Free Revenge by Yōko Ogawa Page B

fine. I had bought his favorite strawberry shortcake at the bakery on the plaza, and set the table with the new cloth and napkins. Everything was perfect.
    “I’ve been dying to see you,” he said as he took me in his arms. Or at least that’s what I think he said. His voice was muffled by my hair, and I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I decided not to ask him to repeat himself, in case it had been something less romantic.
    He took off his coat, inhaled deeply the smell of dinner coming from the kitchen, and pushed back his bangs, which were too long. We sat down on the sofa and held each other, neither of us saying much. We both knew that silence was the best way to appreciate a moment we’d been waiting three weeks for.
    I could tell someone was in the apartment upstairs and wondered if the police had come back. It was noisy outside as well, but not enough to disturb our peace. His arm was around my shoulder, and his other hand held mine where it rested in my lap. I laid my cheek against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath on my neck.
    When I’m curled up in his arms like this, I can never tell how my body looks to him. I worry that I seem completely ridiculous, but I have the ability to squeeze into any little space he leaves for me. I fold my legs until they take up almost no room at all, and curl in my shoulders until they’re practically dislocated. Like a mummy in a tomb. And when I get like this, I don’t care if I never get out; or maybe that’s exactly what I hope will happen.
    Still, the moment came when I had to pull myself away and break the silence.
    “Did you know there was a murder upstairs?” I said. For some reason, I couldn’t resist telling him. A murder was special, interesting.
    “I saw a patrol car parked outside,” he said, his hand still holding mine.
    “The police were swarming all over the building, and there were lots of reporters. It was awful. They even came here asking questions. I was a nervous wreck—the first time I’d ever talked to a detective in my entire life. Have you ever talked to one?”
    He shook his head.
    “He was nice enough,” I continued. “Seemed new to the job, but he was very polite. I heard some strange noises the other night, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Probably had something to do with the murder. He was very interested—about the noises. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but for some reason I remembered. And I had even checked the time without realizing it. It was ten after eleven. Which is really the point. The exact time of death is always important in things like this.”
    This time he nodded, and I continued.
    “They said the victim was a doctor at the university hospital, that he was stabbed to death by his mistress, almost decapitated, actually. It’s too horrible to think about. But it’s an old story: blind love and jealousy. Though I don’t know why she went for the throat. I think I’d aim for a spot with more meat, the chest or the belly. The neck is such a small target; you might miss completely, and I doubt it would be very satisfying, even if you did hit it. If you were that angry, wouldn’t you want to tear his guts out or something? And there was one more queer thing: that same day, a patient was murdered at the hospital where the doctor worked. A woman who was just about to have heart surgery. The attacker used a pair of scissors, stabbed her in the chest. I wonder whether there’s a connection between the two? Something more complicated than a simple crime of passion? Oh, yes! I nearly forgot. And a reporter from one of the talk shows came around asking questions, too. How could they resist?—it’s a perfect story. But it was a shock, having a camera shoved in my face. I recognized the reporter, one of those fast-talking women with too much makeup. No one in the neighborhood had seen anything, so she was having trouble digging up information. But I told