by Yoko Ogawa
Still, I have no memory of the face I saw that day. I can’t recall how she wore her hair or makeup. The only thing I remember is that she was busy with some sort of complicated task.
She was standing at her desk, sorting documents. Thumbing through them impatiently, she would write on some, tear others to pieces, and attach labels to still others. Her face was half hidden by her limp, sweaty hair. When the phone on her desk rang, she called rudely for someone else to get it. Finally, it seemed she had finished putting all the papers in order, but then something must have happened because she made a disgusted noise audible even from where I stood and started the process again from the beginning.
But no matter how many times she started over, it didn’t seem to work out. Something always went wrong. She was constantly erasing things she had just written, folding and refolding, stamping something here and there—as though trying anything that came into her head. But the longer she worked—and it seemed as though she might go on forever—the more chaotic the papers became. Nor, through all this, did anyone come to help her.
At last I gave up and left the hospital. I had wanted to see her discharging her duties in an elegant manner, efficiently typing one of my husband’s papers. But how could I feel jealous of someone so pathetic?
* * *
I pulled into the parking lot behind the city hall, intending to walk the short distance to her apartment. I could have found a spot on the street closer to her building, but a parking ticket on a day like this would have been too depressing.
Apartment 508 … five-oh-eight. I muttered the number to myself as I climbed out of the car into the sweltering heat. Almost instantly, I was dripping with sweat. The powder I had applied with such care began to melt under the blazing sun.
As I walked, I recalled, one by one, all the times I had ever been rejected. This process had become something of a ritual with me since my husband’s affair had started. I would unearth memories, beginning in childhood, of places and occasions when someone had hurt me. In that way, I believed, I would see that my pain was due not only to my husband but to the cruelty of countless others besides. I found it somehow comforting to think that his coldness was in no way special or unique.
At first I could recall only two or three instances. But as the connections between them became more apparent, the number grew and the details became more vivid. One by one, incidents I had completely forgotten came back to me as if from nowhere.
In kindergarten, when we paired up to dance, I was always the only one without a partner. I would end up dancing with the teacher, which was terribly humiliating. With an odd number of students in the class, why would the teacher have insisted on dancing in pairs in the first place?
Then there was the time before the class trip when my name was left off the list of room assignments for the inn where we were to stay. I thought I must have missed it the first time, so I checked again. No mistake: my name wasn’t there. Of course, I told myself, it was unintentional, a simple oversight, but my rationalizing did no good. In the end, I didn’t go on the trip. Not because of the list, but because I woke up that morning with tonsillitis.
At fifteen, I took an overdose of sleeping pills. I must have had a good reason for wanting to kill myself, but I’ve forgotten what it was. Perhaps I was just fed up with everything. At any rate, I slept for eighteen hours straight, and when I woke up I was completely refreshed. My body felt so empty and purified that I wondered whether I had, in fact, died. But no one in my family even seemed to have noticed I had attempted suicide.
Then yesterday, at the hairdresser’s, when I asked the stylist to trim in back a bit more, she gave me this nasty look and clacked her scissors as if to say I had no business telling her how to do her job. And she was a young girl, probably just a trainee.
* * *
When I looked up again, I realized I was lost. I had studied the map carefully, but it seemed now as though the city had warped in the heat. Each time I turned a corner, the scene that appeared was different from the one I remembered. The people passing by stared gloomily at the pavement; a stray cat crouched in the shadows of an alley.
Rows of roofs stretched into the distance, and beyond them I could see just a glimpse of the back of the tower. The clock struck two. Though the day was still, the sound seemed to swirl around somewhere high above me before reaching my ears.
When the echo died away, I suddenly noticed an odor in the air. It was sweet and persistent but not at all unpleasant. I took a deep breath and let myself be guided by the smell.
“Fern,” I murmured.
I was standing in front of a large stone house. The heavy iron gate was half open. A massive oak cast a cool shadow. Without a moment’s hesitation, I went in. I walked toward the house, looking up at the windows, then passed around to the back on the west side. The smell was coming from there.
I found a beautiful and meticulously tended garden. Shrubs trimmed with amazing precision lined little green paths. A few blooms still clung to the climbing roses, and clear water flowed from a fountain at the center. Next to the fountain, a tiger lay sprawled on the ground, and next to the tiger crouched an old man.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Come see,” said the man, who was apparently not at all surprised to find me standing there.
“Is it dead?”
“No, not yet,” he said, waving for me to come closer.
As I approached the fountain, I felt a pleasant breeze. Small birds chirped, and it seemed as though the heat that covered the town had suddenly abated.
The tiger was enormous, stretched out against the curve of the stone basin. Its legs were limp, its mouth half open. Its breathing was weak and labored.
“Is it sick?” I asked.
“Yes, it won’t last long.” The old man held the animal’s paw as he knelt beside it, and he seemed so comfortable and confident that I felt no fear. He gestured again for me to approach. He was dressed very formally for a hot summer day, but he did not seem to be sweating at all. He wore an elegant jacket, a bow tie, and pearl cufflinks. His white hair was neatly combed.
