Death and the Flower Read online

  What could it have looked like to Yuko?

  “Tell me what you saw.” It was a strange question.

  Just tell me, honestly, what you saw.

  Tatsuro was afraid of the answer. Somehow he sensed that there was a gap between what he’d experienced and the reality Yuko had witnessed.

  “Oh, Papa, please!”

  She’d said that often ever since she was little. Oh, Papa, please … Whenever she was dissatisfied with him, she prefaced her complaints with those words.

  “Papa, please, you can’t drown!”

  Gradually that spot, where Tatsuro had nearly drowned, came into view. Yuko seemed to resent the deep green water that swirled just in front of the pier, the dark hues that had nearly stolen away her father. But Tatsuro’s gaze rested elsewhere. He was looking at the pier beyond. To be exact, he was searching for the fishing boat that should have been tied to it. It was nowhere to be seen. Wondering if they’d set out again, he scanned the sea but found no sign of it.

  The pier, now that he gazed upon it anew, wasn’t sturdy enough for mooring. Parts of it were rotten and falling away. It didn’t even look strong enough to support the weight of a person.

  “That fishing boat …” Tatsuro started to ask, but bit back his words.

  “Huh?” Yuko looked at him. “What fishing boat?”

  “Never mind.” Tatsuro fell silent. He didn’t need to ask. Yuko hadn’t seen any boat, not one bit of it, moored to the pier. He changed his line of questioning. “Did I almost drown out there?”

  He pointed towards the deep water just in front of the sandbar, and Yuko nodded yes.

  “And then what?”

  His daughter frowned and peered into his face. “Oh, no. You mean you don’t remember?”

  “Just tell me.”

  Using a lot of gestures, Yuko described in detail what she had seen. Apparently, Tatsuro had foundered as he’d swum into the deeper waters between the sandbar and the island.

  Makes sense. Right after I felt the pain in my left foot.

  Tatsuro had gone under and failed to surface for several moments. When he finally re-emerged, he had drifted a little north, parallel to the highway. He floated quietly, without moving his limbs, letting the tide carry him. Screaming all the while, Yuko followed her slowly drifting father along the shore. “Papa!” she called over and over, wrestling with the terror of abandonment, desperately trying to wake him up. Perhaps she’d succeeded because her father did come to, sinking below once more, spitting water, and clumsily beginning to swim again. From the end of the shoal he had swum towards the highway, arriving ashore more than a hundred yards north of the car.

  It felt strange hearing another person describe his own actions to him. Just as he had suspected, the time he’d spent on the island was unaccounted for. Everything had been so colorful, so striking, yet it had not been real.

  There was only one possible explanation: the sandbar was a nest of sea snakes, and one of them had bitten his left foot. Sea snakes had some venom that assailed humans’ central nervous system. Poisoned, Tatsuro had dreamily drifted with the current, wafting at the frontier between seawater and air, hallucinating that he was on the island.

  A hallucination.

  When he confirmed that fact, the steam-powered railway carriage and the feel of the iron rails came back vividly.

  That was a hallucination?

  The faucet that spouted water, the fishing boat that moored at the pier, the comforting warmth radiated by the islanders who came ashore. All of it had the touch of reality. All that had been a hallucination? It was hard to accept. With a loud sound something had changed. Fatigue gnawed at his very core.

  Taking a better look at the island, Tatsuro saw now that it wasn’t large enough to support a settlement or a train. At the same time, he sensed it: the other side gliding toward his. This was how he had to live. A perilous path—the fragile passage over which this side and the other overlapped never led to utopia.

  Finally Tatsuro grasped why he’d felt a compulsion to cross over to the island. He’d harbored the drive unconsciously ever since his wife and his son had died in an accident. A longing to cross over to the other side. His shattered family would never be made whole. The fishing boat coming home to the island—it had transformed the crumbling village into a bright place. Over the past six years, how many times had he dreamt that? A wish for restoration that slumbered deep in his heart and that never went away must have manifested as an illusory fishing boat.

