Coin Locker Babies (24 page)

The young woman frowned. Hashi noticed she was dressed like a nurse.

“I’m sorry. Madam is ill and can’t see anyone,” she said as if repeating a formula, and shut the door in Hashi’s face while he was still considering what to say next. As the bolt clicked into place, he could hear a voice saying, “Please go away.”

He didn’t. The snow was too wet to stick, but his hair was getting soaked as he stood watching the house. The lights were on, but there was no sign of life inside. He found himself counting the snowflakes as they appeared in the circle of light cast by the street-lamp. Unlike insects and moths that usually collect around a light, the snow whirled and drifted silently; in fact, it seemed to deaden all sound, muffling the faint cries of the birds in the park which had been audible until that moment. The sound of cars in the distance had also grown almost too faint to hear, muted by each flake that appeared in the light. Hashi leaned against the gate and relished the damp chill that was overtaking his body, making his teeth chatter and his limbs go numb. Then, just as he was growing too cold to think, he heard the small rattle of a
shutter being opened behind him. As he turned, he could see the silhouette of an old woman standing in a patch of light and fresh snow.

“Not as cold as you might think,” said the shadow, ignoring the snow that had begun to collect on Hashi’s hair, as she opened the gate. Circling around to the back of the house through the garden, Hashi noticed a cage containing a pair of peacocks. The hen slept on a nest while her mate stood guard in the snow, his tail spread out full and flashing luminescent green in the light that escaped through the shutters. The snow as it fell was sucked into the brilliant fan of feathers.

“Please come in,” said the old writer, beckoning to Hashi.

When she’d finished massaging her customer, the woman went back to the waiting room for a cigarette—menthol-tipped, extra long. One of the other girls who was done for the night had changed back into street clothes and was nibbling at a piece of cake as she pointed out the window at the snow. The woman peeled off her shorts and rubbed her legs with a towel. As she was wriggling into her pantyhose, she caught them on a nail and started a run at the ankle. Shit. Then she remembered she’d worn her new boots today—more bad luck: she was buying them on time and she’d only made three payments so far. The guy at the shoe store had warned her not to wear them in the rain or snow (actually, he’d said snow was the worst, could shorten the life of the boots by half.) She stared glumly out the window; the streets were still clear, but a light coating had begun to collect on roofs here and there. Another girl looked up from the magazine she was reading.

“Anything interesting going on out there? A while back some guys in hats were messing around with some big lights. Looked like they were setting up for a movie. They still there?”

The woman shook her head. She’d decided what she’d do: as soon as she got home, she would wipe off the boots and rub them down with Vaseline. Once she’d had dinner she tended to lose steam and there was no telling when she’d get around to them, so she had to do them first thing after she got home. That much Kimie Numata had decided.

At various points around the building that contained the massage parlor, four discreetly placed video cameras and a dozen five-kilowatt arc lights were ready and waiting. In a vacant lot fifty meters away were assembled a mobile power unit, an equipment van, a video relay truck for live remotes, and cars belonging to assorted media types. D was in the relay truck staring at a blank monitor but taking frequent glances at his watch. At his side sat Neva, her face buried in her hands.

“I really think it would be better if he didn’t come at all,” she was saying without lifting her head. The phone in the van rang just then, and she pounced on it. “Did you find him?” she asked in a shrill voice, but her expression soon faded to disappointment and she handed the phone to D. He listened for a long while, nodding occasionally, then said, “No, nix that,” and hung up. The call had been from Handy back at the office; it seems a young man in a black suit carrying a gun had come around asking for D. When he was told he wasn’t there, he wanted to know where Hashi would be meeting his mother. Handy had tried to clam up, but the kid had shot a great big hole in the ceiling and frightened the secretaries. One helluva gun. In the end, he’d spilled the beans. Now he was wondering whether he should call the police, or what. It was this last suggestion D had nixed. Instead, he got on his walkie-talkie and told his people in key positions there that if a young man in a black suit showed up, he was to be brought straight to the relay truck.

“Tell him Hashi’s here with me, tell him anything, only no rough stuff. Just bring him to me.” D was looking at his watch again.

