Dark Lanterns

by Zoe Drake

  Newton, my father had called as he waved to me from our apartment's balcony. I stood below in the building's parking lot, near where my bicycle was kept. My father had held up two objects of different sizes - an orange and a basketball - ready to drop them, craning his neck to see if there was anyone about to walk past below. This is called the Second Law of Motion, he had said.

  I watched the two weights fall with my child's eyes, peering to see if there was any difference between their descent. All objects are the same when they fall, my father had said.

  Taking into account - and we are very quick to forget those things that must be taken into account - such things as air resistance. If a man had wings the proportional size of a bird's, it would slow his fall.

  If he fell at all.

  The first time I saw him, I thought Sakurai looked the part of a university professor, and I was right. In fact, he reminded me of my own professor. The lecturer I haven't seen for months, who sent in assistants to deputize, thanks to his frequent research trips. Sakurai had that air of wisdom, the air of being clever or fortunate enough to sidestep the usual conveyor belt of Tokyo commuter life. The untidy grey hair and the large, square spectacles on top of a prominent nose also helped, of course.

  On that bright September afternoon, scanning the rooftop at that time before the ice cream parlors closed and the beer garden opened, I saw him with the crows. Standing alone, with a small semi-circle of fat black birds observing him warily, occasionally condescending to pick up the crumbs that dropped from his hand. I half-marched across the multicolored stone paving, and at my approach, the crows took to the air with their insulting, hacksaw cries. The man turned to face me, his mouth unsmiling but somehow peaceful, his eyes widening behind his glasses.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think you should feed those birds here."

  "Oh, yes ... and why is that?"

  His way of speaking convinced me that he was a lecturer. He replied to me with that air of infinite patience, the manner of someone asking a question to which they already know the answer, simply encouraging others to speak.

  "Crows are scavengers, sir. They'll disturb the other customers."

  "Indeed. Tell me ... why do we hate crows so much, do you think?"

  "They feed on garbage, sir. And they're aggressive. They'll take the food off the tables, if we're not careful."

  "And they'll snatch sandwiches out of the hands of innocent children, yes, and they'll rip open the garbage bags with their beaks. I am aware of what you mean. But who leaves the garbage there? Who wastes so much food, stuffing these flimsy vinyl bags with smelly, tempting morsels that no scavenger can resist? We do, of course."

  He moved his face away from me slightly, in the direction that the birds had gone.

  "Did you know that this garbage that we leave out - it's so nutritious that a crow that lays only two to three eggs in the wild will lay double that number, if it feeds on Tokyo garbage. Also, the chicks will grow to be much larger, and more aggressive than their countryside cousins.

  "But it's not just physical differences. The urban crows are as intelligent as we are, albeit in a different way. They know exactly when and where we put out the garbage for collection, and they are able to share this information with others of their kind. They snatch golf balls from courses, and use them in games of their own devising. They use tools. They manipulate the environment around them. They drop walnuts in the paths of cars to break their shells, they work together in teams to lift the plastic netting that covers garbage collection sites."

  He paused in his speech, as if remembering that I was there, and gave a little embarrassed smile.

  "What a good listener you are ... did you ever attend one of my mathematics classes, by any chance?"

  "I'm a Meiji graduate, sir. My name is Tatsuo Mori. Faculty of physics."

  "Is that so ..." The professor nodded, then lifted his face up to the sky, tilted it quickly before meeting my gaze again, as if scanning the sky for something. "Well, then ... do give my regards to Professor Makizawa, won't you? If he's still lecturing there."

  I saw him several times in the next few days after that, visiting the rooftop area, but he never fed the crows again. Or any other birds, for that matter. Looking back, I don't think this was a reflection on me, on my persuasive skills, or a comment on the slim academic connection that we shared. I think he was just the sort of person who obeyed rules. He was used to giving instructions, and also taking them.

  He would walk to the fence, and stand there with his hands on his hips or in the pockets of his sports jacket. He would watch the crows and then his gaze, at times when I moved closer to him to see if he felt like conversation - his gaze seemed to move beyond the birds. At those times he would resume his lecture; for he had already accepted me as a kind of student, an audience of one, the one who had been chosen to receive the benefit of his oddly acquired wisdom.

  "Their Latin name is Corvus Macrorhynchos," he told me, "which means jungle crows - and as the name suggests, they were originally forest-dwellers. They used to perch on the top of trees, looking out for prey, so they have adapted perfectly to the tall buildings of Tokyo, from which they look down on us. Usually 57 centimeters long, weighing only 825 grams, perhaps the same weight as two cans of soft drink."

  Then he would look out at the sky, the intricate tapestry of clouds, the horizon glimpsed beyond the skyscrapers, the towering edifices of hotels and businesses. Sometimes I looked out across the towers in the direction that he was gazing. I saw flocks of crows, turning as one organism in an swirling arc across the cityscape, searching for a new resting place. Individual birds launched themselves into the vastness, black specks slowly fading into invisibility, as if the sky had sucked them out of existence through tiny holes in the firmament.

