Patient X

by David Peace

  ‘… who eluded Herod, who escaped his machine, the machine that is always necessary for those who wish to avert change, to avoid revolution; this Herod in fear of change, his machine in terror of revolution, slaughtered the children and the thousands of other Christs all mingled among them; yet with his hands of crimson, his face of melancholia, we cannot hate him, cannot despise him, only pity him, dying among the olive and the fig trees, leaving not one line of poetry …

  ‘… who spent time in Egypt, returned to Galilee, and then lived in Nazareth, just as the children of naval officers are transferred to Sasebo, next to Maizuru, then to Yokosuka; perhaps these forced and sudden changes helped to forge the Bohemian Spirit of “My Christ”?

  ‘… who knew he was not the son of his father Joseph, a superfluous man, who realised he was a child of the Holy Ghost, who in the gloom of this revelation, who after the solitude of his childhood, who then encountered John, a Christ born before him, a Christ come before him, John who in his last lament would ask of him, Was it you who were Christ, or was it me?

  ‘… who walked alone into the wilderness, who fasted for forty days and forty nights, who entered into a dialogue with Satan, but who refused to succumb, who rejected temptation: materialism, power, all the worldly desires of our hearts, and who vanquished Satan, “for a season” …

  ‘… who then travelled from village to village, first on his own, then with disciples, who began to speak, who began to talk, in allegories and in parables, an ancient Bohemian and an ancient journalist, who in the genius of his examples, in the passion of his poetry, brought new wood to the old fire, to burn and to illuminate, who in all his masterpieces – the Sermon on the Mount, the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son – and in all his words trampled on the conventions of all ages, and turned the world upside down, our world upside down, but who then sowed the seeds of fear, the fear of change, and who then made enemies, so many enemies …

  ‘… and yet who loved and was loved by many, and most by Magdalene, with a poetic love which transcended her profession, with a poetic love which forgave her sins, a love still as fragrant as an iris …

  ‘… who saw the lilies of the field, with whom even Solomon in all his glory could not compare, yet who in such poetry vanquished tomorrow …

  ‘… who performed miracles, though he hated miracles, for they pandered to the people, drained him of his strength, made him question the strength of his words, his words and his self, and left him human, all too human …

  ‘… who could not bear the tears of Martha and Mary, who raised Lazarus from the dead, to stem their tears, too human, all too human …

  ‘… who then rejected his mother and all such love, who chose Jerusalem, chose a known and certain death, to show us what we are searching for, the absence which torments us still, who revealed to us what lies beyond, beyond our world, within our souls: the Kingdom of Heaven, of Heaven on Earth …

  ‘… who went up the mountain to speak with the Dead, as he shone like the sun, as white as pure light, but who knew today is never yesterday, the Red Sea no longer parted, and who asked then, asks now, How should we live?

  ‘… who then came down from the mountain to settle the accounts of his life, a life he would now soon, soon now leave behind, this life beginning to have its revenge, his life taking its revenge upon him; the star that had announced his birth, the Holy Ghost which had given him life, they would not give him peace, they would not let him be, as he cursed the fig tree …

  ‘… who entered Jerusalem on an ass, the Cross already on his back, always, already on his back, who said, Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s, who turned the tables in the temple, cast out monies from the House of God …

  ‘… who in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the darkest night of his soul, his soul exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death, who fell on his face and then prayed, prayed and prayed for this cup to pass from him …’

  I stop writing, put down my pen. I light a cigarette, get up from my desk and step into the corridor. I stand and smoke at the glass windows, staring down, down and out at the garden of my house, my garden in twilight, my garden in silence: God hears our prayers, but waits.

