by Susan Barker
‘There is nothing wrong with the fork,’ I inform Mama-san.
‘Watanabe!’ she shrills, jabbing the fork in hazardous proximity to my eyes. ‘It still has cheese on it.’
I take the fork from her and squint at it. There does appear to be some congealed substance clinging to the stem.
‘I apologize. The dishwasher must be low on detergent.’
I bow my head for the appropriate length of time to demonstrate remorse. I must be having a rare off-day. Such is the dazzling complexity of hyperspace that it can occasionally induce mental fatigue.
‘Watanabe, I want you to do that whole bucket again. This establishment has standards of hygiene to maintain. Once you have finished the cutlery the oil in the deep fryer needs changing: we cannot continue serving brown french fries to our customers . . .’
Mama-san nags with uninhibited abandon. Though her sour reprimands are unpleasant to the ears, I bear it. I recognize the true source of Mama-san’s anger and frustration. A swift hormone analysis of her blood tells me her oestrogen levels are at an all-time low. The onset of the menopause. Her subliminal thought waves are restless with anxiety, turbulent with fears of hot flushes and osteoporosis. She waves a spatula in my face and persists in her raging discharge. Mr Bojangles yaps excitedly, delusions of supremacy bouncing within the confines of his tiny canine skull. Contained within the stomach of Mr Bojangles are the following: half a pound of rabbit-liver paté, the nozzle from a hairspray canister and a small colony of threadworms. I shift my weight from my left foot to my right, waiting for Mama-san’s sabre-rattling to wind down. I remind myself that her scolding is nothing more than an attempt to reassert control when confronted with the deterioration of her body. I experience a twinge of sympathy. I may be a mere kitchen hand but at least I have my youth and the glorious omniscience of hyperspace.
‘. . . And don’t forget to clean the grease from the extractor fan!’
I nod. Mama-san turns on her heel and starts towards the bar. The clip-clop of her heels and the protruding bustle of her dress remind me of a centaur. And then . . . silence. My eardrums rejoice in the absence of pain. I return to slicing the shiitake mushrooms, watching as the knife dissects each spongy fungal pore. In the far corner of the kitchen lives a family of cockroaches. They scuttle about behind the grime-coated skirting board, black armour gleaming, serrated mandibles twitching. I pause for a moment to observe them.
Beyond the belt of Orion, beyond the spiralling arms of Alpha Centauri, at the very periphery of space, there is a zone where anarchy reigns. Where the forces that govern the universe revolt and run amok, bringing chaos to all physical laws.
It is in these dark regions of the universe that there came to be a planet as flat as a disc. This planet is inhabited by a species called the Omegamorphs, a species with an entirely two-dimensional mode of existence. This means that they are completely flat, and when I say flat I don’t mean flat like paper. I mean they have absolutely no 3-D projection.
Despite this handicap the Omegamorphs have evolved into highly intelligent life forms, blessed with a peaceful, educated civilization. They move about their planet by sliding across its flat surface. When they arrive at the planet’s edge they simply flip themselves over to the other side.
One day Omegamorph 245HQK is sliding on his way to college, minding his own business, when a thunderclap resounds above him, a great cosmic echo reverberating through the skies. Omegamorph 245HQK is puzzled but he cannot look up to see what it is. In his world there is no such thing as vertical perception, only horizontal. But he can hear a voice, booming down from the heavens.
‘Greetings, Omegamorph 245HQK. I am the intergalactic astronaut god of the third dimension. And I have come to liberate you from your tedious, flat little world.’
Omegamorph 245HQK is intrigued. He thought the third dimension existed only in comic-book mythology.
‘As intergalactic astronaut god I am invested with the power to elevate you to the next level of reality, though I must warn you: the process is very risky and may be accompanied by dizziness, nausea and headaches. Sometimes nosebleeds too. Worst-case scenario is you go insane.
‘And even if your mind is robust enough to cope you will suffer exquisitely. Unique in your genius, you will become isolated from the rest of the Omegamorphs, cast adrift as the sole figure of enlightenment.’
Omegamorph 245HQK finds the idea of this rather appealing.
