Kappa Quartet

  PRAISE FOR

  KAPPA QUARTET

  “Located somewhere between the shattered filmic worlds of David Lynch and Satoshi Kon’s apocalyptic anime, Yam’s narrative hypnotises us into questioning our reality in ways that are terrifying, revelatory and fundamentally profound.”

  — Cyril Wong, award-winning author of Ten Things My Father Never Taught Me

  “Irreal and intricate, Daryl Yam’s riveting debut teases the perimeters of what a Singaporean novel can be.”

  — Amanda Lee Koe, author of Ministry of Moral Panic (2014 Singapore Literature Prize, English Fiction)

  “Kappa Quartet builds on the promise of Daryl Yam’s short stories, and confirms that he is an author to watch. And read!”

  — David Peace, Granta Best Young British Novelist and author of Tokyo Year Zero

  Copyright © 2016 by Daryl Qilin Yam

  Author photo by Sherry Zheng. Used with permission.

  Cover illustration and design by Allan Siew

  All rights reserved

  Published in Singapore by Epigram Books

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  Published with the support of

  NATIONAL LIBRARY BOARD, SINGAPORE CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  NAME: Yam, Daryl Qilin, 1991–

  TITLE: Kappa quartet: a novel / Daryl Qilin Yam.

  DESCRIPTION: Singapore: Epigram Books, 2016.

  IDENTIFIER: OCN 956491361

  ISBN: 978-981-47-5775-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-981-4757-76-8 (ebook)

  SUBJECTS: LCSH: Kappa (Japanese water goblin)—Fiction. |

  Singapore—Fiction. | Tokyo (Japan)—Fiction.

  CLASSIFICATION: DDC S823—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FIRST EDITION: October 2016

  To my family: John, Christine, Derek & Davyn

  “Words, sounds, speech, men, memory, thoughts

  fears and emotions—time—all related…

  all made from one…all made in one.”

  —JOHN COLTRANE

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  1. The Box

  2. The Anus Is the Centre of the Soul

  3. The Woman Across the River

  4. Perdido

  PART TWO

  5. Lover Man

  6. Kitchen Town

  7. Sora no Nikki

  8. The Kappa Quartet

  PART ONE

  1

  THE BOX

  DECEMBER 2011

  MR ALVIN

  I met the kappa Mr Five, at an izakaya in Kichijoji two years ago. The most distinct thing I remember about the place was the laughter: there were bright peals of it, small, crystal clear eruptions of it, like the sound a can of beer makes when the tab is popped open. And yet no matter how often I looked over my shoulder that night I couldn’t tell where it came from. The laughter came from everywhere and landed somewhere else, some other place other than myself, my heart the very thing that came too close to bursting.

  I don’t know how I ended up in Kichijoji that December evening. I don’t recall having gone to that neighbourhood the last time I had been in Tokyo, and that was another five years back: my wife and I had come for our honeymoon, in 2006, and we’d spent a week and a half in the city. I’d booked us a suite at the Grand Hyatt, and we were there to see the cherry blossoms, it being the season in early April.

  But there was nothing to see in December. There were no flowers: only the bright lamps of streetlights, and neon signboards clamouring for attention. I tried to recall the very last thing I did, just before I’d ended up there, but nothing came to mind.

  Quickly I went into a nearby store and bought myself a thick winter jacket, with fur lined along the hood. It was cold, after all. I then made a list of my belongings: I had my wallet, the clothes on my person, and my Blackberry. Sitting inside my briefcase was my passport, and several documents from work. I had everything, that much I knew, but the signal on my Blackberry was dead. I looked around me, confused. Lost. For a moment, I wondered if this was all a dream.

  It was a little past nine when I stepped into the izakaya.

  It took a lot of wandering around, down a long and narrow alley right outside the Park Exit of the train station; it was crammed with restaurants and diners on either side, and there were many passers-by walking up and down the road, looking at signs and menus and storefronts. I realised I probably hadn’t eaten at all that day, even though, for some reason, I found myself strangely devoid of an appetite. I was nevertheless aware that I needed to put something in my system, and thus persisted in my search. Eventually I found the place, towards the end of the alley—the entrance to the izakaya was very non-descript, just a wooden sliding door—but I managed to catch a glimpse of its interior as a customer took leave: dark panelled floors and beige papered panels, with ornate lamps wrought in a dark, greenish metal. I stepped inside.

  There were customers everywhere, seated in booths tucked in incredible corners. I noticed this immediately. For a second I feared the place was too busy, but a waiter quickly made his approach, and directed me to take my shoes off at the front and deposit them at a locker. He then led me towards a seat by the counter, behind which a number of cooks were busy grilling and cooking up the orders. I watched, amazed, as great fumes rose from their stations, into the vents installed in the ceiling. I turned to the waiter and requested an English menu.

  “I want this,” I said later to the boy. “This please.” I had my finger on a glass of beer, ¥460, and the waiter nodded and left. I removed my newly bought jacket as I watched him go, and started to fan myself with the front of my shirt. The izakaya felt unusually warm and stuffy, but I was grateful for that. I then heard a man laugh beside me, seated on my left at the counter. I turned to see that he was laughing at me.

