Because she was his, wasn’t she? Sprawled out before him day after day.
One session, he spent most of the afternoon looking for the cat, scanning the streets and alleyways, but it was nowhere to be found. The relief soaked over him like warm water – he must have been imagining the cat’s existence from the beginning.
But as his eyes flickered through Roppongi his heart fell: the cat was there, emerging from a subway exit. Its tail raised high, as though taunting him.
He only managed thirty minutes of hurried work on the tattoo that day before Naomi had to leave.
It was when Kentaro was nearing the end of his work on her that he understood what he must do. He had black rings under his eyes; he had lost his appetite, was finding it hard to swallow food and had grown skeletally thin. His dirty stubble had grown out into a shaggy beard, and his eyes, like black inked dots sunken deeply into his skull, stared vacantly at the walls of his parlour. Even before, he’d rarely gone out much or been hugely social. He’d usually spent most of his time on the Internet, looking at art books or drawing and painting designs on paper. But now he made his way along the old streets of Asakusa, muttering to himself as he went. He walked quickly, bumping into a homeless man wearing a purple bandana. Kentaro lost his temper and shouted uncontrollably at the stranger, who apologized profusely until he continued on his way. He bought a knife from the famous blade master of Asakusa he always visited. The blade master looked at him a little strangely, but didn’t comment on his haggard appearance or the fact that Kentaro usually bought only needles from him, never blades.
Kentaro took the knife home and sharpened it. He tested the blade against his finger and it drew a burst of blood from his skin with only the slightest pressure. He taped the knife to the underside of the table, where Naomi wouldn’t see it. And he waited.
Naomi came for what they both knew would be her final session, undressing quickly as usual. Kentaro did his best to act naturally as she talked to him about a summer fireworks festival she had been to, showing him photos of the yukata she had picked out. He nodded and smiled, pretending to listen.
He worked well, in a kind of giddy contentment that this waking nightmare would soon be coming to an end. He finished a final section of shading Kita-Senju on her arm, then he cast his eyes around the Asakusa area, looking for that last blank space to fill – the roof of his very own tattoo parlour. He traced his way from the Kaminari gate at Sensoji Temple to his parlour. Here’s what he would do: he’d sign his name on the roof of the building declaring the tattoo as finished. And then he would reach for his knife and begin.
But as soon as he went to sign his name, he saw the cat sitting outside his shop.
He knew then, with a terrible certainty, that if he were to glance up from the tattoo on Naomi’s body and look outside the door, he would see the cat sitting there, its green eyes watching him.
He gulped and closed his eyes.
The city was still there though. Like he was seeing it from space. His mind’s eye was a camera looking down on it. Then the camera began to zoom in, down onto the globe, onto Japan, onto Tokyo, all the way down to street level. It flew through the red roof of his tattoo parlour, and there he saw himself working on Naomi’s perfect back, on the tattoo of the city. The camera didn’t stop. He’d lost control. It flew once again into the tattoo, and kept going down: through Japan, through Tokyo, into Asakusa, through the roof of his parlour and into the tattoo once more. And on and on endlessly.
Unless he opened his eyes, he would be stuck like this. Looping round and round, zooming in on the city forever, trapped. But he kept them shut.
For when he opened them, he would see that there was no longer space for him to sign his name in the roof of his parlour. It would be filled with a real red roof. He’d be faced with a city, with the millions and millions of people moving in and around, through subway stations and buildings, parks and highways, living their lives. The city pumped their shit around in pipes, it transported their bodies around in metal containers, and it held their secrets, their hopes, their dreams. And he’d no longer be sitting on the other side watching through a screen. He’d be part of it too. He’d be one of those people.
With his eyes still shut, he reached under the table, hand scrambling desperately for the knife.
He trembled as he opened his eyes.
The muscles in Naomi’s back flexed and came to life.
And so too, did the city.
Fallen Words
‘There once was a shrewd antique dealer named Gozaemon.’
Ohashi paused, and his eyes gleamed in the low light. He had tied back his grey hair under a purple bandana, and wore his beard long and shaggy on his wrinkled face. A thin man, for his age, but with just a tiny paunch belly forming, he knelt on a cushion with his hands held in front of him, in the customary stance of the rakugoka.
‘He was a sly and cunning man,’ he continued, his voice echoing softly around the silent room, ‘who thought nothing of disguising himself as a poor monk and visiting the houses of the elderly, on the hunt for treasures to sell in his antiques shop at hiked-up prices.’
Ohashi had performed rakugo in crowded venues, to the rich and poor, and every time he treated each story as if it were his last – as though his words might be carried into the crowd on his dying breath. He had selected today’s story specifically for his current audience. He cleared his throat and continued.
‘One day, after swindling a woman of an expensive bookcase, this crooked man Gozaemon stopped by a sweet dumpling shop to eat. He sat on a stool outside the shop and waited for his food. As he was waiting, he spied a dirty old cat lapping milk from a bowl. But it was not the cat that interested him. The bowl, which the cat lapped greedily from, was an antique – one he was certain he could sell for 300 gold pieces. Gozaemon felt a cool sweat and the familiar sense of excitement at the prospect of a steal. He composed himself as the old woman who owned the shop came out with his food.’
When Ohashi took on the words of his characters, his voice and mannerisms transformed completely, so one would think the character he was portraying had possessed him. When he played Gozaemon, he shifted to face the right, clasped his hands together and spoke glibly. When he played the old woman he shifted to the left, hunched over and contorted his features, appearing to have aged thirty years in a split second. He faced the audience in between these snippets of dialogue to perform the jovial voice of the narrator.
‘“What a lovely cat you have,” said Gozaemon.
“What? That old mog?” replied the old woman in surprise.
“Yes. It’s a darling cat.” Gozaemon knelt down to pet the cat. It hissed at him, back arching. “Reminds me of my own, who sadly . . . no, it’s too painful to even talk about . . . My children loved that old cat so . . .”
Gozaemon pretended to stifle a sob, and the old woman tilted her head to one side.
“Perhaps . . . Oh, it would be too much to ask.” He looked up.
“What?” asked the old woman, jutting out her lower lip.
“Well, would you be willing to sell this cat?”
“That old flea bag?”
“Yes, this charming cat.”
“I’m not sure. It keeps mice away from my shop.”
“I would be willing to pay . . .” said Gozaemon, his voice wavering slightly.