Rainbirds Read online

  I had so many, I didn’t know where to start. I still couldn’t believe she was gone.

  Three days earlier, I had received the call from the police. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of her coffin. The undertaker had done a good job. She looked like she was sleeping.

  “I would like to know what happened,” I told the detective.

  He tilted his head forward. “Meaning the details surrounding her death?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s more or less what was in the papers,” he said. “Miss Ishida was walking alone at night when she was assaulted with a sharp object. We found a bloodied knife at the crime scene, and her injuries are consistent with stab wounds. The DNA from the knife also matched hers.”

  Could it be? I cleared my throat. “May I see the knife?”

  “It’s a common kitchen knife.”

  He took out another photograph from his drawer. The knife, as he had said, was ordinary. Not the one I had in mind.

  “Did you find any fingerprints?”

  “Only your sister’s.”

  “Is it possible that the knife was hers? Perhaps she was carrying it for self-defense, and the attacker snatched it.”

  He pursed his lips. “We can’t discount the possibility, but Akakawa is a safe town. We have some petty crimes, but nothing that would warrant a young lady carrying around a knife for self-defense.”

  I kept quiet. If the town were so safe, then my sister would still be alive.

  “Nothing was missing from her bag,” the detective said. “Her wallet and jewelry were untouched. It didn’t look like a case of robbery gone wrong. The attack was vicious.”

  I remembered a sentence from one of the newspaper articles I’d read: Aside from her face, the victim was covered with severe stab wounds. But I hadn’t seen any of her injuries. As I stood next to the coffin, where she lay pale and composed, I wanted to shake her and shout, “Wake up, will you? What are you doing here?”

  Keiko Ishida had always been so thoughtful and well liked. I didn’t think anyone could hate her enough to kill her in such a gruesome way. Or was I wrong about her? If I had made an effort to understand my sister, could I have changed her fate?

  It was too late for these questions to matter. Keiko Ishida had fallen into an irreversible sleep. Even a tsunami couldn’t wake her from her eternal dream.

  2

  How

  to

  Make

  Curry

  Rice

  I woke up at half past eight. Disheveled and still in the same suit I’d worn to the police station, I took a few seconds to remember I wasn’t in Tokyo. Then the hunger hit. I would have preferred to sleep in and skip breakfast, but my body wouldn’t compromise.

  Although the guests could help themselves to tea, coffee, and orange juice in the lobby, the Katsuragi Hotel didn’t serve breakfast. I’d seen only one other guest, a balding middle-aged man. Judging from his formal suit and beaten-up leather briefcase, he was probably on a business trip.

  According to Honda, the hotel only used the first and second floors. The remaining three floors were empty.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not haunted or anything,” he had said. “There would just be no point to the additional upkeep. Akakawa isn’t a tourist spot or business hub. No hot springs, beautiful parks, or green mountains. To be honest, I’m surprised a small operation like the Katsuragi Hotel has managed to last.”

  I guessed it had to do with their low overhead. I’d only seen two staff members during my stay. One was a svelte middle-aged lady who worked the reception desk. She wore a different kimono every day. The patterns were always simple, which made her look elegant and refined. The other employee was the cleaner. Her trolley of detergents and toilet paper rolls was her constant companion, following her like the faithful dog Hachiko.

  My stomach growled again. Left without a choice, I begrudgingly got up, put on a fresh set of clothes, and headed out.

  Although it was morning rush hour, not many cars were on the road. Most of the commuters rode bicycles. No wonder the air felt cleaner than in Tokyo.

  I walked to the convenience store at the end of the block. A bell pinged as I opened the glass door. The shop was small, with items cramped against each other on the shelves. I grabbed a tuna sandwich from the refrigerated section and went to the cashier, picking up the morning newspaper, and, on a whim, a Guide to Akakawa booklet.

  A group of high school students entered as I left the store. One of them knocked into me, then apologized with a flustered face as the rest of her friends giggled. These schoolgirls brought back memories of my sister when she was their age. In those days, she and I always had convenience store food. Our parents were hardly at home; they refused to deal with each other or their failing marriage.

  “If they hate each other so much, they shouldn’t have gotten married in the first place,” I told my sister as I helped her sort the laundry.

  “They used to get along better,” she said.

  That must have been a long, long time ago, because I couldn’t recall it at all. “Then how did things turn out this way?”

  My sister took a deep breath. “The first quarrel was because of the hair. After Mother had you, her hair started to fall out. One morning, Father casually mentioned that the loose hair was clogging the bathroom drain. Mother snapped and screamed at him. They shouted at each other, and Father walked off.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.”

  She loaded the light-colored laundry into the washing machine. “You wouldn’t. You were still a baby. You cried because of the yelling, but Mother wouldn’t pick you up, and I was too scared to approach her.”

  “Did Mother become bald?”

  She laughed and pressed the start button. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I thought everything would be fine when Father returned home the next morning, but I was wrong,” she said. “His company was going through a difficult period, and it looked like he was going to lose his job. Things went downhill after that first argument. He would get angry at the tiniest things, like when the meat was slightly overcooked, or he found the smallest crease in his shirt.”

