Читать книгу ME: A Novel - Tomoyuki Hoshino - Страница 4

Chapter 1

Deception

I stole the cell phone on nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment whim, without any sense of wanting to do anything with it. The man sitting next to me at the McDonald’s counter had absentmindedly laid the dark-blue device on the left side of my tray, which I had pushed so far in his direction that he apparently took it for his own. I hadn’t even seen it until I started to get up. As I took out my Walkman earbuds, I glanced at him. He was dressed in a suit, with his back to me, jabbering away at what appeared to be two subordinates seated farther down. He struck me as a total bore.

“That’s why I don’t use those eco-bags. Mind you, I admire whoever it was that came up with the idea, but not the jerks who go out and get one as soon as they see other people parading around with them . . . Like you . . .” He said this as he pointed down to the feet of one of his listeners. “You and me, we’re in the marketing business. We’re the ones who should be doing the parading, not the other way around, which is strictly for losers. Do you get that? Because that’s the trick of our trade. If it’s eco-bags, we should get people to want more and more of them. Of course, there’s nothing at all ‘ecological’ about the things. With so many out there, they become just another kind of garbage. Come to think of it, if you take it all to its logical extreme, the most environmentally friendly thing you can do is eat shit. There’s even a bug that does just that—a dung beetle or something . . . So what do you call the shit of a shit-eating beetle? See what I mean? Putting off a dump feels good, doesn’t it? I sometimes wait as long as possible. Hey, now that’s ecological!”

I picked up my tray with the cell phone still on it, stood up, and left.

Working at Megaton, the volume-sales electrical appliance store, I had Mondays and Thursdays off. On Thursdays I would brunch at McDonald’s.

After I walked out, I went up to Tenichi Books on the third floor of the Hiyoshi Station Building, where I leisurely leafed through photography magazines before going off to a convenience store nearby to buy a dinner box. I then took the twenty-minute walk back to my apartment, where I emptied my pockets on the top of the quilted foot warmer. It was then I remembered that I had swiped the cell phone.

What a hassle! I thought, grumbling to myself. Why the hell did I walk off with the damn thing in the first place? I was contemplating how I would throw it away, when I happened to peek at the latest message:

Okay, Daiki. We’ll start off at 5,000 yen per person, and then we can adjust the amount up or down, according to individual circumstances. You or I can give him the money in advance when we go to the hospital. Later we’ll provide the account number for bank transfers.

I went back over the history of the e-mail exchanges. A former school buddy had been responsible for an automobile collision while driving under the influence, resulting in serious injury to his fiancée, who was riding with him. Under the circumstances, the insurance wouldn’t come close to covering what he’d have to fork out, so his friends were rallying round to provide some support.

It occurred to me that I really couldn’t ditch the cell phone without pulling off some sort of prank, so as a return message I tapped in: Go ahead and pay the money. Right now I’m holding back on a big turd. It feels fantastic!

But then I thought that actually sending it would be much too stupid and so abandoned the idea. I snapped the cell phone shut, resolving to throw it away after all, when suddenly it began to vibrate. On the screen I could see: Mother. It was a call, not an e-mail. Needless to say, I didn’t respond, but when the vibrations stopped, I checked the log, found that she had left a message, and listened to it.

“Ah, Dai-chan. This is your mother. A postcard has come from your high school about a reunion. If you need it, I’ll forward it to you, but you might consider coming home once in a while. Please return this call.”

My first reaction was to feel a modicum of sympathy for this Daiki fellow, stuck with a mother who could work herself into a tizzy over some class-reunion postcard and then order him to pay her a visit. His fondness for holding back on his bowel movements struck me as a good indication of how overprotective and meddlesome she must have been while bringing him up. But then I thought that he might have been so unfilial that in desperation she had used the card simply as an excuse. Okay, I said to myself, I’ll send the turd e-mail to her instead.

I looked for her address in the family folder but could only find a ten-digit number beginning with area code 048. Only his sister’s home and cell numbers were listed, suggesting that the mother had no cell phone of her own.

I was disappointed at not being able to send a message to “Mother”; I had wanted to add a little joy to her life. There was nothing else to be done: I’d simply call her.

I practiced imitating the voice and tone of the McDonald’s man: “Hey, it’s me, Daiki. Look, I’m sooo sorry! I couldn’t pick up because I was in the middle of postponing a major drop.”

I was surprised at how authentic I sounded and so carried on with my monologue. Just then the cell phone started vibrating again. It was Mother.

At the end of all my dithering, it seemed to me that swiping the cell phone was all part of some karmic plan. Okay, I said to myself, I’m Daiki. So let’s do it! I pushed the answer button.

Before I could speak, I heard Mother say: “Ah, Daiki? It’s your mother. Did you get the message I just left? You’ve got to let them know by May 7 whether you’ll be attending or not. Please come pick up the card. It’s been over six months. You weren’t even here for New Year’s. You might, just occasionally, want to show your face around here.” She was going full-tilt, without even pausing to catch her breath. I was reminded of how Daiki had browbeaten his underlings.

“I want to go see you. Really, I do. But I’m so busy all the time. I can’t budge. They won’t give me time off, my stomach’s giving me trouble, and I always feel exhausted.”

I was on edge, worried that she’d smell a rat. I was prepared to resort to the standard line—if she remarked that my voice sounded strange—that I had a cold. But she seemed to be quite without suspicion.

“Oh dear. So you’re having health problems again? I’m afraid you’re as frail as your father was. I keep telling you that you really must take better care of yourself. And that means coming back home more often. Don’t work so hard—and stick to your vegetables.”

“Oh, I so much want to do everything you say. And I’m totally sick of eating at McDonald’s. I just want to go home and eat some of my old lady’s home-cooked stew.”

“Old lady? Since when have you started calling your mother my old lady? It’s so, well, so outmoded. It makes me feel hopelessly over-the-hill. I don’t care if you talk that way about me with your sister, but I won’t have you referring to me that way to my face.”

I was wiping away cold sweat as I tried to cover up my gaffe. “Hey, I’m sorry! It just slipped out! All sorts of things have been going badly for me. I just threw it out there. I promise I’ll refer to you properly from now on, Mother.”

“What’s been going badly? Your job? You and Mamiko-chan are getting along all right, aren’t you? I feel completely in the dark. You really need to come here soon and talk things over. Is something wrong?”

I was about to get back into turd talk but then thought it a dumb idea and instead took another gambit. “It’s something I’d rather not talk about.”

