He stopped for a moment, unsure of what to do. Masa was nodding in the direction of the gate, but something held him back. He hesitated for another moment, then walked over and sat down next to the girl.
-Are you okay?
She nodded slowly, not meeting his eyes. He sensed her drawing into herself, her posture stiffening, shoulders curling inward. He was intruding again, he knew, and as he watched her staring at the pavement he wished he’d followed Masa to the gate. But he was here now, and it would be too awkward to suddenly leave. He waited again, then reached out and touched her shoulder; and when she didn’t protest, he placed his arm around her. After a while she leaned against him, and he felt her tears dampening his shoulder.
He looked over at Masa, who was still standing by the gate. Neither of them could think of anything to say, but they held each other’s eyes anyway. Eventually the girl drew away from him and took a packet of tissues from her pocket.
-Are my eyes all panda-looking?
He looked at her. Her tears had left little trails in her makeup, and the corners of her eyes were dark.
-Uh, they’re a little black, yeah…
-Here?
She dabbed at the corner of her left eye.
-Down a little bit more. Yeah, right there…
She took out her mobile phone and inspected herself in the camera.
-I don’t usually cry, she said.
Tatsuya said nothing.
-I’m sorry about that. Do you guys work with him or something?
-No, we just…that was the first time we met him.
Tatsuya looked at Masa again and felt his own hesitation mirrored. Neither of them wanted to say why they were there. But Masa - as if he sensed he was being left out - came over and stood next to the girl.
-He got Ai Kago suspended from Morning Musume, he said.
-Yeah? Are you her friends?
Masa glanced at Tatsuya before answering.
-Yeah, sort of.
-Oh. Well why don’t you go up there and beat the shit out of him?
She spoke calmly, staring at them with her wide eyes. They looked at her.
-I’m serious. No, I’m not - I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying….
She looked about to cry again, then drew herself up and shook her head.
-He’s not a good person.
-We’re going to report him, Masa said.
-Yeah? To who?
-A bunch of forums we write for.
-Oh. Well, good luck with that then.
A pause.
-Anyway, I’m sorry we interrupted you, Tatsuya said. I mean, not really interrupted, but, I’m sorry we came up just then.
-No, he looked pissed off, the girl said. So I’m glad.
This seemed to decide something in her, as she began to talk at length, telling them of her recent life and the photographer’s countless deficiencies. Tatsuya and Masa weren’t used to being taken into confidence, and most of the references escaped them, but they did their best to play along: sometimes she mentioned a certain street or shop or bar, and they nodded, as if they went there often. After a while she stopped for a cigarette, then continued the story. They stood listening, nodding when she paused, a little awed at the depth of her anger. As she spoke, Tatsuya noticed a redness at the tips of her teeth. Her lipstick, he realized - at first he’d thought her mouth was bleeding.
-I feel like I just want to forget everything, she said. Forget my whole life. Hey, you want to go drinking with me?
-Uh, Tatsuya said. Well, I don’t really drink…
-That’s okay, more for me.
He suddenly felt uncomfortable. Nothing like this had happened to him before.
-I just want to do something fun, she said. Do you guys like karaoke?
That would be another nightmare, he thought - it would be obvious that they only really knew songs meant for young girls, and then she would hate them. He could picture it already.
-Yeah, sometimes…
-Well, let’s go.
-We might as well, Masa said. It’s not like we’re going to do anything else today.
Tatsuya felt a sudden resentment towards him. Masa would say something to offend her, he knew, because Masa had no shame. And then she would hate them.
-Yeah, if you guys want to, he said. I can’t really sing, though…
-Neither can I, she said. Come on, we’ll go to the Shidax near Sun Road.
And she took off without waiting for an answer. They followed her out of the gate and back through Musashino-shi, walking a few paces behind her. As they stopped at the light, she turned to them.
-I’m Miyuki, by the way.
-Tatsuya.
Masa introduced himself.
-How old are you? Tatsuya asked her.
-Twenty-two. You?
-Twenty-six.
They looked at Masa.
-I’m older than that, he said.
They asked him again but he wouldn’t tell them. Tatsuya remembered one of his internet profiles that listed him as twenty-eight, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was older.
