Popular Hits of the Showa Era Part 8

Until We Meet Again

I.

"The entire city of Chofu-we'll blow it away, blow it away, blow it away, blow it away..." entire city of Chofu-we'll blow it away, blow it away, blow it away, blow it away..."

Ishihara continued chanting this even after he crawled under the covers, and eventually he got himself so worked up that his moist eyes began to glow with a light of their own, and he couldn't sleep. He needed to do something but didn't know what, and though he himself wondered if this wasn't crossing a line better left uncrossed, he gripped n.o.bue's hand tightly with one of his own and rubbed his own chest and stomach with the other, moaning, Ah...ahh...ahhn! Ah...ahh...ahhn! as he did so. n.o.bue was understandably startled and disconcerted. as he did so. n.o.bue was understandably startled and disconcerted.

"Ishi-kun! What're you doing? That's not even funny, man. In the first place, to go to sleep holding hands, if you think about it-s.h.i.t, even if you don't think about it-is pretty f.u.c.kin' weird. But, you know, when my cheek was hurting really bad, I used to get so p.i.s.sed off and frustrated and lonely, and I felt like at that rate I was just going to keep spiraling down, so I went ahead and let you hold my hand when we slept, even though I knew it wasn't normal, but, please, if you're gonna hold my hand, don't be rubbing your body and making those creepy noises, all right?"

"But it feels so good good," Ishihara murmured, bending his knees and gyrating his hips. "You try it too, n.o.bu-chin: Blow it away, blow it away, blow it away Blow it away, blow it away, blow it away-you keep saying that in your head, and when you touch your body it feels like you're going to come, like you're just going to let go and start squirting-floop, floop, floop, FLOOOOP!"

"Ishi-kun, listen to me, that's f.u.c.ked up, what you're doing." n.o.bue gently freed his hand and wiped his sweaty palm on the sheets. He wasn't sure if the sweat was his or Ishihara's. "Here's the deal, Ishi-kun. We just realized that we have an important mission to fulfill, right? You know we can't allow the courageous deaths of Yano-rin and Kato-kichi and O-Sugi to be in vain. We can't let them die for nothing!" Sugiyama and Yano and Kato had died prancing on a moonlit beach, dressed in bizarre costumes and singing "Love Me to the Bone," but somehow none of that entered into n.o.bue's recollection of events. His own words had moved him powerfully, and now tears welled up in his eyes. "We have a mission to fulfill, Ishi-kun, an appointed task. You're the only friend I have left, it's true, but I think it would be a big mistake for us to turn h.o.m.o. We can't let their deaths be in vain!" he said again, and the emotionally charged words caused him to furrow his brow and make a face like a gorilla sucker-punched with a baseball bat, but a moment later he was sitting bolt upright in bed, his hair standing on end as Ishihara let loose with an earsplitting howl: "h.o.m.o-O-O-O-O-O-O!" Twice more he howled-h.o.m.o-O-O-O-O-O-O! h.o.m.o-OO-O-O-O-O-O!-then smiled and said, "Awesome!" n.o.bue was pretty sure that not even G.o.d knew what that "awesome" was supposed to mean.

"Ishi-kun, listen to me. A long time ago-or, actually, I guess it was fairly recently-I read this story in a girls' manga called, um, 'Erika's Flower Garden,' about a dancer named Erika who can't find any work, and she gets this boyfriend who's younger than her whose name is Yoshi-bo, and Yoshi-bo's an unemployed dancer too, and they start living together, and a year goes by, two years go by, and then one day they both realize: This is no good. This is no good. They love each other, of course, and they take good care of each other, but if they stay together it's like they're complete, everything's resolved, and they won't keep pursuing their dreams. That's what they realize, and Erika, looking back later on, she tells us in like a voice-over, 'It was a horrifying epiphany.' And so, even though they're in love, they decide to split up. You understand, Ishi-kun? Even though they're in love. And it's the same for you and me. If we became h.o.m.os, something would come full circle, and the deaths of Yano-rin and the others would end up being for nothing. I mean...how to put this? I feel like if we don't do something soon, if we don't take some positive action, we'll lose our fighting spirit, our eye of the tiger, and never get it back." They love each other, of course, and they take good care of each other, but if they stay together it's like they're complete, everything's resolved, and they won't keep pursuing their dreams. That's what they realize, and Erika, looking back later on, she tells us in like a voice-over, 'It was a horrifying epiphany.' And so, even though they're in love, they decide to split up. You understand, Ishi-kun? Even though they're in love. And it's the same for you and me. If we became h.o.m.os, something would come full circle, and the deaths of Yano-rin and the others would end up being for nothing. I mean...how to put this? I feel like if we don't do something soon, if we don't take some positive action, we'll lose our fighting spirit, our eye of the tiger, and never get it back."

