Chapter 6

Saburou stood slowly and sat on Miri’s lap. I involuntarily gasped. Through his fluffy fur, I felt the warmth of Miri’s lap. She began stroking the back of his neck, and it tickled so much I thought I was going to die. “Hey, Miri, stop! Stop!” Unfortunately, she didn’t hear me. She was completely absorbed in the movie, unaware of anything else. Bright red with embarrassment, I tried my best to concentrate on the film. It’s eventually revealed that the main character is schizophrenic. His work and reality start blending together, and he can no longer tell fiction from reality. He begins questioning everything—who he really is, whether his wife and daughter are real, and if the zombies are actually zombies. Eventually, he finds his wife, and they plot their escape. As they reminisce about their past, something feels off. His wife’s memories don’t quite align with his. She insists they never had a daughter. Gripped by pure terror, his hallucinations worsen. In the climax, his zombified wife attacks him, and he drives a stake into her face, repeatedly hammering it with a rock. But even in that moment, he’s not entirely sure if she’s really a zombie or not. The intensity of the scene made my skin crawl. The actor’s performance was incredible. The wife’s eyes looked utterly lifeless—how in the world did she manage to extinguish the light in her eyes like that? My heart skipped a beat when Miri suddenly hugged Saburou tightly. “Miri?” But of course, she didn’t hear me. I could feel her warmth and the slight tremble in her body. That’s when it finally dawned on me. She wasn’t good with horror movies. I had to smile. She’d chosen this movie because my étude was a zombie sci-fi, hoping it might be useful for me. “We could’ve watched something you wanted to watch.” On the screen, the main character was now pursued by zombies. He pressed his back against a door, then drove a stake through his leg, using the pain to dispel his hallucinations. “Go away,” he chanted, “go away, go away!” Suddenly, he realized that everything had gone silent. The hotel was empty. When he went to check on his wife’s body, he found the remains of a crow—with a stake driven through it. He walked outside, greeted by a surreal, dreamlike scene. Dead bodies lay scattered around a garden filled with white roses in full bloom. Countless butterflies fluttered, dancing in the midday sun. A girl in a blue dress stood there, her back to him—like Alice in Wonderland. I swallowed hard. In a whisper, he called his daughter’s name. After a moment—a painfully long one—the girl slowly turned to face him. Then, without warning, she lunged at her father’s heart. The movie never showed the girl’s face, only a close-up of the father’s. His facial expressions transitioned masterfully, capturing every nuance of his emotions: doubt, vague expectation, joy, tears, realization, suffering, sorrow, resignation—and finally, only love remained. Then the movie ended. Those expressions seared themselves into my memory, lingering faintly over the black screen as the credits rolled. Through the somber music, I heard Miri crying. I could feel her quiet sobs and the slight tremble of her body. It felt like hearing Miri’s soul. Like holding a seashell to my ear and listening to the echo of a phantom sea. When the credits finished, Miri gently lifted Saburou off her lap and turned on the lights. She asked, “What did you think?” Her eyes still glistened with tears, but I didn’t mention them. I answered with conviction, “That was amazing! I was blown away!” We got lost in conversation about the movie, dissecting every detail. Before we knew it, hours had passed. Saburou eventually yawned. Just as I was thinking how funny it is when cats yawn, it infected me, and I yawned, too. Then it spread to Miri, who let out an adorable little yawn, and soon enough, Saburou yawned again. We doubled over laughing, tears streaming down our cheeks from the sheer absurdity of it all. “Oh, how funny,” Miri said, wiping away a tear with her finger. “It’s late for both of us. We should head to bed soon.” She gently patted Saburou’s head, and I blushed slightly again. “Good night, Miri.” “Good night, Yochi.” Then we cut the connection. The room was left with just one person and one cat. Like closing the lid of a music box, the sounds and colors of the evening slowly drifted away into the distance. I felt a wave of sadness. