The Journey Prize Stories 21 (6 page)

The day before Sayuri disappeared, we played against Nishiwaki High. It was just an ordinary intercollegiate game,
but lately whenever we played any other team, Suzuki sensei would get quite worked up. She made me nervous with all her exhortations. “Remember, girls, we're going for the regionals!” Her cheeks and forehead would glow and her short, wiry hair would stick up like it was charged with electricity. That day was no exception.

Our opponents arrived by bus before noon. In the previous season, Nishiwaki High had been ranked in the bottom quarter of the league, so we weren't expecting too much; and in fact they looked like typical farm girls, short and stocky with broad shoulders, sunburned necks, and thick bowed legs. Suzuki sensei greeted them politely, but as soon as they were out of sight she turned around, gave us a big grin, and made a complicated hand signal as if to say we had this game in the bag. I remembered how Sayuri smiled back at her.

The Nishiwaki girls, however, were by no means as clumsy as they looked. They moved with remarkable speed and co-ordination like one large, nimble spider. It was as if they had spread an invisible net on their side of the court that prevented every ball that came their way from touching the ground. We began making mistakes, and I could feel my arms ache with each volley. Then Sayuri fell. She stumbled as she ran to make a save, and for a few seconds she lay face down on the floor. Suzuki sensei rushed to her side, but Sayuri got up by herself and waved her away. “Enough,” I heard Sayuri mutter under her breath. Suzuki sensei's face turned as dark as red bean paste, but she didn't say anything.

Needless to say, we didn't win, and in the locker room afterwards, hardly anyone said a word. Suzuki sensei came in
briefly and said the usual. How we'd done our best, how it was just a game.

We showered quickly and changed in silence. “Good try!” Tomoko shouted with fake cheeriness when she left. The other girls didn't say anything, though, not even goodbye. I had almost finished changing when I realized that I hadn't seen Sayuri. I paused and heard the sound of falling water; someone was still in the shower. To save money, our school had very small hot water tanks, so by now I was sure there was no warm water left at all.

I went back into the shower area and found Sayuri in the last stall, crouched on her haunches in the corner. Her head was between her knees, her thin shoulders shaking. Whether she was shivering or crying, I wasn't sure. I reached over and turned off the water. It was cold as ice.

“Hey,” I said. “What's wrong?”

Sayuri didn't look up. She made a faint squeaking sound like a mouse.

“You're not thinking about the game, are you?” She continued looking down.

“It was just a stupid game. It doesn't even count for that much.” I tried again. “It's not Suzuki sensei, is it?” She shook her head violently.

“Honest?” I looked at Sayuri's spine, its small pointy knobs, a delicate track from her neck down to her bum.

“You'd better get up,” I finally said. I moved directly in front of her and reached down to grab her left arm. It felt soft and slippery. That was when I noticed the blood. There was a thin pink trickle that slithered down her thigh, across her feet
and into the drain. At first I thought it was her period, then I realized that the blood was coming from her hand – she had torn the nail right off her middle finger. The spongy tissue at the tip looked like a squashed tomato.

“You should go to a doctor,” I said. “Does it hurt much? Did you show Suzuki sensei?”

“It's my punishment,” she mumbled, “my shame.”

“Get up,” I said. “You're going to make yourself sick.”

I put my hands in her armpits and pulled. Sayuri was as limp as a wet noodle and it took quite a bit of work to get her to her feet. As soon as I did, she refused to stand up straight and toppled toward me.

“Whoa, stand up, would you.”

Sayuri was a full head and a half taller, so when she flopped against me it was all I could do to keep from falling backwards. We stood in this awkward embrace for a couple of minutes, and I held my hand on her back to steady her. I could feel her soft, wet, barely-risen breasts through my blouse. Her shoulder was against my face and I could see little goosebumps on her pale flesh.

“I'll help you,” I murmured, “I'll bandage your finger.” To my own surprise, I then pressed my lips against her shoulder and flicked the tip of my tongue over her skin. She tasted of soap.

Sayuri pulled back. She looked me straight in the eye, a dark searching stare that might have been asking if I was making fun of her. Then she scrunched her eyes shut, bent forward, and pushed her lips against mine. I think I was supposed to shut my eyes, too, but I didn't have time to react. Her lips were very cold and a bit rubbery.

“Let's get out of here,” Sayuri said abruptly. “I'm freezing.”

Before she turned her face away, I thought I saw a faint smile on her lips. It pleased me, but it also confused me.

I wanted to explain to Sayuri that what I'd done to her was not a kiss. Not a real kiss, not like the way people were supposed to kiss. What had happened between us was too fast, too haphazard to count. But I didn't say a word. By the time we'd finished dressing, I even began to think that maybe I'd imagined the whole incident.

Sayuri put on her clothes and I wrapped a clean handkerchief around her finger and tied the corners tightly so it wouldn't fall off. I changed my blouse because it had become so wet. As I didn't have a spare set of clothing, I ended up putting my gym top back on. My skirt was damp, too, but I figured it would dry in the air on the way home.

By the time we left the school building, everyone else – all our classmates, the other teachers, even Suzuki sensei – had gone. We walked down the deserted hallway to the back exit and together pushed the heavy door open. When it banged shut behind us, it made a hollow metal clang.

Although it was almost dinnertime, the sun was still shining and felt warm on the back of my head. We walked as far as the grocery store at the second intersection and then paused. Neither of us had said a word, and I was afraid to look at her.

My heart was pounding. Our homes were in opposite directions and we had reached the place where we had to part. I didn't want to tilt my head back to look up at her – somehow that felt rude – so I ended up staring at her neck. The spot where I had put my lips was buried somewhere under the strap of her backpack.

