Nagasaki (2 page)

And then it was lunch time. My colleagues deserted the open-plan office, the air conditioning having given up the ghost, and, preferring to swelter rather than put up with the cicadas, I went round shutting all the windows again, leaving just one open, the one on my computer screen, which I continued to watch while finishing the contents of the box compartment by compartment. Hadn’t the bottle of water been slightly closer to the sink earlier on? A matter of fifteen or twenty centimetres, it seemed to me. No sooner had I convinced myself of this than I changed my mind again. You’re making things up, trying to rationalise your unconscious thoughts. For that matter, are you really sure those yogurts
disappeared after all? You should report it, you know, go to the police: I’ve had three pots of yogurt stolen in the last few months. Come on now, calm down. Lately, you’ve been all on edge.

That afternoon, I was talking to two new recruits who couldn’t find anything better to do than pester me. While I was explaining how to use a program to design maps, I felt like banging their heads together to make them see they could not have picked a worse time to bother me. It must have been obvious from my curt tone, especially when one of them asked what the webcam at the bottom of the screen was for,
there
. I dodged the question, continuing to give explanations while all the time keeping half an eye on the kitchen. They must have thought I had OCD, or taken me for a home-loving depressive. Or was it his elderly mother’s house he was watching from afar? I was about to comment on something when the rectangle in the bottom right darkened slightly. A figure was moving about on screen, shrunken (the wide-angle camera flattened everything in its field; I shouldn’t have mounted it so high) and
silhouetted; for a few seconds, the window that looks out onto the road was partially eclipsed. As I carried on talking to the two men next to me, I gradually realised the person I was dealing with was a woman and, judging by her hairstyle and slight frame, no longer a girl by any stretch of the imagination. She simply crossed the room and, since her head was turned the other way, I saw nothing of her face but the outline of her cheek; I couldn’t make out any distinguishing features at all. Anxious not to let them sense my unease, I turned back to the two nuisances and made trivial chit-chat, trying my best to sound casual. That was a mistake. By the time I turned my attention back to her, the figure had moved out of frame. My two colleagues thanked me and left me to my empty kitchen; it was as if I had been fooled by a hallucination. She was bound to come back the other way; I just had to be patient.

Only she didn’t. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by. It would have been ridiculous to call the police; what exactly would I have reported? The disappearance of a shadow? I could just hear the policeman muttering as he searched the house: perhaps you’re married in a parallel dimension,
Shimura-san, or maybe you thought you had at last seen the girl you would have liked to marry? (Then, leaning towards me, acting the shrink.) A girl you knew as a teenager, who turned you down just like the others? Whose arrogant features have stayed with you, lodged deep in your mind, and now that vivid memory is messing up your brain. Unless it’s a fairytale elf that’s moved in? We’re all like you, Mr Shimura, we all have our own elves to help us through the day. Then, speaking in hushed, nudge-nudge tones and shooting me a lewd smile, he would lay out his little theory: a prostitute or a junkie, wasn’t she, go on, admit it, or a girl from a massage parlour you fell for and then tired of – these things happen, we’re only human – and she clung to you because she had nowhere else to go, so you decided to get her out of your hair by claiming trespass, burglary …

No! I didn’t want to hear any nonsense like that. I needed proof. Police officers don’t go around arresting thin air. I temporarily closed the kitchen window on my screen. My colleagues reopened those of the office and the cicadas burst in by the dozen. Filthy creatures. Behind them, the crows
endlessly repeated the same
caaw, caaw
sound. And in the wings of this choir were the soloists, the bells of Urakami and the sirens of police cars chasing elves.

The cicadas were still tormenting me when I got off the tram, harpies unleashed on me, shaking their maracas in my ears. Invisibly imposing their rhythm on my walk towards insanity. I felt afraid at the thought of entering my house. From a distance, the lock did not appear to have been broken. Whether that was reassuring or not, I didn’t know. Old Mrs Ota, keeping watch as always, saw me standing rooted to the pavement and called me over. She does this from time to time, motions me over and we chat about one thing or another. She once told me I reminded her of her son. Same generation, same grown-up schoolboy charm, but he has a family and lives a long way away, and only visits once a year. Or twice if I should happen to die, she joked.