-Wow, big brothers then, I guess. You don’t look that old though.
They stopped at Lawson, where Miyuki bought two cans of Kirin, then continued on to Kichijoji. As they walked, Tatsuya looked around at the people walking past them. Usually he walked with his head down, lost in his thoughts, but now he noted every time someone looked at him. He wondered what they would think of him and Masa and Miyuki; what relationship they would assume existed between them.
They found Shidax and booked a room for two hours. When they entered Miyuki sat down and immediately began drinking. Tatsuya sat next to the door and looked at the electronic register. He didn’t really expect to sing, but the prospect made him nervous. Of course, he knew hundreds of songs by heart, but none of them suited his voice. But then, nothing suited his voice, he thought.
-So who’s first? Miyuki said, already halfway done with her first beer.
They said nothing.
-Okay, I’ll go.
She picked up the register and typed in a sequence of numbers. Soon the screen lit up with a dull glow as the beat started, and she began to sing. Her voice was low and resonant; it seemed to shape itself naturally around the words, spacing out the syllables, lingering at the end of each phrase. Tatsuya didn’t know the song, but he couldn’t imagine the original singer performing it better. When she finished she lit a cigarette and opened her second beer. They looked at her and clapped politely.
-Okay, next?
Tatsuya looked at the corner, then at Masa, who was staring at the register with a fixed expression. His eyes had the same dull gleam they’d had when he’d told Tatsuya his plan earlier in the day. It was an expression of sudden but decisive inspiration: whatever he was thinking of, he would do it.
Masa took the register and typed in a sequence. The title appeared onscreen and Tatsuya winced; it was ‘I WISH’ - one of his favorite songs, and a showcase for Aibon, released some five years before. It was a song that had brought him comfort more times than he could remember, and he didn’t want to hear it ruined. He had heard Masa sing before and knew that his voice was high, flat and strident. He had no subtlety, no control. And Miyuki’s presence made it even more awkward.
But even as he missed every note, he sang with complete conviction. Although he mimicked the original song’s rising and falling syllables, he sang more or less phonetically, so that the tonelessness seemed to jut out of his voice at odd angles, puncturing the melody. He overemoted constantly, but without any intrinsic feel for the lyrics; the effect was like listening to a broken machine parroting human song. The words, intended for a young girl’s voice, seemed to warp and coarsen in the air. Towards the end he stood up and danced. When the song finished Miyuki was laughing, clapping.
-Your turn, she said, turning to Tatsuya.
-I don’t really think I can follow that, he said.
-Okay, one more, Masa said.
He took the register and typed in another sequence. When the screen lit up, Miyuki laughed again.
-’”Renai Revolution 21″? Oh my God, no… we used to do this in junior high… we practiced the dance moves in the girls’ bathroom…
-You know it? Masa asked her.
-Of course.
He handed her the second mic.
-Let’s do it together.
As they started to sing Miyuki adjusted her voice to match Masa’s, over-projecting and then rising into a higher, girlish register. There was little resemblance to the original version, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, Tatsuya thought - during the song’s bridge, she stood up and waved her arms in a style he’d long-since memorized from the music video. As she turned and smiled, he looked at her face and felt a sudden sense of dislocation. It seemed strange to him that he should be here in this room, watching her dance, listening to her voice. He looked over at Masa, who was standing again, clapping. If he felt anything similar, he didn’t show it.
The song finished. He looked up as Miyuki spoke his name.
-You’re not going to do anything?
-No, don’t really feel like it.
-You have to do at least one, she said.
He ended up singing a few lines of “Sekai ni Hitotsu Dake No Hana” before letting Masa take over. Miyuki went to the phone and ordered more beer, then came back as the next song started.
They stayed in the room for another two hours, Tatsuya occasionally joining Masa on the mic. Their limited repertoire became clear, but Miyuki didn’t seem to care - she went on with a wide range of songs, some Tatsuya recognized, others he’d never heard. As she cycled through hip-hop, ballads, and foreign songs, he found himself listening more closely. Often a line or a melody struck him, and he tried to remember the title to download it later.
Eventually the phone rang, and Masa got up to answer.
