What's Left of Me is Yours Read online

  Putting down his pen, Kaitarō pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger; a headache had begun to build behind his eyes and he shook his head to clear it. He scanned the details of the file once more: the main assets were the properties owned by the wife or her family, and there was also one child, a girl. He’d seen it before, this form of acquisition. His clients used whatever they could to gain an advantage in negotiations, and some found purchase within the law itself, for only sole custody of children was ever awarded; joint custody was illegal. And so a child could become a point of leverage. Of course, there were some situations in which a separation was best for all involved, including the children, but the cases he saw did not often revolve around welfare. He was no longer surprised at the lengths to which people would go to secure what they wanted, but then he didn’t have to approve of his clients, only manage them.

  Glancing up from the file, he caught sight of his business cards in their plastic box on the desk in front of him. They were plain white, necessarily discreet, detailing only his name, current telephone number, and fax. For some reason in the harsh light of the office, the characters of his name seemed to stand out in sharp relief, the name his parents had chosen for him with such hope: Kaitarō, composed of the characters for ‘sea’ and ‘firstborn son’. For a second he could almost feel that he was back home in Hokkaido, walking through the tall grass with his uncle, the weight of a camera heavy and steadying on his neck, and all around them the wheeling of the gulls and the roar of the ocean.

  Once, in a rare quiet moment, after no more than two or three beers, his father had told him how his parents had chosen his name, how they’d sat at the kitchen table in their tiny bungalow and debated between two versions. His father had been pensive when he told this story, recently home from a stint on the trawlers and strangely mellow. He liked ‘son of the sea’ and had insisted until it was chosen. He hoped that his boy would follow him onto the boats, or perhaps get a job at the fisheries; the family had lived off the ocean for so long that to his father the choice had seemed inevitable.

  But his name had always meant something different to Kaitarō; it meant the vastness of the open water by his home, the sand glinting silver as it melded with the waves; it was the feel of his uncle’s camera in his hands as he learned to capture the vibrant world around him. His uncle visited only sporadically, but when he’d been able to secure photography jobs that would pay enough for both of them, he had taken Kaitarō with him and together they travelled Hokkaido, falling into narrow beds at rural guesthouses or hostel bunks in towns at the end of long days, exhausted but free. What was inevitable was that Kai would eventually disappoint his father, so he learned quickly to read his moods, analysing his face the moment he came home for signs of drink or temper.

  His mother preferred the alternate version of his name, the combination of characters for Kaitarō that contained the one for ‘mediator’. She liked the agency and capability this implied, arguing that their boy could get onto a managerial track at the local seaweed plant or go into business. Staring at his card in the tiny office in Shibuya, Kai doubted this line of work was what she had in mind. She’d had other hopes too, of course, other mediator roles for him to fill, but he had failed her there as well. He had not been able to smooth over the rough edges of her marriage, had not been able to protect her or even himself. He had survived to become a mediator indeed, though not the kind anyone would necessarily aspire to. Kaitarō reached for his coffee, but a thick skin had formed on the top and it was lukewarm on his tongue. He shook his head, trying once more to clear it and dislodge the headache gathering there. There was no point thinking this way; he was none of those once-hoped-for people and he could not go back.

  His eyes felt raw in the dry fug of the office and he rubbed a hand over his face before returning to the case file in front of him. The job before him was lucrative, not merely a ‘survey’, the swift surveillance of an errant boyfriend or spouse, but a relationship job, a break-up. A survey might take no more than a couple of weeks, but it was quick work, more in the line of what a private eye does, involving tailing, photographs of infidelity, and a report to the client who could then decide what to do with their spouse. This job could take months and the fees would be worthwhile to whomever his boss, Takeda, chose to undertake it; it might even buy him some time for himself.

  The case itself looked fairly simple. Kaitarō sketched out a ‘bait and switch’ over a period of two months: one month to engage the subject and another to collect the evidence – perhaps photographs of him and the woman exiting a love hotel or, if it would do, a kiss in the street. After that, he would disconnect the phone number he’d given her and rotate to work in another ward of Tokyo; the firm might even move him to a different prefecture for a while. But, as he looked over the file and flipped to the back, one detail began to bother him, a detail barely relevant for the seduction of a housewife. It was her photograph, a passport shot, the only one they’d been given. The lighting was harsh and she wore no make-up. She was looking at the camera straight on, but it was the way she stared at the lens that struck him, as though she were more interested in the camera than anything else in the world. Her eyes and the look within them lifted off the page and into his head.

  He was still holding the photo in his hands when Mia swung around the door to his office. Takeda had her managing the company calendar, but Kaitarō had asked her to meet the husband in this case. Mia was sharp and subtle, she was patient and could break through personal barriers with ease, but when she knocked on his door that afternoon she looked openly annoyed.

  ‘He won’t talk to me,’ she said. ‘He wants to meet the agent he’ll be working with.’

  Kaitarō looked up from the file. ‘What did Takeda say?’

