I Hear Them Cry Read online

  “We work together. She’s an interpreter.”

  “My, how nice. Thank you. I trust we’re in good hands then.”

  Her eyes were played up by mascara and dark blue eye shadow. The makeup on her face, accented by a gorgeous pink lipstick, was elaborate. Her slender fingernails were dark pink, shining with a glamorous luster. Even when asked to sign a document placed in front of her, she kept clinging to Shigeki, keeping her left hand coiled around his elbow.

  To him I was just some woman he had come across at work. I couldn’t help comparing myself to her though, seeing very clearly how different we were. I was skinny, my long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I was dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. I had no style. What’s more, with my nails always paint-stained dark brown (the color of the church’s walls), I looked like a child dirty from playing in the mud.

  (If only now the paint stains on my fingers were bloodred.)

  Self-consciously, I curled up my fingers and hid them from view. I remembered the time Jean had told me what lovely eyes I have, which snapped me out of my sinking state of mind.

  According to the police, Shigeki’s date’s purse had been stolen when the two of them were out on the street, trying to hail a cab after dining at a restaurant. Because his date’s passport was in the bag, Shigeki pursued the thief. He caught up with him quickly, grappled, and held him until the police arrived.

  After the report was drawn up, they both signed the document and confirmed that nothing was missing from the purse. The final question the police had for Shigeki and the woman was whether they wanted to press charges against Pierre.

  “What happens to the boy then?” Shigeki asked me.

  “They’ll look into his past for any priors and lock him up somewhere for a little while I suppose.”

  Although I was feigning indifference, a sense of fury bubbled up inside me. I simply couldn’t forgive Pierre. He had trampled on Jean’s goodwill. In my head, I cursed him, thinking he should be locked up forever.

  “What do you think? Should we press charges?” Shigeki asked, looking me straight in the eye.

  It pleased me that all of his attention was focused on me and not his date, who looked bored and ready for the whole ordeal to be resolved.

  Eventually, Jean came in with Pierre, who was still in handcuffs. His cheeks were red and bruised; his lips were swollen and scabbed. I reflexively turned to Shigeki. He was unfazed. His suit was not wrinkled in the least, his hair looked as if he’d just stepped out of a salon, and he showed no outward evidence of a physical altercation. It was hard to believe that he had actually fought with Pierre.

  “Mayu, would you let me offer a word of apology to him?” Jean said. Jean’s Dudley Do-Right attitude irritated me, but more than that, I couldn’t bear the sight of Pierre standing there with an aloof, impudent expression on his face.

  “Congratulations, Pierre! You’ve succeeded in betraying everyone’s trust! Especially Jean’s. Apologize to him,” I shouted through my tears of frustration. Looking into his stray-dog eyes as they tried to work out whether I was friend or foe, I slapped Pierre. The violence seemed to come out of nowhere.

  “Mayu, my child,” Jean said, embracing me like he was trying to shake me awake, “I know how you feel. But for now I’d just like you to ask them not to press charges.”

  Shigeki and the woman sat there, clueless, trying to register the significance of all those French words flying past them. I quieted my mind before saying to Shigeki, “Don’t press charges, please.”

  “If you say so, of course. Is he an acquaintance of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  (My acquaintance, a thief. How bad is that?)

  “Just one more question. Is this person the father?”

  “No, he’s a local priest.”

  He nodded as if to indicate his satisfaction with that bit of information. Then Shigeki and the woman left the police station. That night, lying in bed, I shoved my head under the pillow, regretting the disgraceful way I’d behaved in front of Shigeki. At the same time I was sick with jealousy. It was like I could still smell the sultry aroma of the woman on his arm. I could see her cleavage heaving out of the ivory dress wrapped tightly around her figure. The kind of woman who gives her body over to a man.

  (That kind of woman goes well with him.)

  I repeated this to myself as I savagely beat the pillow to a pulp. When I got tired of doing that, I turned over on my back, stared at a stain on the ceiling, and fell asleep with more miserable thoughts ricocheting through my mind.

