swings on my old friend diabetes, but really I have to blame my old friend me.’
‘No way, Ai, I was—’
‘Shut up. No. It was my fault.’
‘But—’
‘Accept my apology or the friendship is off. Me – of all people – lecturing you on how to behave towards your mother.’
‘You were right. My mother called me from Miyazaki. Last night.’
‘Sachiko said. Good, but being right is no excuse for being preachy. Anyway. I’m on my piano stool, varnishing my toenails. So where are you, absconder?’
‘Being eaten alive by mosquitoes outside a trucker’s café called Okachan’s.’
‘There are ten thousand trucker’s cafés called Okachan’s.’
‘This one is between, uh, nowhere and . . . nowhere.’
‘Must be Gifu.’
‘I think it is, actually. One truck driver dropped me off here, after calling his mate – called Monkfish – to pick me up when he passes by on his way to Fukuoka. Before me, he has a fist-fight with a crooked gas station attendant who made improper suggestions about his wife.’
‘Pray he wins unconcussed. Poor Miyake – stuck in a Nikkatsu trucker film.’
‘This is not the fastest way to Kyushu, but it is the cheapest. I have news.’
‘What?’
‘Put your nail varnish down. I don’t want you to stain your piano stool.’
‘What is it?’
‘For the last nine years I grew up in the quietest village on the quietest island in the quietest prefecture in Japan. Nothing happened. Kids say that everywhere, but on Yakushima it really is true. Since I saw you last, everything that never happened, happened. It was the weirdest day I ever lived through. And when I tell you who I met this morning—’
‘It sounds as if I should call you back. Give me the number.’
‘Eiji!’ She perches on the high windowsill, hugging her knees. Bamboo shadows sway and shoo on the tatami and faded fusuma. ‘Eiji! Come quickly!’ I get up and walk to the window. Dental-floss cobwebs. From the window of my grandmother’s house I see Ueno park, but everyone has gone home. But there is Anju, kneeling before an ancient shipwreck of a cedar. I climb out. Anju’s kite of sunlight is tangled in the highest branches. It shines dark gold. Anju is in despair. ‘Look! My kite is caught!’ I kneel down with her – seeing her in tears is unbearable – and try to cheer her up. ‘Why don’t you set it free? You’re fantastic at climbing trees!’ Anju airs her recently acquired sigh. ‘Diabetes, genius, remember?’ She points down – her legs are a pin-cushion of syringes, drips and torture instruments. ‘Set it free for me, Eiji.’ So I begin climbing – my fingers claw at the reptile bark. Sheep bray in a far valley. I find a pair of my discarded socks, dirty beyond redemption. After a lifetime dark rises, winds swirl, crows come looking for soft places. I am afraid the sunlit kite will rip and shred before I can get to it. Where in this storm of leaves can it be? Minutes later I find him on the top branch. A man still without a face. ‘Why are you climbing my tree?’ he asks. ‘I was looking for my sister’s kite,’ I explain. He frowns. ‘Chasing kites is more important than taking care of your own sister?’ Suddenly I realize I have left Anju alone – for how many days? – in our grandmother’s house without thinking about food or water. Who will open her canned dinner? My concern is heightened when I see how tumbledown the place is now – shrubs grow out of the eaves, and one harsh winter would topple the house. Has it really been nine years? The lockless knob twizzles uselessly – when I knock the entire door frame falls inward. Cat shadows slide behind rafters. In my capsule is my guitar case. And in the guitar case is Anju. She cannot open the escape hatches from the inside, and she is running out of air – I hear her knocking helplessly, I scramble, scrabble, but the locks are so rusty—
‘And I woke up and it was all a dream!’ Monkfish glows in the dashboard lights, all skin and string vest. Croaked laughter, one two three. He has the rubberiest lips any human being had, ever. I am in another truck crossing rainy hyperspace. A road sign flies by at light speed – Meishin expressway O tsu exit 9 km. The dashboard clock glows 21.09. ‘Funny things, dreams,’ says Monkfish. ‘Did Honda tell you his sleepwalking story? Load of crap. Fact is,