That's all I remember about our conversations.

Only rarely did we take a break to eat or drink. As soon as we laid eyes on each other, without a word exchanged between us, we'd yank off our clothes, hop into bed, and go at it. We just leaped to the chase. I was greedy for what was right before my eyes, and so was she. Every time we met we had s.e.x four or five times, literally till my juices dried up and the tip of my c.o.c.k swelled and ached. Despite the pa.s.sion, and the violent attraction we each felt, it never occurred to either of us that we might want to become long-term lovers. We were in the midst of a whirlwind that would, in time, pa.s.s. Knowing this, that each time we met might very well be the last, only fanned the flames of desire that much higher.

I wasn't in love with her. And she didn't love me. For me the question of love was irrelevant. What I sought was the sense of being tossed about by some raging, savage force, in the midst of which lay something absolutely crucial. I had no idea what that was. But I wanted to thrust my hand right inside her body and touch it, whatever it was.

I liked Izumi a lot, but not once did I experience that irrational power with her. I knew next to nothing about this other girl, yet her effect on me was profound. We never talked seriously about anything because we didn't see the point. If we'd had enough energy to talk, we'd have used it for another round between the sheets.

In the normal course of events we would have been wrapped up in our relationship, without pausing to come up for air, for a few months, and then one of us would have drifted away. The reason being that what we were doing was a necessary, natural act one allowing no room for doubt. From the first, there was no possibility that love, guilt, or thoughts of the future would enter in.

So if the relationship hadn't been discovered (not to have been found out seems pretty unrealistic, so totally wrapped up was I in having s.e.x with her), Izumi and I might have continued for some time as we had, boyfriend and girlfriend. Whenever summer vacation rolled around, we'd have gone on dates. Who knows how long the friendship would have lasted. But after a few years, one of us would have shifted away from the other. We were too different, and time would only have magnified our differences. Looking back on it now, it all seems so obvious. Yet even if we had to go our separate ways, if I hadn't slept with her cousin we might have said goodbye as friends and moved on to the next stage of life in one piece.

As it turned out, we couldn't do this.

In truth, I damaged Izumi beyond repair. It didn't take much to realize how hurt she was. With her grades, she should have breezed into a top university, but she failed the entrance exam and ended up attending a small, third-rate girls' college. After my relationship with her cousin came to light, I saw Izumi only once. We talked for a long time in a coffee shop that had been one of our hangouts. I tried to explain things to her as honestly as I could, selecting my words carefully, straining to convey my feelings. This thing between me and your cousin wasn't planned, I said; it was a physical force that swept us off our feet. It didn't even leave me with the sense of guilt about betraying you that you'd expect me to have. It has nothing to do with us.

Of course, Izumi couldn't understand what I meant. And she called me a dirty liar. She was right on target. Without a word, I'd slept with her cousin behind her back. Not just once or twice, but ten, twenty times. I betrayed her from the word go. If my actions had been proper, after all, why the need for deception? I wanted to tell Izumi this: I wanted to sleep with your cousin; I wanted to screw her till my brains fried-a thousand times, in every position imaginable. It has nothing to do with you, I should have insisted from the start. But in reality I couldn't say these kinds of things. That's why I lied-repeatedly. I'd make up some excuse to break a date with her, then zip on down to Kyoto to ball her cousin. There was no getting around it-I was the one to blame.

Izumi found out about us near the end of January, not long after my eighteenth birthday. In February I sailed through all the college entrance exams and was slated to move to Tokyo at the end of March. Before I left town, I called her, over and over. But she wouldn't come to the phone. I wrote her long letters, waiting in vain for a reply. I can't just leave like this, I thought I can't just leave her here. But there was nothing I could do. Izumi wanted nothing to do with me.

