“I asked you why you stole a dead Jew’s hat.”
The roots are rough against his face. “I didn’t steal it.”
Masumi keeps his tone breezy, even friendly, the excitement in his body manifesting as a series of rapid climbs and falls in key. “How do you even know it was a Jew’s?” says Masumi.
“When did I say it was a Jew’s hat?”
“There were French in this camp. They wore hats too. And shoelaces, and they used combs and razors, and they brushed their teeth, and they ate from bowls, with spoons, and they drank water from cups, sometimes cups with darling chips or dents in their rims, and they had broken toys and they made art, even, and they wore fancy dress as well—if not here, then at home.” Masumi crawls around the roots, around the fat man, and kneels in front of him, taking a quick gulp of his brandy. Though crouched he looms, nose pulled back into a purple snout, chin knitted up tight like a waffle. “The point is you might be wearing a Jew-killer’s hat, not a Jew’s, and then how would you feel? Or possibly you are wearing a hat stolen from a Jew by a killer, or possibly it was passed from one dead Jew to another in a series, as they died. You think you know who it belonged to but now it belongs only to you. The dead don’t own anything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Fat Man. He rolls onto his other side, then totters back, back up on his ass to sit against the tree. “Why did you come here?”
“I came here to relax and practice languages. What else could I do here?”
“Do you know what your name means?”
“Submarine,” says Masumi. “Submarine in deep water.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself,” says Masumi. He begins to walk distorted circles around the tree, placing his feet heels-first. “What do you think it’s like to die?”
Fat Man twists out his cigarette in the grass and eats the butt. “I imagine it depends on how you go.”
“Give me a for-instance.”
“You’re talking to a hotel employee, Mr. Wakahisa. I can tell you how to get a stain out of sheets. I can tell you how to make a room smell like new. I can tell you how to fry up bacon just the way you like it.”
Masumi leans against the tree with one outstretched hand, crossing his legs at their ankles. He has very nice shoes that skin small feet; they smell of polish. The laces are neat, tight bows. “As a hotel employee, you are living on my money. So I’m not asking, I’m demanding. Tell me what you think it’s like to die.”
The tree like a willow trembles sympathetically.
“I imagine that for some it’s like a long walk into a deep cave. For others, perhaps, like falling down a long ladder, the hands whipping the rungs as they pass, until they’re all red and swollen, until they become the world, until they become the sun, until the burning hands wink out.”
Masumi encourages the fat man to continue, rolling his hands one over the other as if a reel of a film.
“For some it must be like drowning in a shallow pool. For some like cooking on a spit. For some like a burst of white paint across the vision. For some, like an explosion, beginning in the bowels, tearing loose the limbs, blowing the head sky-high.”
Masumi says, “I think for some it’s like sinking to the bottom of the ocean in a tin can with just one window and no way out. As you go deeper the window turns dark, the deepest blue, your arms and legs go numb. You run out of air. You feel it in your feet first, your hands, and then your chest. Then you don’t feel anything, or see anything, but it’s not like you’re smothering to death, it’s just that the water’s so deep, so dark, the deepest blue.” Masumi smiles. “How do you think it’s going to be for you?”
Fat Man isn’t sure he’ll ever die. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“I have a gun,” says Masumi. He pats his side, where there may or may not be a certain bulge beneath his white coat. “I brought it here with me in case I needed to kill anybody.”
“That’s not allowed in this hotel,” says Fat Man. His heart seems to repeat itself too perfectly, too crisply, several times—droplets falling from a sink faucet.
“Is that the widow’s policy, or yours?”
“This hotel is about peace. It only follows there can be no guns.”
“I know who you are.”
“You can’t even keep my name straight.”
Masumi draws his fingers across the white brim of his hat, left to right, and opens his jacket to reveal holstered gun. “I know who you are.”
“Who am I?”
Masumi says, “Who are you,” and leaves Fat Man alone with the question.