  I turn from the garden, and in the twilight and in the silence, unsteady on my feet again, I return to my desk, my desk and ‘My Christ’ –

  ‘… from whom the cup would not pass, who found his companions sleeping still, and who knew the hour was at hand …

  ‘… who was betrayed in the night, betrayed by a kiss, from a suicide for a suicide, who was denied at the dawn, denied by those he left behind …

  ‘… who came before Pilate and then the people, and then as now, who was not chosen, who was rejected, but who spoke not a word …

  ‘… who felt the thorns of the crown, the spit from their mouths and the smote of the reed, and then the wood of the Cross …

  ‘… who felt the nails through his hand, felt the nail through his feet, who from the Cross looked down on the world, who then from the Cross looked up to Heaven, and who cried, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’

  I stop writing again, put down my pen again. I wipe my neck, wipe my face and dry my eyes; I dry my eyes and turn again to Him –

  ‘… who in his last cry, in those last words, moved closer still to us, then gave up the ghost for us, and died for us, who died for us …

  ‘… who … who … who if not you?

  ‘… a ladder cruelly broken off in the ascent from earth to Heaven, still aslant amidst the downpour from the gloomy, murky sky …’

  I stop again, pen down again, head in my hands, hands to my face, fingers in my eyes, rubbing my eyes, in my eyes, in my mind –

  My Christ, my Christ, so many Christs:

  My Christ is a mirror, the Universal Mirror; my Christ is a poet, a Bohemian poet; my Christ is a journalist, an ancient journalist; my Christ is a pacifist, a non-resistant Tolstoy, yet softer, softer still; my Christ is a communist, who came for the poor, who loved the poor, and who said, The foxes have holes, and the birds have nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head …

  In the dread and in the terror of these words, my Christ, he speaks to me, in dread and in terror, he speaks to me, of the misery of his life, the example of his life, speaks to me and to every Child of the Holy Ghost, all the Children of the Holy Ghost; Christianity may one day perish, one day soon no doubt, but the Life of Christ, this Life of Jesus will continue to move us, whether in the West or whether in the East, will always move us, every Child of the Holy Ghost, all the Children of the Holy Ghost, move and speak to us – a ladder sadly broken off in the ascent from earth to Heaven, still aslant amidst the downpour from the gloomy, murky sky – for we are all travellers on the way to Emmaus, always seeking the Christ who will burn up our hearts.

  In the horror and the quiet of the house now in night, I take my fingers from my eyes, take my hands from my face, and I look down at my desk, the papers on the desk, strewn across the desk, the books on the desk, open on the desk; I begin to close all the books, to tidy away all the books, all these Lives of Christ: Strauss, Renan, Farrar and Papini; closing all the books, tidying away all the books, the books and the Bibles, my three editions of the Bible: the one from Kyō Tsunetō, the one from Fumitake Muroga, and the one I will not close, I will not tidy away; the one I will take down the stairs, the one I will read before I sleep, I sleep tonight …

  Now I reach across the papers, reach across the desk, I pick up a sachet of Veronal, open the sachet of Veronal, and I take the Veronal. Then I straighten up the papers, all the manuscript papers, put them into piles and put them to one side. And then I pick up my pen again, this chipped and narrow sword again, and for one last and final time, I write, I write and I write: a poem for my doctor, letters to my friends, letters I have practised, letters I’ve rehearsed, then a letter to my wife, and then, most difficult of all, most painful of all, then I begin to write the last letter, a last
letter –

  For My Children –

  Never forget life is a war which leads to death.

  Accordingly, don’t take life for granted, but nurture your abilities; let this be your principle.

  Regard Ryūichi Oana as your father, and so heed his advice.

  If you lose the battle of life, you should commit suicide like your father, in order to avoid causing unhappiness to others.

  It is difficult to recognise your own destiny in life. But as long as you do not rely on your family, and renounce such a desire, then you may find the way to be at peace with yourself.

  You should feel pity for your mother, yet this pity should not change your will. In this way, you will make your mother happy later.

  Inevitably, all three of you will inherit and share my anxiety; you all then should be aware and careful of this fact.

  Your father loves you; if I didn’t love you, if I had deserted you or not cared for you, then I might have found a way to survive.

  Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

  I put down my pen, put the letters in the envelopes and seal the envelopes. I pick up my pen again, address the envelopes, place the envelopes on the Bible, then put down my pen again, for the last time, I put down my pen.

