The Graveyard Apartment by Mariko Koike

feelings toward Reiko continued up until (and through) the instant in the entryway when he realized that she had committed suicide. His first thought when he saw her hanging from the ceiling was, Oh, great, now I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life feeling guilty about the way I treated this pathetic woman . Of course, he was in shock, but at that moment he felt more resentment than sorrow, by far.
    In the immediate aftermath of Reiko’s death, everyone around Teppei was amazed by how cool and calm he was. Strangely, he was never suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of remorse, nor did he ever think, I’m entirely to blame for everything . He kept expecting that guilty-conscience revelation to strike at any moment, but meanwhile he and Misao continued to see each other. Time passed and now, seven years later, entire days went by when Reiko’s tragic death didn’t cross his mind at all.
    Although Misao did have a demure side, she was far more modern than Reiko: perpetually cheerful and exceptionally adept at expressing her feelings, which tended to run very deep. But Teppei was aware that while he saw Misao as an unusually genuine and cosmopolitan woman, she probably appeared quite ordinary and unremarkable to Tatsuji. In addition, Tatsuji clearly still saw his brother’s current wife as a woman who had, in effect, murdered Reiko, and no one knew better than Teppei that his brother had taken a deep dislike to Misao from the beginning. It was also obvious that all these years later, Tatsuji still hadn’t begun to forgive Teppei.
    â€œEarth to Tepp—you’re up! Here’s the mic,” the hostess said perkily, handing Teppei the portable microphone. The recorded instrumental introduction to the song began to play. Looking away in a blatant display of indifference, Tatsuji lit a cigarette.
    Without leaving his seat, Teppei began to sing, keeping his eyes on the page of lyrics on the table in front of him. The balding man abruptly stopped his raucous repartee with the hostesses and fixed his eyes on Teppei. He had a fat, ruddy, oily-looking face—the face, Teppei thought, of someone who might drop dead any moment from a heart attack or a cerebral aneurysm. The man took a big gulp of cognac, then stuck a cigar in his mouth and lit it. He was the type of man who always gave an impression of crudeness and vulgarity, no matter what he was doing. Only the eyes seemed alive in that overstuffed face, glittering ferociously like those of some wild beast monitoring its prey.
    Tatsuji, sitting next to Teppei in the padded booth, made an ostentatious show of glancing at his watch. You little brat , Teppei thought, but he went on singing without missing a beat. You think I wouldn’t rather be on the way home, too? It occurred to him, not for the first time, that going out drinking with his resentful younger brother really wasn’t enjoyable at all.
    The balding man said something to the hostess, then went back to staring at Teppei. The man’s fleshy lips wore a knowing smirk, but there was no laughter in his eyes. Teppei’s already minimal desire to sing had now evaporated completely, and when he reached the end of the second verse he placed the microphone on the table.
    â€œWait, what about the third verse?” the hostess asked.
    â€œThat’s okay, I’m done,” Teppei said with a doleful smile. “That song is just too old, and I got sick of singing it about halfway through. Hey, Tats, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to hit the road.”
    â€œHang on, I’ll just be a minute,” Tatsuji said as he stood up and headed toward the restroom. The abandoned karaoke track continued playing until it reached the end of the song. The bald man and the three hostesses applauded halfheartedly.
    In the instant before the karaoke machine reverted to background-music mode, a rare silence enveloped the room. Then the shiny-pated man, without