  As he started the engine, still-hot air came blowing out of the vents in the dashboard. In the passenger’s seat, Tatsuro’s daughter was chanting under her breath with both eyes squeezed shut. Whenever they visited the family grave, she always shut her eyes tight and offered a prayer like this. Tatsuro had never asked her what she was praying for.

  “Our suitcase will be back, won’t it?” she asked abruptly.

  His girl was probably right. The suitcase they’d transported to another terminal had to be back in Miami by now.

  Beyond the Darkness

  1

  Through the camera’s viewfinder, Yoshiaki’s fair-skinned face looked out of focus against the brand-new wallpaper. Hesitant to press the shutter, Eriko lowered the camera.

  “Should I use the flash?” she asked Yoshiaki, who posed leaning against the wall.

  The pale walls and floors emitted that new-house smell. It was the middle of March, the season when days grow longer. There was no direct sunlight, but the spanking newness of the house made the space almost overly bright. Through the viewfinder, though, it looked like there wasn’t enough light.

  “No, you don’t need any flash,” Yoshiaki muttered, relaxed his pose, and refolded his arms.

  “What?” Eriko asked, cupping her hand behind her ear. Given the context, she shouldn’t have needed him to repeat himself.

  “Just take it already,” Yoshiaki said. He ditched his pose, leaned his head against the wall in a more natural manner, and sighed. He was thoroughly exhausted from unpacking after their move. It was a struggle just to maintain a stance.

  “Here we go.”

  After the shutter snapped, the film automatically advanced to the next frame.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Yoshiaki prompted.

  He stood Eriko in front of the full-service kitchen and placed his hands on her shoulders to turn her sideways. Then he took a few steps back and peered through the viewfinder, focusing on her protruding belly. He desperately wanted a photograph of the baby, who was arriving in about a month, while it was still in its mother’s womb. Yoshiaki, who turned thirty-one that year, had never seen a photo of his mother when she was pregnant with him. There were many pictures of him after he was born but not a single one of his mother in her final trimester. To him, it seemed that no other image deserved to be preserved more. Held up in front of a mirror, an infant, at only a few months old, could see its own face. Yet there was no way for a fetus holding its knees inside a womb to see the mother from the outside. It wasn’t an external shot per se but the mother’s expression as she carried the baby that needed to be seen.

  “Smile, smile!”

  There’s something almost laughable about the profile of a near-to-term woman. Bulging out her belly and keeping her shoulders back, Eriko rested lightly against the edge of the sink to stop herself from falling over. She put her hands under her belly and pretended to lift it up for a unique pose.

  Yoshiaki pressed the shutter, set the flash, moved a few steps to the side, and pressed the shutter again. Stunned by the flash, Eriko blinked.

  “Enough, let’s go to the bedroom,” she said, less miffed about having blinked than about having two shots taken in the same pose.

  The couple moved to the bedroom, the living room, and to the foyer, alternating between model and photographer. It felt like they had taken lots of photos, but the camera’s indicator pointed between 12 and 14.

  “What should we do?” Eriko asked.

  They had pl
anned to finish the roll, but only a third of the 36-exposure film was used, and she couldn’t help but feel they were being wasteful.

  “I guess we can’t finish it. But that’s okay, we’ll just keep it. We’ll use it a lot anyway after this one’s born,” Yoshiaki said as he gently patted his wife’s stomach.

  “That’s true.”

  The couple looked relieved that they’d arrived at the same conclusion.

  Purchasing their new house had been quite a stretch. Noticing that the price tag was impacting trivial matters and mentioning the fact carelessly were two different things.