“What? Now you’ve got me fretting. Something you can’t tell me?”

“It’s not that I can’t . . . I don’t want you to worry.”

“Talk like that makes me worry even more!”

“Ahh, I’ve made a real mess of things. I really didn’t want to burden you with this.” Having dragged out the exchange, I suddenly blurted out, quite off the cuff: “I’ve piled up some debts.”

I was blown away by my own words. I had spoken in a subdued, somber tone, my voice weak, as though petrified by the very idea (me? in debt?). It was quite a performance. Mother’s dismayed reaction was only to be expected.

“Oh dear!” she sighed with an air of fatigue. She was silent for a moment and then asked in a thin, strained voice: “How much?”

“Well . . .” I started to say, only to find myself at a loss. What was I waiting for?

“Well, how much?” she repeated.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Never mind. Forget it. I’m all right.”

“How much?”

I had now gone too far to back away. I had to brace myself for telling her “the truth,” but would I be able to create the right atmosphere for leveling with her?

“Two million yen,” I muttered as though to myself.

She sighed deeply. I had come up with the right amount. Now I had to think of what had made me borrow it.

“And the interest?”

Not having thought of that, I was momentarily thrown off. “Uh, there isn’t any,” I said falteringly. “That’s at least one thing I don’t have to worry about.”

“It’s not a consumer-credit loan?”

“No, no. It’s like this: Some time ago I caused a horrible accident while driving a friend’s car. We were both drunk, so there was no insurance to cover it. I went around borrowing money from other friends. I’m paying it back little by little, but I feel really bad about it, and things have gotten a bit rocky with them. I want to return the money as soon as possible, so I’m moonlighting, and that’s leaving me exhausted, you know, like totally frazzled.”

“An accident? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m better now, though I’m still having some trouble walking.”

“What about your friend?”

“He’s okay. His car was more banged up than he was.”

She took another deep sigh. “If you needed that kind of money, you should have come to your mother,” she said grimly. “But at least you borrowed it from friends. The thought that you might have done what your father did and found yourself indebted to loan sharks was already giving me angina. What worries me the most is the feeling that you’ll follow in his footsteps—right over the edge.”

Having come this far, I now understood why in the cell phone contacts there wasn’t an entry for Father. “Please don’t be so morbid!”

“But I really am worried. If you’re in such a pickle, I suppose I should do what I can. But, of course, if I lend you money, you’ll have to pay it all back fair and square.”

“You’d really be helping me out. And I genuinely appreciate your concern. Though I want to cope with my problems as best I can—on my own.”

“But you’ve clearly dug yourself into an awful hole. Honestly, if you’re going to be in debt anyway, I’d feel much better if you’d turn to me.”

“Well, now that you put it that way . . .”

“Are you still hiding something from me? Are you sure you’re not saddled with something else? There’s something fishy about this.”

What she found fishy may have come from the fact that she was talking to a phony. I felt a pang of guilt. Not wanting to disappoint Mother, I knew I had to provide her with a more convincing scent of reality. As strange as it may sound, I now had for the first time a perverse sense of mission: to favor her by taking her money.

“Yes, I suppose I really am in a bind. To tell you the brutal truth, one lender friend was fired when the police nailed him for marijuana. So now he’s hard up himself, with rent payments and such. I’ve got to get him a million yen by tomorrow. The fact is, I’m feeling so desperate that I’m thinking of going to the loan sharks after all. There’s nothing else to do.”

“What?” She fell silent. I pictured her falling into a deep abyss. “By tomorrow?” she finally said.

“If possible, by today.”

“Give me your bank account number.”

“Uh, it might actually be better to deposit the money directly to my friend’s account.”

“One million will do?”

“I’ve got 100,000 yen on hand myself. So another 900,000 would get me by.”

“I’ll put in a million. You can use what you’ve got to come home.”

“No, I’ve scraped together enough to return 100,000, so all I need right now is the 900,000. If I give him too much, he may ask for more. And I’m in no position to refuse.”

“Fine. So give me his account number.”

I gave her my own. I felt that I’d been taken for a ride—with me as the driver. Providing my real name was a very bad idea. I warned myself that everything was sure to immediately unravel and that I’d soon be caught. I’d been tearing along without thinking and now couldn’t stop.

I swear that my original intention had been to pull some sort of harmless prank. I wanted to comfort Mother in her loneliness. Just for minor amusement. But the words kept coming out, and one thing had led to another.

And yet at some point the joke had turned real, and I missed the point of no return.

Before hanging up, she asked once more: “Are you sure it isn’t a consumer-credit loan?”

“I swear it isn’t,” I replied.

Even when the conversation was over, the sense of not being myself lingered. Feeling removed from my normal reality, like a cat in a strange house, I kept waiting for another call from Mother. She would be sure to call after making the deposit. I should have been worried that she’d call “my” older sister or that Daiki would realize that his cell phone was missing and have the service suspended. Instead I thought: Well, if I’m caught for stupidly giving out my own name and number, so be it. And so, in no mood to do anything, I idly turned on the television. Five minutes later I was dozing off.

* * *

The cell phone began vibrating again. An hour had passed. For a moment I panicked, thinking that I was at work, having fallen sound asleep during a break. When I realized I was in my own apartment, I felt that I had been caught in some sort of delusion.

Mother told me that she had transferred the money, adding: “The bank teller asked me, when I told him the amount, whether I might be the victim of remittance fraud. I had quite a fright.”

I was the one who now had quite a fright. Could she be on to me? “What did you say?”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes, it does. Because I feel that I really am engaged in some sort of scam in asking for your help.”

“I sense that you’re still holding back something from me. Perhaps that’s why you think you’re doing something fraudulent.”

“I keep telling you that I don’t owe money to any loan sharks.”

“So please show your face around here and explain yourself as you should.”

“Fine, I understand. I’ll try to get over there next weekend. I’ll be in touch.”

“Call me tomorrow. Make sure you actually do. I want to know whether this will really tide you over.”

I immediately got on my bike, pedaled to a nearby ATM, and withdrew 900,000 yen. I still had 214,307 yen left. There was no sign that I was on the verge of arrest. I thought about calling Mother to thank her once again but then realized I might be digging my own grave even deeper.

I went back to my apartment, pausing by an open drain. I switched off the cell phone. As I carefully removed any fingerprints with the edge of my shirt, it occurred to me that since my account number was already known, this was a meaningless precaution. I felt like a dog that tries to paw sand over its scat after taking a dump on a paved street. I smiled wryly to myself.