Still preoccupied by the events of the afternoon, I half expected her to declare theatrically, as she does when recounting local gossip, ‘I saw her coming out of your house!’ But no, she only
wanted to natter about this and that, and in the end it was me who asked the question. From the way she raised her eyebrows, I could see she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary and was almost annoyed with herself:
but I haven’t moved an inch all day except to do my morning shop.
Did that mean I had dreamed the figure on my screen? Did a webcam eventually progress from scanning Formica kitchen surfaces to capturing the resident spirits, or
kami
, too? Did they record the spectres coming and going in a place thought to be empty? Over time, might the ‘retina’ of a camera become sensitised to what the human eye cannot perceive, the way a dog picks up ultrasound waves that his master’s ears are incapable of hearing? As I made to leave, Mrs Ota threw me an oblique glance. Why do you ask? Should I have seen someone? Did you have a visitor? I assumed an air of unease, sighed softly and smiled.

‘I must be becoming suspicious in my old age. There’s a woman who used to clean for me, who I think kept a set of my keys. I saw her hanging around here this morning. So …’

‘We’re quick to suspect the worst.’

‘Well, in this day and age.’

‘I don’t remember you having a cleaning lady, Shimura-san.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t for long.’

‘You didn’t trust her?’

I didn’t reply. Without explicitly asking, I had given her reason to keep an even closer eye on things over the coming days. What deity would demand offerings of yogurt, a single pickled plum or some seaweed rice? Never mind that I was raised a Catholic, I often go to feed our
kami
at the local shrine, but it never occurred to me for one moment they would come into people’s houses and help themselves.

‘I think I’ve seen her, you know, your cleaning lady. It must have been about a month ago – I saw someone in your kitchen in the middle of the day. I said to myself, now that’s odd, but then I remembered that you had a sister who comes to visit sometimes. Or perhaps he’s got a girlfriend, I said to myself as well. Perhaps he’s got a girlfriend.’

Her chubby face wore a look of pure kindness. Mrs Ota clearly meant well, but I dismissed her
suggestion with an awkward laugh designed to hide my embarrassment.

‘I thought … Time’s ticking on, Mr Shimura. None of us are getting any younger! You should have a girlfriend, or you’ll end up spending your old age on your own.’

After sliding the door open, I listened out for any strange noises. I had never felt this way before. Either old Mrs Ota had stopped paying attention at some point that afternoon, or the figure I had glimpsed had stolen away through a back window, sneaking out unnoticed like a ninja that just materialises and then vanishes in the same way, suddenly and soundlessly. I quickly went round inspecting the windows and noticed that one of them, in the guestroom, was unlocked. Yes, she could easily have slipped out of this room: it didn’t back on to anything, no Mrs Ota on this side. Only the hills opposite, bristling with grey roofs that always make me think of a monster’s scales. And this monster was falling asleep. I fastened the lock and swore to check the windows every morning
before leaving the house. I felt better after closing the blinds, if still slightly on edge. I was thinking about the figure Mrs Ota had caught sight of the previous month.

As the evening wore on, my thoughts became ever more disparate. It was impossible to gather them together into one coherent whole. In the end I gave up and made myself a miserly dinner, my heart sinking as I opened the fridge. For, once again, a pot of yogurt had disappeared. I had enough information to build a picture of the intruder’s dietary habits. It was grotesque. She had crossed the line. I no longer felt at home in my own house.

One by one, I opened every drawer in the living room and my bedroom. Nothing was missing; the few valuable objects I possessed were still there. Far from reassuring me, this realisation only served to heighten my anxiety. Whoever I was dealing with was
not normal,
and I felt a shiver of fear run through me. What had she come for? Once, the Queen of England had come face to face with a stranger in her bedroom at night. The guy had managed to get round all the palace security
and climb in through the window to patiently await his sovereign. That was all: he just wanted a chat. Could it be that I had a fan of my own? Might hard-working nobodies like me finally be getting their own groupies?

