Coin Locker Babies (36 page)

“That’s right! It’s me! Nothing’s changed, nothing!”

The engines of the
Yuyo Maru
at its mooring in Hakodate harbor had been stopped for a bit of on-the-job training. The six trainees in the engineering section were doing some sort of technical inspection while the nine working toward becoming deck crew had been divided into two groups, taking turns with chart work, loran and radar readings, and an oral exam on maritime law. Offering guidance to these last two groups, in a near shout, was Captain Eda, the commander of the
Yuyo Maru
. Eda, a smallish, taciturn man who had had a career with the coast guard, was the sort of unassuming figure who, seen on the street, might have been taken for a rather run-down pensioner. Once he set foot on board a ship, however, he underwent an amazing transformation. The Eda who taught courses in the prison had heavy, sagging eyelids which he scratched continually with the end of his little finger; but with his feet planted on the deck of a ship, his eyelids seemed to snap up, revealing a piercing stare. His voice, too, was noticeably more powerful, though at times his body was unable to keep up with his enthusiasm for training his would-be crew. Apart from these training sessions, however, Captain Eda was hardly ever known to say a word.

With its engines cut, the ship was pitching about a fair bit. Kiku and the others were in the crowded wheelhouse gathered around a set of charts making practice entries for compass bearing, speed,
actual and calculated position, course, sunrise and sunset, high and low tides, and tidal rates and currents. Desk work in a close, swaying room heightened the effects of seasickness, which Kiku and Yamane were already prone to. Before long, Yamane tossed aside his ruler and triangle and headed for the door to get some air, but he had only gone a few steps before the captain brought him up short.

“And where do you think you’re going, mister?”

“I was just going to have a look at cloud conditions, sir,” Yamane lied, his face pale.

“Forget it, pea brain. Back to the charts,” said the captain, who seemed to enjoy nothing more than watching Kiku or Yamane turn green around the gills. “If you concentrate on the charts, you won’t feel so bad. Besides, nobody ever died from getting seasick, but if you can’t read the charts, you could end up at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Try pretending the ship’s not moving,” suggested Nakakura, whose stint on the salvage ship seemed to make him immune. “The captain’s right, you know. Try concentrating on something else—women, getting out of stir, whatever—really concentrate and you won’t notice the roll.”

The first symptom of seasickness was a feeling of numbness around the temples, followed by a dry mouth and a sense that something was creeping up one’s throat. Fighting back the urge to puke, Kiku stared at the charts until he couldn’t bear it any longer and looked up with a groan. Staring out at the horizon, he waited for the sick feeling to pass. Hayashi, who was standing next to him calmly calculating the time of the next high tide, pointed out his distress to Nakakura, and they shared a laugh.

“Hey, Kiku,” Nakakura called out as Kiku stood there gazing out the window, still a shade of puke-green. Kiku looked vaguely
in his direction. “What the hell’s ‘datura’?” Kiku frowned but did his best to look dumb. “That’s what you’ve been yelling in your dreams. Last night I could hardly sleep from all the racket. At first I couldn’t tell what the hell you were saying, but that’s what it was—‘datura,’ over and over again. What’s it mean? One of these?” he said, raising his little finger to indicate a woman. “If it’s a girl, sure is a weird name.”

Kiku looked down again at the traverse tables without answering. Traverse tables are used to read longitude and latitude by means of cruising distance and compass bearing. The problem at hand was to check the change in longitude and latitude of a ship cruising at eighteen and a half knots for forty-five minutes at a bearing of 119°.

“Come on, Kiku. What the fuck’s ‘datura’?” said Nakakura. Nakakura’s was the type of face that told even the most casual observer that there were certain people in the world who were capable of murder at the slightest provocation, the least change in temperament or physical condition. There was no saying why exactly, but it was that kind of face.

It had started to rain. During lunch, Nakakura and the others had kept after him to tell them what ‘datura’ was, so Kiku had lied and said it was, in fact, a woman’s name.

“I don’t know myself if that was her real name. She used to be a model, so I suppose it could have been made up.”

