(2005) In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami

thing.
    “I’ve been told I’m a very unusual case,” he said. “Normally you stop making new brain cells after a certain age, whereas the liver for example—or was it the stomach?—one of them makes millions of new cells every day, same with the skin, but the brain, after you’ve reached adulthood, all it does is lose cells. My doctor, however, says that in my case the brain may be creating new cells to replace the part that was cut out, which would mean that inside my head I have old cells and new ones mixing together. I think that’s why mymemory gets so hazy sometimes, and my motor functions get all fouled up. I mean, that could explain it, don’t you think, Kenji?”
    On TV they took a break from the schoolgirl murder and moved on to some news flashes. The first headline nearly made me spit out my last mouthful of noodles: HOMELESS MAN FOUND TORCHED TO DEATH .
    “In other news, an unidentified body, burned beyond recognition, was found in a pay toilet in Shinjuku Central Park this morning. Discovered by city sanitation workers, the victim appeared to have been doused with a flammable substance and set on fire. The intensity of the fire was such that the concrete inner walls of the restroom were scorched and blackened, according to police. They are investigating the incident as a possible homicide. From the victim’s presumed belongings, which were piled in old shopping bags outside the restroom, he is believed to have been one of the homeless men who inhabit the park. Next, reporting from just outside the Japanese embassy in Lima, Peru, where the hostage crisis continues . . .”
    The noodles in my mouth had turned to yarn. It was as if Frank’s face had suddenly loomed up before my eyes.
    “What’s wrong?” Jun leaned forward and peered at me.
    I swallowed with effort, then stood up, got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, and took a drink. I felt sick to my stomach.
    “You’re all pale.”
    Jun came over next to me and rubbed my back. I could feel her soft, girlish hand through my sweater. Imagine, I thought. Imagine not even being able to feel something like this.
    “That gaijin again?”
    “His name’s Frank.”
    “Right. Frank. It’s so common it’s hard to remember.”
    “Yeah, well, it may not even be his real name.”
    “You think it’s a whatchamacallit? An alias?”
    I told her all the things Frank had said about homeless people the night before.
    “But, wait a minute,” Jun said when I was done. “If the gaijin—sorry—if Frank says there might be people who would see a smelly homeless man and want to cuddle up to him but look at a baby and want to kill it . . .”
    “When it comes to this guy, it’s not about making sense. I get the feeling you can’t believe anything he says anyway—except for the hateful stuff.”
    “So you think he killed the homeless man?”
    It was hard to explain why, exactly. I had no proof, and Jun had never met Frank. You couldn’t understand what was so disturbing about him without meeting him.
    “Kenji, why not cancel the job?”
    Cancel on Frank? The thought literally gave me goosebumps.
    “I can’t do that,” I said.
    “Why? You think he might kill you?”
    Jun was really beginning to worry. She could sense how scared I was. She probably pictured Frank as the sort of psychopath Mafia killer you see in movies. But Frank was no hit man. Hit men murder people for a fee. If Frank was a murderer, I was pretty sure he wasn’t just in it for the money.
    “I doubt if I can explain this very well. I can’t prove he’s done anything, and normally it wouldn’t even occur to me that he might have. The homeless guy who got killed—I don’t know that he’s the same guy we saw at the batting center. And I don’t see any point in going back there to check, because I have a feeling that to somebody like Frank, one bum would be as good as another.”
    “I’m not really following you.”
    “I know,” I sighed. “I think I’m starting