Dance Dance Dance

36

May drifted past, slow as clouds. It had been two and a half months since I'd worked. Fewer and fewer work calls came in. The trade was gradually forgetting about me. To be sure, no work, no money coming in, but I still had plenty in my account. I didn't lead an expensive life. I did my own cook­ing and washing, didn't spend a lot. No loans, no fancy tastes in clothes or cars. So for the time being, money was no problem. I calculated my monthly expenses, divided it into my bank balance, and figured I had another five months or so. Something would come of this wait-and-see. And if it didn't, well, I could think it over then. Besides, Makimura's check for three hundred thousand yen still graced my desk­top. No, I wasn't going to starve.

All I had to do was keep things at a steady pace and be patient. I went to the pool several times a week, did the shopping, fixed meals. Evenings, I listened to records or

read.

I began going to the library, leafing through the bound editions of newspapers, reading every murder case of the last few months. Female victims only. Shocking, the number of women murdered in the world. Stabbings, beatings, stranglings. No mention of anyone resembling Kiki. No body resembling Kiki, in any case. Sure, there were ways to

dispose of a body. Weight it down and throw it in the sea. Haul it up into the hills and bury it. Just like I'd buried Kip­per. Nobody would ever find him.

Maybe it was an accident? Maybe she'd gotten run over, like Dick North. I checked the obituaries for accident vic­tims. Women victims. Again, a lot of accidents that killed a lot of women. Automobiles, fires, gas. Still no Kiki.

Suicides? Heart attacks? The papers didn't seem inter­ested. The world was full of ways to die, too many to cover. Newsworthy deaths had to be exceptional. Most people go unobserved.

So anything was possible. I had no evidence that Kiki was dead, no evidence that she was alive.

I called Yuki now and then. But always, when I asked how she was, the answer was noncommital.

«Not good, not bad. Nothing much.»

«And your mother?»

«She's taking it easy, not working a lot. She sits around all day, kind of out of it.»

«Anything I can do? The shopping or something?»

«The maid does the shopping, so we're okay. The store delivers. Mama and I are just spacing out. It's like ... up here, time's standing still. Is time really passing?»

«Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.»

Yuki let that pass.

«You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor,» I said.

«Oh really?»

«Oh really?»

«What's with you?»

«What's with you?»

«Stop mimicking me.»

«Who's mimicking you? I'm just a mental echo, a figment

of your imagination. A rebound to demonstrate the fullness of our conversation.»

«Dumb as usual,» said Yuki. «You're acting like a child.»

«Not so. I'm solid with deep inner reflection and prag­matic spirit. I'm echo as metaphor. The game is the message. This is of a different order than child's play.»

«Hmph, nonsense.»

«Hmph, nonsense.»

«Quit it. I mean it!» yelled Yuki.

«Okay, quits,» I said. «Let's take it again from the top. You don't sound like you have much vim and vigor, Yuki.»

She let out a sigh. «Okay, maybe not. When I'm with Mama ... I end up with one of her moods. It's like she has this power over how I feel. All she ever thinks about is her­self. She never thinks about anyone else. That's what makes her so strong. You know what I mean. You've seen it. You just get all wrapped up in it. So when she's feeling down, I feel down. When she's up, I'm up.»

I heard the flicking of a lighter.

«Maybe I could come up and visit you,» I said.

«Could you?»

«Tomorrow all right?»

«Great,» said Yuki. «I feel better already.»

«I'm glad.»

«I'm glad.»

«Stop it.»

«Stop it.»

«Tomorrow then,» I said and hung up before she could say it.

Ame was indeed «kind of out of it.» She sat on the sofa, legs neatly crossed, gazing blankly at a photography maga­zine on her lap. She was a scene out of an impressionist painting. The window was open, but not a breeze stirred the curtains or pages. She looked up ever so slightly and smiled when I entered the room. The very air seemed to vibrate

around her smile. Then she raised a slender finger a scan five centimeters and motioned for me to sit down on the chair opposite. The maid brought us tea.

«I delivered the suitcase to Dick's house,» I said. «Did you meet his wife?» Ame asked. «No, I just handed it over to the man who came to the door.»

«Thank you.» «Not at all.»

She closed her eyes and put her hands together in front of her face. Then she opened her eyes again and looked around the room. There was only the two of us. I lifted my cup and sipped my tea.

Ame wasn't wearing her usual denim shirt. She had on a white lace blouse and a pale green skirt. Her hair was neatly brushed, her mouth freshened with lipstick. Her usual vital­ity had been replaced by a fragility that enveloped her like mist. A perfumed atmosphere that wavered on evaporation. Ame's beauty was wholly unlike Yuki's. It was the chromatic opposite, a beauty of experience. She had a firm grasp on it, knew how to use it, whereas Yuki's beauty was without pur­pose, undirected, unsure. Appreciating an attractive middle-aged woman is one of the great luxuries in life.

«Why is it . . . ?» Ame wondered aloud, her words trail­ing off. I waited for her to continue.

«. . . why is it,» she picked up again, «I'm so depressed?»

«Someone close to you has died. It's only natural that you feel this way,» I said.

«I suppose,» she said weakly.

«Still—»

Ame looked me in the face, then shook her head. «You're not stupid. You know what I want to say.»

«That it shouldn't be such a shock to you? Is that it?»

«Yes, well, something like that.»

That even if he wasn't such a great man. Even if he wasn't so talented. Still he was true. He fulfilled his duties nobly, excellently. He forfeited what he treasured and

worked hard to attain, then he died. It was only after his death that his worth became apparent. I wanted to say that—but didn't. Some things I can't bring myself to utter.

«Why is it?» she addressed a point in space. «Why is it all my men end up like this? Why do they all go in strange ways? Why do they always leave me? Why can't I get things right?»

I stared at the lace collar of her blouse. It looked like pristinely scrubbed folds of tissue, the bleached entrails of a rare organism. A subtle shaft of smoke rose from her Salem in the ashtray, merging into a dust of silence.

Yuki reappeared, her clothes changed, and indicated that she wanted to leave. I got up and told Ame we were going out for a bit.

Ame wasn't listening. Yuki shouted, «Mother, we're going out now,» but Ame scarcely nodded as she lit another cigarette.

We left Ame sitting on the sofa motionless. The house was still haunted by Dick North's presence. Dick North was still inside me as well. I remembered his smile, his surprised look when I asked if he used his feet to slice bread.

Interesting man. He'd come more alive since his death.