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On account of it being the annual Port Mafia Christmas dinner party, and the Boss having chosen some lavish restaurant to spoil his Elise-san while ensuring the rest of us wouldn’t tarnish the mafia’s name by causing another scene, and Chuuya-san indulging me in too much wine again, I was forced to recount, to a group of very excited and very drunk individuals, my rather unexpected but still vivid memory of having been the first person in Dazai-san’s new car.
I was most certainly very drunk while recounting this very personal event of mine, but even then remembered to omit some details so as to avoid rousing suspicion that I was in fact still loyal (and had only ever been) to Dazai-san, despite us being in rival factions as of writing. However as I pen this down now I have decided to retract whatever omissions I had previously made such that I will be providing only the truth and nothing but the truth. However, fact remains that my account of the tale may sound embellished and unrealistic to some who read it, and to those who do I say: fuck you.
(If you feel that way, it simply means that you have never once been graced by Dazai-san’s presence. You have never stood in front of him and felt his gaze lock on you for one single stroke of the clock, or watched him administer death as coldly as a pathologist at a morgue, or sat in the front seat and watched him as the night passed into dawn in front of his eyes.)
On to the actual narrative. It had happened so long ago it now even feels like an urban legend to me, if the events that happened that night had not stuck so freshly in my mind as if Dazai-san had painstakingly glued it there second by second, trailing threads of time around my brain until the golden strings were embedded in the flesh. Even if I had miraculously lost all my memories, I could not forget that night.
Dazai-san had obtained his first car at a relatively young age — exactly on the day he turned sixteen, if I remember it accurately. It had been a birthday present from the Boss, whom prior to that seemingly had absolutely no inkling of how terrible a driver Dazai-san would turn out to be. In retrospect, no one would have known. I had not seen Dazai-san drive a car before, and had not yet witnessed his erratic driving first-hand. The night he received the car, one of the lower-ranking subordinates came to me with a message: Outside the building, 2am.
It was not much of a mystery to me regarding the time or who had sent it; I didn’t feel the need to ask. At that point in time I had just completed a gruelling mission collecting debts in the outland and was waiting in trepidation (I was weak, back then, weaker than how I am now) for Dazai-san’s next assignment for me. It never came, and I recuperated silently in the infirmary, pulling the curtains around the bed closed so that no one would disturb with unnecessary and frankly intrusive questions about my new wounds. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was how fast I recovered, how fast I could take on another death-defying mission to show that I too could be as invincible as my steel-handed mentor.
Midnight came and went, and I began rewrapping bandages around my abdomen as the clock inched closer to 1am. The previous ones had been soaked through with blood; I wanted to look as clean as possible before meeting Dazai-san. Once it was 1.30am I set out to leave the building. Disregarding the slight limp and the wet bandages, I was in perfect health, and he would not notice a thing. I told myself that.
It did not come as a surprise when I reached the street outside the Port Mafia’s office building to see an empty stretch of road, devoid of any cars or transportation vehicles at all. Dazai-san would make me wait for hours at a time, as if testing my loyalty, whether I would remain at the exact spot he told me to stay at. He was never disappointed each time. So I waited, watching the darkness eagerly for any sign that could tell me of Dazai-san’s imminent appearance. At that moment I still had not received wind of Dazai-san’s new car. At that moment I was still unaware of what would come after that hour.
I remember the streetlamps flashing, a taxi roaring past once or twice, my torn skin hurting underneath the white cloth of my shirt. The sky was clear, too bright to see any stars, and the air was humid, a sign of approaching rain. If Dazai did not come before the rain began, I would have stood there soaked to the bone, still waiting.
Fortunately he did come, and in one of the most unexpected ways possible — I heard him long before I saw him, a slow rumble on asphalt breaking through the still wind, and the slow approaching headlights as if tearing a hole for the sun to shine through the murky darkness. Two yellow eyes stared back at me from the dark hood of a car, and as I peered closer, I made out a dark figure sitting in the driver’s seat.
I could tell him anywhere, even if he was only a shadow sitting half-obscured behind a windshield. I could tell him by heart and mind alone.
So I waited on the curb as the sleek black sedan pulled up a few meters behind me. By then, Dazai-san was clearly visible behind the screen, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand extended past the rolled-down window, and with one flick of his index finger beckoned me towards the car.
Walking there was the shortest stride I had ever taken in my life. Time always moved too fast for me whenever I didn’t want it to. I leaned down, gaze fixed on the man inside the darkness, and Dazai-san smiled up at me from the driver’s seat: Get in the car.
He looked so unnervingly happy it never even crossed my mind to ask him where we were going. I glanced at the seat behind him, only to hear him speak again: No, get in the front seat.