-It’s time, he said.
Miyuki put out her cigarette, moving the ashtray around from behind the three empty glasses on the table.
-So what are we doing now? she said.
Tatsuya looked at Masa.
-I think we might go back, he said.
-What? Miyuki said. It’s still early…
She stood.
-I know. We should go to Odaiba!
-Isn’t that kind of far? Tatsuya said.
-Yeah, but it’d be worth it. Come on, we can go to Shimbashi and get the train from there.
-Seems okay to me, Masa said.
Tatsuya looked at his watch. It would be dark soon, he thought - if he went now, he would have to return home late, in the cold. There was nothing compelling him to leave, but already he felt tired. Too many unexpected things had happened, and he was beginning to miss the comfort of his room. But at the same time, he resented the thought of Masa and Miyuki going to Odaiba alone. There was no reason for him to feel this way, he knew, but he still felt a vague fear at the thought of Masa offending her. So he looked at them, nodded, and said:
-Okay, I’m coming.
-Great, Miyuki said. I want to go to Little Hong Kong. And we have to take purikura!
She was smiling now, but he sensed a kind of undertone, a forced quality to her excitement. Or maybe it was the alcohol - he couldn’t tell for sure.
It took them an hour and a half to get to Odaiba. They walked back to Kichijoji Station and caught the Chuo Line to Shibuya, then took the Yamanote Line to Shimbashi. Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the outskirts of the island. As they walked along the waterfront Tatsuya saw a distant dull green figure lit up by the fading light: the miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty. They passed close to a boat docking in the bay. Around them, couples were walking hand in hand. It was too cold to swim, but as they walked away from the waterfront they saw a dog shaking itself off.
-I haven’t been here in ages, Masa said.
They went to an arcade, where Miyuki spent two thousand yen trying to win a stuffed animal in a shooting game. After that they all crowded into a photobooth for pictures. Standing in front of the video screen they posed and pulled faces, then waited outside as the machine printed out a tiny strip of photographs. Miyuki took a pair of scissors from a nearby table and cut them into rows, three photos for each of them.
-Let’s go on the ferris wheel, she said. But we should eat first, I’m getting kind of hungry.
-Me too, Tatsuya said.
They looked around for a while and eventually decided on a Chinese restaurant in Little Hong Kong.
-It looks kind of expensive, Tatsuya said.
-So what? Miyuki said. If you’re really worried, I’ll pay.
Inside, they ordered corn soup and a plate of spring rolls. Tatsuya decided on roast duck; Miyuki went with fried rice. Masa said he wasn’t hungry.
-I love this soup, Miyuki said. I get it every time I eat Chinese.
She leaned back in her seat and sipped from a glass of water. Tatsuya looked around the room, taking in the businessmen and couples seated at the tables. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a real restaurant.
-So what do you guys usually do? Miyuki said.
-What do you mean? Tatsuya said.
-When you’re free, I mean.
-I don’t know, just hang out, pretty much.
-You should tell her about your philosophical treatise, Masa said.
She looked at him.
-Oh, what’s that?
-No, it’s nothing, really, Tatsuya said.
-Come on, tell me.
-It’s going to sound really stupid if I say it out loud.
She smiled.
-Come on, you’ve brought it up, you gotta tell me now.
-I’m writing this philosophical treatise…
He stopped.
-No, I don’t know…I can’t talk about it.
-Go on, she said.
He paused, then spoke very quickly.
-It’s a philosophical treatise opposing the value of human life.
The words hung in the air, heavy and lifeless. He had always hated talking about the treatise, and now wanted to kill Masa for mentioning it.
-What? So what’s it about?
-I don’t know, I just think that…I just feel like it’d be better if we’d never been born.
She was looking at him quite seriously, he thought: nodding slowly, as if following the thread of an argument.
-But you don’t really believe that, right?
-I don’t know.
She sat up.
-You should write something with a happy ending. Have you read anything by Kaori Ekuni? I really like her.
