The Tale of Kenji

The girl on the train

At first she didn’t understand what he was doing, the floating man. It wasn’t how she’d imagined when she’d read it in books. Floating, face-down, in the water. She’d always assumed ‘face-down’ also meant feet up and the whole body horizontal. But that’s not how it was.

            Later she would wonder if it had something to do with the weight of his shoes. Because it wasn’t just his face that was down, his feet were too. Upright, arms outstretched, fingers just breaking the surface of the water. And his chin on his chest, his face down, as if looking for his toes.

            She gave a gasp and half rose from her seat, turning to the couple sitting behind her.

            ‘Did you see?’ she began. Then stopped. Because she could tell from the way their eyes widened that they hadn’t seen and that she was frightening them. That being addressed in English by the only foreigner on the train wasn’t something they were prepared for and that they were desperately forming the set phrase, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand’ in their heads.

            She sank back into her seat, embarrassed.

            She thought about pulling the emergency alarm or getting off at the next station to find help. But she knew she wouldn’t and was appalled at what this said about her.

            She was crushed by the enormity of it, the responsibility of being the only witness to the death of a stranger. She felt she should mark his passing with a ceremony of some kind, an act of respect or remembrance, but was acutely aware of the inconsistency of wanting to mourn a death she had essentially ignored.

            What worried her wasn’t that she would be haunted by her vision of the floating man, but that she wouldn’t. That far too quickly she would start to forget, convince herself she’d imagined it, attributing it to the combined effects of jet-lag and being on her own in a strange place.

            So she forced herself to picture it. Deliberately thought about the moment she’d seen him so she would always be able to recall exactly how it had been. The cool, dry air inside the train, the noise of the engine and the rub of the coarse fabric of the seat against her bare legs. Her face reflected in the window, sunglasses and, on the other side, the ugly concrete bridge with the little red car driving slowly across. The glint of the sun off the windscreen as it turned the corner. Then the play of the early morning light over the rippled surface of the river and how his hands seemed strangely orange against the dark of his shirt.

            And it struck her that he hadn’t seemed sad, just floating there. She suddenly thought he hadn’t wanted to be found.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Kenji Yamamoto

There’s a phone ringing. Not mine and I am alone in the carriage. I run my hand inside the gap between the seat and its back to locate the source. A mobile, three pretty, beaded straps dangling from the handset. I flip it open.

            ‘Who is this, please?’ a woman asks.

            ‘Kenji Yamamoto,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t my phone.’

            ‘No,’ says the woman, ‘it’s mine. Where did you find it?’

            ‘On a train,’ I say, glancing out the window, ‘approaching Takatsuki-shi.’

            ‘Oh dear,’ she says.

            ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’m getting off.’

            ‘There’s no need,’ she says, but I pretend not to hear over the sound of the recorded announcement politely reminding me to bring all my belongings with me.

            ‘There,’ I say into the phone, ‘I’m off. Where should I meet you?’

            ‘You mustn’t go to any trouble,’ she says.

            ‘No trouble,’ I say. ‘I’d like to think someone would do the same for me.’

            Eventually we agree to meet in Umeda.

            ‘How will I recognise you?’ she asks.

            I glance down.

            ‘I’m tall,’ I say, ‘just about six foot. Twenty-nine. I’m wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, black, with the Hanshin Tigers’ logo on the chest. And I’m carrying an umbrella. It’s green. Will that be enough?’

            ‘Yes, I think so,’ she says.

            I make my way to the other platform without giving myself the chance to consider what I’m doing. Because there’s a dangerous thought lurking at the back of my mind and if I stop long enough to acknowledge it, I’ll be forced to admit I’m a fool.

           

I’m standing next to the ticket machines in Nishi-Umeda station. Bright lights. The air hot and stale. Around me lots of movement, lots of noise. I’m watching the crowds as they come up the stairs and approach the barriers. I don’t know what to look for so I look at everyone. At first I notice their differences. A man, a woman, this one old, this one young, tall and short, fat, thin. But after a while I see only their eyes. And so it begins. Like falling. Falling, knowing that the floor is rushing up to meet me but never quite reaching the moment of impact. I feel my stomach clench and a familiar creeping sensation in my scalp. Rasp of metal against metal, taste of rust. There’s a dark spot forming in the centre of my field of vision, growing, obscuring my view, its edges curling like smoke.

            ‘Mr Yamamoto?’

            A voice from behind pulls me back.

            ‘Are you Kenji Yamamoto?’ the woman asks again and I turn, blinking.

            She is my age, maybe slightly younger. Dressed in the usual office-lady uniform: light grey suit, Ralph Lauren handbag, grey shoes with neat little black bows near the toes. She is neither tall nor short and her hair is long, perfectly black and perfectly straight, lips full, eyes wide, skin as white as powdered chalk. Ambushed, I can’t help noticing she’s beautiful.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I was expecting you to come from the platform.’

            ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

            ‘Not at all,’ I say.

            I slip my hand into my pocket, pull out the phone and hand it to her.

            ‘Thank you so much,’ she says.

            ‘Please don’t mention it,’ I say, looking for the exit. I give her a faint smile and start to walk away. I hesitate, meet her eyes. Knowing I’m going to regret it, but doing it anyway.

            ‘Would you have dinner with me?’

            I let the invitation hang for just a second. Then I laugh.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘that was stupid. Either you’ve eaten already or you have other plans.’

            ‘No,’ she says, face serious, ‘I haven’t eaten and I don’t have plans.’

            It isn’t until we’re seated in the restaurant that I think to ask her name. Ai Nakamura, twenty-six. She is a dietician in the City Board of Education here in Osaka.

            ‘What about you, Mr Yamada, what do you do?’

            ‘Please,’ I say, ‘don’t be so formal. Let’s pretend we’re American. Call me Kenji.’