I noted that in all the time since I had swiped the phone, the only messages to Daiki had been from his mother. What a lonely bastard, I thought, but then reconsidered, remembering that on a weekday he’d be at work anyway. So perhaps he wasn’t so forlorn after all. Might not the one messing with the supposedly lonesome dude’s cell phone be, in fact, the real loser? For a moment I felt faint, questioning my own existence. I hastily made sure that there was no one else around, then broke the cell phone in half and threw the pieces into the water. In doing so, I had the distinct sensation of having regained my true self. Humming to myself, I returned home.

* * *

I took the envelope containing the cash from my pocket. Once again I had the feeling of having let myself be cornered. What, I brooded, was I supposed to do with my ill-gotten gains? Should I buy a high-priced, full-size, single-lens reflex digital camera? Knowing how little I had in the way of savings, should I first give consideration to living expenses? Or should I be a spendthrift and blow some big-time money on a fun evening? But that would mean nothing more than a more upscale form of licentious entertainment than was my wont. At least if I had a girlfriend, I could buy her a present. Though if I really did have a girlfriend, I’d probably screw it all up by giving her the wrong thing and causing her all sorts of embarrassment. I guess I could always do penance for my misdeed by giving some money to a charitable cause.

But no matter how I thought about spending it, a sense of meaninglessness lingered. It occurred to me that if I threw the bills into the drain, just as I had done with the cell phone, I’d feel a lot better. Or, to put off getting busted, at least for a while, I could move. Life on the lam would probably cost me all that I had stolen. Meaningless money pointlessly spent . . . Not a bad idea, I thought. But finding a new place to live would itself be a hassle.

Even thinking about it was becoming irksome. I put 50,000 yen in my wallet and tucked the rest into my underwear drawer. I decided to put the matter to rest and simply forget about it. And that’s exactly what I did—until three days later, when things turned weird.

* * *

That Sunday at work on the sales floor I got into a confrontation with Tajima, the supervisor, and was then royally chewed out by the store manager. Tajima had come in just before me when I was hired as a contract employee; from the very beginning we hadn’t gotten along. When after three years I was deemed reliable and hired as a regular staff member, Tajima had been the lone dissenter.

He must having been waiting that day to pounce on me for something. The elderly lady I was serving wanted the simplest sort of digital camera, so that she could take photos of her great-grandchild. I had recommended to her the easiest-to-use model, with the least likelihood of photographic failure. As it happened, there were no other customers around, so when she said that she wouldn’t be able to remember it all, I wrote down for her the basic operations for taking snapshots. All the time she was telling me about her son and his grandchild, her great-grandson, saying that even though her son and grandson kept promising to send baby photos, they hadn’t, thus obliging her to buy a camera, so that she could have her own. She expressed amazement at having lived so long as to see her own great-grandchild. It seemed, she said, only yesterday that she was holding her grandson in her arms, and now he was himself a father. It felt quite unreal to her. She was speaking loudly, as though hard of hearing.

Picking up on our chat, Tajima stepped over and called me into a corner. “Going overboard in pampering customers,” he said softly, “is not good for business. Ring up the sale and send her packing.”

“Yes,” I replied in the same half-whisper. “I could understand your concern if I were neglecting other customers, but there aren’t any. So why are you getting on my case?”

“Are you blind?” He glared at me with contempt as he pointed to several new arrivals at the counter. Then he sputtered: “If you’re going to act like a contract worker, then go back to being one.”

“Why don’t you put in for a transfer?” I countered. “After all, you’re alone in the world.”

Tajima had the habit of licking his lips when he lost his temper. He looked at me for a moment without a word, then erupted again: “You’re not cut out for this kind of work! You really should go back to being on contract, so that you can chase your dream of becoming a photographer and die like the lowlife bum you are!”

I pretended to look dejected and edged toward him with my head bowed.

“Get back to work!” he barked, and at that moment I shot my head up straight, leaving me slightly below Tajima. My intention had been to bump him on the chin, but I hadn’t moved in close enough, so instead I got his nose. There was a soft popping sound as he covered his nostrils. When the nearby customers turned toward us, he removed his hand to reveal dribbling blood.

It was all the worse that we were on the sales floor. The few Sunday customers set off quite a commotion, with someone threatening to call the police. And that was what brought the store manager’s wrath down on me, though I suppose it was also he who kept Tajima from pressing charges, knowing that it had been a private argument.

* * *

It was after ten when we left work. Looking forward to being off the next day, Yasokichi, a drinking buddy my age, and Minami-san, who had his own issues with Tajima, proposed that we head for a pub.

“Well done!” exclaimed Minami-san, as we raised our glasses. “But what did he do to so piss you off so bad?”

I gave him a rundown of what had happened.

“Nagano-kun, do you really want to be a photographer?” he asked, completely missing the point.

“You pushed the wrong button,” chimed in Yasokichi knowingly. “That’s what made him go off the rails.”

“No, I’m not that touchy . . . What pissed me off was hearing about it from Tajima . . .”

“But you even get annoyed when I mention it!” Yasokichi grumbled.

“So what are you aiming for anyway?” Minami-san asked.

“Pushing buttons,” said Yasokichi, pointing to me, “is what got him into a fight with his old man—and caused him to move out.”

“I didn’t simply ‘move out.’ I wanted to be independent, on my own. Don’t put words in my mouth!”

“Hitoshi here seems to have a propensity for rubbing people the wrong way.”

“After graduating from photography school, I looked for work but got rejected at every turn. So I wound up as a job-hopping part-timer. My old man kept bugging me about getting a ‘real’ job, and things grew increasingly tense between us. And that’s why I ended up living alone.”

“But then you became a full-timer anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“So are you back in your father’s good graces?”

I shook my head without saying anything, and the three of us fell silent for a moment.

“It’s a delicate issue and hard to explain. I don’t understand it myself.”

“I’ll come out and say it: you still want to be a photographer. So Tajima deliberately provokes you—”

“No way. I’ve given up on it all. The fact that I even had that dream still causes me a lot of pain. When I was young my father got transferred a lot, so I went from school to school without ever fitting in anywhere. My parents got worried and tried to find a hobby that might interest me, so when I entered middle school they gave me a single-lens reflex camera. Back then we were still using film.”

“What was the model?” asked Yasokichi.

“An EOS,” I replied, making no effort to hide my annoyance at the unwelcome question.

“You got an EOS when you entered middle school? Wow, some pampered rich kid you must’ve been!”

