I was about to speak, but she hushed me up with a kiss.

"I wish a bald vulture would gobble up tomorrow," she said. "Would it make sense for a bald vulture to do that?"

"That makes sense. Bald vultures eat up art, and tomorrows as well."

"And regular vultures eat"

"the bodies of nameless people," I said. "Very different from bald vultures."

"Bald vultures eat up art and tomorrows, then?"

"Right"

"A nice combination."

"And for dessert they take a bite out of Books in Print." Books in Print."

Shimamoto laughed. "Anyhow, until tomorrow," she said.

And tomorrow came. When I woke up, I was alone. The rain had stopped, and bright, transparent morning light shone in through the bedroom window. The clock showed it was past nine. Shimamoto wasn't in bed, though a slight depression in the pillow beside me hinted at where she had lain. She was nowhere to be seen. I got out of bed and went to the living room to look for her. I looked in the kitchen, the children's room, and the bathroom. Nothing. Her clothes were gone, her shoes as well. I took a deep breath, trying to pull myself back to reality. But that reality was like nothing I'd ever seen before: a reality that didn't seem to fit.

I dressed and went outside. The BMW was parked where I left it the night before. Maybe she'd wakened early and gone out for a walk. I searched for her all around the house, then got in the car and drove as far as the nearest town. But no Shimamoto. I went back to the cottage, but she was not there. Thinking maybe she'd left a note, I scoured the house. But there was nothing. Not a trace that she had ever been there.

Without her, the house was empty and stifling. The air was filled with a gritty layer of dust, which stuck in my throat with each breath. I remembered the record, the old Nat King Cole record she gave me. But search as I might it was nowhere to be found. She must have taken it with her.

Once again Shimamoto had disappeared from my life. This time, though, leaving nothing to pin my hopes on. No more probablys probablys. No more for a whiles for a whiles.

15.

I got back to Tokyo a little before four. Hoping against hope that Shimamoto would return, I had stayed at the cottage in Hakone until past noon. Waiting was torture, so I killed time by cleaning the kitchen and rearranging all the clothes in the house. The silence was oppressive; the occasional sounds of birds and cars struck me as unnatural, out of sync. Every sound was twisted and crushed beneath the weight of some unstoppable force. And in the midst of this, I waited for something to happen. Something's Something's got to happen, I felt sure. It can't end like this. got to happen, I felt sure. It can't end like this.

But nothing happened. Once she made up her mind, Shimamoto wasn't the type of woman to change it I had to get back to Tokyo. It seemed farfetched, but if she did try to get in touch with me, she'd do it through the club. At any rate, staying in the cottage any longer made no sense.

Driving back, I had to force myself to concentrate. I missed curves, nearly ran red lights, and swerved into the wrong lane. When I arrived at the club parking lot, I called home from a phone booth. I told Yukiko I was back and that I was going straight to work.

"You had me worried. At least you could have called." Her voice sounded hard and dry.

"I'm fine. Not to worry," I said. I had no idea how my voice sounded to her. "I don't have much time, so I'm going to the office to check over accounts, then directly on to the club."

At the office, I sat at my desk and somehow managed to pa.s.s the time until evening. I went over the previous night's events. Shimamoto must have gotten up while I was asleep and, without sleeping a wink herself, left before dawn. How she got back to the city I had no idea. The main road was far off, and at that hour of the morning it would have been next to impossible to get a bus or taxi in the hills around Hakone. And besides, she had on high heels.

Why did Shimamoto have to leave me like that? The entire time I drove back to Tokyo, the question had tormented me. I told her I would be hers, and she said she'd be mine. And dropping all defenses, we made love. Still, she left me alone, without so much as a word of explanation. She'd even taken the record she'd said was a present. There had to be some rhyme or reason to her actions, but logical thinking was beyond me. All trains of thought were sidetracked. Forcing myself to think, I ended up with a dully throbbing head. I realized how worn out I was. I sat down on the bed in my office, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes. Once they were closed, I couldn't pry them open. All I could do was remember. Like an endless tape loop, memories of the night before replayed themselves, over and over. Shimamoto's body. Her naked body as she lay by the stove with eyes closed, and every detailher neck, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her sides, her pubic hair, her genitals, her back, her waist, her legs. They were all too close, too clear. Clearer and closer than if they were real.

