I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like Read online

  Loud laughter filled the room. As soon as Chris’s glass emptied, Daichi ordered him another. After a while he felt a heaviness settling over his mind. His thoughts took on an abstract quality, and he lost track of time. Finally he saw a first-year sitting at the edge of the table stand and excuse himself. Over the next hour a few more students left to catch their last trains. Chris remained seated and lit a cigarette. He looked at Norika: her eyes seemed only half open. Daichi sat on one side of her, and the seat on her other side, which had been occupied by a first-year, was now empty. Chris went to the bathroom, and when he returned he sat in this empty seat.

  By midnight all the first-years had left, and only six people remained at the table. Norika’s body swayed back and forth gently even as she continued to talk.

  A silence descended, and at last Chris felt attention centering on him. He had said and done nothing the entire night, but simply by remaining at the table he had now become the focus of conversation. As he finished his beer, Daichi said:

  —You’ve got good Japanese, so I might need your help putting some things into English. I’ve got some projects going where we’ll need a translator...

  —How tall are you anyway? another senior member asked. You’re pretty tall — you could model some of our clothes.

  Slowly Chris moved against Norika so that his leg rested gently against hers.

  —I’d like to try that, he said, deliberately not looking at her.

  —You’ll have to take part in the fashion show, she said.

  Under the table he moved his hand on top of hers.

  —We want to eventually do some English-language publications, Daichi said. I’m sure you could help out with that.

  Chris moved his hand under the table to Norika’s leg and began rubbing her through her pants. After a while he felt her hand move onto his. He finished his beer.

  —You drink really fast, a senior member said.

  —Have one more, Daichi said. He pressed the call button on the table and a waiter came over. Everyone ordered another drink. Norika leaned over the table, her long hair covering her eyes.

  Another half hour passed.

  —I should get going, Chris said. He gripped Norika’s hand, then released it.

  He got to his feet.

  —I’ll show you out, Norika said, and stood.

  They held hands inside the elevator. When the doors opened he pulled her out with him. The doors closed. She took a step backward.

  —Thanks for coming, she said.

  He pushed her against the wall and kissed her. For a moment she was still, held in place by his weight, and then he felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder. He bent down to kiss her again and felt her gripping him with unexpected force. Her teeth pressed against his lips.

  —I love you, I love you, she said in English.

  He took her hand and pulled her towards the street, but she moved back and pressed the button for the elevator. He pushed her against the wall again and pulled at her clothes. The fluorescent light above the elevator illuminated her bare white shoulder.

  —I have to go, she said.

  —Come back with me.

  —I can’t, they’re waiting for me.

  —They won’t care.

  He pushed his hand down her pants, kissed her again, and at last let go of her hand as she pulled away and slipped inside the elevator. The doors closed after her.

  •

  In the early afternoon he left the refectory and sat down on one of the benches outside. Sipping from a can of green tea, he watched the students walking to class. W--- was an upper-tier university, and a residual childishness clung to most of the students, who, having spent their high school years attending cram schools and studying late into the night, had had little time for what Chris considered usual teenage experiences. At twenty-three he was a year older than the oldest of them, and he felt this distance every time he spoke to them. Occasionally someone would approach him, but apart from the Circle members he never went out of his way to make friends. Instead, he enjoyed the solitude and idleness. Everything seemed dreamlike and faintly absurd. When he returned home he would have to take up business, but for now it was enough to wander the campus by himself.

  He thought over his schedule for the week. The next Design Circle meeting was two days away. He had sent Norika a message but received no reply.

  His phone rang. He looked down at the number and answered. A high-pitched man’s voice spoke rapidly in English.

  —Chris? How are you? Takeshi asked.

  —I’m fine.

  —How are your classes?

  —I only have one today.

  —Oh? What are you doing in the evening?

  —No plans really.

  —Why don’t we eat sushi together?

  —Okay.

  After Chris broke up with Kumi, Takeshi, her father, had stayed in contact. Chris had met Kumi two years earlier when she was doing contract work in Singapore. They had moved in together, and then Kumi returned to Japan while Chris continued his studies. They maintained the relationship for a year, but a month after coming to Japan, Chris broke off with her. They had been taking each other for granted, he decided, and it was only laziness that had prevented him from ending it sooner. He had let her know his thoughts as they were coming back from a party with her friends. Kumi, always particular about money, had told Chris he should have brought a case of beer or otherwise contributed to the party, and Chris took the opportunity to expand this minor quarrel into a genuine fight.

  —This is the kind of thing I’m talking about, he told her. I don’t have a lot of money. You’re at a company now and I’m still studying. Our lives are too different.

  —Why now? We did long distance for a year and you want to break up now?

  —I just don’t think it’s going anywhere.

  As they talked, Kumi looked more and more uneasy, her expression changing from one of trivial complaint to genuine worry. He’d voiced his argument quickly enough that she’d been taken by surprise, but as she realized he was serious, he could sense her calculating what to do. It was not that she would genuinely miss him, he decided; it was only that she hated the thought of anyone consciously rejecting her.