“Back when I was teaching water-skiing, I once did it with a fashion model,” Hayashi put in, sounding rather pleased with himself. “Know what I found out? When you’re doing it, those long legs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. If she sticks them up over your shoulders, they get too heavy, and if you do it
doggie-style
, the thighs are so long your dick’s too low to get it in.”

After a morning of training, the afternoon was devoted to
practical application. In days gone by that had meant fishing for squid, but a sharp drop in the available catch had put an end to it four years earlier, and now the
Yuyo Maru
performed mass burials at sea. This didn’t mean dumping shrouded bodies into the waves; no, the bodies had been properly cremated on shore and the bones placed in square lead boxes, which were then dropped overboard. The service was aimed at people who couldn’t afford a burial plot on land, and as such it was something of a fad. For this part of the ship’s duties, there was one more man on board in addition to the captain, chief engineer, two guards, and Tadakoro, from Supervision: the prison chaplain.

The boxes, each bearing a number and a name carved in the side, were loaded one by one while the ship was still in dock. Then, putting to sea, they headed for Cape Ohana, the ship running low in the water with its cargo of lead. Just beyond the cape was the Public Maritime Cemetery, which consisted of a small watchman’s shed on shore and an area marked off on the water by yellow rope. The ropes were attached to four buoys, on each of which was a sign reading “Persons entering the marked area or abandoning objects without permission will be punished in accordance with municipal ordinances.”

After getting clearance from the watchman, the ship sailed into the cemetery, where Eda ordered them to drop anchor. Pulling on their rain gear, the trainees assembled on deck and began taking the boxes out of the hold. Each man would carry one box up on deck, place it at his feet, press his hands together in a brief imitation prayer, and then toss it in the drink. The chaplain, meanwhile, had begun to recite some real prayers, urging the occupant of each box to sleep peacefully, lulled by the sound of God’s own voice—the waves—and cradled in the arms of Mother Sea, shining with the light of heaven.

Kiku and friends were having a competition to see who could throw his box furthest—a marine shot put, as it were. Predictably, Yamane was the winner. Kiku thought perhaps his raincoat was interfering with his form. The glassy surface of the sea sucked up the fine raindrops, and everything around had gone gray: the sky, the harbor in the distance, the fog rolling in, the smoke from the incense the guards had lit, the prisoners’ coats, and the heavy boxes. The only relief was the white splash that each box made before vanishing beneath the waves.

When all the boxes had been disposed of and the guards had tossed some flowers in after them, the captain began barking orders: “OK, we’re heading home! Start the engines, and get all these lubbers to stations.” Kiku and Nakakura went to the bow to weigh anchor, and the ship moved out of the cemetery and back toward harbor.

As they approached the harbor, Kiku stood on deck and stared at the breakwater along the opposite shore. Suddenly, his hand shot up in a quick little wave, but not quickly enough to escape Nakakura’s notice.

“What was that?” Kiku stuck out his little finger. “A woman?” He nodded. Now Nakakura was staring at the breakwater. “The red umbrella?” Kiku waved again, and Nakakura joined in as the figure on shore stood watching them through a pair of binoculars. It was Anemone. “So this babe of yours is in Hakodate?”

At this point Hayashi and Yamane came by carrying some old tires that were hung over the side to protect the hull while they were docking.

“Kiku’s girl’s come out to watch,” Nakakura told them. “Let’s all yell her name as loud as we can. Should give her a bit of a thrill.” They nodded.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” said Kiku, trying to stop them, but it was too late. Waving their hands frantically, all three cried out at the top of their lungs:

“DATURA!”

The red umbrella waved merrily in response.

Kiku was writing a note.

When he was finished he looked up, seeming to notice for the first time that there was sunlight streaming into the room. Hopping up and going to the window, he looked out on a world of bright light and deep shadows.

“Summer!” he shouted.

“Asshole,” muttered Nakakura, sprawling on the floor. Hayashi and Yamane laughed. “Hadn’t you noticed? It’s been summer for weeks.” Scratching his head, Kiku gave the wall a few kicks.

“Could you keep it down?” said Yamane looking at him a bit suspiciously. “What’s all the excitement about anyway?”