  ‘He’d like you to go in.’

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  Mia handed him a single sheet of paper. ‘Your call,’ she said as he glanced over her notes.

  Kaitarō put on his tie, smoothing it down over his shirt, and followed her into the conference room. He bowed low to Satō and handed him a business card, holding it in both hands. As Mia poured iced water into two glasses, Kaitarō sat down and assessed his new client, measuring the man he’d read about in the file against the one before him now.

  ‘My colleague tells me you’re not interested in reconciling with your wife?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve told the young lady I would like a divorce,’ Satō replied, gesturing at Mia, who sat beside him picking lint off her stockings.

  ‘We can certainly offer you some preliminary investigations before you decide,’ Kaitarō continued. ‘Mia could take your wife’ – he glanced down at the sheet – ‘Rina, out for a drink? See how she feels about your marriage, perhaps gauge her reaction to the two of you separating.’

  ‘She doesn’t believe in divorce.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Mr Satō.’ Kaitarō leaned forward. ‘If we are going to undertake this case, there is a great deal we will need to know about you and your wife, and the majority of it will be highly personal.’

  Satō remained silent.

  ‘Has your wife been unfaithful to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s had no lovers, flirtations, close friendships?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She doesn’t have any friends?’

  ‘She isn’t very interesting; it’s why I want to be rid of her.’

  ‘But you would like custody of your daughter?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  Kaitarō looked away and Satō laughed. ‘I was told you were discreet,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t realise that meant squeamish.’

  ‘These are emotional matters,’ Kaitarō said, meeting his gaze. ‘We try to minimise the pain experienced by all parties, at least until the papers are signed. The most successful s
eparations are the ones with the least resentment.’ He smiled almost imperceptibly at Satō, who narrowed his eyes; clearly he did not like to be challenged.

  ‘I’ll try another agency.’

  Kaitarō shrugged, relieved in spite of himself as Satō rose to his feet, but Mia stopped him, bowing low.

  ‘We understand your impatience, sir,’ she explained, urging him to sit down once more. ‘These are big decisions and they cannot be taken lightly. We have to make sure that you really know what you want.’

  ‘I’m not getting a fucking abortion,’ Satō muttered. ‘I want to separate from my wife.’

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ Mia said with a cute lift of her eyebrow as she snapped open her notebook. ‘How much time do we have?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as you need,’ Satō replied. ‘But you have a reputation for efficiency?’

  ‘We do.’ Mia nodded. ‘I can’t stand long attachments,’ she said, winking at him.

  Kaitarō took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘I want to be clear,’ Satō said. ‘Your boy here – is he up to it?’

  Mia bowed. ‘Mr Nakamura is one of our best. Whatever you need, he will accomplish it.’

  ‘I don’t want any fuss.’

  ‘You are aiming for a private settlement?’ Mia asked.

  Satō looked at her, the answer evident in his eyes. Slowly, he turned to face Kaitarō. ‘My wife has to want to leave our marriage and she has to be willing to sacrifice everything to do so. Can you do that? Can you make a woman love you?’

  Kaitarō returned his look with an impassive stare until finally Satō laughed. ‘Let’s hope he’s better with the ladies.’

  ‘Do you have another photo of your wife?’ Kaitarō asked.

  ‘Why? Do you only take on the sexy prospects?’ Satō looked at Mia and they shared a small smile.

  ‘There will be a preliminary fee for research carried out before the assignment,’ Kaitarō said. ‘It would be good to have a picture of her in her everyday life.’

  Satō smirked, something he would do continually in the meetings to come. ‘Don’t get too excited.’

  ‘Could we trouble you for some additional information now?’ Mia asked. ‘There are some remaining questions about her background and education, her hobbies, her relationship with your daughter. Perhaps you and I could go for a drink?’

  Satō looked away. ‘Send them to my office. It won’t take long.’ He rose and walked to the door. Mia bowed, low and appreciative, and Satō looked over her bent head at Kaitarō. ‘I did bring another photo – to pique your interest,’ he said.

  Later that day, Kaitarō stood before the window in his office. In front of him the streets of Shibuya glowed in the gathering dusk. In his hands was a picture of the woman he was being paid to seduce, the photograph Satō had brought him.

  He leaned his shoulder against the glass and examined the print. He saw a woman with bobbed hair wearing a cardigan that was too big for her – the material enveloped her, framing her face. He looked at her posture, the angle of the shot. It was black and white, the frame precise, cropped close to her face and torso, with the room behind her out of focus. It was possibly a self-portrait. Kai was pondering this when he saw the tiny detail that confirmed his suspicions, for nestled in her palm, almost hidden by the folds of her cardigan, was the black bulb of an air balloon and a wire trailing out of the shot that would trigger the camera’s shutter. She was a photographer or she had been one, once.

