by Jayne Joso
I told her I was surprised that she recognised me. I drew my hand over my head, half expecting to feel my hair returned. Hoping. She dropped her gaze, she said something I couldn’t quite catch. The detail didn’t seem important. She smiled.
I moved again, and kneeling up I filled her cup. And she refilled mine. My head was beginning to feel heavy, I must have been quite drunk. I started to say how grateful I was but found myself stuttering, my nose was running and soon I could barely see, my tears, so great, carrying in their weight all my heartfelt thanks and admiration – the words of a drunk guy. She shushed me gently, her hand upon my shoulder. She took the cup from my hand and laid it down. Still kneeling, I dropped forward, my hands stretched long and low, sorry, I said, for all that I have put you through, for all the troubles you have gone to.
After that I must have slept awhile.
Some parts, some aspects, seem to be missing since then – full consciousness memory, how much time elapsed, some hours? …and what might have been said. I guessed it was the beer and then also the adrenaline, too much bliss. When I next came round I moved to sit up, and Shizuka was climbing the stairs. I glanced round sensing that perhaps it was her double. In her hands she held open a large printed scarf. It was cotton, she said, 100%, just what was needed. She would tie it like a bandana about my head, so that I could feel more like myself, more like Takeo.
I told her how I had long imagined that the house was visited by a shapeshifter, that still I wasn’t sure. I told her about the comings and goings, the shadowy figures, noises I couldn’t readily explain, how it seemed that something feline crept through the window and slept on the shelf. She blushed. She said that she was not a shapeshifter and didn’t I remember how agile she was? She had tested out my office box dwelling more than once. I tried to picture the office, to draw out its image in my head: the walls, windows, the desk and what was on it; then the box ... but there were glitches, gaps, and I struggled to pull much of it back. Mostly just shadows. Glimpses.
She explained how she had made use of the box when I didn’t have the need, that sometimes she had stayed at the office after rowing with her father. And lately she had crept in through the window here for the same reason and slept on the shelf, it really wasn’t all that uncomfortable. She didn’t enter by the door for fear of being seen, and considered her makeshift bed an intelligent resting place, for no one expects to find a sleeper on a kitchen shelf.
I didn’t like to picture any part of what she’d been through. I didn’t like the sound of her father either, but I was glad she’d found shelter when she needed it. Strange and wonderful, the atmosphere of this place. I looked up again to the creaky roof. She looked up too.
Once she lost her job, she found that her father’s anger deepened, she couldn’t be around him, and so the house had been a useful refuge for a while. And then, by the time things smoothed over she found she simply liked the adventure of sneaking in, it was a private room after all. Time passed by, and it seemed she went unnoticed here. But I always seemed to hear something, a trace at least. Didn’t I? She finished tying the bandana, it had taken some adjusting.
She paused. Hadn’t I guessed her identity by the food that she brought? She was certain it would give her away. Many of the dishes were quite the same as those she’d brought to the office when I was a box man. Didn’t it cross my mind? All fevered up, I never worked it out. She cuffed my arm. She said I hadn’t wanted to work it out. I asked about the futon, the heater and all the supplies. Lightfoot was behind them. Though that wasn’t the name she used. The monk had wanted to thank the man who had given such a generous donation to the temple, and when he realised my condition he had wanted to help as much as he could without intrusion, for he was sure I had some project here and that I was devoted to its course. Did he know about the boxes then? Had he seen me working? Had he found the notebooks? Read them? She said that he had noticed the repair work I had done, and the temple was deeply grateful. I felt uncomfortable at the thought that they had met and spoken. I didn’t say.
She worried that I might be getting too tired just now with so much talking. She asked about my health, in a more general sense, to assess how far I had come, how much improved. She knew I was not entirely better; she wondered if now might be the time to see a doctor? A real doctor, and to have real nursing care? I dropped my head. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to speak about it, didn’t want to think about it. And things were going well, things were on the right side, surely. What need of further intervention?
She moved her head. A minor nod. And silence. I wondered again whether she had thought to involve someone official earlier on? More animated now, she said that it had crossed her mind, but she was cautious without knowing what had happened to me, or what I might have done, or why I had chosen to hide away like that. At the start I did not have this terrible sickness, or the hunger. I suppose I was simply gripped by fear – the very real fear that I was good-for-nothing. I believe I merely slept a lot, though I cannot be sure and now it seems so very long ago.
I didn’t ask her anything more. And she let things be.
At some point we had moved to the ground floor, but as often was the case, I did not know the moves. Still the blank spaces. Memory, memory, void. A code was forming. Now I found myself curled up on the futon. A blanket over me. You should sleep, she said. She would go back home now but she would return again soon. ‘As usual’, she added.
As usual. You can’t imagine what bliss these words afforded me. Comfort and joy. I surely slept the night through gently smiling.
11.
When I woke it was to find Cello, retrieved from her cupboard. What a welcome sight. Shizuka had set her gently in the alcove with slippers, a mask, and high up, an elaborate headdress. But after we laughed, she thought to let Cello stand alone without adornment for perhaps we were mocking her, and Cello looked most fine when standing just as she was meant to be. I thought the same was true of Shizuka, but I didn’t like to say, it might come out wrong. If you seem rude it can be a long road back. And not always possible.