“Nothing. Just that I’d forgot about summer. And I love it!”

Nakakura rolled over, his tongue clucking irritably. “Asshole,” he repeated. “Summer in jail is hell, man. Look at these windows: no screens. At night you’re soaked with sweat
and
covered with mosquitoes. Like I said: hell.” Just then a guard opened the peephole in the door.

“Kuwayama, out—now! You’ve got a visitor.”

“Visitor? Shit! She’s here almost every week,” grumbled
Nakakura, getting to his feet. “That little Miss Datura is a sweetie, isn’t she?” Kiku buttoned up his uniform and was about to leave.

“Seems it’s your brother,” said the guard.

“My brother? Hashi?” said Kiku, stopping short. The guard nodded.

“The same. I’ve seen his picture in magazines. Some kind of singer, isn’t he?”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” said Kiku, heading back into the cell, but the guard grabbed his arm.

“You don’t have to stay long. Seems he’s sick.”

When Kiku entered the visitors’ room, there was no sign of Hashi, just a large woman with slanty eyes. Thinking they’d put him in the wrong room, he was turning to go when the woman spoke.

“Uh, I’m…. Hashi’s…,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. He suddenly remembered the woman he’d seen with Hashi on TV, the one he’d married. He turned back to look at her but didn’t sit down. “He was here till just a minute ago,” she told him in her deep voice. She rubbed her lips together to smooth the dark red lipstick, looking up at Kiku and motioning him into the chair. “I tried to make him stay, but when he heard you coming down the hall, he ran off saying he had to go to the bathroom. He’s scared stiff of seeing you.” When she moved, the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume wafted from her body. Kiku said nothing. Neva sat, hands clasped under her purse, darting glances at the ceiling or door from time to time. She seemed glad there was a rusty screen between them, making the suffocating closeness a bit easier to take.

“Who are you?” Kiku asked. Neva gave herself a little shake before meeting his gaze.

“I’m Hashi’s wife,” she said, calmly and clearly. Up to this
point she had been on the verge of tears, but the words seemed to restore her composure. “Hashi is exhausted,” she went on. “He began acting a bit strange a few weeks ago. He’s been on tour without a break for months, but till recently there was no sign of any problem as long as he was on stage. Then some of the staff began to notice that he wasn’t calming down after the concerts, and he’d stopped talking almost completely. He seems on edge most of the time. When we were in Kyushu, he suddenly decided he wanted to pay a visit home, and he came back from the island in much better shape. But it wasn’t long before he began complaining of insomnia again and he was taking more sleeping pills than before. The doctor said he should take a break from work and have a thorough checkup, and I suggested we cancel the few shows left on the tour and go away somewhere, but he wasn’t interested. He wanted us to book more dates for the tour; he said it was only the concerts that were keeping him alive. And it’s true: when he was on stage he was the same old Hashi, but the rest of the time he just shut himself in his room and sat in the corner talking to himself. When I went in to try to talk to him, it was like he didn’t even know I was there. The last few days he’s taken to sticking black paper over the windows to make the room dark.”

“What does he do in his room?” Kiku asked.

“He listens to tapes,” said Neva. “And usually that wouldn’t matter—it’s part of his job—but the stuff he listens to is weird—animal cries, helicopters, water dripping, the wind, things like that. He brought them back with him after his trip home, and he bought a bunch of sound-effect tapes to add to them. That’s all he listens to. Then, the day before yesterday, he suddenly decided he wanted to come see you. He wouldn’t tell me why—not that he tells me much of anything any more…”

As she finished speaking, Neva noticed Kiku’s eyes shift slowly
from her face to the door behind her and she turned to look. Hashi, white-faced, in a white ostrich feather jacket, was standing there with a little cellophane bag of white pills he’d just taken from one pocket. Neva gave a shout when she saw him tear it open and raise it to his mouth. One of the little capsules fell to the floor as she tried to pry the others loose, and Kiku watched it roll away like a fat grain of rice. Then, while the two of them were still wrestling together, he walked to the door, knocked on it for the guard, and left the room without even glancing back. If he hadn’t knocked over his chair when he stood up, Neva wouldn’t have seen him go.