Two days earlier I had spent my lunch hour angling for ‘friends’ on Facebook. I always begin my requests the same way: ‘If you’re from the Shimabara district too …’ or ‘If, like me, you live in Nagasaki …’ It’s like dangling a fishing rod into a whirlpool. Once I had tired of the haphazard nature of my search, which I undertake more for the thrill of it than out of genuine desire to find my soul mate (or indeed any mate), I typed in the names of a couple of truly average actors, has-beens since the earliest days of their careers. Neither had ever graduated from roles in yakuza gangster films, but both could boast groups of between three and four thousand followers. I was flabbergasted.

Enough. Everything seemed much better after two nice cold bottles of Sapporo. I no longer even felt the need to ring my sister. I put the TV on and channel-hopped before spending a few minutes
watching a documentary about Hiroshi Ishiguro, the robotics professor who had developed an android in his own image. Within the next twenty years, said the voice-over, robots with human (women’s!) faces will have replaced a large number of receptionists. But experts predict the greatest challenge will be overcoming the ‘mysterious valley’ – the unpleasant sensation when you realise there’s something about the android that is not quite like us. It’s not ‘one of the family’. Probably in order to escape from this mysterious valley, I switched over to a live game show being beamed out of Niigata for some light relief. I didn’t realise I had dozed off until an advert woke me up. QUADRUPLE-ACTION INTENSIVE ANTI-AGEING CREAM! proclaimed the beautiful redhead two metres from where I lay sprawled. Comely receptionist of the mysterious valley …

I went to lie down on the mat, but when I tried to sleep, counting off the golden rules of an ideal world as I do every night – no chance. And so it dragged on: no matter how many imaginary laws I passed, my perfectly formed
society had absolutely no sedative power. When it finally came, my sleep was broken by dreams. The unconscious was bursting through. The past seeped out through hidden fault lines and names came back to me with white-hot intensity. Hizuru, Mariko or Fumiko, forgotten goddesses reappearing with a mocking laugh to say, ‘We’re still here. You won’t get rid of us that easily.’ By the time I awoke they had returned to their hiding places, leaving behind them, as they always did, a thin sheen of anxiety.

Before I left the house, I made sure the camera was working and that every exit had been secured. Although evidently the woman had had the key copied, and if she wanted to come back … All I could do was continue the surveillance. After keeping watch all morning, I began to feel more at ease. I had checked everything carefully and tested all the locks. No one could get in. Short of walking through walls. I started to feel a little more confident. Though I still didn’t leave my desk for a second, I was managing to work almost
normally. No one was bothering me; no meetings had been scheduled. I had bought a bento box, a packet of salt plums and two bottles of Kirin from the Family-Mart round the corner from my house, so that I had my lunch ready to eat as soon as all my colleagues disappeared to get theirs. It was now eleven thirty and things were going well. They could have carried on like that until it was time to go home. Suddenly – having taken my eyes off the kitchen for a few seconds in order to amend the latest weather map for the Inland Sea – I caught sight of a shape, one which bore a striking resemblance to the figure I had seen the day before. Only this time, she wasn’t moving. How on earth had she managed it? It was witchcraft. I couldn’t make sense of it. She was standing near the window with the sunlight on her, filling up the kettle. I had her. Without a moment’s hesitation, I picked up the phone and dialled the emergency services. Police? I spoke loudly and, because of that, did not notice that the entire office was listening to me. People who could never normally be torn away from their screens (why spend all that money on robots when they already exist?)
were craning their necks, raising their eyebrows and exchanging glances at the mere mention of the word ‘police’ in hurried, anxious tones, as if a crime had just been committed in our department and had escaped their attention until their ears pricked up. Police? This is Shimura Kobo. (I reeled off my home address.) Someone has just let themselves into my house. (I was careful not to add ‘to make themselves a cup of tea’.) Right now this minute. I’m watching her – it’s a woman – through a webcam. No, she doesn’t seem to be armed. She’s just walking around, doesn’t suspect a thing … I’m at work, on the other side of town. No, I can’t get there quickly, you’ll have to take a master key or something for the front door – keep me updated … Yes, of course I’ll come and report it. I’ll be at the station in two or three hours.