Ishihara repeated the words "horrifying epiphany" and muttered, That's some stupid s.h.i.t. That's some stupid s.h.i.t.

"All right, then, n.o.bu-chin, you tell me: how're we gonna wipe out the rest of those Oba-sans?"

n.o.bue furrowed his brow again. This time he looked like a hippopotamus who'd accidentally sat in a puddle of hot mustard.

"That's what we have to figure out, Ishi-kun, that's what I'm trying to say. Thinking is our only option now. We've got to think and think and think, until we think it all the way through."

Ishihara said, "How about if we take that junior college girl to their house and make her sing and dance?" and n.o.bue shook his head and told him to be serious. "Well, then, n.o.bu-chin, why don't you stop talking all this big talk about Erika and h.o.m.os and I don't know what and come up with a concrete plan?" He sat up, reached for the map, and spread it out between them on the futon.

"They all live so far apart," n.o.bue said, his brow still wrinkled. The wrinkles disappeared with Ishihara's next words.

"What about an atomic bomb?"

Two days later, Ishihara and n.o.bue were in Setagaya-a tony section of Tokyo they'd never set foot in before. At a fruit stand in front of the station they bought a package of gourmet strawberries. "I wonder if he'll really meet with us," n.o.bue muttered, and Ishihara, skipping in circles around him, chanted, "He will, he will, I know he will!" days later, Ishihara and n.o.bue were in Setagaya-a tony section of Tokyo they'd never set foot in before. At a fruit stand in front of the station they bought a package of gourmet strawberries. "I wonder if he'll really meet with us," n.o.bue muttered, and Ishihara, skipping in circles around him, chanted, "He will, he will, I know he will!"

The day before, they'd gone to a bookstore and asked the lady at the register if she had any books on how to build an atomic bomb. Her reply had been curt and in the negative, so they'd gone on to a video rental shop. "Are there any films or doc.u.mentaries that teach you how to build an atomic bomb?" they asked, and the long-haired dude at the register said, "h.e.l.l, yes." The movie they rented was ent.i.tled The Man Who Invented Fire The Man Who Invented Fire, and it was produced and directed by someone named Haseyama Genjiro. Haseyama Genjiro's house was in Setagaya. n.o.bue had found the address in the j.a.pan a.s.sociation of Film Directors Directory j.a.pan a.s.sociation of Film Directors Directory. A photo of Haseyama Genjiro accompanied his entry, and n.o.bue and Ishihara both thought he was handsome.

The house was on the outskirts of a section of town noted for being where the richest people lived. n.o.bue pressed the chime on the intercom at the front gate, and a woman's voice said, "Who's there?"

"We've come to see Haseyama-sensei," n.o.bue carefully enunciated into the speaker. "We're fans of his work."

"You didn't see him out there?" the voice said. "He just stepped out to buy some cigarettes. He'll be coming back soon."

The two of them had waited in front of the house for twelve or thirteen minutes when Haseyama Genjiro, looking just like his photo, came sprinting around the corner at top speed and skidded to a stop in front of the gate. He had a carton of short Hopes tucked under his arm.

