The Pearl Diver

by Jeff Talarigo

  She boils some water on the hot plate, makes green tea from a tea bag. The tea is bitter; she let the bag soak too long. She turns on the shower, lays a towel on the bottom of the tub, sits on it, allowing the water to bounce off her. When she stands, the water is too hot on her head, but down here on the floor of the tub, it is just right.

  It is early when she takes the five flights down. She has used the elevator only once in her time here; she doesn’t like that feeling of dropping. She hopes there is never a fire in this place, the stairs crammed with cleaning buckets, extra bath towels, boxes with small packets of shampoo and rinse, little soaps, discarded magazines, newspapers, comics. All the tiny things to keep the hotel going. She thinks of telling the night manager of the danger on the steps, but he isn’t even there. At the front desk, she leaves her heavy key with the long plastic key chain with her room number and the hotel name printed on it—591 Intelligent Hotel. The night manager is standing outside by the emergency exit, and he bows good morning to her. He reminds her that breakfast is from 6:30 to 9:00 A.M. She walks down the street with nowhere in mind, but she is at the bus center within minutes.

  All around, sections of the cement platform are wet. She looks for other signs of rain, doesn’t remember hearing it last night. There is a splash near her and she sees a thin, scruffy man bent over, scattering water with the plastic bucket he carries. When there is just a little water left in the bucket, he flings the rest of it onto the cement, turning his body as he does in order to fan it out. He disappears into the bathroom and is back again with another bucket, repeating the same pattern. The man works his way through, in and around people hurrying by with briefcases in hand, cans of coffee, tossing lighted cigarettes onto the wet cement, others mashing them with their shoes, the last of the smoke streaming from noses as they jump onto a bus.

  She stands in front of platform number 7, the chairs all taken, six of them by passengers waiting for a bus, the other two seats occupied by a briefcase and a girl’s school-bag. All the time, she has her eyes on the man with the bucket, and when, in about five minutes, the next bus arrives, she claims an empty seat. Bucket after bucket, he must have more than one, she thinks, for he retrieves them too quickly. She watches him, notices a few others glance his way. It takes him about half an hour to finish the large platform, and by then she has a headache from all the noise and exhaust from the buses.

  The man goes back into the bathroom, comes out with a small bag and a large set of pincers. He works his way around the platform, picking up pieces of paper, a can. When he finishes, a couple of discarded cigarette butts have already appeared. He goes into the room, returns again with the bag and pincers, gives the platform another quick going-over. When he finishes, he sits down next to a large black bag, a stack of newspapers tied with twine atop it. He removes his baseball cap, runs his hand through his dirty black hair, turns his head, and coughs deeply several times. He is younger than she first thought. He appears as though he hasn’t shaved in weeks, but she has never been a good judge of this, still isn’t, for at Nagashima nearly none of the male patients had any facial hair. He rests and she watches him as he enters the men’s bathroom, where he stays awhile before coming out with his hair wet and combed back. Now, he looks even younger, perhaps forty or forty-five. His face is a little cleaner, but it is still unshaven, is even more gaunt. The man picks up his bag and the newspapers, goes up the escalator, and she can no longer see him, only hears his cough. She thinks of following him, but it is already past nine o’clock, and now she must go to the convenience store and buy herself something to eat, for she has missed breakfast at the hotel.

  Each of the next two mornings, she sees the man cleaning the platform. It is on the third morning that she sits next to his black bag and waits for him to finish.

  He sits down; the black bag separates them. Only as of late has she felt the need to speak; she is amazed that with all the thousands of people she passes each day, there is no one to talk to. She remembers when she was in Kyoto with the Blue Bird Band, how she had spoken to anyone who would respond. Her ravenous hunger to speak.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  He turns his head, peering over the top of the bag. “I’m only cleaning up.”

  “Do you do this every day?”

  “Clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every day. I have been doing this about a year now, I imagine.” He turns away and coughs.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like it? I don’t know if I like it. It makes me feel like I’m doing something.”

  “That’s what I need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to feel like I’m doing something.”

  “We all need that. What do you do?”

  “I used to be a nurse. You should see a doctor about that cough of yours.”

  “You sound like a nurse. No doctor can help this cough. You worked in this city?”

  “No, I’m only visiting. And you?”

  “I came here a little while ago.”

  She catches sight of a clock, and again she has missed the hotel breakfast and feels hungry.

  “I’m going to have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  “No, but thank you. I have to be going back.”

  He picks up his bag and gives her a swift bow, then disappears up the escalator.

  The man has finished washing up and is drying his face with a towel. He sits down, the black bag separating them, as it has for the past few days.

  “Breakfast?”

  She accepts the sweet bean roll.

  “Do you want something to drink?” she asks.

  “No thank you.”