The tree like a willow’s shadow has faded into the general darkness of night—it is all dark, it is all shadow. The tree’s weepy branches touch Fat Man as he stands. He runs a hand over one of them, accidentally pulling loose a leaf. It falls into the shadow. There is a lit window in the distance—Rosie’s. It is a thick square of glass, yellowed. The tree seems illuminated because it is most of what he can see. The grass fades to black as it recedes from him. The cabins are still, empty, square blots of night. He is standing on an island built from what light his eyes can wring from the earth.
HE HAS A GUN
The skritch skritch of busy hands making notes. The jaw-clenching squeaks of new tin chairs on hardwood floors with too little varnish. The sun-bleached stripes that spill from windows across the aisles students crowd. Someone somewhere eating grapes on the sly. Claire chewing her pencil. The teacher’s drone. The white chalk streaks on the thighs of his pants, the ass of his jacket. The white puffs accompanying any sudden movement.
A fly destined to live forever crawling on the ceiling, tasting things no one can see. They must be body oils, body salts, skin cells. Little Boy knows he’s losing something every second of the day. He resents degrading here, in this too-small room, sloughing himself for the flies and mites and other creeping things. The children. It’s their snot feeds the flies. That’s why they creep under the desks, tickling young knees.
Little Boy’s teacher calls him to the front of the class, one hand pressed to his tummy as if he were taking a pledge. He’s written Matthew’s name on the chalkboard.
“What? What do you want, exactly?” All English. He suspects the teacher understands him. The teacher is an educated man. He wears glasses. He has a fussy center part in his graying hair. He ought to know how to talk the way Little Boy talks.
“Matthew,” says the teacher. “Matthew, please come to the front of the class and deliver your recitation.”
Little Boy raises his hand. The teacher sighs.
“Yes Matthew?”
“Whadda you want?” says Little Boy, in English.
“Could you please come to the front of the class and deliver your recitation?”
Little Boy looks to Claire for help. She’s mortified, nearly to the point of tears on his behalf. It must be pretty bad. Peter motions toward the front, walks his fingers down the aisle, mimes loud, obnoxious speech in what seems to be an imitation of their teacher: hand on gut, eyes half-squinted/quarter-crossed, finger twirling in the air.
Sometimes Little Boy can make the teacher forget him by force of will. He stares into the back of the next student’s neck, seeing the strawberry beginnings of a pimple where it meets the shoulders, and a long, stray black hair. He imagines scratching off the cap of the zit—squeezing out the pus.
The teacher says, “Matthew?”
He goes to the front of the class. A room full of children, most taller than him, all more developed, gaze back perfectly blank. They scratch, boys and girls alike, at the hair that prickles from their arms. There’s a boy in the back who’s clearly touching himself with the sort of care and tenderness most commonly found between little old ladies and large, stupid dogs.
“What am I supposed to do up here?”
“Please share your wor
k with the class. You may read from notes if you need to.”
Little Boy looks to Claire. Looks to Peter. His friends, such as they are, have averted their eyes. Claire taps her foot on the floor, a metronome in skirts.
“Ah,” says Little Boy. “I know. You’ll like this!”
“In French, please.”
Little Boy brushes past the bumbling teacher, goes to his desk, and slides out the wide middle drawer, where confiscated items are kept, as well as several candles the teacher uses to light his work after dark. The school building has not been furnished with electric lights, and the oil is expensive. Little Boy takes one of the fresh, unused candles. He walks to center stage, candle cupped in both hands. He turns the candle upside-down. He passes his hand under it, passes it over, as if to draw aside many small, silken curtains.
“What are you doing?”
Little Boy puts his fingers to his lips. “What I do next will astound you.”
“Please sit down, Matthew.”
“An American magic trick,” says Little Boy. “Fire from the hands.”
He presses his fingers to the wick, snaps them, lets go. The wick is cold and still. He does it again. Nothing. No flame. It ought to burn with a Japanese spirit. He tries again. His teacher tells him to sit down, he thinks. But he doesn’t want to sit down. He wants to make a fire for his classmates.
