Chapter 3
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I
Ring. Ring. The sound of the phone on the other end came through the receiver.
Each ring was another dagger in the man’s chest.
His emotions had been thrown into disarray. One moment, he worried what he would do if she answered. The next, he worried what he would do if she didn’t—and back and forth again.
A minute ago, he had intended not to call her. He didn’t want to cause her any distress if it could be at all avoided. But he couldn’t stop wondering if she had read his letter, and—a blush tinged his dark complexion—he wanted to hear her voice, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone had sounded over twenty times now.
He was positive she must be home. It was after midnight. Surely she was home by now. He possessed nearly complete knowledge of her schedule, gleaned from fan magazines and other sources. Her only appearance today had been as a guest on a radio show.
If she was out having fun with someone—the very thought sent another sharp pang through his chest—she would have left her answering machine on.
Could it be? The man ran his bony fingers back and forth through his long, unkempt hair. Could she be pretending not to be home?
No, the man told himself. She wouldn’t do that to me.
He thought of Mima’s manager, that ugly, bald, middle-aged bastard. Maybe she’s assuming it’s her manager calling.
Thinking of how Mima must feel, having to dodge phone calls just to escape her manager, the man pitied her. He suspected the manager was a source of constant harassment. As the phone rang for the thirtieth time, a righteous indignation sprang to life.
He wished he could go to her this very moment and comfort her.
Just before the fortieth ring, the man finally gave up and placed the receiver back in its cradle. There’s only so much I can do by phone. I have to find her address. I need to meet her in person.
Thinking about how badly he wanted to meet her, he hugged his arms around his chest. Waves of bittersweet emotion flooded him, almost tickling.
The man had never been in love. He had no way of knowing what love felt like. But when he thought of her, his heart seemed to flutter, and he wondered if what he was feeling might be the same as love.
Then, as had happened every time that notion crossed his mind, a dark and blue emotion raised its head from somewhere deep inside him.
It’s not love! he told himself, flatly rejecting the idea. It’s not. It’s not love! The corners of his lips trembled in disapproval. I exist to save her. I exist to prevent her from going down the wrong path. He looked to the life-sized poster of Kirigoe Mima he kept on his wall. Youthful and pure, she smiled back at him.
I am here to protect that smile, he reminded himself. I must never forget that.
That reminder finally allowed him to regain control of his nerves—but he’d seen inside himself and found a man who needed to be more composed. When he saw that man, a bottomless terror came over him. He trembled like a little girl who had seen a ghost.
He didn’t want to witness his own weakness. He wanted to be a strong man, if only when it came to her.
The man retrieved a video tape from the rows upon rows of cassettes that filled the shelving unit. The tape contained a recording of Kirigoe Mima at the very beginning of her career. Among its contents were even some of the lessons she took before her debut.
The man inserted the tape into the VCR and switched on his 29-inch TV. With a dull electric hum, the screen came to life.
Beside the TV stood more shelves, also stuffed full of tapes, and topped with a seemingly careless pile of the things. In fact, tapes were everywhere in the modest, six tatami-mat-sized room, and almost every one contained footage of idol singers. Only one space remained vacant amid the mountains of cassettes and that was where the man sat.
Though the piles appeared disorganized, the man knew the exact location of each and every recording. Eyes still locked on the TV, upon which a rookie Mima sang, the man reached automatically for another tape.
This one contained his most recent recording of Mima. He put the tape into a second VCR and switched on a smaller TV adjacent to the larger one. On the small display appeared the Mima of today. On the larger one was Mima as she had debuted.
Kirigoe Mima was known for largely sticking to the same image throughout her career—but compared side-by-side, the changes were significant and unmistakable.
The man clenched his teeth and fought back his surging emotions. To him, the best Mima was the one directly after her debut. He almost wished she had never become a pop idol, though he felt strange thinking that way.
The singer had survived childhood without losing her innocence; to submerge her in the polluted waters of the entertainment industry could only be described as the devil’s work. If she hadn’t become an idol, she likely would have remained the same person forever.
The man believed that would have been the happiest outcome, both for her and for himself.
Then again, if she had never become an idol, he never would have known her.
Filled with mixed emotions, he watched the current Mima, a much more mature woman than she had been upon her debut. Softly he whispered, the words coming from deep within, “I don’t want you to change any more.”
This most recent Mima had changed just about as much as he could tolerate.
He didn’t want to acknowledge it—he really didn’t—but he couldn’t avoid the truth. She carried an air of sexuality now. It wasn’t yet so strong that he couldn’t bear it—for now, he could endure. But he couldn’t let it get any stronger.
He didn’t want to see his most precious person succumb to corruption. That was why he needed to save her—no matter who tried to stand in his way.
He understood her better than anyone else. If he didn’t rescue her, then who would?
He was prepared to give his life, if that’s what it took to save her. He just didn’t know how it could be done. He had spent days thinking of nothing else. Time was running out. If he didn’t act soon, she would become someone other than herself.
The man reached for a plain paper bag on his desk. From inside the bag, he withdrew a long, skinny object wrapped in a piece of cloth. When his eyes rest upon the cloth, relief softened his expression.
Slowly, he unwrapped it. The contents fell onto the desk with a dull thud.
It was a knife with a white grip and a long, gleaming blade. He gripped the weapon by the handle, and his mouth twisted into a smile.
This was it. If all else failed, this was how he could save her.
For that reason, he cherished the knife deeply. He patted the flat side of the blade against his cheek and took pleasure in the sensation of cold metal against his skin.
II
Mima felt a bit feverish; she wondered if it was because she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Usually she felt excited before recording a song, but instead she felt blue. She’d been in poor form lately, and it was all that freak’s doing.
Not only had he called her, he’d gotten a letter to her as well—going so far as trespassing in the television studio. It was too much for her to forgive. At first, when Rumi told her about the stalker’s visit, Mima had been overcome by incredible terror. But now, the fear had turned to anger.