“Come on . . . I suppose being an only child I was a bit spoiled, and my parents probably felt guilty since we moved around so much. But I got into it and set up a camera club at school, and that made them happy, and my father in particular seemed proud that I put in the effort to do something I really wanted to do. But then, in my last year of high school, when I explained that instead of going to college I wanted to become a photographer, he hit the roof, saying that very few people can make a living this way, and that I ought to get a degree instead. That’s when things starting going downhill between us.”

“That must have been hard on your father too.”

“He finally caved when my mother said that if I really had my heart set on going to photography school, it might not be such a bad idea for them to fork out the money. But when I couldn’t find employment after I graduated, he lorded it over me with his told-you-so sermonizing, saying that I should have gone to a proper university after all, that it was too late now, and that I would have to make the best of it on my own. I have to admit that I’d let myself be carried away by wishful thinking, and seeing my dream shattered gave me a huge shock. I didn’t know what to do and drifted for a while doing part-time jobs. Still, those questions about getting a real job or thinking seriously about the future were a total pain in the ass, and it ticked me off when my father needled me about it.

Hitoshi, he’d say, you and I are alike in having no outstanding talent and thus we are stuck with having to follow the straight-and-narrow path of white-collardom. But you can’t let yourself be brokenhearted at disappointment. There are all sorts of other dreams you can pursue even while working for a company. For example, I could never have become an automobile designer, but I still find plenty of satisfaction in selling the cars I like.

“He would rattle on like that, but I knew he had no interest whatsoever in cars and detested being a dealer. I remember that once, when he and my mother had gotten into a row, he raged about how he was merely putting up with his job, saying that if he didn’t have a family to support, he’d give it all up and become a ceramist. Instead, he remained a mediocre cog in the sales machine, with no particular achievements to boast of. I got fed up with it all and told him to look in the mirror before starting in on me.”

As I talked, I was putting the beer away big time. I had thought I was drinking because I was in high spirits, but then I realized that my real intention was simply to get sloshed. I didn’t know what it was, but something was causing me unbearable pain.

I’m the type who falls asleep when drunk. Already my eyelids were starting to droop.

“Have you told Tajima any of this?”

“I tried hard to get along with him in the early days, and so I bravely opened up about what was weighing on me.”

“He disliked you even from the beginning.”

“It seems so.”

“Why?”

“I guess I do things that rub people the wrong way,” I said, trying to make a joke at my own expense. When I first appeared on the scene, I had been working part-time at the nearby Yoshinoya. My only source of pleasure was going to the local Megaton and fooling around with the cameras on display. I had resolved to give up on photography and had left my own cameras behind when I bolted out of my parents’ house, yet I remained interested in the latest models and would keep up by checking them out on the Internet and reading specialty magazines. And that made me realize that what I liked was not so much photographs as cameras.

I’d go to Megaton every day and hang around. The employees soon got used to seeing me, and I’d have friendly chats with them, including Tajima. To make up for the fact that I was a customer who never purchased anything, I would pile on a little extra helping when they’d come into Yoshinoya for a bite to eat.

Once a Megaton customer called to me, apparently taking me for an employee. It was, I suppose, an easy mistake to make, as I was casually dressed in navy-blue chinos and a brown jacket, similar to the actual employees. I looked around and, seeing no clerk, offered my assistance. When it came to knowledge of the latest products, I could hold my own against any of the staff and so played my role to perfection, even surprising myself at just how smooth my sales pitch was. The customer clearly had an itch, and I knew just where to scratch. As it happened, he was looking for information rather than an immediate purchase and so, having heard my spiel, left the store quite content.

Another customer had been observing us and then came to me to ask about the most popular models. I instinctively guided him to the top-sellers, explained their strengths and weaknesses, and, when he seemed to waver, asked for what purpose he chiefly intended to use the product. With that matter cleared up, I made a further suggestion and, when he again appeared to vacillate, pushed the hidden pluses of the camera. Finally, for good measure, I added: “Actually, I own and regularly use this one myself—in black—and, to tell you the truth, I’m so comfortable with it that I wouldn’t want any other. But that’s just between you and me.”

And with that I clinched the sale, though now I was in trouble, having, of course, no access to the merchandise. The customer suddenly looked suspicious, when Nakamura, a staff member who knew me, came to my rescue, along with Tajima. And so the purchase went off without a hitch.

Impressed by my prowess, Nakamura told me that I ought to leave Yoshinoya and come to work for Megaton, saying that if I was interested, he’d be happy to put in a good word for me with his superiors. And so I landed an interview. Tajima, suspecting that I had been trying to con the customer out of his money, voiced his skepticism to the hiring committee, but in the end it was Nakamura’s recommendation that won the day.

Reminiscing about it all, I found myself dozing off—slipping from memories to dreams. I was running away from a pursuer. All I remember is feeling relieved at not yet having been caught.

Drifting awake, I heard Minami-san say to Yasokichi: “You need to be more solid, you know, in the hips . . .”

“Are you talking about sumo?” I asked.

“Go back to sleep, Hitoshi,” said Yasokichi.

“Yasokichi’s a lightweight.”

Minami-san’s eyes had also turned glassy. Whenever he got plastered, he’d start in on personal evaluations. “Am I no better than Hitoshi?” he asked Yasokichi.

“Nagano’s heavy. You’re light as a balloon.”

“Am I a balloon?”

“He’s saying I’m solid and sedate?” I piped up.

“Nah. You’re morose. There’s something dicey about you. Yasokichi has a touch of charm—but take away his buoyancy and he could be real trouble. As I say, you’re dicey.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I retorted.

“You see? You make people feel like they have no idea what you’re going to do next.”

“Just because I head-butted Tajima? Well, I only played dirty because Tajima is himself a dirty player. I was just giving him a dose of his own medicine.”

“Yes, you two may be similar.”

“Cut the crap.”

“It’s not crap. You and Tajima are both simple souls: when you’re hurt, you don’t heal. And that makes you dangerous. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, now I can see it too: you two have a lot in common,” Yasokichi affirmed.

“We’re nothing alike!” I snapped.

“Tajima was a fine young man when he first joined the company, with a positive outlook on things. He’s a man of talent and skill who can be plugged in here and there to perform a variety of tasks. But when he feels underappreciated, he gets his back up against the wall. And that’s made him embittered. He takes pride in being the only one who can do this or that, when, in fact, anyone could. And then he feels hurt. So when Nagano came along, the touted camera expert, Tajima couldn’t take it.”

