Grotesque (46 page)

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home, they couldn’t be sure that they’d ever return. And then when the night was done and they did make it home in one piece, they must have felt such relief as they counted the money they’d earned. Whatever danger they might have faced, that night and others, they stored away in their memory to draw on again and again as they learned to survive by their wits.

The reason I went to court in the first place was because I had read the copy of Zhang’s deposition that Detective Takahashi gave me. “My Crimes,” he titled it. What a ridiculously long and tedious piece of work.

Zhang goes on and on about completely irrelevant matters: the hardships he faced in China, all the things his darling little sister did, and so on. I skipped over most of it.

But throughout the report Zhang repeatedly refers to himself as “smart and attractive,” noting at one point that he looks like Takashi Kashiwabara. When I read this I began to feel curious about what kind of man he was. According to Zhang, on the day he killed her, Yuriko told him, “You have a nice face.” All her life, Yuriko was praised for her own beauty. If she thought Zhang had a nice face, I had to get a look at him.

You see, I’ve never been able to forget little Yuriko, back in the mountain cabin, snuggling up to Johnson’s knees. One of the most handsome men in the world with one of the most beautiful girls. No wonder they were attracted to each other and unable to separate for as long as they lived. What? No, I most certainly was not jealous. It’s just that beauty seems to function as its own compass; beauty attracts beauty, and once the connection has been made it remains so for life, the arrow holding steady, pointing in the opposite direction. I was half, myself, but unfortunately I had not been blessed with a similarly fantastic beauty. Rather, I knew my role in life was to be the observer of those who had been so blessed.

For the event at the courthouse I borrowed a book on physiognomy and took it with me. I planned to study Zhang’s features. A round face indicates a carnal personality: someone who is easily contented, does not fuss over details, but is indecisive and promptly loses interest in things.

An angular face indicates someone who has a calculating personality, is physically robust, hates to lose, and possesses a stubbornness that makes it difficult to get along with others. On the other hand, those with triangular faces are delicate and sensitive; they are physically fragile and tend to be artistic. These categories are then further divided into three 2 9 0

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positions—upper, middle, and lower—starting from the top of the face and working toward the sides. By reading these various positions, you can determine someone’s fortune. For example, I suppose I would conform to the “sensitive personality.” I am physically delicate, drawn to beauty, and fit the artistic type. But the part about not being sociable is me in a nutshell.

Next we have the five endowments, the major areas or landmarks of the face: eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. One item of particular note is the brightness of the eyes; the more penetrating the gaze, the more substantial the individual’s vital force. A nose with a high bridge indicates an equally high sense of self-pride. A large mouth suggests aggressiveness and self-certainty.

If it is possible to predict someone’s character and fate by observing their face and physical attributes, how is it that the beautiful Yuriko met such a tragic end? Beautiful, brainless Yuriko! There must have been an imperfection in her face that brought her to this fate. Perhaps it was her perfect beauty?

A young detective, clearly on the side of the prosecution, leaned close and peered into my face. The eyes he turned to me behind brownframed glasses were full of pity, as if he’d marked me as the grieving sister of the victim. “They’ll be starting soon. Take a seat on the front row to the right,” he said.

I had been given special treatment from the very beginning, not needing to fine up for a ticket or for admission. I went directly to the front of the courtroom. I was the only one present who was related to Yuriko, which was to be expected. I had not told my grandfather that Yuriko had died. Grandfather is currendy being cared for at Misosazai Nursing Home, where he is off chasing the dreams of his past—or perhaps being chased by his past nightmares. The present has been cleared completely from every corner of his memory. The simple happy time I spent with Grandfather was very brief. He moved in with with Mitsuru’s mother once I entered the university. It was fine with me if she wanted to take care of a senile old man, but as soon as Grandfather started showing signs of dementia, she abandoned him. Well, none of it really matters now.

It was time for the trial to begin. The spectators made a great fuss scrambling for seats. I sat in the far corner of the very front row with my head bowed, looking like a relative of the victim. With my long hair 2 9 1

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hanging down over my cheeks, I doubt if it was possible to see much of my face from the spectators’ gallery.