Alone in that tiny room, I was soon driven to distraction by these graphic illusions. I fled the building and wandered aimlessly. Finally I went over to the club and shaved in the men's room. I hadn't washed my face the entire day. And I still wore the same clothes as the day before. My employees said nothing, though I could feel them glancing at me strangely. If I went home now and stood before Yukiko, I knew I would confess it all. How I loved Shimamoto, had spent the night with her, and was about to throw away everythingmy home, my daughters, my work.

I know I should have told Yukiko everything. But I couldn't. Not then. I no longer had the power to distinguish right from wrong, or even grasp what had happened to me. So I didn't go home. I went to the club and waited for Shimamoto, knowing full well my wait would be in vain. First I checked at the other bar to see if she was there, then I waited at the counter of the Robin's Nest until the place closed. I talked with a few of the regulars, but it was just so much background static. I made the appropriate listening noises, my head filled all the while with Shimamoto's body. How her v.a.g.i.n.a welcomed me ever so gently. And how she called out my name. Every time the phone rang, my heart pounded.

After the bar closed and everyone had headed home, I stayed there at the counter, drinking. No matter how much I drank, I couldn't get drunk. In fact, the more I drank, the clearer my head became. It was two a.m. when I arrived home, and Yukiko was up and waiting for me. Unable to sleep, I sat drinking whiskey alone at the kitchen table. She came in with her gla.s.s to join me.

"Put on some music," she said. I picked up a nearby ca.s.sette, flipped it into the deck, and turned down the volume so as not to wake the kids. We sat in silence for a while across the table from each other, drinking whiskey.

"You have somebody else you like, right?" Yukiko asked, staring straight at me.

I nodded. Her words had a decided outline and gravity. How many times had she gone over these words in her mind in preparation for this moment?

"And you really like that person. You're not just playing around."

"That's right," I said. "It's not just some fling. But it's not exactly what you're imagining."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" she asked. "You actually believe you know what I'm thinking?"

I couldn't say a thing. Yukiko was silent too. The music played on softly. Vivaldi or Telemann. One of those. I couldn't recall the melody.

"I think it's likely you have no idea what I'm thinking," she said. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word distinctly, as if explaining something to the children. "I don't think you have any idea."

Seeing I wasn't going to respond, she lifted her gla.s.s and drank. And very slowly, she shook her head. "I'm not that stupid, I hope you know. I live with you, sleep with you. I've known for some time you like someone else."

I looked at her in silence.

"I'm not blaming you," she continued. "If you love someone else, there's not much anyone can do about it. You love who you love. I'm not enough for you. I know that We've gotten along well, and you've taken good care of me. I've been very happy living with you. I think you still love me, but we can't escape the fact that I'm not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I'm not blaming you for falling in love with another woman. I'm not angry, either. I should be, but I'm not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"There's no need to apologize," she said. "If you want to leave me, that's okay. I won't say a thing. Do you want to leave me?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Can I explain what's happened?"

"You mean about you and that woman?"

"Yes," I said.

She shook her head emphatically. "I don't want to hear anything about her. Don't make me suffer any more than I already have. I don't care what kind of relationship the two of you have, or what plans you've made. I don't want to hear about it. What I do want to know is whether or not you want to leave me. I don't need the house, or moneyor anything. If you want the children, take them. I'm serious. If you want to leave me, just say the word. That's all I want to know. I don't want to hear anything else. Just yes or no."

"I don't know," I said.

"You mean you don't know if you want to leave me or not?"

"No. I don't know if I'm even capable of giving you an answer."

"When will you know?"

I shook my head.

"Well, then, take your time and think about it." She sighed. "I don't mind waiting. Take as long as you like."

Starting that night, I slept on the sofa in the living room. Sometimes the kids would get up in the middle of the night and ask me why I was sleeping there. I explained that my snoring was so loud these days that their mother and I decided to sleep in separate rooms. Otherwise Mom wouldn't get any sleep. One of the kids would snuggle up next to me on the sofa. And I would hug her tight. Sometimes I could hear Yukiko in the bedroom, crying.

