by Marele Day
Perhaps it was Yugen who had died, the remains in the urn his own.
His mind was fracturing, disintegrating. He couldn’t stay here, the power transmitter was sending him mad. He started crashing through the bushes.
He heard the high-pitched call of an eagle and saw the feathered legs swooping, claws open. Was the creature going to attack him? Did it think he was prey? He crouched low, hands protecting his head, remaining in this huddle even after the eagle had passed by. Is this how the wild boar felt when it heard the sound of the hunters’ guns? Yugen looked behind him, at the trail of broken vines and f lattened bushes he’d made.
He stood up, willing the hungry carp thoughts to the bottom of his mind. Perhaps the eagle was a hopeful sign, meant that he was nearing the lighthouse. How far did an eagle’s territory extend?
It was beginning to get dark. Yugen trod more carefully now, stepped over tree roots, lifted vines so as not to get tangled up in them. He did not want to miss his footing.
Something shiny caught the monk’s attention. An empty drink can! It did not get here by itself. Surely he couldn’t be far from the path now.
A ridge underfoot, not the irregularity of a tree branch, but straight and sharp. The edge of a step. Three more steps, then . . .
A path.
Yugen was so grateful to see it that he bowed, touching the compacted dirt with his hands.
He could smell the sea again, strode along with renewed vigour, almost running.
Then he stopped. He had no idea where he was going— why was he hurrying? It was almost dark now, he should find somewhere to stay for the night. A f lat piece of ground.
The incline started levelling off, then the path widened into a clearing. Ahead was a building, a concrete cylinder. He had found the lighthouse again. The monk made his way towards it. Not the lighthouse. Even in the dark its stark whiteness would have stood out. Besides, this building was not closed up. There wasn’t even a door.
He heard the stir of leaves as he entered, smelled a faint ashy odour. Yugen took off his pack, sat with his back against the curve of the wall. It was like being in a deep empty well. He tried to meditate but the carp crowded in. There was no-one to strike him, to make them disappear. He tried to get rid of them himself but they would not dissolve. Sitting was pointless; he could no longer meditate. The monk had lost his practice. He lay down on the f loor, watching the carp circling, listening to the sound of waves.
18
The gift of a sister
Lilli crossed the gleaming white marble foyer, stepped into a waiting lift, and pressed the button for the fourteenth f loor. Her ref lection was everywhere in the ascending mirrored cube, even on the ceiling. In those mirrors Lilli also saw the transparent ghost faces of past passengers—a couple beginning their honeymoon, the lonely travelling salesman, the company executive and his mistress. Lilli felt the swirl of them around her. She looked at the f loor to steady herself, the tips of her toes.
At her room Lilli swiped the key card and heard the door click open. Inside it was cool and dark, waiting for her to bring in the light.
She went to the window and opened the curtains. The day was ending, the blue leaving the sky. Darker wisps f loated across it, wind-pushed. A formation of slow-flying geese, or fish lazily streaming with the current.
To one side she could see trees, make out individual leaves silhouetted against the sky. They were black in the receding light, as if night had come to them already. She looked across the bay to the dark smudge on the horizon that held her past. Time was not a continuum. You could not simply turn around and retrace your steps. You could reverse the hands of a clock and tick off the minutes, but the time that was as invisible as air still moved inexorably onwards. For Lilli there had been a distinct severance, a rupture. Her past lay across the bay, separated by water.
She was surprised how ordinary, how innocuous it looked; unthreatening, inconsequential.
Lilli started to unpack, hanging clothes in the wardrobe, placing shoes neatly beneath them, side by side in pairs. The last item was the wetsuit. She fingered the tear in the sleeve, stroked her hand over the body of it. Sometimes she put the wetsuit on, to feel what it was like. Lilli slid the wardrobe door closed, let the clothes loosen up and relax after being cooped up in the suitcase for so long.