  I wipe my neck, wipe my face and dry my eyes, but my eyes are dry, my eyes are dry. I try to remember if I’ve taken the Veronal, but I can’t remember if I’ve taken the Veronal, so I reach across the desk, pick up a sachet of Veronal, open the sachet of Veronal, and I take the Veronal.

  I wipe my neck again, wipe my face again, then get up from the desk again, for the last time, I get up from the desk. Unsteady on my feet, most unsteady on my feet, I step out of my study, into the corridor. Unsteady on my feet, so unsteady my feet, past the garden in the night, in the night and in its silence, I walk along the corridor, and then I stop, turn and go back, back to my study, back to my desk, and I pick up the poem, the poem for Dr Shimojima, then I put it back down, back down on my desk. I wipe my neck, wipe my face and try to remember if I’ve taken the Veronal, but I can’t remember if I’ve taken the Veronal, so I reach down to the desk, pick up a sachet of Veronal, open the sachet of Veronal, and I take the Veronal, then another sachet, open another sachet, and I take the sachet of Veronal. Then I wipe my neck again, wipe my face again, pick up the letters and the Bible, put the letters in the Bible and pick up the poem. Then I step out of my study, for the last time, I step out of my study and walk along the corridor, so unsteady on my feet, very unsteady on my feet, for the last time, I walk along the corridor, and go down the ladder stairs.

  I don’t know what time it is, I have no idea what time it is, except it is summer, always summer and hot, always so hot, except it is night, always night and silent, always so silent, but I come to a room, the room of my aunt, her light still on, her light always on, and I knock on the door, knock on her door, then enter her room, I enter her room, see her on her bedding, lying on her bedding, and I hold out the poem, the poem and say, ‘I may still be sleeping when the doctor calls, so would you please give him this, when the doctor calls, saying I’m sleeping, so leave me be, please let me sleep.’

  I hand her the poem, and she takes the poem, she takes the poem and then she says, she says, she says, don’t know what she says, but I smile and I smile, I smile and I say, ‘Thank you, Auntie, thank you, thank you and goodnight, Auntie, goodnight, I’m going now, Auntie, I’m going now …’

  I leave her room, leave her room and go to my room, our room, our room where we sleep, my wife, my children and I, my children sleeping, hands to their faces, my wife sleeping, her face to the wall, and I see my yukata, the yukata I bought in China, folded on my futon, lying on my futon, and I put down the Bible, the Bible and the letters, and then I stagger around, taking off my clothes, and then I stumble around, putting on the yukata –

  ‘Did you take your usual sleeping draught,’ asks my wife, raising her head, then lying back down, closing her eyes …

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I did. Don’t worry, I did …’

  And then I take the letters from the Bible, place the letters inside my yukata, the folds of my yukata, then lie down, down on the bedding, lay my head down, down on the pillow, then open the Bible, for one last time, I open the Bible and begin to read, my eyes closing, my eyes opening, for one last time, I begin to read, and I read, Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him …

  Then in the night, and in the night, now I see Him, and I see Him; not a shadow, not a spectre, but the man I love, the Christ I love …

  The Yellow Christ on the Cross, on the Waiting Cross, the Patient Cross, my Christ, my Christ, at last, at last, at the very last …

  As I sink and I sink, once and for all, for all and always, into the grove, into the grove between our lives; in the grove …

  He is, He is, He just is, He just –

  After the Fact, Before the Fact

  Snot!

  Only at the tip of the nose

  Remains

  A trace of twilight.

  ‘Self-Mockery’, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, July 23, 1927

  It was the Age of Shōwa, the summer after the death of Taishō, still early in the morning. Yasukichi was walking through the pine woods, along the shore at Kugenuma. Beyond the dead-still pines, beyond the low sand dunes, the sea yawned, clouded and grey. On the edge of the pines, among the dunes, Yasukichi came upon the frame of a swing, just its frame, for the seat of the swing was missing, its seat gone. Only two ropes remained, the two ropes dangling down, hanging-still from the frame; a gallows by the sea.

