by Marele Day
The office men had their ties and tongues loosened. They became increasingly drunk and slapped each other on the back. Sometimes Lilli went with such men to hotels that charged by the hour.
She would pick out the alpha male in the group. Ideally he was wearing an expensive suit, his hair f lecked with grey. She singled him out with her eyes, tilting her chin slightly upwards, showing him her interest. The man would send a drink to her table. If he wanted to impress his colleagues it would be whisky. She raised the glass in his direction and inclined her head. Consent. The man came over and Lilli gave him a little geisha conversation. Then they left the bar and walked along the street. This part was always full of promise.
The hotel offered a choice of rooms, with beds shaped like hearts, torture chambers, sports cars, or space shuttles. For some reason Lilli’s men always chose the car bed, complete with chrome fins and tail-lights.
On entering the room Lilli suggested that now would be a good time for the man to give her a little gift. When this transaction was completed she helped him out of his jacket and hung it neatly in the tiny cupboard. Lilli discouraged the man from taking the rest of his clothes off. She was not particularly interested in seeing his body. When she did things to him or allowed him to do things to her, she kept her eyes closed and pretended they were in a luxury hotel, on holidays, with champagne in an ice bucket and caviar canapes. She listened to the man approaching the height of his pleasure, heard his grunts and noises, the quickening breath. She felt powerful, the one making this happen.
In the bar Lilli gazed at the far wall where fish swam silently, moving on the invisible conveyer belts of currents. Damselfish, angelfish, a kaleidoscope of tropical species, patterns of yellow and black stripes, red and blue. Coral as vibrant as all the colours of the bus routes. Every so often a large fish, a thick-lipped groper, swam by, its mouth open, filter feeding. Tiny silver specks of fish in groups, together making one body. You could not see the water through which they moved, it had become blue air. An eagle ray came into view in black and white dotted elegance, its fins pushing up and down like the wings of a bird. The camera must have been in an unobtrusive place under the water, well hidden. No fish swam towards it, they just kept circling around in the same direction. When the eagle ray appeared for the third time Lilli left, the beer hardly touched.
K1 and K2 were swimming in their eternal circle, mouths open, fins outstretched. Lilli stroked the air along the koi’s backs, patted their painted heads. The letter was still on the desk, waiting for a reply. She turned it over and stared at the markings, the star and cross-hatching, on the back of the envelope. She could see them even with her eyes closed.
What did Chicken think—that if Lilli came back everyone else would? The rubbish would disappear from the water and the sea life recover? Of course Lilli was concerned for Pearlie but Pearlie wouldn’t want to see her, be reminded of the dead. Chicken didn’t understand. Lilli doubted she even knew.
Lilli opened the drawer, took out notepaper. Dear Chicken, sorry I can’t . . . What she could not do was write this letter. Every pen mark on the paper scratched into her own skin. She could not get the image of the sisters out of her mind.
Lilli sat in the lounge area of the backpackers’ hostel watching a yellow-haired girl make a phone call on her laptop computer. Lilli often came here when her room got too small, to sit in the company of strangers. In the hostel she could be friendly without giving away pieces of herself. She would listen to the story of one backpacker—where the person came from, where they were going—and present it as her own to the next. The name of the yellow-haired girl was Miranda and the person she was phoning was Jack. She was going to stay at a spa resort for a few days. She missed him. Lots.
The backpackers were never the same ones twice, yet they always did the same things—read from the library of books left behind, conferred in groups about the best place to get sushi or hamburgers, cheap f lights, massages. Smoked in the courtyard. Some checked for emails at the bank of computer terminals near the reception desk, others sat by themselves writing letters home.
Writing home. What had Lilli said when she gave Chicken the photo? Look after those girls. Now Chicken had sent them to her. A cheery letter and a box of confectionery wasn’t going to do it this time.
The yellow-haired girl clicked her laptop shut. ‘See you,’ she smiled as she left. Lilli gave her a wave.
