I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like (10 page)

I can recall a thousand other impressions from that night and those that followed, and I am certain these recollections could fill the length of a book. But something in me resists transcribing them. Some memories are most evocative in their undefined state, and to record them would risk turning them into a mere catalogue. That, and I know you have little patience for reading. So I will try to be brief, although not only for your sake, since I find what follows unbearably painful.

One day you contacted me early in the morning and requested an immediate meeting. Your message contained nothing untoward, but for some reason I felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the hour — our meetings had never been regular, but this was the first time you had sent me such a direct appeal so early in the morning. Still, I rushed to meet you at one of our usual cafes. When you walked in I barely recognized you. You were dressed in your school clothes, and you looked to have been beaten: your lip was bleeding, there was a gash above your eyebrow, and your eyes were puffy. When I asked what had happened you didn’t answer.

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I need your help, you said.

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What is it?

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I got this girl pregnant.

I laughed, but you stared at me with an uncharacteristic gravity.

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She’s taken the test and everything and it says she’s pregnant.

I stared at you, not certain how to react. I saw no reason for you to lie, but what you had said seemed too unlikely to believe. Still, there was nothing for me to do but take you at your word.

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What do you want me to do? I asked.

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I was wondering if I could borrow some money so we can go to the doctor...

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Who is this girl?

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Just a girl.

We remained in the coffee shop for another half hour, but I could get nothing more from you. I still don’t know what happened, since you refused to tell me anything. Didn’t you think of me at all? I went home saddened by your lack of trust, and, if I am honest, jealous of the unnamed girl.

In spite of my jealousy I immediately set out to help you. I consulted with Makiko and presented the problem to her in the abstract — did she, among her large circle of acquaintances, happen to know any doctors? Any who specialized in certain procedures? Which options were cheapest? Before long I was put in touch with a Dr. Sugimoto, and an appointment was made. I met you and the girl on Friday of that week, and we took a taxi to the clinic in Nishi-Azabu. I sat between you and the girl in the back seat, you looking anxious, the girl — Yuka or Yuko, I can’t remember her name — looking bored, impatient. Her manner was one of active uninterest; apart from a brief greeting she did not thank me for my help or otherwise acknowledge my presence. Overall she seemed beneath your dignity.

The procedure did not take as long as I expected. When it was over we went to McDonald’s, and I bought us all ice cream sundaes. I remember the girl’s look of absorption as she shovelled ice cream into her mouth, oblivious to anyone around her. You must have been surprised to find a mother caring so little for her unborn child, tossing it away like a piece of garbage. Remember that in this world those like you and me, those who can love, are rare. If you’re ever short of confidence, know that most people will let themselves be used if you only enforce your will. But it’s never worth doing; no one is worth using. The boredom sets in very quickly.

This incident affected me deeply, although I have never felt anything like a parental instinct. Rather I feared losing you, and I feared for your safety. With no job I could always be with you, but school and your home life still occupied most of your time — along with your other activities, which remained a mystery. I had been content with the frequency of our meetings, but now I decided that, in order to prevent any further accidents, I would have to take on the role of your guardian angel. I began taking the same trains as you to make sure you arrived at school and left it safely. For the most part I kept my distance, but on the few occasions when I suspected something was wrong and made my presence known, you reacted with such coldness that I could hardly believe you were the same person I had grown to love. When I explained that I was only looking out for you, you became even more unresponsive. This secrecy, I decided, was the result of fear — perhaps you were in some kind of danger and didn’t want me involved?

I became adept at concealment, so that I could observe you without disturbing your routine. I saw you meeting friends you hadn’t told me about, saw you entering places I had never guessed you knew. I learned something of your secret life, but only enough to increase my fear. I wanted to intervene countless times, but somehow I held myself back. Imagine the loneliness of these nights spent outside clubs and warehouses, nights in the corners of trains, watching you from a distance. My only wish was to walk at your side, but I could not even speak a single word; to protect you I was forced into the role of a stranger. Our meetings continued, but it was difficult to hide my anxiety, and I sensed you becoming colder. Perhaps if I spoke my fears openly, I reasoned, you would entrust me with yours in return; but whenever I brought them up you insisted nothing was wrong.

It was only a week ago that I followed you to Shibuya and watched you standing outside the station, dressed in clothes we had bought together — golden wrist bracelets, a black strapless top and Cocolulu jeans. Before long a man in a charcoal-grey suit and blue mirrored sunglasses passed through the turnstiles and greeted you. You linked hands and walked up the hill, towards the love hotels. I followed you as far as the entrance to a place called the Black Cat, where I paused on the verge of confronting you. Finally something — cowardice or restraint, I don’t know — overcame me, and I watched you disappear inside.

I spent the rest of the day alone in a cafe overlooking the station. It was there that I remembered where I had seen the man before. I returned home and went through my things until, in a corner of my desk, I came upon the business card I had received at the club. It identified him as Satoshi Ito, a graphic artist and photographer. The card gave Mr. Ito’s phone number and business address.

I have in front of me now a folder of the photographs I took of you. The first are primitive shots of you posing on the bed in stages of undress; there is one of you waking after falling asleep in your makeup, another of you wriggling into a new skirt, smiling as you notice the camera. You were not afraid then to be photographed unposed. Towards the end are more composed shots, ones where I paid attention to lighting — practice pictures for the magazines. In these you are always aware of the camera, staring at it directly or else averting your eyes with mock coyness. The progression of these photographs parallels your development; in the earlier photographs you look relaxed and playful, but as the technical quality of the images improves, your expression becomes serious, even grave. This is in contrast to the models you admire, who always appear smiling and natural even in routine shots. For them, self-embodiment is never a matter of transcendence, because they are able to take themselves for granted to an extent you never could. The closer you came to them, the more you envied their entitlement and, I suspect, the more you feared appearing unnatural. What I had taken for inherent grace must have been the culmination of supreme effort, but even as you approached the realization of your ideal you longed for a sublime passivity the very opposite of effort; in short, you aspired to become a mannequin.

