EDGE (14 page)

I’ve been in this house before
.

When she’d come in the summer, she hadn’t discovered any clues but had been struck by a strange sense of familiarity. For some reason, the entire house had triggered a wave of nostalgia akin to revisiting one’s childhood home.

When I was here last, he guided me through the house
.

“Right this way,” Seiji had said, standing extra close to Saeko as he’d escorted her through the curtained rooms.

“Saeko, there’s no need to be formal with me.” Seiji had called her
Kuriyama, but now he’d switched to using her first name. As the jangling keys brought her back into the present, she suddenly became aware that Seiji was brandishing a single key in front of her face. The key lay on Seiji’s open palm, which he was now thrusting almost right into her nose. “Here, take it,” he said.

Saeko plucked the key from his hand, taking care not to touch any part of his skin. “I’ll have one of the staff members return it to you later,” she promised.

“Don’t bother. It’s a spare. Go ahead and hold onto it,” Seiji offered.

The mere thought of entertaining the kind of relationship with Seiji that involved him giving her a spare key sent a wave of revulsion through Saeko that almost made her faint. Nonetheless, she wasn’t about to refuse the offer. A spare key to the Fujimura residence was a powerful asset. If they needed to come back and film again, she might be able to get into the house without even dealing with Seiji.

Saeko dropped the key into her purse. She would have preferred to wrap the key in a tissue first, but that wasn’t an option at the moment.

11
For the second time, Saeko crossed the threshold of the Fujimuras’ home.

As the front door opened, the smell of earth and leather shoes wafted out. All houses have a unique smell, just as people do, but it was especially strong here. Saeko hadn’t noticed it as much the last time, but today when the door opened and the air from inside enveloped them, she found herself covering her nose with her hands.

Shigeko Torii paused in the front entryway, staring at the welcome mat at the threshold where they would step up after removing their shoes. Saeko and Hashiba watched quietly from behind, being careful not to get in the way of the cameras. In the shoe-removal area just inside the door, two pairs of acupressure sandals were arranged neatly side by side in contrast to two pairs of children’s sneakers that lay scattered messily nearby. Just under the ledge, Saeko also spotted two pairs of dusty traditional wooden sandals. There were two pairs of each type of shoe—the acupressure sandals, sneakers, and wooden sandals—but no leather shoes or women’s pumps in sight.

Torii removed her shoes and stepped up into the house, advancing straight down the corridor. The cameras followed her movements. There had been no pre-arrangement of how she would behave or react, and this
was her first time in the house. The sun had gone behind a cloud, but it had been clear that day, and the air was dry. Nonetheless, the air in the home had a humid quality, and the flooring gave off a damp creaking sound with each step Torii took.

Now the famous seer’s much-lauded abilities would be put to the test. On the train ride from Tokyo to Chino, Saeko had encountered an aspect of Torii’s unusual powers, and they had made an impression. While the old woman hadn’t exactly penetrated to the very core of the tragedy Saeko had experienced long ago, she had accurately assessed its general provinces. Saeko wasn’t yet 100 percent convinced, but she was halfway there, and ready to see more. If Torii succeeded in intuiting an aspect of this missing persons case that hit the mark, Saeko was likely to be persuaded.

As Torii rounded a corner to the left of the corridor, sandwiched between the two cameras, Hashiba and Saeko removed their shoes, stepped into the house, and followed quietly behind.

Saeko followed Hashiba down the corridor to the entrance of the living room. They stopped in the doorway and peered inside.

Next to the open-counter style kitchen was a table for six, and close to it a corner sofa. The living and dining area was roughly fifteen tatami mats in area, with the sofa serving as a partition between the two spaces. Cabinets and shelving lined the walls with no wasted space. At a glance, it was clear that the members of this household were well-organized and tidy.

Torii sat down on the living room sofa facing the television. The set was off, its screen merely mirroring the room. The reflected image was slightly rounded at the edges and almost monochromatic. Torii would be seeing her own reflection in the screen as well.