It occurred to me then, the risk I had taken in playing with her kindness. I can’t think of another human being who would be so utterly forgiving. In future I would be more careful. Much more. Still so full of mischief, I heard my mother’s voice inside me, and I pictured her smile. Perhaps I was not much changed at all.
Shizuka called to me, I had a faraway look.
In the long hours I had lain in this place I had often wondered if, like the prototypes, there might be some changes in me, perhaps even some improvements in character. But just now I was humbled.
I gathered some of the boxes I had been working on, I wanted to explain them. And a few of the damaged prototypes also. They looked so elementary, but I liked this, the simple stages, the awkward even clumsy improvements, the experimenting. I told her how I had hoped that through all the things that had befallen me I might have learnt something, that I might even be a prototype myself! That there may still come a better version. She asked if this other version would adopt another name. She doesn’t like my name? My name? I sounded petulant, my cheeks burned like bright pickled plums.
No, no, she cooed. And as though distracted by thought she stood up in slow even moves, settling herself further away and half in shadow. She paused and stroked her arms as though to soothe something away, and then she began to explain something curious. She told me that she had two names, two distinct versions of herself, and that she had grown accustomed to thinking of these as: ‘indoors self’ and ‘outside self’. That’s magnificent! I exclaimed. Prototypes, precursors, and now the emergence of something entirely new to me, something unique: versions of self that depend on the space, the location, the architecture, and perhaps the climate. Self was suddenly made so complicated again, intriguing – and the effects of environment ... my mind now much too animated. The latter versions of Takeo, it then occurred to me: Takeo Two and Three, had certainly emerged in this very particular
space, inside this falling down house...
Shizuka was quiet again. I had stopped listening, settling in on myself again. So long cut off from the world, does this have to be the result? A man inside himself? Tuned in, only to himself? A regression. Not Takeo Three, but rather: Minus One. Did it have to go this way? Might it be the case, that Takeo Three, whilst in some areas improved, had sacrificed functioning tolerably in other important areas. And now of course, my mind had entirely drifted off. It gets worse!
We remained quiet awhile. I couldn’t measure for how long. But long. I began in small ways to fidget.
She asked me, and so gently, if I was tired or perhaps I found it hard to concentrate? Yes, I said. At least, I think that’s what I said.
We settled to working at the boxes awhile but without speaking. Not awkwardly, or so I felt, but because there really wasn’t any need. Our labour was our chatter, our breathing made us warm.
12.
After she left that day I set to wondering what she had meant:
‘her indoors self, her outside self...’
She had spoken of having two names, one for each space. I thought of my feet and putting on shoes to leave the house and becoming the Takeo who goes to work or to school or to visit someone and later, returning home, slipping off the shoes, leaving them at the entrance and becoming: ‘at home Takeo’. Is that what she meant? Something like that?
And I was drawn to remember a particular day when Yumi had thrown me out barefoot and I was forced to walk the streets of Tokyo in pyjamas all day long. A confusion of inside and outside, so to speak. I managed rather well but I couldn’t have coped much longer. That was the beginning of my demise, of my ‘falling’, the indoors man thrust outside.
When Shizuka returned I asked her what she had meant. Why she had two names. It was not, as I had imagined, that she simply had two versions of her name, or even just two different names, she had two completely separate identities, and belonged in fact, to two quite different worlds. All the time I spent with her and I figured out nothing. Not a thing. Shizuka Sakai, as I knew her, was actually Korean. Her name at home was Chung Ae Kim, and all aspects of life inside the family home were strictly Korean. When she left the house each day she became Shizuka Sakai, and her father insisted that she lived as though she was entirely Japanese whilst outside her family home. She would step over the threshold numerous times each day – inside was Korea, outside was Japan. She had done this all her life, beginning in childhood, right through her school days, accepting it as normal. It was a form of filial obedience in early youth, and later she continued out of respect for her parents. But as time went on she had found herself deeply conflicted.
Losing it, I blasted the air, why had she agreed, how had she accepted this? What was the point? I embarrassed her. It wasn’t my intention, but nonetheless.
Her father had thought this best, that this system, his system, would cover all possibilities, prevent judgement in each quarter; that it was sometimes complex and difficult to be Korean inside Japan; that ultimately, if she married a Korean man, she would be a Korean wife, and if she married a Japanese man she could be a Japanese wife.
–Could she not simply be herself?
We looked at one another, and if I had had the strength and confidence I would have held her close. But I could not be that bold. Not then. Useless. And in that moment my bandana slipped. Takeo, the fool. I felt a shiver. Someone’s voice. Inside my head. The residue, perhaps, of Yumi. But soon gone. Thankful, so thankful, I breathed.
Shizuka seemed to smile at me with deep understanding, and small pink rings appeared to each side of her cheeks, as though a brand new version had just emerged. A more definite version, a ‘standing taller’ version, perhaps, of self.