  —Can’t you stay with me until the end of the year? We can figure it out then.

  —That doesn’t make any sense. How are we going to keep going out now if we know we’re going to break up at a specific time?

  They’d slowed down now and were standing on the sidewalk next to a cigarette machine. Kumi started to cry a little. She became quieter; she was thinking. When she spoke again it was under her breath, although clearly intended to be heard.

  —You just want to fuck other girls here, don’t you.

  Chris continued talking, although afterwards he couldn’t remember what he had said.

  Takeshi, who had come out to meet Chris with Kumi at Narita Airport, never showed any resentment towards him for breaking up with his daughter. The closest he came to discussing the subject was to express a vague wish that Chris and Kumi would reunite in the future. This discretion contrasted with the frequency of his calls, in which he assumed a familiar tone and questioned Chris about his recent activities.

  Takeshi was a slender man in his mid-fifties with thinning hair and a clean-shaven, rabbitish face. What Chris learned of his job was nondescript; he was something in a trading company, importing steel. He was eager to show off his English, which had reached a kind of base-level proficiency enlivened by occasional outdated stock phrases. Their meetings followed a predictable routine: Takeshi would invite him somewhere and offer to pay for dinner, and then they would end up drinking until the last train. When Chris became bored with the routine he invited some of the other exchange students along, and soon Takeshi became an ironic favorite with the group. The presence of this old man at the parties in their apartment complex was at first a curiosity, but before long Takeshi was taken for granted, which, perhaps, had been his goal all along.<
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  In the evening Chris took the train to Mitaka and met Takeshi outside the station, and they made their way to a kaiten sushi restaurant. When they sat down Takeshi took a plate of eel from the conveyor and ordered a beer.

  —How’s everything at university?

  —Good. I joined the Design Circle.

  —What do you do?

  —Make clothes.

  —I didn’t know you were interested in that.

  —I don’t know much about it, but...

  —It’s good to be interested in different things, Takeshi said. That way you’ll never get bored. Look at me, I’m still trying new things.

  —That’s good, Chris said.

  —You shouldn’t worry about anything. I remember when I was younger I worried about everything, but now I don’t worry at all. As I get older I get more optimistic.

  —Why do you think that is?

  —Maybe because there are less surprises.

  —If there are less surprises, wouldn’t you be less optimistic? If you know how everything is going to turn out...

  Takeshi smiled.

  —I’ve found that things usually work out for the best, although it might not seem like it at the time.

  Chris ordered a bowl of miso soup with crab and took a plate of salmon from the conveyor.

  —Is anything happening this weekend? Takeshi asked him.

  —I think a few of us are getting together, nothing special though.

  —I might come along. I enjoyed last time with those students from... where was it, Meiji University?

  —Keio. They’re Séverine’s friends.

  Chris’s miso soup arrived. He ordered a beer and reached for another plate of salmon.

  After half an hour they emerged from the restaurant and looked around for a bar. Most of the izakayas were full, so they eventually picked a small standing bar not far from the station. The only other customers were a group of company men whose loud laughter prevented Chris from hearing what Takeshi was saying. Even when he leaned in close it was difficult to make out the words. But he nodded and smiled at what seemed the appropriate times, even as he felt his thoughts drifting away from him.

  At the end of the night Takeshi stumbled into the street, and Chris felt the weight of the old man rocking against him. Placing his arm around Takeshi’s shoulder, he steadied him as they walked back to the station.

  •

  Despite how little he knew about making clothes, Chris enjoyed the Design Circle meetings. Most of the discussions were beyond him, and none of the members reacted to his presence with any false ingratiation. Apart from Daichi, few of them acknowledged him outside of the meetings. But none of this bothered him. If the Circle members had been excessively attentive, asking him his opinion and simplifying the discussions for his benefit, he would have hated them.

  He looked around the Club room. The meeting had finished early, and the members were taking out cans of beer and packets of dried squid. A computer with a music deck had been set up by the window, and Daichi stood behind it, his hand on the turntable. A group of first-years sat on the floor in front of him, some playing handheld games, others reading magazines. Chris sat by himself and opened a can of Kirin.

  Norika, who had been drinking for some time, moved in front of the deck and began dancing with wavering, awkward movements, oblivious to anyone around her. Chris watched her with growing confidence. In the past year he had cast off the passivity and weak calculation of his teenage years, he felt, and was now capable of acting in a decisive and adult manner. When Norika tired of dancing and sat down to rest he moved over and took her hand.

  —I want to talk to you, he said.

  She looked at him, not blinking.

  —What do you want to say? she asked.

  He got to his feet and pulled her towards the door. Only Daichi looked up as they stepped into the hall.

  —I wanted to see you, he said. We should go out some time...

  —Some time, yeah...

  —Did you get my message?

  —Yeah...

