Chapter 17

Kazuki did not sleep. He tore the sheet away to see his erection leaning leeward from the slit in his boxer shorts. He had neglected to draw the curtains and a light from that enormous yacht, which seemed to ply the Santa Monica Bay like a watchman, found the tip, so that it glowed like some exotic sea plant, undulating in the currents. The ship passed, the room darkened, his penis shriveled. For three hours, he had been trying to sleep, but the story’s gaps poked at his consciousness, like the miniature devil children who poked poor Mr. Hood.

The tendrils of story found nothing on which to cling. He needed a listener to frown at his errors, smile at his felicities, but he had no ear, no living ear.

Another stray beam swept the room. Kazuki’s penis rose again, as if it had been waiting for the spotlight.

In the old days, he would have turned to his wife and fit himself against her like two pieces of a puzzle. She would have wriggled closer, reached back to take his hand and whispered, “Now you will sleep,” and he would have slept.

But Manami was gone, only returning in dreams, which were never nourishing, and most times depleting. Manami had been four years old at the time of the Hiroshima blast, miraculously escaping external injuries though her family lived within four kilometers of the hypocenter. But the radiation had damaged enough cells that she died of leukemia at age thirty-four, leaving Kazuki with their young daughter.

Kazuki rolled out of bed, took three long breaths and walked to the balcony. Tolstoy would not mourn even for the death of his youngest son. It was God’s will and plan. What was there to mourn?

Staring at the heavens, he caught his breath at the tender touch of the stars, as if each was a woman’s loving finger.