‘So happy, ignorant fool or prodigious son of the third-dimensional gods? Which is it to be? I will give you a moment to mull it over.’
Omegamorph 245HQK, who is not particularly keen to attend his afternoon lecture on Keynesian economics, does not hesitate in his decision. ‘I would like to be a prodigious son of the third-dimension gods – if you don’t mind.’
No sooner have the words been uttered than the fabric of space-time wrenches apart, and Omegamorph 245HQK is yanked into the third dimension.
In the span of a heartbeat he possesses perfect knowledge. Though he still rests upon the flat surface of his planet, his senses float in a perpendicular realm, bestowing on him a bird’s-eye view of his planet, enabling him to witness all his fellow Omegamorphs sliding about their business. To his horror he realizes that he can now see inside them, the visceral events of their flat bodies exposed in excruciating detail. His new perception withholds nothing. He spots his mother pruning her bonsai, his little brother, Omegamorph 783HTY, snivelling because his Digimon cards have been stolen. His mind begins to crumble beneath the enormity of it all.
‘Either this is madness or this is Hell!’ he bellows to the intergalactic astronaut god. With his new panoramic vision Omegamorph 245HQK casts his eyes skyward for the first time. He spots the astronaut god’s spacecraft, hovering like a giant silver kidney-bean above.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he cries. ‘Being able to see everything like this is really freaking me out!’
‘Too late,’ replies the astronaut god. ‘We have to get going. Enjoy your new powers of cognition.’
And with an eardrum-perforating sonic boom the spacecraft vanishes, leaving Omegamorph 245HQK alone to deal with the terrifying consequences of his new gift.
The history of science involves the acceptance of concepts beyond your imagination. But discovering hyperspace is akin to waking one day to find the earth careering from its solar orbit into deepest space. Reality as I knew it was for ever changed. I had stumbled upon a realm two millennia of bungling scientific investigation had completely failed to detect.
I soon learnt that all the scientific theories mankind has assembled are mere shadows of the truth. That the truth in its entirety lies in hyperspace. Here in the fourth dimension quarks and neutrinos perform with the brazen abandon of circus seals. The Unified Field theory – the much coveted Holy Grail of physics – flaunts itself like a debutante at a charity ball. So why, I hear you ask, am I withholding this infinite wisdom? Why don’t I go ahead and alter the landscape of modern physics for ever? My silence is not of my choosing. My transformation into a higher life form has placed a conceptual chasm between myself and the rest of civilization. Human language simply lacks the range and power to communicate the reality of what I see. I could speak for all eternity and not convey a thousandth of it.
We are alone, Mary and I.
I mop the floor and watch as Mary moves about the dank gloom of the lounge, radiating her soft nebulosity. She is busy ferreting behind the sofa cushions; a private ritual for her ever since she found a ten-thousand-yen note tucked away there last month. All kinds of stuff falls from the pockets of the clientele into the sofa’s dark crevices: gold cufflinks, business cards, vials of Viagra. I should tell Mary that she is wasting her time, that the only thing the sofa will yield tonight is a defective plastic lighter. But I like to watch her as she flings the cushions aside, fluff and grit collecting in her French-manicured nails.
A schmaltzy, instrumental version of ‘Norwegian Wood’ plays in the bar, sound waves billowi
ng the sentimental melody into our ears. In the fourth dimension, music is an enigma solved. Why does a rising crescendo exult the spirit? Why does a minor chord evoke sadness? Because music stirs the ether in which our emotions float – a metaphysical feat witnessed only in hyperspace. I watch the melody tiptoe across the threshold of Mary’s subconscious. She looks up from her scavenging, wondering what has come over her. I heave the slimy tendrils of my mop back and forth, feigning ignorance.
My hankerings for Mary may smack of juvenile infatuation, but that is not the case. Sure, I used to get crushes on girls when I was a naïve high-school student, but those crushes were incited by superficial features, such as hair and eyes and personality. The perspective of hyperspace allows me to appreciate Mary’s inner beauty; the fine vaulted architecture of her mind; the way the right hemisphere of her brain lights up as she scrawls left-handed upon the food-order pad. While most people marvel at her svelte figure and blond hair, I am busy admiring the tightly coiled python of her intestines; the vivid, fiery arteries spurting blood to the extremities of her flesh . . .
