It
was a
new
beginning
for
Akinobu.
He’d
been
evicted
from
his
father’s
house
under
blazing
accusations
of
being
a
freeter,
a
term
of
which
he
was
actually
proud.
To
live
off
your
parents
nowadays
should
carry
no
shame
if
you
actually
made
use
of
your
free
time.
In
his
case,
it
was
writing
a
diary.
But
this
wasn’t
enough
for
his
father,
who
generally
came
home
at
ten
in
the
evening
and
increasingly
resented
his
son’s
shiftless
existence.
So
they
made
a
deal.
His
father
found
him a
small,
cheap
flat,
and
took
care
of
the
moving.
He
even
paid
the
non-returnable
deposit.
Akinobu
for
his
part
had
enough
money
from
his
previous,
well-paid
job
in
Tokyo
to
keep
him
going
for
some
time,
as
long
as he
got
some
part-time
work
soon.
All
in
all,
it
was a
reasonable
compromise,
and a
far
preferable
outcome
to
the
many
reported
cases
of
violence—some
of
which
had
led
to
deaths—between
fathers
and
sons.
He
would
miss
his
mother,
a
woman
of
incredible
forthrightness
in
her
daily
life
until
his
father
came
home,
when
she
became
a
fugitive
figure,
her
existence
more
akin
to
the
shadow
she
projected
than
to
her
own
being.
His
new
flat
was
dark.
It
was
on
the
ground
floor
of a “mansion,”
a
small
block
of
flats,
four
storeys
high,
the
kind
of
building
he’d
never
had
to
live
in
till
now.
On
one
side,
sunlight
was
blocked
by
the
overhanging
balconies
of
the
flats
above
and
by an
office
building
directly
in
front;
on
the
other
side,
his
flat
stood
in
the
shadow
of a
pedestrian
bridge
which
straddled
a
busy
road
whose
effluvia
coated
the
windows
to
the
small
patio
with
a
thin
layer
of
sediment.
Across
that
road
was a
7-Eleven
store,
and
Akinobu
would
apply
for a
part-time
job
as
soon
as
he’d
settled
in.
He
looked
around
the
flat
properly
as
soon
as
his
father
had
left.
It
was
not
pretty,
but
he
had
all
he
wanted:
books,
a
television,
a DVD
and
video,
a CD
player
and
radio,
a
desk,
his
writing,
and
peace.
The
frosted
window
of
the
main
bedroom
looked
onto
the
narrow
passageway,
along
which
the
two
sets
of
neighbours
further
along
would
doubtless
pass
on a
regular
basis;
he
would
get
to
know
them
in
time.
He
started
to
unpack
by
putting
his
futon
and
bedclothes
in
the
wall-cupboards
that
were
twinned
with
his
neighbours’
on
that
side.
In
the
evening
he
would
take
out
the
futon
and
quilt
and
in
the
morning
put
them
back
in to
make
space.
There
was
something
so
simple
and
reassuring
about
a
portable
bed
such
as
this.
When
he
saw
his
mother
lying
on
hers
under
a
quilt—a
privilege
denied
since
her
death—he
saw
an
image
of
great
serenity,
though
he
could
never
imagine
her
naked
underneath.
Rather,
in
his
mind,
she
wore
a
light
kimono,
an
unlikely
state
of
affairs,
but
this
classical
vision
reassured
him
nonetheless.
He
stood
back
a
moment
and
looked
at
the
cupboards.
Something
about
the
symmetry
of
apartments
always
calmed
him,
the
fact
that
one
always
had
parallel
rooms
on
one
side
or
the
other.
With
one
neighbour,
it
might
be
the
bathroom
and
kitchen;
with
the
other
neighbour
on
the
opposite
side,
the
living
room
and
back
room.
Of
course,
one
could
never
share
both
sets
of
rooms
on
one
side
with
both
neighbours.
That
was
an
impossibility.
Nevertheless,
he
saw
in it
the
work
of an
overall
plan
that
went
beyond
simple
architectural
design.
On
this
first
day,
as he
finished
putting
the
bedclothes
into
the
cupboard,
he
heard
voices,
perhaps
two
or
three,
and
the
sound
of
something
heavy
being
moved
about,
though
it
could
have
been
from
workmen
outside:
in
his
mind’s
eye
he
saw a
crane
lifting
heavy
equipment.
Yet
the
voices
sounded
as if
they
were
coming
from
next
door.
Perhaps
others
had
just
moved
in
too.
What
caught
his
attention
was
the
fact
that
the
voices
seemed
both
hushed
and
close
to
his
ears,
and
though
he
could
not
make
out
the
words
exactly,
it
was
definitely
a
conversation,
not
heated,
but
following
a
rhythmic
pattern.
By
midnight
he
had
emptied
all
his
boxes,
placed
his
books
on
shelves,
stuck
up
his
posters
and
postcards,
a
catholic
mixture
of
reproduced
European
art
posters
and
Japanese
ukiyo-e
prints.
Some
of
the
latter
included
shunga,
the
name
for
erotic
prints
by
the
masters
who
otherwise
specialized
in
beautifully
rendered,
chaste
images
of
the
traditional
Floating
World,
except
that
in
the
case
of
shunga they
depicted
extremely
explicit
images
of
sexual
penetration,
the
males
possessing
outsize
members
and
displaying
ejaculatory
feats
which
outdid
even
the
exaggerated
standards
of
the
art
form’s
modern-day
counterpart,
manga.
Yet
none
of
these
images
was
his
favourite.
