We continued our strange cohabitation in Italy.

At the head of December, a film director came to our place. Daniel Miller, he introduced himself—a man with a rather comical look. He was short and stout, with wispy chestnut-colored hair and a fringe connected to a magnificent beard. The frames of his square glasses were red. He was wearing a stylish gray jacket over a Superman T-shirt.

An assistant accompanying him, I presumed, was a long-legged Latin beauty. She was naturally taller than the director, and she even wore heels, as if to make the difference even more evident. Her dark hair was tied in a tight bun, and nose was as high as a witch’s. Her eyelashes were usually long and eye-catching, together with her eye shadow, she looked like Cleopatra.

While Yuzuki launched into discussion with them in fluent English, I prepared tea. I popped a cheap green tea bag commonly sold everywhere in Japan.

The Director drank it with great relish nonetheless.

“I love Japanese tea!” he exclaimed.

Cleopatra smiled softly and nodded gracefully in agreement.

“Is he your boyfriend?” asked the Director, looking at me.

“No, he’s a friend.”

Was it my imagination, or did she stressed the sentence like this: “No, he is a FRIEND”

At this point, Yuzuki had lost the little and middle fingers of her right hand and the thumb of her left. The Chloride Blight was definitely progressing. 

Her hand that pinched up the teacup trembled a little.

Director Miller talked very fast and tended to stutter a little. I had trouble following his conversation with my insufficient listening skills.

Giving up listening, I sipped the tea, facing Cleopatra. She was as silent as an Egyptian mural next to Yuzuki and Miller, who were talking enthusiastically.

After about two hours, the director’s entourage left. 

The Director looked cute as he said “Sayonara!” in his English accent. Cleopatra didn’t say a word until the very end.

“So… what was it?” I asked Yuzuki as they left.

“He wants to shoot a movie of me.”

“Wow! Isn’t that great?! What did you say?”

“I need to consider.”

We watched a few of the Director’s films together that afternoon. From his Superman T-shirt, I had a guess that his taste was based on American comic books, with a dash of Japanese subculture that usually messed up the plot, giving off the vibe of pseudo-Spielberg film. Everyone of them was like that.

“This is probably rude, but…” I scratched my cheek. “He’s a third-rate director…”

“He tries to be unique without a tad of personality, no sense of aesthetics nor philosophy. Deplorable.” As the sentence went on, the bitterness in her voice tripled.

“That sounds personal.”

“‘Film is my soul!’ he said. He thought that such a cheap glib tongue can trick me?!”

“You’re angry with him?”

“Oh, I can see just right though his ulterior motive…” Her voice dropped and she sighed, as if tired. She tried to interlock her remaining fingers. “He wanted to use me as a skipping stone. I’m the perfect plot for him, how convenient. He’ll record me suffering, overcoming my fears, then—he’ll record me dying. If you’re crying beside me as I turn to salt, it will be a perfect sob story ending for him. My name already gathered the crowd, this is just an easy route for him, a languishing third-rate director, to a household name…” She heaved a sigh.

“I see…”

“Most people wouldn’t even realize how obnoxious he is. They’ll come for a sob story, cry as he intended, then they’ll feel satisfied, go to sleep that day, and forget about it the next day. My death will be consumed by the capitalist world, just like that, a commodity. Don’t you see the vanity of that? I don’t want that! I wasn’t born for that. I didn’t work hard, cry and laugh, just for my death to be used in making a third-rate film a second-rate—!”

Ahh, this was what she was thinking.

—I don’t want to be consumed like a commodity

That was the only thing that she avoided at all costs, and yet it still haunts her wherever she went. The same happened when the earthquake boosted her popularity and the CD jacket incident. To some people, the incident was a chance to get ahead. If there were kindhearted people who volunteered and did charity, there would be someone who would exploit the opportunity. Like it or not, she was one of the latter people.

Therefore, she wouldn’t tolerate it if the same thing happened twice. That was the moment that crystalized her hatred for easy consumption of people’s misfortunes.

“I’m sure he’ll find someone else with the disease. He’ll make it seem like kindness, while all he is is malicious. No matter how well it sells, it’ll be disgusting work…”

“But I kinda want to see you in a movie, though…”

Her stern face softened as she said meekly. “Then make one, Director Yakumo—”

 　　　７

Yuzuki got me a video recorder and we got to it.

Since I knew absolutely nothing about filming, I would just take videos of her going on about her daily life. When I approached her, she would smile and wave at me. She was adorable.

No matter what angle I took, she always looked radiant. The shots I took were so beautiful I wondered if I had talent at filming.

Even a simple video of her strolling the city of Milan seemed like it could be a part of a movie. There were more ways than one to convey a good story, that was what I, who spent most of my life with text and written stories, realized. By walking through the neighborhood, Yuzuki had created an even more captivating story than I could.

I had a feeling that she had become more radiant by the day—livelier. She seemed full of life, bustling, even. That might be the beauty of death, like how a sparkler fireworks sparkled the brightest before dying out.

She clumsily picked up a cherry at the market with ehr remaining fingers. As if to cover up her ineptitude, she smiled sheepishly and ate it. The cherry red and her crystalized white joints looked like blood on snow. It made me feel uncomfortable.

She looked up at me, her eyes lingering on the camera. “How’s it like filming? Wanna be a director yet?”

“I had more fun than I imagined. But…” I searched inside myself. “No, what I want to convey needs to be in words.”

“Hoh…?” She looked thoughtful. “What kind of story do you want to write?”

“I want to help—”

I want to write a story that will help you from despair…

There was no way I could say it. Could I? How could my story heal her grief over the loss of piano? Such a thing was impossible. Her pain ran deep, and I, too inexperienced.

“—someone.” I said instead. “To save someone that can only be saved by a story. Even if only a little.”

“How naïve… Sounds just like you, though.” She seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Well then, write about me too. I want you to use me to help others.”

“Alright, I will.” Without thinking, I promised to her.