by Ryu Murakami
By this time the damage done by Gulliver’s food bill—ten kilos of meat a day—was severe, not to mention the damage to the nerves of Anemone’s mother, who was no longer able to use the shower. Her father explained matters to Anemone as best he could and began to make inquiries at the zoo; but Anemone refused to even consider parting with Gulliver.
No one could touch Gulliver except Anemone, and she herself made it a rule to always enter his room crawling on her belly. Since crocodiles were always creeping along low to the ground, she reasoned, they must feel as though they’re being looked down on—and nobody would like that much. If she got down to their level, they might think of her as a friend. Gulliver, she found, was very fond of music, and would sit peacefully listening to anything she played for him as she cleaned his teeth with a screwdriver. His favorite, though, was David Bowie’s “Uranus.”
On the day her father had arranged for the men from the zoo to take Gulliver away, Anemone threatened suicide, but that was nothing compared to Gulliver’s show. The zookeepers had none of the luxury of space afforded by a jungle river, and in the cramped bathroom the situation got a little out of hand. When the first man tried to sedate him, Gulliver broke his leg with a swish of his tail; then he chewed two fingers off the hand of another man who tried to wire his jaw shut. In the confusion, Gulliver managed to slip out the door of the bathroom, which had been widened for his removal, taking refuge in the living room. When Anemone arrived on the scene, her mother was dancing around the room trying to keep clear of him.
“Get down and crawl!” Anemone urged, as Gulliver, broken furniture and torn carpet in his wake, was closing in. The scars from her plastic surgery twitched and pulled as Anemone’s mother dropped to the ground screaming.
“Mama, try singing! He’d never eat you while you’re singing.” So her mother, half fainting, sang “Blue-eyed Doll” with all the strength in her surgically enhanced vocal chords while Gulliver listened, one leg planted squarely in the middle of her back.
At the time of their move to the condo, Anemone was seventeen years old, Gulliver three meters long. Anemone did some renovating in Gulliver’s new home, breaking down the walls between the rooms and adding a humidifier, with the heat turned up high all the time to simulate the crocodile’s birthplace, the delta of the Irrawaddy River in Burma. Future plans included a couple of dozen ultraviolet lights to be hung from the ceiling. Gulliver’s room she dubbed Uranus—“King of the Heavens”—a distant world where one year equals eighty-four, and where the atmosphere is so heavy that only low-lying lichens and ferns could survive, with only creeping animals like the crocodile to walk among them. The Uranean wind sighed a long, low song as Anemone envisioned the tropical garden she would make in the apartment: a realm of brilliant colors, with the crocodile as lord and master and she herself as jungle goddess; the air choked with the fragrance of flowers and ripe fruit, and here and there coral reefs and pools of seaweed teeming with sea turtles, palm trees, and lite beer.
“Rain again,” said the driver, catching Anemone’s eye in the rear-view mirror and striking up a conversation. He seemed to be the chatty sort. Anemone stared out the window at the traffic, which was getting heavy.
“Rain,” he repeated. “The weatherman said yesterday the rainy season’s over, but it’s still so humid you can’t keep the windows from fogging up. My grandmother always told me there were only two things in life you could trust: the weather forecast on NHK and Sanseido’s English-Japanese Dictionary. That and the signs on the cages at Ueno Zoo… And maybe the umpires in high school baseball. Grandma graduated from college in the twenties when almost nobody where we came from even went to school… Shit! Look at that asshole trying to cut in… She was a smart old girl… Damn glass keeps fogging up… Uh, miss, pardon me for being nosy, but what college do you go to? I’ll bet it’s a music college…”
Anemone ignored him, and the man went on chuckling to himself and cursing other drivers. She had flagged down the cab in front of the wholesale butcher’s, where her heavy bundle of frozen meat had been carried to the car. It was just bad luck, she discovered after she was settled inside, that the driver was a bit too friendly.