"s.h.i.t," he said bitterly, looking down at his watch. "Just can't shave off those last ten seconds!" He bent over for a moment, gasping for breath, then straightened up when he noticed the two visitors. "Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

"We're fans," they answered more or less in unison. n.o.bue held out the package of strawberries and added, "Will you teach us how to make an atomic bomb?"

"Ha," Haseyama Genjiro said. "I get that all the time." He then took a step back and studied them closely. "But you two have interesting faces. Follow me. We can talk in the park."

He led them to a city park about five hundred meters away. It was a big park with tennis courts, athletic fields, and a small botanical garden. The three of them sat on an embankment overlooking the tennis courts. Haseyama Genjiro was wearing a Nike warm-up suit, Air Jordan II basketball shoes, a cap with the Chicago Bulls logo, and Ray-Ban sungla.s.ses. n.o.bue and Ishihara gazed at his profile and thought, led them to a city park about five hundred meters away. It was a big park with tennis courts, athletic fields, and a small botanical garden. The three of them sat on an embankment overlooking the tennis courts. Haseyama Genjiro was wearing a Nike warm-up suit, Air Jordan II basketball shoes, a cap with the Chicago Bulls logo, and Ray-Ban sungla.s.ses. n.o.bue and Ishihara gazed at his profile and thought, How cool can you get? How cool can you get? He was, as far as they could see, the very essence of that quality. A group of four deeply tanned, late-fortyish women were playing an energetic and shrilly vocal game of doubles on one of the courts. n.o.bue wondered if the members of the terrifying Midori Society were tennis players too. He was, as far as they could see, the very essence of that quality. A group of four deeply tanned, late-fortyish women were playing an energetic and shrilly vocal game of doubles on one of the courts. n.o.bue wondered if the members of the terrifying Midori Society were tennis players too.

"How'd you get that scar on your cheek?" Haseyama Genjiro asked n.o.bue, whose heartbeat quickened as he replied: "Got knifed."

"In a fight? You don't look the type."

"The thing is," said Ishihara, "we're in a battle to the death with a group of Oba-sans."

"You're WHAT?" Haseyama Genjiro said, raising his voice a bit. "A battle with Oba-sans? And you want to use a nuclear weapon on them?"

"Yes, sir. They live in different parts of Chofu, so there's no way to kill them all without one." Ishihara looked at his own distorted face reflected in the Ray-Bans. Even he had to admit it was some face.

"Oba-sans are a problem for everybody," Haseyama Genjiro said in an anguished tone. "Oba-sans, to put it in somewhat difficult terms, are life-forms that have stopped evolving. And anyone can turn into an Oba-san. Young women, of course, but even young men, even middle-aged men-even children. You turn into an Oba-san the instant you lose the will to evolve. It's a bloodcurdling truth that no one seems to recognize. Bloodcurdling!"

"Is it easy to make an atomic bomb?" n.o.bue asked, and Haseyama Genjiro shook his head sadly.

"It's impossible unless you have plutonium," he said, then clapped them both on the shoulders and said, "But don't give up hope. There's an even better weapon, and it's easy to make. I'll tell you how right now, if you've got ten minutes. You'd better take notes."

II.

n.o.bue and Ishihara withdrew their entire savings from their accounts at the bank and post office. Unfortunately, their entire savings amounted to only 12,930 yen, so they had no choice but to turn to their parents. n.o.bue wired his, saying that an emergency had arisen and he needed money immediately. Ishihara called home and explained that he'd caught a bad cold that had turned into a life-threatening illness, send cash. His parents promptly dispatched a crate of tangerines and a package of vacuum-packed eels, along with a note saying, and Ishihara withdrew their entire savings from their accounts at the bank and post office. Unfortunately, their entire savings amounted to only 12,930 yen, so they had no choice but to turn to their parents. n.o.bue wired his, saying that an emergency had arisen and he needed money immediately. Ishihara called home and explained that he'd caught a bad cold that had turned into a life-threatening illness, send cash. His parents promptly dispatched a crate of tangerines and a package of vacuum-packed eels, along with a note saying, We're having a hard time ourselves-hope this helps you pull through! We're having a hard time ourselves-hope this helps you pull through! Eels and tangerines wouldn't be of any use at all in building the weapon as outlined by Haseyama Genjiro. n.o.bue's parents eventually sent emergency aid to the tune of 300,000 yen, but that wasn't nearly enough. Eels and tangerines wouldn't be of any use at all in building the weapon as outlined by Haseyama Genjiro. n.o.bue's parents eventually sent emergency aid to the tune of 300,000 yen, but that wasn't nearly enough.