That
honour
was
reserved
for a
framed
European
print
from
an
engraving
of an
extraordinary
box-like
construction,
a
mini-castle
on
wheels
with
a
portcullis
and
small
windows
from
which
projected
huge
objects
such
as
trumpets
and
human
arms,
the
whole
topped
by a
belfry,
whilst
in
the
castellated
turrets
guards
waved
huge
feathers
like
swords.
Attached
to
the
belfry
were
two
enormous
wings,
as if
the
construction
might
fly
off
at
any
moment.
All
about
the
castle
were
the
strangest
objects
and
forms,
people
flying,
angels’
wings
unconnected
to
any
body
trailing
banners
inscribed
in
Latin,
and,
attached
at
various
angles
to
some
of
these
objects,
strings
or
threads
which
looked
a
little
like
perspective
lines.
Adding
a
controlling
structure
to
all
this
seeming
chaos
was a
hand
extending
from
a
cloud
directly
above
the
belfry
which
pulled
on a
solitary,
perpendicular
thread
attached
to
the
belfry
itself.
Just
below
the
cloud
and
above
the
belfry
was a
banner
that
read,
“Collegium
fraternitatis.”
Akinobu
had
never
bothered
to
work
out
the
meaning
of
this
phrase
but
“collegium”
suggested
“college”;
he
must
ask
about
“fraternitatis.”
Yet
for
all
the
detail
on
display
in
this
print,
which
Akinobu
knew
he
must
research
some
time,
he
was
for
the
moment
content
to
remain
ignorant
about
it—because
within
that
little
castle,
he
had
decided,
lived
a
being
with
which
he
had a
spiritual
connection,
a
connection
which
might
be
compromised
by
enhanced
knowledge.
In
fact,
it
was
the
being
inside
this
little
castle
that
Akinobu
wrote
to in
his
occasional
diary:
Bumako,
I
know
that
I can
speak
to
you
as I
cannot
to
anyone
else,
not
even
Rika.
Last
night
I
dreamt
of a
force
within
the
apartment.
Whether
it is
evil
or
not,
I
cannot
say.
It
seems
to
lie
hidden
within
a
space,
like
you
do in
that
wonderful
castle
of
yours,
from
another
place
and
time
that
I
crave
so
much.
Yet I
am
lazy.
I am
insipid,
as my
father
says.
I do
not
deserve
your
attention,
but I
hope
I
will
come
to be
worthy
of
you
in
time.
Nowadays
in
Japan,
we
live
in an
uncaring,
selfish
world.
Just
look
at
people’s
attitude
towards
blind
people.
Just
the
other
day,
and
this
was
not
for
the
first
time,
I saw
a
blind
woman
nearly
walk
onto
the
train
tracks,
with
no
one
offering
a
helping
hand.
And
this
just
as
hundreds
of
them
stepped
out
of a
train
that
had
just
arrived!
I
believe
that
Mishima
was
right
when
he
bemoaned
the
lack
of
tradition
nowadays,
though
he
was
speaking
of
the
’60s.
He
embraced
the
West
as
few
other
Japanese
have,
but
his
message
was
too
confused.
Yet
why
do I
tell
you
this?
You
who
are
all-seeing?
I
think
that
I
shall
tell
Rika
that
we
must
stop.
I
feel
that
she
cannot
be
prepared
to go
on
the
journey
that
you
are
preparing
me
for.
* * *
The
next
day
he
went
to
the
local
7-Eleven,
applied
for,
and
obtained,
part-time
work.
He
was
to
start
the
following
week.
The
same
morning
he
initiated
the
traditional
giving
of
welcome
presents
to
his
neighbours,
which
would
include
the
three
flats
on
his
floor
and
might
in
time
extend
to
the
person
or
family
directly
above.
He
would
start
with
the
neighbour
whose
bedroom
and
living
room,
rather
than
bathroom,
kitchen,
and
toilet,
were
contiguous
with
his.
He
knocked
on
the
thin
metal
door
and a
small,
attractive
woman
popped
her
head
out.
She
took
the
gift
out
of
his
hand
before
he
could
go
through
the
customary
protocols.
As he
walked
away,
shaking
his
head,
an
image
came
to
him—as
if
delayed—of
a
cluttered
interior
that
must
have
been
difficult
to
negotiate.
Were
they
sleeping
bags
he
had
seen
on
the
floor?
Some
boxes,
perhaps
even
tool-boxes,
and
make-up
boxes?
It
had
been
so
quick
he
couldn’t
be
sure.
None
of
his
other
neighbours
was
at
home
when
he
tried,
but a
few
days
after
that
first
attempt
Akinobu
made
the
acquaintance
of a
young
English
teacher
from
Britain,
who
knocked
on
his
door
to
introduce
himself
and,
by
the
way,
to
ask
if he
could
borrow
some
paraffin:
his
local
supplier
had
closed
down
without
notice
and
he
hadn’t
yet
found
a new
supplier.
Although
he
had
only
been
in
Japan
a
year,
his
Japanese
impressed
Akinobu.
The
next
day
Akinobu
took
up
John’s
offer
to
“drop
by.”
John’s
flat
was
at
the
end
of
the
mansion
on
the
far
side
of
the
neighbour
who
had
so
abruptly
closed
the
door
on
Akinobu.
John
was
very
laid-back,
and
seemed
to
enjoy
living
in
Japan.
He
obviously
revelled
in
the
horizontal
nature
of
Japanese
life,
the
car
backseat
angled
cosily
in
one
corner
of
his
tiny
back
room,
his
things
spread
out
on
the
floor
and
the
walls
lined
with
various
objects,
whether
they
were
CDs,
books,
candles,
or
incense.
Offering
Akinobu
a
beer,
he
recounted
how
he
had
left
England
in
the
wake
of a
relationship
with
a
woman
that
had
ended
badly. “Wanted
to
make
a
clean
break” is
how
he
put
it.