At last the door opened and a man appeared, sandwiched between two fat courtroom guards. He was manacled, a chain leading from his handcuffs to a belt around his waist: Zhang. Wait a minute! Where was the resemblance to Takashi Kashiwabara? I was appalled as I stared at the shabby man in front of me. He was squat, pudgy, and bald. His face was round and his eyebrows short and bushy. To top it off, he had a pug nose. Most notable about him was the expression in his eyes; they were squinty and gleamed with light as he looked out over the spectators, darting here and there. He looked desperate, as if he were searching for someone he knew, someone who would help him. His mouth was small and constantly dropped half open. If I were to make a physiognomic analysis of Zhang’s character, I would say he is easily bored and he must have a difficult time getting along with others, because he is stubborn and yet is weakwilled. I sighed audibly from my seat in the gallery, disappointed.

Perhaps my sigh created a ripple in the air that was transmitted to Zhang. He turned and looked directly at me from where he was seated, ramrod straight, in the defendant’s chair. Maybe he’d already been told that I would be there as a connection to Yuriko. When I returned his stare, he averted his eyes timidly. You killed Yuriko. I glared at him with accusing eyes. He seemed to sense my scowl. He squirmed in his chair and swallowed so loudly I could hear it.

Well, I glared at him, but in fact I did not blame him for his crime.

How can I explain this? If Yuriko and I were compared to the planets, she’d be the one closest to the sun, always basking in its rays; I’d be the one off in the dark on the far side. Planet Yuriko would always be there between me and the sun, soaking up its rays. Am I wrong? I managed to enter Q High School for Young Women in a desperate attempt to escape Yuriko, but it wasn’t long before she followed after me and I sank back into the misery of being her older sister, confronted regularly with unflattering comparisons. Yuriko, whom I hated down to the very marrow of my bones, was killed so easily by this pathetic man. Yes, I despised Yuriko from the bottom of my heart.

The court proceeding was over in no time. Zhang was once again handcuffed, manacled, and led from the room. I felt as if I’d been tricked by a fox. For a time I was unable to move from my seat in the gallery.

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Where did that jerk Zhang get off, telling such a pack of lies—things like “My sister and I were attractive,” and “I look like Takeshi Kashiwabara!”

These had to be the most flagrant lies I’d ever encountered.

And since he was so fervent in declaring his innocence in Kazue Sato’s murder, I was all the more convinced he did it. I mean, think about it.

If a person is so incapable of viewing himself objectively, if he’s convinced that he is goodlooking when he’s not, obviously he’s going to come up with all sorts of outrageous lies.

“Excuse me, may I speak with you for a minute?”

I was cornered in the corridor in front of the courtroom by a pale woman. My book on physiognomy notes that people with combination pale and blotchy complexions have bad kidneys, so I felt a twinge of concern for this woman. But then she said she was from some television station, a fact about which she clearly felt considerable pride.

“I believe you are Miss Hirata’s older sister, is that correct? What did you think of the court proceedings today?”

“I was unable to take my eyes off the defendant.”

The woman began scribbling furiously in her notebook, nodding encouragingly as she did so.

“I hate the man for killing my only sis—”

“The defendant has clearly admitted to Miss Hirata’s murder,” the woman cut in, without waiting to let me finish. “The problem lies with the Kazue Sato case. What do you make of the fact that an educated career woman turned to prostitution? After all, weren’t you and she classmates?”

“I think Kazue—I mean Miss Sato—was after the thrill. She thrived on it; she lived for it. I imagine the defendant was one of her customers.

I think he has a carnal personality, or—oh, I don’t know.”

While I was blundering through my explanation of physiognomy, the reporter stared at me, perplexed. She continued to nod, but she was only pretending to take notes. And before long she’d lost interest in anything I said. No one cared about Yuriko’s death. It had no impact on society.

But Kazue? Kazue had worked for a respectable firm. Isn’t the attention she was now garnering just so typical of her?