-Well, I mean… I mean I’m not really a real writer or anything…
After that the main dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to other topics: soccer, travel, music, recent films. Tatsuya and Masa sat listening, only rarely offering their opinions. Neither of them wanted to say too much about their lives, which meant that Miyuki kept talking. Tatsuya sensed she wasn’t usually the type of person who rambled on about herself, but she seemed comfortable, certainly more than before, and so he fed her questions, asking about her family, job, plans for the future. His earlier fears proved unfounded, as Masa didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary. Instead he sat, mostly silent, sipping his tea and chewing on a spring roll.
-I’m getting full, Miyuki said at last, pushing aside her plate. I don’t think I can finish this.
-Don’t worry about it, Tatsuya said.
-Do you guys want to do any other shopping or anything?
-Not really, Masa said.
-I just though, while we’re here…
-You can, if you want, Tatsuya said.
-Well, why don’t we go on the ferris wheel?
Neither of them objected, and after paying the bill they left the building and made their way back along the path. The top of the wheel became visible long before they reached it, the colored neon lights across its beams glittering sharply in the dark. Tatsuya remembered reading somewhere that it was the largest ferris wheel in the world. After waiting in line for fifteen minutes they paid the fare and climbed into one of the transparent glass cars. As the machine started Miyuki moved close to the side and looked out.
-Are you guys scared? she asked.
-Not really, Tatsuya said. How about you?
-No, I love anything like this. Especially roller-coasters.
-Can’t do them, Tatsuya said.
-Me either, Masa said. This is enough for me.
Tatsuya felt the car move forward and rise up gently. At first he could see the lights of the bay ahead of them, then the whole outline of the island became clear, the ring of buildings surrounded by waves, distant silver-black ripples. As the car rose higher it seemed as if it would separate from the wheel altogether and float off into the sky.
-We’re right at the top now, Masa said.
-Yeah, it’s amazing, Miyuki said. I like how pretty everything looks from up here. I mean, that must be Shimbashi somewhere over there, right? It’s so ugly when you’re there, but from here it looks like a big crystal.
They fell silent. As the car moved towards the ground again Tatsuya closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing. He felt very relaxed: the tiny car reminded him, in a way, of his room. And although Masa and Miyuki were there with him he felt no pressure to do anything. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw Miyuki leaning back in the seat next to him. Her eyelids were lowered, her mouth open a crack. She looked tired, he thought: for her, the day must have been exhausting. Afraid she would fall asleep, he tapped her arm lightly. She shifted and her leg touched his.
-Are you having a good time? she said.
-Yeah, he said. You?
-Yeah.
She spoke the last word slowly, with no particular emphasis.
The car came to a stop, and soon the attendant was opening the door and hurrying them out. They left the Palette Town area and walked back towards the bay.
-You want to shop now? Masa asked.
-No, Miyuki said.
-Then what do you want to do?
-Drinking.
-Again?
-Yeah.
They followed her as she inspected several bars along the waterfront. Most of them she dismissed as being too crowded, or ugly, or expensive. Eventually she decided on a small pub next to a noodle shop. There were only a few patrons: a table of businessmen, a group of foreigners, two old men by the window. They sat at the bar and Miyuki ordered a pint of Kirin.
-You guys should really drink, she said.
Tatsuya looked out the window. From here he could see the bay, and past it the long expanse of Rainbow Bridge winding out towards Tokyo. He tried to remember the last time he’d been to Odaiba - probably it had been on a school trip years ago.
He looked around. Masa was playing with his mobile phone, adjusting the volume setting. Next to him, Miyuki lifted up her beer and drank. He could hear the voices of the foreigners from the other end of the bar, laughing at a joke in English. He took a menu from behind the counter and flipped through it, scanning the names of drinks. Miyuki finished her beer and ordered another.
After an hour, Masa stood.
-Well, I’m going back, he said. My last train’s in fifteen minutes.
Tatsuya stood.
-I’ll come with you.
Miyuki got up and came over to him.
-Stay with me, she said. My last train isn’t for another hour.
Tatsuya turned to her, then looked at Masa, hoping he would say something.
-I think I’ve gotta head back, he said. I mean, it’s kind of late…
-Stay with me until the last train, Miyuki said again. Her eyelids were half-closed, and she seemed tired, or sad, or both: he couldn’t tell.
