He didn't notice when he stopped counting the strikes. At first it was important, twenty, thirty, fifty absorbed to the body while learning to dodge. Then he lost count. His body remembered differently, not with numbers, but with dull sounds. The crunch of his own nasal septum. The hiss when ligaments tear in the wrist. The silence after knocking out a man who had just called you a faggot and spat in your direction. At first he moved up through the rankings. When Genzo was fifteen, he was A-rank, then B-rank, and at sixteen he was already C-rank. The fighting classes are structured exactly like that.
After that particular fight where he broke the jaw of a big guy with a tattoo, Genzo earned fifty thousand yen. It seemed like the cosmos to him. He bought new wraps, a tub of protein, and gave half to Pardon for driving him to training. Pardon said then, You look like a man trying to swim across an ocean in a bathtub. Genzo didn't understand, but he laughed.
Then there were dozens of fights. Underground venues. Abandoned warehouses that smelled of urine and iron. Fights for ten thousand, for twenty, for a case of beer, the latter when he just wanted to check if anything alive was still left inside him. He bent metal pipes with his bare hands, twisted frying pans into spirals, and when he and Pardon went to a friend farmer's ranch, Genzo lifted a bull. Not completely, of course, he lifted the front legs off the ground and held it for a minute while the bull mooed and rolled its eyes. Pardon filmed it on his phone and would rewatch that video at night when he couldn't sleep.
It was early autumn. The leaves hadn't yellowed yet, but the air had become transparent, like water in a mountain stream. Pardon said, Let's go, I want to show you something. Genzo didn't ask what exactly.
They drove in an old Honda that Pardon had bought from his acquaintance for thirty thousand yen. The car sputtered and coughed, but it ran. The windows were open, the wind tousled their hair, and it smelled of fields, dry grass, dust, and freedom.
The farm was an hour's drive from the city. The road wound between hills, and when they finally stopped, Genzo saw an endless field, a cattle pen, and an old barn whose roof was rusted through.
- We're here, Pardon said, climbing out of the car. Pardon stretched, his spine cracking. My friend lives here. Tanaka-san. He's letting us train.
- Train? Genzo asked. At a farm?
- What did you think? Pardon smirked. You've already done everything in the gym. Time to go outdoors. Nature is the best trainer.
An old man came out of the barn. Short, stocky, with a weathered face like a baked apple. He wore an old blue jacket and rubber boots caked with manure. He looked at Genzo, long and intently, then shifted his gaze to Pardon.
- Is this the one? the old man asked. His voice was creaky, like an unoiled door.
- The one, Pardon answered.
- Too skinny.
- He's powerful. And seventy-seven kilograms isn't that skinny.
- Strong doesn't mean big, Tanaka-san said. But apparently not in this case. He walked up to Genzo, poked him in the chest with his finger. Hard, without warning. The muscles are there. But the spirit?
- The spirit is there too, Genzo answered.
- We'll see.
Tanaka-san turned and walked toward the pen. They followed him.
In the pen stood a bull.
Enormous. Old. With black hide glistening in the sun, and horns that could pierce a car. He chewed his cud and looked at them without interest, the way a king looks at beggars who have come to ask for alms.
- His name is Kuro, Tanaka-san said. He's twelve years old. He weighs over a ton.
- Handsome, Genzo said.
-тHe killed a man two years ago, Tanaka-san added. By accident. Just butted him. The man didn't get up.
Pardon looked at Genzo. Genzo looked at the bull.
- And what am I supposed to do with him? Genzo asked.
- Lift him, Pardon said.
- Are you serious?
- Absolutely.
Genzo laughed. Then he realized Pardon wasn't laughing.
- You're crazy, Genzo said.
- Possibly, Pardon agreed. But it's worth a try. If you can lift a bull, you can lift anything. If not, you'll find your limit. And knowing your limit is useful. If only to step past it later.
Genzo walked up to the bull.
Kuro didn't even move. Genzo wrapped his arms around its torso. The hide was warm, rough, with muscles rolling underneath, whole mountains of flesh and power.
- Come on, Pardon said. Show what you can do.
Genzo inhaled. Deeply. Held his breath. And pulled.
At first nothing happened. Genzo's feet slipped on the ground. Then Genzo lowered himself a bit more, dug his heels into the earth, tensed his back, his legs, his abs.
- Come on, Pardon shouted. Come on, Genzo!
Genzo exhaled. The bull lifted off the ground. About ten or fifteen centimeters. He felt its weight, that whole ton of muscle, bone, blood. After a few seconds, he fully lifted the bull.
- Put him down, Tanaka-san shouted. Put him down, you'll get yourself killed.
Genzo lowered the bull. Kuro snorted and moved to the corner of the pen.
- You're... insane, Genzo exhaled.
- Heard that already. Get up. We've only just started.
