Chapter 9

Chapter 9

“Dr. Kisaragi, there’s a call for you on line one. Someone called Mr. Kanesaki. Can I transfer him to you?” The soft voice of the clinic receptionist reached his ears.

　　　“Sure,” Kisaragi replied simply. He pressed the flashing button and leaned back slowly in his seat.

　　　“Doctor, it’s me,” a slightly raspy voice reached his ear. “I know I promised we would meet up, but I can’t do tonight,” he said, before Kisaragi could open his mouth. “Believe it or not, I’m sick. Me, out of all people. I haven’t been feeling too well.”

　　　This was Kisaragi’s first time hearing anything close to weak-willed from the man.

　　　“What’s wrong?” he asked.

　　　“Maybe it’s food poisoning. My stomach hurts. I’m throwing up. It’s unbearable.” The man’s voice indeed sounded unusually listless.

　　　“Do you have a fever?”

　　　“I’m not sure. My whole body aches.”

　　　Kisaragi deduced that the man likely did have a temperature. “Did you go to a doctor?”

　　　“No. I just took some medicine I bought from Matsumoto Kiyoshi, but I threw up again.”

　　　Kisaragi checked his watch. It was six-thirty. The clinic closed at seven.

　　　“Hang in there for thirty more minutes. I’ll come and do a house call.”

　　　“Really?” Kanesaki groaned. “I’ll send someone to pick you up, then.”

　　　Someone arrived at five minutes before seven, but it wasn’t the usual driver. It was a man with tightly permed hair who looked like the stereotypical yakuza. Although many of those types gathered in Shinjuku, where the clinic was located, the clinic itself was nevertheless a high-end one; the likes of yakuza had never stepped through its doors. Naturally, the receptionist and nurses were visibly disturbed at the sight of the man.

　　　“Sorry fer the trouble, doctor,” the man said with the characteristic yakuza twang, bowing his head deeply as soon as he entered the director’s office. “Let me take yer bag.”

　　　Kisaragi shed his lab coat and put it away in his locker before following after the man.

　　　Kanesaki was lying uncovered on the bed in his bedroom. He was lying on his side, hugging his knees in a fetal position. His stomach must hurt a lot, Kisaragi thought as he approached. He spotted the soles of the man’s bare feet that showed from the trouser legs of his pyjamas.

　　　What…?

　　　The man’s soles were covered in scars that looked like broken skin. They looked like old wounds. But never mind that - I have to focus on what’s at hand. Kisaragi approached the man’s bedside and took out a stethoscope.

　　　“Can you roll onto your back?”

　　　“Hey… doctor.” Kanesaki greeted him lethargically as he obeyed and rolled over. His cheeks were sunken and his lips were dry. When Kisaragi laid a hand on his forehead, it was hot. The man was worse off than he had imagined.

　　　Once he unbuttoned the front of the man’s pyjamas, Kisaragi was met with another unexpected sight. There was a large scar running from his armpit to his stomach and numerous other abrasions.

　　　I see. These scars were not the kind that resulted from a typical fight, especially scars on the soles of the feet and the arches. The same could be said for the scars that spanned the back of the man’s hands to his palms. Kisaragi shrank back for a moment in fear, but put the stethoscope on anyway and felt the man’s belly.

　　　“How does it feel here?”

　　　“It hurts a bit.”

　　　“How about here?”

　　　“It feels fine.”

　　　They exchanged a bare minimum of words until, before long, Kisaragi was finished his examination.

　　　“I think you have the stomach flu. You’re severely dehydrated, so we should get you an IV drip. I’ll also run you through some blood tests.”

　　　“I’ll leave it to you.”

　　　Kisaragi asked for the wooden coat rack to be brought over as an IV stand. He determined the route with an angiogram, took a blood sample, and hooked Kanesaki up to a bag of Ringer’s solution. He directed the yakuza who had shown him here to go out to buy some ice.

　　　“Buy a set of top-class sushi while you’re at it,” barked Kanesaki at the man as he hastily made his way out. Kisaragi widened his eyes in disbelief.

　　　“What are you thinking?”

　　　“It’s not for me, idiot. It’s for you.”

　　　Once they were alone together, Kisaragi moved his chair to Kanesaki’s bedside and sat down. He picked up the towel that had been left there and wiped the man’s forehead. Kanesaki closed his eyes and let Kisaragi do as he pleased. Some moments later, he opened his mouth.

　　　“Doctor, were you surprised at my body?” he murmured.

　　　“I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard over the phone that you weren’t feeling well.”

　　　“No, I meant the scars.”

　　　“Oh,” Kisaragi said, pausing in the midst of wiping the man down. “I’m a doctor, so scars don’t disgust or scare me. But I was surprised.”

　　　“Sounds exactly like something you’d say.” Kanesaki opened his eyes a sliver and slightly raised the corners of his mouth.

　　　Kanesaki’s voice regained some energy once he was nearly finished receiving his second 500 cc bag of infusion. Kisaragi lowered the infusion rate slightly and hooked him up to a third bag.

　　　The yakuza subordinate had diligently remained to replenish the container of ice according to Kisaragi’s directions, but Kisaragi let him leave once Kanesaki’s fever abated.

　　　“Hope you feel better soon, Mr. Kanesaki,” the man said. “The Young Boss says he’d come by to see how you’re doing tomorrow or so.” The yakuza bowed so low that he was almost full bent over before leaving the room. Kisaragi sighed.