“Know how I can tell music students? They’re a dead giveaway: powerful shoulders means a pianist; a thick neck means a singer; violinists have got calluses on the chin; and cellists are bowlegged. Pretty good, huh? Guess you could say I’m not your run-of-the-mill cabbie. I’ve always had this gift for noticing things, and my friends all tell me it’s a shame to waste it in a job like this. They say I should’ve been a writer or a ship’s captain or something. Ship’s captain… now there’s a job. You have to be able to size up your crew pretty good or you can end up in trouble… Yep, you’d have to be real sharp for that… Real sharp… Miss?… Miss? You asleep?” People get chattier all the time, Anemone was thinking. They come up and start talking to you on the train, waiting in line somewhere, at the movies, in a coffee shop or at the supermarket, and if you so much as say “boo” back, you’re doomed; they go on talking forever. More assholes out there all the time: they smile nice, offer to carry your bag or buy you a cup of coffee, and suddenly you’re their best friend. Seems dangerous, all these pathological talkers. Anemone had read of a case where a man had tried to walk away from a talkative stranger and got a knife in the back.
“Tired, huh? It’s bad to get worn out like that, makes you cranky… Damn this drizzle! It’s hell on the wipers and worse on the drivers. Hardly see anything with this glare… Blinding, huh?… Yup, blinding… You sure are quiet, lady. Uh… where was it you said you were going? You’re so quiet back there I completely forgot… I’m not kidding, I really can’t remember… Come on, lady, give me a break,” he pleaded, glancing back at Anemone. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as she opened the window a crack to get some air. The smell of warm, damp concrete came flooding into the car, the smell of evening.
“No, really, I’m serious—you’ve got to tell me, where do you want to go? I can’t remember.” The driver stopped the taxi in the middle of the road and put on his flashers. Sharp honks came from the traffic backing up behind.
“Daikanyama,” Anemone muttered. The man had barely managed to catch what she said, but his face immediately relaxed.
“Right! Daikanyama it was; Yamate Avenue, I believe. Just slipped my mind for a minute… Miss, excuse me for saying so, but you’re not like most other girls. In this line of work I learn a lot about people—must meet fifty or more every day—and I’m telling you, you’re a bit different… in a good sense, of course. I mean, for example, you take your normal young lady, she’ll at least make small talk, say hello, something… I guess what I mean is, your normal young lady’s got some manners. Take for instance a few minutes ago, when I said to you ‘Rain again.’ I remember that ‘cause we were just going under an overpass, the odometer said 70,092 kilometers, and the fare was at ¥1,780—like I said, not much I don’t notice… Well, a normal girl would have said something like ‘Yes, it certainly is pretty sticky,’ or ‘The rainy season ought to be over by now,’ or something like that. People always talk about the weather to get things started; it’s just good manners.
“You know, miss, I’m a pretty easygoing guy in general. Yeah, I have my rough edges, but all in all I’m pretty open-minded… but I’ve got to tell you, you are the quietest fucking lady I ever met. Shit, this traffic! Slow as molasses, and rain, too. And a tight-lipped, bad-assed fare. Guess this is what I get for being such a nice guy.”
The taxi had hardly moved, and ahead the red blur of brake lights glistened on the pavement. With nothing else to do, the driver was studying Anemone’s profile in the mirror as the lights from the oncoming cars lit her pale, transparent skin and cast mauve shadows on her eyelids and cheeks.
Here the road began to slope gently downward to a part of Tokyo popularly known as “Toxitown,” a contaminated area right in the center of the city. About five years earlier, birds and small animals had suddenly begun dyin
g in the neighborhood. Tests revealed an abnormally high level of chlorine in the soil, high enough to cause eruptions on the skin of those exposed to it, or liver and nerve damage in cases where the contaminant got into the system. Pregnant women were warned of the danger of miscarriage or birth defects. But that was all that was ever said; no explanation was offered as to how the chlorine got into the soil, though there was plenty of speculation. Since there was no chemical plant in the area, some said the stuff must have leaked from a passing truck. There was talk of illegal dumping, shoddy construction practices, or even some peculiar natural chemical reaction triggered by the high ground temperature. At any rate, whatever the cause, this particular waste could not be cleaned up by any normal means: it wasn’t water soluble, it was impervious to heat treatment, and even those microorganisms developed especially for eating waste were useless. In the end, the Public Health Department came up with large subsidies to have the residents relocated, and the area was sealed off. The ground was covered with cement, the perimeter ringed with barbed wire, and sentry boxes were set up.
