I Hear Them Cry (2 page)

“You know,” Pierre began, “I came here today just to thank Jean. Didn’t even imagine I’d get a job. If it’s something I can get a handle on, yeah, I’ll do anything.”

A spatter of applause started, and before long it caught fire and spread throughout the congregation.

After that incident I became very interested in Jean’s activities. He used the back room of the church as a base for carrying out various charity programs.

I had been living as I pleased until then, never giving that much thought to what I could do for the welfare of others. Then Jean’s words, “In this world, there is not a single person who is born in vain,” had become indelibly etched in my mind before I knew it. I began to wonder: What was my life’s mission?

“Mayu, relax,” Jean advised. “You have all the time in the world to answer that question. Your parents love you. Your friends love you. They all need you. This fact alone is reason enough for you having been born. It gives your life value.”

I understood. But what about the people who arrived at the back room of the church every day seeking refuge from abuse and violence? Were they loved? Were they needed? “God loves everyone and needs everyone” was Jean’s response, but that didn’t sit well with me. It just sounded like sweet talk.

I really wasn’t very religious to begin with, but there was no denying that I was seized by a compulsion to do some good.
I decided to earn more by working part-time as a sightseeing guide for Japanese tourists, allocating some of that money for charitable donations. Like all philanthropic work, Jean’s mission was constantly short of funds.

Then one day I landed a position as an interpreter for a Japanese wine manufacturer. The job paid much better than the tour-guide gig, so for the first time in my life I ended up buying a suit.

Working this job, I met Shigeki Tachibana.

I had been living in France for one year.

JEAN: THREE

Shigeki Tachibana was in his early thirties, a typical “hotshot” businessman with his showy, well-tailored suit and attaché case in hand. His eyes had long tapering slits that punctuated his good looks, but they never seemed to fix their focus on me. How shall I put it? To him I was a part of his work environment, just like the rental car he used. Actually, no, I take that back. To him I think I was even less than that; his car was the latest model Renault, you see, the classy car everyone wanted to drive at least once.

When we first met, his disgusted reaction to my cheap thrift-shop suit made me feel miserable. But I was able to pull myself together when he held out his card.

“I am Tachibana of Tachibana Shoji,” he said. “We deal in wines mainly.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a business card,” I reluctantly replied. “My name is Mayu Asaka. Nice to meet you.”

“How long have you been residing in France, Ms. Asaka?” he asked in a friendly manner, wearing a businesslike smile.

“One year, but I don’t run into much trouble with my French now. My understanding is that the level of fluency you require
today is for ordinary everyday conversations?” I became slightly nervous, since I thought he was testing my language skills.

“There’s nothing to it, really. We’ll just be making the rounds, visiting two to three wine suppliers to hear their stories and negotiate prices. Trust me, you can handle it easily—sound good?”

Apparently the company used to import through an agency in Hong Kong, but their business saw an uptick with the wine boom, which is why they were now sending reps to Europe to source the wines directly. The firm was mainly importing Italian wines, but had plans to expand to France and Germany as well.

“Wine is quite en vogue with young women these days, you know,” he said with a fixed smile. “Brand goods and wine. The working woman buys her own condo. She’s strong. Seems to have no need for a man in her life.”

I was aware back then that young Japanese female tourists were into luxury brands, buying up Chanel and Gucci goods. But if I put on any airs or graces, it was about looking poor. It was my homage to the artists of a bygone era. I couldn’t care less whether Shigeki’s rental car was classy, or that his suit was an Armani that cost hundreds of thousands of yen, or that his watch was a Bulgari. Aesthetically, he and I were worlds apart.

The suburban countryside unfolded with vineyards stretching all the way to the horizon, and the blue sky went on forever. The earth was large and had been swallowing up everything over time, including the bloody history that had come to pass in this country.

“There’s nothing more beautiful than a woman in the nude,” an art-school professor of mine had once said while lecturing about sketching. The comment elicited a laugh from all of us in the class, but its significance is much clearer to me now: worldly
desires arise when people put on clothes. There’s something about clothing that makes people materialistic, driving them to obsess over things, resulting in crimes brought about by jewelry and property, alcohol and narcotics, and the gap between the rich and poor.

Lost in contemplation, I blurted out, “You know, if we all lived in the nude out here in the great outdoors, our lives could be so much richer. I truly believe that.”

I could feel myself blushing. I had been thinking out loud. But Shigeki, who had been silent all the while agreed.

“Yes! I couldn’t agree with you more. Excellent! The nude is such a marvelous thing.”

“Hey,” I said, laughing, partly to hide my embarrassment, “that just slipped from my mind because I’m accustomed to the sight of nude women, okay? I mean I’ve been drawing them for some time now.”

“Really? Was it that funny?” he snapped back. “I was being serious. You seem to be misunderstanding something here, possibly because of your, shall I say, naughty little mind?”

He was holding back his laughter as well, which proved to be the icebreaker. Any inhibition or tension between us was swept clean and from that point on our conversation began to flow smoothly.

“I suppose you have a passion for natural vistas. That’s just great. I was worried you’d get bored, what with this drive being such a long one through a countryside.”

“Not at all. I couldn’t be more pleased with a job like this.”

