The Journey Prize Stories 21 by Various Read Free Book Online Page B

haphazard to count. But I didn’t say a word. By the time we’d finished dressing, I even began to think that maybe I’d imagined the whole incident.
    Sayuri put on her clothes and I wrapped a clean handkerchief around her finger and tied the corners tightly so it wouldn’t fall off. I changed my blouse because it had become so wet. As I didn’t have a spare set of clothing, I ended up putting my gym top back on. My skirt was damp, too, but I figured it would dry in the air on the way home.
    By the time we left the school building, everyone else – all our classmates, the other teachers, even Suzuki sensei – had gone. We walked down the deserted hallway to the back exit and together pushed the heavy door open. When it banged shut behind us, it made a hollow metal clang.
    Although it was almost dinnertime, the sun was still shining and felt warm on the back of my head. We walked as far as the grocery store at the second intersection and then paused. Neither of us had said a word, and I was afraid to look at her.
    My heart was pounding. Our homes were in opposite directions and we had reached the place where we had to part. I didn’t want to tilt my head back to look up at her – somehow that felt rude – so I ended up staring at her neck. The spot where I had put my lips was buried somewhere under the strap of her backpack.
    â€œWe did our best,” I said.
    â€œWe did our best,” Sayuri echoed.
    â€œWe’ll play better next time.”
    â€œYes,” Sayuri said, so softly I could hardly hear her. “Next time.”
    I turned around once when I was part-way home, half hoping I might find Sayuri following me. But the road was empty, a long dusty stretch of asphalt, lined on either side by trees. In the distance, a shimmering wave of heat rose like the fluttering wings of dragonflies. I pictured Sayuri at the other end of the road, hidden in a low dip just out of sight. Somewhere beyond.
    That was the last time I saw her.

    â€œI don’t get it. Why didn’t they just hire their own language teachers? It doesn’t make any sense.” Masayuki shook his head repeatedly in front of the television. “I can understand spying, but this is too bizarre for words.”
    According to the news, the abductees had been forced to work as Japanese language teachers for the North Korean Intelligence Service. I tried to imagine Sayuri as she stood in front of a class full of dark-suited men and pointed at words on a blackboard with a long wooden stick. It was hard to believe that anyone would want a fifteen-year-old to teach them.
    A photograph of Sayuri, older, sadder, very tired looking, began appearing in the weekly tabloids. It didn’t bear much resemblance to her, no matter how much Sayuri might have aged. There was nothing of the girl I remembered from high school, nothing of the Sayuri I’d known, or thought I’d known.The woman was standing next to a very tall, thin man, supposedly her husband, and flanking them on either side were two small girls who looked like they were carved of wood. The family stood in front of a dingy pink studio curtain. Above their heads hung a large framed portrait of Kim Jong-il.
    â€œNow they’re saying that everyone could be dead, you know,” Masayuki said. “If they find any graves, the government is going to ask for DNA testing or some such thing, but I can’t imagine that will ever happen. Nobody knows what goes on over there.”
    I tried to picture Sayuri’s grave, but it was pointless. I knew it would be empty, a hollow wooden box filled with stale cold air.
    I got up and went into the kitchen. Behind me I could hear Masayuki rapidly switching from one channel to another, the background voices breaking up into flecks of sound.
    I pushed open the big window over the sink and leaned out as far as I could. Everywhere I looked there were apartment buildings, row upon row like a vast army of