Next to Neva in the truck sat the program announcer running through the script one last time. “Ladies and gentlemen, the atmosphere is electric as our true-life drama is about to begin. Think back for a moment to the series of cruel incidents—children abandoned, infants slain—that preceded it. And now, amidst the swirling snow, one of those children, left for dead in a coin locker, and his mother, the woman who left him there, are going to meet for the first time in seventeen years. There is no denying this woman’s guilt, no forgiving her crime; but her son has overcome these hardships and grown up to become a famous singer. And it is our privilege here tonight to watch this incredible encounter. Words alone could never do justice to what we are about to see, but a young French philosopher once wrote: ‘A mother, and the sea: each compelled by rage to kill its child—or is it to give him life?’…”

Neva was remembering how Hashi had tossed and turned the night before, unable to get to sleep. Usually, when his nerves were shot and he was having trouble sleeping, he would ask her to suck him off. Last night, she’d suggested it herself to calm him down, but he had said he’d rather talk about something nice instead. She had gone into detail about the honeymoon they were planning for after the New Year: two weeks in Canada and Alaska. She told him how much he was going to like skiing, how easy it was to learn, and he had listened quietly, his face pressed against his pillow. After a while he interrupted her.

“Neva. Do you think it’s OK to love somebody you’ve never met? Or hate them for that matter?” Neva didn’t answer, but climbed into Hashi’s bed and took him in her arms. “I’m fine,”
he had mumbled, “I’m fine. When I meet her, I’ll just say, ‘Long time no see, Mom,’ and leave it at that.”

She was sorry she hadn’t answered him last night, sorry she hadn’t said that a woman has a duty to raise the children she bears, and it would be the most natural thing in the world, the right thing, for him to hate this woman who had failed him. She wished she’d told him he had every right to hate someone he had never met. But she didn’t have time to blame herself more because at that moment the back door of the truck flew open and one of D’s assistants yelled, “Quick! She’s coming out!”

As they jumped from the van, the generator truck came to life with a loud hum and D started shouting:

“When she gets out in the street, surround her. If she tries to get away, use the lights and cameras to hem her in. Forget about keeping this to ourselves, just keep her there! And double the guards to make sure the guy in the black suit doesn’t get through—and that goes for all the other jerks hanging around. But if Hashi shows up, bring him to me; I don’t care what you have to do—tie him up, knock him out—just get him in front of those cameras!”

“Wait here,” Kiku ordered, getting out of the cab without paying. “I’m just going to get somebody and I’ll be right back.” He was gone before the driver had time to object. A few minutes later, while he was running along wondering how he was going to find Hashi in this maze of dark alleys, one of them suddenly lit up like day.

“Gas, I expect, but where’s the bang?” murmured an old man pushing a cart as Kiku hurried by in that direction. At the head of the alley leading there, however, he ran straight into four men.

“Sorry, buddy, there’s filming going on back there. You’ll have to find another way through,” said one.

“Listen, asshole,” Kiku hissed, “I’m a friend of Hashi’s.”

“No one gets in. We’ve got orders.”

“But Hashi’s my friend!” Kiku yelled. The street was beginning to fill with bystanders. The hum of the generator shook the ground beneath the ring of snow-filled light. In the distance, raised voices could be heard.

“Take me to Mr. D, then! He knows me,” Kiku told the men blocking his path. Silence and shaking heads. The building illuminated by the arc lights was around a corner twenty meters down the alley and to the right. Kiku could see men turning the corner, most of them carrying cameras or other equipment. The crowd behind him pressing to get by the guards continued to grow. From where, they stood, they could hear a woman’s shrill voice. Someone shouted: “He’s here!” The crush increased. “Hashi!” a woman called. The generator groaned a steady counterpoint to the din. Kiku’s voice caught in his throat when he saw Hashi at the far end of the alley, disappearing into the swarm of photographers. He seemed to be smiling.

As he tried again to push his way through the line of guards, the nearest man caught him by the arm. A punch to the jaw sent the guy rolling into the snowy gutter, but when the others closed in from either side and shoved him back, Kiku calmly pulled one of the sawed-off shotguns from his belt and fired at the line of feet ahead of him. Wet snow showered two of the men, who fell to the ground clutching their legs, and Kiku’s “Get back” sent the last one running down the street. Kiku followed. At the corner, he came up against a wall of straining backs and clicking shutters on the other side of which were the lights and an announcer who could be heard starting his spiel. After trying once more to break through the line, he pulled the next gun from his belt. This time he fired over the heads of the photographers, and in an instant
every face in the crowd had turned to look at him. Leveling the gun, he marched slowly forward as the wall of people parted.

