The Heroine in the Prophecy (Part 2)

■The first part is here

but.

Spring, 2020.
The world collapsed in silence.

Lockdown, pandemic, cluster. Familiar scenery was painted over with words I didn't know, and the sphere called Earth was sealed off without a sound.

To the Matterhorn.
To the mountain I was supposed to go to.
To the place where I was supposed to meet that person.
There was no way to go. Even though I had lived only for that.

Who accepts such absurdity?
I do not acknowledge it. I do not consent. I do not believe it. I do not yield.

I screamed in the depths of my heart. Give it back, I said.
Give me back my life, give it back, give it back.

To whom? Not the state, not the virus. Not fate, not time. Toward something nameless that transcended even those, I continued to dig my nails in as if praying, as if cursing, chanting not anger, not heat, but a damper, more humid curse.

Why.
Why.
Why, why, why.

But.
In 2021, too,
In 2022, too.

The airplanes,
did not fly.

My faith, which I had shown to no one for 22 years. My vow, which I had spoken to no one. My body, which I had let no one touch. All of it crumbled as if being eaten away by tiny insects dwelling in myth.

I could do nothing. I wasn't even allowed to think. Amidst an absolute rejection where even the slightest resistance was forbidden, I quietly turned 52.

The dream was over.
The story was murdered.
No blood flowed, no corpse remained, just quietly.

Even so, I am alive. My heart still beats, my stomach still craves something, my lungs still breathe air. That was the cruelest part.




Time passed idly, and on one such day, a sealed letter arrived from my university's Go and Shogi club. It seemed someone from my cohort had received a Cultural Encouragement Award.

Inside the envelope, it was carefully written who had won the award and what they had achieved, but even seeing the name, no face came to mind. They were a person who had long since dropped out of the roster of my memory. Even if I squinted, there was no way I could remember them.

Normally, it would have been a scene where we rented out an izakaya, someone would give a clumsy speech, we would clink glasses to a random toast, and repeat boring old stories—that was how it was supposed to be.

But the city was silent at that time. The state of emergency was extended, and no one would go near the bars with their lights out. Every noren curtain, every sign, hung a "Closed" sign as if keeping silent. There were no hands to pour drinks, no shoulders to receive them. It was an atmosphere where even celebrating was frowned upon.

So, inevitably, it was online. Someone must have gleefully named it "a new way of connecting in the era" or "interaction with COVID," but the reality was nothing more than a list of faces and voices floating on a cold screen.

However, that was convenient in its own way. Because I thought that if I stared at the cold screen, I could sink. If I looked at the faces of people I didn't care about, listened to them talk, and gulped down drinks that didn't matter, I could fall. I thought that if I didn't taste that kind of pain, I wouldn't even be able to believe I was alive.


That online drinking party was particularly cruel. What appeared on the screen was the unrecognizable present of the men who had once spent the same time with me. Their foreheads were receding, their cheeks were gaunt, their teeth were dull, and their smiles were stiff. Within the small rectangles, their respective exhaustion and deterioration stood out persistently.

Everyone had aged. Uglily, irrevocably. But the way they laughed, the way they poured drinks, the way they turned their stories—it was all just as it had been back then.

Nothing had changed. Nothing at all had grown. Seeing everyone wearing only worn-out skin, just barely surviving, I was terrified to my core.

In the corner of that video, there was my own figure, too. The gaze that had been mocking others was reflected right back at me. Blurred contours, lost expressions, eyes that reached nowhere. Still chasing a dream that wouldn't reach, tired of it, and only able to affirm myself by comforting that fatigue. That kind of self was there.

I finally knew that I was finished.
Finished, yet still moving.
I thought for the first time that that was the ugliest thing of all.

Only time flowed. The content of the conversation didn't remain. Only the noise of the screen and the hollow laughter remained in my ears. "I'll get yelled at by the wife soon," someone laughed from the other side of the screen. One after another, they left, leaving behind excuses for farewells, and logged out.

When I realized it, the only ones left were me and Sasaki. The man who had been the strongest at Go among our cohort. He had even won a small local tournament once. He, too, had aged. But only his gaze was somehow the same as it used to be.

"You're single, right?"