Lilli knew the one thing that Chicken wanted; it was the same every time. Lilli looked around the room, everyone friendly, mingling. The festival would be just like this. There’d be lots of tourists and visitors, no-one would take any particular notice of her. She wouldn’t write a letter at all—she’d just turn up. A surprise. It only had to be for a day or two. Of course she could go back. Lilli could do anything.
15
Sleepless
Chicken was lying on the bottom of the ocean, eyes open, breathing freely. The surface of the water was a long way above. There were strands of seaweed all around her, and on her body, yet all she could feel were waves of air.
She was awake, the dream slowly seeping out of her, shadows of it vanishing into the night air. Moonlight strained through the thin slats of bamboo. The blind moved in the breeze from the air-conditioner, shifting the light languidly around the room.
Why was she dreaming about Urashima Taro? Was it the new boy at the aquarium? Hiro.
Ry had told Chicken his name at lunch. He was a student from the city. ‘Marine biology?’ Chicken asked, slurping up her noodles. They were fat wheat noodles, soft and slippery, in miso broth with spring onions. ‘Uh-huh,’ said Ry, slurping hers.
So, thought Chicken, only here for the summer. Perhaps he could be persuaded to stay. There was plenty for a marine biologist to do at the aquarium, or Oceanworld, even in the real ocean. Ry was getting married in a few months and, although she was determined to keep working, sooner or later she’d have a baby. The aquarium would need a new trainer. Hiro. After a couple of years he’d have saved enough money to buy a boat. Then he would make Chicken a chest of drawers, or buy her a magnificent birdcage. Together Chicken and Hiro would go to the deep sea, the two of them alone in their boat on the vast ocean, she diving and he tending the lines. Afterwards they’d drink hot tea from the thermos. Lie on the sand and be lapped by the sea. In the fullness of time they would have children. One might even be a boy.
‘Well, are you?’ Ry was waiting for an answer, chopsticks poised.
‘Am I what?’
‘Interested.’
‘I don’t know.’ Chicken lifted more noodles out of the broth. Ry was still waiting. ‘He’s a new face,’ Chicken shrugged.
‘I could talk to him, see if he’s interested,’ Ry offered.
Chicken couldn’t think of anything worse. It had just been idle lunch conversation, but now that Ry had started pushing the ball Chicken could see it gathering momentum, blundering out of control. She didn’t want it going beyond this table. She certainly didn’t want Ry to say anything to the boy. How could she act normally if he knew she was ‘interested’? Most of all, she did not want her mother catching wind of it.
When they had left the noodle shop and were walking along the narrow footpath Chicken said: ‘Does he know about the festival?’
‘Who? That old guy on the bench over there? Maybe. The kid on the skateboard? Maybe not.’ Ry was enjoying this immensely. ‘He knows,’ she said finally.
‘Is he coming?’
‘Maybe.’
Chicken had no idea what time it was or how long she’d been awake. Her body was still but her mind was overf lowing. She looked at the family tree of photos, everyone striped, peering through bars of light and dark. Chicken got out of bed, pulled up the blind, letting the moon f lood the room.
She looked out the window, at the sheen of moon on the sea. Did the Great Ones know the first time they saw each other or did the love inch in gradually?
Chicken returned to her bed, lay on top of it, her limbs stre
tched out. Moonlight fell on the photo of Cedar and Pearlie, making the sisters sleek and glossy.
Everyone knew the story of Urashima Taro but it was never one that either Cedar or Pearlie told without prompting. They much preferred stories about girls in the woods—either visiting a grandmother, or discovering a house where bears lived. When she could be persuaded to tell the story of the fisher lad, Cedar’s version was cursory. Her princess did not even have a name. Pearlie at least went into more detail—the princess’s name was Otohime. Urashima Taro became her husband instead of just being a guest in the sea palace. The colour of the smoke in the magic box was purple. Cedar said it was white.
‘Don’t they like that story?’ Chicken asked Lilli one night, their small voices whispering into the dark.