On the bullet train to Tokyo, I gazed listlessly at the scenery outside and thought about myself-who I was. I looked down at my hands on my lap and at my face reflected in the window. Who the h.e.l.l am I? Who the h.e.l.l am I? I wondered. For the first time in my life, a fierce self-hatred welled up in me. How could I have done something like this? But I knew why. Put in the same position, I would do the same thing all over again. Even if I had to lie to Izumi, I would sleep with her cousin again. No matter how much it might hurt her. Recognizing this was painful. But it was the truth. I wondered. For the first time in my life, a fierce self-hatred welled up in me. How could I have done something like this? But I knew why. Put in the same position, I would do the same thing all over again. Even if I had to lie to Izumi, I would sleep with her cousin again. No matter how much it might hurt her. Recognizing this was painful. But it was the truth.

Izumi wasn't the only one who got hurt. I hurt myself deeply, though at the time I had no idea how deeply. I should have learned many things from that experience, but when I look back on it, all I gained was one single, undeniable fact. That ultimately I am a person who can do evil. I never consciously tried to hurt anyone, yet good intentions notwithstanding, when necessity demanded, I could become completely self-centered, even cruel. I was the kind of person who could, using some plausible excuse, inflict on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal.

College transported me to a new town, where I tried, one more time, to reinvent myself. Becoming someone new, I could correct the errors of my past. At first I was optimistic: I could pull it off. But in the end, no matter where I went, I could never change. Over and over I made the same mistake, hurt other people, and hurt myself in the bargain.

Just after I turned twenty, this thought hit me: Maybe I've lost the chance to ever be a decent human being. The mistakes I'd committed-maybe they were part of my very makeup, an inescapable part of my being. I'd hit rock bottom, and I knew it.

5.

My four years of college were pretty much a waste.

The first year, I was in a few demonstrations, even battled the police. I was out there with the student strikers and showed up at political rallies. I met some wild characters that way, but my heart was never in politics. Linking arms with strangers at demonstrations made me uneasy, and when we had to hurl rocks at the cops, I asked myself if this was really me. Was this what I wanted? I wondered. I couldn't feel the requisite solidarity with the people around me. The scent of violence that hung over the streets, the powerful slogans of the day, soon lost their point. And the time Izumi and I had spent together grew more precious in my mind. But there was no going back. I'd bidden that world farewell.

Most of my cla.s.ses were a complete bore. Nothing excited me. After a while, I was so busy with my part-time job that I hardly ever showed my face at school; luck alone allowed me to graduate in four years. When I was a junior, I had a girlfriend I lived with for half a year. But it didn't work out. I hadn't the foggiest idea what I wanted out of life.

The next thing I knew, the season of politics was over. Like a drooping flag on a windless day, the gigantic shock waves that had convulsed society for a time were swallowed up by a colorless, mundane workaday world.

Once I was out of college, a friend helped me get a job on the editorial staff of a textbook company. I got a haircut, shined my shoes, and bought a suit. It wasn't much of a company, but jobs for literature majors being few and far between that year, and considering my lousy grades and lack of connections, I had to settle for what I could get.

The job was a total bore. The company itself wasn't such a bad place to work, but editing school textbooks didn't brighten my day one bit. At first I thought: Okay, I'll do my best, try to find something worthwhile in it; and for half a year I worked my b.u.t.t off. Give it your best shot, and something good's bound to happen, right? But I gave up. No matter how you sliced it this wasn't the job for me. I felt as if the end of my life was staring me in the face. The months and years would drop away one by one, with me bored out of my skull. I had thirty-three years till retirement, chained day after day to a desk, staring at galley proofs, counting lines, checking spelling. I'd get married to some nice girl, have some kids, the usual twice-a-year bonus the one bright spot in an otherwise tedious existence. I remembered what Izumi had once told me. "I know you'll be a wonderful person when you grow up. There is something special about you." It pained me every time I remembered. Something special about me, Izumi? Forget it. But I'm sure you know that now. Ah, what the h.e.l.l, everyone makes mistakes Something special about me, Izumi? Forget it. But I'm sure you know that now. Ah, what the h.e.l.l, everyone makes mistakes.