He said it abruptly. I didn't respond. I just couldn't find the words to reply.

"Me too. Since we're both single, why don't we drink in person?"

It sounded more like a notification than an invitation. I didn't resist those words. I even felt like I had been waiting for them somewhere in my heart. There is a perfect place to fall. That premonition was quietly seeping out from the depths of the screen.

Joshidai-koji. A foreign pocket that opened up in this city. It is an area like the waist of Nagoya, where Philippine pubs cluster with strange density, and even locals unconsciously steer clear. Under the state of emergency, while many streets turned off their lights, only this place retained its heat.

Originally, the provision of alcohol was supposed to end at 7:00 PM, and the shops were supposed to close at 8:00 PM. But in this neighborhood, the facade had long since peeled away. They weren't counting on cooperation money for shortened hours from the start. It was a place where people who believed in the weight of bundles of cash more than the words of the administration gathered. That was why the neon was breathing.

Following Sasaki's back, I stepped into Joshidai-koji after 10:00 PM. Both of us were wearing masks. Rather than infection control, it was like a silent dress code imposed on those walking through the ruins of the city.

There were few people, and only those who had given up on something loitered on the street. Men standing shoulder to shoulder, with the lower halves of their faces covered, called out in broken Japanese mixed with Tagalog.

"Philippine pub, how about it?"
"One hour, 3,000 yen."
"Just looking is OK. Lots of cute girls."

A trilled 'r' mixed into the Japanese, and even from under the damp cloth, I could tell their mouths were smiling. Behind that mask of a smile, it seemed as if a bottomless night was lurking.

"Oh, Sasaki-san, not alone today. That's rare."

A tout approached and lightly bumped fists with Sasaki. A rough intimacy. But in this day and age, no one asked for more than that.

"Once in a while. I've got a friend today, so we'll go free. Find us a cute one."

At Sasaki's words, the tout gave a thumbs up, saying leave it to him, and turned on his heel. Following that back, we climbed the stairs of the multi-tenant building.

The stairwell lighting flickered and seemed about to go out. The lukewarm darkness bounced off the yellowed walls. Cracked tiles creaked underfoot, and there was incomprehensible graffiti on the landing. In this paper-craft culture that cheaply imitated the back alleys of New York I had seen in magazines, there was no sense of the exotic or nostalgia, just a stuck-on emptiness.

"It's this shop."

The tout stopped in front of the door closest to the front on the third floor and jerked his chin. The door, which looked exactly like a run-down snack bar, had its wood-grain vinyl peeling off, and a cheap plastic nameplate had "MARIA" written in sloppy cursive.

"Customer, we've arrived!"

The tout slid his mask down to his chin and pulled the door open while raising his voice in an exaggerated, high-pitched tone. The moment it opened, what leaked out from inside was Hideaki Tokunaga's "Kowarekake no Radio." That sound, which should have disappeared from everywhere in the city by now, was still breathing here.

It's broken. This shop, myself, that customer singing karaoke, surely everyone is broken somewhere. But no one seemed ashamed of it. They were laughing, singing, and drinking while broken.

It wasn't that anything was funny, but laughter slipped through my lips. It wasn't that I tried to suppress it. It just leaked out naturally. How long had it been since I laughed? I couldn't even remember that.

There were five tables. Including us, there were three groups of customers. Middle-aged men in tired suits had their arms around the waists of the women next to them. The smell of perfume was strong. The smoke from cigarettes soaked into the depths of my smoldering heart.

"Welcome."

When I sat down on the sofa, a woman who looked like the mama appeared and placed wet towels and a drink menu down. She was smiling, but in the expression glimpsed through the gap in her mask, only the skeleton of friendliness remained. There was no hesitation in her movements, but she was somehow worn out.

When she left, I silently pointed at the menu and ordered a beer. A glass with foam was brought, and I exchanged a perfunctory toast with Sasaki. After the alcohol passed through my throat, I put my mask back on.

As if waiting for that moment, women appeared from the back. They lined up in a row. There were about ten of them. Not a single one was wearing a mask. The dresses with deeply opened chests were all primary colors, emitting a luster that contrasted with the color of their skin.

Under the heavy makeup, the faces were almost indistinguishable. The expressions, finished like masks, were like performers whose individuality had been diluted in advance, and it was like a signal for the stage curtain to rise.