He turned to Masa again but his face was blank; there was no sign he understood his friend’s appeal. Tatsuya suddenly felt a great distance between them - he had, he realized, no idea what Masa was thinking.
-Just stay with her, Masa said at last. It’s not that long.
Finally he seemed to sense Tatsuya’s hesitation, and stepped forward.
-I’ll send you the first draft of the report tomorrow. You can tell me if I left anything out.
Tatsuya looked at Miyuki, who barely seemed to be listening. Instead she stared past them out the door, slowly rocking back and forth.
-All right, he said. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.
Masa nodded at him and left. Tatsuya turned back to Miyuki, who was already walking back to the bar. She ordered another beer and looked across the room, through the window to the lights of the bay. He sat next to her.
-Are you still thinking about, uh…
She turned to him.
-Yeah. But, don’t worry.
She started in on her beer. He looked around. The bar had emptied out - the only other customers were the two old men by the window. Next to him, Miyuki slumped forward and rested her elbows on the counter.
-My little sister’s really weird, she said. I think she’s autistic or something. She’s in Kobe now, but…when she was little she never really talked to anyone, she’d just sit there watching TV or listening to her music. Then when she got to high school she started going out all the time and didn’t come home until early in the morning. We thought she was out with friends but I never saw her with anyone else, and when I asked her she said she just went places alone and sat there. She’d go to a mall and just sit on a bench outside for five hours. Or she’d go to a restaurant and sit down and not order anything and just stay there until someone asked her to leave. Oh, and Inokashira Park, she used to go there too. I always tried to get her to tell me about it and she just looked at me and didn’t say anything. And she’d wear the same clothes like five days in a row - she had this one red sweatshirt she wore every single day.
As he listened to her speak he looked at the opposite window, and it was not until he turned his head that he saw she was looking at him. He looked back, saying nothing. After a pause she spoke again:
-Yeah… my sister’s weird.
She looked into his eyes, not smiling. Her expression was vaguely expectant, but what it expected he couldn’t tell. It was not an expression he had seen before. He looked away, and after a while he sensed her head lolling forward. When he turned back he saw her resting her head on the table, beneath her folded arms.
Another half hour passed in silence.
At the sound of the bartender moving about by the register, he looked up. The men by the window were leaving. Tatsuya looked at his watch; it was close to midnight.
-Hey. I think we have to go.
He tapped her shoulder. After a moment she stirred and sat up.
-Uh?
-It’s closing. I think your last train comes soon.
She got off the seat. He waited while she put on her coat, and then they left the bar and walked along the path, past the shops, back to the station. The waterfront was almost empty; only a few couples in winter coats and long scarfs lingered by the beach. When they got to the station she bought a ticket and he loaned her a hundred yen coin - all she had left was a thousand yen note. As they approached the gate she turned to him.
-Thanks for staying with me, she said. I had a really good time today.
Before he could say anything she took a thin silver cell phone from her coat.
-I’ll give you my number, okay? We should be friends.
Tatsuya took out his own phone, one he’d bought two years ago. It was a clunky black model from Vodaphone with no internet or camera. The only names in the address book were Masa and his family.
-Here, I’ll put it in.
She took the phone and typed in a number. For a moment they stood in silence.
-Well, I’ll see you later, she said, turning at last to the gate. Tatsuya waved as she moved towards the platform. Then he turned and went to catch his train.
He only had to wait a few minutes. The train was almost empty; he took a seat by the door and rested against the railing. He would have to keep himself awake, he thought; if he slept and missed his stop, the taxi fare would empty his wallet. So he looked out the opposite window as the lights of Odaiba rushed by. Past the glow of the buildings, he could see the dark curve of the ferris wheel, and further out, the faint shimmer of the bay. Against the horizon Odaiba seemed like a different world, a tiny kingdom of its own; and as the train moved further away it all seemed to be fading, vanishing into the night.
By the time he reached Shimbashi it was already early morning. He caught the local line to his station, and as he walked home he wondered whether his mother had left his dinner out for him. He’d eaten a lot at the Chinese restaurant, but that had been hours ago, and now he was hungry again. He supposed it was the hour: usually he went to sleep at eleven and woke up early.