Above the bed was a woodblock print of a willowy young woman holding an abalone as big as her hand. She had no goggles, no fins, no basket for her catch. A dark pink sarong was wrapped around her waist, her legs coming out of the folds. It looked as if she were climbing a steep set of stairs, one leg bent up high, pushing the water down, the other dangling, almost touching a rock patched in greens and browns, three abalone still attached to it. Strands of seaweed f loated in the same direction as the woman’s long black hair.
Sea Woman with Abalone. Lilli wondered if she was reproduced in all of the rooms. Reproductions were all that remained. The original artwork was destroyed, sacrificed in the making of the woodblock. With repeated printing, gradually that too deteriorated, wore out.
Lilli took the photograph out of the envelope. It was easier here in the hotel room where everything was impersonal. The photo no longer took her by surprise, pointed at her. Perhaps repeated looking had worn it away too, faded its impact. Just two little girls, one pulling away, the other standing firm.
Years after it had ‘disappeared’ Lilli had found the photo beneath the rose-patterned liner of her underwear drawer without remembering having put it there.
Lilli would not have left without telling Chicken. At the last minute, packed and ready, she was going to put the photo beside Chicken’s pillow, whisper goodbye.
Lilli laid the photo on the bed and took out the letter. Aunt Pearlie was older now than Cedar had been when she’d gone for her last dive. Did Pearlie’s strange behaviour mean she was getting ready for death? After a certain age, when the life force grew weaker, could you just sink into it? In olden days grandmothers and grandfathers sometimes stopped still theSeaBed and didn’t continue, like reindeer that couldn’t make it across the river to winter pastures. Perhaps if the life you knew was disappearing you disappeared too.
You didn’t have to be old to die, you could be young, you could even die before you were born. Sometimes you died without anyone noticing, not even yourself. A trauma, setback, disappointment, a gradual petering out. You kept on going through the motions, catching the train, going to the office.
The sky had become deep indigo. There were specks of light scattered across the bay—on moored boats, in houses on the nearer islands. Lilli’s island was no longer visible. In the near curve of the bay were squares of light marking the windows of other hotels. Occasionally Lilli saw a silhouetted figure move across the light but no-one stood there steadfastly looking out as she was.
She pulled the curtains over the view and switched on the f loor lamp. Its soft emanation brought out the rich burgundy of the lounge chair in the style of a French antique, faux Louis XIV. In front of it was a matching stool.
Lilli saw a man with a pipe in the chair. He was wearing a lightly quilted dressing-gown—a smoking jacket—and reading a newspaper, sitting in a manly position, feet apart, parallel to each other. She could smell the pipe tobacco. It reminded her of a stable. She turned all the lights on and the room returned to neutrality. She sniffed the air; the smell of tobacco was still there, a lingering trace. Perhaps it had come through the air-conditioning from another f loor.
Lilli took off her earrings, tiny freshwater pearl studs, and put them in their small drawstring bag. Then she sat in the lounge chair where the man had been, picked up the phone and ordered room service—a club sandwich and a single glass of wine. She could have opened the half-bottle in the bar fridge but she wanted to be served, to have it delivered to her on a silver platter.
When she had placed her order she idly started writing a list of names on the hotel notepad. Room Service. Pink Panthers. Pamper. She liked that. She said it over to herself
a few times but it started to sound like a grassy plain. She was personally fond of Styrofoam, such a dry f luffy word, but not at all appropriate. Gentlemen Callers. Lilli picked up the phone and said, ‘Gentlemen Callers. How may I help you?’ That was more like it. Geisha Guys. Beautiful. It rolled off the tongue with a natural grace. Geisha Guys Agency? Service? School? Parlour. She would have to find premises, perhaps a room in a bath house or beauty salon. She might have to start in private houses and apartments where women gathered in parties to buy the latest in kitchen gadgets or lingerie when their husbands were at work.
A woman’s every whim would be catered for, men engaged to give pleasure, whether it be worshipping at the lower temple, finding the pearl in the shell, allowing their churning stick to be played with, or simply being attentive to a woman’s conversation, pouring a glass of wine for her, pulling out her chair.