Among them, there was one woman who held warmth in her eyes. She wasn't flashy. But I was strangely drawn to the height of her cheekbones and the shadows of her contours. Late twenties? Deep inside the heavy makeup, a faint innocence remained.

I silently pointed at that woman. She immediately approached and sat down next to me. And then, she smiled as brightly as she could.

"I'm Mai. Nice to meet you. I came from an island in the Philippines called Siquijor."

Her Japanese was clumsy, but her pronunciation was soft. When she smiled, her upper front teeth showed just a little.

"Is this your first time here?"

The dry scent of Listerine. A manufactured smile. High-pitched music. All of those things established this space in exchange for time without texture. Even if it had no meaning, to perform. That was the correctness of this shop.

I am in a place like this. Until a few months ago, this body was supposed to be standing on the Matterhorn. But now, I am buried in a cheap sofa. No, that is exactly why I am here. Nothing is left anymore. Because I am a self to be despised, I am here.

"That's right."

The voice through the mask was terribly dry. Mai stared at me for a moment, then gave a small, soft laugh.

"Hehe. You're serious. You're a good man."

Serious. It was a word I had been showered with along with mockery until now. Boring, inflexible, a man who doesn't get jokes. But now, that word touched my chest so carefully, so gently.

My heart surged. The woman I was supposed to meet on the Matterhorn suddenly crossed my mind. No matter how much loneliness I piled up, no matter how many nights I endured, I had protected only that person who was inside me. But now. With one word, one smile, I am wavering.

--Are you that kind of man?

Someone's voice came from the depths of my heart. Shame and disgust pooled dully around my stomach, creating heat in the depths of my chest. I had protected that shadow as a faith. I had secretly prayed in a place no one knew about for the day I would stand on the summit with her, the woman I was supposed to stand on that white mountain with.

And yet. Under this cheap lighting, I am leaning my heart toward the smile of a woman I don't know. Run away. Turn back. That voice was hazy somewhere far away. Yet my back is quietly continuing to sink into the cheap sofa.

"What will you sing? Do you like enka?"

It was an abrupt question. I said nothing, just shook my head. Mai narrowed her eyes and smiled, and puffed out her chest just a little. And then, with a prideful, childlike brightness, she said,

"Then, I will sing."

Saying that with an innocent smile, she operated the remote control. The intro poured out from the old speakers. It was Momoe Yamaguchi's "Manjushage." Confusion was born. Why would a young woman from a foreign country sing such an old song? Time twisted, and the scenery in my memory suddenly rose up.

The Matterhorn. That promise. That atmosphere. That light of melting snow. That moment when our breaths mingled. The hands we were supposed to have held are nowhere. And I realized. I am enjoying this feeling of drifting away right now.

The lyrics echoed inside me, melting my contours. Nameless, formless. I immersed myself in that feeling. Without resisting, without doubting, as if it were something that was meant to come. Eventually, when the song ended, Mai gently leaned her cheek against my shoulder.

"Warm."

That voice didn't come to my ear, but to somewhere deeper--the depths of my chest cavity, or the back of my memory. Like a spell crawled out from the depths of some distant, humid forest, or the bottom of a nameless cave.

This is business. Of course, I know that. That smile, that distance, that song, that body temperature, all of it is nothing more than a technique woven to live in this country.

But I had come to feel relief even in such artifice. The optimal solution for me, who has no way to live other than to sink. Bare desire carefully breaks the small bones of reason. Slowly, slowly. The flow of blood gently reverses, and Mai's words settle deep in my bones.

And I think.
This is fine.




By the time I returned to my room, it was past 1:00 AM. While brushing my teeth, I peered into the mirror. The moment I felt someone laugh behind it, my quiet smartphone vibrated. Mai's name floated up. Come to think of it, as I was leaving, she had whispered "Tell me your LINE" while acting shy, and I had handed over my smartphone without resisting.

"Wada-san, thank you for today. You're kind♡"

I read those words over and over again. A smoldering feeling rose within my chest. It was dark, wore a sweet scent, and seemed to light a quiet fire in the depths of my heart, and I got an erection that was painfully inappropriate for my age.