At home he knocked once, and receiving no response, took out his key and opened the door. Inside, the lights were out. He went to the kitchen, found a plate of pasta and ate it sitting at the table. The latest volume of the treatise was still where he’d left it in the morning. He thought about writing some more, but decided against it. He was too tired.
He opened the door to his room and looked in. He would have to clean it soon, he thought: to get to the bed he needed to navigate through a sprawl of books, papers, magazines; in one corner, close to the closet, was an enormous heap of clothes. The closet itself was close to overflowing, and it had been weeks since he’d vacuumed. Stepping over the garbage on the floor, he made it to the bed and smoothed out his pillow. Then he took out his phone and looked down at it for a while, flipping it open and closed, turning it over in his hands.
A patch of wall close to the door caught his eye. It was lighter than the space surrounding it, and he saw that a photograph he’d taped to the wall had fallen down. He would begin there, he thought: in the morning he would retape the photograph, and then he would clean the entire room. But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew it would never happen. At the most he would clear off the top of the desk and give up when it became too much. In truth he didn’t know where to start. And the more he put it off, the more difficult it became.
In his hand the phone’s cover was flipped up, the screen open to the main menu. He stared at it for a long time. Then he scrolled through to the address book and deleted her number from the registry.
—
Masa caught the last train home and stopped at McDonald’s for his dinner. He bought two cheeseburgers and a Coke and walked back to the apartment he shared with his brother. As he stepped inside he saw a note lying on the table: his brother was out. He was alone.
He started up his computer and turned on his music. Already the last few hours were dissolving in his mind, his memories curling into vague clouds, all soon to evaporate. His attention had already turned back to the report, and while he hadn’t decided where he would post it yet, fragments of it were assembling themselves in his mind. He jotted down a brief outline, beginning with the discovery of the photographer. He had been, he thought, almost like a detective. He smiled.
He checked his e-mail, browsed the forums, and started a number of new downloads. A friend messaged him on MSN:
-Did you get the new Ayaya?
-No.
He remembered. Ayaya - Aya Matsuura - had just released a new single a few days ago. He’d meant to download it, but the scandal had distracted him.
-It’s called ‘Suna wo Kamu You ni… NAMIDA’. I can send you it, it’s pretty good.
He clicked the link, and was soon listening to a morose ballad about lost love and ‘tears just like rain.’ It was not an especially distinguished song, he decided; but as he looked at the album art he found himself moved. Matsuura’s face called up a memory from some years ago, one of his favorite memories, well-tended and almost caricatured through constant replaying. He did not always think of it when he looked at her, but the angle of her face in the photograph brought back the day when he had gone to the handshake event in Shibuya.
This was a routine event, arranged for the promotion of a new album: Matsuura would appear in a record store for an hour to meet and shake hands with fans. Masa had arranged the trip days in advance, arriving early to get as close to the stage as possible. Even so, he was surprised at the turnout - although he should have expected it, he told himself. Matsuura was one of the most popular idols in Japan; he saw her face constantly on posters, signs, advertisements; she was less a person than an element of design. Her other aspects came after her, as if trailing from a distance: her voice, played constantly in malls, arcades, shopping centers; her body, framed in magazines and music specials; and then her own thoughts, serene and unknowable, like a flower folded in on itself. She was at once idol, voice and concept, a beauty existing in every dimension while still remaining whole.
He moved forward as the line grew behind him. The floor had opened, and as Matsuura walked out amidst the clicking of camera shutters, Masa pressed ahead to the foot of the stage. At first he was surprised at her height; he had not expected to be taller than her. He was afraid he would be disappointed - that the reality of Ayaya would not match his ideal. He had been to these events before and had learned to relax his expectations. Most models, most idols, had contrived faces with fixed smiles and eyes like opaque glass. A kind of muted hysteria seemed frozen in their features as they greeted all alike: insistent children with pawing hands, bored businessmen seeking souvenirs, pock-faced fans with enormous cameras. All too often the event, intended to provide closeness, only reinforced the distance, the idol growing ever more remote, more unknowable, masked by her own practiced civility. And so it didn’t do to hope for too much: sometimes the poster was better.