This brought me far more terror and dread than any other command Dazai-san had asked of me before, sitting in the front seat with him, watching the houses and trees loom and fall behind us as he drove through the streets, not only due to the fact that this was my first time in Dazai-san’s personal car, but also because my hands were gripping the armrest of the car door so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. We swerved through what felt like an insurmountable number of twists and turns that did not belong in what should have been a relatively straight and peaceful street at 2.30am. I was on the verge of throwing up what little food I had in my stomach, but the minted smell of the new car was still surrounding me, and the leather felt smooth and in pristine condition, and Dazai-san had not said a word since we left the building, so I did not.
We were on the highway (a still fairly-safe decision for now) when Dazai-san first said, casually: You’re hurt, Akutagawa-kun.
My face burned as bright red as the afternoon’s setting sun. It’s no matter. I can still fight.
As if there’s anything that you can fight now. Dazai-san’s laughter was as cruel as ever, calm and collected, resounding through the silent car. No fighting. You’re the first person other than me in my new car, after all, so I’ll be disappointed if you get blood on the seat.
I immediately checked the surroundings to see if I had unconsciously stained anything, but there was no sign of any congealed blood on the smooth dark leather. Then I realised: You said — the first one?
Yes. Dazai-san’s eyes were focused on the road. A lamplight grew and faded away, sharpening and softening his features in an instant. He said nothing after that.
My mind was reeling with the new information, the shocking statement that I was the first one in Dazai-san’s new car, and then I remembered the small, immediately-cut-off happy birthday wish I had told him in the dawn that morning, once I caught him on his way to the Boss’s office in the hallway. He had said nothing about getting a present; no one had thrown a celebration, which was expected, but I had not expected him to get such extravagant a present from who must have been the Boss.
And, of course, my first thought was: I mustn’t disappoint Dazai-san by giving him the wrong impression that I wasn’t happy to be in his car. So I sat as straight as I could, eyes fixedly ahead but staring into nothing, as my mentor brought us round bend after bend after impossibly-bad driving skills. We said nothing until Dazai-san stopped the car.
We were looking out over the edge of a cliff, Dazai-san having driven the car over the curb and onto a worn patch of grass overlooking the sea. There was a rickety wooden fence surrounding the precipice, one that looked like it couldn’t even stop a very strong gust of wind if it tried, and I could see the moon high above us, a white orb imprinted on the ink-like sky.
Dazai-san reached up to the overhead console, and, after pressing a button, revealed a small box just enough for fitting a pair of sunglasses. Naturally he did not draw out a pair of sunglasses but instead removed a packet of Marlboro Black Menthols and a glossy white cartridge which he tossed towards me, my hands instinctively shooting up to catch it. It was a lighter.
Akutagawa-kun. Dazai-san withdrew a slender white cigarette. Light my cigarette.
Obediently I leaned in, flicking open the catch. A pale blue flame danced between my finger and the end of Dazai-san’s cigarette, catching purchase of the white paper, and I watched in rapt fascination as it crumbled slowly from a licking orange into black dust.
Smoke curled out from between Dazai-san’s lips. The car window was tightly-shut; inside the air-conditioning was turned down low, blowing against the now-extinguished flame, and the acrid smell choked me before I could control myself. A sudden cough wracked my lungs. Dazai-san watched in amusement as I hacked once, twice, a hand against my tender stomach.
My lungs were burning. It felt as if the lit end of the cigarette was weaving its way around my body, setting fire to my nose, leaving little round black marks all over my throat, the flesh curling up at each instance. Through my tears I looked for Dazai-san, stoic and calm through the smoke, breathing it in as if the thickening cloud was simply a darker shade of mist. I would not stop coughing.
Or you could just stop. Dazai-san suggested helpfully. His face suddenly too near, a pale shine of teeth showing through as he bit the cigarette and held the palm of his hand to my mouth. I nearly jerked my head away, not wanting to stain him with anything unsightly from my relentless hacking, but Dazai-san’s fingers gripped the edge of my jaw, forcing me to stay where I was. His eyes were brilliant and dark, an almost inquisitive shine to it, like he was studying me. Like he was interested. I could have died from thinking that notion for too long, so I pushed it away for now, and tried to not let my mind rest for too long on the cool hand against my lips.
If breathing feels too difficult, control it. Don’t panic and gulp in air. Dazai-san’s voice was unsettlingly gentle through the haze, his lips still puffing out the stinging smoke, yet I could hear his every inhale and exhale as if he was smoking right beside my ear. My heart was so attuned to his every movement I could almost feel the beat of his pulse in his touch on my chin.
I don’t teach you for nothing, Akutagawa-kun. If you don’t learn to control your illness you’ll be worthless on the battlefield.
Sometimes I akin Dazai-san from the old days to a sharp fruit knife. On first sight he may seem harmless and even a little too young for his position, a common misconception amongst conceited businessmen or self-inflated government officials, but once they got close enough he only needed one quick strike before their throats were slit. This was one instance where I looked into his eyes, past the whirling smoke and the shining moonlight and the absolute stillness of the car wrecked by my coughs and thought that he was as sharp and silvery as a knife. There was nothing redeeming in his grip on my jaw; his voice was toneless as ever, betraying only a slight hint of irritation; my feelings towards him had not changed in the slightest. I forced my breaths slow, biting down hard on my tongue, blocking up my nose with thoughts of shallow breaths and Dazai.