  “So Father is to blame?”

  “Not really, Mother played a part too. She was too emotional,” my sister said. “But I admit, I might be a little biased. I’m closer to Father. He’s always been nicer to me than Mother. Sometimes I feel like Mother picked on me unfairly. Am I being oversensitive?”

  “Maybe.” I looked down. “So I’m the cause of their problems.”

  She tilted her head. “What makes you say that?”

  “You said their first argument was after she had given birth to me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ren. It’s not your fault.” She patted my head. “Don’t you ever think about it that way. You just happened to be born during a difficult time.”

  “But Father has a good job now, so why are they still quarrelling?”

  “Maybe they’ve become used to arguing. Both of them are so stubborn. If only they would learn to make peace with each other. Sometimes it’s all right to agree to disagree.”

  “You should tell them.”

  “Yes, I should.”

  To be honest, even when I was only eight, I knew my sister would never dare to confront our parents. We kept our thoughts to ourselves. We hoped these problems would disappear on their own if we ignored them long enough, but that wasn’t the case.

  Things got worse. Both of them avoided home. Father often returned past midnight, staggering in reeking of alcohol and sweat. Mother spent her time playing mahjong or singing karaoke at her friends’ places. On the rare occasions when both of them were home, they shouted at each other and threw things.

  When that happened, I slipped into my sister’s room and we played b
oard games. We pretended not to hear the loud noises. She remained silent, as did I.

  Mother eventually stopped cooking, and we ended up eating takeaway food from the convenience store. She would leave money next to the TV console, and my sister was in charge of buying the meal. It couldn’t have been easy for her either, but one day I decided I’d had enough.

  “I’m not eating,” I told her when she placed the two lunch boxes on the table.

  “Not hungry?” she asked.

  “Not for this. Seriously, who eats takeaway food every day?”

  She forced a smile. “But today is the special eel set. Or if you want, you can have my chicken set instead.”

  “I don’t want either of them.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Ren, don’t be—”

  “I said I’m not eating!” I shouted.

  “Fine, suit yourself.” She opened my lunch box and snapped her wooden chopsticks apart. “Are you sure?”

  I kept quiet and clenched my fists. She wouldn’t be able to talk me out of this. My sister took a bite of the eel before putting down her chopsticks. Her expression hardened. I flinched, thinking she was going to yell at me.

  “You know what, I think you’re right. I’m sick of this too.” She smiled. “Let’s get ingredients. I’ll cook something.”

  I thought I’d heard her incorrectly. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’ll cook something,” she repeated. “Put on your shoes. We’re going to the supermarket.”

  It was already dark when we left the house. When we reached the neighborhood market, a few of the shelves were almost empty, but it didn’t dampen our mood. That night was the most exciting trip to a supermarket I’ve ever experienced. I remember grinning as we walked through the vegetable section.

  “What do you want for dinner?” my sister asked.

  “Curry rice,” I answered. It was one of my favorite dishes.

  “All right. I’ll cook the most delicious curry rice you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

  Then it occurred to me that I’d never seen her cook. “Do you know how to make it?”

  “Of course,” she said without hesitation, filling the basket with various ingredients.

  The problems started when she tried to cook the rice. The first batch was still uncooked, the second one watery. I watched her struggle with the rice cooker for over an hour. It was so late I was no longer hungry.

  “Do you know how to use the rice cooker?” I asked.

  “Give me some time. The setting is different from the one I use in home economics,” she said. “I wonder where the instruction manual is.”

  My sister checked the cabinets one by one but couldn’t find it. Looking at her, I felt bad for shouting earlier. I wanted to apologize, but she spoke first.

  “I’m sorry, Ren. You must be starving.”

  I lowered my head. Her words made me feel worse. I didn’t want to cry, but I couldn’t control it. I wiped my tears away, but they kept on coming.

  “Don’t cry,” she said, “I will cook you something.”

  Her voice was shaky. When I looked up, I realized her eyes were red and swollen.

  “Stupid, you’re crying too,” I said.

  She wiped her tears. “Shut up.”

  A pain rose in my chest. I had never seen my sister cry before. She was always mature and composed. Averting my eyes, I went to the bathroom and washed my face.

  When I returned, the rice was cooked, warm and fluffy. My sister was smiling and humming. I breathed a sigh of relief. She heated some oil in the pot to sauté the onions. Her movements were slow and clumsy. She wasn’t good at it, yet she kept telling me everything was under control in a cheerful voice. I sat on my chair and watched her back. She looked smaller than usual. By the time she finished cooking, it was already ten.

  She placed the curry on the table. “Give it a try. Tell me what you think.”

  I examined her masterpiece. It looked like mushy potato and carrot soup with floating meat chunks. She took a plate and scooped the rice onto it, then poured the curry on top. The food was still steaming, but I dug in my spoon and ate.

  “How is it?” she asked, eyes gleaming.

