Malice (16 page)

“How long do you think that assignment's going to take?”

“Probably another month. At any rate, your book's next on the list. I'll call you right away once I've read it.”

I thanked him and hung up, my head full of the responsibilities of a full-time writer. I didn't have a shred of doubt in my mind about Hidaka's good intentions.

Another month passed without word. I didn't want to become a nuisance, but I did want to hear what he thought of my writing. Eventually I gave in to the temptation and called again.

“I'm sorry, I still haven't gotten to it.” My heart sank. “This job is taking longer than I thought it would. Can you wait? I'm really sorry about this.”

“Well, sure.” Frankly, though, it was going to be hard for me to wait any longer. Then I had an idea. “If you're too busy, maybe you could suggest another reader? Maybe an editor?”

His tone suddenly turned dark. “Editors are busy people. I can't go sending them something before I know whether it's good or not. Believe me, they're sick of getting every crappy manuscript making the rounds thrown on their desk. If I'm going to bring anybody to them, I have to read it first. Unless you don't want my opinion? Hey, I'm happy to send it back.”

What was I supposed to say to that? “That's not what I meant. I just—it seemed like you were pretty busy, and I thought maybe there was someone else.”

“Sorry, but nobody I work with has the time to spend reading some amateur's novel. Hey, but don't worry. I will read it, I promise.”

“Okay … well, it's in your hands.” I hung up.

As I feared, another two weeks passed without any word from him. Steeling myself for another disappointment, I dialed his number.

“Hey, I was just about to phone you.” Something a little aloof in his tone worried me immediately.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah, just finished it a couple of days ago.”

I resisted the urge to ask him why he hadn't then called me a couple of days earlier and instead asked, “What did you think?”

“Well, about that…” The silence on the line lasted more than a few seconds. “It's hard to talk about over the phone,” he said finally. “Why don't you come over. We can chat.”

This completely threw me. All I wanted to know was if he liked the book or not. I half felt that I was being led on—except, if he was going to the trouble of inviting me over, that must mean he had taken the time to give it an honest reading and had something of substance in the way of feedback. A little nervously, I agreed.

This is how I first came to visit the Hidakas. I had no idea how that visit would change my life.

He'd just bought the house he would live in until his death. Apparently he'd stashed away quite a bit of money during his time as a salaryman, but I also think an inheritance from his father had a lot to do with it. Still, it was lucky for him that he became a bestselling author soon after that, or I suspect that he wouldn't have been able to make his mortgage payments.

I brought a bottle of scotch with me as a present.

Hidaka greeted me at the door in sweats. Standing next to him was Hatsumi.

Thinking back on it, I realize it was love at first sight. The moment I saw her, I felt something akin to inspiration. Almost a kind of déjà vu. It was as though I were meeting someone I'd always been meant to meet. For a moment I just stared at her, unable to speak.

Hidaka didn't seem to notice my momentary disorientation. He told Hatsumi to make coffee and invited me in to his office.

I was expecting him to launch right into what he thought about my book, but he seemed to be avoiding the topic. We discussed current events, and he asked about my teaching work. Even after Hatsumi brought the coffee, he kept the conversation on different topics until, unable to bear it any longer, I blurted out, “What about my story? If it's no good, please tell it to me straight.”

His smile faded. “It's not bad. I like the theme.”

“You mean it's not bad, but it's not good?”

“Well, yes. That's what I mean. Good books grab the reader, pull you in. Maybe it's a case of having the right ingredients but lacking the right recipe.”

“Well, what part in particular doesn't work?”

“The characters just aren't compelling. And I think it's because the story's a little too … pat, tidy even.”

“Do you mean it feels contrived? The story and the characters lack dimension?”

“Something like that. Don't get me wrong, for an amateur novel I think it's quite good. The writing's fine, and the story elements are all there. It's just the way those elements are put together isn't compelling enough to grab the reader's attention. Or to get published. Technical skill alone doesn't make a salable product, you know.”

I was ready for criticism, but this crushed me. If my story had a specific failing, I could try to fix it, but what did “it's fine, but not compelling” mean? It sounded to me like another way of saying I didn't have talent.

“So maybe I should play around with the story line some more? Try to approach it from a different angle?” I asked, trying to keep my spirits up by focusing on the future.

Hidaka shook his head. “I don't see any point in clinging to the same story. If I were you, I'd give yourself a blank slate. Otherwise you might end up making the same mistake again. My recommendation is you write something completely different.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but his advice made sense.

I asked whether, if I wrote another story, he would be willing to read it.

“With pleasure,” he said.

I started in on my next novel right away. However, my pen seemed reluctant to write. The first time around, I'd completely lost myself in the writing, but this time, I found every little detail bothered me. Sometimes I would spend an entire hour at my desk torturing myself over a single turn of phrase, trying to make it work. Maybe it was because, this time, I had an audience: Hidaka. In a way, that robbed me of my courage. Maybe this was the difference between an amateur and a professional.

Still, I struggled on. In the meantime, I started visiting Hidaka more frequently. You might say our friendship was revived after having lain dormant for so many years. For me, it was fascinating to hear about his life as a working author, and I think Hidaka enjoyed spending time with someone outside his regular circle of editors. He told me once that ever since he'd become an author, he'd felt increasingly isolated from the world around him.

However, I confess I also had an entirely different reason for wanting to visit. I couldn't wait to see Hatsumi again. In many ways, she was my ideal woman. She always had a warm smile for me, and she looked radiant even in her everyday clothes. I'd never seen her all done up, and she might actually have been a knockout. That, after all, would be more Hidaka's style. To me, however, she had a simple charm, something much closer to home: an everyday kind of beauty that other women could only dream of.

