Villain a Novel (2010) (42 page)

Fusae walked further back into the store and picked up a bright orange scarf. There was a mirror to one side reflecting her in her
dark gray coat. Fusae slowly wrapped the scarf around her neck. Perhaps a bit too bright for her, she thought, but the color went surprisingly well with the coat.

“How much is this?” she asked.

“The color looks really good as an accent,” the clerk said while she straightened the scarves. “Let me see,” she added, checking the price tag. “This one would be three thousand eight hundred.”

Fusae had no makeup on, and the scarf was all it took to make her face look much brighter. She had only four thousand yen with her, but she unwound the scarf from her neck and handed it to the clerk. “Here you go. I’ll take it,” she said.

“Here you go.”

The policeman in the driver’s seat held out his hand, which held a handkerchief. The handkerchief, pure white cotton, looked strange in his rough fingers. He must be married. The handkerchief was nicely ironed and had a faint scent.

Mitsuyo was seated in the backseat of the patrol car. Beside her was the plastic bag full of food she’d bought at the convenience store. The heaters clouded the windows and she couldn’t see outside. She took the handkerchief and wiped away her tears.

When the patrolman had her sit in the backseat, Mitsuyo cried. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he asked about her health, about where Yuichi was, and then contacted his precinct via radio. But Mitsuyo was so shaken she could barely hear her own voice, let alone his.

She held the handkerchief against her face, and the patrolman hung up the radio and said, “Miss Magome, we’re going to go to the station first. A policewoman will be there and we’ll talk more.” He started the engine.

The patrol car pulled out of the convenience-store parking lot. Mitsuyo could just make out the clerk and the customers in the store watching them. She realized that she was trembling and pulled the bag of groceries onto her lap and hugged it tightly.

Would Yuichi realize what was going on? Would he run away?

The car was heading toward the intersection where the logging road went up to the lighthouse. Turn left here and they could see the thicket where Yuichi was hiding. Mitsuyo couldn’t bring herself to look in that direction, and held on more tightly to the shopping bag. She squeezed it too hard, and a sweet bun popped out and fell to the wet floor near her feet.

Yuichi … Yuichi …

Until the car completely passed the intersection, Mitsuyo repeated his name to herself over and over.

She wanted to force the door open and leap out, but the car was racing along too quickly. It had happened too suddenly, with no time to say goodbye. She held the handkerchief to her face all the way to the police station. The policeman helped her out of the car, and they went into the small, deserted local station. The inside smelled of kerosene from the heater, and curried rice.

“Just—just sit here for a while.”

The patrolman guided her to a bench next to the window. Cold wind blew in the open front door, scattering papers on the desk. The phone on the desk was ringing. The policeman hesitated, but decided to close the front door first. As soon as he shut it, the phone stopped ringing.

Mitsuyo sat down on the cold, hard bench and grasped the plastic shopping bag to her again. The handkerchief in her hand was damp with sweat and tears.

The patrolman was about to say something to her, but he seemed flustered and stopped. He took off his cap, laid it on the desk, and lifted the receiver of the phone.

“Yes. We just arrived.… No, she isn’t hurt. She is a little upset, yes.… No, I haven’t asked her yet.”

Mitsuyo listened to the patrolman’s replies, and thought again of Yuichi, hiding in the thicket. With the light covering of snow, he must be freezing. The frozen leaves and branches must be stabbing his numb hands and cheeks.

On the wall opposite the bench was a local map taped to the wall.
The station was marked in red. She saw the village where the convenience store was, and the lighthouse where they’d hid.

“Excuse me. I need to use the restroom,” Mitsuyo said, standing up. The patrolman put his hand over the receiver and after a moment’s hesitation, opened the door to the back room. Mitsuyo nodded her thanks to him, then gestured to ask whether it was all right to close the door. The patrolman, phone to his ear, nodded, and she shut the door.

The back room was six mats in size and a futon was spread out on the tatami for the policemen to use for naps.

“I’m sure the man is still around here.… No, there’s no place where they could hide out for long.…”

Mitsuyo heard the patrolman’s voice through the door. Next to a door that said
Restroom
was a window. On impulse, she opened the window. She stood on top of a metal folding chair and scrambled out.

She didn’t look back. She climbed over the low wall behind the station, ran through the garden of a nearby house, and emerged onto an alley. Beyond the narrow alley was a hill, and on top of the hill was the lighthouse. Mitsuyo felt Yuichi was calling to her, and she knew that even if she had to crawl up the steep slope on her hands and knees, she would make it back to the lighthouse.

As he walked next to Koki, Yoshio wondered whether he could be trusted. He’d been nice enough to take him to the hospital, but after that he’d announced that he was a friend of Keigo’s. The whole thing made Yoshio uneasy.

“Do you know Yoshino, too?” he asked.

Koki’s pale cheeks, which looked as if they seldom saw the sun, reddened. “Ah, no I don’t. I never actually …” he said evasively.

Koki silently headed toward the shopping district. He wasn’t taking a taxi, Yoshio noticed, and he walked right past the subway, so the shop that jerk is in must be right around here.

“You go to the same college as that guy?” he asked.

“Uh … yeah.”

