Dance Dance Dance (30 page)

36

May drifted past, slow as clouds. It had been two and a half months since I'd worked. Fewer and fewer work calls came in. The trade was gradually forgetting about me. To be sure, no work, no money coming in, but I still had plenty in my account. I didn't lead an expensive life. I did my own cook-ing and washing, didn't spend a lot. No loans, no fancy tastes in clothes or cars. So for the time being, money was no problem. I calculated my monthly expenses, divided it into my bank balance, and figured I had another five months or so. Something would come of this wait-and-see. And if it didn't, well, I could think it over then. Besides, Makimura's check for three hundred thousand yen still graced my desk-top. No, I wasn't going to starve.

All I had to do was keep things at a steady pace and be patient. I went to the pool several times a week, did the shopping, fixed meals. Evenings, I listened to records o read.

I began going to the library, leafing through the bound editions of newspapers, reading every murder case of the last few months. Female victims only. Shocking, the number of women murdered in the world. Stabbings, beatings, stranglings. No mention of anyone resembling Kiki. No body resembling Kiki, in any case. Sure, there were ways to dispose of a body. Weight it down and throw it in the sea. Haul it up into the hills and bury it. Just like I'd buried Kip-per. Nobody would ever find him.

Maybe it was an accident? Maybe she'd gotten run over, like Dick North. I checked the obituaries for accident vic-tims. Women victims. Again, a lot of accidents that killed a lot of women. Automobiles, fires, gas. Still no Kiki.

Suicides? Heart attacks? The papers didn't seem inter-ested. The world was full of ways to die, too many to cover. Newsworthy deaths had to be exceptional. Most people go unobserved.

So anything was possible. I had no evidence that Kiki was dead, no evidence that she was alive.

I called Yuki now and then. But always, when I asked how she was, the answer was noncommital.

"Not good, not bad. Nothing much."

"And your mother?"

"She's taking it easy, not working a lot. She sits around all day, kind of out of it."

"Anything I can do? The shopping or something?"

"The maid does the shopping, so we're okay. The store delivers. Mama and I are just spacing out. It's like ... up here, time's standing still. Is time really passing?"

"Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting."

Yuki let that pass.

"You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor," I said.

"Oh really?"

"Oh really?"

"What's with you?"

"What's with you?"

"Stop mimicking me."

"Who's mimicking you? I'm just a mental echo, a figment of your imagination. A rebound to demonstrate the fullness of our conversation."

"Dumb as usual," said Yuki. "You're acting like a child."

"Not so. I'm solid with deep inner reflection and prag-matic spirit. I'm echo as metaphor. The game is the message. This is of a different order than child's play."

"Hmph, nonsense."

"Hmph, nonsense."

"Quit it. I mean it!" yelled Yuki.

"Okay, quits," I said. "Let's take it again from the top. You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor, Yuki."

She let out a sigh. "Okay, maybe not. When I'm with Mama ... I end up with one of her moods. It's like she has this power over how I feel. All she ever thinks about is her-self. She never thinks about anyone else. That's what makes her so strong. You know what I mean. You've seen it. You just get all wrapped up in it. So when she's feeling down, I feel down. When she's up, I'm up."

I heard the flicking of a lighter.

"Maybe I could come up and visit you," I said.

"Could you?"

"Tomorrow all right?"

"Great," said Yuki. "I feel better already."

"I'm glad."

"I'm glad."

"Stop it."

"Stop it."

"Tomorrow then," I said and hung up before she could say it.

Ame was indeed "kind of out of it." She sat on the sofa, legs neatly crossed, gazing blankly at a photography maga-zine on her lap. She was a scene out of an impressionist painting. The window was open, but not a breeze stirred the curtains or pages. She looked up ever so slightly and smiled when I entered the room. The very air seemed to vibrate around her smile. Then she raised a slender finger a scan five centimeters and motioned for me to sit down on the chair opposite. The maid brought us tea.

"I delivered the suitcase to Dick's house," I said. "Did you meet his wife?" Ame asked. "No, I just handed it over to the man who came to the door."

"Thank you." "Not at all."

She closed her eyes and put her hands together in front of her face. Then she opened her eyes again and looked around the room. There was only the two of us. I lifted my cup and sipped my tea.

Ame wasn't wearing her usual denim shirt. She had on a white lace blouse and a pale green skirt. Her hair was neatly brushed, her mouth freshened with lipstick. Her usual vital-ity had been replaced by a fragility that enveloped her like mist. A perfumed atmosphere that wavered on evaporation. Ame's beauty was wholly unlike Yuki's. It was the chromatic opposite, a beauty of experience. She had a firm grasp on it, knew how to use it, whereas Yuki's beauty was without pur-pose, undirected, unsure. Appreciating an attractive middle-aged woman is one of the great luxuries in life.