"It'll cost that much just to rent the helicopter," Ishihara complained, and then got personal, saying, "What is your family, a bunch of paupers?"

"Look who's talking!" n.o.bue replied with some heat. "All your your people sent were some f.u.c.king eels!" people sent were some f.u.c.king eels!"

Having at last discovered a practical and feasible method for blowing up Chofu City, however, they weren't about to get into a serious fight. They spent a few basically enjoyable minutes slapping each other's cheeks and foreheads: Pauper! Eel-boy! Pauper! Eel-boy! But the fact remained that they still didn't have sufficient funds to build the weapon. Their own parents having proved so unreliable, they now realized they had no choice but to contact the parents of Sugioka and Yano and Kato and Sugiyama. It took several drafts to get the letter right.

"Once, there was a Group of Six Good Friends. They helped and encouraged one another, drank together sometimes, and sang together, celebrating their youth, standing shoulder to shoulder as they struggled to survive in the concrete desert of the big city. However!! The unthinkable happened. Fate decreed that four of these innocent young men were to be taken from us, s.n.a.t.c.hed from this world-nay, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the Group of Six!-before their rightful time. It is our hope to commemorate these precious lives with a collection of pure, heartfelt, and poignant recollections gathered from those who knew and remember our departed pals best. Long live the Group of Six Good Friends! We are hoping that you who share our sorrow will support the publication of this effort by contributing five hundred thousand yen...."

A total of one-point-seven million yen came in. That they came up three hundred thousand short of their goal was because Sugiyama's parents sent only two hundred thousand, his mother appending an apologetic note to the effect that at the moment her husband was out of work and they were barely able to make ends meet. But n.o.bue and Ishihara pressed their hands together and bowed with grat.i.tude in the direction of f.u.kushima Prefecture, where Sugiyama's parents lived. In the midst of their own struggles they had sent what they could and would now probably have to live on millet and barnyard gra.s.s for a month or two. Ishihara and n.o.bue were determined not to let that sacrifice be in vain. Failure, they both thought, was simply not an option.

The preparations began.

They leased a small warehouse near Harumi on a two-week renewable contract. Building the weapon in n.o.bue's apartment was out of the question because of the danger of premature explosion. This was clearly stated in the notes Haseyama Genjiro had dictated to them, which he'd ent.i.tled "For a Better Tomorrow."

"For a Better Tomorrow #1: The site of construction should be as s.p.a.cious and as far from human habitations as possible...."

On the floor of the warehouse, they rea.s.sembled a salvaged prefab shed, sealing the interior walls with four layers of reinforced plastic, then took a vow to abstain from any activities that might interfere with their concentration, including drinking, smoking, playing computer games, and masturbating. They then began gathering the materials listed in their notes.

"For a Better Tomorrow #2: a.s.semble the following items: porcelain plates, alcohol burners, hydroextractor, flasks, drip funnel, reflux condenser, separating funnel, gla.s.s test tubes (various sizes), thiophosphoric acid syrup, calcium chloride, activated alumina, ethyl alcohol, isopropyl alcohol..."

