and dreary lives. ‘A rich emotional life,’ she’d written, ‘is a privilege reserved only for the daring few.’ Maybe Yoshikawa just wasn’t one of the few.
‘Anyway, I was really impressed.’
‘That’s great,’ Yoshikawa said.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t just irritation. He sounded almost despondent.
‘Anything wrong?’
Yoshikawa didn’t answer. Aoyama wondered if he should cut the conversation short.
‘Well, I’ll call again some other—’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I just . . . I didn’t want to bring you down when you’re in such a good mood, is all. My mother – you met her, right?’
‘Of course. Did something happen?’ She must’ve died, thought Aoyama. Good grief. He calls to send glad tidings from the mountaintop and his friend is sinking in the abyss. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘No, it’s not that. Just the old story – getting a little senile, and now she falls down the stairs. I’m telling you, there are times you think we’d all be better off if she’d just . . . Sorry. Pretty grim stuff, I know.’
‘I’m the one who should apologise. Calling you about something like this, when—’
‘Hey, I’m happy for the distraction. It has been pretty depressing, though. I mean, you always hear that once the dementia starts they can become like a completely different person, but when it’s your mother . . . Of course, the one who’s really suffering is my wife. I should’ve moved my mother into a home of some sort right from the beginning. But I kept procrastinating, and the next thing I know seven years have gone by. Terrible thing to do to her – my wife, I mean. She worries more about the old lady than I do, even. Sometimes she bursts into tears and says it’s her fault. Of course, she and my mother have a sort of bond that I don’t even completely understand.’
‘She’s all right, though, isn’t she? Your mother.’
‘Yeah. It’s just her leg. My wife’s with her at the hospital right now. Her legs were shot anyway, but she broke an ankle. It’s not like when you’re young and it breaks cleanly, you know. Apparently the doctor’s colourful explanation was that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to a brick of charcoal. Just powdered, in other words, and no chance that it’ll ever be whole again. I was sitting here thinking, well, it looks like there’s no choice now but to put her in a home, but then I had a drink or two, and . . . What a loser, eh?’
‘Don’t say shit like that.’
‘There are great places nowadays, you know, with round-the-clock care.’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen pamphlets.’
‘They’re not cheap, but . . . Well. Sorry to lay all this on you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I envy you, Aoyama. Same age as me, and look at the difference. Dating a 24-year-old.’
Aoyama didn’t reply. His friend, the very one who’d created the opportunity for him to meet Yamasaki Asami, was suffering. He wanted to say something helpful but was still under the influence of his euphoria, and it wasn’t easy to empathise with someone else’s depression.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Yoshikawa said, then fell silent a moment and sighed. ‘Nah, never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What.’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Just say it.’
‘It’s just a stupid rumour I heard. From a hostess in a bar, no less. Not exactly a reliable source.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s about that guy at the record company, Shibata. Speaking of legs.’
Legs? Hearing the name Shibata brought Aoyama crashing to earth. The womanising record producer who’d had an indirect connection to Yamasaki Asami. Or had there in fact been more to their relationship? Just to think of that possibility filled him with hatred for the man. Shibata had probably wined and dined beautiful young women on a
‘Anyway, I was really impressed.’
‘That’s great,’ Yoshikawa said.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t just irritation. He sounded almost despondent.
‘Anything wrong?’
Yoshikawa didn’t answer. Aoyama wondered if he should cut the conversation short.
‘Well, I’ll call again some other—’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I just . . . I didn’t want to bring you down when you’re in such a good mood, is all. My mother – you met her, right?’
‘Of course. Did something happen?’ She must’ve died, thought Aoyama. Good grief. He calls to send glad tidings from the mountaintop and his friend is sinking in the abyss. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘No, it’s not that. Just the old story – getting a little senile, and now she falls down the stairs. I’m telling you, there are times you think we’d all be better off if she’d just . . . Sorry. Pretty grim stuff, I know.’
‘I’m the one who should apologise. Calling you about something like this, when—’
‘Hey, I’m happy for the distraction. It has been pretty depressing, though. I mean, you always hear that once the dementia starts they can become like a completely different person, but when it’s your mother . . . Of course, the one who’s really suffering is my wife. I should’ve moved my mother into a home of some sort right from the beginning. But I kept procrastinating, and the next thing I know seven years have gone by. Terrible thing to do to her – my wife, I mean. She worries more about the old lady than I do, even. Sometimes she bursts into tears and says it’s her fault. Of course, she and my mother have a sort of bond that I don’t even completely understand.’
‘She’s all right, though, isn’t she? Your mother.’
‘Yeah. It’s just her leg. My wife’s with her at the hospital right now. Her legs were shot anyway, but she broke an ankle. It’s not like when you’re young and it breaks cleanly, you know. Apparently the doctor’s colourful explanation was that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to a brick of charcoal. Just powdered, in other words, and no chance that it’ll ever be whole again. I was sitting here thinking, well, it looks like there’s no choice now but to put her in a home, but then I had a drink or two, and . . . What a loser, eh?’
‘Don’t say shit like that.’
‘There are great places nowadays, you know, with round-the-clock care.’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen pamphlets.’
‘They’re not cheap, but . . . Well. Sorry to lay all this on you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I envy you, Aoyama. Same age as me, and look at the difference. Dating a 24-year-old.’
Aoyama didn’t reply. His friend, the very one who’d created the opportunity for him to meet Yamasaki Asami, was suffering. He wanted to say something helpful but was still under the influence of his euphoria, and it wasn’t easy to empathise with someone else’s depression.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Yoshikawa said, then fell silent a moment and sighed. ‘Nah, never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What.’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Just say it.’
‘It’s just a stupid rumour I heard. From a hostess in a bar, no less. Not exactly a reliable source.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s about that guy at the record company, Shibata. Speaking of legs.’
Legs? Hearing the name Shibata brought Aoyama crashing to earth. The womanising record producer who’d had an indirect connection to Yamasaki Asami. Or had there in fact been more to their relationship? Just to think of that possibility filled him with hatred for the man. Shibata had probably wined and dined beautiful young women on a
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