“Minami-san, I thought you suggested we go out for drinks to cheer me up, but now I feel more hounded than ever. I’m going home.”

“Let’s call it a night then. Nagano’s about to get all teary.”

I walked with them as far as the Hiyoshi Station ticket gate. As a parting shot, Minami-san added for good measure, “Don’t let yourself get all worked up about Tajima. If you do, you’ll wind up just like him.”

“I was hurt today,” I replied reproachfully. “And I won’t be getting over it.”

* * *

My spirits remained low when I returned to my apartment. As I put the key in the lock and opened the door, I decided to hit the sack without bothering to shower first. But then I noticed that the light was on in the dining room and was immediately enveloped in tepid air and the smell of cooking. I could hear the sound of the television, and from the other side of the sliding door in front of me came a voice: “Dai-chan? You’re home so late!” A moment later its source stood before me: an elderly woman I had never seen before.

“I’m sorry!” I said, panicking, as I started to back away. “I’m in the wrong place!”

“What are you saying? This is your place, isn’t it? You must be upset at my sudden visit, but you’re the one who’s at fault here, you know. You’ve changed your cell phone number, haven’t you? You should have told me. You promised me you’d call the next day, but then you didn’t, and when I tried to call, I couldn’t get through. And you responded to none of my messages. I thought something must have happened. I was afraid you might have gotten yourself caught up with some loan shark. I almost called the police. But then Kasumi said I should just look for you here. So I dropped everything and came. Now don’t just stand there, come on in!”

I did as I was told and took off my shoes. The silly question I was about to pose—Who the hell are you?—died on my lips. I could tell from her voice and manner of speaking exactly who she was: Daiki’s mother.

But why was she here? Unless she was involved with the police, she had no way of knowing my address. Was it a sting operation? I’d heard of would-be victims of remittance fraud playing along in order to help the police arrest the culprits. But I had given her my own account number, so there was no need for any such charade.

So what was the scam? What sort of scheme was I caught up in?

“Your face tells me you’ve been drinking. Do you need anything to eat? I’ve prepared something simple . . .”

“No thanks,” I answered cautiously, taking my place onstage.

“How are you feeling? Have you been overdoing it?”

“I’m all right.”

“Did you solve that problem involving your friend?”

“Yeah. You came to the rescue all right—and I’m grateful.”

She persisted even as I kept giving her brusque answers. “Dai-chan, are you sure you’re not hiding anything from me?”

She’s closing in on me! I thought, bracing myself. For a moment I contemplated confessing everything and returning all of the money. It occurred to me that if I opened up in that way I might get off the hook. But I hesitated, unable to reply to her question. After an awkward lull in our exchange, I gave up any hope of conning her this way.

“Well, to be honest, I haven’t touched that money yet. So let me give it all back to you.”

“What? Do you mean the story about your friend in trouble was a lie? If so, what was the money for? I really don’t understand. Do you think you can get any old tale past your mother? Don’t be ridiculous! Parents can always see through their children’s shenanigans, and I smelled a rat from the beginning. So tell me what’s going on!”

She was shouting now, stubbornly keeping this charade going. It was irritating and also rather creepy. Here I was more or less leveling with her, so why did she have to drag this out? But was it really a charade? And if not . . . what it would it mean if Daiki’s mother really thought I was him?

It was a horrifying idea. Suddenly I didn’t care about getting arrested; I just wanted out. Get me back to reality! I silently pleaded.

“Okay, okay, I did something stupid. It was just an impulse. I didn’t mean any harm. It just happened . . .” Clinging to that idea, I told her the whole story. I thought that I could somehow reset everything that had happened since I picked up Daiki’s cell phone. I didn’t know that it was already too late.

Mother heard my confession, only to fly into another rage: “Of all the nerve! So you say you’re not my son? Fine. If you want to treat your old mother like a stranger, go right ahead! You’ve been neglecting me all this time anyway. In exchange, I won’t hold back either—I’d been telling myself not to intrude. I was waiting for you to tell me. But I’ve had enough, so I’ll ask you anyway: are you going to marry Mamiko-chan or not?”

I was speechless, having no idea how to reply.

“I see . . . When faced with an inconvenient question, you fall into convenient silence. Very well then, go your merry way. It’s your life. Never mind your mother.”

“It’s . . . it’s not like that.” I barely managed to spit out the words, unnerved at not knowing what Mother would do next.

“Then what is it? Just tell me something.”

“I’ve broken up with Mamiko.”

I’d caught her off-guard. “Oh,” she sighed, looking momentarily dazed.

I felt somewhat relieved. And then my mind began to work. “Actually, the money I borrowed has something to do with that. I made a terrible mess, hurting her and all, and so I wanted to put a little space between us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry, really sorry. Look, what I told you before is true: I was driving my friend’s car with Mamiko and we had an accident. Mamiko was badly hurt.”

“Oh no! How badly hurt?”

“Multiple hip fractures. She’s a lot better now, with no aftereffects. We’d both been drinking, so the insurance barely covered anything. I managed to get some money together, borrowing it from friends. I told Mamiko how sorry I was and tried to take care of her, so that even though there aren’t any bad vibes, it’s somehow not quite right. We feel awkward together, you know, uncomfortable. There’s now a distance between us. We decided not to meet for a while, and then about a month later Mamiko suggested that we call it quits, at least for the time being.”

I was riding high. With my own parents, it occurred to me, I would never have been able to pull this off, but in my role as Daiki I found I had a measure of self-confidence.

“When was that?”

“Nearly six months ago.”

“I see. And all of this has obviously knocked you for a loop.”

“Yes, I’ve had a lot to deal with.”

“But about Mamiko-chan . . . you could have told me. The least I could have done was lend you some money for her hospital treatment. It’s as if we were strangers.”

“No, quite the contrary. I couldn’t speak precisely because I knew you really liked Mamiko and that it would be quite disappointing. I had my hands full just coping with my own state of depression. And Mamiko didn’t want to tell you much about what had happened.”

“Hmmm, so is that what it was?” she said before sighing deeply. “But it’s still too bad.”

“I know, I know. But dwelling on it only makes me feel worse. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Still, time will work things out, won’t it? My feeling is that you just have to wait for the dust to settle, and then everything will be back to normal.”

“That’s all very well, but I can’t work myself into a very hopeful frame of mind.”

“You’re quite the pessimist, aren’t you? You’ve got to try to have a more positive outlook, otherwise you’ll never get back on track. And without Mamiko you may wind up a bachelor for life.”