Neither n.o.bue nor Ishihara had any talent for or experience with this sort of thing, but they found it surprisingly easy to acquire the necessary items at stores that specialized in chemicals and science equipment. Once they had everything, they set to work in all earnestness, poring over Haseyama Genjiro's notes literally hundreds of times as they manipulated the ingredients. Incredibly, not once during the days that followed did they joke or goof around or laugh meaninglessly or tease or ridicule each other. What's more, they restricted themselves to simple meals of sandwiches and coffee and never ate to the point of satiation. They mastered the operation of the reflux condenser and the separating funnel, and used almost excessive care at every step-whether heating test tubes to precisely three hundred degrees or icing gas-wash bottles for exactly forty-five minutes. Neither of them had ever before had anything to which to dedicate themselves so thoroughly, and they absorbed the basics of chemistry the way sand dunes absorb rain, working relentlessly and rarely catching more than an hour or two of sleep at a time. Gradually they began to feel that they finally understood what it was they'd been so starved for all their lives, what it was they really wanted. It was the first time that either of them had ever been able to throw himself into an endeavor so wholeheartedly that nothing else in the world mattered or rated as a distraction. They not only refrained from masturbation, for example-they forgot even to think about it.

"For a Better Tomorrow #3: Convert the ethylene and propylene to ethylene oxide and propylene oxide, respectively. CAUTION: Both oxides are highly flammable when mixed with air. Take special care not to expose these substances to any potential source of ignition, such as open flames, excessive heat, sparks, etc. Use well-iced gas-wash bottles...."

Haseyama Genjiro's notes were precise down to the smallest detail-and therefore exceedingly dangerous in the wrong hands. But perhaps he had judged from looking at his two proteges' faces that they would never succeed in constructing the item in question. He had asked them to come back and show him when they'd produced one-five-hundredth of the necessary material, thinking that if they succeeded in making even that much, he might reference their work in his next film. But by the time they began acc.u.mulating ethylene oxide and propylene oxide, Ishihara and n.o.bue had forgotten all about Haseyama Genjiro.

"For a Better Tomorrow #4: Combine the ethylene oxide and propylene oxide, in the ratio indicated above, in an appropriate vessel. A tank of some sort works best....

"For a Better Tomorrow #5: The fuse is of utmost importance. It must be what is commonly referred to as a delayed fuse, to trigger the explosion some seconds (see chart below) after the tank bursts upon impact with the ground...."

Various types of vessels were suggested in the notes, from plastic gas cans to milk bottles, but Ishihara and n.o.bue finally decided on a container of their own invention. They got hold of a very large and st.u.r.dily constructed tripod case of the sort used by film production companies and devised a thick, insulated vinyl bag to fit inside it. They filled the plastic bag with their mixture, fitted it into the tripod case-leaving not a centimeter of wiggle room-and covered it with a false bottom. On top of this they gently placed a much smaller tripod than the case was designed for. They made the delayed fuse, which would work on the same general principle as a hand grenade, out of one of those cylindrical tins that hold two hundred nonfiltered Peace cigarettes. They wrapped black gunpowder from dissected fire-crackers inside a tight roll of thick paper, which they packed inside the tin, along with a number of thin leaden tubes from toy model kits, also filled with gunpowder. They set a spring-loaded striker in such a way that it would release on impact, igniting the delay powder in the little leaden tubes, which in turn would ignite the fuse. Finally, they surrounded the fuse with triggering explosive and blasting powder. One Peace tin was all they needed. Nineteen days after they'd begun their work, the weapon was complete.

It was a fuel-air explosive (FAE), also called a thermobaric bomb, but more commonly known as the poor man's nuclear weapon.