‘Something the matter, Watanabe?’
I start at Mary’s voice, its serrated edge cutting through the gentle waves of Muzak. ‘No.’
‘It’s just that you were staring at me.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
Mary has begun to emit powerful pulsars of suspicion in my direction. I duck beneath the rim of my baseball cap and grip the mop handle, my knuckles whitening, sweat clamouring to evacuate the palms of my hand.
‘By the way, could you put some more detergent in the dishwasher? The glasses keep coming out stained.’
I penetrate the stainless-steel exterior of the dishwasher and see that detergent levels are sufficient, but I nod, put my mop into the bucket and wander into the kitchen.
I lug the heavy six-litre container of detergent back into the bar. The scene before me wrenches me apart. Mary’s boyfriend has arrived in my absence and the pair are now canoodling. I stall in the doorway, debating whether to slip back into the kitchen, then Yuji spots me.
‘Hey, Watanabe-san,’ he says, releasing Mary. ‘How’s it going?’
I grunt ambiguously.
‘I’ll just get my jacket,’ Mary tells Yuji. She walks away, throwing him a backwards smile – the happiest smile she has smiled all evening. A dull, toothache throb of suffering consumes me.
Yuji wanders over to the bar, his brawny musculature rippling. I cheer myself by surveying his puny walnut brain and the flaccid tar receptacles embedded in his chest (left lung: 540 ml tar deposits; right lung: 612 ml).
‘Hey, Watanabe, can you pass me that bottle of sake? No, the larger one. Thanks.’
Yuji smiles, but I refuse to indulge his cheap camaraderie. I only have to pierce the fog of testosterone shrouding his brain to see how he disrespects Mary, how he tells his friends she is his English whore. Hidden away in his memory depository I see the broken wrist he once dealt his ex-girlfriend and seethe. Yuji grins, mistaking it for an expression of sociability.
‘Y’know what, Watanabe, you should come out drinking with us some time. D’you remember Aiko? Hot little number, isn’t she? She was asking after you last week . . .’
I baulk at the mention of Aiko. Aiko worked here last autumn. She had a mania for Hello Kitty friendship bracelets.
‘Hey, Mary. What do you think about taking Watanabe out with us tonight . . . introducing him to the ladies?’ He winks at me.
Mary walks towards us, tightening the belt of her jacket. She smiles, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Yeah, why not? It’ll be fun. We’re going to the Atrium. Do you want to come?’
‘I have work to do.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a word with the old lady. You can finish it tomorrow,’ Yuji insists, anticipating the hilarity quotient of mission Get Watanabe Laid.
I refuse. Yuji continues to harass me until Mary, embarrassed on my behalf, begs him to stop. Then they leave, the double doors swinging shut on Yuji’s laughter. Harsh, metallic, empty laughter.
More than anything I wish I could liberate Mary from the evolutionary ghetto of mankind. To usher her into the magnificent kingdom of hyperspace, introduce her to the nether realm beyond the tangible senses. We would communicate at the speed of light through the mutual interception of psychic emissions. We would race through the intoxicating wilderness, make the whole of hyperspace our playground.
We would know happiness in its purest form.
In hyperspace many secrets of the cosmos are divulged; how many angels can dance upon the head of a pin? What proportion of the clientele at The Sayonara Bar wear toupees? In the fourth dimension all this is revealed – and more.
Life as omniscient prophet of hyperspace has many rewards, but unfortunately ability to read the future is not one of them. I remain as ensnared in the present as the rest of mankind, the future just as mysterious to me as it is to you. This said, I do possess one avenue into the future: my meta-readings of other people’s intentions.
I saw something last week. A glimmer of evil to come, incubating in the mind of Yuji Oyagi. Since I saw it, some 174 hours 36 minutes ago, I have been trailing Mary. Before work, after work – it has become a full-time occupation. I am her scrawny shadow as she lugs her laundry to the coin-op, as she throws breadcrumbs for the ducks in Osakako park. This may seem excessive, but I cannot rest so long as the potential danger is there. I need to keep her under constant surveillance. I need to be there if anything should happen.