On one occasion, I visited without calling ahead. My excuse was that I was in the neighborhood and just dropped by. But in truth, I'd been working at home when I was overcome with a sudden desire to see that smile again. I arrived to find that Hidaka wasn't there. I told myself I was just going to say hello and then go home, since my cover story was that I'd come to see him.

However, to my great surprise, Hatsumi asked me to come in and visit. She said she'd just finished baking a cake and wanted me to taste it for her. I mumbled something about not imposing on her, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity. I practically fell over myself to accept her invitation.

The following two hours were some of the happiest of my life. I was euphoric and must have talked up a storm. She never frowned at my exuberance, but instead laughed in that bright, girlish way of hers, which sent me even further over the moon. I must have been flushed with excitement because, once I finally left and started to make my way home, I remember how good the cool air felt against my skin.

I continued to drop by, under the pretext of getting writing advice from Hidaka, just to see Hatsumi. Hidaka didn't seem to notice a thing. He had his own reasons for wanting to see me, but I didn't learn of those until a while later.

Finally, I finished my second novel. Again, I wanted Hidaka to read it and give me his opinion. Again, I was disappointed. He didn't like it.

“It just feels like the same old love story,” he told me. “Stories about young men falling for older women are a dime a dozen. You need a new twist to make it work. Also, the woman he's supposed to be falling in love with doesn't really work. The character just doesn't feel real. I'm mean, it's obvious you're not writing from personal experience.”

I think that's what you'd call a harsh review. I was in shock. The worst part was what he said about the woman. The model for my unreal heroine was none other than Hatsumi herself.

I asked Hidaka if he thought I just didn't have what it took to be a professional writer.

He thought for a moment before saying, “What's the rush? You have a day job. Keep writing as a hobby. Don't worry about getting your first book published so fast.”

His advice did little to console me. I was quite fond of what I'd created with my second novel. Now I was worried about what I might be lacking as a writer. Even Hatsumi's kind words of encouragement were not the salve I needed.

For several days I had difficulty sleeping, and as a result my health quickly deteriorated. I caught a cold and eventually got so sick I couldn't get out of bed. At times like these one really feels the harshness of living alone. I curled up in bed, wrapped in a cold blanket of misery.

Then I had the most unexpected turn of fortune, as I have already told Detective Kaga. Hatsumi came to visit me at my apartment. When I looked through the peephole in my apartment door, I thought for a moment that my fever had peaked and I was hallucinating.

“I heard from my husband that you'd caught a cold and couldn't even go in to work,” she told me.

She hardly seemed to notice my excitement at seeing her and went straight into the kitchen, where she began preparing a meal. She'd brought all the ingredients with her. I felt as if I were walking on clouds, and not because of the fever.

The vegetable soup Hatsumi made for me was exceptional. Not that I could taste it at all. It was just that she'd come there for me, that she had cooked it for me. That made me the happiest man alive that night.

I had to take an entire week off work. I was never the healthiest guy, and it often took me a while to recover from colds; but this was the first time I was grateful for my poor constitution. During that week, Hatsumi came over to my apartment three times. On her last visit, I asked her whether it had been Hidaka's idea that she come take care of me.

“Actually, I haven't told him,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Well, you know, he's—” She stopped. “Please don't tell my husband. I don't think he'd understand.”

“Fine by me.” I wanted to know what she was thinking, but decided not to push it.

Once I was back on my feet, I wanted to find a way to thank her. I realized giving her a present might raise eyebrows, so I invited her out to dinner.

She seemed hesitant at first, but eventually agreed. Hidaka was due to be away doing research for some project, and she asked me if that would be a good time. It was better than good; it was perfect.

We had dinner at a traditional Japanese place in Roppongi. That night, she came back with me to my apartment.

I believe I previously described our relationship as a fleeting passion. I'd like to correct that statement now. We loved each other from the bottom of our hearts. For me, there was nothing fleeting or momentary about it. From the first time I laid eyes upon her I felt that she was the woman destiny had meant me to meet. That night was the beginning of our love.

The hours flew by; yet toward the end, Hatsumi told me something shocking about her husband: “He's trying to hold you down, you know.” A terrible sadness was in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“He's trying to keep you from getting published. He wants you to give up writing.”

“Because my novels are boring!”

“No, that's not it at all. In fact, I think it's the opposite. He's jealous because the books you write are better than his.”

“No way.”

“I didn't want to believe it myself. But there's just no other way to explain how he's acting.”

“How is he acting?”

“Well, for instance, when you sent him your first novel, I don't think he ever intended to read it seriously—not at first. He suggested that reading some amateur's boring work would throw off his own writing. He said he'd just skim it and tell you whatever you wanted to hear.”

“You can't be serious.” What she was telling me was so different from what I'd heard from Hidaka himself. “But, he did read it?”

“That's just it. Once he started reading, he couldn't stop. He gives up on things easily, you know. If something strikes him as even a little bit boring, he tosses it away. But there was an …
intensity
in the way he read that book. I think it must've been because the world you created grabbed him in a way he couldn't ignore.”

“But he said it wasn't professional-level work.”

“I don't think he was being honest. I know for a fact he lied to you several times when you called him and he told you he hadn't read it yet. I think he was still deciding what to do. Eventually, he must have decided to disparage your work and discourage you from continuing writing.”

“Maybe…,” I said, still not believing what I was hearing, “maybe he read it so intently because we were friends.”

“No. That's not him. That man isn't interested in anything other than himself.”