I had been close to despair about what lay in store for us, but the next morning, as we came over the prefectural border into Kumamoto, the road substantially improved. Yielding to us as we passed were cars with local license plates, going goodness knows where. We steadily descended along a stream, passing by a cement factory with a number of mixing trucks parked in front, where, off to the side, we saw a service station – a distinctly minor, makeshift facility, I should say, without even so much as a vending machine.
“What is the best way to get to Kobayashi?” Nagoyan asked the middle-aged proprietor, who pointed to the narrow road across the way.
“Tha’s a shortcut. ’Tis the long way roun’ if ye go through Taragi.” He gave the car’s license plate a curious glance.
“Yer from Nagoya then.”
“Uh, yes,” replied Nagoyan perfunctorily. He did not claim to be from Tokyo.
“From Shiiba we tried to go to Miyazaki.”
“It musta been terrible,” the man said with a laugh. “It’s a wretched road!”
Nagoyan was not being his usually affable self. He turned to the proprietor, who was taking his time filling the tank, and asked in a shrill voice, “Where are we anyway?”
“In Tsukigi.”
He gave a complicated explanation of how the characters were written and then pointed to a sign on the cement factory where the name could be seen.
“Would there be any place ’ere where we might get sumptin’ to eat?” I asked, trying to get a word in edgewise.
“In Kobayashi ye can get anythin’ ye want.”
With the tank full, we put Tsukigi behind us, still not knowing where it was.
We hadn’t driven for an hour before the landscape opened up to broad paddy fields. It was good to see signs of human agricultural activity. The rice plants had grown and now, still green, had sprouted ears. Soon the entire scene would turn to gold, and then there would something delicious to savor. I was hungry. In the distance I glimpsed the real Mount Kirishima; there were also farmhouses and traffic lights. Vehicles and roads were gathering from all directions; we had entered the town of Kobayashi. It was a town all right, but one that seemed to have lost all track of time. Hardly any of the sunburned, faded buildings were more than two stories high. The shop selling daily necessities resembled a crude storage shed. I was somewhat disappointed. The only edifice that stood out was the brightly colored service station.
The sky abruptly turned dark and we were hit by a passing shower. Nagoyan grinned, saying that now we would at least get relief from the heat, but when we closed the windows, the discomfort index became relentlessly worse, until, with the mixed odor of two unrelated persons’ sweat, it was all quite unendurable. We turned around and went back. Giving up on the idea of Hyuga chicken, we went into Joyful to kill time until the rain stopped. I had a hamburger, Nagoyan an assortment of fried food. We were out of sorts, but at least we were getting something to eat. I kept going to the drink bar for iced coffee refills, despite Nagoyan’s expressed concerns that such would only put me in need of a restroom. Who cares? I thought to myself. When yer this deep into the countryside, ye can jus’ pee in th’ bushes.
The breeze that came with the letup of the rain was not we had hoped for. We made a halfhearted effort to ventilate the car.
“Isn’t it about time for a change of drivers?” Nagoyan asked. “You should be able to handle this stretch of road.”
“Ye should be doin’ the drivin’, Nagoyan. Ye’re so much better at it.”
“Hey, don’t you realize that I’ve been behind the wheel for hundreds of kilometers now? Why can’t you at least say ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry’?”
There was again a tone of hysteria in his voice. He suddenly turned on the heater.
“What’re ye doin’? Are ye hatterin’ me?”
I was furious.
“Take it easy, will you? The water temperature’s going up.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about and thought that, if I asked, all I’d get was a convoluted answer.
You tell me you’ve been hurt, but it’s a lie.
You tell me I should hang in there, but I just can’t.
Don’t you be a goody two-shoes.
Don’t you be a goody two-shoes.
“I’m sorry… Pull in there.”
In a bad mood, I marched into an old, foul-smelling liquor store and brazenly shoplifted a bottle of Myers’s Rum. Whether I put it into a shopping basket or stuffed it into my tote bag didn’t make a lot of difference. I returned in triumph to the passenger seat, deftly opened the bottle, and took a swig. In my throat and at the back of my eyes, I felt the heat of the liquid.
“Hey! No drinking in the passenger seat!”
“I’ll do whit I bloody well like!”
Nagoyan clicked his tongue and pressed his foot to the accelerator.
“Hand it over!” he shouted, grabbed the bottle, and took a large gulp.
“Whooh!” he gasped.
“Prior to the Second World War, condemned prisoners about to be sent to the gallows would, after prayers, be given a glass of rum.”
So saying, he glugged down some more. Not to be bested, I grabbed the bottle back and took another swallow myself.
“Are ye awright for drivin’?” I asked him.
“Who knows? I’m fine with it. After all, I’ve been doing it every day now.”
He turned up the sound of the car stereo and then, without warning, suddenly put on the brakes, got out, and went over to a vending machine to buy several cans of Coke.
“Let’s have some Cuba libre.”
“Whit’s that?”
“It means ‘free Cuba’. You take Cuban rum and mix it with Coca-Cola from America, which symbolizes freedom. But the Americans call it rum and coke. And now that I’ve mentioned Cuba, I’m reminded that there’s a book about Che Guevara that’s come out recently. I wanted to read it.”
“I haven’t a clue whit ye’re talkin’ about.”
I’d really had my fill of Nagoyan’s pointless arguments. We’d gone over hill and dale, but there seemed to be not a single lavender field anywhere in Kyushu. And it was futile to go looking for one. I said nothing and kept drinking. And then I felt sick. I asked Nagoyan to stop the car. He pulled into a parking area with no toilet. I went into the bushes and vomited my hamburger and rum, then dizzily made my way back. From the window on the driver’s side, Nagoyan violently threw the empty bottle toward the road. I heard the crashing sound, as it burst, the shards sparkling as they scattered.
“I wish I could go to pieces in the same way!” he remarked softly, though it was as though he had spat the words out. After that we were both silent.