Mechanically, I did the work a.s.signed me, and I spent my free time reading or listening to music. Work is just a boring obligation, I decided, and when I'm not working, I'm going to use my time the best way I can and enjoy myself. So I never went out drinking with the guys from work. Not that I was a loner who didn't get along with people. I just didn't make the effort to get to know my officemates on a personal level. I was determined that my free time was going to be mine mine.

Four or five years pa.s.sed in a flash. I had several girlfriends, but nothing lasted. I'd date one for a few months, and then start thinking: This isn't what I want. I couldn't find within these women something that was waiting just for me. I slept with a couple of them, but it was no big deal. I consider this the third stage of my life-the twelve years between my starting college and turning thirty. Years of disappointment and loneliness. And silence. Frozen years, when my feelings were shut up inside me.

I withdrew into myself. I ate alone, took walks alone, went swimming alone, and went to concerts and movies alone. I didn't feel hurt or sad. I often thought of Shimamoto and of Izumi, and wondered where they were now, what they were doing. For all I knew, they might be married, even have children. I would have given anything to see them, to talk with them, even for an hour. With Shimamoto and Izumi, I could be honest I racked my brains wondering how to get back together with Izumi, how to see Shimamoto again. How wonderful that would be, I imagined. Not that I actually took steps to see that it came true. The two of them were lost to me forever. The hands of a clock run in only one direction. I started talking to myself, drinking alone at night. I was sure I would never get married.

Two years after I started work, I had a date with a girl who had a bad leg. One of the guys from work set me up on a double date.

"Something's wrong with one of her legs," he told me reluctantly. "But she's cute and has a great personality. I know you'll like her. And you won't really notice the leg. She drags it a bit is all."

"Hey, no problem," I replied. Truth be told, if he hadn't mentioned her bad leg, I would have turned him down. I was sick to death of double dates and blind dates. But when I heard about her leg, I somehow couldn't refuse.

You won't really notice the leg. She drags it a bit is all.

The girl was a friend of the guy's girlfriend. They had been cla.s.smates in high school. She was on the small side, with decent looks. Hers was a subdued sort of beauty, reminding me of some small animal deep in the woods who seldom showed its face. The four of us went to a movie one Sunday morning and then had lunch together. She hardly said a word. I tried my best to draw her out, but it was no go. She just smiled. Afterward, we split from the other couple. She and I went to take a walk in Hibiya Park, where we had some coffee. She dragged her right leg, not the left like Shimamoto. The way she twisted it too, was different. Whereas Shimamoto rotated her leg slightly as she moved it forward, this girl pointed the tip sideways a bit and dragged it straight ahead. Still, their way of walking was remarkably similar.

She had on a red turtleneck sweater and jeans, and a pair of desert boots. She wore hardly any makeup, and her hair was in a ponytail. Though she said she was a senior in college, she looked younger. I couldn't decide if she was just a quiet person or was nervous meeting someone for the first time. Maybe she just didn't have anything to talk about. Anyway, I wouldn't exactly characterize our initial interaction as conversation. The only fact I was able to drag out of her was that she was at a private college, majoring in pharmacology.

"Pharmacology, huh? Is it interesting?" I asked. We were in the coffee shop in the park, having a cup.

She blushed.

"Hey, it's okay," I said. "Making textbooks isn't exactly the world's most exciting activity. The world's full of boring things. Don't worry about it."

She thought for a while and at long last opened her mouth. "It's not that interesting. But my parents own a drugstore."

"Could you teach me something about pharmacology? I don't know the first thing about it For the past six years I don't think I've swallowed a single pill."

"You're pretty healthy, then."

"I don't even get hangovers," I said. "When I was a kid, though, I was pretty sickly. Took lots of medicine. I was an only child, so my parents were overprotective."

She nodded, and stared into her coffee cup for a while. It was a long time before she spoke again.