On a sunny winter's day, n.o.bue and Ishihara arrived at the offices of a helicopter charter service at Haneda Airport. They were carrying a Betacam video camera they'd rented and two tripod cases. They'd already made a reservation, and the transaction was processed quickly and uneventfully. Ishihara was posing as a cameraman employed by a German TV station, and n.o.bue as his a.s.sistant. No one would ever imagine homegrown terrorists chartering a heli for two hours at a hundred fifty thousand yen an hour. Besides, they hadn't requested a flight over the Imperial Palace or the Diet building but rather the bland Tokyo suburb of Chofu City. Sitting on a plush sofa in the waiting room sipping cups of roasted-rice tea supplied by a young lady in black stockings, they wrote random names and addresses on the paperwork, scribbled on the dotted lines, paid cash in advance, and got a receipt. a sunny winter's day, n.o.bue and Ishihara arrived at the offices of a helicopter charter service at Haneda Airport. They were carrying a Betacam video camera they'd rented and two tripod cases. They'd already made a reservation, and the transaction was processed quickly and uneventfully. Ishihara was posing as a cameraman employed by a German TV station, and n.o.bue as his a.s.sistant. No one would ever imagine homegrown terrorists chartering a heli for two hours at a hundred fifty thousand yen an hour. Besides, they hadn't requested a flight over the Imperial Palace or the Diet building but rather the bland Tokyo suburb of Chofu City. Sitting on a plush sofa in the waiting room sipping cups of roasted-rice tea supplied by a young lady in black stockings, they wrote random names and addresses on the paperwork, scribbled on the dotted lines, paid cash in advance, and got a receipt.

"All set?" said the young pilot when they were introduced at the helipad. n.o.bue and Ishihara took one look at him and nearly squealed like teenage girls: he was a dead ringer for the late Sugioka. "We've removed the rear door to facilitate filming."

Parked in the center of a big yellow-painted circle was a vintage Sikorsky. The Sugioka-look-alike pilot helped them climb into the rear seat with their video camera and tripod cases. n.o.bue held the camera in his lap. "Here we go," said the pilot as the rotors began spinning and they lifted off. Below them, on the ground, the clerk who'd just accepted their three hundred thousand yen was smiling and waving moronically.

"We'll head straight for Chofu, then, is that correct?" the pilot said over the intercom. Ishihara, who was already having the time of his life, replied in a queer falsetto voice, "That's correct, dahhhling!" The pilot turned to give him a brief stare but then decided to let it go-no doubt there were a lot of eccentric people in TV and film. "Which part of Chofu?" he asked. "Chofu Station, please," said n.o.bue, and both he and Ishihara, buffeted by the wind coming through the open door, burst into uncontrollable laughter. The pilot spoke again.

"We'll arrive in fifteen minutes."

III.

Henmi Midori was at home watching Midori was at home watching Emmanuelle 4 Emmanuelle 4. The film had been broadcast on WOWOW a couple of nights before, and she'd recorded it to video. It was early afternoon. A while ago she had called Tomiyama Midori, only to hear that Tomii was busy visiting with her son and didn't have time to talk. She had then leafed absently through the textbook for an English conversation cla.s.s she'd recently begun attending. Her body felt fuzzy and itchy inside, however, reminding her that it was about time for her period to begin, and the English letters began to look like microscopic photos of sperm, so she'd closed the book and inserted the tape of the sophisticated soft-p.o.r.n film she'd set her VCR to record in the wee hours of the night before last. The original Emmanuelle, a middle-aged woman now, played a part in this film as well. How many years had it been since she'd watched the first film in the series with the man she'd been dating at the time? The man had told her that she bore a certain resemblance to Sylvia Kristel, and that night they'd slept together for the first time. It was perfectly clear to Henmi Midori that Sylvia Kristel, even in this later film and with a sagging middle-aged derriere, didn't look like her in the least. Had the man just been feeding her a line, or was it that he liked her so much that he really imagined a resemblance? As she watched the film and thought back to those times, the itchy sensation worked its way deeper into her body. She was thinking that if she comforted herself now, in the middle of the day, she'd probably end up feeling pretty pathetic, when she noticed a sort of gasoline smell. A split-second later, Henmi Midori knew no more. In the s.p.a.ce of an instant, she was burned to a fine ash, along with her entire house.