"Why is it . . . ?" Ame wondered aloud, her words trail-ing off. I waited for her to continue.

". . . why is it," she picked up again, "I'm so depressed?"

"Someone close to you has died. It's only natural that you feel this way," I said.

"I suppose," she said weakly.

"Still—"

Ame looked me in the face, then shook her head. "You're not stupid. You know what I want to say."

"That it shouldn't be such a shock to you? Is that it?"

"Yes, well, something like that."

That even if he wasn't such a great man. Even if he wasn't so talented. Still he was true. He fulfilled his duties nobly, excellently. He forfeited what he treasured and worked hard to attain, then he died. It was only after his death that his worth became apparent. I wanted to say that—but didn't. Some things I can't bring myself to utter.

"Why is it?" she addressed a point in space. "Why is it all my men end up like this? Why do they all go in strange ways? Why do they always leave me? Why can't I get things right?"

I stared at the lace collar of her blouse. It looked like pristinely scrubbed folds of tissue, the bleached entrails of a rare organism. A subtle shaft of smoke rose from her Salem in the ashtray, merging into a dust of silence.

Yuki reappeared, her clothes changed, and indicated that she wanted to leave. I got up and told Ame we were going out for a bit.

Ame wasn't listening. Yuki shouted, "Mother, we're going out now," but Ame scarcely nodded as she lit another cigarette.

We left Ame sitting on the sofa motionless. The house was still haunted by Dick North's presence. Dick North was still inside me as well. I remembered his smile, his surprised look when I asked if he used his feet to slice bread.

Interesting man. He'd come more alive since his death.

37

I went up to see Yuki a few more times. Three times, to be exact. Staying in the mountains of Hakone with her mother didn't seem to hold any particular attraction for her. She wasn't happy there, but she didn't hate it either. Nor did she feel compelled to look after her mother. Yuki let herself be blown along by the prevailing winds. She simply existed, without enthusiasm for all aspects of living.

Taking her out seemed to bring back her spirits. My bad jokes slowly began to elicit responses, her voice regained its cool edge. Yet, no sooner would she return to the house than she became a wooden figure again. Her voice went slack, the light left her eyes. To conserve energy, her little planet stopped spinning.

"Wouldn't it be better for you to be back on your own in Tokyo for a while?" I asked her as we sat on the beach. "Just for a change of pace. Three or four days. A different environment can do wonders. Staying here in Hakone's only going to bring you down. You're not the same person you were in Hawaii."

"No way around it," said Yuki. "But it's like a phase I have to go through. Wouldn't matter where I was, I'd still be like this."

"Because Dick North died and your mother's like that?"

"Maybe. But it's not the whole thing. Just getting away from Mama isn't going to solve everything. I can't do any-thing on my own. I don't know, it's just the way I feel. Like my head and body aren't really together. My signs aren't so good right now."

I turned and looked out to sea. The sky was overcast. A warm breeze rustled through the clumps of grasses on the sand.

"Your signs?" I asked.

"My star signs," Yuki smiled. "It's true, you know. The signs are getting worse. Both for Mama and me. We're on the same wavelength. We're connected that way, even if I'm away from her."

"Connected?"

"Yeah, mentally connected," Yuki said. "Sometimes I can't stand it and I try to fight it. Sometimes I'm just too tired and I give in, and I don't care. It's like I'm not really in control of myself. Like I'm being moved around by some force. I can't stand it. I want to throw everything out the window. I want to scream 'I'm only a kid!' and go hide in a corner."

Before it got too late I drove Yuki home and headed back to Tokyo. Ame asked me to stay for dinner, as she invariably did, but I always declined. A very unappetizing prospect, the idea of sitting down to a meal with mother dreary and her disinterested daughter, both on the same wavelength, there in the lingering presence of the deceased. The dead-weighted air. The silence. The night so quiet you could hear any sound. The thought of it sank a stone in my stomach. The Mad Hatter's tea party might have been just as absurd, but at least it was more animated.

I played loud rock 'n' roll on the car stereo all the way home, had a beer while cooking supper, and ate alone in peace.

Yuki and I never did much. We listened to music as we drove, lolled around gazing at clouds, ate ice cream at the Fujiya Hotel, rented a boat on Lake Ashinoko. Mostly we just talked and spent the whole afternoon watching the day pass. The pensioners' life.