"Pharmacology isn't the most thrilling subject," she began. "There's got to be a million things more fun than memorizing the ingredients of different medicines. It isn't romantic, like astronomy, or dramatic, like being a doctor. But there's something intimate about it, something I can feel close to. Something down-to-earth."

"I see," I said. She could talk, after all. It just took her longer than most to find the right words.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.

"Two older brothers. One's already married."

"So you're studying pharmacology because you'll be taking over the family store?"

She blushed again. And was silent for a good long time. "I don't know. My brothers both have jobs, so maybe I will end up running the place. But nothing's decided. If I don't feel like it, that's okay, my father said. He'll run it as long as he can, then sell it."

I nodded, and waited for her to continue.

"But I'm thinking maybe I should take it over. With this leg, it'd be hard to find another job."

So we talked and pa.s.sed the afternoon together. With plenty of pauses, and long waits for her to continue. Whenever I asked her a question, she blushed. I actually enjoyed our talk, which for me at the time was a real accomplishment. Sitting there in the coffee shop with her, I felt something close to nostalgia well up in me. She began to feel like someone I'd known all my life.

Not that I was attracted to her. I wasn't. She was nice, all right, and I enjoyed our time together. She was a pretty girl and, like my friend said, quite pleasant. But all these good points aside, when I asked myself if there was something in her that would bowl me over, that would zoom straight to my heart, the answer was no. Nada.

Only Shimamoto ever did that to me. There I was, listening to this girl, all the time thinking of Shimamoto. I knew I shouldn't be, but there it was. Just thinking of Shimamoto made me shiver all over, all these many years later. A slightly fevered excitement, as if I were gently pushing open a door deep within me. Walking with this pretty girl with a bad leg through Hibiya Park, though, that kind of excitement, that all-over shivery feeling, was missing. What I did feel for her was a certain sympathy, and a calmness.

Her home-the pharmacy, that is-was in Kobinata. I took her back on the bus. We sat side by side, and she hardly said a word.

A few days later, my friend from work came over and told me the girl really seemed to like me. Next vacation, he said, why don't the four of us go somewhere together? I made some excuse and bowed out Not that I minded seeing her again and talking with her. Actually, I really did want to have a chance to talk with her sometime. Under different circ.u.mstances we might have ended up good friends. But it started with a double date, and the point of double dates is to find a partner. So if I did ask her out again, I'd be taking on a certain responsibility. And the last thing I wanted was to hurt her. All I could do was refuse.

I never saw her again.

6.

During this period, one more woman with a lame leg figured in a strange incident whose meaning, even now, I can't totally understand. I was twenty-eight when it happened.

I was in Shibuya, walking along in the end-of-year crowds, when I spied a woman dragging her leg exactly as Shimamoto used to do. She had on a long red overcoat and a black patent-leather handbag was tucked under one arm. On her left wrist she wore a silver watch, more like a bracelet really. Everything about her said money. I was walking along the opposite side of the street but when I saw her, I rushed across at the intersection. The streets were so crowded it made me wonder where all these people could possibly have come from, but it didn't take long for me to catch up with her. With her bad leg, she walked fairly slowly, just like Shimamoto, rotating her left leg as she dragged it along. I couldn't take my eyes off the elegant curve inscribed by her beautiful stockinged legs, the kind of elegance only long years of practice could produce.

I tailed her for a long while, walking a little ways behind her. It wasn't easy keeping pace with her, walking at a speed quite the opposite of the crowd around. I adjusted my pace, stopping sometimes to stare into a store window, or pretending to rummage around in my pockets. She had on black leather gloves and carried a red department store shopping bag. Despite the overcast winter day, she wore a pair of sungla.s.ses. From behind, all I could make out was her beautiful, neatly combed hair curled fashionably outward at shoulder length, and her back tucked away in that soft, warm-looking red coat Of course, if I really wanted to see if she was Shimamoto, I could have circled around in front and got a good look at her. But what if it was Shimamoto? What should I say to her-and how should I act? She might not even remember me, for one thing. I needed time to pull myself together. I took some deep breaths to clear my head.