  She stands and goes over to the drink machine behind them. She inserts the coins, a fleeting memory of her time in Kyoto and how she pulled the cup out before the drink was poured. Now there are drinks in cans, little boxes, plastic bottles, machines all over the place. The first drink machine came to Nagashima a while back and they had one of the staff give a step-by-step demonstration on how to use it; she remembers how the rumbling of the dropping can startled several of the patients. She buys two little boxes of Chinese tea; they drop gently, hardly a sound. She hands one to the man. He bows and offers her another sweet bean roll; she declines, and he finishes it off, along with the tea.

  “I’m sorry, I never asked your name. I’m Miss Fuji.”

  “I’m Yasu.”

  “Do you live near here?”

  In the middle of a drink, he points over her shoulder; then when he swallows the tea, still pointing, he tells her.

  “Over there by the river.”

  “That’s nice over there.”

  He gives her a little twist of his head and nods.

  “I’ve seen people fishing over there. Have you ever?”

  “Sometimes, but there isn’t much in the river except some sardines; every once in awhile there’s a horse mackerel.”

  He wraps up the paper from the sweet bean rolls, takes her box of tea, picks up a candy wrapper, and throws them into the garbage.

  “If people today had a little more pride, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time cleaning up after them. But I guess as long as I’m willing to pick up after them, they will continue. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Thank you for breakfast.”

  Afternoons, she spends roaming around through the arcade area and past, but rarely into, the department stores. The large department stores are so cramped, but sometimes she’ll go in and sit on one of those benches they have near the bathrooms, let the air conditioning cool her. One day, while sitting, she saw a mob of people. She couldn’t see why they were all pushing, and when she got up and went to have a look, she was shocked that it was a bunch of discounted umbrellas they were swarming over.

  She thinks about going to the library, over there on the other side of the river. It is a nice library and she has been there a couple of times. At about two o’clock, she stands in front of one of the la
rge department stores and waits, along with a small crowd gathering there. At exactly two, the large clock begins the melody and she sees the small dolls come out from behind the doors, two by two, twenty in all. Each is wearing a costume from a different place, a Japanese boy with a headband and small taiko drum; a girl with long black hair, wearing a hula skirt; another doll, this one with wooden clogs. At least once a day, she tries to come here and watch the clock, to see the children staring up at it, some dancing to the song. It is still a surprise to see so many children, any children. She watches the clock until all the dolls have gone back inside.

  The crowd disperses, and when she, too, starts to walk away, she takes only a few steps before stopping. She thinks at first that she is mistaken, but when she looks again, she knows that it is him. She isn’t sure whether to say hello, but she quickly dismisses this thought, knowing how she would embarrass him. Besides, what would she say? Would she drop a few coins into his nearly empty hat? Like the dancing dolls, she retreats into the department store, trying to regroup her thoughts.

  She is on the opposite side of the street from the department store, and if she doesn’t see him, she will go over in front of the clock. Still, she hasn’t figured out what to say to him, and ever since she first noticed him there, she hasn’t shown up at the bus center in the mornings, choosing to eat her breakfast at the hotel. It is now nearing six and the clock will play only twice more today.

  “What are you doing, Miss Fuji?”

  Hearing her name startles her.

  “I was looking for the time. How are you doing, Yasu?”

  “I’m okay. I thought that maybe you had left town. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “I went away for a couple of days.”

  “Where did you go?”

  She doesn’t have an answer and so pretends that she hasn’t heard him.

  “I saw you the other day watching the clock. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it is nice. I have never seen anything like that before.”

  “Why didn’t you come over and say hello to me?”

  “When?”

  “The day when you were in front of the department store and you saw me.”

  Again, he leaves her without anything to say. She feels hot and takes out a hand towel, dabs at her face, the back of her neck. The traffic passes by; she hears the clock begin to sing.

  “The clock is playing; you should go.”

  “I don’t need to see it today.”

  She stands there, watching the shoppers, listening to the melody of the clock fade in and out of the noise of the traffic.

  Late the next morning, she meets him at the bus center, as they had planned. There is somewhere he wants to take her, something he wants to show her. They ride the bus about twenty-five minutes from the station and are up near the base of the mountain. When they get off, she offers him some fruit.

  “No thank you. I’ve eaten.”

  “You always say that you’ve eaten, but you’re so skinny. Here, stick these in your pockets and eat them when you want.”

  Away from the bus stop they go.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I told you that I have something to show you.”

  They walk up the gradual slope of the road. The trees grow thicker; there are fewer houses. She buys them each a plastic bottle of juice from a vending machine. He stops every few minutes and they rest, take a drink of the juice.

  “Why are you so fascinated with those drink machines?”

  “I told you that they hardly have any where I come from. But they are everywhere, even up here near the mountain.”

  “Drink, cigarette machines. I heard that they even have them at Mount Fuji.”

  “Have you been to Mount Fuji?”

  “No, only something I read about. Vending machines right on top of the mountain. Garbage all over. They say the stench along the trail is terrible.”

  She is silent, can’t believe what he has said.

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Many years ago. My uncle took me when I was nine. I don’t remember garbage or any terrible smell.”