The old woman picked up the remote control and made as if to operate it, but then hesitated, fiddling with it for a moment before setting it back down on the table. Instead she picked up one of the glasses that had been left there. There was a tiny bit of white residue at the bottom. Ten months ago, the owner of the home had poured a beer into this glass and left it unfinished on the table. The liquid had evaporated completely, leaving only traces of foam at the very bottom as evidence.

Torii brought the glass to her nose and sniffed.

She cocked her head to the side as if lost in deep contemplation. Then she stood up and traversed the dining room into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator door.

As Torii leaned forward to peer into the refrigerator, the light from inside illuminated her profile, bathing her thin hair in a cool, pale light that made it look whiter than ever. In response to its door opening, the motor in the back of the refrigerator let out a growling rumble.

Even now, the household’s utility bills continued to be automatically deducted each month from their plentiful bank accounts, and the home’s electricity, gas, water, and telephone services were still operational.

Torii examined the refrigerator’s contents before extracting a Styrofoam container of fermented soybeans, or
natto
. She carried it over to the dining table and sat down. With a strange look on her face, Torii sat opposite ten-month-old
natto
, probably purchased at some neighborhood grocery store, and appeared to sink into a deep trance. Earlier she had been muttering incomprehensibly to herself, but now she maintained absolute silence. For a moment, she seemed about to speak. But instead she paused, her face frozen in the expression of a person just about to sneeze, her eyes staring off into space. She remained like that for about half a minute, her mouth hanging open.

Hashiba couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “Do you see something?” he asked. His voice could easily be removed from the footage at the editing stage.

The well-timed question seemed to pull Torii’s consciousness back to reality. “I see a dark abyss,” she responded simply.

“What do you mean, a dark abyss?” Hashiba probed.

“I don’t know how deep it is, but I see the bottom of a valley set between steep cliffs.”

“Are the people who lived in this house at the bottom of that valley?”

“I don’t know. But the valley is moving, like a living thing.”

As Saeko listened to the exchange between Hashiba and Torii, she imagined a bird’s eye view of a valley, dark and writhing like a snake. At the same time, it made her think of Seiji. It occurred to her suddenly that if a snake’s face were covered in wrinkles, it might look a lot like Seiji.

Just then, she heard a soft clapping sound near her ear. It was a signal from Hashiba. “Wait there just a moment,” he directed.

Quickly, Hashiba called Kagayama over and gave him some brief instructions. “Help me gather together some things the family members used in their daily lives. You go upstairs and find something of the children’s. I’ll find something that belonged to the parents downstairs.”

As the director issued his instructions, the two cameras continued to film Torii.

Kagayama looked confused. He seemed unsure of what Hashiba had in mind.

“I want you to find something each member of the family used regularly. Clothes, a comb, whatever. Bring me something that belonged to each of the children,” Hashiba clarified.

“Got it.” Finally comprehending, Kagayama started to sprint off, but Hashiba stopped him.

“Just a minute. When you do, be careful not to mess up their rooms. Just collect the necessary items and do your best not to touch anything else.”

“Understood.”

Kagayama ran swiftly up the stairs.

Hashiba watched him go and then made his way to the bathroom. It would be easy to find something each member of the family used regularly there.

He opened the sliding door between the hallway and the bathroom. The sink was just opposite the door, ivory colored with a three-way mirror that greeted Hashiba with his own reflection. The daylight that poured in through the small window next to the sink was sufficient to illuminate both the changing and bathing area so that there was no need to turn on the lights.

Hashiba opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, revealing four toothbrushes lined up inside. Below, the sink was fairly clean, but there were tiny bits of toothpaste congealed here and there and a few stray hairs tangled in the drain.

Hashiba was about to reach for the four toothbrushes when he hesitated and plucked several tissues from a nearby tissue box. He wrapped the toothbrushes in the tissues so as not to handle them directly. He wasn’t worried about preserving forensic evidence at a potential crime scene; rather, he simply lacked the courage to directly handle toothbrushes that probably still retained traces of their owners’ saliva.