After opening up to me, Shigeki turned downright witty, I suppose to make sure that I didn’t get bored. But I certainly didn’t, and I fluttered the moment I found out that he was still single. At the winery he let me sample wines, help out in preparing some home-cooked dishes—and he basically showed me a fabulous time, allowing me to forget that I was working.

Gradually I found myself gravitating toward this man whose world was alien to me. There he was, tirelessly applying himself to his work as the sinking sun cast his profile as a lonely shadow. Seeing this, some powerful force seized my heart with an eagle’s grip. Here was a man who had everything—brains, status, wealth—but that shadow revealed something dark inside him, something that wasn’t happy at all. I wondered whether our paths would ever cross again, whether each of us would just end up returning to our own separate worlds.

“I’d really like to say thank you, so how about dinner?” he said, breaking my train of thought. Naturally I had no objections, feeling suddenly ecstatic, like the setting sun springing right back up instead of disappearing down beyond the horizon.

“If the restaurant is a starless one, then yes, gladly,” I said. “I much prefer places that don’t appear in guidebooks.”

“Wow! Why?”

“Because I don’t own a dress that’s appropriate for the kind of three-star restaurant you frequent, Mr. Tachibana.”

“In that case, would it be all right if I let you decide?”

I took him to the place where I hung out with my painter friends: a lively beer hall with music and dancing galore. It was my territory and I was free to behave in any way I pleased.

“I love this atmosphere,” he said. “It smells like the daily lives of the locals.”

When a cancan dance began on the small stage at the front, spotlighting all those dancers clad in colorful costumes, Shigeki seemed to be having a genuinely good time.

“You know, I really must thank you again, this time for showing me such a wonderful evening!”

“Well, if you need more help in the future, you know who to call,” I said rather hysterically thanks to the beer I’d been drinking. But in my heart I was sad to say good-bye to Shigeki. I had already begun to think about meeting him again.

JEAN: FOUR

The next time I met Shigeki, it was at the police station. Pierre had been caught stealing. Quite unexpectedly, Jean called me—and when I arrived I was told that the victim was a Japanese woman whose male companion had caught and seized Pierre. To my surprise, that companion turned out to be Shigeki.

When I spotted Shigeki and his young date in the dim corridor of the police station, I panicked. But I couldn’t run away and hide. The officer in charge led me into a small room with Shigeki and the woman. We were seated right across a desk from each other.

“Well, well, well,” he said, surprised, “I certainly never imagined I’d be under your care again, and in a place like this. Sure is reassuring, though.”

“Someone you know?” his companion asked in a low-pitched sweet-talk voice.

“We work together. She’s an interpreter.”

“My, how nice. Thank you. I trust we’re in good hands then.”

Her eyes were played up by mascara and dark blue eye shadow. The makeup on her face, accented by a gorgeous pink lipstick, was elaborate. Her slender fingernails were dark pink, shining with a glamorous luster. Even when asked to sign a
document placed in front of her, she kept clinging to Shigeki, keeping her left hand coiled around his elbow.

To him I was just some woman he had come across at work. I couldn’t help comparing myself to her though, seeing very clearly how different we were. I was skinny, my long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I was dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. I had no style. What’s more, with my nails always paint-stained dark brown (the color of the church’s walls), I looked like a child dirty from playing in the mud.

(If only now the paint stains on my fingers were bloodred.)

Self-consciously, I curled up my fingers and hid them from view. I remembered the time Jean had told me what lovely eyes I have, which snapped me out of my sinking state of mind.

According to the police, Shigeki’s date’s purse had been stolen when the two of them were out on the street, trying to hail a cab after dining at a restaurant. Because his date’s passport was in the bag, Shigeki pursued the thief. He caught up with him quickly, grappled, and held him until the police arrived.

After the report was drawn up, they both signed the document and confirmed that nothing was missing from the purse. The final question the police had for Shigeki and the woman was whether they wanted to press charges against Pierre.

“What happens to the boy then?” Shigeki asked me.

“They’ll look into his past for any priors and lock him up somewhere for a little while I suppose.”

Although I was feigning indifference, a sense of fury bubbled up inside me. I simply couldn’t forgive Pierre. He had trampled on Jean’s goodwill. In my head, I cursed him, thinking he should be locked up forever.

“What do you think? Should we press charges?” Shigeki asked, looking me straight in the eye.

It pleased me that all of his attention was focused on me and not his date, who looked bored and ready for the whole ordeal to be resolved.

Eventually, Jean came in with Pierre, who was still in handcuffs. His cheeks were red and bruised; his lips were swollen and scabbed. I reflexively turned to Shigeki. He was unfazed. His suit was not wrinkled in the least, his hair looked as if he’d just stepped out of a salon, and he showed no outward evidence of a physical altercation. It was hard to believe that he had actually fought with Pierre.

“Mayu, would you let me offer a word of apology to him?” Jean said. Jean’s Dudley Do-Right attitude irritated me, but more than that, I couldn’t bear the sight of Pierre standing there with an aloof, impudent expression on his face.

“Congratulations, Pierre! You’ve succeeded in betraying everyone’s trust! Especially Jean’s. Apologize to him,” I shouted through my tears of frustration. Looking into his stray-dog eyes as they tried to work out whether I was friend or foe, I slapped Pierre. The violence seemed to come out of nowhere.