“Soo, soo,” Haruki said.
“Why can’t the children who wrote this be punished? Why?” the mother asked.
“There were several people who witnessed him jump with no one else on the roof. Your son was not pushed. We cannot arrest everyone who says or writes something mean-spirited—”
“Why can’t the police make the principal—” The father looked directly at him, then, seeing Haruki’s defeated expression, the father stared at the door instead. “You people work together to make sure nothing ever changes. Sho ga nai. Sho ga nai. That’s all I ever hear.”
“I’m sorry. I am sorry,” he said before leaving.
Paradaisu Yokohama was crowded at eight o’clock in the evening. The volcanic rush of tinny bells, the clanging of tiny hammers across miniature metal bowls, the beeping and flashing of colorful lights, and the throaty shouts of welcome from the obsequious staff felt like a reprieve from the painful silence in his head. Haruki didn’t even mind the thick swirls of tobacco smoke that hung like a layer of gray mist above the heads of the players seated opposite the rows upon rows of vertical, animated machines. As soon as Haruki stepped into the parlor, the Japanese floor manager rushed to him and asked if he would like tea. Boku-san was in the office in a meeting with a machine salesman and promised to be down shortly. Haruki and Mozasu had a standing dinner arrangement every Thursday, and Haruki was here to pick him up.
It was fair to say that almost everyone at the parlor wanted to make some extra money by gambling. However, the players also came to escape the eerily quiet streets where few said hello, to keep away from the loveless homes where wives slept with children instead of husbands, and to avoid the overheated rush-hour train cars where it was okay to push but not okay to talk to strangers. When Haruki was a younger man, he had not been much of a pachinko player, but since moving to Yokohama, Haruki allowed himself to find some comfort here.
It took no time for him to lose several thousand yen, so he bought another tray of balls. Haruki wasn’t reckless about his inheritance, but his mother had saved so much that he’d have enough even if he was fired, and even if he lost a fortune. When Haruki paid young men to sleep with him, he could afford to be generous. Of all the vices, pachinko seemed like a petty one.
The small metal balls zigzagged rhythmically across the rectangular face of the machine, and Haruki moved the dial steadily to keep the action going. No, he had wanted to tell Tetsuo’s father, how can I prove guilt for a crime that doesn’t exist? I cannot punish and I cannot prevent. No, he could not say such things. Not to anyone. So much he could never say. Since he was a child, Haruki had wanted to hang himself, and he thought of it still. Of all the crimes, Haruki understood murder-suicides the best; if he could have, he would’ve killed Daisuke, then himself. But he could never kill Daisuke. And now he could not do such an unspeakable thing to Ayame. They were innocent.
The machine died suddenly. He looked up and saw Mozasu holding the plug to the extension cord. He wore a black suit with a red Paradaisu Yokohama pin on his jacket lapel.
“How much did you lose, dummy?”
“A lot. Half my pay?”
Mozasu pulled out his wallet and handed Haruki a sheaf of yen notes, but Haruki wouldn’t take it.
“It’s my own fault. Sometimes I win, right?”
“Not that often.” Mozasu tucked the money into Haruki’s coat pocket.
At the izakaya, Mozasu ordered beer and poured Haruki his first drink from the large bottle. They sat at the long counter on carved wooden stools. The owner laid out the dish of warm, salted soybeans, because they always started with those.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mozasu asked. “You look like shit.”
“A kid jumped off a building. Had to talk with his parents today.”
“Ugh. How old?”
“Middle school. Korean.”
“Ehh?”
“You should have seen what the rotten kids wrote on his yearbook.”
“Probably the same shit kids wrote in mine.”
“Maji?”
“Yeah, every year, a bunch of knuckleheads would tell me to go back to Korea or to die a slow death. Just mean kid stuff.”
“Who? Anyone I know?”
“It was a long time ago. Besides, what are you going to do? Arrest them?” Mozasu laughed. “So, you’re sad about that? About the kid?”
Haruki nodded.
“You have a weakness for Koreans,” Mozasu said, smiling. “You idiot.”
Haruki started to cry.
“What the hell? Hey, hey.” Mozasu patted his back.
The owner behind the counter looked away and wiped down the counter space of a customer who’d just left.
Haruki clasped his head with his right hand and closed his wet eyes.