Piercing

Table of Contents

 

 

PENGUIN BOOKS

PIERCING

Renaissance man for the modern age, Ryu Murakami has played drums for a rock group, made movies, and hosted a TV talk show. His first novel,
Almost Transparent Blue
, written while he was still a student, was awarded Japan’s most coveted literary prize and went on to sell over a million copies. His most recent novel to appear in English was
In the Miso Soup
, published in 2006.

Ralph McCarthy is the translator of
69
and
In the Miso Soup
by Ryu Murakami, and two collections of stories by Osamu Dazzai.

PENGUIN BOOKS

 

Published by the Penguin Group
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in Japan by Gentosha 1994
First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing 2007
Published in Penguin Books 2007

 

Copyright © Ryu Murakami, 2007

Translation copyright © Ralph McCarthy, 2007
All rights reserved

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

eISBN : 978-1-429-55255-4

 

 

 

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1

A SMALL LIVING CREATURE asleep in its crib. Like a laboratory animal in a cage, thought Kawashima Masayuki. He used the palm of his hand to shade the penlight so that it illuminated only the baby’s form, leaving the rest of the bedroom in darkness. Leaning in closer, he silently mouthed the words
Fast asleep
. As Yoko’s pregnancy had progressed and the fact that he was actually going to be a father began to sink in, he’d worried that the baby might have difficulty sleeping. Kawashima had suffered from insomnia since elementary school, and, after all, his blood would run in this child’s veins. He’d heard it was normal for newborns to sleep virtually around the clock; in fact, he seemed to recall some child-rearing expert describing sleep as an infant’s ‘job’. What could be more tragic, then, than a baby insomniac?

He turned softly to check on Yoko in the double bed behind him. Her regular breathing assured him she was still asleep.

Kawashima had been doing this every night lately, standing there gazing down at the baby while his wife slept. Ten nights in a row now, to be exact. It was well after midnight, and since Yoko rose early each morning to prepare for work, she wasn’t likely to awaken. A wholesome and healthy twenty-nine-year-old cooking expert, Yoko was a stranger to things like insomnia. She’d quit her job with a major manufacturer of baked goods when they married and begun giving lessons to people from the neighbourhood, right here in their one-bedroom apartment. Yoko’s bread and pastry classes proved astonishingly popular, and now she had dozens of students - from housewives and middle-school girls to elderly widowers and even middle-aged men. She taught classes almost every day, taking only two fixed holidays a month, and the entire apartment, including this bedroom, was permeated with the buttery smell that for Kawashima had come to symbolise happiness. Little Rie (the name suggested by Yoko’s mother) was now four months old, and Yoko somehow managed to look after her and still maintain a full teaching schedule. Of course, it didn’t hurt that most of her students were female and always eager to help out with the baby.

He switched off the penlight for a moment and examined the pale moonbeam that sliced through a gap between the curtains. The narrow strip of light reached to the middle of the crib, slashing across the baby’s pink blanket and the pocket of Kawashima’s corduroy slacks. As a little boy he’d often sat in his room, with the moon his only source of light, drawing pictures of a long, narrow road that vanished in the distance. Remembering those times, and taking care not to prick his finger, he lifted the ice pick from his pocket. He closed his right hand around the handle and gently drew back the baby’s blanket with his left. This exposed her neck and upper chest, whiter and softer even than the bread Yoko baked. He switched the penlight back on and shone it upon her cheeks and neck. It seemed to him that the fragrance of fresh bread grew suddenly more pronounced, mixed with another scent he didn’t recognise. He wasn’t aware of the beads of perspiration on his forehead and temples until he saw one drip on to the baby’s blanket. The panel heater against the wall had warmed the room somewhat, but it was far from hot in here. The tip of the ice-pick was quivering slightly. Another bead rolled down Kawashima’s saturated eyebrow and into the corner of his eye.

That’s sickening, he thought, and squeezed his eyes shut. Didn’t even know I was sweating. Couldn’t even feel it. Like it isn’t me the sweat’s pouring down but a wax figure of me, or some stranger who looks just like me. Damn.

As he opened his eyes he found that his senses of sight and sound and smell were getting entangled with one another, and now came a snapping, crackling sensation and a pungent whiff of something organic burning. Yarn or fingernails, something like that.

He moaned beneath his breath:
Not again
.

It always started with the sweating, followed by this smell of charred tissue. Then a sudden sense of utter exhaustion, and finally that indescribable pain. As if the particles of air were turning to needles and piercing him all over. A prickling pain that spread like goose bumps over his skin until he wanted to scream. Sometimes a white mist clouded his vision and he could actually see the air particles turning into needles.