Taking care not to overtake her, I followed her for a long time. She never once looked back or stopped. She hardly glanced around her. She looked as if she had a place to get to and was determined to get there as soon as she could. Like Shimamoto, she walked with her back erect and her head held high. Looking at her from the waist up, no one would ever have suspected that she had something wrong with her leg. She just walked slower than most people. The longer I looked at her, the more I remembered Shimamoto. If this wasn't Shimamoto, it had to be her twin.

The woman cut through the crowds in front of Shibuya Station and started up the slope in the direction of Aoyama. The slope slowed her down more. Still, she covered quite a bit of ground-so much you wondered why she didn't take a cab. Even for someone with good legs, it was a tiring hike. Yet on she walked, dragging her leg, with me following at a discreet distance. Nothing in any of the windows caught her eye. She switched her handbag and her shopping bag from right to left a few times, but other than that she kept on walking, never varying her pace.

Finally she left the crowded main street. She seemed to know the layout of the area well. One step away from the bustling shopping area, you entered a quiet residential street. I followed, taking even greater care not to be spotted in the thinned-out crowd.

I must have followed her for forty minutes. We went down the back street, turned several corners, and once again emerged into the main thoroughfare. But she didn't join the flow of pa.s.sersby. Instead, as if she'd planned it all along, she headed straight into a coffee shop. A small shop selling cakes and sweets. I killed ten minutes or so sauntering back and forth, then ducked into the shop.

It was stiflingly warm inside, yet she sat there, back to the door, still in her heavy overcoat. Her red overcoat couldn't be missed. I sat down at the table farthest from the entrance and ordered a cup of coffee. I took up a newspaper that was lying there and, pretending to read, watched what she was doing. A cup of coffee lay on her table, but in all the time I watched her, she didn't touch it. Once, she took a cigarette out of her handbag and lit it with a gold lighter, but other than that she just sat there, without moving, staring out the window. She could have been just taking a rest, or maybe she was deep in thought about some weighty matter. Sipping my coffee, I read the same article a dozen times.

After a long time, she stood up abruptly and headed right toward me. It happened so suddenly I felt as if my heart had stopped. But she wasn't coming over to me. She pa.s.sed by my table and went to the phone. Dropping in some coins, she dialed a number.

The phone wasn't far from where I was sitting, but what with all the loud conversations and Christmas carols booming out of the speakers, I couldn't make out what she was saying. She talked for a long time. Her coffee, untouched, grew cold. When she pa.s.sed by me, I could see her face from the front, but still I couldn't be absolutely sure if she was Shimamoto. She had on thick makeup, and half her face was hidden by those sungla.s.ses. Her eyebrows were distinctly penciled on, and her brightly outlined thin lips were drawn tightly together. Her face did remind me of Shimamoto as a young girl, but if someone had said this wasn't her, I could buy that as well. After all, the last time I'd seen Shimamoto, we were both twelve, and more than fifteen years had pa.s.sed. All I could say for sure was that this was an attractive young woman in her twenties who had on an expensive outfit. And she had a bad leg.

Sweat rolled down me. My undershirt was soaked. I took off my coat and ordered another cup of coffee. Just what do you think you're doing? Just what do you think you're doing? I asked myself. I'd lost a pair of gloves and gone out to Shibuya to buy a replacement. But as soon as I caught sight of this woman, I was after her like someone possessed. Most people would have gone right up to her and said, I asked myself. I'd lost a pair of gloves and gone out to Shibuya to buy a replacement. But as soon as I caught sight of this woman, I was after her like someone possessed. Most people would have gone right up to her and said, "Excuse me, aren't "Excuse me, aren't you Miss Shimamoto?" you Miss Shimamoto?" But I didn't I didn't say a thing and followed her. And had finally come to the point where there was no turning back. But I didn't I didn't say a thing and followed her. And had finally come to the point where there was no turning back.