The line began to move. He studied her face as the session started. Seen in the flesh, it seemed to cast off its old associations, to be born again, the face of a young girl: beautiful, but then there was nothing extraordinary about that. What made her stand out, he thought, was that standing before him she seemed utterly ordinary, and yet alive, present, and so young. 1986 - that was her birth-year. He remembered 1986. What had he been doing when she was born? Sitting in class, perhaps, staring out the window. Looking at her and thinking of the past, he fell into a kind of trance. But then the line pushed him up the stairs, and he stepped onto the stage.
Probably Aya Matsuura had never known any real suffering; probably no one in her life had humiliated her, spat on her, told her she was ugly. Loved by millions from a young age, she would always have friends, lovers, money. There were people like that too, he thought. So there was no reason for her to be genuine, no reason for her to care apart from formality. But he saw nothing insincere in her eyes as he walked towards her. She took his hand calmly, smiled, and then turned to the side as a photograph was taken. Through it all he kept his attention focused on her smile, which was not the plastic grin he had come to expect, but a restrained smile, calm and gracious. Then it was over: he stepped down from the stage: she waved again to the crowd as the line moved forward.
He waited a while in the store, pretending to browse, staring back at the stage. Being in the same room with her made him feel at peace - and she had acted just as an idol should, he thought. She had allowed her existence to intersect with his, briefly, and had not overplayed her persona. That was all that mattered.
The crowd moved forward and blocked the stage. He craned for a last glimpse and caught only the edge of her hand as she waved again. Satisfied, he took the stairs up to the third floor, to the toilets. Before going inside he bought an ice-cold bottle of green tea from a vending machine and drank it in long swallows. He looked through the nearest window at the sunlight pouring across the rows of buildings. It was a clear, bright day, just the start of summer. He turned and went inside, throwing the empty bottle at a bin by the opposite wall.
The stalls were all empty. He locked himself in, pulled off his pants. Then her face rose in his mind like a new moon, pale and resplendent. He moved his hand down and felt again her hand on his; and as his hand moved he thought of her smile, the row of straight white teeth merging with his memories, the thousand signs and posters only shadows of that brief flash of white; he thought of her body as he stepped away from her, the white curve of her arm fixed in space; and he thought of the last movement of her hand as she waved to the crowd, the image fading to warm darkness as his semen spattered across the toilet seat and the cold, filthy floor.
He sat for a while, his mind calm and empty.
When he came out of the stall he saw a middle-aged businessman washing his hands, his rolled-up shirt-sleeves displaying his wrinkled wrists. As he watched the man adjusting his hair he felt an unfamiliar emotion, a kind of distancing, not really hate, more a remote contempt. He felt as if he were staring down at the man from a great height, considering his existence. And although he knew nothing of his life, he was certain that he had never felt, had never really felt or known anything.
He left the bathroom and went to the window, looked down at the streets below. Hundreds of people were walking somewhere, for some reason, rushing to shops and trains and offices, like puppets pulled by strings. And what did any of them know of his happiness?
At that moment he was certain no one felt as he did, that entire lives were lived below him without a single moment of love.
He walked down the stairs and every time he passed someone he felt he could see through them. An absurd self-confidence filled him. He felt he had to do something: he didn’t know what it would be, when he would do it, but something had been appointed, something he alone could do. Because of his love.
Five years later he sat in front of the computer, his pants unzipped, a half-eaten cheeseburger resting on the desk. He knew what would happen: he would write a few more paragraphs, leaving the rest for tomorrow. Then he would search online for new scanned photobooks: another Ran Monbu was due soon. He would listen to his music and fall asleep in the chair, and when he awoke the next morning he wouldn’t bother to change his clothes. He would go out for lunch at noon and browse in the stores without buying anything, would come home again to find everything the same.
He tried to remember the feel of Ayaya’s hand, and realized he could not. The memory had become like a dream. But he smiled as he thought of that day, of the view from the open window. At that time, he had held the entire world in contempt.
Tags: 2channel, Friday magazine, Hello! Project, Kago Ai, Matsuura Aya, Morning Musume, scandal, W, wota
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