  He kissed her. She resisted for a moment, then rested her hand on his shoulder as he leaned forward and embraced her.

  —We can’t, she said.

  —Why?

  —Not out here. People will come by...

  He leaned against the wall and eased himself to the ground, pulling her down with him. Sitting in his lap, she pushed against him. He kissed her more heavily and began rubbing her breasts through her black camisole.

  He looked up. Several students had emerged from the Circle room. He met their eyes briefly as they walked around him and Norika.

  —Come back with me, he said. My apartment is really close.

  —Uh...

  He looked into her eyes. She seemed barely aware of what was happening, but when he leaned in to kiss her again she turned her head sharply in the direction of the door.

  —Not out here, she repeated, pulling away from him and getting to her feet just as another group of students came out of the Circle room. He got up and followed her, but by the time he entered the room two senior members had already engaged her in conversation. He turned back into the hall and followed the stream of departing members out of the building.

  Outside, the temperature had dropped. He walked back to his apartment by himself and thought of Norika’s warm weight resting on top of him and the feel of her hand on his shoulder. The greatest joy derived from contrasting her reserved demeanor at the Circle meetings with the strength of her embrace, and he told himself that it was his own presence, his own efforts that had brought this out, that she had naturally recognized someone similar to herself. The more he thought about it, the more fitting it seemed that she had not yielded to him, since the perfect circumstances for it had not yet arisen: in the meantime it was enough to meet without speaking, since their understanding of each other was complete, and so nothing needed to be said. Here she had shown herself to be more perceptive than him, and more patient. He would follow her lead, he decided: after all, they had all the time they needed.

  •

  Towards mid-morning he rode his bike through the narrow streets, away from the crowded campus grounds. A ginger cat dashed out of an alley and he swerved to avoid it. Even at this time of day the streets bristled with bicycles, and he heard the distinctive clicking sound of their bells whenever he braked.

  He turned off from the main thoroughfare and rode down a side street to Daichi’s apartment. When he awoke that morning he had received a text message requesting him to skip his classes and come over as soon as possible, since there was an important business matter requiring his assistance. He had spent enough time with Daichi and his friends to have some idea of what it would entail, and he had no compunctions about missing the classes, which of late had begun to bore him.

  Daichi was short, wore offensively bright clothing he had designed himself, and always kept his mobile phone’s music player turned to the max setting, so that wherever he went a constant soundtrack of minimalist electronic music announced his presence. A three-pronged scar like the swipe of a cat’s claw decorated his cheek from when he had fallen onto a broken bottle while high. Although he had no job and rarely attended classes, he was full of ambition. He saw himself as the founder of an art collective: he had bought an abandoned hospital and was in the process of moving himself and his friends into it, where he planned for them to smoke DMT and create experimental music and films; he would be the next Andy Warhol, Tony Wilson, Michael Alig. This project, like all his others, was to be funded by his father, a minor government official.

  The door was unlocked, and when Chris stepped inside he saw that the blinds had been drawn. Half-eaten bowls of ramen dotted the room, crusted over and circled by flies. The walls were covered with blacklight posters of Hindu gods, the shelves filled with books on punk fashion, black and white photography, Surrealist art. Daichi and his friends sat around a water pipe watching a Kraftwerk concert from the 1970s on a large plasma tele
vision.

  —You’re here, Daichi said.

  After taking a hit from the pipe, he took a laptop from the floor and showed Chris a folder full of images.

  —We’ve got some translation work for you to do. It’s this new experimental manga my friend Yusuke is doing. It’s so experimental it doesn’t even make sense.

  This in fact seemed to be the case. The art, which struck Chris as amateurish at best, was somewhat in the manner of Junji Ito. The panel progressions were entirely disjunctive. One depicted a garbage truck emerging from the back of an enormous human skull, followed by a small boy holding a praying mantis between a pair of chopsticks. The next page was covered with what looked to be Cyrillic lettering encircling a disembodied nose. There was much nudity and murder.

  —If it doesn’t make sense, I can’t really translate it. I’ll just make up the story myself.

  Daichi seemed even more excited by this thought.

  —Yeah, do it! Just make it up!

  He continued, explaining the plan for the day:

  —Okay, we’re meeting the editor of Somatic, it’s a pretty small magazine but they have enough distribution that they can help us get some of our material out there. We’re having lunch with them in Shibuya and we need you to act as our translator. You can use this laptop.

  —What do you want me to do with it?

  —Nothing, just look like you’re doing something important.

  Chris nodded. Daichi continued:

  —Right now we’re in the initial phase, or almost the pre-initial phase. We’re contacting every publication that’s out there and letting them know we’re two levels above them. Vee Vee Records — that’s our company — is just starting out, so we need to get our name known.

  The group gathered their things and rode in Daichi’s car to the station, where they caught the train to Shibuya. The meeting was scheduled for noon, but they arrived early and Daichi had them wander the streets until twelve-fifteen so they could be late.