Next came pipes. Metal ones. Rusty.
- Bend them, Pardon said.
Genzo took a pipe. Tried to bend it, didn't work.
- Did you think it would be easy? Pardon sat on a log and lit a cigarette. Strength is a habit. You have to get used to the fact that your body can do more than you think.
Genzo tried again. And again. The pipe bent. Then came frying pans. Genzo twisted a cast iron frying pan into a spiral. Tanaka-san, the farm owner, just grunted and put it in a box.
Then came a post. An iron post sunk into the ground some twenty years ago. Genzo wrapped his arms around it, braced his legs, and pulled. The earth didn't want to let go of the post. But Genzo was stronger. The post came out of the ground with a wet crunch, and Genzo fell onto his back, holding it in his hands.
Pardon walked over and looked down at Genzo.
- Beast, Pardon said.
- Is that a compliment? Genzo asked.
- Of course.
There on the farm, Genzo saw an iron post driven into the ground up to its head. He said, What about this one? Pardon shrugged. Genzo wrapped his arms around it, pulled once, twice, three times, and tore it out with a chunk of frozen earth. The roots of the grass hung down like gray hair. Pardon didn't clap. He was silent for a long time, then said, You're now stronger than necessary. Stronger than needed for happiness.
Genzo didn't understand then. Now he was starting to.
Evening.
He comes to a bar. An ordinary bar on the outskirts, where they don't ask for ID, and the barmaid, a young girl with an eyebrow piercing, pours honestly and doesn't pry into your soul. Genzo sits at a table by the window. Outside the window is March slush, a streetlight flickers like an asthmatic. He feels every bone in his body, they ache with the weather, like old men.
- What will you have? the barmaid asks. Her voice is calm, tired.
- A mug of beer, Genzo rubs the bridge of his nose. And some sunflower seeds.
She smiles. Not mockingly, warmly, as if she recognized something familiar. She nods and leaves.
Genzo looks at his hands. Palms calloused, knuckles busted, two black nails, echoes of old fractures. He thinks, what am I even doing here? There is no answer. And that, probably, is the main problem.
He doesn't notice the group of people approaching his table. Three guys and two girls. The guys are buff, with necks like cans of stew. The girls have fake eyelashes and a look that says, We're the ones in charge here. They form a semicircle. The leader, bald with a silver chain, leans his hand on the back of Genzo's chair.
- Hey, listen, aren't you the guy who broke up a crowd at the market last week? he asks with a slight smirk.
Genzo is silent. Drinks his beer.
- I'm talking to you, Jap, his voice hardens. What, are you deaf?
The girls giggle. One of them, with blue hair, says, Look, he won't even turn around. He must be scared.
Genzo looks into his mug. The same thing runs through his head, he's heard it hundreds of times. Jap. Eat your chopsticks. Always the same thing. The same insults, the same poses, the same stupidity in their eyes. People seem incapable of inventing anything new. Their pain is stereotypical. Their anger is like a cheap recipe: take misunderstanding, mix with fear, add three spoons of herd instinct. And voila, here's the hero who puts the outsider in his place.
- What, cat got your tongue? the bald man shoves his chair. I'm talking to you.
Everyone always repeats the same thing.
Genzo slowly puts down his mug. Looks at his fingers. Remembers how his mother used to give water to his friends when he was a child. They would come over to play, in summer, in the heat, with skinned knees. His mother would always smile, pour plain water from a pitcher into glasses, sometimes with lemon. The friends would drink, say thank you, wipe their mouths on their sleeves. And they would leave. Everyone would leave. And Genzo would stay home. His mother would sit beside him, put her arm around his shoulders, and say nothing. And that silence was like a gift from God.
He tries to remember the taste of that childhood. He can't. He knows it existed, a sweetish, slightly anxious taste, smelling of his mother's handkerchief and sunbeams on the floor. But there is no taste. His tongue doesn't remember. Instead, he remembers the taste of blood. His own. Others'. That taste that fills your mouth after a split lip, salty, hot, metallic. That he remembers perfectly.
And that probably means something.
- I'm telling you for the last time, the bald man leans close to his ear, spraying saliva. Get out of here while you're still in one piece.
Genzo closes his eyes. He thinks, what if I don't endure? What if I'm not an endurance person? He repeats this thought before every fight. And every time afterward he regrets it. But right now, right now he doesn't feel sorry.
He stands up. Slowly, like an old cloud rising before a storm. He smiles. Not the smile that makes people happier. But the kind that makes the bald man's eye twitch.
- Well, Genzo says quietly. Let's go.
