Dark Lanterns

by Zoe Drake

  "Some years ago," she hissed in her repellent voice, "I realized I could not bear to look upon the living any more."

  Fiery bile rose in Papa's throat. The supplicating gestures, and the cowed posture of the thing before him, turned his fear into an inexplicable feeling of rage.

  "If you've sunk so low," he snarled, "You won't need this!"

  Reaching down, Papa brushed aside the hands and grabbed the pouch. The figure howled wordlessly in protest, and the old man caught a glimpse of a lipless mouth with rows of teeth like scales. With a snap the strap gave way and Papa rocked back on his heels.

  Then he was off, a sprint carried him through the tunnel to the far end of the alley, where he hesitated. A solid wall of noise, neon, and uncaring humans reared up before him. He steeled himself and plunged into the flow, buffeted by those moving too fast to avoid him, carried along by the uncaring speed of life, lost in banality.

  Breathing hard, Papa looked about him. The faces were normal. The eyes of the crowd refused to meet his, looked away, stared into a grey zone of indifference, but at least they were human eyes.

  Papa wiped his brow with his sleeve. What sort of a country was this, where even the ghosts were homeless?

  The pouch in his hand was still there. It gave his hand a dull, tingling sensation. Slouching into the emergency exit of a bookstore, he picked at the fastening and pulled it open.

  In the neon half-light that illuminated where he stood, Papa caught the dull glimmer of metal, something white, something yellow. He looked closer, catching his breath. The objects were unfamiliar, unsettling . . . but had the unmistakable sheen of precious metal.

  Papa thought of his cardboard box, and the row of similar, makeshift refuges for the defeated. He thought of his brother down south in Shimane, who he hadn't spoken to in six years. He thought of the creature behind him, dwelling in darkness, feeling its way through the metal and concrete bowels of the city, waiting for its task to end.

  He stepped out of the doorway, and melted into the constantly moving, perpetually unseeing crowd.

  The small matter of the hats had always struck Hiromu Obata as rather curious.

  At the end of platform 1 of Japan Railways Nakano station, Chuo line, a small flight of stone steps lay beyond a locked metal gate; this in turn led to a narrow wooden crossing over which the station staff could cross the train tracks safely, for the purposes of inspection, if they ever needed. While walking over this crossing - at a time when the signal lights had stopped the trains from entering the station, of course - the staff were required to take off their JR uniform peaked caps.

  This was exactly what Obata was doing now. On this fine, calm April day, the air full of the breath of the cherry trees, Obata removed his peaked cap - the brim of which he kept polished to a high degree of reflectivity - and advanced across the thin metal rails. About five hundred meters away, the out-of-service A735K approached at a sedate pace. The tracks had been switched, shunting the train towards a siding where the Transport Department officials would inspect it later. Locomotive A735K; 120,000 kilos of steel, plastic and glass, pulling ten carriages behind it.

  Such a touching, but slightly absurd gesture, Obata thought. A mark of respect for "Train-san", the mighty gentlemen under whose grace the population of the city travelled with punctuality and convenience every day. The metal tracks beneath his feet were the bones of the city; the?sturdy exoskeleton which the city depended on to survive. Without this structure, Tokyo would flop and wither away like a beached jellyfish.

  It was Obata's duty to keep this flow of business untroubled. The trains must never stop. Obstructions must be prevented whenever possible, but if they occurred, they must be speedily removed.

  Once more on the platform, Obata returned to the station-master's office. At the age of fifty-seven, after a lifetime career with Japan Railways, he had held the post of Station Manager for over ten years now. He lifted the platform lantern from its position on his desk and left the office, holding the lantern reverently in his white-gloved hands. Leaving the office, his eyes automatically glanced at the emergency stop button on the concrete wall.

  The flow of business must never stop.

  The lights now green, Obata marched the length of the station, acknowledging the smart bows of his subordinates. It was mid-afternoon — only students, housewives, shoppers, the odd salaryman on his way across the city to meet a client; the best time of day. No crowds to shepherd and cajole.