“Wait,” he says. He tries again.
The candle is a candle. It is a little yellow, only a little, the color of mucus. Cold and inert as a stone.
The teacher puts his hands on Little Boy’s shoulders. The pressure of his chalky hands. White prints on Little Boy’s shoulders. “Matthew,” he says, and then some other words that probably mean Little Boy’s in trouble.
“I’ve got it.” Little Boy lifts the candle to his mouth, both-handed, like a goblet. He puts the wick in his mouth, suckles, and slowly pulls it free from his suck. His hands go orange. A small flame on the little candle. Several students clap with half their hearts. “There it is. See how pretty.”
It warms his face from underneath. He imagines the light crawling up his neck, his chin, the sides of his face, highlighting everything sunken and all that protrudes.
The teacher snuffs it with his fingers. Little Boy’s no longer lit up. His hands and face are cold. He sits down, taking the candle with him. The teacher may tell him to bring it back. If so, he doesn’t listen, and the teacher doesn’t press the issue.
Later, Claire passes him a note. “Learn the language,” it says, though in French. He has an inkling what it means. He tries to lose the inkling.
Little Boy knocks on the door of Mr. Wakahisa Masumi’s cabin. He has a bundle of cleaning supplies under his arm. A broom, a mop, a feather-duster, a small folding stepladder, all bound together with a thin white rope tied by Fat Man in a tight bow. Hanging from the other hand, a bucket with a garbage bag inside, several rags, sponges, soap, a water jug. It’s heavy.
He sets down the bucket and leans the bundle against the cabin. Having waited what seems a reasonable length of time, he knocks again. He scratches at his shin with the heel of his shoe, careful not to open the scab from his fall, which has mostly healed, leaving an angry patch of skin. Mr. Wakahisa does not come to the door.
“Sir. Sir.” He looks over his shoulder. “I’ve come to clean your room.”
Nothing. But he saw the Japanese gentleman walk in. He had been waiting outside the cabin twenty minutes, saw Masumi come from the library—where he gave language lessons, no doubt—and watched in hiding as Masumi went inside. Little Boy had waited another ten minutes to let him settle in, and so he did not realize he had been waited for.
Masumi couldn’t have fallen asleep in ten minutes. He must be sitting somewhere inside. There’s a lot of room in there for one person. Several chairs, the bed, a couch. He could be standing. He is not pacing, or if he is it’s in a pair of slippers; Little Boy can’t hear him. He could be in bed reading. He could be feeding the fire. The sun is going down. Little Boy’s shadow stretches sideways, long, like a banner. It seems awfully tall.
Little Boy knocks hard.
“Mr. Wakahisa?” says Little Boy. “Can I please come in? I need to finish this and do my school work.”
As Little Boy attempts to gather his cleaning gear Masumi comes out of his cabin, locking the door behind him.
“John?” he says.
“No, it’s Matthew.”
Masumi speaks now in French. “John, how are you this evening?”
“Matthew,” says Little Boy. “John’s the big one.”
“How are you this evening?”
Matthew shrugs. “Don’t know French. Can I clean your cabin now?”
Masumi tries Japanese. “How are you this evening?”
“Don’t know that either. Are you going to let me in or not? I can come back later.”
And still in Japanese: “Why don’t you learn the language?”
Little Boy lays down his burdens. He looks up at Masumi, arms hanging limp at his sides but hands curled to fists; his lips are sneered. After a long while he says, “They told me you spoke English.”
“I’m trying to teach you. I’m trying to know you.”
“Still don’t know French, sir.”
“English then. You may come into my cabin only so long as you don’t try to clean it. Leave your things there, in the grass.”
“Can I bring them in, so no one sees them there? So I can say I did it? I wouldn’t have to bother you again for days.”
“Yes John,” says Masumi. He takes the bucket himself. “That will be fine.”