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could always be with Miri? I went to lie down in bed without taking my anxiety meds. I wanted tomorrow to come as soon as possible, just to see her again. That thought circled in my mind as it became fuzzier and fuzzier. I think I might be falling for Miri. 12 There was another piece of paper on the Drama Club door today. For God Does See Thee The font looked ominous, with an eye included on the page for good measure. It was in pretty poor taste, even as a joke. I instinctively checked my surroundings, but no one was there. I shrugged and walked in. After some basic warm-ups, we started more études. I was grouped with Amou, Kuroyama, and Sakuraba, and I felt nervous being with such virtuosos. That’s when I noticed a woman I hadn’t seen before in our group. “That’s the illustrious Wakana Ishikawa,” Sakuraba said, noticing my curiosity. “I’ve never met her before.” “Tech members can join cast practice whenever they want. It’s rare for them to be around as much as Umeko, though. Ishikawa’s really shy, so it’s unusual to see her here.” “So the club members I haven’t met yet are all tech members like sound or scenery?” “That and the people who never show up, of course,” Sakuraba added with a chuckle. “It’ll be like this until Amou finishes the next script. Just some playful exercises with a mix of cast and tech.” “Speaking of Amou, what’s he doing over there?” I glanced toward the corner of the room. Amou had his arms spread wide, gazing up at the ceiling, looking like the cover of The Shawshank Redemption. “He’s apparently downloading the script from the universe.” “I wonder what network he’s using.” “He won’t be much use while he’s like that. It’s best to be prepared.” The theme for the études was “a facility.” Kuroyama returned just before it was our turn. “I can’t think without a cigarette first.” Maybe it was the nicotine, but Kuroyama was sharp. He devised a natural, memorable scene, weaving in plot twists and leading it to a satisfying conclusion. His charisma was complemented by a face that slightly resembled Jesus’s. On the other hand, Amou was practically useless. He sat there blankly, muttering things like “Ahhh” and “Ummm.” We had no choice but to cast him as an old man in a retirement home. Sakuraba played a visitor to the retirement home, looking striking in her high heels. Kuroyama welcomed her as the manager, offering English tea and madeleines. “And what brings you here today?” he asked. Then it happened. For the first time, I saw someone “wear a mystery.” As Sakuraba dipped the imaginary madeleine into imaginary tea, a mysterious smile formed at the corner of her lips. She wore the mystery like a golden shawl, draped elegantly around her shoulders, like something out of a Klimt painting. She ate the madeleine with the slightest emotional nuances, captivating us with the shadow of that scene. She spoke, and the story progressed. The scene felt like something out of Japan’s most famous anti-mysteries and was set during the Great Hanshin earthquake of 1995. The group advanced the story with a brazen intensity, as if uncovering a grave. Ishikawa and I played minor roles, barely able to keep up. In the final scene, Amou suddenly snapped out of his haze, delivering a vibrant performance. He threw in two plot twists, and after inexplicably going half naked, the étude ended with an emotional, lyrical touch. As the applause died down, Amou bolted upright. “I haaaaaaave iiiiiiiit!!” He dashed out of the room at full speed, presumably to write down the script. Everyone was used to his eccentric behavior, so the next group casually began preparing. “When you were eating those madeleines,” I whispered to Sakuraba, “how in the world did you wear the mystery like that?” “‘Wear the mystery,’ what a lovely expression.” She looked surprised for a moment, then chuckled. “Do you know Sayoko Yamaguchi?” “Sayoko Yamaguchi?” “She’s a legendary supermodel. She calls herself ‘someone who wears things.’ As in, she can wear anything. Music, images, the sky, airplane trails, even empty soda cans. Maybe she wears her soul, too, and her body is just an outfit for it. Have you ever paid attention to the audience’s faces while acting?” I shook my head. I could barely focus on anything but acting. “If you’re acting really well, you can feel the audience’s souls being drawn out through their eyes, leaving their clay bodies and glass eyeballs in the seats. When that happens, their souls go here.” She tapped the nape of her neck with her finger. “When you carry the audience’s souls, they’re heavy. So heavy that you get tired and want to pass them on to someone else. You start speeding up, and your movements get sloppy. But if you endure, you’ll wear the audience’s souls. Then you’ll wear the story and, eventually, the mystery itself.” Her smile spread as she spoke, and her midnight-black pupils seemed ready to draw me in. The next group began their performance, but I was lost in thought, replaying what Sakuraba had just said. After practice, I casually approached Ishikawa. “That étude was really interesting.” “Huh? Oh, um… Sure,” she replied hesitantly. She really was shy. “I could barely keep up. It feels like the more I practice, the bigger the gap between me and the others grows.” “Well… They’re really…really good…” “They are. And that other person was really good, too. The one who played Elizabeth…” The moment I mentioned Elizabeth, Ishikawa’s face went pale. I realized I’d said too much, but it was too late. Fear flickered across her face. “Sorry, I have to use the restroom,” she muttered, quickly walking away. I rubbed my face with my left hand, regretting my words. Behind me, I heard a stifled laugh. “She blew you off,” Sakuraba teased, smiling wickedly. “That’s not what that was about.” “Heh-heh… Sure, of course. You’re in love with a girl who’s too far away to be with.” “Huh?”