　　　“Not a fan of yakuza?” Kanesaki asked.

　　　“Of course not,” Kisaragi answered. Kanesaki laughed out loud.

　　　“You could say I’m a yakuza myself. Actually, I am a yakuza.” Kanesaki kept his head laid on his pillow as he directed his glinting gaze at Kisaragi. “You heard my real name from Mr. Arima, didn’t you?”

　　　“Yeah.”

　　　“He says you didn’t flinch, wince, anything.”

　　　“What, did you want me to be surprised?”

　　　Kanesaki laughed again. “Sounds like something you’d say.” The man looked up at the ceiling. “I came here on the turn of the seventies. When Akasaka and Roppongi were in their heyday. The streets were filled with equal parts white whores, equal parts CIA agents. Politicians took the money that came from Lockheeds and Grummans and refunded it in Las Vegas.”

　　　Kisaragi nodded. “I’ve heard of Lockeed and Grumman.”

　　　“Have you heard of TSK-CCC?”

　　　Kisaragi shook his head.

　　　“It was a luxury club located in the best part of Roppongi. It competed with the Copa Cabanas and the Latin Quarter in Akasaka. It’s been torn down now - you won’t find a trace of it. But it was a high-end whorehouse. The guy who established it was a top dog yakuza. I used to be an erruand[m1] boy there. I was about fifteen then.”

　　　That was when he’d been picked up by Arima.

　　　“I don’t know why, but he took a liking to me. He sent me to school. I even went to America.”

　　　But before he had been picked up—

　　　“It was pretty bad. There wasn’t much I could do other than become a yakuza. I could barely speak any Japanese when I just came here.” Kanesaki looked at him with dark eyes. “Yakuza are like the dredges of society. But I was worse than that. And the guys who tortured me back in my country were even lower.”

　　　So the man had endured those wounds when he had not yet turned fifteen, Kisaragi thought. The 1970s. Who had been the leader of Japan’s neighboring company back then? The nation was so close, yet Kisaragi knew nothing about it.

　　　“North or South - it doesn’t matter. I abandoned my country. I naturalized,” Kanesaki said shortly. Kisaragi reached out and touched Kanesaki’s hair. He went on to gently stroke the man’s head. He didn’t know what else he could do.

　　　Kanesaki spent the rest of the night talking about his days after arriving in Japan, as if in a delirious fever. He talked about the women he had been in relationships with, and some things that Kisaragi found hard to listen to, but he stayed silent and continued to stroke the man’s hair.

　　　“It’s money. I want money. You understand? As long as I have money, I can get anything I want.”

　　　Kisaragi shook his head. There were things that money couldn’t buy. But he made a point not to object and continued to listen without protest to the man’s story.

　　　“You wouldn’t understand. Not about people like us.”

　　　Kisaragi nodded in agreement.

　　　“But that’s fine. The ones who act like they understand—those people are the worst. You’re honest. That’s what I like.”

　　　By morning, Kanesaki had recovered.

　　　“I’m gonna wet my pants,” he said, hastily dashing into the bathroom after Kisaragi had removed his IV needle. “I didn’t piss at all yesterday, you know,” he yelled loudly over his own urinating as the door lay wide open.

　　　“You must have been severely dehydrated,” Kisaragi replied as he finally picked up a piece of the sushi that the yakuza had brought. Although it had gone stale and dry from being left out, he could not let the kind gesture go to waste. Kisaragi was even beginning to feel an affection toward the men who so blindly and devotedly served Kanesaki. Kisaragi chewed his food with a wry smile at the loud sound coming from the bathroom.

　　　“The least you can do is close the door.”

　　　“No. I want you to hear it.”

　　　“You have a scatology fetish?”

　　　“If that’s what you want to call it.” Kanesaki’s laughter echoed in the bathroom. Once he returned to the bedroom, the man thrust his hips out and showed himself off to Kisaragi.

　　　“Look how lively he is now. How about a round?”

　　　Kisaragi turned away in exasperation. “You shouldn’t strain yourself. Don’t take flus and colds lightly. This time it was the stomach flu, but if it had been a cold that affected the cardiac muscles, you could have died of cardiac arrest,” he said severely.

　　　“Alright,” Kanesaki gave in promptly. “I’ll do as you say, doctor.” He draped a bathrobe over his pyjamas and went to the window to open the curtains.

　　　“It’s already past dawn. I ended up making you stay overnight.” The man turned around, his eyes softening in a smile. “I need to thank you. Next time I go to Russia, I’ll buy you a bucket full of the best caviar.”

　　　“Caviar?” Kisaragi shook his head in refusal.

　　　“You really don’t have any wants, do you?”

　　　“It’s not that. It’s just… caviar is too salty,” Kisaragi said. “If you insist on buying some, just a little is fine. Personally, I think top-notch salmon roe tastes better.”

　　　“I agree,” Kanesaki said. “A little spoonful of caviar with squeezed lemon is good, but salmon roe definitely goes better with a big bowl of rice.” He laughed loudly as he drew closer to Kisaragi and clapped him on the shoulder.

　　　“To think you and I would be on the same wavelength over food. Say, do you like crab?” Kanesaki bent down and brought his face close to Kisaragi’s. Before Kisaragi could turn his face away, the man’s lips were pressed against his. Kanesaki drew away a few seconds later.

　　　“I’m going to Niigata next week. I’ll bring some back as a souvenir.”