I felt his hint of a smile before seeing it. When I looked up the cigarette was hanging long and loose from Dazai-san’s lips, and his one free hand reached up to take it between his middle and index finger. He placed it on my ear, brushing back one of my white-tipped bangs.
Good. He hummed, soft and razor-edged, before leaning over and pressing his lips against mine.
In fact it could even be said that Dazai-san was the sole owner of my first kiss. Yet I already knew that everything that could still be considered “first” of mine would belong to him, no matter the name or action it meant, and in the end I still went in a full circle back to him. I’m not sure if he was proud or maybe even slightly impressed by that fact, but it was all I had of value to offer, in the time before I became strong enough to face him once again. Perhaps it had been enough for him then. Perhaps it wasn’t enough for him anymore as we grew older. But I will never forget this, it, him — the noxious taste of tobacco and menthol, his cool and dry lips smiling in amusement against mine, and a sweet, lingering aftertaste.
I was pressed stunned against the car seat, eyes inadvertently shut closed the moment he kissed me, and the fumes still surrounding us, but with Dazai-san effectively stopping my mouth up I could no longer breathe it in.
I still can’t tell what that sweet, jarring taste was, and why Dazai-san had so thoughtlessly reminded me of it. Even after so many years later I am able to recall the electric shock that went through me, the soft singe of the smoking cigarette against my skin, the uncertain hold I had on Dazai-san’s jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. But I had kissed him back as earnestly as I could muster, always too late, always too short-lived for what I could have done had I reacted faster. If only I remembered more — if only I had held on a little tighter, pulled him a little closer — if only I had convinced him I was worthy enough for just a few extra seconds —
And then his lips parted from mine, and I was left with the most delicious sense of falling, the type where you wake up from a dream thinking that you had tumbled off the edge of a tilted mountain. He was gone, taking his jacket with him with a quick swish of his sleeves, and I was falling with no one to hold onto. In actuality we were still safe in his brand new car, smoke curling into the air conditioning vents, and the moon waxing pale above us, frowning down.
Ryuunosuke Akutagawa — my head tilted up slightly, palms open as if in supplication.
Dazai-san — mine for the duration of that one kiss, head tilted to the side slightly, smiling with his face half-shadowed.
I suppose Rashoumon doesn’t work even in these type of situations. His smile was self-satisfied and arrogant, everything that made him Dazai-san and set apart from every other executive in the Port Mafia.
He took out another Marlboro from the pack, nonchalantly leaving his previous one still balancing precariously behind my ear. This time he lit it himself, and I watched with hysterical jealousy as he placed it between his lips, blowing out a cloud of smoke straight at me.
Try to control it. He commanded. My lungs shook with the sheer effort of reining in my coughs — I thought that I might have burst a lung. Dazai-san was imposing against the setting moonlight, silver and hulled of his usual cruel demeanour.
I would be nothing if Dazai-san did not give me a purpose in life.
Once I regained control of my coughs Dazai-san finally graced a smile on my pathetic body. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, blowing out a smoke cloud thoughtfully.
This is quite the arrangement. Don’t you agree, Akutagawa-kun?
I always knew the answer to his every question. When I gave it, Dazai-san laughed, short and mean, and he didn’t look at me again.
I remained the first and only person in his car until morning.
So concludes my previously-untold, unfiltered recollection of the first time I sat in Dazai-san’s car. After me there were maybe tens of people, maybe only a few; after all, his driving did not improve in the slightest over the many years after this incident: Even now I do hear from the jinko sometimes about his atrocious driving, although I do see a reluctance to tell me about it, as if I would ever smear the name of his Dazai-san.
On nights when I feel especially reluctant of partaking in the ideal of living responsibly I do wonder if Dazai-san has ever done this with anyone else other than me. If he had taken anyone else out on the pretext of a joyride, or on the pretext of nothing at all, because with the jinko for example he rarely ever needs to account for what he’s doing, and driven them to the edge of a cliff or to an underground parking lot or wherever he fancied that night, or day, and watched the sunrise as he smoked and then kissed them.
And then in the morning I wake up and it doesn’t matter anymore. The tear tracks will dry on my face and I can convince myself that in all honesty I do not care one bit whether he is in love with someone else, whether it is an executive or his subordinate, whether it is his colleague or his unsuspecting client. At least no one else has the memory of, many years back, standing in the headlights of an approaching black car and squinting vainly to make out who it was in the driver’s seat.
I am a fool. Maybe even the wildest fool who has ever set foot on Port Mafia territory. I have no qualms about dying on the battlefield one day, whether it is against the Decay of Angels or the Armed Detective Agency or if it is in my bathroom by Dazai-san’s own hand. If only then I can still remember the cloying taste of cigarettes and strawberries on my tongue —
— that would be enough to lead me willingly into hell.