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Ogata bit his lip as he snorted. “He’s about to pass out.”
He made himself more comfortable on the railing, his arms crossed over it as his chin rested on them. He observed the target of his jab, the cause of a little laugh ready at the back of his mind. A tourist. If he watched a little more, he was sure he would have snickered. Taking advantage of the weird position of his body, he decided to stretch it, all the while observing him with attention.
Tsukishima walked leisurely closer to where he was leaning on, and he straightened as he was passed a cigarette. “Oh, he’s here again” he said unblinkingly.
“He’s been here before?”
“Yes. Looks like he’s walking in circles.” He was passed his cigarette back. They watched in idleness as the man wiped his wrist over his forehead. “Shouldn’t we warn him?” Tsukishima gave yet again the cigarette to his coworker.
Ogata blew the smoke out through nose and mouth. “And what for? He should have known better.”
Tsukishima made a noise. He didn’t really feel bad for the man — if anything, he could vaguely feel how bad that was going to be for the guy sooner than later —, but to ignore a disaster in its making could end up give them crap, rather than entertainment. Or, Ogata’s entertainment anyway.
It was summer and the man had decided to wear all-black. Ogata was ruthless but right. Not only was he wearing a cap, a t-shirt — the only thing that should have covered his pale skin, but was instead short-sleeved —, long camo pants on the greyish tone and a backpack, albeit deflated and seemingly half-empty. He was wearing a surgical mask, that one black too.
The gaijin took another faltering step and looked up, then around. Blonde hair could be seen sticking out on the sides from under the cap, but Ogata noticed with those keen eyes of his that under the brim it must have been soaked where a strand glued to his brow, almost to impede vision.
He and Tsukishima heard a loud sigh, muffled by the mask. The man stopped to catch his breath. Ogata sharpened his sight best he could. They were a few meters apart — barely on opposite sides of a little street —, but Ogata was something else. Tsukishima and the rest of the crew knew that. He hoped the man would turn so he could study him better. Or that something happened.
“We don’t want him to loiter around here if he’s about to faint. I’m going to give him a hand” said Tsukishima.
Ogata wanted for him to not interfere. He would have waited and seen what happened, but Tsukishima had a point in shoving the possible troubles to another place. Or to other bystanders. Though the street wasn’t too lively, they most likely would have helped a tripping guy, tall and visible as he was. Tsukishima pushed off the railing and started to cross the street to get to him. “Wait” Ogata called. Tsukishima turned and waited for him to take a slow drag. While he did that, he tried to decide what to do in the situation that would have followed. How would he have played it? Endless possibilities with a gaijin — and an isolated one at that —, but that one was pathetic with his dark clothes under the sun, so maybe he would have just let the situation unspool itself. He threw the unfinished cigarette on the ground and caught up with Tsukishima.
The man wiped his brow again and, again, he sighed, not noticing he was being approached. The mask scrunched up, and Ogata imagined him squeezing his eyes and making a face as the sweat dripped down it. He gave him a quick once-over, registering all of him, and as they got closer he was able to notice more. “Russian” he murmured to Tsukishima, who replied: “Let me.”
“Need any help?” Ogata called out in Japanese. They were close, but the man did not turn. Tsukishima turned to him questioningly, and Ogata said: “All yours.” So he'd just wanted to assess the man’s knowledge of Japanese, which was none. With chagrin, Tsukishima realized it had taken him a second too long to understand Ogata’s machinations.
“Do you need any help?” he asked in the most studied way.
The man stilled and just a moment later he turned his head towards them, realizing he was being talked to. Under the flap’s shade, Ogata finally saw his eyes: so light and bright, all that colour visible thanks to the pupils receding from the sun. He did not look as hazy anymore; he looked present, attentive. Right away, he made sounds from under the mask, both recognized the attempts at giving answers or excuses, but he only mumbled broken, interrupted words in their making. He was stammering.
Tsukishima gave Ogata a sidelong glance that said: 'Not Russian?'
But Ogata was sure.
“Sorry! I’ll leave!” the man exclaimed frantically when Ogata got in his face. On purpose. “I don’t want trouble!”