Tomiyama Midori was enjoying something she'd lost for some time but had regained after the battle on the seash.o.r.e above Atami-conversation with her son. Osamu had become a regular chatterbox. He talked about school, his favorite TV shows, his friends, girls in his cla.s.s, and especially American pro basketball, with which he was utterly obsessed. He watched all the games on TV and recorded them to review again and again, and he spoke endlessly of his favorite players and how "off the hook" their skills were. His animated face and shining eyes were adorable and radiated an energy that seemed to seep into and illuminate Tomiyama Midori's own being. She had received a phone call from Henmi Midori earlier but had cut it short, unwilling to sacrifice even a minute of this precious time with her son. Hemii would only have wanted to reminisce about Atami or talk about the tall young sales rep at her office. "There's a T-shirt I've just got to have," Osamu was saying, and Tomiyama Midori immediately made up her mind that she would find it for him at any cost. Apparently it was a T-shirt with a picture of someone named Charles Barkley dunking a basketball over G.o.dzilla's head. "If Barkley and G.o.dzilla ever really did get into a fight," Osamu said, "Barkley would win for sure, that's how awesome he is!" Before leaving her condo, Tomiyama Midori had helped her son into his hooded, child-sized Burberry slicker and wrapped herself in a mink half-coat she was paying for in thirty-six installments. They were now walking hand in hand down a poplar-lined street beneath the clear and pale blue winter sky. Such a tiny hand, and yet it contained all the necessary cells and nerves and pulsing blood vessels, she was thinking, and feeling such a surge of love that tears welled up in her eyes, when Osamu pointed at the sky and said, "Look! A chopper!" Neither of them noticed the black cylinder descending from it. They had taken a few more rustling steps through the fallen poplar leaves that covered the street, when the tripod case, after a drop of a thousand meters, hit the ground at a bus stop outside the north entrance to Chofu Station. It burst apart, as did the vinyl bag inside, releasing a gaseous mixture of ethylene oxide and propylene oxide, which instantly dissipated into the air over the entire city of Chofu. A few seconds later, the Peace tin exploded. This set off, not the sort of blast that expands outward, but an instantaneous combustion of the atmosphere itself. Tomiyama Midori and her son, along with all the other people crowding the streets in the center of town, simply evaporated in fire.

Because Suzuki Midori was airing her futon on the veranda of her apartment on the outskirts of town, where the combustion didn't quite reach, she experienced a somewhat grizzlier death. She had recently begun listening to Mozart, and that afternoon she'd gone to the CD section of a department store and bought Piano Concertos Nos. 22 and 23. She listened to them as she made and ate a spaghetti lunch at her apartment, and then, inspired by the clear blue winter sky, decided to air her futon. Each note emanating from Vladimir Ashkenazy's piano was like a tangible, sparkling jewel, and the music seemed to seep into her very bones. She wondered how it was that she'd come to feel Mozart so deeply, but the answer occurred to her almost at once. It all had to do with that night at the Atami seash.o.r.e. A certain sense of superiority she felt at possessing such a powerful secret, a secret such as no one else possessed or could even imagine, was the thread that tied her to Mozart's sensuality. Unless you had a legitimate sense of ent.i.tlement you couldn't really understand the beauty of Mozart, she was thinking as she carried the futon out to the railing, intoxicated with the adagio of the second movement, and detected a strange odor. The next instant, fire filled her entire field of vision. The explosion itself didn't reach her veranda, but because it devoured all the oxygen in the vicinity in zero-point-one seconds, she found herself clawing at her own breast as her face twisted into a hideous mask. The Mozart was drowned out by the all-consuming roar of her own throat collapsing, and with blood dripping from her broken nails and the gouges she'd dug into her own chest, she collapsed and expired there on the veranda, sandwiched in her own futon.

