parted company for a few hours. Maybe four hours, I figure.
May 28... a day like any other, the same exact routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I went to the gym, then to the Komura Library. Did my usual workout on the machines, read Soseki on the same sofa. Had dinner near the station. The fish dinner, as I recall. Salmon, with a second helping of rice, some miso soup, and salad. After that... after that I don't know what happened.
My left shoulder aches a little. As my senses return, so does the pain. I must have bumped into something pretty hard. I rub that part with my right hand. There's no wound, or swelling. Did I get hit by a car, maybe? But my clothes aren't ripped, and the only place that hurts is that spot in my left shoulder. Probably just a bruise.
I fumble around in the bushes, but all I touch are branches, hard and twisted like the hearts of bullied little animals. No backpack. I go through my pant pockets. My wallet's there, thank God. Some cash is in it, the hotel key card, a phone card. Besides this I've got a coin purse, a handkerchief, a ballpoint pen. As far as I can tell in the dark, nothing's missing. I'm wearing cream-colored chinos, a white V-neck T-shirt under a long-sleeved dungaree shirt. Plus my navy blue Topsiders. My cap's vanished, my New York Yankees baseball cap. I know I had it on when I left the hotel, but not now. I must have dropped it, or left it someplace. No big deal. Those are a dime a dozen.
Finally I locate my backpack, leaning up against the trunk of a pine tree. Why in the world would I leave it there and then scramble into this thicket, only to collapse?
Where the hell am I, anyway? My memory's frozen shut. Anyway, the important thing is that I found it. I take out my mini flashlight from a side pocket and check out the contents. Nothing seems to be missing. Thank God the sack with all my cash's there.
I shoulder the backpack and step over bushes, brushing branches out of the way, until I reach a small clearing. There's a narrow path there, and I follow the beam of my flashlight into a place where there're some lights. It appears to be the grounds of a Shinto shrine. I'd lost consciousness in a small woods behind the main shrine building.
A mercury lamp on a high pole illuminates the extensive grounds, casting a kind of cold light on the inner shrine, the offering box, the votive tablets. My shadow looks weirdly long on the gravel. I find the shrine's name on the bulletin board and commit it to memory. Nobody else is around. I see a restroom nearby and go inside and it turns out to be fairly clean. I take off my backpack and wash my face, then check out my reflection in the blurry mirror over the sink. I prepare myself for the worst, and I'm not disappointed—I look like hell. A pale face with sunken cheeks stares back at me, my neck all muddy, hair sticking out in all directions.
I notice something dark on the front of my white T-shirt, shaped sort of like a huge butterfly with wings spread. I try brushing it away, but it won't come off. I touch it and my hands come away all sticky. I need to calm down, so consciously taking my time I slowly take off both my shirts. Under the flickering fluorescent light I realize what this is—darkish blood that's seeped into the fabric. The blood's still fresh, wet, and there's lots of it. I bring it close for a sniff, but there's no smell. Some blood's been spattered on the dungaree shirt as well, but only a little, and it doesn't stand out on the dark blue material.
The blood on the T-shirt is another story—against the white background there's no mistaking that.
I wash the T-shirt in the sink. The blood mixes with the water, dyeing the porcelain sink red, though no matter how hard I scrub the stain won't come out. I'm about to toss the shirt into the garbage can, then decide against it. If I throw it away, some other place would be better. I wring out the shirt and stow it in the plastic bag with my other rinsed-out clothes,
May 28... a day like any other, the same exact routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I went to the gym, then to the Komura Library. Did my usual workout on the machines, read Soseki on the same sofa. Had dinner near the station. The fish dinner, as I recall. Salmon, with a second helping of rice, some miso soup, and salad. After that... after that I don't know what happened.
My left shoulder aches a little. As my senses return, so does the pain. I must have bumped into something pretty hard. I rub that part with my right hand. There's no wound, or swelling. Did I get hit by a car, maybe? But my clothes aren't ripped, and the only place that hurts is that spot in my left shoulder. Probably just a bruise.
I fumble around in the bushes, but all I touch are branches, hard and twisted like the hearts of bullied little animals. No backpack. I go through my pant pockets. My wallet's there, thank God. Some cash is in it, the hotel key card, a phone card. Besides this I've got a coin purse, a handkerchief, a ballpoint pen. As far as I can tell in the dark, nothing's missing. I'm wearing cream-colored chinos, a white V-neck T-shirt under a long-sleeved dungaree shirt. Plus my navy blue Topsiders. My cap's vanished, my New York Yankees baseball cap. I know I had it on when I left the hotel, but not now. I must have dropped it, or left it someplace. No big deal. Those are a dime a dozen.
Finally I locate my backpack, leaning up against the trunk of a pine tree. Why in the world would I leave it there and then scramble into this thicket, only to collapse?
Where the hell am I, anyway? My memory's frozen shut. Anyway, the important thing is that I found it. I take out my mini flashlight from a side pocket and check out the contents. Nothing seems to be missing. Thank God the sack with all my cash's there.
I shoulder the backpack and step over bushes, brushing branches out of the way, until I reach a small clearing. There's a narrow path there, and I follow the beam of my flashlight into a place where there're some lights. It appears to be the grounds of a Shinto shrine. I'd lost consciousness in a small woods behind the main shrine building.
A mercury lamp on a high pole illuminates the extensive grounds, casting a kind of cold light on the inner shrine, the offering box, the votive tablets. My shadow looks weirdly long on the gravel. I find the shrine's name on the bulletin board and commit it to memory. Nobody else is around. I see a restroom nearby and go inside and it turns out to be fairly clean. I take off my backpack and wash my face, then check out my reflection in the blurry mirror over the sink. I prepare myself for the worst, and I'm not disappointed—I look like hell. A pale face with sunken cheeks stares back at me, my neck all muddy, hair sticking out in all directions.
I notice something dark on the front of my white T-shirt, shaped sort of like a huge butterfly with wings spread. I try brushing it away, but it won't come off. I touch it and my hands come away all sticky. I need to calm down, so consciously taking my time I slowly take off both my shirts. Under the flickering fluorescent light I realize what this is—darkish blood that's seeped into the fabric. The blood's still fresh, wet, and there's lots of it. I bring it close for a sniff, but there's no smell. Some blood's been spattered on the dungaree shirt as well, but only a little, and it doesn't stand out on the dark blue material.
The blood on the T-shirt is another story—against the white background there's no mistaking that.
I wash the T-shirt in the sink. The blood mixes with the water, dyeing the porcelain sink red, though no matter how hard I scrub the stain won't come out. I'm about to toss the shirt into the garbage can, then decide against it. If I throw it away, some other place would be better. I wring out the shirt and stow it in the plastic bag with my other rinsed-out clothes,
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