Ogata looked down on himself, then Tsukishima, then behind their backs, at their business place. Located in a secondary — or even tertiary — street, Tsurumi’s business was on the edge of legality. Not only that, but it had anonymous windows with its metal shutters pulled down. Not really inviting. You only came in if you knew what to look for. To say whatever Tsurumi dabbled in was shady was an understatement. As for Tsukishima, he did look like a Yakuza with those tailored trousers and shirt, and Ogata, in a large white t-shirt and black pants looked more like a minion, but it was their stance that must have made them look menacing.
As far as they knew, Tsurumi wasn’t a Yakuza. Yet. So they weren’t either.
The man obviously wanted to leave. He was fidgety, lolling on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint, but he was also scared to do it. Ogata found the situation amusing. He almost smiled in his face. “Go back in, you’re scaring this loser.”
Tsukishima looked one last time between them, wondering whether he should trust Ogata with a random or not. Probably not. He turned around. “Tell him to go back to the main street. If Tsurumi sees him…” He did not finish the sentence, but he and Ogata had been understanding one-another for some time now.
… who knew what he could come up with. Yes. That was right. The Russian looked some way, but it was hard to tell what it was that could grapple Tsurumi’s mind. Maybe he wouldn’t have given him a second look, maybe he would have dragged him into the organization against his will and put him in the highest position. No one knew. At any rate however, Ogata did not like to share; he’d eyed him first.
“We’re not from the mafia, relax” he told him, using the Russian word for it.
“Ah…” he exhaled. Ogata remembered the letter h, the way that it sounded in Russian when he’d learned it. It was thick on his breath. He hadn't looked surprised when Tsukishima had spoken to him in Russian, nor did he look it now after Ogata did. Why didn’t he ask him how he knew the language? Was he really that sunstruck? Tourists usually were so happy to hear their own language in a foreign country, they tended to make gracious comments on it before even introducind themselves. If encouraged, they would start asking personal questions about it.
“This is not Russia.”
The guy turned to him, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”
Ogata gave him a vicious stare and a vicious smile instead of an answer. He hoped to have offended him with that statement.
“Mh. Alright” he mumbled. He’d removed his gaze from Ogata right away to stare at the ground. He looked almost shy. He couldn’t say he liked the type, but this one was too naïve to pass up the opportunity to prod. Any other day he would have thought of mugging him just for the pleasure of doing it. He could have had documents and electronics on him. But he was still looking out of place. Under the sun, Ogata was starting to feel sweat form a layer on his skin as well. "How did you know I'm Russian?
"Take a look at yourself."
He looked down his body. "Oh... Right."
“My name is Ogata.”
He saw his mask puff and adhere from deep breathing. The Russian looked at him, surprised he was still here and that he was talking to him instead of leaving him to his wanderings. “My… My name is Vasily.”
“Vasily how?”
“Mh— Pavlichenko!"
The man was either dummy or embarassed with himself.
“Listen, Pavlichenko.” He thought of what to tell him next before the other could get a word in. How to ward him off from the area, and to avoid the stereotype of the tourist that dresses badly for the weather and gets hurt. “You’re naive if you think you can go around covered like that. I don’t want you to faint in front of my place. Bad for business, yes?”
“Ah, but… Faint…?”
“Yes. The heat will take you down.” He looked around uncomfortably. Ogata looked him up and down another time, unseen. “You should come with me."
The Russian's head whipped back. “To where?”
Ogata did not respond, but lead him through a less corrupted street where he knew was a quieter — empty or almost — square, and ended up in front of a vending machine. He had not bothered to check if he was being followed by the gaijin, but he was almost certain he was. That man’s steps were almost too quiet for someone as disorientated and cumbersome as he. He was on Ogata’s tail and had reached him where he’d stopped, but through all the walk there he had not even heard his tired breath behing the stifling mask. He noticed him checking his surroundings over the reflecting glass when he arrived. Ogata's interest was piqued.