Hashiba stuck the thick wad of tissues containing the four toothbrushes in his pocket. At least now he had something all four family members had used regularly.

There was a laundry machine next to the sink, with a laundry basket sandwiched in between. The basket contained clothes that had been laundered but not yet hung out to dry. They were mostly light things like hand-towels and underwear, and all of the items had dried in a wrinkly mass. When he picked one up, it retained its shape like a pumice stone.

When had these clothes been laundered? It seemed more than likely that the load had been done just before the family’s disappearance.

There was shelving over the laundry machine with a fluorescent light installed underneath. Hashiba switched it on and peered into the machine. Inside, there were a number of items of clothing that still hadn’t been washed. These were heavier items, like jeans and track pants, and a scoop of detergent had already been sprinkled on top. Something must have happened to Mrs. Fujimura after she’d transferred the first load of laundry into the basket and was about to start a second.

Still leaning forward to gaze into the laundry machine, Hashiba took a step backwards. His heel stepped on something thick and soft. He looked down, and what he’d taken for a bathmat in the dim light was actually a stray garment on the floor. Hashiba was standing on the leg of a pair of denim trousers that must have belonged either to Mr. Fujimura or his son.

The polka dot bathmat was in fact hanging on a nearby towel rack, and two pairs of waterproof slippers were propped nearby. All the footwear in this home seemed to come in units of two pairs.

Hashiba turned on the light in the bathing area and opened the inward-facing folding doors that led inside. The tub was pale pink and seemed much newer than the rest of the home. The Fujimuras had probably had the bathroom redone not long ago.

The tub was in a state similar to the beer glass. The bathwater that had been left when the family disappeared ten months ago had cooled and evaporated, leaving behind a film of hair and dead skin. A layer of mold had grown on top in a mottled pattern only to dry up and die.

Hashiba exited the bathroom and crossed through the hallway into the tatami-floored master bedroom.

It opened up onto a southern-facing veranda that was still warm from the rays of the sun. An old-fashioned wicker chair sat on the veranda, with a hand-knit cardigan draped across its back. Hashiba could imagine Haruko, the wife, wearing the cardigan as she sat in the chair, basking in the sun as she gazed out at the garden. He followed her gaze in his imagination and noticed an insect chirping in the grass outside. Its thin, reed-like voice wafted into the room with a scent of soil as Hashiba turned his attention back to the bedroom.

In between two closet doors was a black Buddhist altar, with a half-used-up candle. The shelf in front of it held a teacup and four medicine capsules neatly lined up, and next to them were two long, smooth stones
that had been propped up in the shape of the character for “person,” almost like some sort of religious ritual.

The photograph displayed in the altar was probably of the family’s paternal grandfather. It was hard to tell how old he was in the picture, but his face was the shape of a watermelon seed and his head was completely bald. His wrinkled face bore a striking resemblance to Seiji’s. Since they were father and son, perhaps it was to be expected. With his bald head, the man brought to mind the image of a snake in Hashiba’s mind.

Just in front of the photograph of the Fujimura patriarch was something black and shiny. Hashiba picked it up. It was a leather-bound day planner. The year 1994 was printed on its cover in gold foil, and for some reason the dull glint aroused Hashiba’s curiosity. Given its age, function, and location, it seemed like just the thing for Torii to use for her readings.

12
One of the cameras shot a view of the table from over Shigeko Torii’s shoulder. The dark brown dining table was strewn with various daily necessities belonging to the Fujimuras: the toothbrushes and the hand-towels and undergarments dried in crumpled clumps that Hashiba had collected; the pencil boxes, pajamas, and Walkman that Kagayama had brought down from the children’s bedrooms.

Torii picked up the objects one by one, holding them to her forehead, sniffing them, observing them, and sorting them into categories. Soon there were four small piles on the table. Based on the fact that there was a toothbrush in each pile, it seemed she had divided them according to their owners. Each pile included roughly three items, four at the most.