The next morning, before I even woke up, my hand reached for my smartphone. There, a message and a photo remained, still carrying the heat of the night. Mai is smiling with the karaoke stage in the background. She, who should have been right next to me just last night, has already begun to dwell inside the screen. That's how I felt.

From that day on, LINE messages from Mai began to arrive every night.

"What did you eat today?"
"Work is over now. Tired."
"Even when you're busy, you have to eat."
"It's raining. Take care of yourself."

Nothing special in the text. But it strangely stimulated my skin. Mai making a peace sign, Mai stuffing her cheeks with fried chicken, Mai trying to suppress a sleepy yawn in bed. All of them were harmless and innocent, and that was exactly why they were dangerous.

Every time the notification sound rang, the air in the room swayed slightly, and the angle of the light changed. I didn't open it immediately. After a few minutes, I peered at the screen with a casual air. I slid my finger with the utmost care not to leave a 'read' receipt, and quietly closed the screen.

I didn't reply. I never move on my own. That passivity was intended as self-respect, and it was also like a ritual.




Before I knew it, I was going to MARIA two or three times a week. It was no longer even certain whether I was going of my own will. The fact that Mai was there—only that fact guided my feet.

At some point, I stopped wearing a mask inside this shop. Even though I wore it until the moment I entered, as soon as I passed through the door, it became natural to take it off. No one forced me to. I just knew somewhere that doing so was correct in this space.

I put my mouth to the glass and pour down the cold beer. Ice clinks in the empty glass, and new alcohol is poured again. That repetition quietly dampens the night. I no longer have any memory of what kind of conversation we had. Only Mai's silhouette flickering through the glass soaked into my depths every night.

One such night, Mai suddenly whispered.

"Next time, my birthday... will you come?"

I answered "Okay" almost reflexively. There was no hesitation. No, had the function of hesitating broken somewhere? I don't need a reason. Because my existence is only to be reflected in Mai's eyes.

As I was leaving, Mai hugged my back. Arms wrapped around my neck. A soft body temperature. And then, her lips gently touched my lips. At that moment, I heard the sound of something collapsing deep in my chest. I was happy.




On the day of her birthday. The moment I opened the door to MARIA, the heat-laden karaoke sound and humid air hit my skin. Gold and silver balloons hanging from the ceiling. Posters of Mai with a smile are pasted on every wall.

On the center stage, Mai is wearing a red dress. Heavily drawn eyeliner, curled hair, a smile illuminated by the stage lights.

"Wada-san!"

Her figure waving her hand even looked somewhat mask-like. I was shown to a seat near the entrance against the wall. A dimly lit sofa seat. Eventually, Mai sat down next to me and said in a whisper,

"Thanks for coming. I'm happy!"

If you only took the voice, it was the same as her usual self. But her gaze was fixed on the champagne tower set in the center of the shop. Glasses built to compete in height. A celebratory tower of 25,000 yen per bottle. The whole shop was watching as if praying for Mai to stand next to it.

"There's a champagne tower after this, so please."

I felt like I saw something like a soft thread in the depths of Mai's voice as she whispered that. A spider's thread that quietly binds the heart. And then, at that moment. The mama raised her voice. At a volume perfect enough to reach me.

"Mai-chan, that customer over there says he'll put in another bottle of champagne."

When I turned around, there was a man dressed in a black-shining suit. A perfectly groomed side part. From his cuffs, a watch embedded with diamonds reflected the shop's light. He was staring at Mai with an expressionless face. It was the eyes of someone who had surrendered his heart.

Mai smiled and said "Sorry," and moved to the man's side without even showing a hint of hesitation. She intertwined her thin arms, leaned her shoulder, and whispered sweetly in his ear. That gesture was nothing like the woman who had been next to me until just a moment ago, it was smoother, and more deeply lustrous. As if that were her true form.

Eventually, the lights went down, and a spotlight traced her body. Mai blowing out the candle flame. I felt like that breath melted into the air and slightly changed the density of the air. Bubbles are poured into the tower of glasses.

Cheers, applause, glittering smiles. She was at the center of all of it. She showered many smiles and blew kisses repeatedly. Everyone in the shop thought that smile was their own.

