Short Stories
vol.2THE JASMINE HOTEL（1/6）
When Natsuko asked her how he had died, Sakiko replied in the same breathy whisper she had often employed for effect back when they were friends, even though this was the first time they had spoken in ages.
Well, he had hepatitis C, you know, and he'd been suffering from that for a long time, and then apparently they found a tumor on his liver. Anyway, his wife's a nurse so she was caring for him at home. And that's where he died.
Thank you ever so much for letting me know, said Natsuko, and after a brief silence, she replaced the receiver.
For many years Natsuko had had no contact with Sakiko other than New Year's greeting cards, so when she picked up the phone and heard her old friend's voice at the other end, she knew instantly that something had happened to Kageyama. Nevertheless, the news of his death left her speechless for a few seconds. Sakiko worked at the same hospital as Kageyama's wife, but she had never mentioned him in her annual messages, due no doubt to her knowledge of Natsuko's troubled relationship with him and the misery she had gone through when they broke up.
Once, during a telephone conversation just after Natsuko's wedding, Sakiko had let it slip that Kageyama was working at her hospital as an X-ray technician. This information confirmed Natsuko's suspicions that he had never graduated medical school after all, but she made no further inquiries, feeling the pain start to rise again, like murky water creeping slowly around her heart. From that time on, she had forced herself into thinking that it was his life, and that it had nothing to do with her anymore. It was with a similar sense of disassociation that she accepted the news of his demise.
Kageyama had lived his life so unbendingly that it had cracked somewhere in the middle. His constant refusal to compromise had brought steadily increasing forces to bear on him until eventually, unable to withstand such pressure, his whole life had snapped in two.
Natsuko rested a stepladder against the bookshelf and pulled down Mandiargues' The Motorcycle from the top shelf. She smiled bitterly at the aptness of the title - her love for Kageyama had been so electrifying, so exhilarating, like a ride on some unstoppable vehicle. There was a slight bulge in the final page, and sure enough, when she opened the book, she found the postcard exactly where it had been pasted thirty years ago. For three decades it had lain dormant. As she peeled it away from the page with her fingers it made a strange sound, like skin being pulled away from flesh.
Kageyama had written the postcard at a turning point in his life; the moment he had put down his pen and stood up, he was facing a new direction. His words were engraved on her memory, as permanent as a blood stain, yet over the years she had become used to their presence and even, on occasion, managed to forget them. Nevertheless, the vivid blue ink still stood out in painfully bold relief, as if it had been applied to the white paper only days ago using a brand new ballpoint.
I've made a big mistake. I need to start over. Today, as I looked up at the Bang Lang flowers and ate a cu dau, I realized I finally needed to pluck up the courage to write this note. You're such a strong person ? you seem to be able to take anything that's thrown at you, and I just don't want to argue with you anymore. I'm never going to be the genius doctor you want me to be, so you should just go and lead the blessed life you've always dreamed of, bathed in white light like some higher being. So from me, here in the Jasmine Hotel with its stench of cigarettes, alcohol, blood, and the sweat of whores, to you and your unwavering, infuriating self-righteousness,
Goodbye.
As she read, she could feel the familiar pain stirring in the depths of her body, yet she knew that his cruel portrayal of her was so accurate as to provide her with no room for rebuttal. And here he was, even in death continuing to denigrate her entire existence. She had no idea what he had done with his life after he had written the postcard. All she knew was that he had not become a doctor, and that he had died at the young age of fifty-seven.