Finished with her call, the woman went straight to her seat. Just as before, she sat with her back to me, gazing at the scene outside. The waitress came up to her and asked if she could take the cold coffee away. I couldn't really hear her, but I think that's what she must have asked. The woman turned around and nodded. And, it appeared, ordered another cup of coffee. When it came, though, again she didn't touch it I continued to give the paper a once-over. Again and again she brought her wrist up to check the time on her silver watch, as if she was impatiently waiting for someone. This might be my last chance, I told myself. If that other person shows up, I'll never be able to talk with her. But I remained rooted to my chair. It's still okay, I explained to myself. It's still okay, no need to rush.

Nothing happened for fifteen or twenty minutes. She kept gazing at the street scene outside. Suddenly, without warning, she stood up quietly, held her handbag to her side, and picked up the department store shopping bag in one hand. She'd given up waiting, apparently. Or maybe she wasn't waiting for anyone, after all. I watched as she paid her bill at the register and left the coffee shop, then I quickly stood, paid my own bill, and took off after her. I could catch her red overcoat making its way through the crowds. I followed her, weaving my way through the throng.

She had her hand up, trying to flag down a cab. Finally a cab switched on its turn signal and pulled up to the curb. I have to call out to her, I thought. If she gets in the cab, it's all over. Just as I stepped forward, though, someone grabbed my elbow. The powerful grip took my breath away. It didn't hurt, but the strength of that grip made me choke. I turned around, to find myself face-to-face with a middle-aged man, staring straight at me.

The man was a couple of inches shorter than me but powerfully built. In his mid-forties, I guessed. He had on a dark-gray overcoat and a cashmere m.u.f.fler, both of which looked awfully expensive. His hair was neatly parted, and he wore a pair of expensive tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses. Seemingly into sports, he was nicely tanned. Skiing? I wondered. Or maybe tennis? I remembered how Izumi's father, who loved tennis, had the same sort of tan. This man looked very much the executive of a prosperous firm, or maybe more like a high official in the government. His eyes told you that. The eyes of a man who was used to giving orders.

"Would you care for some coffee?" he asked quietly.

I followed the woman with my eyes. Bending down to get into the cab, she glanced through her sungla.s.ses in our direction. At least it seemed to me she looked our way. The cab door closed, and she disappeared from view, leaving me and this middle-aged stranger behind.

"I won't take much of your time," the man said, his tone of voice placid. He was neither angry nor excited. As though holding open a door for someone, he continued to grasp my arm tightly. "Let's have some coffee and talk."

I could have walked away. I don't want any coffee, and I have nothing to talk about with you. First of all, I don't know who you are, and I'm in a hurry, so if you'll excuse me I don't want any coffee, and I have nothing to talk about with you. First of all, I don't know who you are, and I'm in a hurry, so if you'll excuse me, I could have said. But I clammed up and just stared. Finally I nodded and did as he said, following him back into the coffee shop. Perhaps I was afraid of something in that powerful grip. I could feel a strangely immovable force there. More machinelike than human, his grip on me was perfect, never wavering an ounce in pressure. If I had refused his suggestion, what would he have done to me? I couldn't imagine.

But along with being scared, I was half curious as well. I wanted to find out what he could possibly want to talk with me about Maybe. it would lead to some information about the woman. Now that she'd disappeared, this man might be the only link connecting her and me. Besides, the man wasn't about to beat me up in a coffee shop, was he?

We sat down at a table across from each other. Until the waitress came, we didn't say a word. We sat there, staring at one another. The man ordered two coffees.

"Why, may I ask, were you following her for so long?" he asked me politely.

I couldn't answer.

With expressionless eyes, he looked long and hard at me. "I know you were following her all the way from Shibuya," he said. "Follow someone that far, and they're bound to catch on."

I didn't reply. She realized I was following her, went into this coffee shop, and called this man.

"If you don't want to say anything, that's okay. I know what's going on without your having to tell me." He may have been worked up, but you couldn't tell from the polite, quiet way he spoke.