“It’s Matthew,” says Little Boy.
“Do you ever drink?” says Masumi. They sit on opposite sides of the table, a gallery of weird liquors between them. Every fruit is represented: cherry brandy, pineapple rum, lemon-lime martini, a globular bottle with clear brownish liquor, oranges floating inside. And other unexpected flavors: chocolate whiskey, toffee something, pine.
“I think I’m not allowed to,” says Little Boy.
The room is very clean. There is a brown screen in the corner with cherry tree shadows painted in black on two of three panels; the center panel has a black sun in its high middle. The dresser has a white powder on its top but otherwise it’s clean. The full-length mirror has several fingerprints across its middle point, oil streaks. The bed is neatly made. There are many trunks beneath the bed. The floor around the stove shows no charcoal specks or smudges. There are several variously sized glasses and flasks littering the various surfaces of the room, but the flasks are all closed and the glasses are dry.
“Why can’t you drink? Perhaps in America such outdated mores still stand, but in France, child, we all drink wine. If wine, then why not vodka? You see where I’m going with this.” He pours Little Boy a glass of the chocolate whiskey. “I think you’ll really like this.”
“I thought Japanese liked sake.”
“Drink up.” Masumi pushes the chocolate drink across the table. Little Boy lets it touch his tongue enough to burn. Knowing now the flavor and the scorch he drinks of it deeply, holding the glass as before he held the candle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Masumi says, “You can tell me anything.”
Little Boy shakes his head.
“You don’t like to talk?”
“Why don’t you take off your hat?” says Little Boy. He gulps down more chocolate. “You’re being rude.”
“John, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He leaves the hat on. “Why don’t you like to talk?”
Little Boy shrugs.
“Are you afraid of what you might say?”
Little Boy shakes his head.
“What might you say, John?”
“Matthew.”
“What might you say, if you let yourself open your mouth? Would you scream? Would you
weep? Would you confess?”
Little Boy finishes his drink and belches loudly. His eyes are bleary, swimming, he can feel them strain. He shakes his head. This looses the tears, makes them into several streams.
“You’re not supposed to drink it so quickly,” says Masumi.
A corner of blue shimmer fabric embroidered with needlepoint stars hangs out of the dresser’s top drawer. Little Boy stumbles across the room to touch it. So soft.
“Does the mold still follow you?” says Masumi. “Do the spores reach for your mouth? Do candles still spark when you touch them?”
Little Boy turns to glare at the Japanese gentleman. He says, “I’ve changed my mind. I want to clean your cabin.”
“You think you’ve calmed but if you were calm then you could speak to me. You think you’ve changed but you haven’t.” He opens his jacket. The holstered revolver is polished and it glints and shines. “I’ve got a gun.”
Little Boy pours himself another drink so later he can throw up. He says, “Who are you?”
“John, I will be your judge.”
“Then I won’t say any more. I’m going to take this glass. Leave my cleaning things outside your cabin for tomorrow. I’ll come back.”
“I’ll shoot you if you go without defending yourself.”
Little Boy tosses back half his second chocolate whiskey. “There’s nothing to say, and nothing to defend. What do you think I did? I didn’t do it. There’s my defense.”
Masumi draws his gun. He spins it on his finger like a fancy cowboy. Stops it aimed on Little Boy, grip tight, trigger half-squeezed. Lets it go and spins it more. His eyes climb and fall like a slot machine spinning as the butt of the gun replaces the nozzle replaces the ass replaces the muzzle.
“Goodnight,” says Little Boy. He leaves the door open behind him.
The ground shifts under his feet like an ocean, or the flesh of some heaving beast. He wants to see the tree. He needs to touch her.
He pauses behind an empty cabin to pee. Some dots his bare shins and short pants. It strikes him that most of the cabins are empty. In the night they are like headstones, faceless as a movie screen without the projector. He hurls his glass against one.
Fat Man and Little Boy Page 20