He suddenly knew why he was so drawn to this man.
He’s the same. He’s….
The image of the man crying in the middle of the night rose in his mind. Kisaragi turned back to face the man and twined his arms around his neck.
“Doctor?”
“Take me again.”
The man’s large hand stroked his back, and Kisaragi heard the sound of his own throat rumble.
Once December rolled around, Kanesaki suddenly called Kisaragi out and invited him to go away.
“Where?”
“Well… two men together would probably stand out, so… Karuizawa would be good. I have a summer house there.” He went on to explain that it was a summer house that a certain financing company had repossessed from a debtor.
“Let’s go this weekend,” he suggested.
Kisaragi had no plans, and no reason to refuse.
On Saturday afternoon, Kanesaki was the one in the driver’s seat as they headed to Karuizawa in his white Mercedes. The Mercedes stopped in front of a house that was in an area of Old Karuizawa where there were many luxury villas. The property was vast, and the house itself was a stately Western-style mansion with a towering chimney.
The oak trees and white birches had all shed their leaves. There were no signs of people, and it was quiet all around. The wine cellar in the basement and the refrigerator in the kitchen were bursting.
“Looks like we won’t have to go out to eat,” Kanesaki said contentedly as he looked through them.
“What?” Kisaragi exclaimed. “I can’t cook, you know.”
“I will. I may not look like a chef, but I do have a chef’s license.”
Kisaragi looked at him skeptically.
“If that’s what you want to think,” said Kanesaki, laughing loudly.
Nevertheless, when it came time to serve dinner, Kanesaki presented him with a full course of steak done rare, Italian salad, and French onion soup. After dinner, they started a fire in the fireplace and enjoyed wine and cheese. Then, they rid themselves of their clothes until they were as naked as when they were first born, and made love on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace.
As always, Kanesaki talked nonstop. But that night, he talked about his days in his homeland. He rolled Kisaragi’s nipple with his finger as he spoke.
“It was 1953 when the war ended,” he said. He sucked on the nipple for a while, then his lips drew away. “But I was born after that, so I don’t know anything about it.” He pinched the nipple between his fingers.
The battle drew to a close, and the nation was divided. Torn asunder. Even then, the turmoil continued, and many people went missing. My father was one of them.
They called people who had been abducted to the North the nabbugja － the abductees. But the nation did not admit it. They called the missing wolbukja － people who had gone willingly to the north. The family of the wolbukja who were left behind were discriminated against and seen as traitors.
I was still a newborn. My mother took me and my older brother around to various relatives, where we managed to feed ourselves. But supporting the family of a wolbukja meant being called a traitor as well.
We had no place to belong.
I was twelve when my older brother disappeared. I heard later on that my brother had been in contact with a spy from the North. It was to gain information about my father.
I don’t know if my brother went to the North on his own will, or because he had been tricked by the spy. There’s no way to know now.
I was caught by the authorities, the public safety organization, as you’d call it here － and tortured. They burned the soles of my feet, and stabbed knives into both of my palms. They pressed a hot brand to my ribs.
How does a twelve-year-old know any better? I don’t even remember whose name I gave. But I heard later that brother’s friends from university had been hauled in. They took advantage of a kid to ensnare people who were arguing for democratization.
I was released. I was a broken mess when I came home. I was greeted with the cold stares of my neighbors.
Traitor, they all said. They said my father, my brother, and even his younger brother － me － had been agents for the North. They threw rocks at my mother and I.
After that, my brother’s friends from his university came and beat me up. They said their comrades had been hauled in because of me. They told them I had to help overthrow the current government to make up for it.
I’d had enough of it. The North. The South. All of it. I left my mother and headed for Japan.
Kanesaki spoke of such things between their acts. Eventually, he released the last of his sperm and rolled over on his back. Kisaragi took Kanesaki’s hand and pressed his lips against his scars.
“Doctor?”
“Shh.”
He kissed his ribs next, then the soles of his feet.
“These are your stigmata.” Five hideous sores. Kisaragi shed tears at the idea of a twelve-year-old boy enduring these.
“Are you crying for me?”
Kisaragi latched onto the man’s lips, this time of his own will.
The two of them spent the two days cooped up in the summer house, deeply immersed in the act of arousing each other.
“No more,” Kisaragi would say, but he would find his strength returning after a time. He felt more exasperated than impressed.
“I don’t know how it can get hard after all of this.”
Kanesaki who had burrowed between Kisaragi’s legs was[m1] fondling him with his tongue as he laughed.
“It’s because I’m that good, doctor.” He then straddled Kisaragi’s face and thrust his manhood in his face. “Will you get it up for me, doctor?”
Kisaragi did not resist as he took the man in his mouth, savored it, and caressed it. They released themselves into each other’s mouths over and over.
They did not return to Tokyo until past midnight, when the new week had already begun. Kanesaki pulled up to the curb of Kisaragi’s condo in his Mercedes.
“See ya,” he said. He then took a key case out of his suit pocket and tossed it to him. “You dropped this in the car.”
Kisaragi thought nothing of it as he took it and climbed out.