At the Atrium I sip at a bottle of Asahi beer and lean over the balcony railing, peering down at the intoxicated masses below. Hundreds of bodies, writhing in their youthful prime. The flailing motor coordination, the alcohol-heightened promiscuity – it’s all too familiar. The mass of shiny, smiling faces does not disguise the reek of despair and nihilism that pervades these places. Mary dances alone on the outskirts of the dance floor, her hands scything the air with breathtaking fluidity. When she dances, her mind slips free of whatever is troubling it, floating in a sea of endorphins. Yuji and two of his friends occupy a sofa at the other side of the club. They sit like feudal lords, legs fanned out, working their hoodlum image, letting everyone in the vicinity know who the resident alpha males are.
Look at those geeks over there, jealous of how hard we are. This Tommy Hilfiger shirt makes me look like the Japanese Tom Cruise.
Yuji Oyagi, 23, gangster’s lackey
When Yuji’s hand brushed my thigh just now it felt like . . . electricity. Christ, this is driving me insane. I have to tell him how I feel. Oh please, God, don’t let him be repulsed!
Kenji Yamashita, 26, gangster’s lackey
No, mother! I won’t do it! I won’t put bleach in her drink. She’s a nice girl. She hasn’t done anything to us . . . No! That’s not true. I could never love anyone more than you!
Hiroya Murasaki, 32, bartender
After assessing the bland mental emissions of Yuji and his cohorts I decide that they pose no real threat tonight. I’d better stick around, though. If I left and something were to happen to Mary I would never forgive myself.
6
MR SATO
I
And here I am again. At the kitchen table, deprived of sleep for a second night in a row. Watching the darkness listlessly succumb to an ashen grey dawn. I keep replaying the incident over in my mind, trying to distinguish between waking and dreams, attempting to rationalize that which shuns explanation.
Yesterday morning I woke in a terrible state. I had spent the night dozing, waking every few minutes to find my limbs in all manner of contortions, and my muscles were knotted, as if tied up by a mischievous troop of boy scouts. But despite this I was up at six thirty as usual, in time for the daily radio callisthenics broadcast. Mid hamstring stretch it dawned on me that I had neglected to iron my workshirt the night before. I erected the ironing board and grouchily ran an iron over a crumpled shirt, scalding my hand with steam in the process. That will teach me! The little om
issions prove very troublesome later.
My lack of foresight cost me precious minutes. I left the house in a rush, anxious to catch the 7.45. If I missed the 7.45 there wouldn’t be another express until 8.13. Barely had I reached the front gate when my progress was thwarted.
‘Mr Sato! Mr Sato!’
I lamented my bad luck. Mrs Tanaka couldn’t have picked a worse time to accost me. She came limpingly towards me, her artificial hip no doubt aggravated by the cold weather. Her slippers left a trail of footprints across the frost-laden lawn.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tanaka, but I cannot stop and talk. I am very late.’
‘Tssk!’ said Mrs Tanaka. ‘This will take only a minute. Besides, when else can I talk to you? You didn’t get home until 10.45 last night!’
To Mrs Tanaka my being late for work is a trifling and inconsequential thing. I resigned myself to a lengthy delay.
She looked me up and down, taking no pains to conceal her displeasure. ‘You look very peaky and anaemic, Mr Sato,’ she commented.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Most unhealthy.’
With each word a puff of mist was dispatched into the icy morning air. I brought my fingers to my face, as though the truth of her statements could be deduced through touch. Mrs Tanaka pulled her patchwork shawl tightly around her shoulders.
‘You obviously haven’t been eating enough red meat. Why don’t you come to my house for dinner on Sunday? I will cook you a beef steak. And I’ll ask my niece Naoko if she’d like to join us also.’
Mrs Tanaka spoke earnestly, but as she pronounced her niece’s name her sobriety was plundered by an impish grin. As you know, never is Mrs Tanaka more in her element than when she is being meddlesome.
‘I think I might be busy . . .’
‘Nonsense. You never go anywhere at the weekends.’
‘Well, I might have to . . .’ I floundered, stricken by a drought of suitable excuses.