“Me
too,”
Akinobu
offered,
then
proceeded
to
tell
John
about
his
father’s
loss
of
patience
with
the
direction
his
son’s
life
had
taken.
John
did
not
have
much
to
say
to
Akinobu’s
recitation
of
woes.
He
seemed
to
struggle
for a
while
to
find
something
to
break
the
silence.
At
one
point
Akinobu
even
wondered
if
John
was
stoned
or
meditating
in
the
near–darkness
because,
as
the
late
afternoon
sun
had
waned,
John
had
not
switched
on
the
light.
Akinobu
had
considered
it
impolite
to
ask.
There
was a
moment,
in
fact,
where
he
could
have
sworn
that
John
began
to
fade
into
the
space
between
two
adjoining
walls,
he
sat
so
still.
Akinobu
could
just
see
that
one
of
John’s
handful
of
books
propped
against
the
wall
was a
translation
of
Mishima’s
last
four
novels,
The
Sea
of
Fertility.
“Oh,
you
have
Mishima!”
“Yeah,
that
sequence
of
novels
is
mindboggling:
‘He
gradually
came
to
make
out
the
sound
of
white
ants.’”
The
quotation
struck
a
chord
in
Akinobu.
He
knew
he
had
read
it,
but
he
could
not
say
exactly
which
book
it
was
from
in
the
tretralogy.
“Which
one
is
that
from?”
“The
Decay
of
the
Angel.
You've
read
that,
surely?”
“Of
course,
but,
you
know,
Mishima’s
not
so
fashionable
in
Japan
these
days.”
“I
noticed.
It’s
Japan’s
loss.”
“Yes,
most
people
would
prefer
to
dull
their
brains
with
Game
Boys
and
manga.”
“You
sound
like
a
purist,” John
said.
“Yes,
maybe
I am.
There
are
not
enough
of us
around
these
days.”
Akinobu
was
getting
a
little
drunk
from
the
beer
and
almost
felt
an
urge
to
tell
John
about
the
strange
noises
he
had
heard
from
their
mutual
neighbour,
but
he
did
not
want
John
to
think
that
he
was
odd
himself.
It
would
be
nice
to
have
an
English
friend,
he
thought,
wistfully,
and
he
felt
an
unusual
light-headedness.
As if
he
could
sense
his
wish,
John
switched
to
English,
“What
do
you
know
about
the
people
next
door?”
“Er…why
do
you
ask?”
“I
was
forgetting.
You’ve
only
been
here
a few
days.”
“Yes.”
“There
are a
lot
of
them.
They
come
and
go at
all
times.
And
you
rarely
see
the
same
people
twice.”
“I’ve
heard
sounds,” Akinobu
admitted,
gingerly.
“What,
like
a
rumbling?”
“Rumbling?
Is
that
like
thunder?”
John
nodded.
“Yes!
Oh,
I’m
glad
it’s
not
just
me.”
They
said
nothing
for a
while,
then
John
said, “I
saw
something
a bit
creepy
a few
days
ago.”
“What?”
“They
put
out
their
washing
the
other
day
and
their
T-shirts
had
this
weird
design,
a
square
within
a
circle,
and
an
oblong
within
the
square.
I’m
not
sure,
but I
vaguely
remember
hearing
of a
group
of
people
calling
themselves
Komabu.
Have
you
heard
of
them?”
“How
strange.”
“A
bit
freaky.
But
I’ve
never
seen
them
wear
those
T-shirts
outside.”
“Wow.
Do
you
think
they
are
dangerous?”
“Nah.
Probably
a
harmless
hippie-style
fraternity.”
Akinobu
froze
on
that
last
word.
“Did
you
say
fraternity?”
“Yes,
what’s
wrong?”
“What
does
that
mean,
in
English,
fraternity?”
“Brotherhood,
I
suppose.”
“Like
a
group
of
friends
or
brothers?”
“Yes.
Are
you
OK?”
“Yes,
yes,
just
taking
the
opportunity
to
improve
my
English.”
“Anyway,
let’s
keep
an
eye
out
for
each
other,” John
said,
winking.
* * *
When
he
got
back
to
his
flat,
it
was
nearly
one
o’clock
in
the
morning,
and
the
person
living
above
him
was
pacing
around
his
or
her
flat,
having,
it
seemed,
just
arrived
home
themselves.
He
would
have
liked
to
have
put
his
head
down
on
the
pillow
and
dozed
off,
but,
with
the
excitement
of
having
made
an
English
friend,
and
with
the
noise
the
person
was
making
upstairs,
he
decided
to
write
something
in
his
diary.
That
would
surely
induce
some
tiredness.
In
any
case,
if
the
person
upstairs
continued
walking
around
at
this
time
of
the
morning
he
would
have
to go
up
there
sooner
or
later
to
complain.
Bumako,
So
the
mystery
takes
another
turn.
My
new
friend
tells
me of
a
strange
affiliation
the
people
next
door
have.
If I
add
to
this
knowledge
the
very
little
I was
allowed
to
see
of
their
flat
when
the
young
woman
opened
the
door
to me
yesterday,
and
the
sounds
I
have
been
hearing,
I
must
be
suspicious.
It is
unavoidable.
I
should
be
happy
to be
free
of my
father
and
starting
a new
life,
finally,
but I
am
not
so
sure.