That was when it happened. She muttered with a distant look in her eyes. Basara, basara, marigina. That's what it sounded like. I didn't understand the meaning. But for some reason, the sound of it remained in the back of my ears like a thorn. Was it a celebratory word, or a prayer? It was a sound that seemed to well up from the bottom of her.

When I started to get ready to leave, Mai suddenly ran up to me. "Thank you, Wada-san. I won't forget today." Saying that, she gently kissed my cheek.

Her lips that night were neither cold nor warm. Only something like a damp shadow remained on my skin. I smiled and nodded. But at that moment, I had already understood.

I was not special.
Even so, I wanted to be special.

On the way home, I felt a faint misalignment deep in my body. A sensation as if one of my vertebrae had become distorted. It was a very subtle discomfort, like a small foreign object being caught between my bones.

It was around that time that I became abnormally thirsty. No matter how much water I drank, the dryness wouldn't be healed, and I would wake up many times in the middle of the night. A feeling of suffocation as if sand had been stuffed into the back of my throat. I feel like the color of my skin has become slightly whiter. The tips of my nails, my earlobes, the corners of my whites. I can clearly see through the mirror that my blood circulation is getting worse.

Is it from drinking too much? Or... no, what does that matter? Even if this body is being whittled away little by little, if my shadow remains somewhere in her memory. That price was, rather, a sweet blessing.

Again today, a LINE message arrives from Mai. Following the usual ritual, I open LINE.

"Wada-san, are you busy?"

I didn't know how to reply. My finger remained motionless on the smartphone. While I was hesitating, the next message flowed in.

"There's a consultation only you can do, Wada-san. It's fine whenever, come to the shop."

Only you, Wada-san. Those words knocked on the depths of my chest. I know. That there is no reason I would be special. However, every time I re-read this sentence, my heart leaned forward just a little. On that day, I set foot in MARIA.

When I opened the door to the shop, there was no smile on Mai's face. There was no strength in her voice at all.

"Mama collapsed. Her heart is bad. She needs surgery. But, there's no money."

Muttering that, Mai lowered her eyes. She said her mother, who lives on Siquijor Island, needs to have heart surgery. The name of the disease was left vague, but Mai muttered "She can't breathe well," and connected her words haltingly.



Mama is a mambabarang.
Do you know what a mambabarang is?

A shaman. A sorcerer.
But, Mama isn't a person who heals.
A person who curses.

My island is called the island of magic.
On the island, there are people who pray when night comes.
Rubbing their bodies with leaves, casting spells on oil,
you can hear the sound of a black chicken's neck snapping.

My mama was very strong.
The village people, everyone didn't look at Mama's eyes.
Even if they met on the road, they would look down and say nothing.
Papa too, when he heard Mama's voice, he would immediately go silent.

When I was 7, I woke up in the morning and Papa was gone.
No one knows where he went.
Mama, that person was weak, that's all.

Mama's work, when I was a child, I often saw it.
A man in the village lied to Mama.
He borrowed money and didn't return it.
But that person was an important person in the barangay, so
no one could complain.

At night, Mama was closing her eyes in a room that smelled strange.
She held a black chicken and twisted its neck.
Blood spread on the banana leaf.
And Mama said.

Sinti ka balara…
Aran ka nunawa…
Daligin, daligin, makuna’a…
Sabalin na munti…
Gawari el tahu…
Isra, isra… matakin wala…

The next day, that man collapsed with foam coming out of his mouth.
His eyes were pure white.
He stopped moving immediately, and everyone went silent.

The village people stopped coming near my house.
Because they didn't know what would happen if Mama got angry.

But, that Mama, she was worried.
Someday, I think I will receive a curse too.
Someday, that power will bounce back to me.

When I get old and my power gets weak,
at that time, I will surely receive a curse.
My heart will stop.

I know.
Mama's illness is really dangerous.
So Wada-san, please help me.



I heard the sound of something coming loose in the back of my ears. It was the sound of metal claws falling. At the same time, cold water is poured into the depths of my chest. The back of my heart is going numb, bit by bit. My fingertips are moving in a way different from my own will. Someone is crawling inside my skin.

I love this woman.
At that moment, I clearly heard my own voice.

"How much do you need?"

