by Jayne Joso
I never cared about the money, but the gambling gave me a buzz. Something I never got from my job. All the bank ever did was chew up my soul. Strange to think this gambling hoard might just put things right. It could help me pay my way somewhere. An entire stack of notes. Big ones. I flicked through them. Their smell lifted off them. I patted them down again, laying them back in the box. If I was careful, this money would keep me quite some while. I could start over. But then that thought filled me with anguish. I can’t explain. Perhaps a jolt I hadn’t anticipated, and wasn’t quite ready for. Start over? This was far from me. But it had to be good, and perhaps it was not too far, and so, as soon as I felt able, I could leave this place, take up some modest residence so as to eke out the funds, and later, after I’d found a job, I could find a smart place again. That’s how it would go. And step by step I would ease my way back into society.
I moved into the sunshine to feel its warmth on my face. What grand plans suddenly.
It had been a comfort to find I still had uncle’s box. Gently I retied the ribbon, and returned it to the cardboard box.
5.
As the nights progressed a routine began to shape itself. I would go about my work, checking out each room, each space, assessing the damage, and noting things I might make use of. Sometimes Cat accompanied me, and sometimes I felt his presence on the upper floor as he padded about, teasing the more fragile timbers. Shivers of dust and sand would fall from the ceiling, but so far nothing more. But later, when I tried to sleep, my concern would grow that building inspectors might come here at any moment, or the owners of the dwelling, or, at extreme moments of anxiety, the police armed with sticks and batons. It was hard to gauge whether anyone ever checked on the house and I wondered if it was possible that there really were no eyes upon the place. I could only hope this was the case for it seemed certain now that I could not continue my work only at night-time. The strain on my sight was too great, and whilst I’d made some progress, there were real limitations as to what I could achieve only in darkness and the early half-light.
The project I worked on had really grown now and entirely by itself. Having discovered the sheer scale of the place it was obvious that the work was going to be very much more than I’d anticipated. I didn’t mind. I was glad of it. But it was clear that I would need to become more thoroughly acquainted with the place before I could begin any greater repairs. I was also aware of my good fortune in arriving after the rainy season, but for sure the rains would come again, and if I was to stay here longer the place would have to be shored up.
I needed a full and detailed ground plan, careful notes and mapping, and an inventory of everything I found. Everything needed to be clear and precise, and if all of this required my staying here some extra days, then that’s what I would do.
In many ways my progress seemed incredibly slow. I still hadn’t ventured to the floor above, and still hadn’t made it out into the garden, but I would get there. The greatest impediment was the sheer level of dilapidation. I’d lost count of the times I’d smashed my head, and as much as I could bear these minor collisions, if I wasn’t careful it was only a matter of time before I actually dislodged some essential part of the building and then the damage to the house might prove catastrophic, and for me could signal the end. There was really no choice but to move about the place at a snail’s pace and to attempt the work with care. If anyone came here, I had no idea what official powers they would have, but I would simply have to face them when it happened. Fear of the dark, fear of the light. Fear of the outside, and fear of what comes in. It does no good to let thoughts like that take hold.
6.
Aware that it was quite a step to move about the place in daylight I decided to maintain a state of high alert. Mindful not to draw attention to myself, I should be nothing more than a shadow here, that if anyone were to notice something strange behind a window, they would take it for the impression of a man but not a man himself, permitting themselves to accept what they see as nothing more than an illusion, a strange configuration. With this in mind I would stay as close to the walls as possible and particularly to any existing shadows. The perfect silent ninja.
I sat awhile with Cello and a bowl of rice to which I had added some water achieving a kind of poor man’s porridge. It didn’t taste good but I was indifferent to it somehow, excited by the next stage in my plans, eager to move things on.
So far I had made my notes on rough scraps of paper now hardly legible. What I scribbled in the dark often made no sense when I looked at it later in the light, and dust and moisture would mix and blur the lines I drew. This time I would draw up a clear and accurate plan with notes detailing every last aspect of the place, and since it would be easier to see, I could take care to keep the text clean and dry. By now I had found paper in various forms: scrolls, rolls, loose sheets and set in notebooks. I might use some of the fresh shoji paper I had found for larger scale drawings, I liked its texture; and if my notes were sufficient I would compile a journal. I might even execute some drawings as though conceiving a large and elaborate scroll. And since there was no one here to see it, I would call it art. I had also found a room crammed with cardboard boxes, collapsed down and piled up high, discarded and forgotten, but if possible, I would also put these to use. It might even prove helpful to create some models of the space here. I had been a fool to think I might have accomplished all of this work myself. The greater part of the repairs were clearly beyond me, but if I could put together a detailed record then this would surely help some expert when the real work of renovation began; and if it was good enough, it might also serve as part of an argument for renovation over demolition. And if any part of this place should fall whilst I was here, then it would help them to know what lay beneath the wreckage, what stood here before. So, it was decided, I would sketch and I would write.