  "The Yatasagaru, according to Japanese mythology, is a three legged crow that lives in the sun. It is the crow's mythical ancestor, and the messenger of Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess. She sent the Yatasagaru to guide the warriors of Jimmu - our first Emperor. Up until quite recently, people used to put New Year's offerings on the roofs of their houses, as a gesture of gratitude to the Yatagarasu."

  He stared at me, a strange light in his eye.

  "The crows are our shadows, Tatsuo. They deserve study, and understanding, not our hatred. They deserve our respect."

  One day, in the staff canteen, I mentioned the professor to another member of staff, a young elevator operator named Midori. She shook her head and said, "Ah, yes, Professor Sakurai. So you've met him, have you? That's a sad case."

  When I asked her what she meant, she answered me in a hushed, respectful tone, her eyes shining with intent and concentration. "About six months ago, someone committed suicide here. In broad daylight. Shopping hours. Due to some mix-up with security, nobody was on duty on the roof at the time, and a man climbed that big fence up there and jumped off the roof before anyone could stop him. Left behind his shoes, with a suicide note inside one of them."

  This I recalled from certain TV reports - although, to be honest, when I had first started work I had done my best to forget about the incident, and the other staff, it seemed, had been following suit. But what I had never known about the matter was . . .

  "When that man fell, he hit someone on the ground. It was Professor Sakurai's wife. They were about to go shopping inside the store, and the suicide hit the ground outside the east door. As he fell, he struck her with his arm. She died later in hospital. "

  The professor, standing there in shock with his wife collapsed at his feet, with the blood and entrails of the suicide splayed out before him, as if to present divinations for some barbaric priest. One moment before they had probably been discussing what to buy. She had seen an item for sale, or perhaps it was something for a birthday or an anniversary - the professor would have unwillingly agreed, perhaps hoping to sit down somewhere in the store and work out theorems in his head, undisturbed, while his wife chatted to the assistants - and suddenly his wife was
on the sidewalk, one of two bodies in front of him, one dead and one soon to die.

  I couldn't bear to think about it. I prayed that I would never see him again, that he would stay at home, that he would find peace of some kind and stop coming here, like some kind of criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

  Here in my student's dormitory, as I sit and write this down, as I think of it, I can still feel the bruises, the aching ribs which were the professor's gift to me. They hurt. The shock has subsided now, but the physical memories remain, the realization that we are bags of blood and guts, parcels of flesh held together with delicate frameworks of bone. Frameworks that can be damaged, broken, deformed, twisted into terrible shapes.

  We are wonderful creations, merely two meters of physical matter, directed by a brain. We can construct mathematical formulas of such complexity and beauty to make even the angels weep. But we cannot fly. We cannot conquer the air, except in cages of metal and plastic. We can never feel the air beneath our arms and use it to push and direct our flight, guiding us towards an impossible horizon.

  All objects are the same when they fall.

  One thing that still amazes me about that day was how he ever made it to the rooftop. I suppose it was the factor of surprise. We are not used to reacting to our environment here. On trains, if we see our fellow passengers behaving strangely, we look away, we tolerate and ignore it, rather than risk the shame of becoming involved with a stranger. When the professor entered the elevator and pressed the button for the rooftop, I think his fellow passengers took him for an advertising stunt, a special promotion taking place on the rooftop.

  And so, Sakurai had stepped from the elevator into the September sunshine, the roof garden spread out before him leading to the wire-strung concrete horizon. He wore plywood wings probably constructed in the front room of his house, giving him a wingspan of maybe over two meters. A clumsily constructed tail shaped like a fan bumped against his posterior as he walked. His head ... he stared straight ahead as he walked, through a helmet plastered with feathers smoothed backwards from the helm - where had he got all of those feathers from? There were more coating his wings and his tail, I remember - and the helmet terminated in a short, jutting beak, covering his mouth and nose. Only his eyes could be seen clearly, fixed either side of the beak, giving him an aggressive, angry countenance. Angry with either himself, or the members of the public that he found himself sharing the roof garden with.

  I was near the alfresco cafe when I saw him. He strode purposefully ahead, ignoring the attention he was now receiving, giving no indication that he'd noticed me.

  Striding towards the fence.

  He was already halfway up by the time I had sprinted across to reach him. I only had a vague idea of his age, perhaps in his early 50s, but he climbed with the vigour of a much younger man - despite being hindered by brightly painted straw sandals on his feet.

  I stretched a hand up to grab his ankle, but he was already out of reach. Hauling himself onto the rim of the shaking fence, he swung one leg over and squatted precariously, the early energy of his movements suddenly calming themselves as he settled into stillness, staring straight ahead at the horizon.

  "Professor," I yelled, "What are you doing? Come down!"

  "I appreciate your concern," his voice came, muffled through his beak, "but you can leave me alone. Please don't try to stop me."

  "Don't kill yourself, please, Professor! I know about your wife. I know it was terrible, but don't throw your life away too!"

  His whole head swiveled around, as he gazed directly at me for the first time.

  "My dear boy, whatever gave you the impression I want to kill myself?" he said rather waspishly. "I have been in contact with my new colleagues. I have studied them, and in the end, I was able to interpret their language. They taught me the mechanism of flight."