I ask in a calm voice, like talking to a stranger at a post office counter.

"1 million..."

Mai opened her mouth hesitantly, and in an instant, my body raised its temperature. Inside me, something nodded. It wasn't reason. It was no longer even thought. I just thought it wasn't a bad way to use 1 million yen. Whether it was correct or not didn't matter.

"Okay."

Telling her that, the next day at 3:00 PM, I met Mai in the lobby on the first floor of the Naka Ward Office. It was to send the money through an underground route specializing in the Philippines.

The two of us go south down Buheicho-dori. We turn left at the second corner, and while glancing at the boat race ticket shop, we enter a dull multi-tenant building. When we go down the narrow stairs, the destination was there.

A small room with no windows and a low ceiling. A Philippine flag is displayed on the wall. A man who is expressionless as if stuck in place holds out his hand without saying anything. I place the envelope in the man's palm. As if it were the beginning of a ritual.

The man cuts the seal, takes out the bundles of bills casually, and runs them through a bill counter. Heat, words, emotions, none of them are there. Finally, the man nods just once and hands a handwritten scrap of paper to Mai. Thus, the remittance ended.

After leaving the underground bank, we naturally started walking side by side. When I was about to say "How about some tea?", Mai took my hand first. It was a light, but unwavering strength.

Down the slope of Buhei-dori, to the south. Around where the Komeda sign came into view, she suddenly quickened her pace. Without even looking back at me, she looked straight ahead and pulled me along. At the next intersection, beyond the traffic light, the sign for a love hotel floated up.

I looked at Mai.
Mai looked at me.

In that instant, the world is sucked entirely into her eyes.
My own contours also melt and disappear into those eyes.

A moment of happiness bought for 1 million yen. Whether that was love, or whether that was also part of the business, there is no way to verify. I don't even want to verify it. The only truth for me is Mai's words and the sweet body temperature Mai emitted. I don't need anything more than that.

On the fluffy way home, my smartphone vibrates.

"Wada-san, you're really kind. Thank you. I love you♡"

Thank you, Mai.
I am happy.

Mai smiles.
"Wada-san, you're kind."
That smile is burned into the back of my retina and won't leave.

Mai touches my hand with her fingertips.
"Thank you for today too."
With just that, my chest is filled.

When I think of Mai, the world melts softly.
Emptiness, aging, the past, the future, everything.

I take out my smartphone and write a message to Mai.
With fingertips that are heating up, yet strangely calm.



The time I spend talking to Mai is the light of my life.
The dream of the Matterhorn let me meet Mai.
Please, don't forget me.
I will be looking only at Mai for the rest of my life.
I will dedicate my everything and serve Mai.
Will you look only at me too, Mai?



Usually, I would have hesitated to send it after finishing writing. But that night, I just naturally pressed the send button. As if tracing a decided procedure. My heart was strangely quiet. Because there was a sweet, satisfied feeling in the depths of my chest.

The reply arrived just before the date changed. The smartphone vibrated slightly, and I opened the screen. There, there was a single line of text.

"It's okay. Because I did exactly as Mama said."

There, the notebook picked up from the abandoned room ended.

It wasn't that there were torn pages, it just ended abruptly. No matter how much I flipped through it, there were no traces of anyone having touched it. Yet, I couldn't close the page.

The sound of my own breathing sounds strangely loud. The area around my chest is strangely heavy. The chilling sensation from the moment I found the notebook in that lonely room crawls up from under my skin.

Come to think of it, recently, a dull pain in my stomach has been continuing. Since yesterday, my body has been heavy, and the alcohol is still lingering. The discomfort as if something is stuck to my back won't go away. I thought it was my imagination, but I guess that means excuses won't work anymore.

I had been absorbed in reading the notebook, and the chair I had been leaning on creaked. With that sound, reality finally returns. The dim room of "someone," the teacup rolling on the desk. The smile of a woman drifting like a lingering scent.

At that moment, my smartphone vibrated.
I reach out unconsciously and peer at the screen.
The dark-skinned face of the sender is staring at me.
Her words floated up to my ears, so I shake my head.

There is no hesitation.
I move my finger a little and choose block.

But, I know.
I can't go back anymore.
It has already begun.