"There are several options here," the man said. "I'm not joking. Whatever I feel like doing, believe me, I can do."

Then he fell silent and continued to look at me. As if to give me the message that he didn't need any explanation, since he had the situation under control. As before, I said not a word. "But I don't want things to get out of hand. I don't want to cause a scene. Understand me? This time only," he said. He raised his right hand, which was lying on the table, reached into his overcoat pocket, and took out a white envelope. All the while, his left hand remained on the table. The envelope was nothing special, just a plain white business envelope. "Just take this, and don't say a word. I know someone put you up to this, and I'd like to settle the whole matter amicably. Not a word about what's happened. Nothing special happened to you today, and you never met me. Understand? If I ever do find out you've said anything, you can rest a.s.sured I will find you and take care of the matter. So I'd like you to forget about following her. Neither one of us wants any trouble. Correct?"

Saying this, the man laid the envelope in front of me and stood up. s.n.a.t.c.hing up the check, he paid the cashier and strode out of the coffee shop. I sat there dumbfounded. Finally I picked up the envelope on the table and looked inside. There were ten ten-thousand-yen bills. Crisp, new ten-thousand-yen bills. My mouth was parched. I shoved the envelope in my pocket and left the shop. I looked around, making sure that the man wasn't there, then hailed a cab and went back to Shibuya, where this misadventure all began.

Years later, I still had that envelope with the money. Without ever opening it again, I stuck it in a drawer in my desk. On nights when I couldn't sleep, I could see his face. Like an unlucky premonition of something, his face floated up clearly in my head. Who the h.e.l.l was was he anyway? And was that woman Shimamoto? he anyway? And was that woman Shimamoto?

I came up with several theories. It was a puzzle without a solution. I would think of a hypothesis, only to shoot it down. The most convincing explanation was that this man was the woman's lover, who thought I was a private eye hired by her husband to report on her activities. And the man thought his money would buy my silence. Maybe they thought I'd seen the two of them exiting a hotel where they'd had a rendezvous. It made sense. But even so, my gut feeling said no. Too many questions remained.

He said that if he wanted to, there were several things he could do to me, but what things did he mean? Why was he able to grab me in that unexpected way? If the woman knew I was following her, why didn't she hail a cab? She could have shaken me in a minute. And why did that man, not knowing who I really was, toss me an envelope full of so much cash?

It persisted as a riddle. Sometimes I'd think it must have all been a delusion, from start to finish a fantasy I cooked up in my head. Or maybe a very long, realistic dream that somehow I'd mixed up with reality. But it did happen. Inside the drawer of my desk there was a white envelope with ten ten-thousand-yen bills inside, proof that it wasn't a dream. It really happened It really happened. Sometimes I put the envelope on top of my desk and stared at it. It really did happen It really did happen.

7.

I got married when I was thirty. I met my wife one summer vacation while I was traveling alone. She was five years younger than me. I was walking along a road in the country, when all of a sudden it started raining. I ducked into the nearest place I could find to get out of the rain, and she and a girlfriend were already there. All three of us were soaked to the skin, and we soon fell into conversation while waiting for the rain to let up. If it hadn't rained then, if I had taken an umbrella (which was entirely possible, since I seriously debated doing so before I left the hotel), I would never have met her. And if I hadn't met her, I'd still be plugging away at the textbook company, still leaning against the wall in my apartment at night, alone, drinking, and babbling to myself. Makes me realize how limited our possibilities ever are.

Yukiko and I were attracted to each other from the start. Her friend was much prettier, but I had eyes for Yukiko only. An irrationally strong attraction pulled us together; I'd nearly forgotten what that kind of magnetism felt like. She lived in Tokyo too, so after our return we went out. The more I saw of her, the more I liked. She was, if anything, on the plain side, at least not the type to attract men wherever she went. But there was something in her face that was meant for me alone. Every time we met, I took a good long look at her. And I loved what I saw.

"Why are you staring at me?" she'd ask.

"'Cause you're pretty," I'd reply.