As the Russian — Pavlichenko — had approached him, Ogata had already ordered something. He waited next to him to see what clunked on the bottom of the vending machine after having scanned what it sold — and what was around them.
Ogata grabbed the bottle. “Drink this.”
Pavlichenko took it from his hands, and Ogata took notice of the careful way he did it as not to touch his fingers by observing where he’d put them first. He was tuning out an interesting game. Ogata's mind worked with impressions of his personality and his life. He moved as if he was someone else than he was letting on.
Pavlichenko observed the dark broth. “There’s a fish inside.”
“Eat it or discard it.”
“No… Why?”
That question held many more. Ogata wanted to toy with him for longer. “You lost salts. Go on. Drink it.” But if you won’t, I’d love to mop the street with your unconscious body.
“Mh…” His eyes were the ones that told Ogata he’d made a face under his mask. He wanted to see him pull it down. He fixed him as he uncapped he bottle. His fingers reached for the mask, and it couldn’t be happening any slower. Do it. Show me.
He flicked his mask down to his chin and drank.
Ogata took it all in. Reddened, stubbly cheeks. A straight, pointy nose. Cheekbones slim and cutting, and lips thin and pinkish from the pressure of them against the rim of the bottle. Some broth escaped and wetted them, and despite the shade the hat was offering, they shone. His strong windpipe swell as he swallowed, and he saw moisture and taut muscles in his neck.
He felt a faraway tingle of adrenaline spike in his chest, at the thought of all the things he realized he could and wanted to do to this man. He imagined his pupils dilating in his already black eyes at the endless ideas. 'Put a bullet through him', was the most prominent. He almost, almost felt giddy. He almost, almost chuckled.
Pavlichenko stopped drinking and coughed, bringing his wrist under his nose. When he opened his eyes, both found them teary. Ogata slit his own and smiled at him. “How was it?” The fish was still inside the bottle, together with a bit less of half the liquid. Pavlichenko cleared his throat. “Fishy… Too dense. The flavor, I mean.” He corked the bottle, looked at the other bottles in the vending machine. “Oh! I haven’t thanked you! Please, have your money back—“
“No.”
Pavlichenko started to protest, his tone rising in a counterargument Ogata did not care to listen. He turned away to fish a pack of cigarette and his lighter in his back pocket. The Russian was still speaking while he lit it. “If you want to pay me up, accompany me to a place.” he cut him off. He wanted to lure this man deeper. “It’s a tea shop ran by Ainu people. You can take photos of the memorabilia.”
“Oh! The Ainu! There are in Russia!”
I knew that already. Ogata turned just in time to hide his smile. He relaxed his shoulders and started to make way, leading them to a bigger, livelier street with stands and shops — all clothes and useless trinkets. It was so busy they bumped with others, and every now and then the gaijin stopped to look or buy. When they arrived, Ogata had long finished his cigarette. Perched on a low wooden railing in front of the shop was Shiraishi, smoking one himself.
“Hey Shiraishi.”
“Heey I haven’t seen you around lately. We were expecting you last week. What gives? Who’s the fella?”
He ignored the question about business. Shiraishi and the others didn’t need to know everything. “A stray Russian.”
Shiraishi whistled without giving said stray a second look. “What’re you planning, Ogata?” he mewled with curiosity.
Ogata gave a fake smile. Shiraishi understood to leave him alone to let him do his thing, whatever it was.
Behind them, Pavlichenko was taking photos with his phone and a camera at the same time. He studied him from the threshold. It could have been because the entrance was in the center of the small building, but Ogata had a feeling that the Russian wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was taking photos of him nor avoid taking him in. During one of those shoots, they stared at each other a moment before the flash hit him. Who could want a rando in their holiday memories? He was almost certain the man was as shady as Ogata himself. Could he have baited him in the first place? Ogata turned back and couldn't help the genuine smile.
“Hey Inkarmat” he said, stepping in.
She was behind the counter. Smiling as always, she returned his greeting. “Ogata.”
“Tanigaki here?”
“No.” She gave a little laugh. “He’s still mad at you for disappearing.”
“You’ll tell him I was here as a customer, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Tell him I said hi.”
