The world’s oldest map, the Babylonian Map of the World, had a little circle bored through the center. Scholars explained that the hole had come from using a compass to trace the two outer rings of the map. Oghi was captivated more by that hole than by the geometric shapes engraved in the clay tablet, and had stared at it for a long time in the darkened exhibit room of the British Museum. That dark, narrow hole went as deep as the memory of an age that no one could ever return to. The only way to reach that lost age was through that hole, but the hole itself could never be reached.
Why did his wife think she saw him and J kissing? Why was she so convinced she saw something that didn’t actually happen? Maybe she too had felt an enormous cavity open up in the middle of her life. Maybe she’d realized that the life she’d tried so hard to maintain was all for nothing. Maybe in her effort to close that cavity, tormented by a sense of falsehood, she had tended her garden alone, shut herself up in her room, kept on writing in vain despite failing to finish anything she started.
When they were about thirty kilometers from their destination, his wife broke the silence. She said that she’d recently completed a writing project. It had been a long time since she’d talked about writing anything.
“You did? Congratulations! What did you write?” Oghi said without taking his eyes off the road. The number of large vehicles on the road had been slowly increasing.
“It’s kind of special. It’s an open letter to someone.”
“The same letter you were working on last time?” he asked, glancing over at her.
“Maybe it’s more like field notes. On how people turn into snobs.”
She suddenly laughed. Oghi concentrated on driving. There was no reason to get upset at her. Her goal may have been to make him angry, but his was simply to get them to their destination.
In a small voice, she told him what she’d written. The letter described a man who turned into a snob and used coincidence and trickery to get ahead and detailed how lax his morals were. She added sarcastically that his ongoing inappropriate relationship with a younger colleague was a nice anecdote that highlighted his unique sense of ethics. She said she was planning to send the letter to several different addressees. His department office. His university administration. His academic committees. His colleagues.
Oghi struggled to keep calm. As humiliating as it was, the worst-case scenario his wife was hoping to create would never come to be. Oghi must not have looked shocked enough for her, because she kept going. She told him she’d met with J, which did surprise him. He bumped into J pretty often at school, and she’d never mentioned anything. His wife was surely bluffing, trying to trick him into admitting something.
Or maybe J was still angry with Oghi and wanted to get him in trouble too. He thought he’d apologized sufficiently, but J hadn’t accepted his apologies. What’d happened was he had been unable to resist a student’s advances. The fling hadn’t lasted more than a day. That one day was nothing compared to all of the days he’d spent on earth. But that changed when J found out. It turned into a day he would never be able to forget. While being interrogated by J, he genuinely regretted what he had done. He tried to explain to her that he was just trying to comfort the student when one thing led to another, but J didn’t believe him.
Oghi got paranoid. If J really was in collusion with his wife, then there could even have been a third person orchestrating all of it. Was it possible that K had talked them into it? Did K resort to the same tactics that Oghi had used back when he was on the job market? Oghi had known some unsavory things about K, and he’d put those things into a convincing arrangement and presented them to M, and then dropped sly hints to loose-lipped S as well. It was a low move, but it’s not like it was unfounded slander. Even if Oghi did use it to his advantage. Sometimes one’s own success wasn’t enough. Sometimes the failure of someone closer to you was better insurance.
He’d been through so much already, but because of things that should’ve stayed in the past, because of old history he couldn’t do a damn thing about anymore, he had to put up with the third degree from his wife. She laughed at him. Nothing was in the past, she said. Oghi didn’t respond to that and declared instead that he refused to get a divorce. He said that to make her angry. And she did get angry. When Oghi mocked her, saying, “You’re nothing without me. You can’t even earn a living!” she punched him as he drove. She stomped her feet so hard that it echoed through the chassis. She grabbed his arms as he held on to the wheel and shook them.
If she hadn’t done that, would they have been okay? If she hadn’t told him what she was writing, if she had tried to calmly enjoy their weekend away and work on their relationship as they’d said they would when they first set out on the road, if Oghi had meekly apologized right away when she couldn’t resist bringing up J again, if he had not made fun of his wife’s incompetence?
Those were the hypotheticals Oghi considered while staring out at the blackness of the asphalt. None of his suppositions were optimistic. He felt certain that even if they moved on from that moment safely, something similar would come up before long and repeat itself over and over without end.
Oghi weakened and felt the cavity inside of him yawn open uncontrollably. He felt like throwing himself into that hole. The large vehicle blocking the view in front of him looked like a hole. It grew difficult to breathe, the pressure in his chest worsened. He was dizzy and on the verge of passing out from fatigue. He possessed a fierce attachment to life, but the impotence of that moment also refused to leave him. His wife wrenched at Oghi’s arm as he held the steering wheel. Shocked, he shook her hands off as hard as he could.
They rear-ended the truck in front of them, smashed through the guardrail, and tumbled downhill. The moment he realized what was happening, Oghi relaxed. It was over. He felt free and easy. Though it was unfair to have worked so hard to make a life for himself only to lose it now, the fatigue of having to keep up that lifestyle was worse. Oghi waited to float up out of his body, to rise and put some distance between himself and the face of the earth.