  As the 14:28 train approached from the east, it's previous stop Shinjuku station, Obata felt the sharpness of his awareness increase. It was as if a thread running through all of his senses — sight, hearing, smell — were being pulled tight to draw them all together.

  A human body falling onto the railway's wooden sleepers makes a distinct, somewhat hollow sound. If conscious, it is of course accompanied by a cry of distress. If insensible, through drink or fainting, the sound of the body striking the tracks is not unlike, say, that of a big bag of rice falling from a truck.

  Obata's ears had trained themselves to pick up any such sound. His eyes narrowed as he watched both the approaching train and the behavior of the people on the platform.

  The train pulled smoothly into the station, exactly on time. The doors slid open, allowing the passengers to exit and enter, permitting the flow of business.

  Obata signalled with the lantern and carefully choreographed, white-gloved gestures that the doors could be closed. "The doors are about to close!" Obata announced through his wireless microphone, over the cheerful recorded jingle that filled the spring air. "Monitor - yosh! Signals — yosh! Departing - now!"

  The train began its slow exit from the station. Obata scanned the platform with his keen, attentive gaze, hunting for signs of any irregular activity. Shifting his head slightly, his line of vision penetrated the windows to the inside of the carriage. As the train began to move, it was possible to make out the faces of the passengers. A bored schoolgirl, pulling a make-up pouch from her satchel. A tired-looking grandmother with bifocals and a gauze allergy mask. A college boy with a spiky haircut wearing a baseball jacket. Obata could catch every one of their faces. As the train picked up speed, it became harder and harder to focus on a single person; within seconds, their faces became a single, elongated blur, flesh and clothes melting together in the uniform anonymity of speed.

  Another train had left punctually. Obata had performed his job. The flow of business must never stop.

  Today Obata was on round-the clock-duty. He would stay overnight at Nakano station and oversee the platforms until seven-forty the next morning. That was what it said on his contract, but in reality his shift never finished at that time. That was the height of the rush-hour, and Obata was expected to stay overtime and help his subordinates manage the crowds.

  Every season had its particular problems. The winter had snow; the summer had the heat and excessive humidity; the autumn had the onset of colds and fevers; and the spring had most of the staff and passengers wearing masks to alleviate the perpetual hay fever that plagued the residents of Tokyo. Spring also had the "cherry blossom problem" — the seasonal blooms fell to the tracks and clumped together into a mulchy substance with a hard, non-stick surface, reducing traction and hampering braking procedures. Japan Rail utilized overtime workers to inspect the rails overnight, using high-pressure hoses and air-blowers to clear the mess.

  At five o'clock sharp Obata returned to the station master's office to attend the area manager's meeting. The staff not on duty sat on hard folding chairs in the stationmaster's office, slim cardboard folders in their hands. Obata sat up straight in his chair, listening to the rise and fall of the area manager's voice, doing his best to look attentive. The area manager was a physically slight man, several centimeters shorter than Obata. It was obvious that he had recently dyed his thinning hair black, but his age was showing through in the liver spots dabbed upon his dark, narrow face. When speaking, he punctuated his sentences with a hissing, sucking intak
e of breath that was so common to Japanese men thinking about what they were saying.

  "And now we come, eerm," hiss hiss suck suck, "to the regrettable incidents upon this line," hiss hiss suck suck. He used the term jinshin jiko — 'human incident'. "It's been reported that each year, the national figures for suicide increase. A sizeable proportion of those choose to end their lives by jumping onto the tracks. It's clear to the management that we have to do something about these regrettable losses of life, which cause so much suffering and of course reflect badly upon Japan Railways. If you open the folders, I'll take you through the results of the Central Tokyo District Health and Safety Sub-Committee meeting."

  All of those present fumbled with the envelopes, slipping out several sheets of paper bearing the Japan Railways crest.