For the next two weeks I spent every day endlessly reliving memories. I'd recall ever single detail of the night I spent with Shimamoto, trying to tease out some meaning. Trying to find a message. I remembered the warmth of her in my arms. Her arms sticking out of the sleeves of her white dress. The Nat King Cole songs. The fire in the stove. I called up each and every word we spoke that night.

From out of those words, these of hers: There is no middle ground with me. No middle-ground objects exist and where there are no such objects, there is no middle ground There is no middle ground with me. No middle-ground objects exist and where there are no such objects, there is no middle ground.

And these words of mine: I've already decided, Shimamoto-san. I thought about it when you were gone, and I made my decision I've already decided, Shimamoto-san. I thought about it when you were gone, and I made my decision.

I remembered her eyes, looking over at me in the car. That intense gaze burned into my cheeks. It was more than a mere glance. The smell of death hovered over her. She really was planning to die. That's why she came to Hakoneto die, together with me.

"And I will take all of you. Do you understand that? Do you understand what that means?" Do you understand what that means?"

When she said that, Shimamoto wanted my life. Only now did I understand.

I had come to a final conclusion, and so had she. Why was I so blind? After a night of making love, she planned to grab the steering wheel of the BMW as we drove back to Tokyo and kill us both. No other options remained for her. But something stopped her. And holding everything inside, she disappeared.

What desperate dead end had she reached? Why? And more important, who had driven her to such desperation? Why, finally, was death the only possible escape? I was grasping for clues, playing the detective, but I came up empty-handed. She just vanished, along with her secrets. No probablys probablys or or in a whiles in a whiles this time-she just silently slipped away. Our bodies had become one, yet in the end she refused to open up her heart to me. this time-she just silently slipped away. Our bodies had become one, yet in the end she refused to open up her heart to me.

Some kinds of things, once they go forward, can never go back to where they began, Hajime, she would no doubt tell me. In the middle of the night, lying on my sofa, I could hear her voice spinning out these words. Like you said, how wonderful it would be if the two of us could go off somewhere and begin life again. Unfortunately, I can't get out of where I am. It's a physical impossibility Like you said, how wonderful it would be if the two of us could go off somewhere and begin life again. Unfortunately, I can't get out of where I am. It's a physical impossibility.

And then Shimamoto was a sixteen-year-old girl again, standing in front of sunflowers in a garden, smiling shyly. I really shouldn't have gone to see you. I knew that from the beginning. I could predict that it would turn out like this. But I couldn't stand not to. I just had to see you, and when I did, I had to speak with you. Hajimethat's me. I don't plan to, but everything I touch gets ruined in the end I really shouldn't have gone to see you. I knew that from the beginning. I could predict that it would turn out like this. But I couldn't stand not to. I just had to see you, and when I did, I had to speak with you. Hajimethat's me. I don't plan to, but everything I touch gets ruined in the end.

I would never see her again, except in memory. She was here, and now she's gone. There is no middle ground. Probably Probably is a word you may find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun. is a word you may find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun.

Every day, I scanned the papers from top to bottom for articles about women suicides. Lots of people kill themselves, I discovered, but it was always someone else. As far as I knew, this beautiful thirty-seven-year-old woman with the loveliest of smiles was still alive. Though she was gone from me forever.

On the surface, my days were the same as ever. I'd drive the kids back and forth to the nursery school, the three of us singing songs as we went. Sometimes in the line of cars in front of the nursery school I'd see the young woman in the 260E, and we'd talk. Talking with her made me able to forget at least for a while. Our subjects were limited, as always. We'd exchange the latest news about the Aoyama neighborhood, natural foods, clothes. The usual.