I
still
have
not
spoken
to
Rika
and
have
had
my
mobile
phone
turned
off
most
of
the
days
since
I
moved,
so
she
really
has
not
had
any
chance
to
contact
me. I
have
never
really
told
her
what
I
would
like
to do
with
her
physically,
of my
visions
of
beautiful,
mutual
self-annihilation,
of
how I
would
like
us to
sacrifice
our
bodies,
her
limbs
and
mine,
to
you,
and
perhaps
because
I
have
held
this
back
so
long,
she
interprets
my
behaviour
as
coldness.
I run
the
risk
of
alienating
her
forever.
I
only
wish
that
I
could
face
her,
tell
her
and
let
her
go.
On
the
other
hand,
I see
myself
walking
with
her
into
you,
Bumako,
into
your
black
gate,
where
knives
and
swords
and
spikes
will
swing
and
shoot
out
and
lacerate
us
together
in a
glorious,
perfect
consummation
of
metal
and
flesh.
If we
are
lucky,
one
or
both
of us
will
be
decapitated,
leaving
the
other
to
carry
his
or
her
partner
through
the
endless
passages
of
you,
through
your
chambers
and
antechambers
that
will
end
only
when
we
reach
the
very
pit
of
you.
I
believe
that
in
this
pit
there
is a
machine
full
of
cogs,
wheels,
pulleys
and
chains
which
will
pull
on
us,
suspend
us in
the
air,
and
tear
us
apart
when
the
time
is
right…
In
the
night,
as he
tried
to
push
against
the
unyielding
quilt
that
covered
him,
Akinobu
heard
the
sound
of
something
hollow
and
metallic,
like
huge
canisters
being
shifted.
The
sounds
merged
with
a
childhood
event
that
came
back
to
him
from
time
to
time
in
which
he
had
witnessed
an
oxyacetylene
cylinder
explode
in a
car
repair
garage
as he
was
walking
by.
He
had
been
lucky
only
to
suffer
temporary
hearing
damage.
When
he
had
come
to
his
senses,
it
was
to
see,
lying
on
the
ground
by
the
side
of a
car,
the
head
of
one
of
the
workers,
separated
from
its
body.
Then,
as
these
hypnagogic
companions
carried
him
further
along
the
passages
of
his
mind,
he
was
standing
among
naked
bodies,
how
many
he
could
not
tell,
enclosed
in a
dark,
unbordered
space.
He
was
close
to
one
in
particular,
a
young
woman
whose
glistening
features
and
body
topography
he
could,
paradoxically,
see
in
intimate
detail.
She
was
pulling
on
him,
almost
wrenching
his
penis
from
his
groin.
Her
hand
would
slip
after
each
tug,
yet
the
mere
action
of
trying
to
regain
her
purchase
excited
him
exponentially
with
each
jerk.
Eventually,
a jet
of
semen
arced
out
and
drenched
her,
leaving
shining
white
ruined
helixes
tangled
stickily
in
her
hair,
while
others
unravelled
and
slid
down
her
face
and
breasts
like
a
negative
image
of
ski
tracks
on
snow.
Then,
his
body
was
lifted
by
hands
which
proceeded
to
roll
him
about,
massaging
his
skin
with
oil,
then
wrapping
him
in
thin
cloth
or
bandages.
In
this
condition
they
placed
him
in a
sarcophagus-like
space,
where
he
was
unable
to
move,
only
capable
of
hearing
rolling
metal
and
nonsensical
conversations.
* * *
Akinobu
was
stocking
a
shelf
when
he
saw
Rika.
He
recognized
her
immediately,
even
though
she
was
wearing
one
of
those
face
masks
which
covered
the
lower
half
of
the
face.
But
it
was
useless
for
him
to
hide,
he
decided;
she
must
have
got
the
address
from
his
mother
or
father
and
he
could
not
risk
her
making
a
scene
in
his
place
of
work,
where
he
could
be
admonished
for
what
would
be
viewed
as
fraternizing
with
a
customer,
even
if it
was
his
girlfriend.
Cleverly,
she
browsed
among
the
magazines
until
the
other
shop
assistant
had
gone
to
the
back
to
fetch
something.
Then
she
picked
up a
bar
of
Vessel
in
the
Fog
chocolate,
and
took
it to
the
till.
The
choice
of
confectionery
was
significant,
as it
was
his
favourite
and
he
had
bought
her a
bar
of
this
very
chocolate
on
their
first
date.
She
said
nothing;
she
was
just
two
eyes
boring
into
his
soul
above
that
mask,
a
crazed
surgeon
poised
to
invade
his
body.
He
whispered
under
his
breath
that
he
finished
work
in
six
hours
and
finessed
his
front
door
key
along
with
her
change,
placing
the
key
under
the
receipt,
and
the
change
on
top
of
it,
making
no
concession
to
the
status
of
their
relationship
by
allowing
any
contact
with
her
skin.
For
the
rest
of
the
day
he
occupied
his
mind
with
an
idle
registering
of
the
rather
dreary
but
reassuring
flow
of
customers:
the
smart
salarymen
on
their
way
into
work
picking
up
pocket-sized
bottles
of
Evian
in
the
morning;
the
local
workmen
who
bought
their
cup
noodles
and
poured
hot
water
from
the
jug
kettle
next
to
the
photocopier
and
fax
machine,
occasionally
splashing
a
little
on
the
narrow
counter
space
reserved
for
that
dual
purpose,
standing
there
with
towels
hanging
down
from
their
bandannas
like
disenfranchised
samurai;
the
schoolgirls
who
came
in
for a
toxic
mixture
of
chocolate
and
fizzy
drinks,
availing
themselves
from
time
to
time
of
some
toy
fop
to
hang
from
their
ubiquitous
bags
or
complement
their
schoolgirl
regalia,
looking
as
provocative,
with
their
pleated
tartan
skirts
decorating
the
caramelly
sunburst
finish
of
their
calves,
as
the
models
in
the
porn
magazines
on
the
nearby
racks.