“You don’t like him much?”

“No, we’re good friends.”

Yoshio barked a short laugh at this.
If you’re such good friends, then why are you taking a man you don’t know to see him, a man who’s carrying a wrench?

“I left home planning to kill him. Do you have any idea how I feel?”

It felt weird, talking about this with a good friend of the man who’d kicked his daughter in the back and abandoned her.

“You have parents?” he asked.

“Yes,” Koki replied briefly.

“You get along okay?”

“Not really.” The reply left no doubt how he felt.

“You have somebody you really care about?”

At this, Koki halted and looked puzzled.

“Somebody who, when you think about their happiness, you feel happy, too?”

Koki shook his head. “I don’t think he has anyone like that either,” he muttered.

“There’re too many people in the world like you,” Yoshio said. “Too many people who don’t have anyone they care about. Who think if they don’t love anyone else then they’re free to do whatever they want. They think they have nothing to lose, and that makes them stronger. If you have nothing to lose, there’s nothing you really want, either. You’re full of confidence, and look down on people who lose things, who want things, who are happy, or sad sometimes. But that’s not the way things are. And it’s just not right.”

Koki stood there, stock-still, the whole time. Yoshio nudged him and said, “Come on, which way is it? Are you taking me, or what?”

Koki came to a halt outside a glass-enclosed restaurant fronting the main street. White words in a foreign language danced across the glass. Inside, young girls were poking around in large bowls of salad.

Yoshio left Koki standing outside and walked in. He was met by a rush of sound—music playing, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, customers laughing.

He didn’t spot Keigo at any of the tables, or at the counter that wrapped around the kitchen area. Yoshio ignored the waitress who came over to seat him, and strode into the restaurant. Two young men were seated on cushioned seats, facing toward Yoshio. They were gazing up at Keigo, seated with his back to the entrance, who was doing all the talking. The two friends were laughing uproariously.

Yoshio walked straight toward them. Keigo didn’t notice him coming and went on talking, gesturing all the while as he spoke. “So get this. The old fart grabs me and says, ‘It’s y’all’s fault, hear me? That mah daughter’s dead!’ The guy was so serious you couldn’t believe it. So desperate. God! I’d laugh my ass off if I ever saw that old fart’s face again. You know the type—like the old men that Macchan imitates sometimes?”

The two friends were laughing, right in front of Keigo. But Yoshio couldn’t figure out what was so amusing. A father trying that hard for the sake of his murdered daughter—what’s so funny about that?

The two friends finally noticed Yoshio and glanced at him. Following their gaze, Keigo turned around, and gulped.

I just don’t get it
, Yoshio thought.
This guy who can laugh at other people’s sorrow. I don’t get it. And I don’t understand how these friends of his can laugh along. And I don’t get these people who send letters abusing and slandering Yoshino. And these talk-show commentators who’ve labeled Yoshino a slut. I just don’t understand them
.

Yoshino
. He silently called her name.
Daddy doesn’t get it at all
.

Keigo was standing up in front of him. He was speechless, his face pale. The wrench Yoshio was gripping in his pocket seemed suddenly light.

“Is it so funny?” he asked. He really wanted to know. Keigo took a step backward.

“Go ahead, try living that way,” Yoshio said, the words pouring
out. “If you can live like that, laughing at everybody else, go ahead.” Yoshio was so sad he couldn’t stand it.

Keigo and his friends stood staring blankly. Yoshio took the wrench out of his pocket and tossed it at Keigo’s feet. And without another word, he left.

Yoshio arrived back in Kurume after four p.m. that day. He’d been gone two days, and when he thought about Satoko, who had probably spent the whole time crying, he considered how worried she must have been. It pained him deeply.

He parked in the lot a little way from their house, and trudged heavily toward home. After Yoshino was gone, he felt drained of energy. He’d stood in front of Keigo, who’d ridiculed him, but had left without doing a thing. Was this the right choice, or had he made a mistake? He had no idea.

He emerged from the alley where the parking lot was and could see in the distance the sign
Ishibashi Barbershop
. For a moment he couldn’t believe it. After Yoshino had been killed, he hadn’t once switched on the light on the barber pole outside the shop, but now he could swear it was on and revolving.

Dubious, Yoshio stepped up his pace, and as he approached his shop he could see that indeed the barber pole was revolving. He started running. Out of breath by the time he reached the shop, he yanked open the front door. There weren’t any customers inside, just Satoko, dressed in her white barber’s coat, folding freshly laundered towels.

“You … you opened the shop?” Yoshio asked.

Surprised by his sudden appearance, Satoko, eyes wide, said, “Oh! You startled me.” She went on, smiling, “If I don’t open it, who will? Mr. Sonobe came in a while ago for a cut.”

“And you cut it?”

These past few years, Satoko had grown to hate touching customers’ hair, and had avoided working in the shop. But here she was now, decked out in her barber’s coat, right in front of him.

“You must have been worried,” Yoshio said.

Satoko went back to folding the towels and silently shook her head.

“Well, I’m back,” Yoshio said.

The setting sun shone through the glass door, and the name
Ishibashi Barbershop
formed a shadow at their feet.