  “It is a nice atmosphere, is it not?” the man said.

  “You speak English?”

  “I do,” he said. “Quite well, in fact.”

  The man smiled. His face was covered in large boils, from the base of his jaw to the top of his hairline. They seemed especially huge, under the yellow light and oily fog, and each boil seemed to be about an inch wide. They looked like they might have overwhelmed his facial features, but his eyes, big and bulbous, remained full of expression. The man raised a tall glass of beer to his mouth and asked what my name was, and I told him I was Alvin, a Singaporean. He said that he was Mr Five.

  “Mr Five?”

  He nodded. He then held up a hand. “Five,” the man said, “as in the level of ground motion Tokyo endured during the Tohoku earthquake.” He extended that hand towards me. “It is nice to meet you.”

  I shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  Mr Five drained the last of his beer as the waiter came back with mine. “Not having another one?” I asked. He shook his head. “I am driving tonight,” he said to me. “One glass will do just fine.”

  I nodded. I took a sip from my glass and felt the cold beer run down my throat. Mr Five watched as I did so.

  “You look lost,” he said.

  “Lost?”

  “Like you came here by accident,” he said. I told him that was mostly true. He then looked at my clothes: a blazer over a white linen shirt, complete with a tie in dark blue. He asked if I had business in Tokyo, in this particular part of town, and I told him I didn’t.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” I said.

  Mr Five watched as I took another drink. “Are you here on holiday, then?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t think so,”
I said. “I wouldn’t call it that either.”

  He frowned. “So you are neither here for work, nor for vacation.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mr Five leant back in his chair. “So what brings you to Tokyo, then? If you do not mind me asking.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, actually. I can’t even recall how I woke up this morning,” I added.

  He narrowed his gaze towards me. “When did you arrive in Tokyo, Mr Alvin?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “And is this your first time here?”

  “No,” I said. “This is my second time.”

  “Your second?”

  “Yes. My second,” I said. “The first time, I came with my wife. It was our honeymoon.”

  Mr Five turned in his seat. He grabbed the menu, and appeared to look at the food.

  “And was it a good honeymoon, Mr Alvin?”

  I blinked. “Yes,” I said. “But there was a hiccup.”

  He looked towards me, a deeper frown etched across his face. The boils along his brows clustered tighter together.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “I do not quite understand.”

  I took another drink from my beer. I set the glass back down. Somehow the man seemed genuinely concerned.

  “It was our eighth day in Tokyo,” I began. “We were due to leave in two days, and we talked about how we should spend our last moments in Japan. We worked out a good plan, mapped out where we wanted to go. We then went straight to bed. The night couldn’t have gone any smoother.”

  “But?”

  “Well, my wife couldn’t be found the next morning. I woke up and she wasn’t there.”

  He asked me what I meant. I thought about it. I told him it was as though she had simply vanished. I said, “You could still make out where she had slept the night before, on her side of the bed. You could still smell her scent on the pillows. And her things, they were all still in our room. Her suitcase was still open beside the dresser, full of her things. But she was gone.”

  “All you had were remains,” said Mr Five. “The remains of a person.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I panicked, of course. I didn’t know where she had gone. I thought she might have gotten breakfast or something, but she was nowhere to be seen at the restaurants. I went to all the other facilities—to the pool and the gym and so on—but she wasn’t in any of those places either. It was only much later, at around nine in the morning, when I found her seated at the reception.”

  “The reception?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I remember hurrying towards her, sick with worry. I asked her where she had been.”

  “And what did she say?” asked Mr Five.

  “She said, ‘I took off last night. The feeling just came over me. I took off to some other place and wandered around on my own, looking at things. And now I’m back.’”

  Mr Five ordered a plate of fried chicken, and another bottle of beer for me. The basket of chicken smelt good, and yet I didn’t feel drawn to it for some reason.

  “Are you sure you will not be eating, Mr Alvin?”

  “I’m sure,” I said to Mr Five. “I’m all right.”

  The waiter left. Mr Five turned back towards me.

  “I do not wish to pry,” he started to say. “But I wonder if your wife ever did this sort of thing before.”

  “You mean, before we got married?”

  Mr Five nodded.

  “Well, no,” I said. “I don’t think so.” I then told him that we’d been in a relationship since we were seventeen.

  “Oho!” went Mr Five. “That is amazing, Mr Alvin. How did it begin, if I may ask?”

  I reached into my back pocket; I took out my wallet.

  “I fell in love with her when we were in junior college. It’s like high school, but only for two years. Yeah. It was the first day of class, and we all had to stand up and introduce ourselves. Say one interesting thing about yourself, the teacher said. When it was her turn, she stood up and told everyone that her father was a taxi driver, not by choice but by necessity. She said she learnt to live without means. I think it really made an impression on everyone at the time.”

  “Especially on you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I opened up my wallet: notes, cards, receipts. “There was another thing we had to say, something about our aspirations in life.” I paused. “She said she had no idea what she wanted to do. She said she didn’t think she’d have an idea any time soon. But Yong Su Lin wasn’t going to let something like that scare her.”