  Tilting the photograph towards the light, Kaitarō traced the line of her brow with his thumb. He thought of her name. Rina. She had large dark eyes framed by delicate lashes, but there was no joy in her expression, no exuberance, only the seriousness that he had noted before, the intensity with which she stared at the camera. Rina looked into the lens with concentration, perhaps even aggression, and there was something else there as well: the look of a life cut short.

  Silver Halide

  There was a time when she had been visible, Rina was sure of it. It wasn’t physical attention that she wanted or even romance; it was contact, for someone to see her, to prove that she was still there.

  In the mornings she shopped for dinner and for the household. She wore knee-length dresses and a coat that she could wrap around herself. There was barely a stir in the air as she moved through Ebisu. She knew, had known for months now, that she could walk down a street and no heads would turn, no eyes would lift in recognition or curiosity. As her life began to unravel, fewer and fewer people saw her.

  When she was a child it had been impossible not to notice Rina – she had been vibrant not just with youth but with a quiet confidence that was hers alone. She made friends easily. Tokyo spoke to her in its teahouses, bookshops, and on the streets. People watched her because she had something they wanted: her happiness.

  Rina was lucky. Growing up, her desires had coincided with those of her family. She was close to her father and had followed him into the study of law. But, as her articles on photography began to be published and she was offered a place in her first shared exhibition, Rina had left her law degree to focus on new possibilities. She imagined another life.

  This went well at first, as new ventures often do. Still, as one year turned into two, the question of how she would live and support herself remained, as did who would take over Yoshi’s legal practise. Her former classmates graduated and qualified; others married. She saw them become useful to their families, accepted. In the city she had once loved, each new street corner and junction confronted her with a reality she could not ignore. She saw it in the faces of those around her; even strangers seemed to judge her and to know that she could not survive on her own. Her father’s hurt, explosive at first, blossomed in silence. When he approached her about a match with Osamu Satō, a graduate of Tōdai and the son of a friend, the pressures surrounding her had suddenly eased. She had leapt at the respite. It was a weakness she would never forgive.

  Once she moved to Ebisu and settled into being a wife, Rina found that her college friends had drifted away to other towns, other cities and lives abroad. Soon her peers from the photography group and the journal Exposure spoke to her less and less as she left their world and her husband’s colleagues filled their places. For a time, Rina enjoyed the entertaining; she enjoyed the business parties, the hosting, and excelled at them. But the more people he brought to the apartment her father had purchased for them, the more he used their crystal decanters and entertained at the ebony dining table that was yet another wedding present, the more Rina began to see why Satō had married her.

  When Satō wasn’t entertaining his clients and his bosses, he began to stay out late. Often, he crawled into bed after a night of beer in some izakaya, pulling her to him, his skin reeking of nicotine.

  Gradually, as she should have foreseen, the things she loved slipped from her life and the imaginative world Rina had built for herself also began to disappear. She stopped looking at the sky and gauging the light meters. She no longer walked through the streets and saw exposures, angles and new projects at each turn. Day by day, the house overwhelmed her. She began to move more slowly, to think slowly.

  After a time, her fingerprints, so clear and sure on the surface of her old Canon T90, faded, leaving only faint smudges of oil. Eventually, these too lifted away, until it was as though they had never been. Her collection of lenses glazed over with dust; the bottles in her darkroom crystallised around the tops, stuck fast with granulated chemicals. The baths of solution dried out until only a thin layer of grime remained, and spiders began to make nests in the corners of her room. Satō moved boxes into her darkroom. He used it as a place to store his files, his skis, a broken tennis racket. More items filled the space: Satō’s clothes, old trainers, unwanted gifts from his friends. When Rina peered around the door and looked in she saw other people, another marriage, another life. Inside her darkr
oom, like film abandoned to the light, Rina vanished.

  Near Kaitarō’s apartment was a series of shops. On Saturdays and Sundays, this small alley became a street market. In the winter, the homeless set up shelters there; their lodgings were neat, uniform boxes of plastic sheeting and tarps, but in the spring they were moved on and new stalls for pirated videos, manga comics and Nintendo games filled the plots they had left.

  At the far end of this alley was a family business, a photography shop that opened at 8 a.m. every morning and closed in the evenings at 7 p.m. But sometimes, late at night, the security gate remained up above the entranceway and a light could be seen at the back of the shop as Kaitarō Nakamura made his way home through the alleys behind the train station.

  ‘Evening, Jinsei,’ Kaitarō murmured, as the old man unlocked the front door of the shop and motioned him inside. ‘Thank you for staying up so late.’

  Jinsei smiled and nodded. ‘It’s no problem. Thank you for the photographs of my niece. My sister likes them very much.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’

  The older man offered him a stool. ‘Have you had dinner? My wife has left some chicken yakitori and beer for us if you’re interested.’

  ‘That is very kind but I don’t want to keep you from your bed.’

  ‘Busy day?’ Jinsei asked. ‘Is it interesting, this detective work? An important case?’

  ‘I think so. Challenging.’

  Jinsei laughed. ‘I don’t know how you bear it, looking so closely at other people.’