All
this
amused
Akinobu,
but
on
this
particular
day
he
had
to
take
into
account
the
intermittent
surveillance
imposed
on
him
by
Rika
as
she
passed
by
the
shop
and
glanced
in;
she
even
came
in
again
at
one
stage
and
bought
some
milk,
though
he
didn’t
serve
her.
Slightly
annoying
as it
was,
this
long
run-up
to
his
reunion
with
her
had
the
advantage
of
focusing
his
thoughts
on
what
he
would
say
to
her.
He
spoke
to
Bumako
as he
worked:
Bumako,
What
shall
I do
with
her?
What
does
she
really
know
about
me?
About
what
I
want,
what
I
could
give
her
to
make
her
truly
happy.
Yes?
Test
her?
So
soon?
Time
is
short,
you
say,
before
we
become
one.
I
understand.
This
helped
him;
he
now
knew
what
he
wanted
from
Rika.
He
would
put
it to
her:
it
would
be
her
choice.
* * *
Rika
had
shifted
things
around
a
little,
which
didn’t
surprise
him.
“This
is a
fantastic
flat,” she
said
straight
off.
“Really?”
“It’s
a bit
dark,
though.”
He
looked
around
as
she
stood
there.
Fortunately,
she
hadn’t
touched
his
print.
She
looked
very
fetching
in
her
apron
(though
he
found
it
hard
to
suppress
pornographic
images
of
besuited
salarymen
skewering
their
wives
in
their
bunny-tipped
house
slippers),
and
already
he
felt
his
resolve
being
undermined.
Had
Mishima
had
such
dilemmas?
he
wondered
momentarily.
Surely
he
had.
He
had
been
married,
with
kids,
hadn’t
he?
He
let
her
cook
for
him
while
he
went
and
got a
DVD
from
the
local
video
shop.
He
whiled
away
an
hour
in
the
video
shop
as he
saw
his
preferred
choices
continually
deferred
until
he
settled
on a
compromise:
there
were
now
five
copies
of a
film
that
two
months
before
he
hadn't
been
able
to
get
hold
of on
successive
daily
trips.
When
he
had
made
his
choice,
he
went,
out
of
habit,
to
the
closed-off
area
for
adult
movies.
He
usually
looked
for
something
with
torture,
especially
of
the
breasts
or
nipples.
He
had
never
shown
Rika
anything
that
hard.
She
was
not
averse
to
straight
porn
as
long
as it
had a
patina
of a
story,
though
his
interests
lay
more
in
the
kind
of
video
that
paid
only
lip
service
to
that
element,
if at
all.
Maybe
one
day
he
would
have
to
decide
what
it
was
he
wanted
from
a
relationship—the
constant
stimulation
and
gratification
of a
sex-oriented
world,
or an
everyday
family
life.
But
if he
thought
about
it,
it
wasn't
really
such
a
difficult
choice.
With
the
former,
he
had
his
own
inner
world
in
which
he
could,
increasingly,
satisfy
his
desires
and
fantasies.
With
the
latter
he
only
had
to
look
to
his
parents:
he
saw
no
joy,
no
love
there.
After
supper,
they
settled
down
to
the
film,
a
quaint
English
film
starring
someone
called
Hugh
Grant,
who
bumbled
his
way
into
a
relationship
with
a
famous
American
actress,
played
by
the
famous
American
actress
Julia
Roberts.
Rika
liked
it,
and
he
had a
soft
spot
for
soppy
love
stories.
The
mood
was
right,
so,
after
the
film
had
ended,
they
finally
settled
down
to a “talk.”
“Rika,
there
are
some
things
I
want
to
do.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
“The
sex
is
too
straight.
I
want
to do
other
things.”
“Like
what?”
“It’s
hard
to
put
into
words,
Rika.”
“You’re
ashamed?”
“The
things
I
want
to do
I
can’t
really
explain—it
would
be
better
to
just
imagine
them.”
“But
that’s
so
sad.
You
don’t
want
a
real
person,
a
real
woman
to
touch?”
“Yes,
yes,
of
course.”
“Then
what
is it
you
want
to
do?
Maybe
I’m
not
as
traditional
as
you
think.”
“I’ve
a
video
I
want
to
show
you.”
The
first
fifteen-minute
segment
started
out
traditionally.
An
actress
was
penetrated
by
one,
then
two
men.
She
fellated
both
of
them,
and
they
ejaculated
in
her
face.
Rika
only
reacted
discernibly
at
the
last
action,
making
a
gagging
sound.
The
second
segment,
of
roughly
the
same
length,
had
the
same
actress,
apparently
capable
of
lactating
at
will,
kneeling
on a
bed,
while
one
of
the
men
wound
ropes
around
her
breasts
and
arms
so
tightly
that
she
couldn't
move
her
arms.
When
the
camera
went
around
to
her
front,
the
viewer
could
see
that
the
bulbous
shape
of
her
breasts
was
exaggerated
by
the
pressure
of
the
two
bands
of
ropes
just
above
and
below
her
areolae.
While
the
first
actor
began
to
whip
her
backside,
the
other
actor
started
to
squeeze
her
breasts,
alternately
drinking
her
milk
and
letting
the
spray
arc
milkily
into
his
mouth
and
over
his
face.
Akinobu
squeezed
Rika's
hand
lightly,
assuming
that
her
lack
of
reaction
to
the
escalating
stimulation
and
abuse
of
the
woman
might
be a
form
of
consent
on
her
part.
It
was
surely
not
out
of
the
question
that
she
might
be
excited
by
it.