For a woman with a sense of adventure there would be other treats. Sea anemones could be brought into play. Fish. Baby octopuses, one on each breast and one at the lower temple. Koi introduced into bathwater. Lilli imagined the shivery pleasure of feathery tails on the insides of her thighs. If she sprinkled meal they might be encouraged to come right up to the temple door. Then she would draw up her pelvic f loor muscles and suck one all the way inside. Ah.
Lilli heard an insistent knocking. She brought her knees together. Room service. ‘Come in,’ she called, transferring herself to the upright chair at the glass-topped table. A young man entered, dressed in a burgundy uniform and holding a tray. Lilli waited while he set the glass of wine down, long-stemmed as she’d requested, still frosty. With a f lourish he removed the cover to reveal a club sandwich, thin slices of chicken layered with salad greens and semi-dried tomatoes, the whole speared with a large toothpick to keep it in place.
He put a knife and fork either side of the plate, carefully adjusting the placement, lingering over each detail. Lilli thought he might even be so bold as to lay the napkin in her lap, brush his hand over it. Touch her.
He did not make eye contact but his lips seemed to curl into an insolent smirk. Could he tell? Did he know that she went with men? This was a hotel room, she had let him in.
Lilli watched a drop of moisture slide down the side of the wineglass. The table was set but he hadn’t left. Lilli could sense his presence behind her. He was fiddling, doing something. Was he reading the list she had written, the names on the notepad? Taking off his jacket in expectation?
She turned around sharply, ready to tell him he should leave. ‘Sign here, please.’ The room-service invoice. Lilli let go of her breath. She was imagining things. Just a waiter doing his job. She signed. He put the pen away with a f lourish. ‘Enjoy your meal.’ He bowed briskly and left.
Lilli walked softly towards the door, looked through the fish-eye lens to see if he was hovering about. The corridor was empty. She relaxed, returned to the table and prepared to enjoy her meal in perfect solitude.
She took the first fruity sip of wine. Peaches and lemons. Delicious. She could be anywhere in the world, snow-capped mountains outside, or palm trees. The Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty.
Lilli began eating the sandwich, cutting off slices with the knife and fork, bringing the colourful layers to her mouth, chewing slowly, savouring. Perhaps her pleasure parlour could have themed rooms designed to please women. Instead of cars and space shuttles, a bed shaped like an abalone shell. What else would appeal? Shoes. Definitely a room featuring shoes.
The wineglass was almost empty, the sandwich finished. All that remained on the plate were the discarded toothpick and a sprig of parsley. There was no pleasure parlour. None of Lilli’s grand plans ever amounted to anything. It was only ever ideas. She was a travel agent who never went anywhere. She’d left the island, her past; what was the point? Imagined journeys were enough. This was the furthest she’d actually travelled and it was to come back to where she’d started. Planning and pretending were so much easier than carrying anything through. Lilli looked at the suitcase that she wheeled behind her like a compact little poodle. This was all the life she had. She felt the soft melancholy of night creeping in.
Lilli finished the wine, wiped the smear of lipstick off the rim of the glass.
Though the island was a smudge, in her mind she could clearly see the house. As you came up the hill, past the small square of public garden, past the ruins of old timber sheds to where the bigger, more substantial houses were, you saw it, perched there like a seagull: the white house with the blue-tiled roof. Chicken wrote to her that when they started taking in guests Violet always said to them: ‘You can’t miss it—the white house with the blue-tiled roof.’ Perhaps in the off season the house could be turned into a pleasure parlour for women. Lilli smiled at the thought of Violet as the madam of such an establishment.
It was built facing the sea but approaching by road you first saw the side of it. It looked enormous from below but was in fact only two storeys. Even so, it was a large house by island standards. There were four windows along one side and four along the other.
Lilli had already left by the time they got air-conditioning but Chicken had sent her a photo of the new installations. Lilli remembered receiving the letter, Chicken’s neat schoolgirl writing. Those air-conditioning units in no way enhanced the appearance of the building but, for some reason, the fact that Chicken should take a photo of them and send it to her had filled Lilli with waves of inexplicable longing.