  A crow landed on the redundant, topmost pole, then another, and another, then another. The four crows turned to stare at Yasukichi –

  Yasukichi took off his panama hat and bowed his head. The biggest crow lifted its enormous beak heavenwards and cawed once, twice, a third time, then a fourth; exactly four times –

  Should I take it as a sign, as a warning?

  Yasukichi snorted, laughed; he couldn’t remember ever feeling this bad, the worst days he’d ever had. He hadn’t been able to write or even read for the heat, hadn’t slept for the humidity. Even way down here, down by the sea, the heat and the humidity were the worst he’d ever known. Intolerable, unbearable. For days, weeks now. But then this morning, just before the dawn, he’d heard the rain begin to fall, drop by drop, falling upon the cottage and its garden, drop by drop, on the pond and on the stones, with a chill through the house, a shiver down his spine.

  Yasukichi stuck out his tongue at the four crows, put his hat back on his head, and then walked on, following the darkened, damp sandbanks of bleached, withered grass, the tops of the short, sparsely growing pines, on and on he walked, beside the banks, along the shore, on and on, the houses and trees of Enoshima island looming up closer, ever closer in the melancholy, morbid gloom of this oppressive, smudged-grey morning.

  Yasukichi tried not to look at the sea, not out to sea, to keep his eyes on the beach, on the sand. But a pair of black ruts, tracks made by a cart, cut diagonally across him and again, again Wheat Field with Crows came to his mind and again, again he felt bereft, bereft then overwhelmed; once, a long time ago now, he’d been standing outside a bookstore, turning the pages of pictures in a volume on Van Gogh, when suddenly, quite suddenly, he understood what a ‘painting’ was; he knew these were only reproductions, he would never see the originals, but even in these photographs of his paintings, Yasukichi saw something, sensed something: a different way, a new way of looking at the world, of being in the world. He’d felt renewed, had felt restored, looking at the branches of a cherry tree, seeing the curve of a woman’s cheek. But as he looked at the black ruts, their two tracks in the sand, he felt, sensed someone had come this way before, with a bandage wrapped around his head, over the place where his ear had been, a long-stemmed pipe in his mouth and a vision in his eyes, on his way to work, to work and to insanity, to insanity then suicide, on his way to death –
r />   ‘Don’t think like that,’ cried a voice on the air, the coquette, teasing voice of a woman, laughing, ‘it’s a new age, a new era!’

  Up ahead, sat on the sand with her back to a dwarf hedge of bamboo, Yasukichi could see a young woman with bobbed hair and an unnecessary parasol talking to a man in an Inverness raincoat and a panama hat –

  ‘Don’t tell me what to think,’ said the man, his figure and voice rising in anger now. ‘Just listen to yourself! What kind of animal are you?’

  ‘What kind of animal am I,’ the young woman cried …

  Yasukichi didn’t stop to listen to the rest of their argument, to watch the rest of their scene, quickly walking away, away from the argument, away from the scene, all arguments and all scenes, over the sand and shells and off the beach, walking as fast as he could, onto the pebbles and pine cones, a crow flitting out of nowhere, casting a shadow across him; Yasukichi glanced up then away, but now tripped, then stumbled and almost fell –

  At his feet, Yasukichi saw a wooden tally lying on the path, framed in black pitch. He picked it up, tried to read the inscription on the sea- and weather-worn wood, but all he could read were the dates: 1892–1927. The tally must have belonged to a foreigner buried at sea, nailed to the sailcloth wrapped around his corpse –

  Yasukichi dropped the wood; the dates on the tally meant the man had died at thirty-five, the age Yasukichi was now –

  Should I take it as a sign, as a warning?

  Yasukichi shuddered; born in Meiji, alive through Taishō, here in Shōwa still, but he felt cursed, he felt jinxed, no longer welcome in the world, as though someone or -thing was out to get him, to get him to leave.

  Beside the clouded sea, beneath the muddy sky, uncertain what to do, unsure where to go, Yasukichi just walked, the sea watching him go, the sky following him still as he walked and he walked; walked and walked until he came to a street, a street of shops, a street and shops he knew, but the street was deserted, deserted but for a black and white dog sitting in the road.