The gist was that Kitamura had apparently managed to convince her brother to give her a spot to play tonight, and the short track she'd made me listen to was what she'd practiced for the occasion. When she caught me frowning, she explained that other musicians would accompany her and the singer this evening. I asked if she'd heard of them. Kitamura said she didn't know their names. There was definitely some black magic at play for strangers to harmonize so well on stage. They say music speaks, I guess. Kitamura seemed wholeheartedly convinced of this, showing no particular signs of stress. But I knew better than to trust her façade.
That, however, didn't explain why she'd asked me such an odd question. I confronted her when I found a brief pause between her sentences, as she drew a breath.
"But what does it have to do with me singing?" I asked.
"Well, I can play the bass just fine—pretty well, honestly. And I can sing, not as well, but better than an amateur," she explained. The lack of shame in her tone was concerning.
"Is that so? I can't say."
"At least when it comes to the bass, I know it well enough to accurately compare myself to others. As for singing, well, people praise me sometimes." Kitamura's cheeks flushed.
"If you say so." I nodded, appreciating the hint of embarrassment on her face. "But why can't you do both?"
She then launched into a passionate, long-winded explanation about how it would absolutely be a failure, considering the stress from the crowds, her discomfort with coordinating her throat and fingers, and a nagging ill omen she'd been feeling for days, which had messed up her sleep. This, allegedly, was the reason she couldn't possibly sing and play simultaneously. She ended with an honest plea. I suspected Kitamura was ever ready to bow if all else failed. At that moment, she seemed so defenseless and fragile that rejecting her felt not just mean, but cruel.
I thought in silence for several minutes, hesitating, wrestling with my conscience. In the end, logic reminded me that I didn't know how to sing—not at all.
"Please, Chino-san," Kitamura murmured to herself. When she realized I'd heard her, she quickly buried her red face in her chest.
"Kitamura," I began slowly, "I can't help you. I'm not competent enough, and I've got no motivation to do so."
She stayed silent, so I continued.
"Besides, have you ever thought about why I should help you? As I've said, we're strangers. I don't know you, and I don't particularly want to. You can't expect anyone to help you for free, just because it might be fun. And why can't you hire a singer for the occasion? You have backup musicians but no singer? That makes no sense."
"...It's not me who makes the rules, alright?" Kitamura said, glaring at me. "My brother asked me to do this. He owns the place, so he decides who performs and when. So ask him. Not me." She clicked her tongue.
"What kind of person is he? The kind who can't give a little push to his little sister—"
"You don't know him, Chino-san," she interrupted, talking over me. "Maybe it's a matter of logistics or planning or whatever. Or maybe you're right, and he's just being a little funny tonight. Anyway, what do you say? Will you do it?" she asked again.
"If you can give me a reason, then sure," I said, though there really wasn't any way to convince me—short of physical threats, and even then, I doubted I'd care enough to capitulate.
"Erm... do you have plans this evening?"
"I'll decide tonight, so I can't answer," I said, dishonestly.
Kitamura grumbled. "Don't you think it'll be a valuable experience for you?"
I laughed. "For what? I hate parties—or at least the vibe here."
"You haven't even been to one of these. How would you know?"
"I've been to a few. Maybe not this one, but enough to know I won't like it."
"But maybe you'll like being on stage?"
"Oh, come on, can't you just leave me alone?"
I felt my patience snap. Abruptly, I stood up from Kitamura's bed and strode over to her half-open door, doing my best to dodge the hazards on the ground, but ultimately, I had to step on a few.
Kitamura made no attempt to stop me. As I walked down the corridor, I heard her voice seep through the walls.
"Chino-san!" she screamed.
"Oh God, what?" I yelled back.
"Could you at least think about it for a bit?"
I couldn't hold my voice down anymore.
"I already did!"
* * *
I couldn't stop thinking about Kitamura. I thought I'd acted a little mean. For an hour, I wandered the streets of Tokyo, miserable, with no purpose, no will in my footsteps, and the look of the dead on my face. The sun was sizzling the asphalt. The golden rays seemed determined to blind me whenever I lifted my gaze from the ground for a moment of clarity. It gave me the illusion that it was boiling outside, though, if I'd paid any attention to the people around me, I would've noticed the men in jackets and the women in light blouses, and also that no one complained.
Still, I constantly hid in the shade, though it did nothing to lift the gloom that weighed on me. Each step felt like it should be the last. I was lazy, tired of all the crap in life, but something kept pulling me forward in a zombie-like gait.
It was half-past four.
I stumbled into an unfamiliar neighborhood, crawling from street to street, sidewalk to sidewalk, from one patch of shade to the next. When I had to cross into the sun, I sprinted. Sometimes, in my haste, I collided with a passerby. If it was a child, I'd apologize with a kind smile. If it was an adult (and assuming they weren't handicapped), I'd keep walking, ignoring the traditions of Japanese hospitality, probably earning a scold from my ancestors. But did it matter? I was the victim here. These people had their whole lives ahead of them. A little bump on the shoulder meant nothing to them, even if I'd somehow broken a bone. They had hospitals to mend them. I couldn't say the same for myself.
Free of guilt, I stumbled upon the entrance to a park I didn't recognize. To be honest, I knew none of the parks in Japan, except Ueno's, because my parents were obsessed with taking my brother and me there. I admit they had good taste. My mother especially loved a certain spot deep in the woods, which she dogmatically assured us was impossible to find unless you knew the path. She was sort of right. It's easy to get lost there, and while the wildlife seems friendly enough, I'd prefer not to converse with them at night.
The place I was thinking of is a lake—not a large one, or particularly deep—but my mother loved its shallow waters and the faint glimmer of light on the surface. She enjoyed that the water was just high enough for her to dip her toes in without soaking her ankles. As for me, the melody of the gentle waves, stirred by the soft wind, rocked me during childhood. It had been years since I last visited, and thinking of it didn't make me eager to return. I like to call it a distant, ancient relic of my past, though I never say that out loud.
I was so lost in thought, or perhaps daydreaming about the past, that I didn't realize how far I'd wandered into the park. Startled, I turned around, scanning my surroundings for a familiar landmark. But all I saw were trees—some taller, some thicker—but just trees nonetheless.
Seeing so much green made my head spin.
I stumbled, leaning on a tree trunk, before collapsing onto the dirty brown paved stones below. The scorching sunlight pierced through the leaves, as if to spite me.
"Ahh! This fucking—!"
At that point, my mind shut down completely. I began mindlessly striking my knee with my fist, sharp bursts of pain giving me brief moments of clarity before the cycle repeated. I murmured curses under my breath, my lips either slightly ajar or pressed together, but never at rest.
I might have continued like this until nightfall, if I hadn't heard a voice calling from further down the path.