Despite his wishes, Oghi was piledriven into the ground. His body was so heavy, he felt like he’d been buried deep below the earth. In the end, Oghi failed at sending his body aloft, into thin air.
His wife, at last, found success. While Oghi was squashed under the heavy heel of an impenetrable darkness, she grew light as smoke. She floated up and distanced herself from the earth. Perhaps she was even looking down at Oghi.
It was difficult to picture what look she might have had on her face while looking down at him. Had she grabbed his arm in order to steer them into the truck in front of them? Or was she trying to stop Oghi from doing the same? He had no way of knowing. Clueless as to whether his wife had tried to save or assist Oghi as he sped into the truck, Oghi had survived while his wife died.
14
GREENERY FILLED THE WINDOW. THE handful of vine stems his mother-in-law had twined around the bars had quickly grown over the entire grating. He saw nothing but green. Now and then a breeze rustled the leaves and he caught a quick glimpse of the garden between them.
He couldn’t see much, but he heard noises coming from outside. He guessed from the sounds out there that his mother-in-law had not given up on the garden and was probably still digging the pond. The silence was broken by thuds, by the clanging of metal tools, by the sound of pouring.
How big and deep was the pit?
Not being able to see the garden made it hard to keep track of where his mother-in-law was. She would enter the house without making a sound and go from this room to that before suddenly flinging his door open. Each time she did, Oghi closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. She would stand at a distance and examine him for a moment before closing the door, only after which he let out his breath.
Sometimes she did it late at night too. She would burst into his room, stand next to his bed and gaze down at him as he pretended to sleep, and then go over to the two urns. After wiping them with a wh
ite cloth, she would press her hands together lightly and murmur.
His mother-in-law never told him what the urns were, but he’d assumed they held the ashes of his wife and his mother-in-law’s mother. If not, then who on earth was in there? But now he was beginning to think maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe one did hold his wife’s ashes, but maybe the other was empty. And waiting for Oghi.
Regardless of whether his eyes were open or closed, his mother-in-law sometimes abruptly asked, “What do you think?” It was better to be prepared when that happened. It meant she was about to do something to him. Usually something he didn’t want her to do. His mother-in-law did whatever she wanted with no regard for his reaction.
It had happened the night before as well. His mother-in-law had come in without bothering to turn on the light and walked up to him as he pretended to sleep. She’d said, “What do you think? Your hair’s getting a bit long, isn’t it?” and held a pair of scissors to his head. She grabbed a rough fistful of Oghi’s hair and hacked at it ruthlessly. Each time he heard the snip-snip of the blades in the dark, his immobile body seemed to cringe. When the snipping sound came close to the rim of his ear, he squeezed his eyes tight in dread.
Now his face itched horribly, as if the snippets of hair were sticking there. His left hand was busy scratching everywhere it could reach. The itch spread until he was going back and forth from one stiff leg to the other. He switched to the back scratcher the caregiver had left behind. As he did so, he realized that his left thigh seemed to register the sharp edge of the scratcher.
Oghi tried flexing. His left leg twitched. He was sure of it. It was very faint, but the muscle contracted and relaxed.
This time he pinched his leg with his left hand. He hadn’t felt any pain even when bedsores broke out on his back and bottom. It was only when his mother-in-law made a face and bandaged him up that he realized anything was wrong. But this time he felt it. The pain was very faint, but there was a definite brief, sharp sensation. Even without being looked after by a caregiver, even without the help of a physical therapist, without his doctor’s checkups and prescriptions, Oghi’s rotting log of a body was gradually coming back to life.
When his mother-in-law came in to clean the urns, he hid his new discovery. He did not tell her that he’d moved his left leg approximately ten centimeters to the side. After wiping the urns, his mother-in-law stared down at him, causing his body to itch all over, but he willed himself not to move. His plan was to not reveal to her that he was getting better.
When he was alone, he diligently practiced moving his legs left and right on the bed. He had not forgotten the exercises from his physical therapy sessions in the hospital. He was careful not to overdo it and break another blood vessel like last time. He could drag his legs along the mattress, but he still couldn’t lift them. But it was just a matter of time. Gradually he was able to noticeably wiggle the fingers of his right hand. If the doctor could see him, he would no doubt cheer him on and remind him: Willpower, not medical power.
He said nothing, but his mother-in-law picked up on the change in Oghi’s expression.
“Did you have a good dream or something?” she asked.
Her voice was hard. It was a bad idea to tell her he was happy. He kept his mouth shut.
“As if anything good could happen to you,” she said mockingly as she left the room. “May as well try to dream.”
This wasn’t a dream. She had no idea, but Oghi felt movement. He felt pain. He felt itchy. He felt alive. He felt it in his body.
If he could get proper treatment in the hospital, his recovery would go much faster. But he didn’t know how to get there. He briefly considered whether he should tell his mother-in-law the truth, but he just as quickly changed his mind. She would never help Oghi. He thought about the look on her face when his doctor had said his prognosis was good. If he told her he was getting better, she would only feel more afraid.
