Free Coin Locker Babies by Ryu Murakami

thinking. They come up and start talking to you on the train, waiting in line somewhere, at the movies, in a coffee shop or at the supermarket, and if you so much as say “boo” back, you’re doomed; they go on talking forever. More assholes out there allthe time: they smile nice, offer to carry your bag or buy you a cup of coffee, and suddenly you’re their best friend. Seems dangerous, all these pathological talkers. Anemone had read of a case where a man had tried to walk away from a talkative stranger and got a knife in the back.
    “Tired, huh? It’s bad to get worn out like that, makes you cranky… Damn this drizzle! It’s hell on the wipers and worse on the drivers. Hardly see anything with this glare… Blinding, huh?… Yup, blinding… You sure are quiet, lady. Uh… where was it you said you were going? You’re so quiet back there I completely forgot… I’m not kidding, I really can’t remember… Come on, lady, give me a break,” he pleaded, glancing back at Anemone. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as she opened the window a crack to get some air. The smell of warm, damp concrete came flooding into the car, the smell of evening.
    “No, really, I’m serious—you’ve got to tell me, where do you want to go? I can’t remember.” The driver stopped the taxi in the middle of the road and put on his flashers. Sharp honks came from the traffic backing up behind.
    “Daikanyama,” Anemone muttered. The man had barely managed to catch what she said, but his face immediately relaxed.
    “Right! Daikanyama it was; Yamate Avenue, I believe. Just slipped my mind for a minute… Miss, excuse me for saying so, but you’re not like most other girls. In this line of work I learn a lot about people—must meet fifty or more every day—and I’m telling you, you’re a bit different… in a good sense, of course. I mean, for example, you take your normal young lady, she’ll at least make small talk, say hello, something… I guess what I mean is, your normal young lady’s got some manners. Take for instance a few minutes ago, when I said to you ‘Rain again.’ I remember that ‘cause we were just going under an overpass, the odometersaid 70,092 kilometers, and the fare was at ¥1,780—like I said, not much I don’t notice… Well, a normal girl would have said something like ‘Yes, it certainly is pretty sticky,’ or ‘The rainy season ought to be over by now,’ or something like that. People always talk about the weather to get things started; it’s just good manners.
    “You know, miss, I’m a pretty easygoing guy in general. Yeah, I have my rough edges, but all in all I’m pretty open-minded… but I’ve got to tell you, you are the quietest fucking lady I ever met. Shit, this
traffic
! Slow as molasses, and rain, too. And a tight-lipped , bad-assed fare. Guess this is what I get for being such a nice guy.”
    The taxi had hardly moved, and ahead the red blur of brake lights glistened on the pavement. With nothing else to do, the driver was studying Anemone’s profile in the mirror as the lights from the oncoming cars lit her pale, transparent skin and cast mauve shadows on her eyelids and cheeks.
    Here the road began to slope gently downward to a part of Tokyo popularly known as “Toxitown,” a contaminated area right in the center of the city. About five years earlier, birds and small animals had suddenly begun dying in the neighborhood. Tests revealed an abnormally high level of chlorine in the soil, high enough to cause eruptions on the skin of those exposed to it, or liver and nerve damage in cases where the contaminant got into the system. Pregnant women were warned of the danger of miscarriage or birth defects. But that was all that was ever said; no explanation was offered as to how the chlorine got into the soil, though there was plenty of speculation. Since there was no chemical plant in the area, some said the stuff must have leaked from a passing truck. There was talk of