by Неизвестный
“I like Brooke Shields and Phoebe Cates.”
Our tastes are completely different, Jack thought. She goes for career over looks, while I go for the precocious Lolita types. But at least this line of conversation was easier.
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes, I speak a little French.”
“Do you speak Tagalog?”
“No, I do not speak Tagalog.”
“Do you have some butter?”
“No one takes butter with them when they go out.”
“Which do you like better, Calvin Klein underwear or medicine for whitlow [fingernail or toenail] infections?”
“Does anyone really like that stuff?”
It was apparently not a good idea to be too nonsensical.
“What do you think of the influence, either direct or indirect, that existentialism as defined by Jean-Paul Sartre has had on the collapse of democracy in the United States of America?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, either.”
Jack grinned, trying to gloss over the situation.
“What time is it now?” he asked.
“It is one forty-five,” Betty said.
“Is that fifteen minutes before two o’clock?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What do you like to eat for breakfast?”
“I like orange juice, eggs, milk, buttered toast, and tofu pie.”
“What do you eat for lunch?”
“I usually eat sandwiches and milk, or tuna and avocado sushi.”
“What do you eat for dinner?”
“I usually eat vegetables, meat, milk, and bread and butter, but now I am fasting for health reasons.”
“How many months are there in a year?”
“There are twelve months in a year.”
Their senseless conversation quickly reached a dead-end. All of a sudden Betty said nostalgically, “I remember your younger brother. His name was Bill.”
“Yes, his name is Bill.”
“He invited me to his birthday party when he was seven.”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“I gave him a birthday present. It was a story book.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I remember him well. He was a cute little boy with fat cheeks. He was a charming boy, the type everyone loves.”
Jack choked a little, but managed to reply, “He used to be the type of boy everyone likes.”
“How is he?”
“He is not well.”
“Is he sick?”
“He is in the hospital with AIDS.”
Betty blinked in surprise and hurriedly changed the subject.
“I remember your little sister,” she said. “Her name was Mary.”
“Yes, her name is Mary.”
An uneasy expression appeared on Betty’s face.
“When I was in seventh grade, she was two years old.”
“Yes, she used to be two years old.”
“She was a very cute little girl.”
“Yes, she was very cute.”
Betty was at a loss for words. She turned toward Jack with a worried look, as if searching for something. And then, in a trembling voice, she asked, “How is she?”
Jack shrugged and said, “Who knows?”
Betty, having come this far, felt she had to probe further.
“Well, how is she doing?”
“When she was in her late teens she decided she wanted to become a movie star.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Then she appeared in several hard-core porno movies.”
“Oh.”
“After that I suddenly lost contact with her. I haven’t heard a thing from her since.”
“Oh, no.”
“According to some people, she is working as a massage girl at a Japanese geisha house. But another theory is that she married an Eskimo, had thirteen children, and now spends her time busily skinning seals.”
As if trying to smooth things over, Betty suddenly said in a ridiculously loud voice, “Let us talk about our old school.”
“It was on a hill in the suburbs of Chicago.”
“Yes, it was. It was a beautiful hill covered with grass.”
“The principal’s name was Mr. Brown.”
“No, the principal’s name was Mr. Hill.”
“We are probably both correct.”
“There was a teacher named Mr. Johnson.”
“There was also a teacher named Miss Rivers.”
“There was also a teacher named Mr. Green.”
“One of our classmates was named Dick.”
“One of our other classmates was named Kate.”
“It was a beautiful, peaceful school. I remember it fondly.”
“I remember it fondly, too.”
“I wonder what the school is like now?”
Jack shrugged again.
“The school is torn down now,” he said. “They built a nuclear power plant on the hill.”
“Oh, no.”
“There was a little accident there last year, and they almost had a ‘China Syndrome.’ ”
Noticing a gloomy look in Betty’s eyes, Jack decided to change the subject. I’m not having any luck with this conversation today, he thought.
“Do you remember going to the bird show with me?” he asked.
A happy expression appeared on Betty’s face.
“Why, yes,” she said. “There was a bird show in the park. I liked birds, so the two of us went to the show.”
“Do you remember the beautiful parrots there?”
“Yes, I do remember them. They were very beautiful parrots.”
“Do you remember the big swan there?”
“Yes, I do remember the swan. And I also remember this. In front of one of the parrots you said, ‘I think this is the most beautiful of all.’ ”
She was right. Jack could recall as clear as day how he had felt then. He had been very young, and he had actually wanted to say something different. He really couldn’t have cared less about the beautiful parrot. And he hadn’t even been thinking about the graceful swan. He hadn’t invited Betty to the bird show because he wanted to watch birds. He had just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, with her.
I was in love with Betty then, he thought. In fact, I was in love with her the whole three years we were together at school, from the moment we introduced ourselves to each other with “I am a boy,” and “I am a girl.” But I was so naive then. During the whole three years, I never did manage to tell you how I really felt, Betty. I never kissed you, or even hinted that I loved you.
All we did was go to the bird show together.