In
the
following
segment,
the
actress
was
suspended
from
the
ceiling
by an
intricate
network
of
ropes
which
Akinobu
found
quite
fascinating
in
the
way
they
distributed
the
pressure—sometimes
inducing
pain
and
sometimes
counter-balancing
it—on
different
parts
of
her
anatomy.
The
two
men
repeated
most
of
the
actions
they
had
performed
in
the
previous
segments,
but
again
finished
by
ejaculating
in
her
face.
In
the
last
shot,
the
camera
lingered
over
the
rills
of
semen
slowly
proceeding
down
her
face.
There
was
no
audible
reaction
from
Rika,
but
her
own
body
felt
hard
and
bunched-up
when
he
placed
a
hand
on
her
back.
In
the
next
section,
the
actress
was
made
to
balance
on a
horizontal
bamboo
stick
that
was
hung
from
the
ceiling,
forming
a
kind
of
large
swing.
The
balancing
act
was
achieved
by a
combination
of
ropes
wound
around
her
thighs
and
the
stick
and
by
one
of
the
men
supporting
her
from
behind.
While
she
was
upright,
the
man
in
front
wound
string
around
each
of
her
small,
neatly
prunted
nipples
and
started
to
pull
upwards,
distorting
her
breasts
into
elongated
cones
that
stood
up
like
objects
magnetized
by a
nearby
force.
When
the
strings
were
released,
he
pushed
her
back
so
that
she
was
almost
horizontal,
and
the
pressure
made
her
milk
fountain
upwards,
the
actors
taking
it in
turn
to
feed
themselves…
“Stop
it.
Stop
it,
Akinobu.”
He
killed
the
tape.
“I
understand.
That’s
what
you
want
to do
to
me!
Deep
down
that’s
what
you
really
want
to
do,
isn’t
it?”
Akinobu
hung
his
head
and
said
nothing.
She
left
the
flat,
her
sniffling
just
audible,
and
he
did
not
know
whether
to be
happy
or
cry.
* * *
It
was
one
o’clock
when
she
left.
Now,
half
an
hour
later,
it
was
unusually
quiet,
he
thought,
so
quiet
that
he
could
hear
the
movement
of
layers
of
stuffing
in
his
pillow;
it
made
him
think
of
the
primordial
soup,
the
budding
universe
scientists
always
talked
about
nowadays,
impactions
of
softness,
endless
chemical
reactions.
Another
thought
occurred,
though.
Was
it
possible
insects
were
crawling
around
inside
it?
He
knew
this
was
unlikely,
but
there
were
living
organisms
on
every
level.
There
are
definitely
small
insects
in
tatami
carpets
that
you
cannot
see
with
the
naked
eye,
and
sometimes
he
would
feel
a
light
prick
against
his
ear
which
he
couldn’t
rationalize.
Perhaps
he
was
more
sensitive
to
these
forms
of
life
than
others?
There
were
insects
in
his
pillow,
he
concluded.
He
was
too
tired
to
write
in
his
diary,
so he
let
his
mind
address
Bumako:
Oh,
Bumako,
did I
do
the
right
thing?
With
Rika.
She
doesn’t
deserve
such
a
shock.
But
she
does
deserve
to
know
the
truth.
Will
you
let
me
know,
give
me a
sign?
I
shall
give
myself
up to
you,
Bumako.
He
imagined
walking
into
the
strange
castle
now,
imagined
hands
taking
hold
of
him,
knives
and
swords
swinging
through
the
air,
black
blood
pouring
down
his
body,
creatures
eating
at
his
flesh.
He
was
in
ecstasy.
His
joy
would
be
complete
if he
were
now
able
to
take
a
woman
and
mutilate
her,
though
he
would
hold
back
enough
for
her
to do
the
same
to
him.
Their
mutual
tortures
and
pain
would
rise
by
small
gradations
until
these
desecrations
would
have
no
equal
in
their
experience.
He
wanted
to be
an
engine,
part
of a
complex,
grinding,
pulley-operated
system
that
would
wrench
his
limbs
from
his
body,
fusing
him
spiritually
with
his
female
counterpart.
For
her
part,
she
would
have
a
metal
bodice
placed
around
her
with
moulds
around
her
breasts
and
vagina.
These
moulds
would
have
gates
that
would
let
in a
vertical
blade
in
the
case
of
the
breasts
and
various
angled
blades
and
sharp
prongs
in
the
case
of
her
vagina.
During
all
this
he
would
be
wearing
a
truss
which
could
be
operated
in
such
a way
as to
exact
the
ultimate
excision—on
his
member.
Preferably,
these
actions
could
be
performed
simultaneously,
so
that
they
would
be as
one
within
Bumako.
They
would
become
Bumako
and
Bumako
them.
How
long
he
had
been
asleep
he
did
not
know,
but
was
it
possible
what
he
heard
now?
There
was a
light
tapping
on
the
metal
front
door.
A
further
three
taps,
slightly
louder.
He
dragged
on
his
clothes
and
looked
through
the
spy-hole.
It
was
the
girl
from
next
door.
She
looked
very
different
from
last
time,
but
it
had
to be
her.
He
opened
the
door.
“Hello,
I’m
sorry
it’s
so
late.
I
wanted
to
apologize
for
the
other
day.
I was
really
rude,
and I
wanted
to
thank
you
for
the
present.”
She
was
different-looking
tonight,
wearing
a
tight
black
skirt,
tights
and a
figure-hugging
top
like
a
ballet
dancer's.
He
hadn’t
realized
how
petite
she
was.
Her
red
lipstick
emphasized
the
cuneiform
shape
of
her
lips
and
her
hair
was
wavier
than
he
remembered.
