This is entire short story The Accuracy of Death by Koutarou Isaka, from the novel of the same name. I did as my final project for a translation seminar I took at a certain Midwestern university several years ago. I recently found out that there is actually an alternate translation (NOT by me) of this story that was published and is currently available at amazon.com.
Original Title: 死神の精度
The Accuracy of Death
1
Some time
ago, the proprietor of a barbershop told me that he had no interest in hair
whatsoever. “I use scissors to cut the clients’ hair, right? From when I open
shop in the morning until I close up at night, there’s no rest because I’m
snip-sniping away. That is, it does feel good trimming the clients’ heads, I
guess, but I don’t have any particular love for hair”
In fact he would
die five days later, stabbed to death in the stomach by a phantom killer. Of
course at that time, having no expectation of death, his voice was lively and
cheerful.
“If that’s
the case, why are you running a barbershop?” I asked again. With a crooked
smile, he answered. “Because it’s my job”
That was my
exact thought and, if I exaggerated it, agreed with my philosophy.
As for me,
I have no particular interest in the deaths of humans. Traveling at 20mph on top
of his personal parade car, the young President is shot; elsewhere, in front of
Reuben’s painting, a boy together with his beloved dog freeze to death, and I
have no interest.
Come to
think of it, that same barber also revealed to me that he was afraid of dying.
In response to that I asked him “Do you remember things from before you were
born? Before you were born, were you scared? Did it hurt?”
“No.”
“It’s
because death is just like that, you see. It is only a return to a state of
pre-birth. It is neither frightening nor painful”
There is no
meaning in a person’s death, nor is there any value. In short, if you think
about it in reverse, anyone’s death becomes equal in value. That is why, to me,
there is no connection between which human would die and when. However, in
spite of all that, today I was also purposefully heading out in order to
ascertain a human’s death. Why? Because it’s my job. Just like that barber
said.
I was in
front of a building. In a spot that was separated from the front of the subway
station by about 100 meters, was the twenty-story office building of an
electronics manufacturer. A face of the wall was like a glass window,
projecting a reflection of the pedestrian bridge opposite, and the building’s
emergency stairs. I was standing at the flank of the main entrance while not
knowing what to do with my folded-up umbrella.
The black
clouds overhead made me think of brawny muscles expanding. The rain was
drooping. It was not intense but, in that instant, it made me persistently feel
as if the rain would never end.
Whenever
I’m on the job the weather does not favor me. I understand that for “a job that
manipulates death” bad weather is an accessory but, if you were to ask my other
colleagues, it was as if this kind of thing is non-existent; that it’s just a
coincidence, as it were, these days. So it can’t be helped that, when I mention
that I’ve never seen a cloudless sky, my colleagues, more than humans, can cast
eyes that look as if they want to believe that.
I looked at
my watch. It turned to 18:30.
Exactly as I was remembering that
according to the schedule that I had been passed by the Information Department
that it was around the time that a figure would soon appear, she came out of the automatic door, so I
followed her.
Holding a
transparent vinyl umbrella while walking, her figure was not clear. Of middling
height, and didn’t seem to be carrying any extra fat, that was the extent of
her finer points. Because she was bent-backed and bowlegged, looking down as
she walks she looked much older than her twenty-two years of age. Jet-black
hair pulled back in a ponytail gave a dark impression, more than anything, something
like a sense of fatigue, a sense of tragedy, a worn out shadow hung from her
forehead to her neck. Looking as though wrapped in a dull lividity, it couldn’t
have been just the fault of the rain-dampened earth. It wasn’t that make-up
would have helped; it was as if the will to adorn oneself was absent to begin
with, and the suit she was wearing was far from brand name.
I advanced
with long strides, following her back. The entrance to the subway should be
about 20 meters ahead, contact should be fine there. I’m pointing this out.
Even though I think it every time, it’s something I want to be allowed to
finish quickly. Go about your business, and nothing more. Because it’s my job.
