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Authors: Kyotaro Nishimura
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still making her laugh with his grown-up talk. Was she still gazing at him with that coquettish smile? All at once, I hated the crab.
A look of terror flashed across the little girlâs face and she started screaming hysterically. Unawares, I had crushed the crab in my hand. Flustered, I apologized. But her face drained of color, and she inched backwards then turned and fled.
I slowly stood up. The crab had fallen from my hand and lay white belly up. Its legs twitched briefly, but soon stopped moving. A wave came and washed away the dead crabâs broken pincers.
Even as night fell, he made no move to leave. She, too, was urging him to stay. I could not bear to face him, so, as soon as dinner was over, I went up to my room.
I flung open the window and gazed out at the night sea. The late August breeze already had a chill in it. There was a moon, but the sea was dark and it had set up an eerie moan as if hiding some mysterious secret. I pictured the face of the little blonde girl I had met on the beach in that dark sea. When she had taken fright and screamed, had my face been so hideously contorted that it could scare a child? And when I watched her together with him, was my face unappealingly disfigured by jealousy? I could not bear the thought of that. At seventeen, ugliness was the biggest sin of all. For me, there was no meaning in unattractive youth. Youth had to be good-looking.
I am not ugly! I told myself. How could I be? There was an intensity in my eyes, but that was a sign of my youth. I automatically measured myself against that novelist. He was old. Compared to a seventeen-year-old like me, at forty-something he was already ancient. Compared to her twenty-eight years, he was ancient. That bright red sports car wasnât suited to him. An old man in a sports car was ludicrous. He was a joke, a clown. I reeled off a string of insults, but instead of enjoying it, I merely felt depressed. The fact that he was a boring old man who drove a sports car that didnât suit him did not necessarily turn me into an awesome young man. Whatâs more, she still seemed to be happily chatting away with him. Every now and then I could hear them laughing. The sound of her giggling in amusement easily crushed any sense of superiority I might have felt.
I slammed the wardrobe door shut and, opening the drawer, took out my fatherâs hunting rifle. The British-made double-barreled weapon was the one thing my father left to me. He had often taken me hunting with him when I was a child. Hunting is a manâs sport, he had been fond of saying. I had enjoyed it, too. I found the solid weight of the rifle in my hands mysteriously calming. I did not know why. Maybe I felt cool handling a gun, or perhaps I felt the presence of my dead father in it.
I loaded the rifle and slipped out of the villa with it. I had an irresistible urge to shoot something.
I walked along the dark beach to the tip of the headland. There was nobody around. The wind howled and the waves crashed, but somehow I had an eerie feeling of being immersed in deep silence.
The pine branches and undergrowth on the headland rustled. I planted my feet in the grass and, raising the gun, aimed out into the night sea. It was dark, and I had no idea what I was shooting at. Yukibe had told me harshly that we had to feel murderous against the system. She was probably walking the streets right now looking for an enemy to kill. Yukibe was happy. She had an adversary to fight, but I did not know who or what to shoot. I chewed my lip and, aiming out into the blackness, pulled the trigger.
I felt a slight recoil. For a brief moment, the dark night was split by a blue-white flash.
What had I just shot? Just his ugly potbelly? Her beautiful face? The little blonde girl on the beach? Or myself?
That night in my dreams, I shot her .
She was naked. Her body was beautiful. Thatâs why, in my dream, I had to shoot her. As she fell, with bright red blood streaming
A look of terror flashed across the little girlâs face and she started screaming hysterically. Unawares, I had crushed the crab in my hand. Flustered, I apologized. But her face drained of color, and she inched backwards then turned and fled.
I slowly stood up. The crab had fallen from my hand and lay white belly up. Its legs twitched briefly, but soon stopped moving. A wave came and washed away the dead crabâs broken pincers.
Even as night fell, he made no move to leave. She, too, was urging him to stay. I could not bear to face him, so, as soon as dinner was over, I went up to my room.
I flung open the window and gazed out at the night sea. The late August breeze already had a chill in it. There was a moon, but the sea was dark and it had set up an eerie moan as if hiding some mysterious secret. I pictured the face of the little blonde girl I had met on the beach in that dark sea. When she had taken fright and screamed, had my face been so hideously contorted that it could scare a child? And when I watched her together with him, was my face unappealingly disfigured by jealousy? I could not bear the thought of that. At seventeen, ugliness was the biggest sin of all. For me, there was no meaning in unattractive youth. Youth had to be good-looking.
I am not ugly! I told myself. How could I be? There was an intensity in my eyes, but that was a sign of my youth. I automatically measured myself against that novelist. He was old. Compared to a seventeen-year-old like me, at forty-something he was already ancient. Compared to her twenty-eight years, he was ancient. That bright red sports car wasnât suited to him. An old man in a sports car was ludicrous. He was a joke, a clown. I reeled off a string of insults, but instead of enjoying it, I merely felt depressed. The fact that he was a boring old man who drove a sports car that didnât suit him did not necessarily turn me into an awesome young man. Whatâs more, she still seemed to be happily chatting away with him. Every now and then I could hear them laughing. The sound of her giggling in amusement easily crushed any sense of superiority I might have felt.
I slammed the wardrobe door shut and, opening the drawer, took out my fatherâs hunting rifle. The British-made double-barreled weapon was the one thing my father left to me. He had often taken me hunting with him when I was a child. Hunting is a manâs sport, he had been fond of saying. I had enjoyed it, too. I found the solid weight of the rifle in my hands mysteriously calming. I did not know why. Maybe I felt cool handling a gun, or perhaps I felt the presence of my dead father in it.
I loaded the rifle and slipped out of the villa with it. I had an irresistible urge to shoot something.
I walked along the dark beach to the tip of the headland. There was nobody around. The wind howled and the waves crashed, but somehow I had an eerie feeling of being immersed in deep silence.
The pine branches and undergrowth on the headland rustled. I planted my feet in the grass and, raising the gun, aimed out into the night sea. It was dark, and I had no idea what I was shooting at. Yukibe had told me harshly that we had to feel murderous against the system. She was probably walking the streets right now looking for an enemy to kill. Yukibe was happy. She had an adversary to fight, but I did not know who or what to shoot. I chewed my lip and, aiming out into the blackness, pulled the trigger.
I felt a slight recoil. For a brief moment, the dark night was split by a blue-white flash.
What had I just shot? Just his ugly potbelly? Her beautiful face? The little blonde girl on the beach? Or myself?
That night in my dreams, I shot her .
She was naked. Her body was beautiful. Thatâs why, in my dream, I had to shoot her. As she fell, with bright red blood streaming
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