Birthday

by Kōji Suzuki

  Needless to say, out of the eight interns, she was the only one going onstage tonight.

  Toyama tried to encourage her. "Don't worry. I'll be cheering for you up here."

  Sadako shook her head. "That's not what I mean."

  Her gaze was hollow as she shifted it from the stage to the spinning tape reel. It was blank—he'd just checked it, but he'd neglected to push stop, so on it spun.

  Toyama stopped it and rewound it.

  "Everybody's scared when they debut," he said over the sound of the tape rewinding. But Sadako's reply was strangely off, like an out-of-focus picture.

  "Hey, is there a woman's voice on that tape?"

  Toyama laughed. As far as he could recall, he'd never recorded a solo human voice: playing something like that while an actor was delivering his lines would kill the performance. Under normal circumstances they'd never overlay dialogue with dialogue like that.

  "What kind of question is that, out of the blue?"

  "It's something Okubo said a few minutes ago, you know, when you were checking your sound levels. He made a funny face, like he was afraid of something. He said there was a woman's voice on the tape. Not only that, he said he'd heard it before. So I..."

  Okubo was another one of the interns, multital-ented but short, and so sensitive about it that it had given him a complex of sorts. He was another one who had a crush on Sadako.

  "I know what you're talking about. That's crowd noise. You know, what we play in the background during your scene."

  They'd taken the crowd noise for that scene from a movie. The voices were just supposed to be submerged in the background; no one voice was supposed to be heard above the others. But it might be possible for someone to have the auditory illusion that he or she was hearing one of them in particular, in an aural close-up, as it were.

  "No, that's not it." Her denial was forceful enough to bother Toyama.

  "Well, then, do you know what scene it was?"

  If he could figure out where it was on the tape, he could check it now on the headphones. If there was a strange woman's voice on there, he had to deal with it now, or it would be trouble later.

  But the chances of that were next to nil. He couldn't count the number of times he'd listened to the tape during rehearsals. Not to mention the repeated scrutiny he'd given it on his headphones when he'd edited it together. There was no way a stray sound could have gotten on there at this point.

  "Okubo's been saying strange things. You know that little Shinto altar backstage?"

  "Most playhouses have 'em."

  Toyama was beginning to guess what Okubo must have been telling Sadako. Just as theaters all had Shinto altars, they all had scary stories whispered about them.

  Handling the set pieces and props allowed for lots of accidents and injuries, and wherever actors gathered there were bound to be vortices of ill feeling—as a result there probably wasn't a theater around without one or two spook tales. Okubo had probably been scaring Sadako with some nonsense like that. In which case, her insistence on there being a woman's voice on the tape was probably groundless.

  "No, there's another one."

  "Another what?"

  "Altar."

  Toyama had seen the altar himself any number of times, set into the concrete wall stage left, at the back.

  But that was the only one he knew of.

  "Where?"

  Still standing in front of the door, Sadako raised her left hand and pointed. The spot she indicated was behind the table. Toyama couldn't see it from where he was. But all of a sudden a chill ran down his spine. This room was his castle: he liked to think he knew what was where.

  There couldn't be an altar here.

  He started to get up.

  She giggled. "Startled?"

  "Don't scare me like that!" He sat back down. The chair felt cold somehow.

  "Come on, it's over here." Sadako took Toyama's hand and pulled him out of his chair, seating herself in front of a cabinet built into the wall. A pair of doors were set into the wall about ten centimeters from the floor; they opened outward. Sadako looked from Toyama to the doors, as if suggesting he open them.

  A storage space. He hadn't expected one. The doors were about fifty centimeters square. There were no handles, so they blended in with the rest of the wall, and he hadn't noticed them.

  He placed a finger in the center of the doors, pressed, and released. The doors opened without a sound. He'd expected to find old tape reels and cords piled randomly inside, but what he found was something rather different. Two metal shelves, on the upper of which sat two rows of tapes in carefully labeled boxes. No doubt left-overs from previous productions. The bottom shelf contained a little wooden box that looked, just as Sadako had said, like an altar.