What follows is a blur. He doesn't remember the sequence of strikes. He only remembers the color, red mixed with the yellow light of the bar. He spins a kick with his leg, a technique taught to him by a master, a friend of his father's, and the first guy flies into the tequila display. The bald man pulls a bat from under his jacket, but Genzo catches it with his forearm, a crunch? no, bearable, and knees him in the solar plexus. The girls shriek. The second one tries to come from behind, but Genzo feels the movement with the back of his head, he's learned to feel it by now. He ducks, grapple, hip throw. The opponent's head meets the floor with an unpleasant wet sound.
The bat gets him anyway. Once, across the back. Genzo hears his vertebrae crack. Not break, crack. The pain is so intense that his vision goes dark for a second. He bites his lip, feels the finger on his right hand bend into an unnatural position. He breaks it back into place with a dry jerk, like a twig. And keeps hitting.
When it's over, Genzo stands in the middle of the wrecked bar. He is covered in blood. Others', his own, impossible to tell. The floor is littered with shards and sunflower seeds. The barmaid stares from behind the counter with wide eyes, but she's silent, she has the sense not to interfere.
He wipes his face on the hem of his shirt. Pulls out his wallet. Lays five thousand yen on the counter, for the beer, for the wreckage, for her fright. He leaves the change too. He doesn't look back.
He steps out into the cold air. Night. The streetlight still flickers. Genzo walks home. With each step, the pain in his back grows brighter, more voluminous, as if someone inside is turning on light bulbs one by one. He doesn't know that only an empty bed and a dusty floor lamp await him at home. He knows something else, that he can't go on like this anymore.
He doesn't wake up all at once. Consciousness returns in pieces: first sound, the ticking of the clock on the wall. Then smell, cheap laundry detergent and dry plaster. Then pain, sharp, specific, in both legs.
Genzo opens his eyes. The ceiling is white, with a crack in the corner. He is lying in his room, but something is wrong. He turns his head, his legs are in casts. Both. From hips to ankles.
Not all the memories come back, but enough. Yesterday. The bar. The fight. Then darkness. And then? Then he apparently fell down the stairs. Or he was pushed. Or he stumbled on his own, drunk, full of adrenaline, with a broken back. It doesn't matter. What matters is that his legs are broken. And that today isn't February.
He looks out the window. Snow is melting outside, streams are running, and the sun shines in a springlike way, white and insolent. So he has been lying here for a month. Or a month and a half. Who found him? He doesn't remember. Maybe the landlady. Maybe one of the neighbors. Or no one, and he just survived on his own.
The door creaks. Pardon enters. He looks different, his usual stupid smile is gone. He is carrying a bag. He puts it on the nightstand, takes out mandarins. He places them slowly, one by one, orange circles on the gray surface.
- Hello, Pardon says quietly.
- Hello, Genzo's voice is dry as an old newspaper.
Pardon sits on the edge of the bed. Says nothing. For a long time. Then he says:
- You know, I always knew you weren't made of iron. But I thought you were at least durable.
Genzo snorts. Looks at the mandarins. The orange is so vivid it hurts his eyes.
- Pardon. I'm not going to fight anymore.
Pardon doesn't seem surprised. He nods, as if he had been waiting for these words since the very first day.
- Why?
- Because it's pointless. I don't know what I'm doing it for. At first I thought for money. Then, for strength. Then to prove something. To whom? To my mother who isn't here? To my father who is in another country? To myself, who has been lying to himself for six years now? Genzo pauses. Catches his breath. No. There's no courage at all. There is no courage. There's only me. And the cosmos. And the cosmos couldn't care less whether I broke someone's jaw or not.
Pardon looks at the floor for a long time. Then he puts his hand on Genzo's cast, gently, as if on a wounded animal.
- You know, he says. My grandfather used to say, Courage isn't when you're not afraid. It's when you're afraid but you do it because someone else is even more afraid. But you're right. In your case... in your case there is no someone else. You're alone. You've always been alone.
- Not always. There was Renji.
- There was, Pardon agrees. But Renji is the past. Childhood. And you, Genzo... have you even forgotten the taste of childhood?
Genzo closes his eyes. He doesn't answer for a long time. When he opens them, they are moist, but there are no tears. He has forgotten how to cry.
- I forgot it. I remember that it existed. I remember how Mom gave water to my friends. I remember her smile. I remember how they left, and she stayed with me. But the taste? My tongue won't turn. I don't remember that childhood anymore.
Pardon sighs. Touches his shoulder.
- But I remember the taste of my childhood. Grass. Apples we stole from the neighbor. And milk straight from under the cow, warm, with cream on top. Do you want me to bring you milk like that?
- No need. It won't be the same.
- Why not?
- Because you can't bring the past into the present. It will always be a fake.
They are silent. For a long time. So long that they can hear the dripping from the roof outside. Spring. Genzo looks at his hands. His fingers are wrapped in bandages, one in a splint.
- Pardon, he finally says. You can take all the money I have left. There's thirty-three thousand. Scrape together some more, and go to the USA. Like we wanted.
