ME: A Novel. Tomoyuki Hoshino
in my role as Daiki I found I had a measure of self-confidence.
“When was that?”
“Nearly six months ago.”
“I see. And all of this has obviously knocked you for a loop.”
“Yes, I’ve had a lot to deal with.”
“But about Mamiko-chan . . . you could have told me. The least I could have done was lend you some money for her hospital treatment. It’s as if we were strangers.”
“No, quite the contrary. I couldn’t speak precisely because I knew you really liked Mamiko and that it would be quite disappointing. I had my hands full just coping with my own state of depression. And Mamiko didn’t want to tell you much about what had happened.”
“Hmmm, so is that what it was?” she said before sighing deeply. “But it’s still too bad.”
“I know, I know. But dwelling on it only makes me feel worse. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Still, time will work things out, won’t it? My feeling is that you just have to wait for the dust to settle, and then everything will be back to normal.”
“That’s all very well, but I can’t work myself into a very hopeful frame of mind.”
“You’re quite the pessimist, aren’t you? You’ve got to try to have a more positive outlook, otherwise you’ll never get back on track. And without Mamiko you may wind up a bachelor for life.”
“That has nothing to do with anything. I’m hurt . . . Is this the kind of talk I get from my mother?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I take it back. You’re right—it’s a separate matter. But really . . . give her some time and she’ll come to her senses.”
I stood there more than a little amazed. What was there for Mamiko to come to her senses about? Mother didn’t seem to be taking in anything that I was telling her. Perhaps she was no better at understanding Daiki, thus leading him to think that he was better off staying away from her.
But I didn’t care. The important thing was for me to leave her satisfied. So I said to her: “I’ll give it some time and then talk to Mamiko.”
“Yes, please do that,” she said cheerily.
I too was happy with that.
“But now it’s late!” she exclaimed, looking at her watch. I checked the time as well on my cell phone. It was already midnight. “Well now, what’s your new number?”
I had no desire to give it to her and thought about reciting a false one. But then I blurted it out anyway, and she wrote it down in her notebook.
“You’re staying over, aren’t you? It’s too late for you to get back tonight.” I did not want her to stay, but there was no alternative. I knew from her telephone prefix, 048, that it must be a Saitama number, as my family home in Kita-Urawa was in the same area.
“Yes, but where can I sleep?”
“Use my bed. I can get by in the kitchen.”
On the tatami mats lay a futon that I never bothered to fold up and put away. I covered it with fresh sheets and gave her my new bathrobe.
“Good night,” I said as I slid the door shut. Fatigue overwhelmed me; I felt that every bolt and screw holding me together was coming loose.
I pushed the kitchen table into a corner and used my down jacket as a makeshift mat, on top of which I spread a towel and then a wool blanket, a cushion serving as my pillow. Having changed into an old bathrobe, I turned off the lights and lay down. I could hear faint sounds from the other room, and then the light went out. Once more we wished each other a good night. And then there was silence.
I was unable to sleep. Dead tired, I wanted to shut down my mind and doze off. But the oppressive presence across the way made that impossible. It was as though a phantom had been swallowed up in the darkness once the door was shut.
In a low voice I turned in her direction and called out: “Mother?” There was no answer. I tried once more, this time a bit louder: “Mother? Are you asleep?” Again there was no response. I got up quietly and cracked open the door slightly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could dimly make out the white shape of the bedding, but it appeared flat, as though no human form were underneath. I inched the door open further and stepped inside. The tatami creaked. I stooped down, brought my face close to the futon, and saw that the quilt was moving ever so slightly up and down. Protruding from under the sheets was a clump of tousled hair. A chill swept through me as I returned to the kitchen.
* * *
I awoke at dawn, having dreamed that I’d emerged from a McDonald’s restroom completely naked below the waist while munching on a Big Mac, furtively attempting to cover myself with my free hand. I went to the toilet and then headed back to sleep, waking every half hour until I sensed that Mother was stirring and put away my improvised bedding. It was nine o’clock.
I fried up some eggs, threw a tea bag into a cup of boiling water, got out the blueberry jam, and made some toast. Mother was impressed.
“My, I’ve reached the age at which you take on the job of preparing breakfast!”
I told her that I had an appointment, and at ten thirty the two of us left. When we got to Hiyoshi Station, I said goodbye and pretended to go into the shopping complex. Once I saw her pass through the ticket gate, I put on a wool cap and spectacles that I had brought along and followed her.
Mother got on the train heading toward Meguro and then on to Urawa-Misono. I sat down in the same car, though at the far end. Mother had put on reading glasses and had her nose in a paperback. Exhausted, I kept myself awake by chewing six or seven pieces of mint gum. The train filled up as we moved into the center of Tokyo, and I stood up.
Mother got off at Araijuku, three stops before Urawa-Misono. I trailed her as she walked to a Sawayaka-Japan, a sprawling supermarket nearby, bought some groceries, and then continued on through a rather bleak residential area. I followed her, endeavoring not to forget the way. There were occasional passersby, darkening my mood all the more with their inevitable stares of bewilderment.
We had been walking for just over ten minutes when at last we came to a shabby apartment complex. A series of gray, three-story concrete buildings, blackened and cracked, stood in parallel rows with flower beds set snugly between them, overgrown with pansies, tulips, and rapeseed blossoms. Mother stopped at the edifice near the center before climbing the stairs to the second floor. I followed. On the nameplate beside the door was written: Hiyama.
My plan had been to verify where she lived and then make myself scarce. Inexplicably, I instead found myself ringing the bell. By the time I thought better of it, it was already too late.
There was no intercom. From the other side of the door came Mother’s delicate voice: “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me, Daiki!” I shouted. “I forgot my key.”
Opening the door with the chain still in place, she watched me through the gap, a tense look on her face, and asked in a strained voice: “What are you doing here?”
“Well, my friend called off our meeting, so I thought we could spend a bit more time together, if you don’t mind. Anyway, here I am.”
“I see . . . But don’t startle me like this. I’ve just arrived home myself.”
“I must have been on the train just after you.”
I tried to act as though I was familiar with the apartment. The layout was similar to mine, with the dining area immediately off the entrance. Beyond were two small bedrooms. While not a total mess, there were piles of things scattered all over. There was a shabbiness about the place—the consequence, I could understand, of living alone without entertaining any visitors for a long period of time.
I pulled a chair away from the table,