I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like (25 page)

The video finished, but the image of the dancing girls stayed in Tatsuya’s mind. At first he was unsure how to respond — the music was commercial, but beyond that there was something anarchic about it, its finely filigreed production shot through with the gaggle of voices. It was like music made by hyper-intelligent children who had formed some perfect mathematical structure and then unbalanced and destroyed it in a fit of exuberant boredom.

He remembered buying the single in Shibuya the next day and unwrapping it on the train, looking around to see if anyone was watching. When he got home he lay back on his bed and listened to it for hours. It took him at least five listens before he truly grasped its structure; and then he relaxed and let his mind drift through the details of the production, its complex skeleton of sounds. He tried to tell the voices apart, and could not. He listened more closely, as if in a trance, and read the inset lyrics. The words meant nothing when taken out of context, but he could at least learn the members’ names; and as he listened again he repeated them to himself as if speaking an incantation. Over the next few weeks he would learn those names by heart.

He was still thinking of the past when Masa spoke again.

—
Okay, so. Getting down to business. We can’t let this scandal bullshit continue. The media is fucking with the idols and no one is doing anything about it. So we have to stand up for them, stand up for Aibon.

—
Yeah, how? No one is going to take us seriously.

—
So that’s how it is. You say you love Aibon, but when it comes down to it you’re not going to do anything to help her.

—
Masa... listen to what you’re saying. There’s nothing we can do about this. We don’t even live in the same world as Aibon.

—
Don’t we?

Masa held out his hands.

—
I’ve
touched
Aibon.

Tatsuya shook his head, dismissive.

—
Just cause you go to handshake events...

—
The point is it’s not okay for them to do this. It’s not okay for the media to fuck with people’s lives. For them it doesn’t matter who gets hurt as long as they can get a story, but even when they’ve forgotten about Aibon she’ll still be affected by this. They fucked up her career, and why? Just so they can have something to print? They need to understand that there are real people who get hurt by this.

Tatsuya thought about it. In his own way he thought of Ai Kago as a younger sister, and he could imagine how the scandal would affect her and her family. Probably she felt scared and alone, unsure of what to do. But as he thought about it more it all seemed too distant, too impossibly distant.

—
Yeah, but, that can’t be helped, right? That’s how those magazines are. We’re not going to change that. I do think it’s stupid she got suspended, but she must have known it might happen. I don’t think it’s really our responsibility.

Caught up in a current of thought, Masa was hardly listening. Tatsuya had pushed a chair out for him, but instead of sitting he circled the table and pulled at his jacket, looking up only intermittently.

—
I figured this would happen sooner or later, after Mari got taken out. So I took some precautions. Yeah, remember my cousin Daichi? The journalist? He’s got a friend on the
Friday
staff. As soon as I heard about Aibon I called him and got him to call his friend. So he managed to get the name of the photographer. It’s a common name. I looked online and in the phone book and called some other people. I got it down to two people, then I figured out which one it was. I managed to get it down to his address.

He stopped and looked in the direction of the kitchen. Tatsuya looked at his face, unsure of how to respond.

—
Did you really do this?

—
Of course.

—
And it was that easy.

Masa nodded.

—
Well, I don’t know what to say.

—
No one is going to see this coming. We’re going to go over there and take them by surprise.

—
And do what?

—
Get him to apologize to Aibon.

Tatsuya flipped through his notebook, trying not to meet Masa’s gaze.

—
I think this is a really bad idea...

Masa took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. After smoothing it out, he placed it on the table.

—
That’s his address right there.

—
He lives in Kichijoji? He must be doing all right.

—
I’m sure he isn’t poor.

The two of them stared down at the paper, saying nothing. After a while the overhead heater started up with a low rattle, and as the warm air suffused him Tatsuya felt a calmness settle over his mind. He remembered other times when Masa had thrown himself into a fit of violent excitement over some trifle, and it had always amounted to nothing.

—
So, we have to get going, Masa said at last. The train leaves in fifteen minutes.

—
Are you really serious about this, Tatsuya said.

—
Yeah. So, come on. Let’s get going.

Before he could protest Masa zipped up his jacket and started for the door. Tatsuya hesitated for a moment, then got up and followed him. He was certain nothing would happen. Most likely they would spend the day window shopping in Kichijoji and return home in the evening. At that rate he could get back in time for dinner and continue work on the treatise.

On the way to the station they were mostly silent. Underestimating the cold, Tatsuya had taken only a light jacket, and as he followed Masa across the thoroughfare he shivered and dug his hands into his pockets. It had rained the night before, and a dampness glazed the pavement. A few clouds lingered in the grey sky. As they paused in front of a traffic light, Tatsuya suggested a taxi, but Masa insisted on walking; he needed time to set his thoughts in order. Ten minutes later they reached the terminal and caught the Chuo Line rapid. As they passed Koenji the train emptied and they took seats by the door, next to a group of company men. The station names went past on the monitor, and the two of them looked around, not meeting each other’s eyes. In the well-heated kitchen Masa’s plan had been pleasantly abstract, something that could be discussed safely, from a distance. But as the rattle of the train sounded around them, they became increasingly nervous. To dispel the tension they began to talk as they usually did, their voices low and conspiratorial, mimicking, they imagined, the company men and their business jargon.

—
MoMusu is pretty much dead, Masa said. Does anyone really think Takitty can be leader? Everyone that’s still holding on is just deluding themselves. They’re nowhere near as exciting as Berryz.

Tatsuya nodded.

