Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Knocking on Doors

I remain quiet for a while. I feel obligated to say I trust her. But somehow I can't bring myself to do it. It is almost like trying to muster full confidence behind a court case, as an attorney for the defendant. She doesn't push for an answer. She must have sensed my hesitation.

"I need more time to think over what he said."

She nods.

I hold my breath when we step outside, careful not to let the biting cold into my lungs, but to no avail. It seems to seep in through my pores and gnaw on bones. It's much too cold this year. Only Shizuka appears unaffected at my side, in her shorts, slippers and bare legs. She clutches at her sleeves. She catches me looking, or thinking.

"Women are strong," she says, stooping, and lifts one of the bin lids. It has a non-combustible label on it. I'm not sure if phones are combustible, or if it can be thrown out as garbage at all. But I had hidden both phones deep in the midsection of our trash, fenced in on all sides by paper and wrappers. No one would realize, no one would find it.

I peer inside the bin before dropping in the bag. There is barely any room left. Round bags, bloated and filled to its maximum capacity, like they had each been inflated with a tire pump, sit on top of one another. But because of their spherical bodies, there are gaps in between each one. Most are translucent, with its contents quite clear beneath the faint glow of a street lamp, and none are particularly out of the ordinary, except for one pink plastic bag, reused from a Harajuku shop. It is odd, as we are expected to purchase disposal bags from convenient stores. There is a rigid rule in place on the block. And it would've likely been against Etiquette. Only this pink bag is opaque. Sticking out like a sore thumb. A black sheep. An anomaly. Rebellion. Its contents are hidden. Is there a clear deliberation behind it or is it simply a mistake? I begin to wonder what's inside.

The disposal team might wonder the same as they pull up in their blue truck in the morning. It would be tinkling with MIDI nursery rhymes as usual, light and carefree like a ringtone, like they're delighted about their job or they lure children and seize them as trash. Whenever such a song is heard, one should take it as an ironic warning to stay away. Unlike America, it wouldn't be the sound of an ice cream truck on a hot summer day. Conversely, during winters, the eerie howl of a loudspeaker, closely resembling North Korean propaganda or Medieval Gregorian chants would indicate there are sweet potatoes for sale. I always had to question why it could not be the reverse. Perhaps, selling sweet potatoes might be a better business if they drove their trucks with nursery rhyme. But there are no sweet potatoes for sale tonight. Instead, the next morning there would be the garbage truck and a pink plastic bag of trash. She drops the lid and the pink disappears from view, as do our phones. I feel a sudden urge to retrieve our phones. It feels like we're making a mistake.

"The man was right about one thing." She is looking up, standing there in her sweater, a stream of mist from her lips. "It's a beautiful Christmas Eve."

I look up in the same direction she is. To my surprise, there's the moon in its full glory, as he had said. It isn't a crescent, as I had expected, but it's quite peculiarly approaching a full moon. I remember the lunar cycle calendar I had purchased at one point and hung in my room for no real reason. I vaguely recall it being a crescent on the twenty-fourth. Is my memory at fault? Or did something change?

"Full moon," I say.

"Yeah." She frowns. "Your calendar should be right, Naoki."

"When did you start to call me Naoki?"

She appears surprised herself. "I don't know, it feels right. Looking at this moon, it feels right."

I stare at her for a while. Her nose is illuminated by the street lamp and moonlight. It's mesmerizing to see. "And something is wrong with the moon tonight."

"Or something is wrong with your calendar."

"You can't tell?"

"No; either way, something is different. We need to get a move on. The man was right, we can't stay in hiding for much longer."

"We aren't going to take his other words into consideration?"

"He speaks on behalf of Emoto, the one who had purchased your I.P. according to the contract. All we can do is assume he wishes to manipulate our actions and maintain in control of you."

"You're not exactly free either, the Sounds are combing the city for you. At some point, the Collective would point them in the right direction." I sound like I'm finger pointing.

She remains silent for a long time and we stand there, just looking at the night sky. Like two stray cats anticipating rain. There are no stars, since the city lights are much too bright. Neither are there clouds or any sign of wind. In fact, the air is so still, it seems like time has stopped, and we are the only ones able to move. The buildings seem to disappear into a world of light or darkness. It's just us and garbage pails and the moon.

When something comes falling out of the sky, I'm shocked at first. But I realize it's snow. A single white flake, dancing, spiraling, tumbling, freewheeling, like a diver high above a swimming pool, making as many rotations as he can. In the same way, it disappears and lands without a sound. I can't tell where it ended up. But it isn't the only one to fall tonight. Eventually, more flakes join in symphonic performance. Dotting the ebony depths above with Impressionist dabs of milk. Isolated lonesome ones make friends with another. Two becomes three, and three, four, gathering in number and strength. Soon, there's a curtain of white specks spilling over our eyes, until we can no longer see. A white Christmas.

Yet, there are no clouds.

"The pressure is closing in. They are all daring us to make a move." She whispers.

At that point, as if on cue, we realize that we aren't alone anymore. I don't know for how long they have been standing there, but oddly, Shizuka hasn't been able to sense their presence. It's only when the figure had moved in my peripheral vision that we spun around. I had expected a dog or cat at first, but there, in the shadows of the alleyway between my apartment building and the detached house next door, stood a humanoid figure. It's no more than ten meters away. Though it's difficult to make out any details through a screen of dense snowfall, it's clearly someone short and slim. There are no other distinguishable features visible in the dark. Yet, I could tell that the shadow is looking straight at us, watching us. Standing still, like having spot an unusual sight. Had they heard our conversation?

We remain unmoving for a while, like a competition to see who can remain stationary for the longest, who would spook first and take off from the scene. But neither of us do. Until the figure reaches into a pocket and withdraws something small, eyes still presumably on us. It moves in such a way that no other part of its body shifts - just the mechanical function of an arm, as if it's a separate entity altogether. Its head doesn't move, neither does its chest seem to breathe. It holds up something to its head. It waits for a moment. Though I can't hear what it is saying, I can tell it's talking to someone.

Sure enough, soon after the figure's call had begun, someone else opens the door from the inside of the house. Maybe a little more than fifteen meters away. Lemon light spills out onto the porch. There is a head at the doorway. Staring straight at us. Eerily inanimate. Like it had suddenly been frozen, painted into a picture.

Then, it returns inside the house.

They seem to be on to something. They know something about us.

I grab her hand and pull her inside.

"The Cause. They're here."