I knelt beside him and found I couldn’t resist the urge to rest my hand on the tiger’s back. The smell I had thought was fern seemed to be coming from the animal.
I was struck by the warmth of his body. This was no stuffed beast or a figment of my imagination but a living creature. Its hot mass pulsed under my palm.
“It’s magnificent,” I whispered.
“Magnificent indeed,” the man said as he continued to caress the beast. Its black and yellow fur shone in the light filtering down through the trees. The beautiful stripes, the enormous size—everything about the animal was perfect. Even lying prostrate, it seemed to be coiled and ready to attack; the paws looked heavy. The jaw was powerful, and sharp fangs peeked out from its mouth. Every bit of the tiger seemed to have a purpose, to be ideally suited to the hunt.
“It is yours?” I asked.
“It is.” The old man nodded. A shudder ran through the animal’s belly and it groaned.
“Poor thing,” I said. I tried to concentrate my energy in the hand stroking the tiger’s back. The fur was very thick and soft and pleasant to the touch. The more I stroked it, the more the scent of ferns filled the air.
“There now,” the man murmured. Then he turned toward me for the first time and smiled.
The tiger’s ears drooped and its tongue rolled from its mouth. It began to drool. With its last remaining strength, it pushed closer to the old man.
“There now,” the man repeated, wrapping his arms around the tiger’s neck and rubbing his cheek against its face.
The roses swayed in the hot breeze. Tiny insects danced above the lawn. Spray from the fountain misted down on us.
“I’m afraid I’m disturbing you,” I said, realizing that I was intruding on their last moments together.
“Why would you say that?” the old man said, a hint of reproach in his tone. “You must stay
with us. We need you here.” Then he looked back at the tiger, his eyes full of pity.
The tiger’s breath grew fitful. Its throat rattled; its fangs clattered together. The tongue looked rough and dry. I continued to rub its back; it was all I could do.
The old man held his cheek against the animal’s head. The tiger’s eyes opened and sought his face. When it was satisfied that he was still nearby, the eyes shut again in relief.
Their bodies had become one. Cheek and jaw, torso and neck, paw and leg, bow tie and stripes—everything melted together into a single being. The tiger let out a roar, and as the echo died away so did the beating under my hand. The clicking of fangs stopped, and a final breath seeped from its lungs. Silence descended on us.
The old man continued to hold the animal in his arms. I rose as quietly as I could and left the garden.
* * *
I put the key in the ignition and looked down for a moment at my palms. I wanted to remember what they had just done. Then I turned the key. On the way back, the tomatoes were nowhere to be seen.
TOMATOES AND THE FULL MOON
I checked in at the front desk and picked up my key, but when I opened the door, I found a strange woman and her dog in my room. The woman was sitting up very straight on the sofa, her hands resting on her knees.
“I beg your pardon,” I said and hastily checked the number on the door and my key again. There was no doubt about it: room 101. “I’m sorry, but I wonder if you haven’t made a mistake,” I said, as politely as I could.
The woman seemed completely unabashed and not even particularly surprised. She simply stroked the head of the dog—a black Labrador lying quietly at her feet.
“Where did you come from?” the woman said at last. Her voice was much like a young girl’s, so ill matched to her age and appearance that I found myself momentarily at a loss for words.
“I just checked into this room,” I managed at last.
“So did I.”
“Then the hotel must have made a mistake. We should probably call the front desk. Would you mind showing me your key?”
“Key?” she said, tilting her head and staring at me as though I had used some obscure medical term.
“Your key,” I repeated, beginning to get annoyed. I had not slept the night before due to a deadline, and I had been caught in traffic on my way to the hotel. I was exhausted and just wanted to take a shower and go to bed as soon as possible. “Yes, the key to this room,” I added.
“Oh, of course. I was just looking for it. I’m sure I left it over there, but I can’t seem to find it…” She pointed toward the dresser but made no move to get up. The dog yawned and wagged its tail.
The woman fell silent again and sat as still as a doll. In fact, everything about her was doll-like: her tiny figure, her porcelain skin, her bobbed hair. Her wrists and fingers and ankles were so delicate they seemed as though they would break if you touched them.
“How did you get in here?” I asked.
“From the patio,” she said, pointing in the direction of the French doors.
The sky was clear outside, the sun blinding. The lawn, damp from the sprinklers, glimmered in the light. Children could be heard shouting from the pool across the way; and beyond the pool, the glasslike sea was visible in the distance. A small bird perched for a moment on the back of a patio chair and then flew away.
“The door was open and it seemed like too much trouble to go around through the lobby—so much easier to come in this way, don’t you think?” She was smiling now.
“I suppose so,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. This is my room.” As I said this, I threw my bag on the bed for emphasis.
“Oh dear! I’m terribly sorry. I’ll be going right away.” She clasped a bundle wrapped in a silk scarf under her arm, took the dog’s leash in her hand, and stood up. Now that she was finally on her feet, she seemed even smaller. The dog shook itself and fell in at her side.
I held the door as they made their way outside and quickly vanished in the dazzling light. They left behind nothing but a few black hairs on the carpet next to the couch.