  All he'd done was open those two little doors, but the atmosphere in the sound booth was utterly changed.

  A foreign space had suddenly opened up right next to the table he was so accustomed to working at. He wasn't sure whether there was actually a smell or not, but Toyama at least had the illusion that his nose detected the scent of rotting meat.

  Toyama sat down next to Sadako, in front of the altar, hugging his knees. There was an offering in front of the altar, right in front of his nose now. It was a desic-cated and wrinkled thing no bigger than the tip of his little finger, and at first he thought it was a shriveled piece of burdock.

  Without a hint of hesitation, Sadako picked up the piece of whatever-it-was and placed it in Toyama's hand, as if giving him a piece of candy.

  Toyama allowed himself to be led along. He accepted the offering on the palm of his hand and studied He only realized what it was when Sadako brought her nose close to his palm and sniffed it. Suddenly a thought wedged its way into his brain. Not just a thought—a woman's voice, whispering.

  The baby's coming.

  In a flash, Toyama understood.

  It's an umbilical cord. A baby's umbilical cord.

  There was no mistaking it now: it was indeed an umbilical cord, severed long ago.

  The instant he realized it, Toyama jumped back from the altar, flinging the thing in his hand at Sadako.

  She caught it and said, calmly, as if to herself, "Looks like Okubo was right."

  Toyama slowly brought his breathing under control, trying not to appear too foolish in front of a younger woman. Feigning calm, he asked, "What do you mean?"

  "About the woman's voice on the tape. He said he'd heard it before, moaning, like she was in pain. He said if he had to describe it, he'd say it sounded like she was suffering the pains of childbirth. That's what he said.

  And it looks like that woman had her baby."

  Toyama didn't know how to respond to this. What Okubo had said was strange enough, but the way Sadako just coolly accepted it was way beyond eerie.

  Just then the director's voice came over the intercom.

  "Everybody, we're about to start dress rehearsal.

  Cast, staff, to your places, please."

  The order was salvation to Toyama: he normally didn't look forward to hearing Shigemori's voice, but now it sounded like a god's. It had power enough to drag him immediately back to reality, certainly.

  Sadako had to report to her position onstage. She couldn't stay here talking nonsense.

  "Hey, you're on. Break a leg," he managed to say, though his throat was dry and his voice scratchy. He placed a hand on her back and urged her toward the stage. Sadako squirmed as if reluctant and made a show of refusing to budge.

  But then she said, "Okay, well, later, then."

  There was something thrillingly suggestive about the way she said it, and the way she looked when she said it. Toyama thought he could see her maturing as an actress right before his eyes. Five years younger than him, in Toyama's eyes she was the very incarnation of cute. Instead of the sensuality of a grown woman, she still had the innocence of a girl: that was what attracted him, what he was madly in love with. But now she seemed so sensuous...

  Toy
ama forgot himself as he watched Sadako descend the spiral staircase.

  Since the dress rehearsal would proceed exactly like a real performance, he'd be playing the tapes from start to finish. If there was a foreign noise on there, this would be a good chance to locate it.

  Toyama put on his headphones and tried to concentrate on his cues. But he was distracted by the proximity of the cabinet with the altar in it. The director hadn't yet given the sign to start. The house was dark; the sound booth was illuminated only by the work light on the table.

  He stole a glance sideways. The cabinet doors were half open. Evidently he hadn't shut them tightly enough.

  The voice of a woman in childbirth? Of all the stupid things.

  Without taking off his headphones, Toyama moved over and pushed the cabinet door with his foot. He did it with his foot in order to show that he wasn't scared.

  He heard a distinct click as the doors shut. But at that very moment, in his headphones, he heard a faint voice. It was weak, a baby's voice. He couldn't tell if it was crying or laughing...or maybe it had just been born...

