Distant Thunder. Wahei Tatematsu

      Published by Charles E. Tuttle Publishing

       an imprint of Periplus Editions (HK) Ltd.

      ©1999 by Charles E. Tuttle Publishing Co.

       All rights reserved

      LCC Card No. 98-89683

       ISBN 978-1-4629-0192-0

      First edition, 1999

      This is a translation of

       Enrai, first published in 1980 by

       Kawade Shobo.

      Printed in Singapore

      Distributed by:

      Distant

      Thunder

      THE VINYL sweat under the blinding sunlight. A close inspection would have revealed a rainbow sparkling in each of the microscopic beads of water. When gravity no longer supported them, droplets fell like white-hot tears. Mitsuo peeled off his sweat-drenched T-shirt and draped it over a steel pipe which hung overhead. Steam rose from the sweatstains. He carelessly touched the blazing pipe with his hand and recoiled as his flesh sizzled.

      All afternoon the sunshine had been intense, perhaps the strongest all year. The tomato roots bit deep into the earth, power surging into the branches and producing large, pendulous fruit. In contrast, outdoor tomato crops remained in the seedling stage. Mitsuo twisted the thermometer out of the ground and took a reading. Hurriedly, he opened the skylight and rolled up the vinyl away from ground level. A gentle breeze blew in, and he smelled the sultry tang of the earth. A radio hanging from one of the pipes droned a monotonous violin composition.

      With the vinyl stripped away, the nearby apartment complex rose into view. Thirty of the brand-new concrete structures stood like blocks. Mitsuo had no idea how many people lived there. Random apartment noises drifted over with the breeze.

      While running a hose over the plants, Mitsuo stared at the color of the soil, gauging the amount of water seeping in. The length of the roots depended on how deep the water penetrated the soil. He knew that with water and additional fertilizer the tomatoes would ripen. Mitsuo felt that his lifeblood now ran through every centimeter of the two thousand square meters of the hothouse. He couldn't let this second year's crop be a failure. Last year, he had used too many hormones and the plants hadn't pollinated fully, resulting in seedless and hollow fruit. A completely worthless crop.

      Three women approached and peered through the opening in the vinyl. The shadows of the leaf clusters hid Mitsuo from their sight. He stood on tiptoe and saw ankles outside the hothouse.

      "Whaddaya want?"

      The women were startled by the sudden burst from an unexpected direction. Mitsuo appeared out of the shadows. Once again the women recoiled, seeing him stripped to the waist. At every step of his approach, his rubber-soled boots squished in the mud.

      The woman standing in the middle pasted an ingratiating smile on her face. "Well hello there. How about selling us some of your tomatoes? We'll pay a fair price. They look so juicy, and they smell wonderful."

      The women held their breath, awaiting Mitsuo's reaction. Their clean palms sparkled as they touched the vinyl. Mitsuo narrowed his eyes at them and barked, "Come on in."

      They moved to enter, and Mitsuo realized they were holding children by the hand. The apartment buildings shimmered in the distance as though resting in a pool of water.

      "Oh, the heat in here is awful!" the women exclaimed as they stepped inside. Their shoes sank into the muddy soil.

      "Children, don't scratch at the tomatoes! You'll ruin them," one mother said.

      "This place is fantastic! So this is how tomatoes are grown. You farmers really go to a lot of trouble for us."

      The hothouse was suddenly full of commotion. Mitsuo continued watering, irritated by the smell of cosmetics.

      "They're like red light bulbs!" one of the children yelled shrilly.

      Mitsuo decided that was an interesting thought. People judged by color. He'd sell them the ripe ones, too far gone for shipment.

      "The ones you buy in the supermarket are just going rotten," he said. "They look like tomatoes, but they've got no taste. They're green when we send em out of here, and it's three days before you eat em. Take a close look. Color's the same, but the shine's completely different."

      Mitsuo was surprised at his talkativeness. He had never seen any of these apartment women except from a distance. They sent their husbands off to work early each morning, then sleepwalked through the rest of the day in their sundrenched buildings, watching their children play or standing around chatting. Some of them were attractive enough, but when he imagined what they must think of him in his working clothes, Mitsuo found it hard to strike up a conversation.

      "A group of us talked it over, and we're here as representatives. Or as a suicide squad, considering how scary everyone thinks you are."

      The same woman who had spoken first stood directly in front of Mitsuo. Her hair was tinted a light red. The color spread through it unevenly; no doubt it had once been dyed an even darker shade. The child she held by the wrist struggled to get free.

      "This ain't a tourist spot, you know," Mitsuo felt it necessary to remind her.

      "Give