“That has nothing to do with anything. I’m hurt . . . Is this the kind of talk I get from my mother?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I take it back. You’re right—it’s a separate matter. But really . . . give her some time and she’ll come to her senses.”

I stood there more than a little amazed. What was there for Mamiko to come to her senses about? Mother didn’t seem to be taking in anything that I was telling her. Perhaps she was no better at understanding Daiki, thus leading him to think that he was better off staying away from her.

But I didn’t care. The important thing was for me to leave her satisfied. So I said to her: “I’ll give it some time and then talk to Mamiko.”

“Yes, please do that,” she said cheerily.

I too was happy with that.

“But now it’s late!” she exclaimed, looking at her watch. I checked the time as well on my cell phone. It was already midnight. “Well now, what’s your new number?”

I had no desire to give it to her and thought about reciting a false one. But then I blurted it out anyway, and she wrote it down in her notebook.

“You’re staying over, aren’t you? It’s too late for you to get back tonight.” I did not want her to stay, but there was no alternative. I knew from her telephone prefix, 048, that it must be a Saitama number, as my family home in Kita-Urawa was in the same area.

“Yes, but where can I sleep?”

“Use my bed. I can get by in the kitchen.”

On the tatami mats lay a futon that I never bothered to fold up and put away. I covered it with fresh sheets and gave her my new bathrobe.

“Good night,” I said as I slid the door shut. Fatigue overwhelmed me; I felt that every bolt and screw holding me together was coming loose.

I pushed the kitchen table into a corner and used my down jacket as a makeshift mat, on top of which I spread a towel and then a wool blanket, a cushion serving as my pillow. Having changed into an old bathrobe, I turned off the lights and lay down. I could hear faint sounds from the other room, and then the light went out. Once more we wished each other a good night. And then there was silence.

I was unable to sleep. Dead tired, I wanted to shut down my mind and doze off. But the oppressive presence across the way made that impossible. It was as though a phantom had been swallowed up in the darkness once the door was shut.

In a low voice I turned in her direction and called out: “Mother?” There was no answer. I tried once more, this time a bit louder: “Mother? Are you asleep?” Again there was no response. I got up quietly and cracked open the door slightly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could dimly make out the white shape of the bedding, but it appeared flat, as though no human form were underneath. I inched the door open further and stepped inside. The tatami creaked. I stooped down, brought my face close to the futon, and saw that the quilt was moving ever so slightly up and down. Protruding from under the sheets was a clump of tousled hair. A chill swept through me as I returned to the kitchen.

* * *

I awoke at dawn, having dreamed that I’d emerged from a McDonald’s restroom completely naked below the waist while munching on a Big Mac, furtively attempting to cover myself with my free hand. I went to the toilet and then headed back to sleep, waking every half hour until I sensed that Mother was stirring and put away my improvised bedding. It was nine o’clock.

I fried up some eggs, threw a tea bag into a cup of boiling water, got out the blueberry jam, and made some toast. Mother was impressed.

“My, I’ve reached the age at which you take on the job of preparing breakfast!”

I told her that I had an appointment, and at ten thirty the two of us left. When we got to Hiyoshi Station, I said goodbye and pretended to go into the shopping complex. Once I saw her pass through the ticket gate, I put on a wool cap and spectacles that I had brought along and followed her.

Mother got on the train heading toward Meguro and then on to Urawa-Misono. I sat down in the same car, though at the far end. Mother had put on reading glasses and had her nose in a paperback. Exhausted, I kept myself awake by chewing six or seven pieces of mint gum. The train filled up as we moved into the center of Tokyo, and I stood up.

Mother got off at Araijuku, three stops before Urawa-Misono. I trailed her as she walked to a Sawayaka-Japan, a sprawling supermarket nearby, bought some groceries, and then continued on through a rather bleak residential area. I followed her, endeavoring not to forget the way. There were occasional passersby, darkening my mood all the more with their inevitable stares of bewilderment.

We had been walking for just over ten minutes when at last we came to a shabby apartment complex. A series of gray, three-story concrete buildings, blackened and cracked, stood in parallel rows with flower beds set snugly between them, overgrown with pansies, tulips, and rapeseed blossoms. Mother stopped at the edifice near the center before climbing the stairs to the second floor. I followed. On the nameplate beside the door was written: Hiyama.

My plan had been to verify where she lived and then make myself scarce. Inexplicably, I instead found myself ringing the bell. By the time I thought better of it, it was already too late.

There was no intercom. From the other side of the door came Mother’s delicate voice: “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s me, Daiki!” I shouted. “I forgot my key.”

Opening the door with the chain still in place, she watched me through the gap, a tense look on her face, and asked in a strained voice: “What are you doing here?”

“Well, my friend called off our meeting, so I thought we could spend a bit more time together, if you don’t mind. Anyway, here I am.”

“I see . . . But don’t startle me like this. I’ve just arrived home myself.”

“I must have been on the train just after you.”

I tried to act as though I was familiar with the apartment. The layout was similar to mine, with the dining area immediately off the entrance. Beyond were two small bedrooms. While not a total mess, there were piles of things scattered all over. There was a shabbiness about the place—the consequence, I could understand, of living alone without entertaining any visitors for a long period of time.

I pulled a chair away from the table, sat down, and glanced around the room. Mother was still eyeing me suspiciously as I remarked, “So, it’s been six months?”

“That’s right. You didn’t even come for New Year’s.”

“Sis doesn’t come around much?”

“She was here just after Shō was born, but then she started complaining that it’s too dusty and that the mold is bad for the baby, and finally she stopped coming altogether.”

I could understand why her daughter would think that, but of course I didn’t say so.

“And Daiki, you haven’t even met your nephew. What a terrible uncle you’ve turned out to be! And he’ll soon be eight months old.”

“Eight months . . .”

“Take a look at the photograph,” she said, nodding toward the next room as she started to boil some water. “It’s by the TV. Kasumi sent it to me about a month ago. But I’d rather spend some time with him in the flesh.”

“Why can’t you just visit?”

“Kensuke-san works from home now, so it seems I’d just get in the way. She told me that since Kensuke-san looks after Shō, I should stay home and take it easy.”

As we talked, I went over to the TV, an oversized relic with a relatively small screen. I opened the hinged glass doors of the stand and found a vintage VCR with a tape wedged inside. On the shelf above it were more tapes lying in a heap. Lined up in front of them were three photographs.

