought Aoyama crashing to earth. The womanising record producer who’d had an indirect connection to Yamasaki Asami. Or had there in fact been more to their relationship? Just to think of that possibility filled him with hatred for the man. Shibata had probably wined and dined beautiful young women on a nightly basis. Someone of his ilk wouldn’t have agonised, as Aoyama had, about holding Yamasaki Asami’s hand. He’d have been all over her at the first opportunity. Aoyama felt as if he could murder a slimeball like that. Thankfully Shibata was already dead.

    ‘Supposedly he was from a pretty well-connected family, and things were hushed up to prevent a scandal, but . . . Well, according to the rumour his heart attack was caused by someone trying to cut off his feet, from the ankles down. In other words he was murdered, supposedly, but again, I got this from a bar hostess. Sounds like something out of
Friday the 13th
. Probably not even worth checking out.’

    Aoyama was relieved. At least the rumour had nothing to do with Yamasaki Asami. And if it was true, he thought, the bastard only got what was coming to him. Aoyama’s euphoria and jealousy joined forces with the alcohol to banish the whole matter from his mind, and he didn’t give it another thought. Nor, unfortunately, did he make any connection to the youth in the wheelchair, in the hotel café.

‘Oh, it’s you, Pops. The way Gangsta was carrying on, I thought it must be a burglar or something.’

    Aoyama had opened the front door to find Shige standing there in his pyjamas, with a combat knife in his hand.

    ‘Where the hell did you get that thing?’

    It was a big knife, with a blade about thirty centimetres long.

    ‘You don’t remember? You bought it yourself, Pops, in Singapore or Hong Kong or somewhere.’

    ‘I’ll be damned,’ Aoyama said, walking through the living-room to the kitchen. ‘You’re right.’

    About ten years ago he’d travelled in South-East Asia. It was at an open-air market in Manila, if he remembered correctly, that he’d purchased the knife on a whim. Ryoko had confiscated the weapon, scolding him for bringing such a dangerous thing into the house, and he hadn’t seen it or thought about it since.

    ‘Where was it?’ He selected a cold Evian from the refrigerator, came back to the living-room, plopped down on the sofa and took a swig.

    ‘I just found it recently,’ Shige said, sliding the knife back into its hard plastic sheath.

    ‘Where?’

    ‘In the drinks cabinet.’

    ‘I never noticed it.’

    ‘In the bottom part, where the expensive wine is? It was behind all the bottles. That’s Mum for you.’

    The bottom compartment had double doors and a built-in lock, and it was there that Aoyama stored the Château d’Yquem and Romanée-Conti and other famous wines he brought back each time he went to Europe on business. He had a collection of fourteen or fifteen bona fide monsters.

    ‘What do you mean?’

    ‘She never throws anything away,’ Shige said, keeping it in the present tense. ‘She might get mad and say she’s going to toss something, but she can’t do it.’

    ‘That’s true.’ Aoyama nodded, lowering his eyes and smiling. They were both silent for a moment. He was picturing Ryoko’s face and imagined Shige was doing the same.

    ‘It’s not even rusty or anything,’ Shige said. ‘Perfect place to store it, really. No humidity.’

    ‘When did you find it?’

    ‘Couple of months ago. Remember when that friend of mine stayed over? The tall, skinny guy?’

    Shige was popular in school and his friends often spent the night at their house. Aoyama tended to make himself scarce when that happened, but Rie-san always enjoyed taking charge and preparing lots of food for the boys – rice curry and sushi rolls and spaghetti and so on.

    ‘He’s really into wine.’

    ‘Wine? A first-year high-school student?’

    ‘Yeah. He wants to be a . . . what do you call those guys?’

    ‘A sommelier?’

    ‘Right. Said he wanted to see your collection.’

    ‘At fifteen he’s already decided what he wants to be?’

    ‘Lots of guys have.’

    ‘Is that wise? To limit your options at such a young age?’

    ‘Welcome to the new world, Pops. It’s not like the golden days of your youth. The world’s gone to hell, right? Corruption and everything.’

    ‘True.’

    ‘Anybody with a brain knows that attaining success in this country doesn’t amount to squat. I think the wine thing is a good idea, something practical you can really focus on and get engrossed in. Lots of guys my age have already decided what they want to do – software engineer, that’s a big one, graphic design . . . Well, mostly computer-related stuff, I guess. But if you’re going to specialise in something it’s best to get started early, right?’

    ‘And you?’

    ‘I’ve decided to hold off a while longer. I like biology, and chemistry, but I haven’t had any biochemistry or molecular biology or anything like that yet, so. . .’

    Shige put the knife back in the cabinet and returned the key to its hiding-place beneath a bottle of armagnac.

    ‘Don’t even think about ever using that in a fight,’ Aoyama said. Shige rolled his eyes. ‘Even against intruders or whatever. Sometimes having a weapon can put you in greater danger.’

    ‘I know that. But when Gangsta starts barking and I’m all alone in the house . . . You know, there’ve been a lot of burglaries around here lately.’

    Aoyama looked at the clock. It was nearly one a.m., and he felt a little guilty about having left Shige alone while he was out enjoying himself. He finished off his Evian and said, ‘I’ll try not to stay out so late from now on.’

    ‘How did it go, by the way?’ Shige said, heading back upstairs.

    ‘What?’

    ‘Your date.’

    ‘Oh. It was good. She had a pretty unfortunate childhood, and I heard a lot of the details tonight. Grew up in an abusive family, with no one to turn to. But the thing is, she managed to overcome it all through ballet. Most beautiful women are pampered all their lives, but she had to learn to be strong and rely on herself.’

    Shige stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at him.

    ‘What?’ Aoyama said.

    Shige shrugged.

    ‘I don’t know anything about ballet,’ he said, ‘but from what I hear it’s not that easy to overcome being abused as a child.’

    Aoyama marvelled for the thousandth time at how mature his son was becoming. He smiled and said goodnight, telling himself that Shige would understand when he met her.