  Toyama stared at the tape. It wasn't moving.

  The director gave the sign, and the curtain rose. He was supposed to provide the opening theme now, but his trembling hand slipped on the play button more than once, and he was late with it. He'd get a chewing-out later, not that he cared about that now.

  Play button, on.

  The baby's voice was gone, drowned out by the bouncy opening theme.

  As Toyama sat there bathed in cold sweat, trying to figure out where the sound had come from, his nostrils detected a mild scent that reminded him of lemons.

  5

  The first act ended, and everybody was given a twenty-minute break except the actors the director wanted to scold. Toyama was afraid he'd be taken to task for being late with the opening theme, but no mention was made of it, and he was able to leave the sound booth for a time.

  He descended to the lobby. Passing the concession kiosk he jogged down the hallway toward the actors'

  green room. He didn't have long. He wasn't sure there was enough time to grab Okubo and find out what he wanted to...

  He burst into the big space used as a green room.

  When he saw that Okubo wasn't there he turned to a senior member of the troupe who was practicing lines in front of a mirror and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but do you know where I can find Okubo?"

  The actor paused and stuck out his chin. "He's Arima's prompter, so I imagine he's with him, stage right."

  "Thank you."

  But in fact he nearly ran into Okubo as he went to leave the room. Okubo leaned over and jumped aside with exaggerated movements. "A thousand pardons," he said, putting on airs, speaking as if performing the role of an English gentleman. Okubo was like this: his every movement, his every pose, his every word was theatrical. He and Toyama were the same age, and so they ended up spending a lot of time together, and they got along fairly well. But sometimes Okubo's flair for the dramatic got on Toyama's nerves.

  With a joyless smile, Toyama grabbed Okubo's sleeve and pulled him aside. "I need to talk to you."

  "This is sudden. What about?" But Okubo's grin betrayed his lack of surprise.

  "Why don't you have a seat?"

  They grabbed chairs from in front of the mirror and sat down.

  Okubo looked even smaller when sitting down. He kept his back and neck straight—his posture was perfect.

  In fact, Toyama never saw him slouch, or even really relax. No doubt this was a method of making up for his lack of height. Okubo took pride in the fact that before joining Soaring he'd belonged to a troupe with a considerably more celebrated heritage. Just being accepted there was a considerable feat, and he'd done it—but no more. Unable to make his way in that troupe, he'd bailed out and joined Soaring, which represented coming down a notch. Okubo had persuaded himself that it was only because of his height.

  In short, Toyama knew full well that Okubo's comically exaggerated way of talking and moving came from a combination of pride and insecurity.

  He only had twenty minutes, though: he decided to come right out with it.

  "What nonsense have you been filling Sadako's head with?"

  "Are you trying to ruin my reputation? I don't recall talking nonsense to anyone," came Okubo's composed, good-natured reply.

  "Listen, I'm not accusing you of anything, but something's got me worried."

  "What, pray tell?"

  "Hey, sound effects and music are my job. I've got a right to be concerned. I want you to be honest with me: was what you told Sadako the truth? Did you really hear a woman's voice on the tape? A woman in the throes of labor?"

  Okubo clapped his hands and laughed. 'A woman in the throes of labor'? Where did you come up with that? What I said was, it sounded like the act that results in labor pains—a woman's moans when, you know...

  That's what I meant, at least. I don't know what Sada thought I was talking about."

  "So you were joking?"

  "I was not joking," said Okubo, laughing again. He was so caught up in his own performance that it was hard to get a straight answer from him. What was he so keyed up about anyway?

  "Stop fooling around, will you? I heard something."

  "What?"

  "A baby crying."

  Okubo took a deep breath and then leaned forward, a look of concern on his face. "Where?"

  "In the sound booth, over my headphones."

  Okubo leaned back again. "Whoa." He looked taken aback.

  "See, it connects. If you heard a woman struggling to deliver a child, see, it's too much of a coincidence." As he said this, Toyama was remembering the umbilical cord that had been placed as an offering in front of that altar.