‘Maybe they don’t want little girls to go looking down under the seaweed. Instead of a princess it might be the smiling lady you see.’
Chicken looked at the space beside her. She could almost see the slight depression where Lilli’s futon used to be. Chicken had the room to herself now, she could move her bed to wherever she wanted, to a different place every day. But she didn’t. It stayed here, in the place it had always been.
Perhaps some of Lilli’s dreams were still there, caught in the weave of the matting. Chicken got off her bed and lay down in the space. Her fingertips touched the smooth fibres, their pleasant vegetal smell entering her nostrils.
Lilli told Chicken all about the smiling woman, keen to show off her knowledge of sea lore. She turned on her bedside torch and held up a mirror to her sister’s face. ‘Smile,’ she said. Chicken smiled. ‘It looks like you, doesn’t it?’
‘Exactly like me.’
‘In the mirror it’s your ref lection, but if you see a face like that down in the water, beware. It’s the smiling woman. She assumes the appearance of whoever she meets. She offers an abalone to you but if you take it she grabs your hand and leads you away.’
‘Where to?’ Chicken whispered.
Lilli was holding the torch under her chin. She looked like a ghost. ‘No-one knows. No-one has ever come back.’
‘Does she take you to the sea kingdom?’
‘The princess would never let her in. The smiling woman leaves you in the seaweed. OK, now go to sleep.’ Lilli turned the torch off, smothering Chicken in darkness.
‘Lilli?’ She could barely get it out, her mouth dry and dusty.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you like to sleep in my bed?’
‘Why don’t you come over here. My bed’s bigger.’
Chicken lay there, unable to move.
‘Well, are you coming?’ she heard Lilli say.
‘Turn on the torch.’
‘Don’t be a baby. It’s only a little way.’
‘But if I tread on a crack a ghost might get me.’
Lilli sighed and shone the torch on the matting. ‘No cracks, OK?’
Chicken got up and scrambled quickly across the f loor, worried that Lilli might turn the torch off before she’d reached the bed. Chicken climbed in, and big sister Lilli pulled the covers up over both of them, making it nice and warm.
Lilli started to draw soothing little circles on Chicken’s arm. ‘Do you want me to tell you the Urashima Taro story?’
‘Can we have our heads out?’
‘OK,’ said Lilli, folding the cover down. ‘Once upon a time there was a kind handsome fisher lad called Urashima Taro who rode on a turtle’s back to the palace under the sea.’
‘You forgot the boys on the beach.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘It is. That’s the reason the turtle takes him.’
‘Would you prefer to tell the story, Miss Smarty Pants?’
‘No.’
‘Promise you’ll be quiet the whole time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘I promise.’
Lilli started again, at the beginning, with Urashima Taro freeing a turtle from the boys who were tormenting it. ‘A few days later, when the fisher lad was out in his boat, he heard his name being called, but there was no-one about, just the blue sea and the sky. Presently a turtle, the very same one that the boy had saved, popped up. “Greetings, Urashima,” said the turtle. “Thank you for saving my life. As a reward for your kindness and bravery the sea princess invites you to the palace as her special guest. Hop on my back and I will take you.”
‘So Urashima got on his back. The turtle dived down and swam and swam until they reached the palace.’ Chicken was bursting to ask what happened to the boat, how long Urashima could hold his breath, but she remembered her promise. ‘How beautiful the sea palace was, built of coral and decorated with pearls—lions made of pearl, birds and dragonf lies. In the palace gardens it was spring, summer, autumn, winter, all at the same time. In the spring section were avenues of cherry blossoms, in summer big ripe tomatoes and plums. Autumn had maple leaves of every colour, and in winter there was bamboo laden with snow.
‘But by far the most beautiful thing of all was the princess. Her hair streamed over her shoulders, her gown shimmered with gold and silver. When she spoke it sounded like water music.
‘Urashima immediately fell in love with her and she with him. It was all so perfect that Urashima thought he must be dreaming. “No,” said the princess. “You are in the land of eternal youth. We shall get married and live happily forever, as young as we are this day.”