One was of a woman holding a baby, his finger pointing toward the camera—no doubt the photo Mother had just mentioned. Next to it was a picture of a man and a woman seated at Mother’s dining table. The woman was clearly the same Kasumi who in the other shot was holding the baby. The man in this photo, however, was not Daiki. It was me.

And the third photo was a family portrait of four people with Tokyo Disneyland in the background. The kid in the middle, staring into the camera with a finger pushing up his nose to imitate a pig, was an eleven- or twelve-year-old me. Standing next to me and whacking me on the head was Kasumi; behind her was a younger version of Mother. I took the tall man next to her to be Father.

“Around the eyes and nose Shō-chan looks so much like Kasumi, doesn’t he?” Mother’s voice brought me back to myself.

“What happened to the album this photo was in?” I asked, holding up the family portrait.

“That’s your department. Remember, you took all the photos except the ones with your father in them. The only album you left behind is that one.”

“May I look for it?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure where it is,” she said, then walked into the next room.

I opened a small built-in closet. The upper tier was packed with more videos: Lovers in Prague, All In, Stairway to Heaven, The Great Jang-geum, Winter Sonata . . . Korean soap operas on parade. My guess was that she had recorded them at triple speed, with three or four episodes on one tape. From the videos piled up on the TV stand, it seemed she watched them religiously.

With some effort I pulled out a large cardboard box, opened it up, and found bundles of tote bags, plastic bags, wrapping paper, advertising flyers, and empty boxes within empty boxes, like Russian nesting dolls.

The lowest tier of the closet was the same. There were broken dishes, old children’s clothes, outmoded women’s clothing, school bags, a dust-covered sewing machine, a sports bag full of old women’s magazines—Fujin no Tomo, Sōen, Mrs.—and old-fashioned handbags. As I pulled out each item, one by one, layers of dust hit my nose, causing me to have a sneezing fit.

The deeper I dug into the junk, the more I felt swallowed up in the past—a past that wasn’t even mine. No longer able to bear the oppressive weight of all the relics, I put them back, shut the closet door, and in a daze I glanced around the room. Reflected now in my listless eyes were the Buddhist altar and the memorial photograph of the father of the family, the black telephone, the huge CD-less radio-cassette player, the square fluorescent light fixture suspended from the ceiling, and the refrigerator, designed with the freezer as an upper compartment. I wondered how long Mother had been buried alive and alone in this place.

“If you’re not going to use any of this stuff, there’s no sense in keeping it,” I observed, as if to shake off the burden of it all. “You should sort through it and throw things away.”

“Perhaps to you it’s useless clutter, but it means a lot to me,” she admonished, reappearing from the other room. “I found this in the bedroom closet,” she added, thrusting a bulky photo album in my face, along with a postcard regarding a class reunion.

It was an old-fashioned album, with hard backing paper, glue grids, and transparent film to hold the photos in place. I leafed through it. It opened with pictures of a baby, held by Mother and Father. They were young, about my current age. The child must have been Kasumi, and her baby photos continued page after page.

“You would constantly complain that it was unfair, that almost all of the pictures were of her, with very few of you,” she said cheerfully.

“But there are too many of her . . .”

“Parents tend to take a lot of pictures of the firstborn. By the time the next one arrives, they’re over it. Besides, they’ve got their hands full as it is. It’s easier to let things drift.”

I flipped to the last page, finding photos of middle- and high-school graduations. “Quite a jump, I see.”

“I think Kasumi might have arranged this album,” she said.

The previous page contained more photos of the family trip to Disneyland, and the pages before that were all the same, depicting Kasumi as a teenager, sometimes with Mother and Father. There were only two shots of me: in one I was with Kasumi, licking an ice-cream cone and flashing my middle finger; the other was blurred, with me wedged between Mother and Father, appearing cross-eyed, my arms tightly folded.

“You would never allow yourself to be photographed normally,” said Mother, pointing at the frame by the television. “We’d ask a passerby to snap a photo of the four of us, and there you’d be, making faces. We’d get strange looks. I felt so humiliated.”

It seemed that even as a kid Daiki had been a real jerk. I thought about how he’d behaved at McDonald’s, but then remembered that the photo in question was not of Daiki—it was of me.

“I’m not in these shots either,” I remarked.

“That’s because you were the cameraman.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s with you? Remember who wanted to demonstrate what a great photographer he was in Disneyland?”

“Fine, if you say so . . .”

“I do say so. You with your various lenses, dragging that heavy bag everywhere . . . Have you forgotten? Is everything all right?”

“I remember, but my memory has faded now that I’ve given up on photography.”

“Remember when your sister said it wasn’t fun going out as a family anymore and then got into a huge fight with you? You kicked her, and she threatened to smash your camera. Your father finally slapped both of you.”

“Yeah, it’s all coming back. I lost it when she said she’d wreck the camera,” I said to play along, anxious to avoid causing any further suspicion.

“All you could think about was the camera, the camera.”

“I bought it with the New Year’s money I’d saved up, right?” I asked, trying to lead her on.

“Your father lent it to you, as I recall. I think you bought the one with your own money after you got into high school.”

“Yeah, that’s it. I put together the money with a boost from what I got when I passed the entrance exam.”

“And before that you’d borrow your father’s. You said you’d become a photographer, since we’d taken so few photos when you were small. You spent most of your allowance on getting film developed. Soon you were better at it than your father. I was proud of you. When he went his way, you developed his memorial photo yourself . . . You’d just entered high school,” she added, gazing at that same photo on the altar. “You made up his album quite nicely. And you took a fine photo of him in his casket. He looks just like he’s sleeping. It’s so good I wanted to show it to him. I treasure it.” She sniffled and then went on: “You had such enormous talent. So when you couldn’t land work in the field, I grew worried. May I say something? Let me . . .” She trailed off.

“What?”

As she sat up straight, I grew even more tense.

“When I badgered you about looking for work, the thing I was most afraid of was that you’d become apathetic. I thought that if you took a job, any job, a path back to photography might somehow open up, but that it wouldn’t if you abandoned everything. That’s why I gave you such a hard spanking.”

Feeling as though I were seasick, I started to stammer out a question, but she interrupted me: “Let me finish. I still fear that you’ll simply drift into lethargy, but I realize now that I was wrong in thinking that merely having work would prevent that. It was a mistake for me not to give you any time to pick up the pieces, and so, feeling cornered in your own home, you had no choice but to leave. I take responsibility. I’ve been wanting to tell you that. I’m not demanding that you return home or anything like that. All I want to say is that I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching. But you’ve never been back, so I haven’t had the chance . . . When I heard that you landed the job in the camera shop, I was so happy . . . Well, I’ve said my piece and feel much better now.”