  “More respect for things in those days.”

  They continue up the road until they arrive at a small mountain trail.

  “I don’t think I can climb all the way to the top.”

  “Just a little more. What I want to show you is up this trail a little.”

  For another five minutes, they continue along the dirt path.

  “Okay, they will be up along here.”

  “Who?”

  “The men I am going to show you. You will see them scattered all through this area up to our left. Keep walking and I’ll tell you about them later.”

  As he said, she sees several small clusters of men sitting on blankets or tarps; some of the men have on suits, others only a white dress shirt without a tie. One man is playing with a calculator; another has a comic book. A few are talking, while others are hunched over a mah-jongg board. After several minutes, they stop, having passed by about a dozen men. She takes a drink, tries to slow her breathing, dry the sweat that has formed on her face.

  “What are they doing?”

  “They come up here every day and stay until early evening, then head home.”

  “But what do they do?”

  “They are living a lie, Miss Fuji. Each day, they leave home in their suits, take their briefcases, as if they are going to work. Their wives have even prepared lunch boxes for them. But what their wives don’t know is that their husbands have all lost their jobs and that they come here and wait out the day before going home at night.”

  “Won’t their wives find out?”

  “Eventually, they will have to tell them or . . .” He pauses and takes a drink, adjusts his baseball cap. “Or they will find out. That’s what happened to me. My wife found out. I didn’t go up a mountain like these men; I went to parks or rode trains to different places. But I was living a lie, like them. Now I am just trying to live.”

  “You lost your job?”

  “I became sick first; then I was released from my position.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have a sickness, one they don’t know much about. It’s rather new. One that deprives a person of all dignity, one that leaves you to wither away, to die alone.”

  She stares at him, not to bore deep into his being, but her years as a nurse have taught her to notice physical signs. Other than the cough and a blisterlike spot on the side of his neck and the one she has seen on the top of his forehead, along the hairline, she sees nothing else that would make her believe that he has leprosy. His thinness doesn’t point to this, either. He stares back at her and she feels as if he knows something about her, as if he brought her here to make a point that she, too, is living a lie.

  “So, you are not from around here?” she asks.

  “No, about one hundred and fifty miles from here. My wife and son now live with her mother. They told her family and friends that my company transferred me to Tokyo. That’s why they haven’t seen me around. On the holidays, they say that I am too busy to come home, or they go away for the holidays, say they are meeting me and we are going to a hot spring or something.”

  “Don’t people think that it is a little strange?”

  “Maybe at first, but the longer it goes on, people let it go, just keep quiet about it, as if it will all go away.”

  She braces herself against a tree, takes a deep breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to be going back. I don’t feel so good. It’s probably the heat.”

  They retrace their steps along the path, passing the men, many of whom have opened their lunch boxes, taken out their chopsticks, and have begun eating.

  Her restlessness Won’t allow her to sleep. Within seconds of leaving the hotel, she finds a taxi and takes it to the beginning of the arcade shopping street. It isn’t as late as it seems, but the arcade is quiet now, onl
y a few people out. A fast-food restaurant remains open. The rest of the businesses have their metal shutters pulled down; boxes of garbage are stacked in front.

  This is a street she has walked often during these past two months, but it appears so different at night, without the crowds. From the corner of her right eye, she sees one of the boxes move. This is one thing that she feels best about herself—her eyes have always been sharp; not the disease or age—she is sixty-four now—has damaged them. She turns around, sees the boxes move again. Looking closer, she sees that they are not boxes of garbage, but boxes taped and strung together into a house. All along this street, under the roof of the arcade, there are these self-made houses.

  The box houses are only on the right side of the street. She tries thinking of the significance of this but comes up with nothing. Not far from where she first noticed the moving box, a man, not all that much younger than she, stands and is running a plastic string through a couple of flat boxes. He slowly weaves the string through and around until it is one long sheet. Surrounding him, chest-high, boxes make a square. She wants to look down inside the box house, see what he has in there, but she doesn’t go any closer than where she now stands. She moves her eyes to a cluster of men, who are wobbling and staggering against one another, laughing loudly, talking much too loudly for the distance between them. One of the men, a necktie hanging crookedly from his open collar, a gray suit coat on the hook of his finger, stops next to the man building the house and glances at him.

  “What’s that?” the man with the tie stammers, almost falling back, as if the words have shoved him.

  The man continues working on the boxes, his head down.

  “It’s a box. No, excuse me, it’s your house. Is that your house?” He laughs loudly; the other men with him jostle one another and laugh.

  He repeats his question.

  “Is that your house?” More laughs from the others.

  She is so tired from this long day that she only wants to sit down right here in the arcade, curl up, and sleep. She leans against one of the shuttered shop doors and watches the drunk men laughing and taunting. The man still ignores them, stoops down and places the last flat piece of the box on top, works the corner strings through the top sides of the boxes. The roof shuts him in, away from the men. The drunk man knocks on the side of the box. Knocks again.