  Moving from a one-bedroom apartment in Naka Meguro to a condo in the suburbs involved additional monthly expenses of tens of thousands of yen. “If the monthly cost is about the same as what you’re paying as rent, you’ll be better off taking out a mortgage and buying since that way it’ll remain as an asset,” the couple had been seduced at every turn by realtors. Even so, if this were just two years ago, such a purchase would have been impossible. Although they’d nearly given up on the dream of owning a home, they decided to purchase this place just half a year ago, their desires rekindled by rampant rumors that prices had bottomed out. They readied ten million yen for a down payment and looked for a house with a mortgage comparable to their current rent, but all the places that met their requirements were far from the metropolitan area. They had to choose between upping their mortgage and a longer commute. They’d agreed on a shorter commute and closed on the house three months ago.

  It was their first weekend in their new home. Yoshiaki had taken a day off from work for the day of the move, but his heavily pregnant wife couldn’t be expected to unpack on her own. There’d been nothing they could do but to leave the majority of their belongings boxed up for three days. They got to work the first thing Saturday morning, and now with all the cardboard boxes gone, they deemed it a perfect opportunity to take pictures of their shiny new home. But after using a third of the 36 exposures, the word “thrift” occurred to the couple simultaneously, and they couldn’t snap the shutter anymore.

  One month later, though, they had their newborn daughter to use the remaining film on. The baby was born slightly underweight at just 5 lbs. 12 oz., even though Yoshiaki was a solidly built man, while her face clearly resembled his. After a weeklong stay in the hospital, mother and daughter returned to their new home, and the leftover film was finally expended. The new home and the newborn included on the same roll looked all the more vibrant given that it was now April, springtime.

  The family portrait of the Fukazawa family, Yoshiaki, Eriko, and the new member, Aya, was freshness itself. They were content in every way. The new home may have cost them dearly, but the inestimable emotional comfort was worth it. Just five minutes to the station via bus or twenty minutes on foot, the location was satisfactory, and the quiet residential neighborhood was ideal. Their apartment was on the eastern side of the third floor of a seven-story condominium and had three bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. They had a decent view, any sounds from their neighbors were almost entirely muffled, and compared to their former rickety apartment on the first floor, it was a good deal more cushy. They could even hear birdsong in the mornings. Although the trek into the city had increased by half an hour, overall their gains outweighed their losses.

  “We could live here forever,” Yoshiaki and Eriko told each other.

  2

  The phone rang almost the instant the baby fell asleep. Eriko put up the bars to keep her daughter from rolling over and falling out of the crib and left the bedroom quietly. There was still steam in the hallway from the bathroom. She’d been bathing with Aya in her arms only just now and run into the bedroom without even drying herself off properly.

  The ringing of the phone coaxed her to hurry. She had to slip quietly into the living room and lift the receiver to avoid waking up the baby. It must have already rung about seven, eight times. Eriko opened the living room door, and relying on only the faint light that spilled in to guide her, picked up the phone, panting, and answered: “Hello?” She thought it must be her husband so she’d used a flat, casual tone. She reached to turn on the living room light, but with the receiver pressed to her ear, she couldn’t reach the switch. Standing in the dimness she said “hello” again, louder this time, trying to elicit a response from the caller.

  There was no answer. It was too dark to see the clock’s hands, but estimating from the time she’d bathed, it must have been shortly after 9:00 p.m. The other end of the line remained silent.

  With calls from a public phone, sometimes the other party couldn’t be heard at all due to a faulty connection. Eriko raised her voice further. “Hello, can’t you hear me?”

  Still no answer.

  “Weird.” She was just about to replace the receiver when she heard a man’s voice.

  “You should’ve told me you were moving.”

  He spoke with a lisp and had poor enunciation, but that’s what Eriko thought she heard.

  She held her breath. There was a quiet cackle on the other end of the line. She slammed the receiver and held it down in place with both hands. The subdued laughter seemed to linger in the air. She thought if she were to let go of the phone the voice would revive.