But, hey, I wasn’t looking at the birds. When I said that one bird was the most beautiful, I really meant something completely different. I really meant that of all the girls at school, Betty, you were the most beautiful. That you were the most attractive girl in the whole wide world. You were far more charming than any old parrot or swan. I really believed it.
Jack could recall his first true love as clear as day. At the time he had thought that he might have had a chance with her in high school, but soon after that she had moved and disappeared. It had been a time when young people were more innocent than they are today, but he had already been interested in the opposite sex. He had later played around with a few girls, eventually been caught by one of them, gotten married, and then. . . . Perhaps if he had spent his youth with Betty, he thought, they might have fallen in love with each other.
Jack stared at Betty’s face, right before him. It was true that she was no longer young, but she still exuded a refined beauty.
“What is the matter?” Betty asked.
Jack thought about trying to seduce her. They were both single, and there was nothing stopping them. Besides, as a single, middle-aged man, he was used to having a little fun. He should just act as he normally would in such a situation, he told himself.
But today he couldn’t. Hi
s speech had reverted to patterns of thirty years ago, and all he could think of saying was I want to have sex with you.
He knew that wouldn’t work. He knew she wasn’t going to answer Yes, I want to have sex with you too.
He smiled forlornly. “It’s . . . it’s nothing,” he said.
TAKAHASHI TAKAKO
Like many others, Takahashi Takako (b. 1932) is a postwar Japanese writer with a great interest in French literature, particularly in the novels of François Mauriac. In 1971, after her husband, himself a novelist, died, Takahashi began traveling to Europe, mainly to France. Partly because of the influence of the writer Endō Shūsaku, Takahashi was eventually baptized a Catholic. In the mid-1980s, she stopped writing for a while to become a nun but later resumed. Her writing often has a Jungian sense of the interpermeable borders of human personality. The story translated here is “Invalid” (Byōshin, 1978).
INVALID (BYŌSHIN)
Translated by Van C. Gessel
She was in the habit now of asking him how he was feeling. He always had something wrong with him somewhere, and he was so frail, it was evident that he carried some affliction inside him.
“How are you feeling?” She spoke the words into the receiver for what seemed like the thousandth time.
“Uh, not very good,” he answered for the thousandth time. Over the telephone, his uh sounded like an ugh . . . which made him seem like a whining baby.
She asked the ritual question. “Where don’t you feel good?”
“I’ve kind of got a cold.” As evidence, he sniffled a couple of times.
“Oh, you’re right, that’s your nose, isn’t it?” She had grown playful.
She could almost picture the white tip of his nose on the other end of the connection. It narrowed to a slender point, and it was cold. But from that protuberance he exhaled air, the faintly warm artifact that provided her the only contact she had with the interior of this man, this other person.
“I can almost see your nose,” she laughed.
“You can?” He sounded a bit out of sorts. Perhaps she was having fun at his expense. He was in no mood for that. He had a cold and felt lousy.
“Is that all? Is your nose the only problem?” She knew as she spoke that she was turning rapacious.
“My throat hurts a little, too.”
“Do you have a cough?”
Instead of answering, he hacked twice into the mouthpiece. The membranes in his throat must be several times more sensitive than a normal person’s, she thought. But what shape was he in down in the deepest, unseeable parts of his body? She wanted to see and know the colors, the shapes, the feel and everything else about him.
“Cough again.”
But this time he was silent. He must have sensed that she was toying with him.
One morning as he lay flat on his back, she had tightened her hands around his throat. He did not move or speak; he let her have her way with him. But soon after she loosened her grip, some kind of artifact welled up from inside him, like the sound a clock with failing springs makes just before it chimes. She held her breath and watched as the sound seeped from his mouth, and finally he had begun to cough.
“I’ve just been listening to Erik Satie.” He changed the subject.
“Really? Even though you’re not feeling well?” It seemed very peculiar to her.
“His Gymnopédies are marvelous, aren’t they?” He raised his voice a bit when he said “marvelous.”
She seemed to be able to hear the clear, indolent melodies. Moments earlier the music had filled the square, white space of his room and coursed over his body. She wanted to hear through the telephone the vestiges of sound that were tinged with the fragrances of his flesh.
“Imagine being able to listen to music when you aren’t feeling well.” She was caught up in the idea. In what manner did music insinuate itself into the interior of a man who had caught a cold? How were music and illness reconciled inside him? There probably were no answers to these questions. It all boiled down to the fact that she didn’t think anyone sick could listen to music, whereas he was someone who could.
“Strange,” she ventured.
“What is?” he asked in a stupefied voice.
“You are. Your insides are.”
He invariably refused to follow her lead when she became this difficult.
“Do you have a fever?” The questioning resumed.
“A slight fever.” There was no way of knowing how many times he had been prompted to utter that line.
“How does it make you feel?”
“That’s enough.”
“No, I want to know. Please tell me.”
“I feel heavy.” He was still able to respond pliantly.
“Where? Your head? Your whole body?”
“Everywhere.”