Calm down, he told himself. Relax, you’re all right, you’ve already made up your mind you’ll never stab her. Everything’s going to be all right.

Gripping the ice pick lightly to minimise trembling, he placed the point of it next to the baby’s cheek. Every time he studied this instrument, with its slender, gleaming steel rod that tapered down to such needle-like sharpness, he wondered why it was necessary to have things like this in the world. If it were truly only for chopping ice, you’d think a completely different design might do. The people who produce and sell things like this don’t understand, he thought. They don’t realise that some of us break out in a cold sweat at just a glimpse of that shiny, pointed tip.

The baby’s lips moved almost imperceptibly. Lips so small they didn’t even look like lips. More like larvae, or a chrysalis that might unfold into an insect with beautiful wings. Vanishingly tiny red blood vessels coloured the skin of her cheeks beneath the peachfuzz. Kawashima stroked the surface of that fine layer of fuzz, first with a fingertip and then with the tip of the instrument.

It really is all right, I’m not going to stab the baby.

Just as he was thinking this, Yoko’s soft voice shattered the silence.

‘What’re you doing?’

His entire body clenched, and the tip of the ice pick grazed the baby’s cheek. He switched off the penlight and slowly exhaled. As he turned to face his wife, he palmed the ice pick and slipped it handle first into his pocket. She was sitting halfway up in bed, her weight on one elbow.

‘Did I wake you? Sorry.’

He tiptoed to her side and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

‘What time is it?’ she said.

‘A little past one.’

‘You were looking at Rie?’

‘Yeah. I didn’t mean to wake you. You’re tired - go back to sleep.’

‘Are you still working?’

‘Most of the layout is finished. I just have to choose the slides. It’ll make the presentation a lot easier.’

Yoko lay back down and was asleep again before he’d even finished whispering this. Thank goodness. It would have been bad if she’d turned on the light to go to the toilet or get a drink of water. She’d have seen he was sweating, and she might have noticed the tip of the ice pick protruding from his pocket.

2

KAWASHIMA PUT THE ICE PICK away in a kitchen drawer, washed his face in the bathroom sink, and walked into the living-room. He sat at his desk and waited in vain for his heartbeat to slow down. His throat was parched with tension, and he thought about having a drink but immediately rejected the idea. He didn’t allow himself alcohol at times like this, because he knew he’d just end up tossing back belts of something strong - a procedure that would help him relax only very briefly, after which he’d lose all control. He’d drink until he blacked out, and remember virtually nothing the following day.

He looked around the room, trying to breathe deeply and deliberately. They still called it the living-room but had transformed it into a work space for both of them. There were no sofas or easy chairs, but a heavy, L-shaped table of unfinished wood dominated more than half of the floor area. This monster, imported from Sweden and big enough to accommodate eight or ten dough-kneading students at once, was Yoko’s most prized possession. It had been Kawashima’s wedding present to her, and he’d cleaned out his bank account to pay for it.

He still felt the same about Yoko as he had back then: he couldn’t believe he’d managed to meet, fall in love with, and actually marry a woman like this.

He and she were the same age. They’d met six years ago, in early summer, at an art gallery in Ginza. It was the opening of an exhibition of works by a Russian-born French artist named Nicolas de Staël, a painter of sombre abstracts. He wasn’t well-known in Japan and, although it was Saturday afternoon, the two of them were the only visitors. Yoko was the first to speak.

‘Are you an artist?’ she said.

Kawashima was carrying a sketchbook under his arm.

‘I do some drawing, yes,’ he told her.

She was wearing glasses with cream-coloured frames, and they looked good on her, but he couldn’t help thinking she’d be even prettier without them. They left the gallery together and went to a coffee shop with glass walls overlooking the Ginza crossing. He ordered a double espresso and she the shop’s famous cheesecake and a cup of apple tea. The sun of early summer slanted gently through the blinds, and on each table was a glass bud-vase with a single orchid. Yoko smelled good. Mixed with her perfume Kawashima thought he detected another fragrance, though he didn’t yet recognise it as the smell of freshly baked bread. He only knew he found it pleasant, presumably because he really liked this person and felt so relaxed around her. (Conversely, whenever he was stressed out or stuck in the company of someone he didn’t care for, even ambient smells tended to strike him as repulsive.) Yoko ate her cheesecake slowly as she pored over the pages of his sketchbook. At one point a tiny crumb fell on one of the drawings, and she very carefully removed it with the corner of her napkin. Something about the way she did that made him very happy.