  The next day I was at church, on my knees, searching my soul. Jean helped the delinquents with such devotion, but they betrayed him time and time again. Still Jean couldn’t give up. In fact he continues to be devoted even today. He forgives everybody and everything. I had been moved by this way of life of his, but there in the church thinking about my regrets, Jean’s caring disposition struck me as naïve, almost comical.

  I didn’t belong in the world of Chanel suits, but at the time I was drawn to Shigeki and everything around him. I imagined him contacting me, inviting me to travel across Europe with him. I fantasized about spending my days painting.

  (I’m fed up with all that violence, all those punks, those idiots. I’ve had enough! There’s nothing cool about poverty.)

  In the corner of my mind I saw Shigeki and his friend leaving the police station arm in arm, and how she’d stolen a quick glance back at me.

  “Well, Mayu, you certainly are pious, I must say,” Jean said teasingly, sneaking up behind me. “Incidentally, have you heard the saying that there is no one who likes church more than the sinner?”

  If Jean had actually seen into my heart at that time, he would have been disappointed.

  “Guilty as charged,” I said. “I need to be absolved of so many sins.”

  “Is that right?” Jean said, laughing. “Well, know this, my dear. I’m grateful that God has brought you to me. I’m on my way to the hospital to visit Pierre’s mother. Would you like to come?”

  Give me a break, I thought. Why would I want to visit Simone, the junkie mom? But filled with gratitude for God having brought Jean into my life, I agreed to join him.

  Prostitution and drugs had undone Simone. It was easy to imagine the troubled, turbulent circumstances that had shaped Pierre as a child. When he was around twelve, he ran away from home—from Simone—and began to lead a life of crime, getting involved with gangs. But even after all those years he had never stopped worrying about Anna, his younger sister. Realizing this, Jean felt compelled to reach out to Pierre.

  Anna was there, peeking out from behind Jean, her large blue eyes transfixed on me. Unlike other seven-year-olds, she had absolutely no sense of childlike shame.

  (What is it? What on earth do you want to say to me? Why do you keep staring at me so much?)

  It occurred to me then that Anna was yearning to escape from her harsh surroundings, from her wretched life.

  Suddenly, an incredibly vivid scene formed in my mind’s eye: a bed smeared by a yellow stain; a room with tatami mats, pillars, and a ceiling, all pungent with nose-stinging odor. My eyes meet my grandmother’s; her left arm is tied to a bed leg; the gold-rimmed pattern of a Buddhist altar reflects sadly in her eyes as she vacantly gazes up at the sky. My mother returns from shopping, and I ask her why she tied up Grandmother.

  “Grandmother isn’t all there anymore,” she said gently. “She’s become senile. It’s become dangerous for her. Just the other day she went outside by herself and got lost, like a little child. So we have no choice but to tie her up, you see. Don’t tell anyone about this now, you hear?”

  Senile? When I’d tried to untie her, Grandmother had said, “Stop that, you’ll be the one to get scolded by your mother.” Only five years old at the time, I stepped back, frightened by her watery eyes.

  Help. Help. Somebody help.

  Anna is trying to wail. But she can only cry in silence. Her voiceless agony has been echoing
through the darkest corridors of my mind since that time.

  JEAN: FIVE

  My paintings of the church became popular among the parishioners. Once I completed the first one, I began to receive commissions, one after another, to paint more versions. So I began viewing and rendering the church from different angles, working hard at creating variations.

  By keeping myself busy moonlighting, volunteering, and sometimes working as a tour guide, I was trying to forget Shigeki. I was resigned to the idea that my love for him was a one-way street and that we would never meet again. My nights were lonely, and I fell asleep with fatigue as my only companion.