She had battled with so much, with so very much … wanting to settle with one identity, with a truth, wanting to know: who was ‘she’? This woman or this woman or...? Struggling to disentangle one from the other. But seemingly always finding as much reason to be Shizuka as Chung Ae. And growing up, at times she had even found it fun to have a secret self.
Perhaps she ought to choose another way, a third way, her own self, and her own name. I grew bolder. Bolder and bolder. And soon we played a lot with this idea. What an exploration! You can’t imagine. We dressed in kimonos, we dressed in paper and boxes, used the make-up on our faces, even a little of the ink, and made ourselves over and over so many times, fresh and new. And yes, we drank more beer.
But you cannot play like children all the day long, she said. I might have argued about this, but I did not want to spoil the mood. We cleaned our faces. Gently wiping away the streaks of colour from the face of the other.
It was time, she said. Time for me to consider coming back again, and out into the world. Time to find a place to live, time to find a job again, to re-join society.
Something flowed away from me. The air was thick and hard to breathe. The atmosphere felt sombre now. She was right, of course. Definitely. And I ought to give these things some thought. We tidied things away, folded each kimono neatly, placed powders and inks back in the boxes they belonged to, and she left for the day.
I had important things to consider, that was certainly the case, but there were other things to do just now, and it was clear that these should take precedence. Besides, a man can only have the ‘time’ word thrust at him so often before he wilts.
There were fresh boxes now under construction. The ultimate work had begun. I straightened my bandana, gave Cello a gentle bow, and set to work.
You have no idea what tremendous joy and consolation there is in work such as this. I had not even begun to plan the new coding let alone apply it, but even the careful work of assembly was gratifying. Immensely so.
Shizuka did not return for several days, and so I continued with the box work, making steady progress. All the while I remained confident that she would come back, and soon, and I viewed her absence as nothing more than an aspect of her complex rehabilitation plan. ‘Time’ for me to think. Time to ‘move on’. I had to learn to fend for myself again, and clearly I could. But I hoped that she was not in any trouble at home – she must have spent so little time there the last months – and I tried to reassure myself that she would come here right away if anything was wrong.
Between the excessive bouts of work, I considered her dilemma: the two identities, the confusion it must cause, the inner turmoil, the stress and then the brilliance even, of pulling this off, as skilled as an actor. I thought also of the fun that she had spoken of. Somehow I liked the notion of the indoors self and outdoors, this coexistence, the versions of a self, whatever they might be. But my friend’s situation was complex, complex in the way that is also troublesome, and my mind, as always, too easily distracted. And perhaps too playful.
I looked at the boxes. They seemed trivial suddenly. I had now to abandon all other ideas and work as swiftly as possible on a project entirely for Shizuka.
I proposed to myself the idea that I would make her a unique indoor space – the culture, the nature and identity of which she would later imprint on the place entirely by herself. I would simply, and loosely, construct her very own box. A space of her own.
13.
By the time she returned, the box dwelling, though far from being finished, was ready for her to try. I had worked on it like nothing else.
She listened as I explained it and she seemed to like the concept, but she was also distant, and I liked this less. All this hard work!
But had I decided about leaving yet? Had I given it plenty of thought? I’d had days and days to think it through, to conceive of a plan that might suit me. To consider the future. Alright, she agreed, I was not yet entirely well, not perfectly, but perhaps the remaining work on my recovery would best be achieved back out there in the world.
The remaining work? Am I little more than a project now myself? I did not speak. I could not. I settled myself on the tatami, a sense of the forlorn making a fog all about me.
&
nbsp; But didn’t I miss things? Normal things? If I left this place I would have more comfortable surroundings, a hot bath in place of cold bathing. I could go to hot springs to help me revitalise. I liked hot springs a great deal, she had heard me say as much.
I do, I do! I surely must. But does the work I have done here not show vitality enough? And would the world outside permit the occupation I have chosen? And would I be accepted as I now exist? As I am now? But again I did not say a thing.
Somewhat guiltily she feigned interest in the box. But it was too late now and I knew it was not real. I knew she wanted me to be better, she wanted me recovered, she even said she looked forward to me returning to myself. That’s what people say. But I was certain that Takeo had gone. He no longer existed in a way that could easily be recovered, in a state, or a condition, that could be reassembled. He is something morphed, altered, accelerated, decelerated, hard to say, but he is other, and not the man that was. Less. More. But by some degree, changed.
It is a devastating feeling to think you might disappoint someone, and worse still to think that you yourself might be that disappointment.
I am Takeo. I am a box man. I live in a box inside a box inside a box.
She sat near to me and tried to encourage my leaving. Paper covered my ears. Her own situation, she now stated, wasn’t really that important, she hadn’t meant to burden me. She thought me too distracted. Too far, in every way, from the world. In order to return to full health, I should realise that I had to get back to normal, to be, and to live, like others, and I should be able to see by now that the time for this had come.
Layers of paper now fully isolated my hearing. I pictured a cocoon. I placed myself inside.
My health, she said, was the biggest priority, and whilst the atmosphere of the temple and temple gardens had played their role, and whilst good food had nourished my body and I had rested well, it was only by returning to society that I would fully be myself.