The
overall
effect
on
Akinobu
standing
there
now,
woken
out
of
this
strange
evening
and
sleep,
was
that
of a
tapering,
vivid
eidolon.
Was
this
a
sign
from
Bumako?
She
seemed
to be
waiting
for
something.
“I…I…would
you
like
to
come
in?”
She
squatted
down
in
his
bedroom-cum-living-room,
keeping
her
back
straight.
Her
posture
looked
uncomfortable
to
him,
but
she
seemed
relaxed.
“I
know
it’s
late
but
I’ve
got
some
wine
if
you
want,” he
offered.
“Thanks.”
He
already
felt
that
at
this
early
stage
she
was
different,
different
from
Rika,
different
from
most
Japanese
girls.
She
looked
around
the
room
as if
sensing
he
had
had a
guest
over.
“A
friend
was
just
here.”
“I’m
sorry.
You
must
be
tired.”
“It’s
OK.
I’m
off
tomorrow.”
“You
work
in
the
convenience
store
around
the
corner,
don’t
you?”
“I
didn’t
see
you
come
in.”
“I
saw
you
there
but I
didn’t
go
in.
Oh!
What’s
that?”
“The
engraving?
That’s
a
good
question;
it’s
a bit
of a
mystery
to
me.”
“I
like
it.” She
stood
up to
get a
closer
look.
Akinobu
was
torn
between
a
concern
for
his
treasured
picture
being
violated
and
the
urge
to
let
his
eyes
linger
over
her
figure,
the
flatness
of
her
profiled
silhouette,
interrupted
only
by
the
shallow
rise
and
fall
of
her
behind
and
chest.
In
the
semi-darkness
he
had
the
sensation
that
she
might
almost
slip
away,
become
one
with
the
vertical
line
in
the
corner
where
two
walls
met.
The
print
itself
hung
on
one
of
these
walls
next
to a
sliding
door.
“Can
we
take
it
down?” she
asked.
It
was
against
every
instinct
in
him,
yet
he
felt
such
a
closeness
to
her
he
saw
no
reason
to
refuse
her
request.
He
lifted
the
framed
print
off
its
hinge
and
held
it in
his
lap.
They
squatted
down
next
to
each
other
and
her
painted
fingernails
skipped
lightly
over
his
as
she
pointed
to
the
extraordinary
building
and
figures
in
the
picture.
“I
feel
I
know
this.”
“Really?
You’ve
seen
it
before,
in a
book,
perhaps?”
“No,
no, I
feel
we’ve
seen
this…thing.”
“What
do
you
mean
'we'?”
“Sorry.
Me
and
the
people
I
live
with
next
door.”
She
smiled,
as if
seeing
something
not
visible
to
both
of
them.
“It’s…different
there.”
Akinobu
heard
a
loud,
hollow
sound
like
metal
being
knocked,
followed
by a
metally
echoing.
“What
was
that?”
“I
didn’t
hear
anything.”
He
saw
two
silhouettes
pass
by
the
frosted
windows
of
his
living
room,
two
yards
apart.
“Do
you
have
any
music?
I
want
to
look
at
this
amazing
picture.
It’s
very
dreamy,” she
said,
laying
a
hand
over
his.
Akinobu
was
overcome
by
the
attentions
of
this
woman,
combined
as
they
were
with
the
interest
she
showed
in
his
favourite
image.
“Can’t
you
just
imagine
it,
walking
into
it?” she
said.
“Yes,” he
replied,
and
he
knew
exactly
what
she
meant.
It
was
uncanny,
that
she
should
be so
open
to
this
world
of
his.
Was
it
possible,
even,
that
she
knew
about
Bumako?
In
truth,
though,
he
would
have
liked
to
have
known
more
about
the
people
she
lived
with
and
what
she
meant
by
her
enigmatic, “it’s
different
there.” Yet
he
did
not
want
to
disturb
the
harmony
of
what
he
had
achieved
with
her
in
such
a
short
space
of
time.
He
heard
the
sound
again
and
saw
two
figures
go
quickly
by
his
window
again.
Which
was
when
she
looked
at
him
and
put
her
arms
around
his
neck.
They
rolled
over
and
he
realized
they
would
want
something
to
lie
on.
He
opened
the
cupboard
to
get
out
the
futon.
“What
are
you
doing?” she
asked.
“We
need
the
futon.”
“Wait.
Have
you
ever
slept
in
there?” she
said,
looking
into
the
black
interior
of
the
cupboard,
then
smiling
at
him
mischievously.
There
was
room
enough,
it
was
true,
and
it
would
be a
little
like
a bed
in a
capsule
hotel
he
had
tried
once.
That
had
been
fun
and
had
comforted
him,
like
being
back
in
the
womb
or a
catacomb,
even,
under
a
city.
It
also
excited
him,
reminding
him
of
the
autonomy
of
childhood
sleep
and
its
fantasies,
that
time
and
place
where
nothing
could
intrude
into
one’s
mind
or
life
for a
blissful
eight
hours.
“Come
on,
they
won’t
mind.”
They.
With
the
futon
laid
out
inside
the
cupboard,
and
the
doors
closed,
it
was
completely
dark
now,
and
not
even
the
occasional
bumping
of
objects
against
the
wall
next
door
and
the
now
familiar
to-and-fro
of
whoever
it
was
she
shared
the
place
with
next
door
disturbed
him.
He
went
inside
her
with
wonderful
ease
and
found
the
dark
within
her.
His
body
was
transported,
lifted,
and
taken
by
hands.
He
was
inside
Bumako
and
called
out
the
god’s
name.