There were two theories as to why the place came to be known as Toxitown: one was simply because it was a health hazard, the other because the sealed area became a hotbed of crime, particularly drug traffic. The criminal element found its way in and out of Toxitown in spite of the guards who patrolled the perimeter in protective suits. The guards, toting flamethrowers, were there to prevent anyone from entering, but even more to stop vandals from removing anything. Since the houses and their contents had been abandoned once the pollution was discovered, the authorities were afraid the area would be particularly tempting to looters, and they put out the word that the guards would incinerate not only contaminated property but anyone carrying it. The warning, however, didn’t have much effect on traffic in and out of Toxitown, since the people it was meant to scare off were interested in the new territory precisely because it was the one place in Tokyo where police jurisdiction didn’t extend. And once the area had been colonized by gangsters and hoods, other types began to collect there too; drifters and vagrants, the deinstitutionalized mentally ill, low-class whores, male prostitutes, wanted criminals, degenerates, cripples, and runaways all took up residence in Toxitown, and an odd sort of society began to form. In the end, apparently, even the police preferred to look the other way thanks to an unexpected side effect of so many marginal types gathering in one spot: the crime rate, particularly for sexual offenses, began to fall sharply in other parts of the city. Everybody, in fact, was unofficially satisfied with the situation, except for one small detail: the barbed-wire compound lay directly adjacent to and in the shadow of the cluster of new skyscrapers in West Shinjuku, as if the crown of the Tokyo skyline rose above a cesspool.
“It’s just common sense,” the driver was saying. “Just use your common sense—that’s what I always say. And all these folks who don’t have any common sense, well you might as well take them out and shoot the lot of them. Look at this traffic jam, for instance: if every fool in Tokyo wants to go the same place at the same time, well, of course it’s going to end up like this. What we need is somebody to come up with some alternatives, something creative. There must be all sorts of other ways to do this—flying cars, or underground highways, or something… And this goddamn rain doesn’t help either…
“Waaaait a minute! Wait just one fucking minute! Hey… miss… it’s you, isn’t it?—yes, that’s it! You’re in that TV commercial, the one where the shampoo gets in your eyes, they turn red, and you turn into a rabbit. Shit! If that don’t beat all. A model!”
The rain was falling a little harder as Toxitown came into view on the left. The pale light bathing the guardpost and armored cars illuminated a sign: “Toxic Waste Area, Keep Out!” The whole scene shimmered, as if great strips of light on the skyscrapers had peeled away and settled onto the barbed-wire fortress. The driver, realizing he had a celebrity in his cab, got even chattier.
“You know who you remind me of? That old Hollywood actress who used to do those underwater scenes where she winked at the camera. You’ve got the same big, beautiful eyes…” And then: “Whoa! What’s today? Friday! I should’ve known! Last week I had my fortune read, and the lady said that this Friday I’d meet the person who would change my life, somebody who’d make my whole future. She meant you! Today! And you sure do look like somebody who could change a guy’s luck. What a face!… And eyes! Those eyes! Like one of those plastic babydolls my kid sister used to play with that could really drink milk. You’ve got rainbows on your eyelids, did you know that? Yeah, real pretty, all those colors on your eyes… Uh, I’m sorry if I’m talking crazy, but you’ve got a face that could make a guy go out of his mind… But I guess everybody tells you that.”
Somewhere behind them a horn honked so long it sounded as if it were stuck, and several drivers were leaning out to see what was going on. Somebody yelled “Shut the fuck up, you asshole!” which echoed through the rain. Then two more horns joined in and engines revved. Inside, the driver’s excitement had steamed up all the windows, while some people along the road, annoyed by the noise—or maybe just bored—began throwing stones at the cars. When one bounced off the bumper of the cab, Anemone started to feel uneasy. The slick surface of the road seemed to shift and roil, throwing back the lights of the city in her face. The driver rolled down his window and shouted “Shut-the-fuck-up!” eleven times in succession by Anemone’s count. When he was done, she noticed, he heaved a sigh that shook a drop of rain from his chin.