Now let me suggest that it is I who am the mannequin. I existed first as my mother’s accessory, and then as my sister’s shadow, and occasionally — when he could be bothered — as my father’s son. I had neither chosen nor desired these roles, but the roles moved me about and made it seem as if I were alive. When you came upon this mannequin you enchanted it, brought it to life like the famous Italian puppet or one of those living dolls you see in films. Like them I have no innate drive, no intrinsic self; I can do nothing but follow my creator. I know that I can never love a man or a woman — only you. Everyone else on Earth seems lifeless: women strike me as unbearably affected, and men artless bores, their facile confidence unmerited. I have no use for the default loves, the default emotions of this world. All my true feelings spring from you, and your well-being is inseparable from my own. I mention this because I must now come to my confession. I have chosen to confess not out of guilt — I know I acted justly — but because I want you to realize that I had your best interests at heart. I am certain that, in time, you will come to understand.

There is no need to describe how I found Ito’s home address, which was not as difficult as you might imagine. I went there yesterday at noon, when I was certain he would be out. My intuition was correct, as I was greeted at the door by his wife, an appealing and well-dressed woman around my age. I wouldn’t be surprised if she graduated from a prestigious university; certainly her appearance and demeanor, even when caught off guard in her home, carried an impression of refinement. I introduced myself as a private investigator who had come to discuss an important matter concerning her husband. She showed me into the apartment — spacious and elegantly furnished, its walls bearing framed black and white photographs, mostly urban landscape shots — and I sat down at the living room table, a minimalist construction of thinly-cut glass edged with steel.

She offered me tea. I declined. She looked at me expectantly. I opened my briefcase — actually my father’s, although he never noticed its absence — and produced a photograph of you in Shibuya Center-gai, an innocuous shot of you smiling into the camera. As Mrs. Ito examined this image I gave her a brief invented biography. You had always been a carefree and exuberant girl, I explained, but recently you had become withdrawn; apart from ignoring your friends, you were falling behind in your classes and coming home at all hours of the night, often with cuts and bruises. When your parents asked what was wrong you refused to tell them anything. Finally, after searching your room, your father discovered incriminating letters. He hired me on the suspicion that someone had been interfering with you, and after a routine investigation I discovered it was none other than Ito.

I said I did nothing when I saw you and Ito entering the Black Cat, but this isn’t strictly true; in fact I filmed you with my mobile phone. I showed this footage to Mrs. Ito and suggested it was not in her husband’s best interest for him to be seen entering a love hotel with a minor. I had kept my tone neutral, but now I became curt: charges would be brought unless Ito immediately broke off all contact with you. Your father was an influential man, and he would not hesitate to call down the full force of the law. This woman reacted with such dignity and restraint that I am afraid I could not resist inserting a number of secondary allegations concerning her husband’s activities — all suitably vague — which eventually left her in tears.

I left the apartment and took the train to Nihonbashi. Two days ago I had called your father at his office and, in my private investigator role, explained that you were in danger. He was dismissive at first, but I let slip certain details that soon convinced him of my sincerity. In particular, I remember the tone of his voice changing when I mentioned the magazines and clothing he had found in your room. He was able to come on a late lunch break, and so we arranged to meet at the Saint-Marc Cafe on the ground floor of Mitsukoshi. By chance I saw him ahead of me as I passed through the doors, recognizing his face from the photographs in your house. I introduced myself and we sat at a table by the window.

I began by showing him the footage of you and Ito entering the Black Cat. I had been hired by this man’s wife, I told him, because she feared that her husband’s obsession with you would be the ruin of their marriage. Immediately your father demanded to know who Ito was and where he could confront him. I explained that I could not reveal this information, and that his prime concern should be your well-being. He persisted, but I remained firm: Ito’s wife feared reprisal, I explained, and so she had hired me to resolve the situation discreetly.

I next showed your father the same folder of photographs I have in front of me now. As he examined them a whiteness came over his features, although outwardly he remained calm. Ito’s wife had found these photographs in her husband’s briefcase, I told him: this was how you saw yourself. He fell silent. I prompted him: hadn’t he suspected something like this all along? He did not answer. I watched his eyes, the faint tremor of his hands. Finally the time came for him to leave. As we parted in front of the doors he brought himself to thank me.

You may be wondering what motivated me to do all this. The answer is simple: I did it because I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt. I do not mean this in the base physical sense, although as I think of your father I recall the gash above your eyebrow. Whether you receive any further injuries is, as I am sure you know, irrelevant: however much flowers wilt under rain, they are always able to endure. Real harm consists of giving yourself away too easily, of surrendering yourself to those who do not understand you. I am confident that Ito and your father’s reactions will prove that neither of them really care about you, much less love you. Ito will not give up everything for you like I will. What does a man tied to his wife and job have to offer you? He had no role in shaping you and has no understanding of your development; his attachment, if I can call it that, is temporary. You must not mistake it for genuine devotion.

As for your father, I met him only to test him. When I showed him the folder of your photographs I gave him the chance to see how you had flowered, how you had surpassed him and everyone else. But, as I predicted, he understood nothing. In this he resembles my own father, another mud-minded man blind to lotuses. At the risk of lapsing into pure sentiment, no one will ever love you as much as I love you — although, in time, I don’t know what this will mean to you, and perhaps in the end there are more important things than love. But as a useless person, I have the luxury of loving who I please.