            ‘What do you do, Kenji?’ she says, laughing.

            ‘I’m an actor,’ I say. ‘And, when I’m not acting, I make lamps.’

            ‘Lamps?’ she says.

            ‘Yes, lamps. Actually, what I should say is making lamps takes up most of my time but, when I’m not doing that, I act.’

            ‘You don’t get much chance to act?’

            ‘If I were handsome and spoke English and Mandarin like Takeshi Kaneshiro, I might have more opportunity.’

             ‘You’re better looking than Takeshi,’ she says. We both smile and blush and then neither of us knows what to say.

            Our food arrives. Fish, rice, miso soup and daikon salad.

            ‘It must be difficult to learn the lines,’ she says, ‘I know I wouldn’t remember.’

            ‘I’m lucky,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a photographic memory for the things I’ve heard.’

            She laughs, thinking I must be joking. I look down at the chopsticks in my hand.

            ‘Who is this, please? Kenji Yamamoto. I’m sorry, this isn’t my phone. No, it’s mine. Where did you find it? On a train approaching Takatsuki-shi. Oh dear. Don’t worry, I’m getting off. There’s no need. There. I’m off the train. Where should I meet you?’

            I risk a glance. She’s smiling.

            ‘You mustn’t go to any trouble. No trouble, I’d like to think someone would do the same for me… Shall I go on?’ I ask.

            ‘There’s no need,’ she says, ‘I believe you.’

            ‘You can ask me in a year’s time,’ I say. ‘I’ll still remember.’

            ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ she says, ‘but I think you have something of the genius about you.’

            ‘I wish that were true,’ I say.

            ‘You must have done very well at school.’

            ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘In fact I did very badly. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.’

            I make a hammering motion with my hand and grin to let her know I don’t mind.

            ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she says.

            ‘It’s not important,’ I say.

            I want to tell her that I remember the words because of the images they generate behind my eyes. That bad words form images in front of my eyes and these sometimes get in the way.

            I want to tell her that her words are like cherry-blossom rain and that her name, when spoken aloud, sets off a shower of silver-stars that burst like fireworks.

            I want to tell her I feel like I’ve known her all my life. That I think it might be fate.

            I want to tell her so many things but I’m thinking now may not be the time. I wouldn’t want to scare her.

            Instead we talk about how excited she is about the trip she’s planning to take with her family to Karuizawa, about her younger brother’s crazy tennis obsession and about how sad she felt when her cat had to be put down. And all the time I’m thinking how sweet she is and how much I’d like to kiss her and wondering if, perhaps, she feels the same way about me.

            And suddenly we’ve finished eating. I ask if she wants desert, but she doesn’t and I pay the bill.

            ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘I have enjoyed talking to you very much.’

            ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘for returning my phone and for the meal.’

            ‘Perhaps we can do it again some time?’ I say.

            ‘Yes,’ she says.

            She is not answering me. She is answering her phone.

            ‘Yes. Okay, I won’t be long. Okay. I love you too. Goodbye.’

            She smiles apologetically.

            ‘I’m sorry, Mr Yamamoto,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid I have to hurry. My fiancé has finished work earlier than expected and wants me to meet him.’

            ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s been lovely, Miss Nakamura, a genuine pleasure.’

            Outside the restaurant we are strangers, setting off in opposite directions.

            I walk.

            To say that I barely notice where I’m going would be a cliché. And a lie. The truth is I am more aware of my surroundings than usual. All the small things, the tiny details. Neon. Heat rising from the tarmac. The harsh florescent lighting inside the pachinko parlour, crazy clatter of the balls and the smell of cigarette smoke.

            The derelict, raiding the trash-cans in the dark side-alley. Seeing me looking, he turns away.

            The girl at the bus stop, too busy looking for answers in her mobile phone to notice me.

            The salary-man, stumbling drunk from the snack-bar, arms round the hostess’ waist, hailing a taxi to take him home to his wife, high-pitched laughter. I have to stop dead to avoid crashing into him.

            And so I walk.

            Away from the centre of the city, out to the suburbs and into the night. The electric buzzing of the cicadas. A yellow moon hanging low and full over a field of sunflowers. After that, the river and a bridge where I sit. Watch the warm sun coming up. Another cliché.

            Ai Nakamura.

            I replay our conversation in my mind, best bits on repeat.

            ‘You’re better looking than Takeshi…’

            Ai Nakamura.

            Her name whispered in my heart like a sigh and I watch the sparks fall and vanish into the water.

            Ai Nakamura.

            It makes no sense to fall in love with someone I’ve known for so short a time but as I sit and consider I realise it couldn’t have been any other way. Her words betrayed her and I know her completely.

            Ai Nakamura.

            Until this moment, this feeling, I never believed in love. Love and loss. Like flying and falling at the same time.

            Ai Nakamura.

            On the wall of the bridge I stand. Deep breath and then leap into the sunlight. I am flying. Then, finally, the moment of impact.

            The water is cool. For a time I just float, squinting up at the sun. Then I lower my face and breathe. It requires determination, drowning, deliberately filling your lungs with water. Every instinct cries out against it. It hurts. And I am afraid. Not of dying, but of what people will say.

            Ai Nakamura.

            They’ll say she could have been anyone. Another lie and to live without her would be to come to believe it. A different kind of death.

            I am expecting the light to slowly fade, but it doesn’t. A pattern of rough, criss-cross lines appears in front of my eyes, rusty red, like blood. Like blinds snapped shut in front of an open window. I panic. I don’t want to die alone.

            And then I am on the outside, looking in. I see the man, floating in the water, the train racing by, a fleeting glimpse of the pale face of a foreign girl at the window.

            And I’m thinking, in that moment, the girl on the train understood.