Once, upon Yuki's suggestion that we see a movie, we drove all the way down to Odawara. We checked the listings and found nothing of interest. Gotanda's Unrequited Love was playing at a secondrun theater, and when I mentioned that Gotanda was a classmate from junior high school, whom I got together with occasionally, Yuki got curious.

"Did you see it?"

"Yeah," I admitted, "I saw it." I didn't say how many times.

"Was it good?" asked Yuki.

"No, it was dumb. A waste of film, to put it mildly."

"What does your friend say about the movie?"

"He said it was a dumb movie and a waste of film," I laughed. "And if the performer himself says so, you can be sure it's bad."

"But I want to see it anyway."

"As you wish."

"You don't mind?"

"It's okay. One more time's not going to hurt me," I said.

On a weekday afternoon, the theater was practically empty. The seats were hard and the place smelled like a closet. I bought Yuki a chocolate bar from the snack bar as we waited for the movie to start. She broke off a piece for me. When I told her it'd been a year since I'd last eaten chocolate, she couldn't believe it.

"Don't you like chocolate?"

"It's not a matter of like or dislike," I said. "I guess I'm just not interested in it."

"Interested? You are weird. Whoever heard of not liking chocolate? That's abnormal."

"No, it's not. Some things are like that. Do you like the Dalai Lama?"

"What's that?"

"It's not a 'what,' it's a 'who.' He's the top priest of Tibet."

"How would I know?"

"Well, then, do you like the Panama Canal?"

"Yes, no, I don't care."

"Okay, how about the International Date Line? Or pi? Or the Anti-Trust Act? Or the Jurassic Period? Or the Sene-galese national anthem? Do you like or dislike November 8, 1987?"

"Shut up, will you? How can you churn out so much garbage so fast?" she struck back. "So you don't like or dis-like chocolate, you're just not interested in it. Happy?"

Presently the movie began. I knew the whole story back-wards, so I didn't bother paying a lot of attention. Yuki didn't think much of the picture either, if the way she mut-tered to herself was any indication.

On screen, the handsome teacher Gotanda was explaining to his class how mollusks breathe. Simply, patiently, with just the right touch of humor. The girl lead gazed at him.

"Is that guy your friend?" Yuki asked.

"Yeah."

"Seems like a real airhead," said Yuki.

"You said it," I said. "But only in the film. In real life, he's a good guy."

"Then maybe he should get into some good movies."

"That's what he wants to do. Not so easy, though. It's a long story."

The movie creaked along, obvious and mediocre plot. Mediocre script, mediocre music. They ought to have sealed the thing in a time capsule marked "Late 20th Century Mediocrity" and buried it somewhere.

Finally Kiki's scene came up. The most intense point in the movie. Gotanda and Kiki sleeping together. The Sunday morning scene.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on the screen. Sun-day morning sunlight slanting through the blinds, the same light, same exposure, same colors as always. I'd engraved every detail of that room in my brain. I could almost breathe the atmosphere of that room. Zoom in on Gotanda. His hand moves down Kiki's spine. Sensuously, effortlessly, caressing. The slightest tremor of response runs through her body. Like a candle flame just flickering in a microcurrent of air that the skin doesn't feel. I hold my breath. Closeup of Gotanda's fingers. The camera starts to pan. Kiki's face comes into view. Enter lead girl. She climbs the apartment stairs, knocks on the door, opens it. Once again, I ask myself, why isn't it locked? Makes no sense. But it doesn't have to. It's just a film and a mediocre one at that. The girl walks in, sees Gotanda and Kiki getting it on. Her eyes regis-ter shock. She drops her cookies and runs. Gotanda sits up in bed, numbly observing what has transpired. Kiki has her line, "What was that all about?"

The very same as always. Exactly the same.

I shut my eyes. The Sunday morning light, Gotanda's hand, Kiki's back, everything floats up with singular clarity. A discrete little world existing in a dimension all its own.

The next thing I know, Yuki was bent forward, head on the backrest of the seat in front, with both arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold. Dead silent, not moving a hair. Hardly a sign of breathing.

"Hey, are you all right?" I asked.

"No, I don't feel very well," Yuki barely squeezed out the words.

"Let's get out of here. Do you think you can manage?"

Yuki half-nodded. I held her stiffened arms and helped her out of the theater. As we walked up the aisle, Gotanda was up on the screen behind us, lecturing the class in biol-ogy. Outside, the streets were hushed under a curtain of fine rain. The scent of surf blew in from the sea. Supporting her by the elbow, I walked her slowly to the car. Yuki was biting her lip, not saying anything. I didn't say anything either. The parking lot was scarcely two hundred meters from the the-ater, but it took forever.