Pardon freezes. Asks again:
- Are you serious? You're joking, right?
- Unquestionably.
Pardon does something Genzo has only seen a couple of times in their entire acquaintance. He jumps up awkwardly, almost knocking over the nightstand with the mandarins, then throws himself around Genzo's neck. He hugs him so tightly that his vertebrae crack.
- Who's my boy! Who's my boy, dude! You're the best! I'll never forget you!
Genzo winces, it hurts, but he endures it. Smiles with the corners of his lips.
- Oh, come on. Enough. That tickles.
- It's supposed to tickle! This is a million-dollar hug!
- More like thirty-three thousand yen, Genzo corrects him. But okay. Hug me.
Pardon pulls back, wipes his eyes, he's not crying, of course, he's just allergic to spring, to happiness, to the fact that his friend said yes.
- Listen, Pardon says more seriously. What about you? What will you do?
- I'm going back to Japan. With my mother. To my father. To Renji. I promised, after all.
- And your legs?
- They'll heal. There are hospitals in Tokyo too. I'll lie there until the casts come off. A small room, a view of a wall. And I'll think.
- About what?
- About what freedom from moral principles means. You know, Pardon, I fought a lot. And every time I thought I was free. No rules, no referees, no limits. But then I realized, fighting is the greatest unfreedom. Because you become dependent on the person in front of you. On his fist, his anger, his fear. True freedom is when you don't have to prove anything to anyone. Not even to yourself.
Pardon nods slowly, as if absorbing every word.
- And the fighting? Was it meaningless?
- No, Genzo looks at the ceiling. It was necessary. To understand that it's meaningless. Like a child touching a hot stove. You can't explain to him that it hurts. He has to burn himself. I got burned. Now I know.
- And you don't regret it?
- I don't regret it. Regret is also a cage.
Pardon places a mandarin in his hand. Genzo peels it slowly, without looking. His fingers remember, pulling off the skin in strips, from bottom to top. He breaks off a segment, puts it in his mouth. There is a taste. Sour-sweet, alive. But not that one. Not the childhood taste.
- Someday everything will be fine, Genzo says. You in the USA. Me in Japan. We'll get old and remember how I tore a post out of the ground.
- I'll remember how you broke your finger and kept hitting, Pardon laughs. That was epic.
- That was stupid.
- Maybe. But epically stupid.
They chat for a long time. About freedom, about courage, about whether there is any meaning in pain. Genzo says there is no meaning, only choice. Pardon argues that choice itself is meaning. They don't reach an agreement. And that's how it should be.
In Tokyo, in a small hospital room with a view of a gray wall, Renji sits on the edge of the bed and looks at his phone. The screen is dark. For the hundredth time, he opens the chat with Genzo. The last message is from November: Hang in there. I'll be back soon.
Aya puts her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers are warm, but he barely feels them.
- Renji, you have to eat. You haven't eaten in three days.
- I don't want to.
- But you can't go on like this. He'll come back, and you'll look like a skeleton.
Renji lifts his head. His eyes are red, swollen. He squeezes the phone so hard the plastic cracks.
- Tell me, Aya. Who is more precious, a girlfriend or a friend? Literally.
Aya is silent. She's a smart girl, so she doesn't answer right away. She thinks. Searches for the right words that won't hurt.
- It depends, she says cautiously. A friend is someone you choose yourself. A girlfriend is someone who chooses you. Different things.
- Genzo chose me. And me? Did I choose him? Renji covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake. I wasn't even there when he was suffering. I'm here, in this goddamn cleanliness, drinking tea with cookies. And he was lying on the ground, and no one came.
- He made that choice himself. He's strong.
- He's not strong, Renji almost shouts, then lowers his voice to a whisper. He just knows how to endure. That's not strength. That's a habit.
Aya hugs him. Renji doesn't cry, he whines like a dog left at the train station. He remembers how he and Genzo ate noodles at three in the morning, how they broke a window at school, how Genzo said, Don't be afraid, I'll watch your back. And now he can't even watch his own back.
- Idiot, Renji whispers into her shoulder. You promised you'd come back. Why aren't you coming back?
The phone in his hand beeps. Renji jumps, looks at the screen. A new message from an unknown number. A photo: Pardon hugging Genzo in his casts, both laughing. The caption: Alive. Will be in Tokyo soon. Feed him mandarins.
Renji exhales. For the first time in many days.
- Aya, he says, still sniffling. Would you mind if we bought ten kilograms of mandarins?
Aya smiles.
- Fifteen.
- Deal.
They leave the room. Outside the window it's spring. And Genzo, wherever he is, feels that warmth, not with his legs, not with his casts, not with his broken fingers. But with something else. Something that has no name. Something stronger than any fight.