The next day, Oghi began refusing to eat. It had been a long time since his mother-in-law had made sure he was fed regularly, but he still turned down her sporadic attempts at feeding him. She got annoyed at him for refusing to open his mouth. He shook his head weakly. With practice, he could have been able to lift a spoon, he could have been able to swallow rice porridge instead of formula, but his mother-in-law would not give up on the liquid food. She didn’t want him to get better. She would not take him back to the hospital. It was obvious that only when his body was broken beyond repair, only when there was nothing they could do for him, would she seek the hospital’s help.
Whenever his mother-in-law looked at him, Oghi closed his eyes and acted weak. At first he had to force himself, but after a few days he really wasn’t feeling well. She watched him more and more frequently. Oghi moaned and dripped with sweat. His moans of pain came out on their own, without his having to dress them up.
Once he even caught himself murmuring Tasukete kudasai along with his mother-in-law. He heard the words come out clearly. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d heard his own raspy voice or anything decipherable coming out of him. His mother-in-law must have been just as surprised, but she tried to pretend otherwise. Oghi frowned to disguise the sounds coming out of his mouth.
His mother-in-law stopped looking after him altogether. She did nothing. Since he refused to eat, she stopped bringing him any food at all and only provided him with a bare minimum of drinking water. Before long Oghi was in a critical state. The fever that wracked his body and the humidity in the room made him feel like a weight was pressing down on his chest. It became difficult to breathe.
The person his mother-in-law reluctantly called to check up on Oghi was the physical therapist. Oghi watched through a fever dream as they came into his room, talking noisily.
“He’s in pretty bad shape,” the therapist said the second he saw Oghi.
“Bad enough to have to go to the hospital?”
The therapist sounded surprised by the question.
“You haven’t taken him to the hospital? He absolutely must go. His fever is very high, and those bedsores are really bad. At this rate…”
The therapist became aware that Oghi was listening and caught himself.
“I’ll take care of him today, but now is not the time for therapy. He needs to be in the hospital. He’s in critical condition.”
Oghi’s mother-in-law left the room looking haggard. Oghi mustered up what strength he could to speak to the therapist. His voice must not have been audible, because the therapist came closer to him.
I can move my legs.
The therapist couldn’t understand him. Oghi had clearly heard his own words. Why couldn’t the therapist? Oghi mustered his strength again and forced the words out. The therapist stared at him for a moment and chuckled.
“Yes, you’re right. It has been a long time. I bet you’re happy to see me. I’m telling you, I should have been coming to see you this whole time. I assumed you were busy getting treatment at the hospital. You kept going on about the hospital, the hospital, and never even went. And now look at the shape you’re in.”
Oghi repeated himself again. This time, he mouthed the word, spelling it out one letter at a time, as big as he could.
“L-E-G. Leg?”
The therapist looked at Oghi’s legs. Oghi flexed. His leg inched over to the side. He wanted to show the therapist what he had accomplished on his own while he was gone. It was still impossible to lift his leg, but he could push it toward the edge of the mattress.
“You want me to start with your legs?”
Oghi was disappointed that he still hadn’t caught on. He asked for paper and slowly wrote the words: LEG MOVED. The therapist looked at him in surprise. Then he stared at Oghi’s leg for a long time. Oghi moved it once more for him. He could not have missed it this time.
“Uh, I’m not sure how to tell you this. Please don’t be disappointed. This is actually quite common for people in your condition.”
The therapist looked at him sym
pathetically and gave his thin leg a gentle pat.
“It can sometimes feel like a paralyzed limb is moving. Like you’re experiencing now. But it doesn’t actually move at all. Some doctors refer to it as ‘rejection of paralysis syndrome.’ It’s a type of hallucination. But this doesn’t mean you should lose heart. It may be a hallucination, but it’s also a reflection of how strong your will is. The will to walk, the will to move on your own. That’s important for people like you. Without that, it’s easy to give up.”
Rejection of paralysis. Oghi found this strange new term appalling. He knew his own body. It had taken a long time to reach its current shape, but it had been with him since birth. His body was his closest ally, his constant companion. It wasn’t like his spirit or his heart, which never did what he wanted them to, which acted of their own accord, with no respect to him.
Oghi was acutely aware of his body’s minor aches and itches, the tautness of his skin, the sagging. He easily recognized hunger and fullness, even phantom symptoms of diabetes. Of course there were times when he wasn’t quite so certain. Times when he couldn’t quite identify which part of him ached. He’d once had a boil for a long time without knowing it. When the caregiver had pressed against him, his body had disobeyed him, and when tempted by a girl much too young for him, he’d gotten aroused. But for the most part it had always moved in accordance with his will.
“Let’s give this another try. Move your left leg.”
Oghi did as he was told. It was difficult, but he wanted the therapist to believe him.
“And now the right leg.”
When he looked at the therapist’s face, he lost hope. The therapist gave Oghi no encouragement.
Next the therapist instructed him to tell him which leg he was touching. Oghi said it was the right leg and knew from looking at him that he was wrong. He seemed to answer the next one correctly, but the therapist looked no more convinced.
The Hole Page 13