“I will” she said chuckling. “Who’s your friend?” she asked when Pavlichenko walked in.
“Not a friend. A target.”
It was pointless to hide things from Inkarmat. He suspected she knew what he had there was his second job, though he made it out to be his only one. However that, she had never made it a problem and besides, she was fostering Shiraishi’s own gambling addiction. They had an agreement of sort to mind each their own business.
Pavlichenko looked around, but stashed his camera away. His phone was nowhere to be seen, most likely already in a pocket. When he came closer to where Ogata and Inkarmat were talking over the counter, he lit up and muffled something. Ogata thought he was acting overly silly. “He’s asking if he can make a portrait of you” he explained lazily. “What are you, an artist?” Pavlichenko nodded fervently.
“Please take a sit” Inkarmat offered gently.
“Will you make him pay anyway?”
“Of course.”
Ogata followed the Russian guy to where she had indicated.
“Is that your wife?” the Russian asked after having taken off his hat and ruffled his drenched hair. The mask remained. Timid, but straightforward. What did he care, anyway?
Ogata huffed. “No. The husband is this other Ainu.” He goaded himself with the thought of Tanigaki finding out he’d come in for a visit after having disappeared for so long. What would happen if he came in right now? Something funny, for sure. He could rile him up and scare the Russian all at the same time. Hopefully Sugimoto wouldn’t have intervened to pull them apart.
“The one outside?”
“No. Another one.”
“And are they all your friends?”
There’s the tourist that wants to know stuff.
“They’re my best of friends.”
“Who was the one with you?” He was getting excited.
“A colleague.”
The gaijin nodded with interest.
Inkarmat arrived with a tray and sat down with them. Her belly was growing well. Tanigaki had had a lucky shot at life. He hardly ever left the shop, but Ogata kept a mental agenda of almost all the people that came and went and at what time of which day.
“Remove your mask.” Pavlichenko stared at him. “You wouldn’t want to be rude, would you?” He and Inkarmat could not care less, but he wanted to see him. Bring him to the ground if he had a complex about his own face, though he had not seen any marks. His jawline was smooth, unlike his own. It would look good marred. He wondered why he kept it hidden. Shyness or need to be unrecognized?
“Yes, forgive me!”
In the not too long a time it took for the Russian’s tea to go mild, Ogata had drank his fill while watching Inkarmat be made a portrait. The matter of who would keep the drawing still lingered, but as long as she got her money and her fun she didn’t care. However, in the end he tore the page and gifted the drawing to her. Funny, Ogata thought, wondering if he'd give him the photos he took, as well? He hoped he did something interesting with them.
Inkarmat left with her thanks, and Pavlichenko tried to stash back in his sketchbook to no avail, so he started to pull out all the stuff from the bag. Ogata poured himself some more tea - thankfully still warm – and observed with amusement the ruckus he was making.
As he drank, he threw a glance at the stuff he’d scattered on the table. There were a few trinkets he’d bought from gatcha machines, the dashi broth bottle with the dead fish staring blindly at them, a smaller sketchbook open face down on the surface, pages all ruffled, and a few manga in Japanese. They looked violent, lots of shooting on the covers, but some others— Oh, I see. He put the cup down and passed a hand over his hair. He smiled slyly. So he's that type.
Pavlichenko was still rustling and fixing things in the backpack in the correct order only he knew, when Ogata passed him a manga — or feigned doing so. Lost in thoughts and looking down, he reached for it when Ogata presented it under his nose, but when he pulled to grab it with a 'thank you’, Ogata maintained his grip. And because he had not watched where he was touching, Pavlichenko’s fingers clamped over Ogata’s. They were sweaty and warm. Pavlichenko jumped in his own skin and removed the hand.
“Can you read them, or do you just like to look at the pictures?” he teased.
“Please. That's... that's private.” He extended his hand. “I thought you were polite” he insisted when Ogata ignored him.
“Never said I was.”
