Free Birthday by Kôji Suzuki

the role of an English gentleman. Okubo was like this: his every movement, his every pose, his every word was theatrical. He and Toyama were the same age, and so they ended up spending a lot of time together, and they got along fairly well. But sometimes Okubo's flair for the dramatic got on Toyama's nerves.
    With a joyless smile, Toyama grabbed Okubo's sleeve and pulled him aside. "I need to talk to you."
    "This is sudden. What about?" But Okubo's grin betrayed his lack of surprise.
    "Why don't you have a seat?"
    They grabbed chairs from in front of the mirror and sat down.
    Okubo looked even smaller when sitting down. He kept his back and neck straight—his posture was perfect.
    In fact, Toyama never saw him slouch, or even really relax. No doubt this was a method of making up for his lack of height. Okubo took pride in the fact that before joining Soaring he'd belonged to a troupe with a considerably more celebrated heritage. Just being accepted there was a considerable feat, and he'd done it—but no more. Unable to make his way in that troupe, he'd bailed out and joined Soaring, which represented coming down a notch. Okubo had persuaded himself that it was only because of his height.
    In short, Toyama knew full well that Okubo's comically exaggerated way of talking and moving came from a combination of pride and insecurity.

    He only had twenty minutes, though: he decided to come right out with it.
    "What nonsense have you been filling Sadako's head with?"
    "Are you trying to ruin my reputation? I don't recall talking nonsense to anyone," came Okubo's composed, good-natured reply.
    "Listen, I'm not accusing you of anything, but something's got me worried."
    "What, pray tell?"
    "Hey, sound effects and music are my job. I've got a right to be concerned. I want you to be honest with me: was what you told Sadako the truth? Did you really hear a woman's voice on the tape? A woman in the throes of labor?"
    Okubo clapped his hands and laughed. 'A woman in the throes of labor'? Where did you come up with that? What I said was, it sounded like the act that results in labor pains—a woman's moans when, you know...
    That's what I meant, at least. I don't know what Sada thought I was talking about."
    "So you were joking?"
    "I was not joking," said Okubo, laughing again. He was so caught up in his own performance that it was hard to get a straight answer from him. What was he so keyed up about anyway?
    "Stop fooling around, will you? I heard something."
    "What?"
    "A baby crying."

    Okubo took a deep breath and then leaned forward, a look of concern on his face. "Where?"
    "In the sound booth, over my headphones."
    Okubo leaned back again. "Whoa." He looked taken aback.
    "See, it connects. If you heard a woman struggling to deliver a child, see, it's too much of a coincidence." As he said this, Toyama was remembering the umbilical cord that had been placed as an offering in front of that altar.
    "Why, that's a bolt from the blue! A horse of a different color!" said Okubo, in his best vaudevillian voice.
    "Knock it off already. Can you just tell me what it was you told Sadako?"
    "Sada's the one great hope for us interns. Between her beauty and the attention the director pays her, she's got a great future as an actress. But after all, it's her first performance—to a bystander like me, she looks incredibly nervous. I feel sorry for her. It was an act of fellow-ship, if you will. I thought I'd tell her a scary story or two, just to, you know, loosen her up a bit."
    Annoyed, Toyama pressed the point. "So you didn't really hear a woman's voice on the tape?"
    "Au contraire!" Okubo shook his head and pursed his lips.
    "One more thing. How did you know there was an altar in the sound booth?"
    "An altar? In the sound booth?" Okubo pulled a long face and clapped his hands as one does when wor-shipping at a shrine. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and began mumbling as if reciting a sutra.
    Toyama was finding Okubo even more grating than