At work, too, I made my usual rounds. I'd put on my suit and go to the bars every night make small talk with the regulars, listen to the opinions and complaints of the staff, remember little things like giving a birthday present to an employee. Treat musicians who happened to drop by to dinner, check the c.o.c.ktails to make sure they were up to par, make sure the piano was in tune, keep an eye out for rowdy drunksI did it all. Any problems, I straightened out in a flash. Everything ran like clockwork, but the thrill was gone. No one suspected, though. On the surface I was the same as always. Actually, I was friendlier, kinder, more talkative than ever. But as I sat on a barstool, looking around my establishment everything looked monotonous, l.u.s.terless. No longer a carefully crafted, colorful castle in the air, what lay before me was a typical noisy bar-artificial, superficial, and shabby. A stage setting, props built for the sole purpose of getting drunks to part with their cash. Any illusions to the contrary had disappeared in a puff of smoke. All because Shimamoto would never grace these places again. Never again would she sit at the bar; never again would I see her smile as she ordered a drink.

My routine at home was unchanged too. I ate dinner with the family and on Sundays took the kids for a walk or to the zoo. Yukiko, at least on the surface, treated me as she always had. We talked about all kinds of things. We were like childhood friends who happened to be living under the same roof. There were certain words we couldn't speak, certain facts we didn't acknowledge. But there was no unconcealed hostility in the air. We just didn't touch each other. At night we slept separatelyI on the sofa, Yukiko in the bedroom. Outwardly, that was the only change in our lives.

Sometimes I couldn't stand how we were just going through the motions, acting out our a.s.signed roles. Something crucial to us was lost, yet still we could carry on as before. I felt awful. This kind of empty, meaningless life was hurting Yukiko deeply. I wanted to give her an answer to her question, but I couldn't. Of course I didn't want to leave her, but who was I to say that? Methe guy who was going to throw his whole family away. Just because Shimamoto was gone, never to return, didn't mean I could blithely bounce back to the life I'd had and pretend nothing had happened. Life isn't that easy, and I don't think it should be. Besides, lingering images of Shimamoto were still too clear, too real. Every time I closed my eyes, every detail of her body floated before me. My palms remembered the feel of her skin, and her voice whispering in my ear wouldn't leave me. I couldn't make love to Yukiko with those images still implanted so firmly in my brain.

I wanted to be alone, so knowing nothing else, I went swimming every morning at the pool. Then I'd go to my office, stare at the ceiling, and lose myself in daydreams of Shimamoto. With Yukiko's question hanging before me unanswered, I was living in a void. I couldn't go on forever like that. It just wasn't right. As a human being, as a husband, as a father, I had to live up to my responsibilities. Yet as long as these illusions surrounded me, I was paralyzed. It was even worse whenever it rained, for then I was struck by the delusion that Shimamoto would show up: quietly opening the door, bringing with her the scent of rain. I could picture the smile on her face. When I said something wrong, she would silently shake her head, smiling all the while. All my words lost their strength and, like raindrops glued to the window, slowly parted company with reality. On rainy nights I could barely breathe. The rain twisted time and reality.

When I grew exhausted with these visions, I stared at the scenery outside. I was abandoned in a lifeless, dried-out land. Visions had drained color from the world. Everything, every scene before me, lay flat, mere makeshift. Every object was gritty, the color of sand. The parting words of my old high school cla.s.smate haunted me. Lots of different ways to live. And lots of different ways to die. But in the end ... all that remains is a desert Lots of different ways to live. And lots of different ways to die. But in the end ... all that remains is a desert.

The following week, as if lying in wait, strange events ambushed me one after another. On Monday morning, for no special reason I recalled the envelope with one hundred thousand yen and decided to look for it Many years before, I'd put it in a drawer in the desk in my office, a locked drawer, second from the top. When I moved into the office, I put some other valuables together with the envelope in that drawer; other than occasionally checking to see that it was there, I never touched it. But now the envelope was gone. This was strange, uncanny even, for I had absolutely no memory of moving it I was absolutely certain of that Just to make sure, I pulled open the other drawers and checked them from top to bottom. No envelope.

I tried to remember when I'd last seen it I couldn't pin down an exact date. It wasn't all that long ago, but not so recently, either. A month ago, maybe two. Three at the most.