  "Why, that's a bolt from the blue! A horse of a different color!" said Okubo, in his best vaudevillian voice.

  "Knock it off already. Can you just tell me what it was you told Sadako?"

  "Sada's the one great hope for us interns. Between her beauty and the attention the director pays her, she's got a great future as an actress. But after all, it's her first performance—to a bystander like me, she looks incredibly nervous. I feel sorry for her. It was an act of fellow-ship, if you will. I thought I'd tell her a scary story or two, just to, you know, loosen her up a bit."

  Annoyed, Toyama pressed the point. "So you didn't really hear a woman's voice on the tape?"

  "Au contraire!" Okubo shook his head and pursed his lips.

  "One more thing. How did you know there was an altar in the sound booth?"

  "An altar? In the sound booth?" Okubo pulled a long face and clapped his hands as one does when wor-shipping at a shrine. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and began mumbling as if reciting a sutra.

  Toyama was finding Okubo even more grating than usual today. He sighed and continued. "Yes, an altar. A little one, about this big," he said, tracing its size in the air.

  "I have never set foot inside yon sound booth."

  "So you heard about it from someone else?"

  "Well, I pray to the altar at stage left every day,"

  Okubo replied, clapping his hands again.

  "Okay, okay. So, you didn't tell Sadako about the altar."

  "Not only didn't I tell her about it, I had no idea it was there myself."

  So how did Sadako know it was there! She had claimed Okubo told her, but Okubo was saying he didn't know about it. S—one of them was lying? Okubo, at least, sounded like he was telling the truth.

  Toyama pondered for a while.

  When Okubo said there was a woman's voice on the sound effects tape, he was just trying to frighten Sadako. Well, that's the kind of scary story you hear in any playhouse—nothing to get seriously angry about. Okubo told Sadako that he'd heard a woman moaning in pleasure—a woman engaged in sex. But for some reason she told me that it was the sound of a woman suffering in childbirth. Was it just a misunderstanding! But what about the umbilical cord! It fits too well.

&n
bsp; Toyama thought of what he'd heard in the headphones, that faint cry of an infant—he couldn't get it out of his head. He had to get back to the booth in time for the second act, but he was reluctant to go. He didn't want to be alone in there. He'd rather be here, under bright lights in the big room.

  His gaze was hollow as he asked, "By the way, where's Sadako now?"

  Suddenly Okubo was all informality. "Whaddya mean? Weren't you paying attention to the play? The Great Director kept her behind to give her direction.

  She's probably still onstage now, being put through the wringer."

  Toyama had already forgotten. At the end of the first act he'd watched from the sound booth window as the director had instructed a few actors to line up on stage for feedback. He'd noticed Sadako among them. That's where she'd be now, listening to Shigemori tell her what was wrong with her performance and how she could have done it better.

  From where he stood, it looked to Toyama like Shigemori paid Sadako an abnormal amount of attention. He'd been shocked sometimes during rehearsals to see the way Shigemori looked at her—on the verge of tears, with an expression made up of equal parts love and hatred and a gaze so intense that no one acquainted with Shigemori would have believed it. Shigemori held absolute power within the troupe, so if he had his eye on someone it was a foregone conclusion that he'd be making physical advances. And of course that was something Toyama, given his love for Sadako, would do anything to avert.

  Just then Shigemori's voice came over the intercom.

  "The second act will be starting soon. Places, everyone."

  Toyama started to run, knowing how much distance separated the big room from his sound booth. So when Okubo spoke, it was to his back.

  "Hey, Toyama, don't leave the intercom on in the sound booth anymore. We can hear everything you say in here."

  Toyama turned around in time to catch Okubo winking at him.

  He thought about Okubo's words as he made his way down the narrow hallway toward the sound booth.

  ...They can hear me in the ready room? I always keep the intercom in there switched off when I'm not using it—I doubt I could've left it on.