Bumako.
Bumako,
he
said.
Komabu,
komabu,
she
replied.
I
love
you.
I
love.
We
love
you.
Komabu.
* * *
They
fell
through
the
wall,
through
the
space
around
them,
into
the
dark.
There
was a
distinct
smell
of
gas
or
chemicals,
he
thought.
After
a
while
the
figures
surrounding
them
took
on
perceptible
shapes
in
the
near-dark;
men
and
women
wearing
black
trousers
and
black
tops
with
hoods.
One
was
Caucasian
and
he
wondered
if it
was
John,
but
with
the
darkness
and
the
hood
he
could
not
be
sure.
They
lifted
the
girl
away
from
him
and
started
to
wind
cloth
around
him,
till
he
was
trussed
up
like
a
mummy.
In
this
state
he
was
placed
on
his
knees
in
front
of a
large
bearded
figure
who
lectured
to
him,
it
seemed,
for
hours,
barely
pausing.
He
knew
it
was
Bumako
and
that
he
had
found
his
place
now.
Bumako
talked
of a
goal,
of a
glorious
death,
of
eternal
gratification
of
the
senses.
When
Bumako
had
finally
finished,
they
unwound
the
cloth
until
Akinobu
was
naked,
lifted
a
trap
door
from
the
centre
of
the
floor,
lowered
him
into
an
oblong
pit,
and
placed
the
girl
on
top
of
him.
She
clung
to
him,
digging
her
nails
into
his
back
so
hard
that
they
tore
his
skin
as he
tried
to
pull
away.
The
black-clad
figures
formed
a
perfect
circle
around
them,
hummed
sounds
or
words
he
did
not
understand
in a
brief
ceremony,
then
closed
and
locked
the
door
on
them.
Above
them,
they
heard
Bumako's
followers
go
about
their
business
of
carrying
heavy
objects.
An
image
of
scuttling
termites—white
ants?—came
to
mind.
Finally,
the
flat
was
quiet,
and
they
heard
a van
drive
off.
Bumako?
Bumako?
I am
waiting,
Bumako.
Note:
The
phrase
"the
sound
of
white
ants" is
from
The
Decay
of
the
Angel
by
Yukio
Mishima,
translated
by
Edward
G.
Seidensticker
(Penguin,
1977).
Brian
Howell
lives
and
teaches
in
Japan.
He
has
been
publishing
stories
since
1990.
Publications
include
Critical
Quarterly,
Panurge,
Stand,
Neonlit:
The
Time
Out
Book
of
New
Writing,
Vol.1
(edited
by
Nicholas
Royle),
The
Third
Alternative,
Carriage
House
Review,
and
Leviathan
Quarterly.
Online,
his
stories
have
appeared
in
various
e-zines,
including
The
Richmond
Review,
Linnaean
Street,
The
Paumanok
Review,
Literary
Potpourri,
and
Painted
Moon
Review.
His
novel
based
on
the
life
of
Jan
Vermeer,
The
Dance
of
Geometry,
was
published
in
March
2002
by
The
Toby
Press.
It
was
short-listed
by
The
British
Fantasy
Society
in
their
Best
Novel
category
for
the
2003
BFS
Awards.
His
first
collection,
The
Sound
of
White
Ants,
the
title
story
of
which
appears
in
this
issue
of
FRiGG,
will
be
published
by
Elastic
Press
in
May
2004.
His
e-novella,
The
Study
of
Sleep,
was
published
by
Wind
River
Press
in
February 2004.
He is
currently
working
on
his
fourth
novel,
a
prequel
to
The
Dance
of
Geometry,
which
forms
part
of a
loosely
linked
trilogy
of
novels
about
seventeenth-century
Dutch
painters
and
their
experiments
with
optical
devices.
“White
Ants”
was
inspired
by a
mixture
of
real-life
observations,
rather
than
events,
and
stray
elements
from
my
life
that
fell
neatly
into
place
(the
inspiration
for
the
engraving
came
from
research
I am
doing
for a
novel).
When
I
first
arrived
in
Japan,
I
lived
in a
flat
next
door
to a
group
of
rather
secretive
and
mysterious
neighbours
who
came
and
went
in
much
the
same
fashion
as
those
of
Akinobu’s
in
the
story.
After
a
while
I
found
out
they
were
affiliated
to a
well-known
cult
in
Japan.
They
were
in
all
likelihood
quite
innocuous,
and I
prefer
to
put
the
odd
sounds
down
to my
overactive
imagination!
Part
of
the
inspiration
was
also
from
a
real-life
murder
case
from
around
the
same
period
in
which
a
schoolboy
murdered
and
beheaded
another
boy.
I
could
not
find
the
original
name
of
the
monster
with
whom
the
murderer
was
supposed
to be
having
the
dialogue.
“Bumako”
is as
much
as my
faulty
memory
will
allow,
and
“Komabu”
is
simply
an
anagram
of
that
word.
Neither
word
is
actually
Japanese,
though
they
are
meant
to
sound
it. I
won’t
claim
that
this
story
has
any
sociological
import,
but I
hope
that
in
some
ways
it
reflects
a
certain
instability
that
began
to
gnaw
its
way
into
the
fabric
of
Japanese
society
around
the
mid-90s,
up to
which
time
Japan
had
enjoyed
a
reputation
for
being
a
stable
country
with
a low
crime
rate.
The
Kobe
earthquake,
a
certain
famous
gas
attack
on
the
underground
in
Tokyo,
and
the
gruesome
schoolboy
murder
at
the
time
seemed
to be
just
three
of
several
harbingers
of a
decline
that
was
going
hand-in-hand
with
the
economic
recession.