* * *
I rose early the next morning to drive to the tip of the cape and take pictures of the sunrise. Then I went to the fish market to gather material for my article. As I was entering the hotel parking lot, I spotted the woman again.
She was standing by the kitchen entrance, her bundle under her arm. In the other hand, she held a basket brimming with something red. The dog was still at her side.
I pulled into a space and stopped. After folding up my map and returning it to the glove compartment, I got out and made my way across the lot, pretending I hadn’t seen her. I didn’t really know the woman—barely enough to nod politely should I encounter her again. She was the one who had mixed up the rooms, so there was no need for me to go out of my way to be polite. Or so I told myself.
But I soon realized I couldn’t take my eyes off her, that I was in fact spying on her between the parked cars. Somehow she seemed out of place here, not like the usual guest at a resort hotel; something about her set my reporter’s instincts on edge. Or perhaps the sad look in the dog’s eyes simply made me want to find out if there was something I could do to help.
“No, please,” the woman was saying to the man at the door, who appeared to be a cook. “Take them.” She was trying to hand him the basket. “We grow them organically on our farm, but we have so many we don’t know what to do with them. We’d be delighted if you could use them.”
I realized at last that they were tomatoes. The cook raised his hands awkwardly and looked embarrassed, as though unsure whether to take them or not. The woman continued to hold the basket out to him. Finally, the cook accepted some tomatoes, though he seemed to take them just to be rid of her.
“Please, as many as you want. It’s nothing, really. Don’t think a thing of it.” She smiled with apparent satisfaction. Then, dog in tow, she turned and made her way through the cars in the parking lot and disappeared toward the sea—without ever so much as glancing at me.
* * *
The dining room was crowded, filled with children’s voices and clattering dishes. The hotel seemed to be booked solid with young families on vacation. The sea was visible through the spotless windows.
Chandeliers in the shape of seashells hung from the high ceiling. The blue of the tablecloths matched the color of the carpets, which were splotched here and there with sand brought in on the guests’ sandals.
I was shown to a small table hidden behind a pillar. I ordered coffee, two pieces of toast, an omelet, bacon, and a green salad. The toast was warm; and I had no complaints about the bacon or the coffee either. But the eggs were oddly runny. I had ordered a plain omelet, but for some reason the one that arrived was stuffed with diced tomatoes. The salad, too, was covered with tomatoes … no doubt the ones that the woman had forced on the cook.
Just as this thought was occurring to me, I heard a voice.
“Is this seat taken?” She had appeared out of nowhere, smiling broadly. Her bundle was clutched to her chest; the dog’s leash was wrapped around her wrist.
Startled, I choked on the egg and managed only to cough in reply. A moment later she was seated across from me, her bundle on her lap.
“You should drink some water,” she said, sliding a glass toward me. I did as she’d suggested. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she continued. The dog made itself comfortable under the table.
“Not at all,” I said, going back to my omelet.
“I’m afraid I upset you,” she said.
“It’s a common enough mistake.”
“It’s a comfort to hear you say so,” she said. After that, she was silent for a moment. I started on my salad, and she watched me eat.
As she fiddled with the sugar bowl, I noticed again that her fingers were unusually delicate. Her bony shoulders were visible under her blouse and her collarbones protruded above the neckline.
“Are you
on vacation?” she said at last.
“No, I’m here for work.”
“Really? What sort of work?”
“I’m writing an article about this hotel for a woman’s magazine.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
I was getting sick of the mountain of tomatoes in my salad. She eventually finished with the sugar bowl and began folding and unfolding a paper napkin.
“They haven’t come to take your order,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, adding another crease to the napkin. Her eyes never left my face.
“I’ll call the waiter,” I said, starting to signal him over, but she rose out of her chair and touched my arm. Her fingers were icy.
“I said you needn’t bother. I’m not hungry.” She fell back in her chair and I went on eating my salad.
“Do you like the tomatoes?”
I nodded and she let out a little laugh.
“They’re my little contribution,” she said. The omelet lay half finished on my plate, surrounded by yolky tomatoes.
“I know,” I said, forcing down the rest of the egg. I wanted to escape as quickly as possible.
“I picked them up yesterday,” she said. “On a bridge.” My knife scraped disagreeably on the plate. I pretended not to hear. “A truck driver apparently fell asleep at the wheel and his truck turned over. You should have seen it: the bridge was covered with tomatoes. I couldn’t resist picking up a few. I’m afraid the driver died, though: the cab was crushed, and I suppose he must have been, too.”
I set my knife and fork on the plate, wiped my mouth, and then balled up my napkin and dropped it on the table. But before I could move, she rose from her chair.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said, and glided away through the crowded dining room.
* * *
For the rest of the morning, I was shown around the hotel by an assistant manager and allowed to take pictures of the three grades of rooms they had available: standard, deluxe, and suite. Bathrooms, decks, closets, amenities, slippers, minifridges. I took pictures of everything, from every angle I could think of, while the manager babbled on about the beauty and comfort and luxury of the hotel.