She stopped speaking and blew her nose. As for me, I was bowled over. I headed to the bathroom and squatted down over the bowl, closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and clenched my fists. With nothing to hold on to, I would fade away. The “me” of me was taking leave; I was on the verge of being snatched away from the reality in which I had spent my entire life. What could I latch onto that would save me? I had no idea. I kept my eyes tightly shut, resisting the force that would tear me away. Breathe from your abdomen, I told myself. I inhaled deeply and held my breath for ten seconds, then exhaled slowly. Yes, this would do the trick.

Feeling somewhat relieved, I exited the bathroom, stood in front of the sink, and stared into the mirror. Again my heart seemed to stop, for even there what I saw was me!

Then I realized that it was only natural for my reflection to be there. I was looking at myself, except that I wasn’t used to myself. I splashed water on my face, as if to wash away the feeling. The smile on her face appeared to have been glued in place with honey.

I returned to the living room. Mother was still leafing through the album, sitting with one knee raised. She turned her head toward me and asked: “Stomach trouble?” She smiled broadly.

This is bad, very bad, I thought to myself. “Oh, my cell phone!” I exclaimed, pretending that it had rung. I looked at the time: it was almost two. “I wonder who’s calling,” I muttered darkly before speaking into the phone. “What! Really? Please understand, I’m in Saitama at the moment . . . Well, that’s a bit inhumane, don’t you think? . . . All right. But in exchange I want a day off some other time. I won’t forget this . . .”

After putting on my one-man show, I reported to Mother that someone on the late shift had called in sick, leaving no one to man the counter. I would have to pinch-hit.

“You’re going to wreck your health if you give in so quickly. An easy mark like you will simply be used, and then when you keel over, that’ll be it. And you’ll get no gratitude.”

In the end I ignored her warning and left the Hiyama residence.

* * *

With noise-canceling headphones in my ears, I withdrew into the primitive world of Argentinian acoustic guitar music and hastened toward the station. I should have been able to remember the way but somehow managed to get lost: after failing to locate the supermarket, I eventually came to a broad river. I crossed the bridge and continued walking uncertainly.

Some ninety minutes later I reached Warabi Station. There, I inexplicably went the wrong way again, this time on a train headed toward Ōmiya. On the brink of tears, I suddenly realized that I was within two stations of Kita-Urawa.

I nearly tripped down the stairs after disembarking there. Pausing on the landing to get my bearings, I grew terribly hungry and I went into the McDonald’s in front of the station and gobbled down a Quarter Pounder with cheese, a Teriyaki Burger, and a salad. Sipping my vegetable juice, I imagined my old lady stiffening at the sight of me. I thought about her personality and further imagined that rather than receive a warm welcome, I was more likely to be on the receiving end of her wrath. (What would it be like if you paid a visit to your family home? Don’t you want to see it, the real thing? Head there and you’ll finally be back to normal, won’t you?)

Once I started this soliloquy, there was nothing else to do. I couldn’t help myself. Instead of getting off at Minami-Urawa, I continued on.

I hadn’t been home in quite some time, and that was because I didn’t want to see my father. At first that had been out of pride and stubbornness; now it was simply ingrained habit. My mother had pleaded with me to visit during the week, when he was out of the house, but for the last two years I had relied on various excuses to put her off. Somehow it had simply become too much trouble.

It occurred to me that I shouldn’t just show up without any warning, so I tried calling my mother’s cell phone. I got the answering machine and hung up without a word. Then I decided that sending a text message would merely pour oil on the fire.

I was vacillating, fretting about what to do. What would happen if I showed up to apologize and found my father there? Disgusted with myself, I let my head fall to the table.

It seemed that lack of sleep was catching up with me, for I quickly nodded off. When I awoke, I glanced down at my cell phone and saw that it was nearly six—dinnertime. My father was bound to be at home. My timing was completely off.

What a fool I was! I didn’t even have the guts to visit my own home . . . So this is what your life’s become, I told myself.

Churning over bitter thoughts, I resolved to go back to my apartment. As I disposed of my meal, I remembered when I had stolen Daiki’s cell phone and considered his phrase, holding back on a big turd. I went to the toilet, took a shit, washed my hands, looked in the mirror, and then immediately regretted having done so. I was so sick of that face. It was me and yet had nothing to do with me. I ran my wet hands roughly through my hair, stepped out of the restroom, and left the McDonald’s. Instead of crossing the street and heading to the station, I turned toward my parents’ residence.

With each step as I drew closer to my own home, I grew ever more tense, surrounded by others leaving work. I barely paid attention to the changes in the shops and houses that had happened during my absence.

At the house, three doors down from a famous and prestigious high school, the lights were on. I looked at the nameplate: Nagano. In the garage was our reliable old white Toyota Mark II. There were always quinces in front of the entrance this time of year, with red and pink blossoms. Still visible on the front door was the character for Hitoshi, which as a child I had scratched in with a nail. I felt some sort of toxin draining from me. My nerves were recovering from their paralysis. My goodness, I said to myself with a beaming smile on my face as I rang the bell, what sort of nonsense has all this been?

“Yes, who is it?” came the bold voice of my old lady.

“It’s meee, Hitoooshi,” I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster, putting my face right up to the intercom camera.

“You again! Look! Enough is enough!”

I was flummoxed by her reaction. “Are you being serious? All right, fine, so I haven’t been back for a while—I’m sorry. I trust you’ll forgive me.”

I was trying to brush off what had just occurred. I moved my face even nearer to the camera but then stepped back, realizing that I might be too close for her to recognize me.

“Please leave! Go home! If you don’t, you’ll face the consequences, the same as last time.” The tone of her voice clearly suggested she meant business.

“But I have come home. Where else am I supposed to go? I can understand if you’re angry that I’ve been out of touch for ages, and that I’ve shown up without calling ahead of time. And I apologize for that. I’m genuinely sorry.”

I bowed my head in front of the security camera with utmost seriousness.

“Just go away, whoever you are!”

“What are you saying? Are you disowning me? Is that what you’re doing? You could at least speak to me.”

“You really haven’t learned your lesson, have you?”

“I have learned my lesson. And I’ve said I’m sorry. Anyway, open the door, I’m begging you!”

The door opened and I stepped back slightly.

“Hey,” a young man said, “you must know that stalking is a crime, don’t you?”

I froze. It was the man I’d been seeing no end of all day. That is, it was a ME.