Beneath the Earth Read Free Page A

return home.
    Don’t you like Japan, I asked her. No, she told me. It took me years to escape. I’m never going back. But what will you do, I asked her. What I am doing, she said. I can waitress for a year or two, save some money, then move somewhere else. Anywhere that isn’t Japan.
    The third time we went out, she took me to the beach in Killiney. I’d never been before but she came regularly. She knew a family who lived nearby and twice a week she would take their dogs for a long walk. Why can’t they walk their dogs themselves, I asked her. They’re too busy, she said. Besides, it’s easy money for me. We called on the family and for a moment I thought I recognized the man who opened the door but I was wrong. I‘d never seen him before. He seemed pleased that Hamako had a boyfriend, even though I was not her boyfriend. He asked me many intimate questions about my family life and my studies at the university. His wife forced me to eat a slice of shop-bought cake and drink a cup of herbal tea that tasted like flowers. Their house was decorated with Japanese art and furniture. There were ink paintings on the walls featuring women in black and white kimonos, their hair held up with combs and pins, and a woodblock print of two kabuki actors performing before an audience of skeletons. Hamako didn’t seem to want to leave, nor did she show any interest in taking the dogs for a walk.
    Have you heard Hamako play the piano, the man asked me, and I shook my head. Oh no, don’t ask me to, said Hamako in the kind of voice that made me realize that this was one of the reasons we were still here. Ask her to play, the man said to me. She can play if she wants to, I said. I’ll play, said Hamako quickly, and she sat down before it, raised the lid and did some finger exercises in the air before starting. She was adequate, nothing more, but the man and woman applauded enthusiastically at the end. Isn’t she wonderful, they asked me. They watched her as if she was their own child. She could do no wrong. I looked around and saw that there were no pictures of children to be seen anywhere. They asked me whether I could play a musical instrument and I shook my head. They asked if I could visit any city in the world, which one would I choose. I stopped talking. Another hour passed. I was invited to stay for dinner. I stood up and left.
    When I returned home, I found a message waiting for me on my voicemail from Hamako telling me that she had never been so embarrassed in her life, that she had brought me to meet people who were important to her and I had behaved abominably. She said she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see me again and that she would have to give it serious thought. She told me not to contact her again, that if she wanted to talk to me then she would be in touch. I deleted the message. She texted a few hours later in an advanced state of outrage and once again told me not to contact her. I deleted the message. When I woke the next morning, there were two messages, both quite abusive, and a third arrived during the day. I threw away the SIM card and bought a new one. It wasn’t my work phone so it didn’t matter and very few people had the number. Only my former social workers, who called me occasionally, and I informed them of the change.
    I stopped frequenting Hamako’s café and months later, when I thought enough time had passed that I could eat there again, she was nowhere to be seen. I asked what had become of her but the waitress who served me didn’t know. Perhaps she had gone travelling after all. Or perhaps she’d returned to Japan.
    Sometimes men phone, then hang up. Ten minutes pass, then they phone again. Their confidence has built up. Maybe they’ve written down what they’re going to say. I saw your profile online, they tell me. Are you available tonight? What time are you thinking of, I ask. As soon as you can make it, they say. They