  Some Japanese tourists didn’t enjoy participating in group tours, preferring to go around at their own leisurely pace. They generally tended to be elderly and they always offered me mementos of homelike miso paste and powdered ochazuke, saying that the gifts were a token of their appreciation for my service. Sometimes they tried to give me Hermès scarves they had bought as souvenirs, but I declined. I feared that if I accepted such expensive gifts, I would end up pandering to Shigeki’s world. But I was actually putting a lid over my feelings, tightly sealing them shut.

  One time, when I took a refined elderly couple to a Chanel shop, I was told to pick out a suit. I explained that I was a painter and had no need for such expensive clothing and that my tastes leaned toward other styles. The gentleman who had been silently listening to me up to that point said, “I appreciate what you’re saying. In fact I think you’re admirable to have made the lifestyle choices you have, especially in light of the times we find ourselves in today.”

  I thought, Me, admirable? In truth, my urge to wear the Chanel was unbearable. Somehow I felt wearing it would bring Shigeki to me, that I would be able to meet him again. Having thought that, I was overcome with a heavy, sinking feeling, so I went into super-denial mode, telling myself that I was only kidding, just kidding.

  As if in response to overhearing this schizoid interior monologue of mine, the gentleman slowly began telling me a story.

  “Last year we lost our daughter to an unimaginable tragedy. We had planned to visit France with her so that we could buy her a Chanel suit and have the pleasure of beholding how good she would look in it and how happy it would make her. So please, my dear, won’t you do us a favor and grant us our wish? Make our little dream come true and put on one of these suits?”

  So I decided to accept a Chanel suit, and for a fleeting moment I pictured myself seated in Shigeki’s car. I thought the gentleman had somehow sensed my desire to wear one; the fact that I had flatly refused seemed to have been a dead giveaway. The way he spoke was respectful of my hesitation. My eyes were already searching for a suit that would flatter me.

  (I felt like such a fool. How could wearing this suit help me see Shigeki again?)

  I picked a pale green one, and then seeing myself in the mirror, I saw someone resembling an elegant, classy woman. My reflection made me smile. The husband and wife were also smiling with satisfaction.

  I realized then and there that I would never be content with a life of honorable poverty; the very thought suddenly struck me as totally unreasonable.

  Back at home, the suit hung on the apartment’s slightly stained wall, looking sadly out of place.

  (My resolve to lead a modest life had been firm. I had adamantly drawn the line, yet I began to wonder whether there would ever be another day when I’d wear the suit again.)

  With such thoughts swirling in my mind, I couldn’t help but develop a guilty conscience about the expensive suit. But then again I remembered the couple’s joyful faces and decided that, in the end, I had made two people happy.

  I soon landed another tour-guide gig. This time the client was a businessman, and he wished to spend his time off from work experiencing how the French live. It was right up my alley.

  When I arrived at the prearranged location, the businessman waiting for me was Shigeki. He was in a T-shirt and blue jeans.

  SHIGEKI: ONE

  There was a fountain just outside town. It was what remained of the many wells that used to dot a road traversed by grazing sheep and goats in the old days. Now, making the most of the wells’ old brickwork, artists had created a lovely fountain as the center of a plaza, where Shigeki was sitting on a bench. My first thought upon seeing him in casual clothes was that he was attempting to blend into my world.

  “So you’re still in France?” I asked in a businesslike tone, trying to conceal my delight.

  “I just returned from Germany yesterday. I wanted to see you again.”

  My heart was about to burst, but I managed to keep my emotion in check, telling myself that I was just one of the many women who flocked to him. I couldn’t let myself get all blissed out by such sugarcoated words. Whatever happened to the woman he was with at the police station?

  “How may I help you today?”

  “I want to get away from work, so how about showing me around?”

  “Look, I need some parameters,” I said. “You need to narrow it down for me. Art sites, historic sites? What do you want to see?”

  Slightly vexed by my composure and prim attitude, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and started smoking, exhaling calmly. This smooth action was his ploy to buy time, think about who he was dealing with, and determine his next step. “I wanted to check out your scene, you know, see where you live.”