“We did our best,” I said.

“We did our best,” Sayuri echoed.

“We'll play better next time.”

“Yes,” Sayuri said, so softly I could hardly hear her. “Next time.”

I turned around once when I was part-way home, half hoping I might find Sayuri following me. But the road was empty, a long dusty stretch of asphalt, lined on either side by trees. In the distance, a shimmering wave of heat rose like the fluttering wings of dragonflies. I pictured Sayuri at the other end of the road, hidden in a low dip just out of sight. Somewhere beyond.

That was the last time I saw her.

“I don't get it. Why didn't they just hire their own language teachers? It doesn't make any sense.” Masayuki shook his head repeatedly in front of the television. “I can understand spying, but this is too bizarre for words.”

According to the news, the abductees had been forced to work as Japanese language teachers for the North Korean Intelligence Service. I tried to imagine Sayuri as she stood in front of a class full of dark-suited men and pointed at words on a blackboard with a long wooden stick. It was hard to believe that anyone would want a fifteen-year-old to teach them.

A photograph of Sayuri, older, sadder, very tired looking, began appearing in the weekly tabloids. It didn't bear much resemblance to her, no matter how much Sayuri might have aged. There was nothing of the girl I remembered from high school, nothing of the Sayuri I'd known, or thought I'd known.
The woman was standing next to a very tall, thin man, supposedly her husband, and flanking them on either side were two small girls who looked like they were carved of wood. The family stood in front of a dingy pink studio curtain. Above their heads hung a large framed portrait of Kim Jong-il.

“Now they're saying that everyone could be dead, you know,” Masayuki said. “If they find any graves, the government is going to ask for
DNA
testing or some such thing, but I can't imagine that will ever happen. Nobody knows what goes on over there.”

I tried to picture Sayuri's grave, but it was pointless. I knew it would be empty, a hollow wooden box filled with stale cold air.

I got up and went into the kitchen. Behind me I could hear Masayuki rapidly switching from one channel to another, the background voices breaking up into flecks of sound.

I pushed open the big window over the sink and leaned out as far as I could. Everywhere I looked there were apartment buildings, row upon row like a vast army of giant grey dominos marching toward me. The breeze was hot and dusty. Not a hint of rain, and the sea was far away.

S
o long as you didn't try to burn it down, or annoy your fellows with a knife or something, they left you alone at the Beacon. It was cheap, the bar made deliveries, and the shower worked. The Cuban guy at the desk would close his mind like a bag over his face – you could watch it happen – and turn to stone. He was called Jonah because he had worked on a ship, before he jumped. He was ill in some way and given to rages, but was mostly all right, and he'd let you in for free on occasion if you'd share, so generally I did when I'd had enough. It was a home of sorts at the Beacon, and a fine place to get lost.

We had been there three or four days, me and the wife of an acquaintance, shoving everything we had inside us, including, when we could manage it, each other. Those were good days, full of high vacant fervour and disregard. There was a sweet raw taste to time, and the room itself, according to our mood, became a vast cathedral, or a small velvet box. I remember the sheets had stars, hundreds of blue stars shattered all over. And I remember her breasts, how they buoyed, and the
wet spikes of her nipples floured with coke. I jammed them up my nose and we floated off immense, above ourselves, empty and marvellous.

That couldn't last, of course. We wore out. The drugs evaporated. Our throats dried. Our skin grew tight and tender, and what air remained was from the desert, and had quills. We were dogs really, dragging around what was left of us like we'd been run over and didn't have the sense to stop yet. The room was just a room, and she had a husband to get back to.

Then one of us by miracle found some hash we'd trampled. It was heavy hash, import deluxe from Morocco. We did not have a pipe, so we knived it. The burn through our heads was hot and cool together, with a delicate edge of ambush. Straight away we brightened, and pretty soon we were feeling almost repaired. She began to look all right again, clean and filthy at once, which I like.

So I grew my arm across the room to where she was, stark there on the bed with a leg up, watching my hand enlarge and sniff about to find her. I took her hair, the spattery twists of her hair flashing in rivulets, and I twined it in my fist and wound, reeling her in until our foreheads banged. Then I said into her eyes that the room was on fire and we had twenty minutes to live. It wasn't much to give, but it struck her well somewhere and she clasped me down.

As we rocked I saw her face loosen and change. I watched it slide, dissolve, and then re-form into three. It was her in the middle, and the two others beside her rippling across, back and forth. They were emerging and blending so fast I couldn't make out if I knew them. It didn't matter. Their mouths were wide and lovely, they looked ready to sing, and everyone was
smiling. We rowed and lolled. I swam on their tongues. And when I beckoned them they came and came and met me where I was, holding them there and waiting. When it was time the stars squeezed and blew apart. The force of it spasmed from my spine and bent me. It moaned me open and I gasped my love into their mouths, my full helpless love for all of us happy there together. Then the bed swallowed and we drowned.

We slept some, we must have. When I woke it was me alone that surfaced. She was one again, a fragile wreck smashed out still and far beyond. I checked to see if she was breathing. She was, so it seemed all right to leave her. I got my clothes and shook them on. In her purse I found a compact and broke the mirror off. I laid it between her legs and combed my hair. When I left she was just starting to stir. In my mind I blew her a kiss, and added one for Jonah. Then I was gone and out into the fresh shock of the air, and walking along on the lighted carcass of the city at night.

I was headed for a bar I knew in a hotel by the harbour. There was fog in the streets, and spangles of snow had shaken loose and were swirling around. I hurried because I knew we could sit, Chummy and I, sit there and drink, and be warm and easy, and listen to the horns muscle in.