“Really? Everywhere.” With the fever as her probe, she wanted to penetrate his entire body. Then she could understand him better. “Then it’s a fever and your nose and your throat. That’s all that’s bothering you.” She presented her conclusions definitively, like a physician. But unlike a doctor, she did not analyze his symptoms. She wanted to experience his body in the same way that he experienced it.
“My stomach doesn’t feel very good.” He finally parted with the information grudgingly, as though he were uncovering a private treasure.
“Really!” Her spirits soared: she had been handed another clue. Unrepentant, she resumed the interrogation.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I feel sort of nauseated.” This, too, was a speech he had repeated innumerable times. Strangely, though, the phrase did not seem worn no matter how many times he uttered it. On each and every occasion, he was in fact ill, and he was making a sincere effort to describe his condition. For her part, too, she listened to his complaints with an ever-fresh anticipation.
“Did you throw up?”
“I felt sick to my stomach in the middle of the night last night.”
“But you didn’t throw up, did you?”
“Lately I feel sick to my stomach every night.”
“You just feel sick? I wonder why?”
“I’ve been this way for years. I just get nauseated sometimes.”
“I know. It’s peculiar, isn’t it.” It frustrated her that she could not get her hands on the nausea that nested within him. That inability began to seem like a grand enigma to her. If he had gotten sick because he’d eaten some spoiled food or had too much to drink, then there would be a physiological explanation for it. But evidently these attacks washed over him for no clear reason. It was a nausea that had recently come to roost within his body in the middle of the night, a nausea that could not be eradicated because they did not know its source, a nausea that seemed to be the riddle that was himself.
She was reminded of an earlier experience: then, too, he had contracted a cold. He complained of a sore throat, so she gave him a lozenge, a brown troche made of medicinal herbs. He took one in his hand, placed it in his mouth, and began to suck. He was sitting on the windowsill at this time, and as she stood over him, for no reason at all she put her hand on top of his head. A strange reverberation rumbled through her hand. So she placed her ear on top of his head where her hand had been. There could be no doubt: a peculiar echo sounded in her ears, as booming as if it had been amplified through a loudspeaker system. The situation was so ludicrous she began to laugh. It was the sort of sound that made her want to ask someone what it might be. She wondered if perhaps a pair of dice was rolling around inside his skull cavity. The more intent she became, the more she was convinced that she was listening to the riddle of his inner workings, a sound like rolling dice that could not possibly come from inside a person’s head. And yet she was certain that if she asked him to take the lozenge from his mouth, the riddle would be all too easily solved.
Wouldn’t it be possible to unravel the mystery of his illness in the same way? If that happened, she was certain that she could unravel the man himself from within.<
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“You’re a strange person.” After the third time she said that, she hung up the phone.
The more greedily you try to understand people, the less you understand them.
On the other end of the connection she had just cut, though it was separated by several miles from where she sat, a conduit direct and invisible to the eye had been formed by virtue of the conversation that had passed between them, and she could hear the opening strains of an Erik Satie piece coming from the opposite pole. The sound came from a white room in a tall apartment building. Because the walls and ceilings and even the clothes closet were stark white, a somehow hypnotic languidness filled the room. And his prized stereo system was pumping the white room with the clear, indolent tones of the first of Satie’s Trois Gymnopédies. The sound was like an ivory mah-jongg tile clattering in a glass of white wine, a wine of course not Japanese but a vintage that had slept in the dark confines of a European cellar for more than a century. De cadence had distilled in the bottle, but it contained not a single impurity, resulting in a decadence peculiarly clear in color. Several quick drinks from the glass and it is evident that this is decadence, but a languorous sensation surges through the body and mind. Even in that lilt of intoxication, the cold ivory tile continues to clatter back and forth in the glass. There is no more trace of emotion: only sensation. That is Erik Satie. The man slides effortlessly into the very center of the music. And, yes, his illness resembles its melody. Now he turns away from the stereo and walks through the white room toward his bed. From the highway comes the dull echo of passing automobiles, and through his fifth-floor window, the brightness of an afternoon sun in a cloudless sky shines mercilessly, and at midday he cloisters himself in the white room with his maladies, and tilting his languid, slightly feverish head in the direction of the music, he stands stiffly next to his bed. Suddenly he is gripped with apprehension, as though he has completely forgotten everything that was just said over the telephone. The faint light of some vague existence has just opened a yawning pit before him. His illness is not solely to blame. As if to shield himself from that abyss, he focuses his ears on the music. With his innately keen sense of hearing, his ears can capture each of the sounds that make up a Satie composition as though they were concrete objects. “Superb,” he thinks but does not say aloud, and comforted by the thought, he collapses onto the bed. Although the heat is turned up high, he feels a chill throughout his body and burrows under the covers. The white ceiling and white walls abruptly drop in on his eyes. Erik Satie floods the room. The lethargy that emanates from his ailing body joins with the flow of the lethargic music. Superb. Yet somehow unsettling. As if he is waging a battle between the two conflicting sensations, he thrashes his heavy, slightly feverish head back and forth on the pillow.