  “Glimpses into my life of poverty aren’t part of the guided tour,” I said resolutely.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Look, ever since I saw you slap that boy, I’ve been wondering why. By the way—I didn’t press charges—you know, just like you asked. I feel I’m owed the right to some enlightenment here. Don’t you think?”

  Pulses of joy welled up from the soles of my feet. He was openly showing interest in me as a person!

  “I suppose you have a point there. But you’ll need to pay extra.”

  I wanted to draw a clear professional line between him and me.

  “Okay, how much?”

  “One hundred thousand.”

  I had no idea how much Shigeki spent on women, but I saw no reason to be coy when it came to collecting a donation from a man of fortune. But then again, this extravagant amount of money came from a place of jealousy inside me. Without a word or any sign of hesitation, Shigeki produced the money from his wallet. We headed to Jean’s church in Shigeki’s luxury rental car.

  The elm tree was probably one hundred years old. Its gentle shade always looked welcoming, just like Jean. When we stepped into the church, a soft light was filtering through the stained glass. I knelt and offered my thanks for being reunited with Shigeki.

  “Are you Catholic?” he asked.

  “Technically, no,” I said, thinking that maybe God did exist after all. “Actually, I’m not that religious.”

  Evidently amused by this assertion, he smiled broadly and said, “Is that right? So who do you think God watches over? Mayu the faithful, who prays—or Mayu the unfaithful, who doesn’t?”

  “I’ll ask next time.”

  “I’d be interested in the good Lord’s reply,” Shigeki said, evidently still amused.

  I led him to the room at the back. Auntie Nina was there, helping out with clerical work.

  “Nina, this is Mr. Tachibana. He’s made a contribution.” I held out the full amount in front of Shigeki.

  “Thank you! God bless you, sir,” Nina said, standing up and putting her arm around him to express her gratitude. “I can tell you that your money won’t go to waste.”

  I interpreted, and Shigeki appeared satisfied, nodding at me and saying, “That’s just wonderful.”

  I wondered whether I might have just thrown his dough into a black hole, since donations like this often went unrewarded.

  “Where’s Jean?” I asked.

  “At the hospital, giving his weekly lecture.”

  SHIGEKI: TWO

  Next, I took Shigeki to the hospital where Simone was being treated for her d
rug addiction.

  “Your donation could be used to help support Pierre’s family,” I said.

  “I’d be honored.”

  A beautiful and lush tree-lined garden surrounded the hospital, and many patients were outside with their therapists enjoying the day, either strolling or sitting on benches. At a glance, you couldn’t tell the patients from the therapists.

  We headed toward the main building, walking leisurely across the gently sprawling lawn.

  “This place also admits people who show signs of mental illness,” I explained.

  “So you’re saying this is a mental hospital?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s just like some kind of a vacation spot if you ask me,” Shigeki said. “Nothing like the ones back home.”

  This hospital treated many people who suffered from drug-induced hallucinations, like Simone. Having succumbed to alcohol and drugs, she was essentially hollowed out, lacking the drive to carry on with the demands of day-to-day living. Jean was unable to remain indifferent and had lent a helping hand to Pierre’s family. It was one of his acts meant to help prevent the rise of future would-be criminals.

  Once inside the main building, I asked the receptionist when Jean would be finished, and then we went outside to sit on the lawn and relax while we waited.

  “Don’t you ever feel like returning to Japan?” Shigeki asked.

  “Not yet,” I replied. “Right now I’m in the middle of trying to figure out a way of life that’s good for me. I’ve changed after getting to know Jean. I want to see what I’m capable of accomplishing on my own.”

  Shigeki just gazed at me for a while before muttering, “I envy you. You’re young. I sure would like to live my life as I please, all footloose and fancy-free.”

  Now that was Shigeki the businessman talking, a man in charge of a company, a strong man burdened with responsibilities.

  Jean came out of the building, having finished his lecture. I put on my interpreter’s cap again.