Where the road curved near the crest of the hill you came to the entrance. From the front the house was quite narrow so it was good that guests saw the long impressive expanse of the side first. There was a short paved driveway from the road and, usually, a couple of bicycles leaning against the wall.
Then there was the view. From the house you could see so much horizon that it curved. Lilli didn’t believe Grandfather when he said that the line so clearly visible did not exist, that it was a shifting illusion, always out of reach. If you kept going towards it you ended up in the place you started.
Just inside the front door was the vestibule where you took off your outside shoes and put on house slippers. Cedar and Pearlie and Violet rinsed their fins under the tap in the yard, left them propped up to dry near the back door, fish who took off their tails to come into the house.
Inside it was brown and yellowish, the colour of the smell of the matting. You stepped up from the vestibule into the main part of the building. When everyone was at home the vestibule was full of shoes. Thongs, sandals, sneakers. The shoes for best were kept in cupboards in the rooms and carried in your hand till you got to the front door.
Lilli’s first pair of best shoes was shiny black with a pattern of tiny holes at the front and thin straps across the top. It was theSeaBed often difficult to get that strap through the buckle and find the even smaller hole the little prong of the buckle fitted into. To begin with, Cedar had to help her. Cedar was her mama then.
Chicken’s first pair of best shoes was also black with a strap but with Velcro instead of a buckle, much easier for small children to manage. More strongly Lilli remembered Chicken’s favourite thongs—blue with a yellow f lower where the thonging came together.
It gladdened Lilli’s heart seeing this little pair of shoes at the door when she came home from school. Inevitably Chicken’s thongs would be facing inwards, even though the older women told her to point the shoes towards the door, so that when you left the house they would be ready for you. Sometimes when she came home from school, after she had taken off her own shoes, Lilli would turn Chicken’s around to face the right direction. Chicken never seemed to notice which way they faced.
Lilli loved her little sister even before she was born. Though it was Violet and Nori who brought her back from Boat Harbour, Lilli knew that really Chicken was a gift from the sea princess. She couldn’t come back herself so she sent this little one, a sister for Lilli to play with. In the family records Chicken wasn’t officially a sister but a cousin, but that didn’t matter. They
all lived in the same house, one big family.
At mealtimes Lilli helped Chicken with her food, even feeding the little one delicate morsels from her own chopsticks. The family sat around the big table in the dining room where the cedar chest of drawers was. The bottom drawer had been taken out and was being used as a crib for baby Chicken. Darkness swirled in the space left behind. Lilli saw a wisp of cobweb in the far corner.
‘This is where we all started,’ said Aunt Pearlie. Lilli imagined the drawers full of babies, wrapped tightly in swaddling, dolls with no arms or legs, just a head poking out.
It was a family of women: sisters, wives and daughters; there were no brothers or sons. The husbands—the grandfathers, fathers and uncles—were all adopted into the family.
The kitchen with the stove, fridge and, later, the microwave was diagonally opposite the dining room. The corner room downstairs was the bathroom. It had a different colour to the other rooms, though it was difficult to say exactly what that colour was. Neither brown and yellow, nor blue and white. It was a darker, more muted room than the others, yet once your eyes became accustomed to it, quite light.
It reminded Lilli of being underwater—greyish, greenish, bluish. The bathroom had its own particular sound, too, an echoey amplification of tiles and water. Splash and drip, the slurp of pouring, a hand waving through water, the fullness of laughter. Thoughts barely voiced became palpable, travelled around the walls, moving from tile to tile like whispered secrets.
There were two rectangular windows high up in a corner, one on each adjacent wall, with frosted glass to let the light theSeaBed in and, if you opened them, the steam out. When Lilli was a child this was her favourite room. She was going to live in a bathroom when she grew up, have her meals in it, sleep in it too, in the actual bath, her head resting on a small inf latable cushion.