The woman left me alone, standing on the highly polished floors of the courthouse corridor. Then a skinny woman with uncommonly large eyes stepped in front of me. It seemed she’d been waiting for me to be alone. She looked carefully around, ensuring that no one was nearby.

Her hair was long and hung straight down her back. She was wearing an 2 9 3

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outfit that resembled an Indian sari, but it was cotton, not silk, and stiffly starched. She stared at me intently and then smiled lightly.

“What’s the matter, you don’t remember me?” When the woman got closer, I caught a whiff of chewing gum on her breath. “It’s Mitsuru.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Of course, the papers had recently been full of articles about her. Mitsuru had been one of the central figures in a religious organization, whose members several years ago had been involved in carrying out terrorist activities and been imprisoned.

“Mitsuru! Are you out of jail already?”

My words caused her to flinch. “Oh, that’s right. Everyone knows all about me.”

“Yeah, everyone knows.”

Mitsuru looked back down the corridor with an irritated expression.

“I’ll never forget this courthouse. My case was tried in room four-ohsix.

I had to appear at least twenty times. And no one came to support me. My one and only ally was my defense attorney, But even he, deep in his heart, thought I was guilty. He didn’t understand,” Mitsuru grumbled.

“All I could do was sit there wishing it would be over.” Then she tugged gently at my arm. “Look, if you’ve got time, let’s go get a cup of tea. I want to talk to you.”

She was wearing a black jacket over her sari. I was reluctant to be seen with her, her outfit was so bizarre, But when I saw how happy she looked I didn’t have the heart to say no.

“There’s a coffee shop in the basement that should be okay. Ah, what a luxury this is—to be able to move about freely!” Mitsuru’s voice was buoyant, but she kept looking nervously over her shoulder. “I’m followed by detectives, you know.”

“That’s awful.”

“But what am I complaining about? You’re the one who’s really had it rough, aren’t you?” Mitsuru said sympathetically. She gave my arm a squeeze as we stepped into the elevator. Her hand was warm and damp and I found it annoying. I pulled away.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Yuriko. It’s so awful—to have had something like that happen.

I just can’t believe it. And Kazue! What a shock!”

When the elevator reached the basement, I moved to get out and collided with Mitsuru, who had stepped ahead of me. She had stopped square in the doorway, too nervous to go farther.

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“I’m really sorry! I’m just not used to being out in public.”

“When did they release you?”

“Two months ago. I was in for six years,” she whispered.

I looked at Mitsuru from behind. There wasn’t the slightest trace of the bright studious girl she had been in high school. Squirrel-like, sagacious Mitsuru! Now she was thin and flimsy and rough like a nail file. She looked like her mother—her mother who was so frank and so pathetic.

Her mother who had betrayed my grandfather. I’d heard it was her mother who encouraged Mitsuru—and also her husband, who was a doctor—to join that religious group. But I wonder if that was true.

“How is your husband?”

“He’s still in. I have two sons, you know. They’re being brought up by my husband’s family, and I worry about their education.”

Mitsuru sipped her coffee. A few drops dribbled off her lip and onto the front of her sari, staining it, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Still in?”

“In confinement. I imagine he’ll serve the maximum sentence. It’s to be expected.” Mitsuru looked up at me, somewhat embarrassed. “But what about you? I just can’t believe what happened to Yuriko. And Kazue too. I can’t imagine that Kazue would do such a thing. She was such a hard worker. Maybe she just got tired of trying so hard.”

Mitsuru pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the cloth bag she was carrying and lit one. She started to smoke, but she didn’t look used to it.

“We’ve put on the years, you and I! I think the gap between your teeth has grown larger.”

Mitsuru nodded in agreement. “You’ve aged too. Maliciousness just gushes from your face now.”

The words triggered thoughts of the events in the courtroom that day.

If anyone had a face from which maliciousness gushed forth, it was Zhang!

That’s the face of a lying scoundrel if ever there was one. His ridiculous deposition was just varnished with lies. It’s clear that he killed a whole host of people in China to get their money. He raped his younger sister and killed her. And there’s no doubt he murdered both Yuriko and Kazue.