  "Proposal One, eerm," hiss hiss suck suck. "It has been decided to place large mirrors at strategic points along the platform. The mirrors will be approximately one point five meters by two meters, and be at a level where those waiting on the platform can clearly see their own reflections."

  Obata looked at the diagram on the report. Sure enough, there was the railway's cuddly cartoon mascot, Kon-Kon-chan, and sure enough, he was holding up a large mirror. A red-faced salaryman was gawping at his own reflection in it.

  "Proposal two," hiss hiss suck suck, "concerns the level crossings near the platforms. It has been decided to repaint them in bright, primary colors, and to illuminate them at night with fluorescent lights."

  Obata turned to the appropriate page, and there was another poster of Kon-Kon-chan, leading a chain of salarymen holding hands, across a bright orange level crossing.

  "It is the opinion of JR East that the regrettable incidents of suicide have befallen people who have — temporarily - lost their senses, so to speak. It's hoped that the new colors will have the effect of cheering people up, and that the mirrors will make people who are considering suicide examine themselves very closely. In this way, it's hoped customers will return to their senses, and quit the thoughts of taking their own life."

  The area manager closed his report and laid it on the desk in front of him. "Gentlemen, I would appreciate your opinions."

  The station staff stared back at him in silence.

  "Everyone knows it's because JR are so generous with the fines!" Sakai yelled after the meeting, as the staff had a hurried lunchbox meal in the office back room. "If we charged the families of those jumpers what the subways charge for cleaning up the mess, you'd soon see the suicide figures go down, mark my words."

  Tanaka laughed and joined in. "They should put posters of Kon-Kon-chan everywhere, and they should have a line like — oh wait, wait, I've got it now ..." He held up a hand in mock inspiration, a blob of glutinous rice falling unheeded from his dangling chopsticks — "If you don't want to make Kon-Kon cry, don't jump onto the tracks and die."

  Obata permitted himself a smile as the laughter ricocheted off the walls, but he said nothing. Best not to. There was no telling what might get back to the Area Manager.

  Obata was still smarting from the meeting the month before.

  "One hour?"

  Obata had closed his eyes, bowing his head in front of the Area Manager.

  There were several station assistants in the room, but they were not expected to speak. It was Obara's station; he was responsible. He was expected to speak, and explain. And to apologize.

  The Area Manager sat in Obata's chair, at Obata's desk. Obata had never thought of himself as tall, but the chair and the desk together made the Area Manager look smaller than usual for some reason, like a child sitting in an adult's seat, bony wrists poking out of polyester sleeves, square wire-rimmed spectacles sitting uncertainly on a button nose.

  "Thirty minutes, Obata-kun. Thirty minutes is how long Japan Railways say it takes to restore service. To remove obstructions from the line after an incident. Yet yesterday, you and your staff took over one hour. One hour. At eight in the morning, the peak commuting time. How could this happen?"

  "I truly apologize, Mr. Chief, and it's entirely my responsibility," Obata muttered in a low voice, his head rising and falling to punctuate his words. He spoke slowly, almost as if stammering. "I, er, that is, we ... that is ... we couldn't ... find the head."

  "What?"

  "The head, you see, the head, of the ... victim...we couldn't find it." Obata couldn't stop the words from coming out, even though he felt there was a ring of steel around his temples, squeezing a little bit tighter with every word he spoke. "The paramedics managed to collect all of the ... remains ... in the bags provided, but we were unable to find the head."

  "Unable to find it," the Area Manager echoed.

  "Eventually someone realized it had caught between the back axle of the train carriage and the wheels, and, er ... we assisted the paramedics to ... retrieve it ... sir."

  The Area Manager was silent, his eyes bulbous behind his fishtank glasses.

  Obara hung his head in shame. He had humiliated himself, and also his superior. The Area Manager had not wished to know the details of the operation. He had not wished to become involved with the mechanics of recovering a corpse from the tracks. The chief had simply required an earnest apology. But by being frank, Obata had shown that the immaculate white cotton gloves of the Station Master were soaked in blood.

