The man was impressed by how easily the edge cut. He hardly had to apply any pressure at all as he glided the blade across her skin.
At last, the knife had finished a full circuit. Streams of blood draped down across her torso like a veil of reddest silk.
The whites of her eyes blotted out by red, Eri mumbled in machinelike repetition: “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…”
VIII
Mima’s soft but athletic thighs peeked out from her white wrap skirt. Every time she stepped to the beat, the skirt offered further glimpses, while her hips swayed in seductive rhythm. Her low-cut tank top bared the deep valley between her breasts, and when she shook her body, it set her bosom swaying. Droplets of sweat traced little arcs as they danced from her forehead to the base of her neck.
Tadokoro watched Mima’s performance on the monitors in the studio control room.
Next to him, the director of Nighttime Hit Parade said, “This is great television.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Tadokoro replied. “And I’m not just saying that as her manager.”
The director said, “Looks like we can call her new image a success.”
Tadokoro nodded in great satisfaction. “A huge success, if you ask me. But it’ll all depend on how the viewers take it.”
Rumi came into the control room. Her cheeks were flushed.
“Tadokoro-san,” she said, “I just heard from our office. Our phones have been ringing off the hook!”
“What for?” Tadokoro said.
“What do you mean, what for? Everyone’s calling about Mima-san’s new song. The moment she came on the TV, our office has been flooded with calls!” Rumi punctuated the news with a little fist pump. Tadokoro smiled so wide his cheeks flushed red.
“That many, huh?” the manager said. “That’s a relief. It means all of Mima’s hard work has paid off.”
Tadokoro glanced at the monitor bay where Mima was finishing the second chorus. Then he looked back at Rumi and gestured her closer. “Rumi-chan,” he said, “let’s give Mima a little surprise. I want you to put together a party, but don’t tell her a word about it. It’ll be you and me—and let’s invite Yuji, too. We’ll celebrate Mima’s new image.”
Rumi’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a great idea! I’m sure Mima-san will be thrilled.” She couldn’t have been more excited than if the party had been for her.
Gentle admiration in his eyes, Tadokoro instructed, “Go to Mima’s apartment and get everything ready. You can buy anything you need at the convenience store down the street. The agency can write off the expense.”
He pulled a few ten-thousand yen notes from his pocket and handed them to Rumi, who bobbed her head in thanks before going back out of the room.
Tadokoro popped his head out from the door and shouted after her, “I’ll take care of Mima and Yuji. You just make sure everything is ready for us!”
Rumi, who was already jogging down the hall, glanced over her shoulder and called back cheerfully, “Got it!”
Tadokoro waved at her and went back into the control room. Mima had just finished her song.
IX
Talking to himself, the man said, “This is the hard part,” and then he pushed the knife-edge into the incision.
With his other hand holding Eri’s bangs up out of the way, he slid the knife in between her skin and the flesh underneath. He wielded the blade carefully, like a chef skinning a prize fish.
Between the loss of blood and the psychological shock, the bloody-faced idol had no more energy to resist. But she still kept throwing off his concentration. Every once in a while, her body jolted as if she had touched a high voltage wire, and she kept on mumbling curses and vows of revenge.
He thought about stabbing her right in the heart to stop her for good, but he wanted the skin of a live subject, and so he preserved in the face of temptation, patiently continuing his work. As he slid his knife into the cut, he slowly and gradually severed the connection between her outer skin and the dermis beneath.
If he went too deep, the skin would be too thick and fleshy. But if his cuts went too shallow, he would destroy the precious outer layer. Finding and keeping that balance was incredibly difficult and had him working with great caution.
Because of this, it took several minutes just to peel the skin from her forehead alone. As he carefully inspected the drooping strip of skin, he muttered, “This is going to be tougher than I thought.”
Some time later, the VCR’s recording timer went off. Its spools whirred to life, and light came to the TV’s tube.
“Oh!” the man exclaimed, reflexively turning to the screen.
Nighttime Hit Parade was on.
That’s right, the man remembered, Kirigoe Mima’s live performance is tonight. The man had set the timer three days before. She’s supposed to perform at the top of the show.
The man set the bloody knife—which he was still clutching, though his bloody work was through—down on the table and sat in front of the TV.
Shortly after, the opening of “Sexy Valley” came over the speakers. Mima appeared, center screen.
When he saw her appearance, the man swallowed thickly. The large ribbon in her hair, the lively eyes, those still felt like Mima, but the rest of her was an entirely different person—seductive cleavage, a waist tightly bound, a skirt short enough to reveal the plumpness of her thighs.
The man had seen her in costume on Music Town, and now, as then, the shock of it came like a hammer blow to his head. Only this time, the shock felt good, for no longer did he have to sit and watch her change into someone she wasn’t.
Through his painstaking efforts, he had tested out his means of saving her, and the results had been most favorable. The man glanced to the kitchenette, where the skin from Eri’s face clung to a countertop of stainless steel.
The forehead area had been hard work, but once he got the hang of it, he was able to let go of his excess caution and make bolder movements with the knife. The part from the cheek to the chin especially had gone easier than expected.
He felt ready.
The man switched off the VCR and got to his feet. He picked up the knife and wiped off the sticky mixture of blood and oil with a tissue. On the kitchen counter lay a small whetstone made for sharpening cooking knives. He brought the weapon over to it and began passing its edge across the stone. When he was satisfied, he wrapped the knife in a cloth and deposited the bundle in a paper shopping bag. Then he took down the life-sized poster of Mima from the time of her debut, rolled it up, and dropped it into the bag with the knife. Finally, he took a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans from their hangers in his closet and changed into them.
This was it. He was ready now. All that remained was the execution of his plan.
He would finish this today.
He believed he knew where Mima would go after her live performance—her apartment, almost assuredly. And it was late enough in the evening that her manager and assistant were unlikely to come by.
The man would catch her alone and take her to the place he had in mind. There, he would perform the ritual—the ritual of transformation, the ritual to make Mima herself again.
He felt an indescribable power swelling up from the innermost part of him. A sublime and noble power, he felt, born from purity of will and his selfless conviction to sacrifice himself for Mima.
The man turned his gaze to Eri, who was still strapped to the support column. Her body had gone slack and remained completely still. The blood that had dripped from her face formed a pool around her on the kitchen floor.
Originally, the man had planned on flaying her completely. But he didn’t have the time for so extensive a test anymore.
It’ll be fine, the man told himself, brimming with optimism. The rest of the body should skin easier than the face. He didn’t need practice to succeed at the real thing. All that worried him was how long he would be able to remain alive after his own skin was off. Judging by the motionless idol in his kitchen, it wouldn’t be that long.
But I’m not Ochiai Eri, the man thought. I’m stronger. Through willpower alone, I’ll stay alive for at least a few hours.
He couldn’t die until Mima was truly saved.
No matter what happened, he needed to live that long.
Feeling the weight of his responsibility, the man trembled with the excitement of a warrior anticipating battle. He put on his leather shoes and gave his room one last look over his shoulder. He gazed upon the mounds of video tapes and seared the image of the place into his memory.
Then a question came to him. What should I do about Eri?
If he left her here, the police would eventually come and bother him.
But then the man laughed out loud. What am I thinking? Everything will be over by the end of the day. Who cares about the police?
He opened his apartment door and stepped out toward the destiny he had made for himself. A deep, emotional exhilaration rushed from his heels to the top of his head.
Soon, he and Mima would be one.