  "Colleagues? What colleagues?"

  "The crows. We discussed them before, if you were listening. I told you it was a mistake to underestimate them. Their intellect approaches genius, you know. But of course, it's a genius that is completely at odds with human thinking. It's beautiful in its starkness . . . it's freedom. I intend to fly into Heaven, my boy. Fly into Heaven, and be with my wife."

  "Professor, stop it!" I remember screaming at that point, tearing at my hair in sheer rage and helplessness, as the flurry of panicked activity amongst the staff and customers increased behind me. My whole body shook with desperation, knowing that if I jumped onto the fence he would still have ample time to launch himself, from the roof. "How could the crows have spoken to you? It isn't possible!"

  He nodded his head, tapping with his beak something that nestled in his shirt pocket. "They called me," he said petulantly, "on my cell phone."

  The darkness in the eyes of birds.

  "Well, if you don't mind, I have to go now."

  "But don't you see? You'll fall and kill someone when you hit them! It'll happen again!"

  "I told you," he continued, turning his head once again to face the horizon, "I intend to fly directly into Heaven. But if I hit someone on the way ...well ... I hope that they, too, will be blessed, as I was."

  He gripped the fence harder, preparing to stand. "Wait!" I yelled. "How do you know that they really were crows?"

  But he did not reply. Instead, he raised himself to his full height, spread his arms, opening his wood and feather wings to their fullest extent, and leaned forward.

  Aerodynamics; birds taking flight. The two or three seconds it takes for the air to pass over the upper surface of the wings, and for the pressure underneath them to increase.

  The gust of wind, the thermal updraft, the harbinger of early monsoon, whatever it was, the invisible presence of the air that could be seen only in its consequence. The professor had spread his wings just as a sharp gust had struck the wide surface area like a sail, blowing back toward the roof garden. Blowing him away from the edge of the building, back onto our side of the fence, down towards the paving and the object which was to break his fall and leave him uninjured.

  That fortuitous object was me.

  I only had time to grasp the image of that huge bird-shaped object, blocking out the sun, feathers in brilliant detail flaking away from the badly glued together plywood, before the bulk struck me in the face and bore me down to the ground.

  I wonder what sound I made as the professor crushed me with his wings, sending us both smacking onto the floor, his arms and wings still spread-eagled, with me, a hapless security guard and student, pinioned by his weight.

  Voices came closer, as staff came running to help us to our feet.

  "I do apologize for this," came the Professor's distorted voice, heard through the stabbing pain in my side. It sounded considerably higher-pitched and strained.

  "To tell the truth, I'm not sure the advice of crows is worthy of my trust anymore. I should have listened to the foxes."

  When Masa awoke he was still in the Love Hotel. The radio was still playing, and the girl handcuffed to the bedposts was still dead.

  He shifted position, finding comfort in the warmth of the shallow depression his body had made. All of the channels on the radio were the same: an abstract, ambient collage of wind, plucked strings, and chiming piano keys. A lazy waterfall of sound cascaded from hidden speakers, dripping down onto ornaments, furniture, Masa's brow, not quite succeeding in drowning out the sound of the incessant whispering that crept in from the corridors outside.

  He sighed, and went back to sleep ...

  *

  The girl turned away from Masa, beckoning him to follow. They walked away from the shrine and turned into side streets that grew narrower and quieter, the endless flow of traffic hushing now, the footsteps of other couples walking furtively from assignation to assignation fading away as the night closed in around Masa and the girl. He touched his hand to hers, and she grasped it, her fingers meshing tightly with his. Masa's throat dried and his pulse hammered in his temple.

  As they walke
d in silence, holding hands like high school sweethearts, Masa kept looking for signs that they were approaching the Hotel - but they arrived suddenly without any augurs or warnings. The girl stopped and tugged at Masa's arm, directing to his attention to a building composed of grey-pink stone. The facade gently shimmered in the false neon twilight, the arch of carved flowers above its entrance seeming to slowly turn and writhe as Masa watched.

  Masa could see no signs or billboards; the Hotel had no name. The girl pulled him gently towards the smoked glass door, which slid silently aside to allow them in. They stepped down into a small but plush foyer, arrangements of cut flowers on podiums next to antique hanging scrolls. There were no photographs of the rooms available, as the usual Love Hotels had, with buttons beneath to press when you had made your selection. There was simply a hatch in the opposite wall - a hatch now opened by a lady reminiscent of Masa's grandmother, a lined, pallid face with over-rouged lips, hair swept severely back and held in place with bejeweled combs, her kimono black and shot through with a purple flowered design. Her thin, long-nailed hand stretched out, holding a wooden board with a single key attached. Masa accepted it with a bow of thanks.

  As he turned to the elevator, from the corner of his eye he saw the old lady's face tremble slightly, as if a mask was dropping. Something feral replaced the sallow features, the flesh and bone structure twisted into ochre fur pulled back from bone-colored teeth. And then the hatch was closed.

  Masa and the girl took the elevator to the third floor. There was nothing at all written on the key, but the girl knew which way to go, and Masa was putting himself at her mercy ... just as later she would put herself at his.