Pov Ayanokoji:
Are all humans equal?
It's one of the things I pondered many years ago. The first day I entered ANHS. Several years have passed since I graduated, fulfilling what Manabu Horikita had advised me to do.
It wasn't necessary to leave my mark on the entire high school; it was enough for me to remain in the students' memories, for them to never forget me. It was a plan that, in a way, meant my freedom.
I was aware that after those three years I would return to that place, to the demanding routines, and I was prepared.
That man was quite cautious about the project. As far as I know, there was never any leak as such. I never got an answer as to what exactly happened. I have a vivid memory of standing alone at the entrance waiting for a black car to come and pick me up.
At first it was an hour's wait, then that hour turned into two, and so on until five hours later, when Principal Sakayanagi arrived in a gray car. He told me not to worry about the white room.
He was a great man. He got me a property in New York, an apartment to live in, and offered to change my identity, but I declined the opportunity. Somehow I got out of the white room.
In the early years, I tried to keep in touch with some people.
Horikita Suzune.
Ichinose Honami.
Hirata Yosuke.
Among others. I never had much social energy, nor did I have great skills. Over time, contact dwindled. I haven't spoken to any of them.
I opened the book The Art of War - Sun Tzu that I had in my hands. I began to leaf through it carefully; after all, in this antique bookstore I am just a worker, and I don't want my salary to be compromised because of damaging one of the products.
One of the things that surprised me about the United States was the binding of the books. The pages felt very different from those in books in Japan. They supposedly recycle paper and tend to be a little thicker and gray, so they don't reflect light as much. This usually has only advantages, both for the trees and for your eyesight: a page that doesn't reflect light means your eyes don't have to strain as much. More hours of reading, less eye strain.
The little bell rang, alerting me that a customer had entered. Bookstores don't usually get robbed, so I had no intention of looking up from the pages of the book in my hands. I could smell a feminine fragrance growing stronger, along with the sound of footsteps heading in my direction.
Then I saw her: a woman with a student vibe, a shy smile, blonde hair, and green eyes. She was smiling at me, I think shyly.
"Hey, do you work here?" As she spoke to me, I felt a strange pressure on my back.
My manager, who, if he were like Superman, would probably have pierced my back with his x-ray vision; his gaze was so strong that I felt the urge to put down the book in my hands, but I didn't. I couldn't take my eyes off him to pay attention to the customer.
I hope you don't fire me, Manager Joe.
"Guilty." I didn't know what else to say.
There were a few seconds of awkward silence, and I knew I had to say something else.
"Can I help you with anything?" I closed the book in my hands and started looking at her.
"Paula Fox." She said those words while looking at my lips.
I hope I don't have bad breath, or maybe something from lunch stuck between my teeth. If I make a bad impression, we'll get bad reviews for the store, and if that's my fault, it will result in my dismissal.
"Good choice." No one asked for my opinion.
The woman stroked her bracelet, causing it to jingle softly. She's probably uncomfortable, but her smile doesn't seem to indicate that.
"I feel strangely validated," she says, then smiles at me.
I should get going because I can still feel my boss's eyes burning into my back.
"Follow me." In theory, and according to Joe,
Paula Fox should be...
"Famous authors? I didn't think she was well known." "Think about it, she's not that well known, at least in New York."
"Well, uh, according to the manager, she's Courtney Love's maternal grandmother. Did you know that?" I raise my hand to my hair to comb it. I feel like I'm sweating; this interaction is more difficult because I'm being evaluated by the boss.
"Supposedly, people buy what's famous... It's disappointing that there are people like that." I said as I grabbed a Stephen King book.
Pet Sematary. It's on my reading list, I'll probably buy it here. I wonder if Joe would give me a discount for being an employee.
The customer was still staring at me, so I had to put the book back.
"So, Paula Fox is on the top shelf, do you need me to get it for you?" I point to the book.
I'm not saying she's very short, but maybe being a little gentlemanly wouldn't hurt... Although I think gentlemen act and don't ask questions.
"Oh, don't worry, I've got it." She stretched out her arm to reach for the book.
I accidentally looked at her chest area and noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra. I've read in forums that some types of clothing can cause chafing due to sweat, so maybe that's why she doesn't wear one. Either way, I shouldn't be looking there.
"Ayanokoji, can you go downstairs and check if we're missing any copies of The Wizard of Oz?" Joe came over to the aisle where I was with the customer.
"Sure, no problem." I got ready to leave; the truth is, I preferred that the manager deal with her.
Less work for me. In a way, I also felt that he was interested in her, beyond business.
I had barely taken a few steps when the woman grabbed my shirt sleeve, forcing me to stop.
"Ayanokoji, right? Nice name.
"Actually, it's my last name. I'm Japanese."
"Okay? I'm Beck, and... thank you for helping me." She took both my hands and smiled at me.
I noticed the veins in the manager's forehead becoming more pronounced.
"Sure, no problem." I headed down to the basement.
She had left a little piece of paper in my hands; I didn't know why until I got to the basement and looked at it in front of the large glass case. It was her phone number.
Thanks to Sato and Karuizawa, I can understand the intentions behind a woman giving you her number.
I put the piece of paper in my pants pocket and got ready to take out the key to open the door of the huge glass case. I never felt good about its location, just as I never felt good about the fact that there was a bed inside it.
This place felt as disturbed as my manager's gaze.
I would never trust a man like him.
Someone like Joe Goldberg was not normal.