  I gave a thumbs-up. “Delicious.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. Her satisfied smile was all I cared about. “How about you? Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Later,” she said. “I want to watch you eat first. You look so happy.”

  “It’s good, so of course I’m happy.” I took another big scoop. “Can you cook again next time?”

  “No problem. Starting now, I’ll cook every single day. What else do you want to eat?”

  “I’ll eat anything you cook if it’s as good as this.”

  She blushed. I don’t remember how the food tasted, but I know it felt good.

  My sister went out and bought a few cookbooks the next day. As time went by, she got better and better. Her dishes were simple, but they never failed to give me a warm feeling. I owed it to her for making the house feel like home.

  For her twentieth birthday, I bought her a kitchen knife. A chef’s knife with a wooden handle and white bolster, the most expensive gift I’ve ever bought anyone. She used it every day and took it with her the day she left Tokyo.

  When the detective mentioned the knife, I thought about the one I had given my sister. It was probably still in her rented room. A few months ago she told me she had moved out of her previous apartment. She hadn’t given me her new address, but her workplace would have it. I should give them a call anyway, to see if there were any personal belongings to collect.

  My watch showed nine-fifteen. Cram school wouldn’t be open so early.

  I returned to the hotel and got myself a cup of coffee in the lobby. Settling into one of the chairs, I glanced at the cleaning lady. She ignored me when I took out the packed sandwich. Peeling the plastic seal off, I sank my teeth into the soft bread. The celery was cold and crunchy, the tuna filling oozing out the sides. Tasty. My coffee was still steaming by the time I’d guzzled the last crumbs, so I picked up a newspaper and skimmed the headlines.

  Two masked men on a motorbike had stolen a purse, but the owner reported that the only thing inside was a bible. An article on road safety, and another one about the opening of a shopping mall. Nothing memorable. As the detective had said, Akakawa was a safe town. I couldn’t find anything about the murder. People moved on so quickly.

  I put the newspaper back into its plastic bag and took out the guidebook. The first page had a pop-up city map full of colorful icons. I found a useful list of bus routes. Next were a few pages about the town’s highlights: temples, historical buildings, public parks, and shopping districts. The town had a total area of 252,136 square kilometers and was located on high ground. No wonder I felt chilly.

  I had always wondered why my sister had chosen Akakawa, of all places. She had never been here before. I’d wanted to ask her, but it was never a good time somehow.

  Flipping the pages, I saw a lot of education-related advertisements. A hostel for students, a few cram schools, a private music teacher, and two specialized English courses. She had probably seen the job opportunities and decided to try teaching.

  I reached for my coffee again, but it was already cold. I threw it away and returned to my room to rest.

  When I came down to the lobby at one o’clock, no one else was there. A desktop pay phone was perched at the edge of the counter. I inserted a coin into the slot and dialed my sister’s workplace. My palms began to sweat. Since my sister’s death, I’d avoided making phone calls; they reminded me of her, and I almost expected to hear her voice. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long. A woman with a cheery voice answered after the first ring.

  “Thank you for calling Yotsuba,” she said. “This is Abe speaking. How may I help you?”

&n
bsp; “I’m Ren Ishida,” I said, “Keiko Ishida’s younger brother.”

  A brief silence followed before she said, “I’m so sorry about what happened to Miss Ishida. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “May I come over to pick up her personal belongings? And do you happen to have her home address on file? I understand she had recently moved.”

  “Please give me a moment.”

  She must have covered the receiver with her hand, because I could hear muffled voices in the background. She was talking to another woman.

  “Mr. Ishida?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can come tomorrow any time after one. We close at nine.”

  “Thank you.”

  I put down the phone and saw the kimono lady behind the counter. Had she heard me talking on the phone? The murder case would have been all over the local news last week.

  The woman bowed to me. “Good afternoon.”

  If she had heard my conversation, she was very professional about it. I couldn’t detect the tiniest shift in her serious expression, which matched the somber tone of her kimono. I relaxed, comforted by her apparent lack of interest.

  “Erm.”

  I made the noise out loud without realizing, and now she was looking at me.

  “I was wondering if you were familiar with the recent murder case. The victim was someone I knew,” I said.

  “So you’re here for the funeral.”

  I nodded.

  “Please, wait a minute.” She disappeared into her back office and returned with a newspaper from a few days prior. “Here, you can keep it.”

  “Thank you.” I took the newspaper. The murder article splashed across the whole front page. I put it under my arm while trying to maintain my composure. “My apologies, you are . . . ?”

  The kimono lady smiled. “I’m Natsumi Katsuragi. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  I thanked her again and headed out for lunch at the nearby café. On my way back, I dropped by the convenience store and stocked up on instant noodles.

  Thunder rolled across the ashen gray sky as I left the store. I hurried back and reached the hotel just before it began pouring. The tension and miserable weather had exhausted me. I returned to my room for a nap. Six hours later, hunger woke me again. Filling one of the ramen cups with hot water from the bathroom, I waited for the noodles to soften.