  Once sure that nothing was about to happen, Eriko walked away from the phone and went to turn on all the lights until the living room was fully bright. She pulled down the window blinds, looked around the room, and rubbed at her upper arms with her hands, feeling a chill. Although it was mid-May and the air in the room was quite temperate, the voice had left a cold sensation on her skin. The man’s words still rang in her mind.

  You should’ve told me you were moving.

  Eriko replayed the words endlessly in her head as she paced back and forth from the table.

  The phone was ringing again. It had already rung twice, but Eriko hadn’t noticed. Like a siren far in the distance, it sounded anxious. When the third ring reached her ears, Eriko finally grabbed the receiver. Already having forgotten the voice of the man, with a wan face and heart she put the phone to her ear and stood in silence.

  “Is our baby already asleep?”

  Eriko’s nerves immediately thawed. As the tension in her body uncoiled she sank to the floor. She managed to ask in a strangled voice, “Honey, where are you now?”

  “At the station.”

  Eriko switched the receiver from her right ear to her left. Something lodged deep in her ear was making it hard to hear clearly. “Which one?”

  “I should be able to see you and our baby’s sleeping face in about ten minutes.”

  “Come home quickly.”

  “Do you want anything?”

  “No, just get home as fast as possible.”

  “Sure.”

  Eriko sat in a daze for a while after hanging up. She checked the clock every ten seconds and imagined where her husband was at each moment and repeatedly checked the bedroom as she kept thinking that she’d heard the baby crying.

  Turning on the TV, she flipped through the channels but couldn’t find anything that held her interest. Her mind was restless. The final scores of the night’s ballgames were being announced. She thought she was paying attention but retained no memory of whether her favorite team had won. Her awareness was moving in a completely different direction.

  Thinking to warm up some milk she opened the fridge, and that’s when the doorbell rang.

  “Coming!”

  Eriko closed the fridge and turned around. Her husband must have arrived at last.

  3

  After taking his shoes off at the entryway, Yoshiaki took off his tie and handed it to Eriko.

  “Hey, there was a phone call just a while ago.” Eriko gripped the tie in front of her chest, demonstrating that she was eager for him to listen. She tried to block him from leaving the foyer.

  “Hold on a second,” Yoshiaki whispered into her ear softly and went to the bedroom to check on his daughter first. He opened the door b
ut didn’t step inside, and satisfied to hear his daughter sleeping, turned his attention back to Eriko. “So, what about this call?”

  “Come.” Eriko pushed her husband’s back all the way into the living room and gently closed the door behind them. “Have you had dinner?” she asked in typical fashion, gaining back a measure of composure.

  “Yeah, I ate at work. So, what happened?”

  Eriko glanced at the dial phone beside her. “He called again.”

  “Who?”

  “It was the same man. No doubt about it.”

  Yoshiaki thought for a while. He wasn’t grasping the drift. “What man?”

  “Come on. Remember the prank calls I was getting at our place in Naka Meguro?”

  Yoshiaki couldn’t be blamed for having only a vague recollection. The calls always came during the day while he was at work, so he’d never answered any of the prank calls himself. When his wife, cowered by the eerie voice on the other end, had begged him to do something, he’d told her, “Leave it alone, we’re moving soon anyways,” and not taken the matter seriously. Had it been more persistent, he might have contacted NTT to get a new number, but there’d been only five or six calls. After the move, their address would change from Tokyo to Kanagawa prefecture, and the chances of the same caller finding them would be slim. Naturally, they didn’t sign up to have a prerecorded tape answer callers with their new number, and they passed on a phone book listing.

  “Is it really the same guy?” Yoshiaki doubted that point first and foremost. Could a casual prank caller look up a new number so easily?

  “I’m sure of it. He even said, ‘You should’ve told me you were moving,’ ” Eriko replied imitating the man’s tone. Mimicking him seemed to bring the man who lurked behind the receiver closer to her. Terrified, she pressed a hand to her mouth and fell silent.