  My second bottle of beer came. I set my wallet aside, and thanked the waiter. I tipped its contents into my glass, and watched it fill up again.

  “Why do you love her, Mr Alvin?”

  I looked at Mr Five. “I find her beautiful,” I said. “That’s the first thing. The second thing happened a bit later, but it’s this: whenever I look at her, I feel compelled to give her everything. Everything that I have.” I watched the foam sitting on top of my beer, fizzing out of sight. “She disappeared again, you know.”

  “When?”

  “About a week after we came back from Tokyo,” I said. “She disappeared for four days this time. When she came back, I asked her where she had been, and she didn’t want to say.”

  I returned to my wallet, and pulled out the passport-sized photo of my wife. I showed it to Mr Five. In the picture, Su Lin had short hair, and gorgeous skin. Her lips were thin, her eyes strong and penetrating. But her most recognisable feature was her nose: straight and well defined. It nearly hurt to look at her.

  “She said I should try disappearing one day.”

  “Did she really?”

  I nodded.

  “She said I should take off to another place, be a stranger all over again.” I put the photo away and zipped my wallet back up. “I told her that what she did wasn’t disappearing, though. That it was just running away.”

  Mr Five kept his eyes on me. He looked at me, unsure of what to make of the situation. I continued.

  “Su Lin said it wasn’t running away if she knew she was coming back. She said it wasn’t running away if she didn’t have a choice in the matter.” I took hold of the glass, and drank the beer. “And then she left it at that.”

  I checked my watch. A quarter past ten. Staring at the hands of my watch, I wondered if I was oversharing, and that I might have intimidated Mr Five. But he seemed unfazed, somehow, by Su Lin’s vanishing acts. Instead he ate through his fried chicken fairly quickly, and wiped his fingers clean on a napkin. He smiled.

  “Tell me, Mr Alvin—do you know where you are sleeping tonight?”

  I told him I had no idea. I hadn’t even thought about it. Mr Five cleared his throat.

  “It turns out that I am driving back to my hometown tonight,” he said. “It is in Yamanashi prefecture. I can drop you off at a hotel I know, located on the shore of Lake Kawaguchi. I know the owner. All I have to do is make a call, and I can have a room set up for you straight away.”

  I considered his proposal. “How far away is this place?”

  “Oh, quite far,” he said. “It is near Mount Fuji, if you are interested in that sort of thing. But the ride will only take another two hours of your time.”

  I checked my watch again. Ten twenty. “Will the hotel still be open?” I asked.

  “I could call,” said Mr Five. “I could call my friend and everything would be sorted.”

  I took my glass and drank down half of it this time. “You’d do that for me?” I asked. He nodded.

  “Out of all the people in the world right now,” he said, “I would do it for you.”

  After we settled the bill, Mr Five led me to the parking lot. His car was a silver Lexus, a rather impressive and roomy sedan, the back of which was filled with an assortment of boxes: Tupperware, cardboard, big and small, you name it. It was such a sight. I tried counting them all, but quickly gave up. I asked him if he was moving back to his hometown.

  “Oh, no,” replie
d Mr Five. “It is simply a delivery I have to make.”

  I opened the door to the passenger seat. “Would you mind if I ask what’s inside all of these boxes, then?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr Five, getting into the driver’s seat. He put his key into the ignition and started the engine. “There is nothing in them, actually.”

  “Nothing at all?” I said, disbelieving. I looked over my shoulder. There were probably up to ten of those boxes, twelve. “They all look so different from one another.”

  “That is true,” said Mr Five. “And yet they are all essentially the same, wouldn’t you say?”

  They are all essentially the same, I repeated to myself. “What are you delivering empty boxes across the country for?” I asked, and Mr Five chuckled.

  “There is a need for everything, Mr Alvin. Even boxes with nothing in them.” He paused. “But not all of them are empty, to be perfectly honest.”

  I asked him to clarify. Mr Five frowned and crossed his arms, as he tried to think of an answer. Finally he said, “One of the boxes is filled with an unknown substance. Nobody knows what this substance really is, even though we encounter it all the time. It is a part of our world, most certainly, and yet it is as indescribable as it is inseparable from our existence. It is beyond all description, but it is most certainly incredibly heavy.” He smiled at me. “That is why I have to make this delivery myself. I cannot trust a mover or a delivery man to do the job on my behalf.”

  I looked over my shoulder once again. The boxes shook, ever so slightly, as Mr Five began to drive.

  “Whoever you’re delivering this box for ought to be really grateful,” I said.

  Mr Five nodded. “You are right.”

  The radio wasn’t on, but I didn’t really care; I turned to ask if he could switch it on, but then quickly changed my mind. I was seated on his left, and discovered something else about Mr Five that I hadn’t noticed before: there was a cavity in the side of his head, a perfectly circular crater in his skull, a few inches above the top of his left ear. Its diameter was probably no wider than two fingers. I stared at it, long and hard, before I turned and looked out of the window. He’s a good person, I reminded myself: a good person in a strange body. Buildings came and went as Mr Five drove further west out of the city.