Pavlichenko was red all over his face and neck — not from the heat, not from a sunburn and not from the tea. Ogata assessed him — he did so every time he had the chance to — and the more he looked, the more he wanted to keep him tangled in the fishnet he’d thrown at him. He inspired, puffing his chest. “You can have it.” Pavlichenko almost yanked the booklet out of his hand.
The gaijin was clearly skimming frantically in his head to find something to say in an attempt to start a conversation that would redirect Ogata’s focus away from the manga with those two men in love. “You know, Pavlichenko, you still haven’t asked me how I know Russian” he offered.
“How… how do you know Russian so well?” he asked him right after, head almost in the bag. While he asked that, he threw the remaining manga in without care.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” As if he didn't already. He flashed him a smile. ‘Come closer’, it said. “Too bad I don’t have any time left.”
“But…!” His eyes widened. Dumbfounded at Ogata’s bait, that he was. Ogata smiled at him. “Then... Thank you for everything. I feel much better now."
“You are very welcome” he said in a manufactured, alluring voice. “Do you know your way back?”
“I think.”
He did. While getting his little purchases back in the shopping street, Ogata saw him scanning corners and lenghts, not in a 'tourist admiring the place' way. He had looked almost too serious at times. He had walked positioning himself so Ogata was always in his line of sight, no matter where the other went. Stopping in front of Tsurumi's building was starting to look like a deliberate choice from his part, though when he and Tsukishima had found him he really had looked lost.
They got up, and Inkarmat waved Ogata over. “Tell him it’s settled.”
Ogata narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
She had a knowing smile plastered on. “I’ll see him again. And maybe my husband will see you more often because of that.”
He scoffed. “Don’t count too much on it.” He turned his head to his newest acquaintance. “Good news, Pavlichenko. It’s on the house.”
“What, really?"
“What can I say,” he and Inkarmat shared a look. “She really liked the portrait.” With the corner of his eye, Ogata saw him watching them as they knew something unspoken was at play. But when he returned his gaze on him, he quickly returned at ease. His features quickly softened with gratitude. He even made a bow. Inkarmat waved them away, and before they were out, the Russian man had already covered back up with the hat and mask he’d kept in his hands.
Shiraishi wasn’t smoking anymore, but he was still perched on the fence. He knew better than to ask, but they, too, shared a knowing — or almost — glance. Ogata and Pavlichenko walked down the short path toward the street in front of the shop’s entrance. As they did, their forearms casually brushed, and the Russian inched his away from Ogata's, thinking he was slick with the gesture. But Ogata noticed; so his own forearm ended up shifting closer to Pavlichenko's where he kept it glued to his side. It was not feather-like touch, it was their skins coming in full contact. Then Pavlichenko jerked his arm away — thinking the damage would stop there — and their wrists brushed for a moment, before he hid that very arm behind his back.
“Thank you for showing me around. And for helping me.” he said agitatedly.
“Anyone would have done that” he lied — not in the area where he and Tsukishima had found him, definitely not if Tsurumi or his other men had happened to be around. The Russian knew. Without question. “Have a good flight back to Russia.”
Pavlichenko stalled a moment. The shared look lasted briefly. A few, very few seconds. And in those seconds were all the malicious intents Ogata had towards him. All the lies this Russian man had brought from his country. Through eyes of a hunter, he was communicating him that. The hunt was on. He bowed again. “I will. Thank you.”
They parted ways — Ogata made sure not to be followed on the way back.
So. Not a spy — they weren't important enough to be watched over. Russian mafia? No. Too awkward. Journalist? Ogata paused and thought of the camera. He considered it, and pushed it aside for a moment. Could he really be just a tourist? But the way the man carried himself... Ogata blinked. Whatever he was now, he'd been in the military. Special forces, too. He turned around. The alley was empty. He didn't care if he was being followed; actually, he invited him to do so.
He resumed walking. He couldn’t promise Tsukishima he would keep the man away anymore. Actually, he wasn’t sure the man himself could keep away. He thought back on their period in Russia. They — and particularly Ogata — had stepped onto different foots. Maybe he had stomped on one too many.
That man would not go back to Russia any time soon.
It looked like he had found himself a little admirer.