I needed to see this house from every angle, every recess, every crevice, every shadow; saturated in light, in deepest darkness and every shade in between. And I would see it with heart and soul and capture all the things that eyes alone would surely miss. I would touch and feel this dwelling with every single part of me, my hands upon its skin, my chest against its walls.
A man falls in love with a house. So it goes.
7.
Something is wrong. It is not always Cat that moves about above my head. And I can no longer attribute the sounds to the timbers merely contracting and relaxing with the change in temperature as day and night move on. I listen closely. I am well attuned to the sounds in this place and know what each of them is. But the sounds that filter from the upper level are new sounds and they menace me. I have no weapon. Just the strength in my arms.
Afraid now, I will stay in the room I sleep in, close to Cello. I have tried to busy myself making notes, but find myself distracted. Sometimes the sounds seep away. But then they return and still I cannot name them. Does someone come here? And leave again? Do they spy on me? Gathering evidence, noting my moves, my desperate way of living? Why don’t they make themselves known to me? Do they plan to attack me? I sit in the dark here waiting, knowing that at some point someone will come. And when they do I will not know who they are and I don’t know what they’ll do. What powers they will have.
Again the sounds. And then the quiet. Perhaps they choose their moment. Perhaps they seek to undermine me first with mind games and with torment. Perhaps a shapeshifter comes here. Is that the case?
I inch my way in silence to the cardboard box and take out the smaller lacquer box and make my way as quietly as possible to the door. All the while taking care to keep myself close to the ground, mindful of my moves. I should leave and find a better place, a safer, cleaner place. Pay my way somewhere, raise my head again. All in all, that would be for the best.
My hands shake. I struggle to control them. Unwashed the last days, I itch, and my limbs are cold. Perspiration slips down my back. I feel my way to standing but it’s difficult, I have been crouched too long. I touch the doo
r. It doesn’t open and I can’t find my strength. I reach back into the darkness of the room and I tremble. The sounds come again and I am so afraid. Around and around my head, the noises come. How is it possible to fear the outside more than this? I slip to the earthen floor, the silk-tied box clutched to my belly. My mouth lies open as though I would scream, and nothing but nothing comes, and without a sound my eyes let slip a few fat tears, and it is all I can do to sit and watch as they fall and pool upon my knees.
I remember a choking sensation, then nothing more.
Long after the sounds had gone I must have made my way back to the tatami, but in truth I do not remember the moves; and somehow, perhaps simply from exhaustion, I have slept. I am filthy from crawling, and hungry to a level that is now hard to gauge. There are pains in many parts of me, but especially my head. I cannot measure if that is also just a symptom of hunger; but perhaps my head was struck, or I fell down? What to make of it? What to do? Afraid of all the other rooms, I have decided that I should continue to keep myself in this one. An oasis from where I can see Cello. And I should maintain my position in the very darkest spot, so that no one hears or sees me. So full of fear, I would have to manage without the rice just now.
I hoped that Cat would come.
8.
I seem to have slept and slept again, and each time I woke I sensed that I had been dreaming, imagining some treacherous shapeshifter come here to plague me. Arriving at this house in some innocent form, perhaps some familiar human form that draws no attention to itself, but once inside, changing, choosing its prey and toying with sounds that unsettle the mind, starving the resting of their sleep, or filling the sleeping head with torment. This cannot be real though, and shapeshifters – only the stuff of folklore used to frighten us as children, to make us behave, to make us lie still. They are not real. They are not real.
Choosing my moment, I crept to the stove and finally set some rice to cook. I crouched down low on the floor, waiting as the steam rose above, hoping that nothing and no one would come.
Poor food, excessive heat, and unsettled sleep will certainly alter a man’s state of mind. And being holed up like this is not healthy. I could almost hear my mother and aunt, their words filtering softly as though through the wind chime. Fresh air and exercise, Takeo, that’s what you need. And thirty ingredients, each and every day. The mind and the body, that’s what you need, Takeo, each and every day.
As a boy I would sit and studiously count the number of things that passed my lips each day. But I never went short. No need for worry. Beans and herbs and root vegetables, mountain vegetables in springtime (which I would gather with my cousins), rice and tofu, miso, fish and meat, and so many kinds of seaweed and fruit. Mushrooms and pickles. All in abundance these things danced across my palate, filled my greedy belly, and no doubt nourished me well. But now, how my belly cries out. And what I would give for a dish, a huge great dish, of broiled eel with an excellent teriyaki sauce. Oh, god!
But it’s no good to do this. And I have to stop or thoughts of food will be the end of me. I have rice, I have water. Thirty ingredients – at present, I have just two. The rice alone will last many months, but it is not enough to maintain good health. I have to find greater nourishment soon or these dark dreams might never leave me.
9.
Without the courage to leave there was no easy answer as to what this greater nourishment could be or how I might come by it, and this spawned afresh the menace of anxiety. Terrifying thoughts soon plagued my head, awake as in sleep. Gnawing away at every part of me. Chomping, pecking, biting. Grinding up my soul. And the sounds, the sounds ... still they made their prey of me. So go ahead! Gnaw away, grind up my soul, tear my senses from the tree, and soon I will be done with! But let it be over.