Bewildered, I sat down on my chair and stared at the drawer. Maybe someone had broken into the room, unlocked the drawer, and removed the envelope. That wasn't likely, thoughthe drawer contained more cash and valuables, which were untouched. Yet it was was within the realm of possibility. Or maybe unconsciously I'd disposed of the envelope and for whatever reason erased the memory from my mind. Okay, I told myself, what does it matter? I was going to get rid of it someday. I just saved myself the trouble, right? within the realm of possibility. Or maybe unconsciously I'd disposed of the envelope and for whatever reason erased the memory from my mind. Okay, I told myself, what does it matter? I was going to get rid of it someday. I just saved myself the trouble, right?

But once I acknowledged that the envelope had disappeared, its existence and nonexistence traded places in my consciousness. A strange feeling, like vertigo, took hold of me. A conviction that the envelope had never actually existed swelled up inside me, violently chipping away at my mind, crushing and greedily devouring the certainty I'd had that the envelope was real real.

Because memory and sensations are so uncertain, so biased, we always rely on a certain reality-call it an alternate alternate reality-to prove the reality of events. To what extent facts we recognize as such really reality-to prove the reality of events. To what extent facts we recognize as such really are are as they seem, and to what extent these are facts merely because we label them as such, is an impossible distinction to draw. Therefore, in order to pin down reality as they seem, and to what extent these are facts merely because we label them as such, is an impossible distinction to draw. Therefore, in order to pin down reality as as reality, we need another reality to relativize the first Yet that other reality requires a third reality to serve as its grounding. An endless chain is created within our consciousness, and it is the very maintenance of this chain that produces the sensation that we are actually here, that we ourselves exist But something can happen to sever that chain, and we are at a loss. What is real? Is reality on this side of the break in the chain? Or over there, on the other side? reality, we need another reality to relativize the first Yet that other reality requires a third reality to serve as its grounding. An endless chain is created within our consciousness, and it is the very maintenance of this chain that produces the sensation that we are actually here, that we ourselves exist But something can happen to sever that chain, and we are at a loss. What is real? Is reality on this side of the break in the chain? Or over there, on the other side?

What I felt at that point, then, was this kind of cut-off sensation. I closed the drawer, deciding to forget all about it I should have thrown that money away when I first got it Keeping it was a mistake.

On Wednesday afternoon of the same week, I was driving down Gaien Higashidori, when I spied a woman who resembled Shimamoto. She had on blue cotton pants, a beige raincoat, and white deck shoes. And she dragged one leg as she walked. As soon as I saw her, everything around me froze. A lump of air forced its way up from my chest to my throat Shimamoto Shimamoto, I thought I drove past her to check her out in the rearview mirror, but her face was hidden in the crowd. I slammed on my brakes, getting an earful of horn from the car behind me. The way the woman held herself, and the length of her hair-it was Shimamoto exactly. I wanted to stop the car right then and there, but all the parking spots along the road were full. Two hundred meters or so ahead, I finally found a place and managed to squeeze my car in, then I ran back to find her. But she was nowhere to be seen. I ran around like a lunatic She had a bad leg, so she couldn't have gone too far, I told myself. Shoving people aside, jaywalking across streets, I ran up the pedestrian overpa.s.s and looked down on all the pa.s.sersby below. My shirt was soaked with sweat Soon, though, a revelation dawned on me. She had been dragging the opposite leg. And Shimamoto's leg was no longer bad And Shimamoto's leg was no longer bad.

I shook my head and sighed deeply. Something must be wrong with me. I felt dizzy, all my strength drained away. Leaning against the crosswalk signal, I stared at my feet for a while. The signal turned from green to red, from red to green again. People crossed the street, waited, crossed, with me immobile, collapsed against the post, gasping for breath.