“What shit, what total bullshit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Listen to that, miss. This fucking traffic is going to kill me if I don’t get out of here.” His voice had grown shrill, and he stumbled over rapid, hissed words. “But that’s it! We’ll run away together. What do you say? The company has a little beach house out east in Chiba; we could go there together. Be a way to get away from this traffic. How ‘bout it? You and me in Chiba?… Except… it takes money to make a getaway, specially with a girl like you. I bet you could never go for a guy without money. There’s probably nothing but cheap booze at the beach house, and a girl like you must drink some fancy wine. Then there are those mattresses… probably all moldy; and we’d need new sheets. Yep, got to have money to run away…
“Wait a minute! Are we on Yamate Avenue? Wait just one damn minute. This bookie I know’s got an office in that building up there. Sucker’s been making a fool out of me for years; but I’ll fix him, and fix us up at the same time. If you don’t mind sitting here for a bit, I’ll go up and get some cash from him, and while I’m at it—ha!—I wouldn’t mind sticking a knife in the pig! Now I won’t be a minute…” and he was gone.
The driver had stopped the car at the side of the road; Anemone, who had hardly been listening, assumed he was going to buy cigarettes or something. She was beginning to worry that the package of horsemeat and chicken heads in the trunk would spoil if she didn’t get it in the freezer soon, and she all but ignored the shouted insults as cars tried to squeeze by the taxi, which was half blocking the lane. When the driver hadn’t come back in five minutes, Anemone was furious. Rubbing a circle in the fogged window, she peered out to find a soldier, gun at his side, standing right beside the car. The young man wore a transparent plastic raincoat, and his foot was keeping time to the music filling his ears from the headphones strapped to his head.
“Sooorryyy!” piped the driver, sliding back into his seat. Anemone took one look at him and tried to scream, but nothing came out: his face and shirt were covered with blood. “What a letdown that was! Whodda thought a body was that mushy. Well, at least I got the money. Let’s roll!” The driver’s voice was a little shaky, but his technique was impeccable as he jumped the curb, turned the car around, and shot past the other stalled traffic. Anemone had no idea what to do; she knew she should be screaming, but found she couldn’t. Her body, covered with gooseflesh, was shivering but her head felt hot. Now the meat will spoil for sure, she thought, beginning to get really angry. Me
anwhile, the driver’s luck with the traffic had come to an end and the cab was wedged in the crush; worse, he had managed to dent the fender of the car behind. The man in the other car got out, came over to the window of the taxi, pressed his face against the glass and yelled “Open up,” but the cabbie by this time was too shaky to do anything. Getting no response, the other man began to kick the door, joined by a companion who smashed the windshield with an aluminum baseball bat. Anemone threw herself on the floor as the driver, reviving a bit, shot the car into reverse and bumped over the sidewalk. Spotting a place where a pole in the barbed-wire fence had fallen down, he stomped on the gas and rammed into the opening until the tires caught on the fence and the engine stalled.
Just then, the generators of some floodlights groaned into life and a powerful beam fell on the car. A whistle blew, and the soldier with the headphones tossed them into his sentry box and came running, gun leveled. As two more guards in white protective uniforms emerged from an armored car, the cabbie managed to get the engine started and jammed the gearshift again into reverse. The guards, as advertised, aimed their flamethrowers, but before they could open fire the cab ripped through the fence and disappeared into Toxitown.
They drove along slowly for a minute or two until several scruffy figures appeared in the headlights. A greasy smell came from the driver, and Anemone could see that he was covered with a sticky mixture of blood and bits of ramen noodles. A bluish vein was pumping on his forehead, and his damp, trembly hands seemed about to slip off the wheel, but he still managed to keep up his spiel.
“I can see how it’ll be: we’ll wake up together in the morning, the sea just beginning to shine. I’ll make toast and soft-boiled eggs; you’ll say ‘Really, I couldn’t, darling. After last night, all I want to do is sleep.’ And I’ll say you have to eat to keep up your strength, and bring you breakfast in bed… Except… I’m not sure they even have beds at this place… Oh well, who cares. I can just see you, sleeping in the nude, those rainbow eyes shut tight.”