In vain, I hoped these corrosive attacks might at least trigger something. Anything! An acceleration of thought or emotion, some spontaneous act that could somehow lead somewhere, a rupture, an idea, at least some slight shift, anything … anything at all! But still, nothing useful in my head. I took up my notes, but my stomach ached from being endlessly filled with nothing but fetid old rice, and more recently eating nothing at all caused its own kind of pain; and I knew, deep down, that I had to act before I truly grew too weak, before I truly lost my mind.
Soon, I scribbled in the corner of my notes, soon...
Moving to a different spot I wondered where Cat might be. I hoped that he was safe. I hoped that he had food. I could hear the cicada outside. What a noise they make. The males, as though singing, perhaps even crying, for love, for sex. And I could so easily cry that way. When I lie awake in the night heat, at times my body takes on a certain kind of stress. No love making, no one to reach out to, no one here at all. Not a hand to hold, no one to talk to. It’s difficult to capture the feeling. A longing. A loneliness. Just feelings, and I try to ignore them. But the more my mind settles on the cicada, their noise burrowing deep inside my skull, the more I’m afraid I will become one. Screeching and screeching, lying here in this old wooden house all alone.
I think of those bugs waiting there for years, deep, so deep underground. Suddenly they emerge out into the world. Offered only a few brief days of life, in some cases only hours, for they might quickly find themselves made prey – it’s really never good to be a bug, not any kind of bug, I’m sure of it, but how can they bear so much stress? And now as I close my eyes, vividly I picture myself as one of them. All that darkness. Buried below ground those long years. Then rising up, seeing the sky for the very first time, and daylight. Bright, white, daylight. Piercing through their five mad eyes. Then the tension ahead – the pressure to mate, and just a few meagre grains of life opening up, and time compressed to encompass the narrowest set of possibilities. Moments zipping past with such extreme acceleration you cannot even imagine. How would you even permit yourself to waste the time on breathing? I see how it could be, I would emerge just like them, almost possessed. So full of intensity, of passion and yearning, and my god, just like each one of them all I would want is to make love, and to make love like crazy. If someone would have me, that’s what I would wish.
A man when he falls, first becomes a box man, and then a sticky ball of rice; after this, he is an insect. I see how it goes. I almost find it amusing. But I had better be mindful, it seems there may be few positions left.
Distantly, I sense my father calling, his voice warm and round, Takeo! Before you fall, use a stick. You are right, Father, but it’s too late. I have fallen down and down, and just now the walls around me close in, and lined with nothing but loose soil it is difficult to clamber out. But I will do it, Father, I will find a way back – moving only downwards is not the way to go. I see that.
10.
Still, I have not slept well, and still I have not settled on how I might find better food, and so the dreams continue to devour me.
In the last dream I saw Yumi. It was the day we parted. I’d stayed away from our apartment for a couple of nights and hoped that might just be enough, usually it was. We had been together for three years, there was a rhythm to it all. She’d get mad, I’d stay away, after a day or two I’d come back home. And for a good long while things were sweet again. But it was different this time. I climbed the steps to our apartment. My anxiety increasing with every step. At the door instinctively I bowed my head – eye contact can sometimes be too complicated. Afraid to risk anything, I pressed the buzzer but kept looking at the ground. Lightly I skimmed the sole of my shoe across the concrete floor. After a few long moments Yumi opened the door. She didn’t speak at all, instead she turned back into the apartment and collected up a box placed just inside. It seemed this had been planned. Still avoiding looking up, I observed the manoeuvre from the lower legs down – feet and ankles, the hem of her skirt. When she had the box steady, her feet moved my way again so that she was facing me. It was as though she was automated, and she pushed the box determinedly from her chest into mine, forcing me to raise my hands and capture it
. I looked at her straight on now and was about to speak, but the words? Somehow they didn’t find my voice. Yumi had a wide piece of tape pressed hard across her face. A wide, red, slightly crinkled rectangle that covered over her mouth completely. The edges raw and uneven, pinching in half her cheeks to either side. A red slash where her mouth should have been. You had to stare, it was disturbing, especially so close, and I was worried; the whole scene ... strange and messed up. I think I would have tried to pull it off and release her, but my hands were firmly gripped to the box, stuck somehow; and though it sounds completely weak, I was nervous. I didn’t think she had been taken captive, but I quickly scanned the room from where I stood. There didn’t appear to be anyone else around, no one lurking in the background, no scent or feel of anything untoward, and the rest of her body looked entirely free, except perhaps for the eyes. Her eyes looked a little rounder than I remembered. They were fixed in a stare – I had never experienced anything like this. She switched her focus to the box. I did the same. There was a note attached, but before I could take hold of it, I received a hard shove and was ejected from the doorway. I almost fell. The door slammed.