‘And so they married. After three days Urashima Taro remembered his family in the village near the beach where the turtle first appeared. He had grandmothers and a mother and father who were waiting for him. I think he had a little sister too. He asked the princess for permission to go back. The theSeaBed princess was very sorry to see him go, but she didn’t get cross. In the sea palace no-one ever got cross. She gave Urashima a parting gift, a magic box tied with a red silk cord and red silk tassels. He had to promise never to open it.
‘Once again the fisher lad climbed on the turtle’s back, and before he knew it he was home. But it was all so changed. He couldn’t find his house, though he searched and searched, and his family had disappeared too. Finally, he stopped a fisherman on the beach and said: “My name is Urashima Taro. Do you know where my family is?”
‘The fisherman looked at him strangely. “Is this a joke?”
‘“A joke? No.”
‘Then the fisherman said: “There was a boy called Urashima Taro who used to live here but he vanished three hundred years ago. His family is all dead.”
‘Poor Urashima was cast adrift. How had three hundred years passed when it had only seemed like a few days?
‘His family was gone. The beautiful princess was all he had in the world. He stood looking at the sea, waiting for turtles, but none came for him. Then he remembered the box. Surely if the princess knew how grief-stricken he was she would forgive him for opening it. The box was his only link to her.
‘He undid the red silk cords, took off the lid, releasing wispy clouds of smoke. Urashima Taro’s hair immediately turned grey, his skin wrinkled and he fell down, never to get up again. The smoke in the box was his mortality.’
Chicken waited but Lilli had finished. Both Pearlie and Cedar ended with: ‘And then he woke up from his dream.’
‘What’s mortality?’ asked Chicken.
‘It means he died.’
‘That’s a bit sad.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed with the princess.’
‘Or not opened the box. As he promised.’
‘Exactly.’
Lilli and Chicken lay there, eyes open in the dark. Then Chicken felt her sister’s breath tickling her ear. ‘I know a secret about the princess,’ she whispered.
‘What is it?’ Chicken whispered back.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Ever. Otherwise the person will die of shock.’
‘I promise.’ Lilli found Chicken’s hand. ‘Wrap your little finger around mine and pull, hard as you can.’ Chick
en did as she was told. ‘Good. Now promise again.’ Chicken promised again. ‘OK, this is the secret. The sea princess’s real name is Mitsi. She used to live in this house and play with me.’
‘The sea princess lived here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will she come again?’
‘No. She sent you to play with me instead.’
It wasn’t till a long time after, when Chicken noticed gaps in her family tree, that she found out who Lilli’s sea princess really was.
Chicken looked at the space where the photo of her and Lilli used to be. Her sister would have the letter by now. If she was there to get it, not in the Sahara or the Andes or some other faraway place. Chicken felt her heart squeeze. Lilli travelled all over the world—what was so hard about coming home?
16
Ticket holders only
WAITING ROOM: TICKET HOLDERS ONLY. Lilli sat on one of the moulded plastic chairs welded together to make a bench, twelve seats in all, two rows of six back to back. The man sitting directly behind her was wearing a hat. She could not lean back without coming into contact with the brim. Lilli was on the end of the row, her suitcase tucked in close beside her like a well-trained dog.
She had walked it along the concourse festooned with posters of travel advertising—palm trees framing white-sand beaches, laughing young women in aqua blue swimming pools sipping colourful drinks in wide martini glasses. Another one, a steaming bubbling spring in front of a snow-capped mountain, sported a caption which read: If you want to be really cool this summer, try this. They f licked by as she passed. Near the end of the concourse Lilli turned left and took the escalator down to the platform, passing through a portal into an older, forgotten part of the station.
The super-fast trains that travelled between the major cities left from sleek modern platforms whose turnstiles you could see from the lofty main entrance. A continuous stream of people passed through them, under the main display board on which destinations rolled over like numbers on a slot machine.