The junior college girl with the misaligned eyes was attending a lecture on child psychology in the big lecture hall at her school and wondering why no one in the crowded room took any of the seats around her. It made her sad to think it might be because her face was so scary, as her brother had always told her when she was little and as the manager at MOS Burger had said just recently when she went to apply for a part-time job. In her loneliness, she decided to try and summon up one of her ghost friends to talk to. Sugioka's ghost was always the first to appear, and today was no exception. But as he emerged from the mists, it was clear that he wasn't the same sorrowful and docile spirit as always. He was smirking. "You're all gonna die," he told her. What are you talking about? Quit being so weird, or I won't show you my b.o.o.bies anymore What are you talking about? Quit being so weird, or I won't show you my b.o.o.bies anymore, she was about to reply, when the lecture hall disintegrated. "Take that that!" Sugioka's ghost snickered. The junior college girl knew right away that she had pa.s.sed over. She experienced an odd mixture of sorrow and relief on finding that her entire face was gone.

Takeuchi Midori was in her car in the parking structure beneath the Ito Yokado superstore, and she, along with three other housewives who happened to be in their cars, survived both the fuel-air explosion and the depletion of oxygen in the immediate atmosphere. At first she thought it was either an earthquake or a nuclear war, and she sat in her car with all the windows rolled up for a full five minutes, then got out and climbed over the mounds of collapsed bricks and out into the street, where an astonishing sight awaited her. The town was in ruins. Burning automobiles sent up whirling billows of smoke, and charred bodies lay scattered over the ground as far as the eye could see.

n.o.bue and Ishihara were so taken aback by the magnitude of the explosion that they briefly stopped laughing, but the Sugioka-look-alike pilot, who barely managed to steady the helicopter after it was rocked by the blast, wet his pants in panic and outrage. His lips turned bone-white, and his thoughts were all mashed up- and Ishihara were so taken aback by the magnitude of the explosion that they briefly stopped laughing, but the Sugioka-look-alike pilot, who barely managed to steady the helicopter after it was rocked by the blast, wet his pants in panic and outrage. His lips turned bone-white, and his thoughts were all mashed up-Who are are these two guys? What just happened? What'll they say when I get back to the office? To think I put up with that a.s.shole sergeant in the SDF just so I could get a chopper license! these two guys? What just happened? What'll they say when I get back to the office? To think I put up with that a.s.shole sergeant in the SDF just so I could get a chopper license!-and he began to weep. When n.o.bue said, "Drop us somewhere in the mountains, where no one's around," he nodded and said, "Hai," in a pathetic voice before veering off at full speed toward Chichibu.

He set the helicopter down at a rest area on a snowy, deserted road in the Chichibu Mountains. n.o.bue and Ishihara said, "See ya!" and started walking away, but the pilot called out, "Wait a minute!" and came running after them. "I can't go back to my office! I mean, I'm pretty sure it'd mean the death penalty, right?"

The three of them stood side by side p.i.s.sing in the restroom trough, and then drank cans of steaming hot coffee, fresh from the vending machine.

"Don't worry," n.o.bue said. "Something that big, it'll take 'em at least a week before they get around to trying to figure out who did it. There's no motive, and the address I wrote down at your office puts me in Niigata, so they'll probably figure it was done by right-wing Russians or something. Kinda chilly up here," he added, and took the lead in marching down the mountain.

"Who are you guys?" the pilot asked with a mixture of fear and respect playing in his features as he followed them down.

"n.o.body knows," said Ishihara. "We've been ignored all our lives, so n.o.body knows who we are."

n.o.bue wondered if the woman with the unbelievable body in the apartment across the way had died, and decided she probably had. I wish ones like that, at least, could have lived I wish ones like that, at least, could have lived, he thought, and felt, just for a moment, a twinge of guilt.

Ishihara began humming "Until We Meet Again." He could feel his entire body sizzling with energy as he did so. n.o.bue joined in, but the pilot was apparently too young to remember the song. We'll have to teach it to him We'll have to teach it to him, Ishihara thought. Four of us may have died, but now we're already finding new blood, and there are any number of replacements out there. In two or three months maybe we'll even be able to hold another Karaoke Blast. Four of us may have died, but now we're already finding new blood, and there are any number of replacements out there. In two or three months maybe we'll even be able to hold another Karaoke Blast.

He felt really good and started laughing that familiar laugh of his.

* apple apple

banana banana

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