  After that, Obata had stepped out onto the platform, taking deep, grateful breaths of the warm air. He had been dismissed.

  "You're taking this all too personally, Obata," the Area Manager had said to him finally. "Perhaps you need to refresh yourself. Take a few days off. Go to a hot spring, play a bit of golf. After that, you can return to your job stronger, fitter, and more cheerful than ever before. Do your best, and smile! Show your smile to your passengers! That's the spirit."

  Obata had removed his hat, wiping a thin patina of sweat from his brow.

  Try as he might, Obata could not even get away from the suicides at home. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion over the straw tatami matting, a packet of dried fish and a glass of chilled beer at hand, Obata chewed thoughtfully as he took in the reports flashing through the high-resolution, plasma TV screen that occupied nearly the whole of one wall.

  There had been another incident that day, but not on Obata's line.

  An unidentified middle-aged person had jumped onto the tracks in front of witnesses, on the Yamanote line, the huge loop that encompassed central Tokyo.

  And there was more. The police had conducted another of their infrequent sweeps of Aokigahara Forest, the large national park that lay at the slopes of Mount Fuji. The remote, heavily wooded area was notorious as a site for those who chose to end their lives. On that day, the police reported that they had found twelve bodies within the forest, bringing the total number this year so far to thirty-six.

  So far.

  "It's the families I feel sorry for," Obata's wife declared, as she ferried dishes to and from the kitchen.

  And she was right, of course, it was always the ones behind that felt the pain most, especially the railway suicides. Obata was well acquainted with the business practices concerning a death on the tracks. The bill for repairs and delay caused by the 'incident' were handed over to the victims' families, for them to pay. You would have thought this would discourage those thinking of suicide; but still, they came to the train stations.

  They came to the Yamanote, the Tozai, and the Chuo, not to go to work with a well-shaven chin and a briefcase full of documents, but to lean forward and feel the kiss of tons of onrushing metal.

  Obata leant back upon his cushion, sucking the fragments of cabbage and fatty meat from between his teeth, his attention wandering from his sons to the TV and back again. The conversation seemingly finished, they sat together slurping at their bowls of soup, their faces down-turned and brows drawn in concentration. How extraordinary, he thought once more, that these two healthy lads have entered the world because of me. Couldn't he see himself and his wife, every day, in the features that they poss
essed? The shape of their noses, the slope of their chins, the way their stiff glossy hair grew and was trimmed in the familiar high school cut? Wasn't it extraordinary that he had bought into the world slightly elongated versions of himself and his wife? Wasn't that reason enough for anyone to be grateful, and carry on living?

  Bringing his own bowl out to the kitchen, he presented it to his wife as if it was a birthday present. "Thank you. It was a feast."

  "Why, bringing out your empties! What's the matter, is there nothing on TV? No, that's OK, go back and sit down. Don't put those in the bowl, they're glass, they're washed separately. Now off you go."

  Resuming his seat, Obata smiled again at his sons. Come to think of it, they did look a bit tired. It was the baseball club, most probably, the school requiring them to practice early morning before school, and in late afternoon after classes. Obata remembered his own high school days, how worn out he'd feel after lugging all that sports kit home on the train. How the coach and shouted and slapped them to instill the proper fighting spirit. Ah, those were the days.

  How quiet they were, he thought, and how pale their skin looked, contrasting with the dark, slightly sunken eyes as they stared at the TV.

  They're just tired, that's all, he thought, after the practice. They're just tired.

  Obata stood before Aokigahara in his dream.

  Although he would not remember it when he awoke, it was an extraordinarily vivid dream. If he strained his ears he could just hear, carried to him on a gentle breeze, the creaking of the ropes, the sound of the unseen men and women swinging gently by their necks, somewhere beneath the dark trees. On the ground Obata saw the dim shapes of a countless number of shoes, lined up neatly in front of the trees.

  A short, dark figure walked out of the forest and approached. As he got closer, Obata could make out his features: the slicked-back hair, the sallow, bony face.