I Am a Japanese Writer

THE FINAL LEAP

A SHARP NOISE awoke me in the middle of the night. The window was open. The sound of the wind. I ran to see what was happening. Noriko, stretched out on the sidewalk, was lying in a pool of blood. On the table, she’d left a letter for her mother in a stamped envelope — so she had planned her suicide by coming here. She bequeathed her earrings to Midori and, in an angry scribble, wrote these words: A song for Midori. She could have been carrying this letter for days or weeks, seeking a reason to kill herself. Or a place to do it. We didn’t know each other. Our paths crossed. She didn’t want to get the other girls involved, or burden Midori’s conscience. But nor did she want to do it in some unconnected place that would deprive her death of any link to the group. By killing herself in my house, she sent a message to her girlfriends. Why had she made love to me? Her last time. Was that the real message she sent Midori? To make love to a man was taboo in her group. Noriko transgressed at the last possible moment. A final doubt: was it really a transgression? Maybe she’d imagined she was making love to Midori. But she knew very well I wasn’t Midori. Maybe, but I didn’t know she was Noriko. Look at it from another point of view. In the exchange, Noriko is me. And the Noriko on top of me was none other than Midori. That’s how she pictured the love scene. In the bathtub, with Midori on her. She would keep her eyes closed, too fearful of Midori’s gaze. It would have paralyzed her. She finally united with Midori. Just before the final leap.