Suddenly I looked up and saw Izumi's face. Izumi was in a taxi stopped right in front of me. From the rear-seat window, she was staring right at me. The taxi had halted at the red light, and at most, three feet separated her face and mine. She was no longer the seventeen-year-old girl I used to know, but I recognized her at once. The girl I'd held in my arms twenty years before, the first girl I kissed. The girl who, on that fall afternoon so long ago, took off her clothes and lost the clasp to her gaiter belt People might change in twenty years' time, but I knew this was her. Children are afraid of her Children are afraid of her, my old cla.s.smate said. When I'd heard that, I didn't understand what he meant I couldn't grasp what those words were attempting to convey. But now, with Izumi right before my eyes, I understood. Her face had nothing you could call an expression. No, that's not an entirely accurate way of putting it I should put it this way: Like a room from which every last stick of furniture had been taken, anything you could possibly call an expression had been removed, leaving nothing behind. Not a trace of feeling grazed her face; it was like the bottom of a deep ocean, silent and dead. And with that utterly expressionless face, she was staring at me. At least I think she was looking at me. Her eyes were gazing straight ahead in my direction, yet her face showed me nothing. Or rather, what it showed was this: an infinite blank.

I stood there dumbfounded, speechless. Barely able to support my body, I breathed slowly. For a moment or two, my sense of self really did break down, its very outlines melting away into a thick, syrupy goo. Unconsciously I reached out my hand and touched the window of the cab, stroked the surface of the gla.s.s with my fingertips. I had no idea why. A couple of pa.s.sersby, startled, stopped and stared. But I couldn't help myself. Through the gla.s.s, I slowly stroked that faceless face. Izumi didn't move a muscle or so much as blink. Was she dead? No, not dead. She was still alive, in an unblinking world. In a deep, silent world behind that pane of gla.s.s, she lived. And her lips, motionless, spoke of an infinite nothingness.

The light finally changed to green, and the taxi took off. Izumi's face was unchanged to the end. I stood rooted to the spot, watching until the taxi was swallowed up in the surge of cars.

I walked back to my car and slumped into the seat I had to get out of there. As I was about to turn on the engine I was. .h.i.t by a sudden wave of nausea. Like I was going to spew my guts out But I didn't vomit Resting both hands on the steering wheel, I sat there for a good fifteen minutes. My underarms were drenched in sweat, and an awful smell rose from my body. This wasn't the body that Shimamoto had so gently loved. It was the body of a middle-aged man, giving off an awful acrid stink.

A few minutes later, a patrolman came up to my car and knocked on the window. I rolled it down. "You can't park here, pal," he said, looking around inside. "Get your car out of here." I nodded and started the motor.

"You look terrible. Do you feel sick?" the policeman asked me.

Wordlessly, I shook my head. And started driving.

It took me several hours to recover. I was drained, completely, leaving an empty sh.e.l.l behind. A hollow sound reverberated through my body. I parked my car inside Aoyama Cemetery and stared listlessly through the windshield at the sky beyond. Izumi was waiting for me there. She was always somewhere, waiting for me. On some street corner, beyond some pane of gla.s.s, waiting for me to appear. Watching me. I just hadn't noticed.

For several days afterward, I couldn't speak. I'd open my mouth to talk, but the words would disappear, as if the utter nothingness that was Izumi had taken over.

After that strange encounter, though, the afterimages of Shimamoto began, gradually, to fade. Color returned to the world, and I no longer had the helpless feeling that I was walking on the surface of the moon. Vaguely, as if looking through a gla.s.s window at changes happening to someone else, I could detect a minute shift in gravity and a gradual sloughing off of something that had clung to me.

Something inside me was severed, and disappeared. Silently. Forever.

While the trio was on break, I went up to the pianist and told him he no longer needed to play "Star-Crossed Lovers." I mustered up the friendliest smile I could. "You've played it for me enough. It's about time to stop."

He looked at me as if weighing something in his mind. The two of us were friends, had shared a few drinks and gone beyond your usual polite conversation.

"I don't quite understand," he said. "You don't want me to go out of my way to play that song? Or you don't want me to ever play that song again? There's a big difference, and I'd like to be clear about this."

"I don't want you to play it," I said.

"You don't like the way I play it?"

"I have no problems with your playing. It's great. There aren't many people who can handle that tune the way you do."

"So it's the tune itself you don't want to hear anymore?"

"You could say that," I replied.

"Sounds a little like Casablanca Casablanca to me!" he said. to me!" he said.

"Guess so," I said.

After that, sometimes when he catches sight of me, the pianist breaks into a few bars of "As Time Goes By."