“Hashi!” he yelled into the sudden silence. “Come on! I’ve got a car waiting. Let’s go home.”

Hashi appeared between the photographers, his face barely visible, backlit by the huge lights, but Kiku could see that he was waving.

“Kiku, come over here a minute. There’s somebody I want you to meet,” he said.

Kiku advanced into the pool of staring eyes and artificial daylight surrounded by high steel frames holding black boxes. It was the boxes that made all the light. Staring into one of them, he felt dizzy, his vision became a yellow blur, and for a moment he was nearly blind. When he could see again, he noticed that D was standing nearby with the tall woman who had been on TV with Hashi. The announcer had lit a cigarette. And there was one more woman there, someone he didn’t recognize, who for some reason was crouching on the ground and trying to cover her face with her sweater. She was shaking, her skirt and boots were covered with mud, and she refused to look up even though the lights were focused mainly in her direction. There were four television cameras, Kiku noticed, two rigged up on the scaffolding, one on a dolly next to the announcer, and a
hand-held
one circulating through the crowd. D stared long and hard at Kiku, then mumbled something to himself that sounded like “Damned if they don’t look alike.”

When he got to where Hashi was standing, Kiku could see that his eyes were moist, and he waited for the familiar “Thank you” he’d heard so many times after a rescue. Instead, Hashi pointed at the woman cowering under her sweater and said:

“Kiku, that’s your mother.”

Kiku had no idea what he was talking about.

“I went to see that old lady writer I saw on TV. She told me my mother died last year, so this has to be
your
mother!”

The announcer took this as his cue to run up to the woman: “Mrs. Numata, your son is here—the real one, this time. Please, say something to him. He’s come specially to meet you, and I must say, he looks just like you. A big, healthy kid, a fine young man. Come on, you must have something to say to your own son after all these years. He’s an athlete, apparently. Won’t you at least have a look at him? Here he is, standing right here, the baby you left in a coin locker seventeen years ago. I’m sure he’s come here to forgive you. Please…” The man holding the portable camera swooped in on Kiku for a closeup only to be shoved back as he tried to force his way out of the shimmering ring of people closing like a noose around him. Dozens of clicking cameramen pressed in to block his way.

“Get back, please,” he told them, his voice beginning to waver. “I’m leaving now.” His mind was set on heading back to Anemone’s apartment, but something else, not quite a thought and not yet a memory, began to twitch somewhere inside his head. Something metallic—silver it was—and heavy and shining, something that had been buried in the walls of his brain, began to heat up, to hum and whirr. Suddenly feeling sick, he closed his eyes, but on the back of his eyelids he saw a rubber doll with red liquid dribbling from its mouth; a doll with Kazuyo’s stiffened thighs. Stop
looking
at me! Let me out of here! Shut off that light and let me go home now! As he opened his eyes, an eddy of snow blew past and for a moment everything was blurred again. The first thing to come back into focus in the field of white was the shivering sweater woman. They’re saying that’s my mother? To him she was like a figure in a nightmare. The stiff, ungainly
body trembling in the snow might have been every feeling of dread, every sense of loathing he’d ever had—covered with a sweater. She was hardly human, more like some… blob… of metal. His eyes had started to ache, strafed by the light from the black boxes overhead. He could feel his eyeballs drying in their sockets, and the focus was beginning to go again, beginning to form the familiar gap between left and right. That was where the colors always appeared, bright primary colors, and from the gap they started to spread. They poured into the eyes of the people standing around him, and onto their cheeks and lips and down their necks. Now I know what’s going on, Hashi. You’ve cooked up one of your little model worlds—and you got me here by pretending to cry. Kiku’s whole field of vision now was filled with a blazing white metal wheel which threw off shards of light as it began to turn, glowing shards that cut deep into one’s skin. As the wheel picked up speed, Kiku could hear the whirring noise it made.