Returning to his old hangout after serving brief prison time for murder of rival gang member, Muraki, numbed hardened yakuza hitman, resumes place at gambling mat he forcibly departed upon arrest. He laments unchanging pointlessness of existence, undue fuss and bother that accompanies one thug taking out life of another. A private affair, nobody else's business, not that significant in big scheme. Net result, only a brief flurry of excitement in perceptions of killer, a quieting of nerves of his victim. Not even unfortunate. Just a matter of whose turn is up.
Turns. Muraki sizes up room, he's seen all this years before. Quick sweep of scene, he concludes nothing over past few years has shaken up this familiar routine. Shuffle of cards, syncopated mutterings to place bets. A toss, spread, up-flip revealing pretty floral design, one of several, all meaningless aesthetics on surface but the hard enameled tile signifies everything in its pattern, in similarity and contrast to cards turned up by risk takers clustered around perimeter of wagering rectangle. Turns. Money tossed in, gathered up, spread around, bet again. Ritual repeats, cycle spins through another rotation of beaded sweat mopped off brows, nicotine-tinged groans, nervous chuckles, mumbled curses. Thick masculine fingers handle cards, awaiting next call - then a delicate feminine hand tosses an absurd wad of cash, mocking, challenging, calling bluffs and emasculating in bold recklessness, oblivious to risk of loss, a phosphorescent jolt into game about to go stale if she had not arrived in time to save it. Muraki, startled, takes a fresh look, sees something new has entered after all to change the weary, overly familiar milieu; a Pale Flower has unexpectedly blossomed. How long will these petals stay fresh? Who is bold enough to pick it? What exotic perfumes or toxins reside within the fragile beauty of its bloom?
Saeko, the mysteriously wealthy, beautiful and elusive teenager who galvanizes Muraki's attention with implacable nerve and stoic tolerance in absorbing catastrophic loss from games of chance, never takes time to explain in more than a few sentences. Still, her dismissive fatigue and casual disregard of matters that make the majority shift anxiously as uncertainty mounts creates hypnotic effect as we wrap minds around the notion that an appealing young woman can't find purpose in existence worth latching onto for its own sake. She craves excitement, but beside laughs here and there, a knowing smile and bestowal of dark, infinitely deep gazes from wide inky black eyes, little she says or does communicates much beyond a much-welcomed distraction. We'll never know how she got this way, what sort of memories, abuses or deprivations she leaves behind. Her blank slate invites us to fill it ourselves if we're inclined, not that she cares whether or not we do.
Muraki and Saeko, inhabitants of shared space and time though of different generations, forge a connection that exploits the shelter of their elders, grizzled crime bosses and others flush with money who race horses and manipulate henchmen as the last sport of withering old men, once rivals, now in collusion. Under their protective cover, his nothing-left-to-lose meets her has-it-all-but-doesn't-care, finding mutual fascination in the strange attraction of opposites. Willingness to buck odds and not flinch at failure forges their bond, though each have pursuers of more conventional sorts they trifle with but ultimately push away. Once exhausted by depletion of funds or intrusion of dawn, next game cannot come fast enough, with higher stakes if at all possible - any new wrinkle or twist to keep pulse pounding, money fluttering, pupils dilating. Accelerator is pressed hard, top dropped, swerving under bridges on dim-lit late night highways, peal of laughter dueling with roar of engine to create a most disturbing/invigorating sound.
Electric thrill of scattering currency, haphazardly redistributed through sifting fingers by whim of the cards, runs its course; more visceral stimulations arise to fill the void, though sex hardly enters equation between Saeko and Muraki. Urge is there, but not follow through - sublimation precludes that line of contact, substitute pleasures and pains interfere: an assassination attempt and subsequent chase and evasions... unsettling menace of a lurking junkie ghost... idle occupations of daylight hours when mundane affairs are pursued... intrigue of heroin... the cavernous indulgence of one more contract to tidy up affairs through face-to-face premeditated murder... the unbearable enticement of ghastly, too-inhabitable dreams, inevitable this far down the course of self-destruction and thus so necessary to escape even if only means to do so is to inflict upon one's self the harsh familiar confinements of the Japanese penal system...
Muraki secures his safety, forces his escape from seductive death spiral that he and Saeko find themselves locked in through a spectacular operatic, grotesque choreography of murder, committed in a public luxurious space, an act of intimate destructive carnage that satisfies a craving while proving his unsuitability to return to the world of the living, that realm of strange animals he had already left behind and was unwillingly returned to when his punishment proved too light. Once again locked up, in rough comfort though hardly at peace, he learns of Saeko's fate, an obliteration she willed upon herself. The Pale Flower has been plucked, crushed, extinguished, its poison now exhausted, purpose (?) apparently served. The doors close, shutting out the light. There's nothing alive left to grow.
Next: Diary of a Chambermaid