was strange enough, but the way Sadako just coolly accepted it was way beyond eerie.
Just then the director's voice came over the intercom.
"Everybody, we're about to start dress rehearsal.
Cast, staff, to your places, please."
The order was salvation to Toyama: he normally didn't look forward to hearing Shigemori's voice, but now it sounded like a god's. It had power enough to drag him immediately back to reality, certainly.
Sadako had to report to her position onstage. She couldn't stay here talking nonsense.
"Hey, you're on. Break a leg," he managed to say, though his throat was dry and his voice scratchy. He placed a hand on her back and urged her toward the stage. Sadako squirmed as if reluctant and made a show of refusing to budge.
But then she said, "Okay, well, later, then."
There was something thrillingly suggestive about the way she said it, and the way she looked when she said it. Toyama thought he could see her maturing as an actress right before his eyes. Five years younger than him, in Toyama's eyes she was the very incarnation of cute. Instead of the sensuality of a grown woman, she still had the innocence of a girl: that was what attracted him, what he was madly in love with. But now she seemed so sensuous...
Toyama forgot himself as he watched Sadako descend the spiral staircase.
Since the dress rehearsal would proceed exactly like a real performance, he'd be playing the tapes from start to finish. If there was a foreign noise on there, this would be a good chance to locate it.
Toyama put on his headphones and tried to concentrate on his cues. But he was distracted by the proximity of the cabinet with the altar in it. The director hadn't yet given the sign to start. The house was dark; the sound booth was illuminated only by the work light on the table.
He stole a glance sideways. The cabinet doors were half open. Evidently he hadn't shut them tightly enough.
The voice of a woman in childbirth? Of all the stupid things.
Without taking off his headphones, Toyama moved over and pushed the cabinet door with his foot. He did it with his foot in order to show that he wasn't scared.
He heard a distinct click as the doors shut. But at that very moment, in his headphones, he heard a faint voice. It was weak, a baby's voice. He couldn't tell if it was crying or laughing...or maybe it had just been born...
Toyama stared at the tape. It wasn't moving.
The director gave the sign, and the curtain rose. He was supposed to provide the opening theme now, but his trembling hand slipped on the play button more than once, and he was late with it. He'd get a chewing-out later, not that he cared about that now.
Play button, on.
The baby's voice was gone, drowned out by the bouncy opening theme.
As Toyama sat there bathed in cold sweat, trying to figure out where the sound had come from, his nostrils detected a mild scent that reminded him of lemons.
5
The first act ended, and everybody was given a twenty-minute break except the actors the director wanted to scold. Toyama was afraid he'd be taken to task for being late with the opening theme, but no mention was made of it, and he was able to leave the sound booth for a time.
He descended to the lobby. Passing the concession kiosk he jogged down the hallway toward the actors'
green room. He didn't have long. He wasn't sure there was enough time to grab Okubo and find out what he wanted to...
He burst into the big space used as a green room.
When he saw that Okubo wasn't there he turned to a senior member of the troupe who was practicing lines in front of a mirror and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where I can find Okubo?"
The actor paused and stuck out his chin. "He's Arima's prompter, so I imagine he's with him, stage right."
"Thank you."
But in fact he nearly ran into Okubo as he went to leave the room. Okubo leaned over and jumped aside with exaggerated movements. "A thousand pardons," he said, putting on airs, speaking as if performing
Just then the director's voice came over the intercom.
"Everybody, we're about to start dress rehearsal.
Cast, staff, to your places, please."
The order was salvation to Toyama: he normally didn't look forward to hearing Shigemori's voice, but now it sounded like a god's. It had power enough to drag him immediately back to reality, certainly.
Sadako had to report to her position onstage. She couldn't stay here talking nonsense.
"Hey, you're on. Break a leg," he managed to say, though his throat was dry and his voice scratchy. He placed a hand on her back and urged her toward the stage. Sadako squirmed as if reluctant and made a show of refusing to budge.
But then she said, "Okay, well, later, then."
There was something thrillingly suggestive about the way she said it, and the way she looked when she said it. Toyama thought he could see her maturing as an actress right before his eyes. Five years younger than him, in Toyama's eyes she was the very incarnation of cute. Instead of the sensuality of a grown woman, she still had the innocence of a girl: that was what attracted him, what he was madly in love with. But now she seemed so sensuous...
Toyama forgot himself as he watched Sadako descend the spiral staircase.
Since the dress rehearsal would proceed exactly like a real performance, he'd be playing the tapes from start to finish. If there was a foreign noise on there, this would be a good chance to locate it.
Toyama put on his headphones and tried to concentrate on his cues. But he was distracted by the proximity of the cabinet with the altar in it. The director hadn't yet given the sign to start. The house was dark; the sound booth was illuminated only by the work light on the table.
He stole a glance sideways. The cabinet doors were half open. Evidently he hadn't shut them tightly enough.
The voice of a woman in childbirth? Of all the stupid things.
Without taking off his headphones, Toyama moved over and pushed the cabinet door with his foot. He did it with his foot in order to show that he wasn't scared.
He heard a distinct click as the doors shut. But at that very moment, in his headphones, he heard a faint voice. It was weak, a baby's voice. He couldn't tell if it was crying or laughing...or maybe it had just been born...
Toyama stared at the tape. It wasn't moving.
The director gave the sign, and the curtain rose. He was supposed to provide the opening theme now, but his trembling hand slipped on the play button more than once, and he was late with it. He'd get a chewing-out later, not that he cared about that now.
Play button, on.
The baby's voice was gone, drowned out by the bouncy opening theme.
As Toyama sat there bathed in cold sweat, trying to figure out where the sound had come from, his nostrils detected a mild scent that reminded him of lemons.
5
The first act ended, and everybody was given a twenty-minute break except the actors the director wanted to scold. Toyama was afraid he'd be taken to task for being late with the opening theme, but no mention was made of it, and he was able to leave the sound booth for a time.
He descended to the lobby. Passing the concession kiosk he jogged down the hallway toward the actors'
green room. He didn't have long. He wasn't sure there was enough time to grab Okubo and find out what he wanted to...
He burst into the big space used as a green room.
When he saw that Okubo wasn't there he turned to a senior member of the troupe who was practicing lines in front of a mirror and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where I can find Okubo?"
The actor paused and stuck out his chin. "He's Arima's prompter, so I imagine he's with him, stage right."
"Thank you."
But in fact he nearly ran into Okubo as he went to leave the room. Okubo leaned over and jumped aside with exaggerated movements. "A thousand pardons," he said, putting on airs, speaking as if performing
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