—
Yeah, I don’t like Gocchin’s image recently. And that Melon Kinenbi video was going too far.

—
What, “Nikutai wa Shoujiki na Eros”?

—
Yeah. They didn’t need to be slutted out like that. It’s just a gimmick to sell more copies.

—
Yeah, well, they need the money, right? If they don’t sell more copies they’re not going to be able to make more music.

This was a fairly simplistic analysis, Tatsuya thought, but in his way Masa was right. In a few days the seventh Morning Musume album,
Rainbow 7
, would be released, but the group’s profile was lower than ever. The sales of their recent singles had declined, and they were no longer taken seriously as a public presence. It all seemed very different from ten years ago, when Tatsuya had first heard of them. But he wasn’t worried; he thought of the slump as a necessary tribulation, and he promised himself that no matter how unpopular they became, he would always support them. Morning Musume were only being tested, and before long they would rise again. There would be new members, new campaigns, new music. There was no reason for the faithful to worry.

—
I still don’t like that Aibon was smoking, Tatsuya said. It feels really fake for her. She was probably just hanging out with the wrong people.

Masa didn’t seem to be listening.

—
Huh? If she wants to smoke, it’s fine with me.

Tatsuya was a little surprised at his own depth of feeling. He couldn’t say exactly why the idea of Kago smoking upset him, but he felt as troubled by it as he was by the suspension itself. He felt as if, apart from breaking the rules of her contract, Kago had committed a more intangible offense. As he turned it over in his mind, a curious thought came to him: a group of nuns cloistered somewhere, locked away from the world. He knew that nuns were mostly old women, but now as he thought of Kago on Hello! Morning, he imagined a convent of young nuns playing with each other and laughing, without troubles or sorrow. Like them, the idols existed outside of the world, and in the terms of the world they couldn’t really love. Or maybe it was better to think of it as a special kind of love, one without possession, without touching. Their love was directed at no one in particular, and so it became purified, free from attachment. All they had was pure feeling, an invisible force like a radio signal. He imagined this was the signal he picked up when he listened to their music. But now he felt as if Kago had, with a single cigarette, reached out for the world. Tatsuya told himself there was nothing wrong with this, but he couldn’t help thinking of it as a betrayal.

—
Okay, that’s us, Masa said.

Tatsuya looked up as the characters for Kichijoji appeared on the monitor; and in a few moments he heard the gliding sound of the rails as the train pulled into the station. The platform was crowded; although it was past midday, lines had formed in front of the doors, and as Tatsuya and Masa stepped out they had to push their way past businessmen, office ladies, and students. They followed the crowd to the ticket gate, found the central exit and emerged onto the street, across from the entrance to Sun Road.

—
Let’s go eat somewhere, Tatsuya said.

—
Didn’t you just eat before we left?

—
Yeah, that was an hour ago. I’m hungry.

Masa stopped.

—
Just get something from 7-11.

He waited while Tatsuya went and bought a little parcel of pork buns.

—
Okay, his apartment is up this way, near Musashino-shi.

The two of them crossed the street again and turned left at the light. They walked for a while in silence, stopping to check the street signs, stepping off the narrow path to let a bicycle pass. After a while they found a
koban
police box and rechecked their position, then walked north again. Eventually they sighted a tall housing block, and Masa took the folded paper from his jacket.

—
It should be that one up there. Second floor.

Tatsuya looked at Masa. His hands were shaking.

—
Let’s just go shopping, he said. We can go to the HMV in Parco. There’s a few other record stores I know around here.

Masa said nothing.

They came to the gate and took the elevator to the second floor. As the doors opened, Tatsuya felt a weight settle into his stomach, and he regretted eating. Silently he followed Masa into the corridor. Once again he was struck by the cold; from this height the wind was stronger, and he shivered under his jacket.

—
Room 203, Masa said. Should be just down here...

As they walked, Tatsuya heard a woman’s raised voice from somewhere. Turning the corner, he saw that the furthest door was open, revealing the source of the sound. A couple stood in the doorway, and he could tell from their expressions that they were in the middle of an argument. The girl was leaning forward, her eyes wide, mouth open. The man stood by the door, back rigid, hands held at his sides. His expression was flat, his lips pulled back in an empty, conciliating smile. As they came nearer they heard him repeating a phrase to himself in a monotone. It sounded like:

—
I don’t have time for this, don’t have time for this, don’t have time, don’t have time for this...

And the girl, near tears, was shouting:

—
Did you think I wouldn’t find out! Did you! Did you really think that!

—
Let’s go, Tatsuya said. Let’s leave.

Masa ignored him and stepped forward. Though they were only a few steps away, the couple hadn’t noticed them. They could still leave, still forget about everything.

—
Excuse me.

The man turned.

—
You’re a photographer, right? Masa said. You take pictures for magazines?

The man looked at the girl, then back at Masa.

—
Who wants to know?

—
You photographed Ai Kago for
Friday
, right?

Tatsuya looked at the girl. She was not especially tall, but her broad shoulders gave her the illusion of height. Her brown-tinted hair was cut short, and she wore a long black coat and black gloves. Under her purple scarf he saw the gleam of a heavy silver necklace. Their eyes met and she took a step towards him, then pointed at the man.

—
Whatever it is, he did it. Fucking liar!

The man stared level at Masa. His forced smile hadn’t changed, but now there was something else, a narrowing of his eyes in anger. He seemed about to step forward, then stopped.

—
I’m busy now, he said. If there’s a problem, call me during my working hours.