by Yoko Ogawa
Thus it was that supplying him with work came to be added to my daily tasks. They were all simple jobs—organizing receipts, sharpening pencils, recopying my address book, putting page numbers on my manuscripts—but he eagerly took them all on. And by the next morning everything had been finished in the most precise manner possible.
In this way we managed to live in relative security. Everything went according to plan, and we seemed to have solutions for any problems that did occur. The old man did much to help us, and R did his best to adjust quickly to the secret room.
But quite apart from the small satisfactions we enjoyed, the world outside was deteriorating day by day. The disappearances, which had slowed down after the roses, returned with two in quick succession: first, photographs, and then fruits of all sorts.
As I was gathering all the albums and photos in the house—including the portrait of my mother on the mantelpiece—to burn them in the garden incinerator, R made a desperate effort to stop me.
“Photographs are precious. They preserve memories. If you burn them, there’s no getting them back. You mustn’t do this. Absolutely not.”
“But what can I do? The time has come for them to disappear,” I told him.
“If their photographs are gone, how will you remember your parents’ faces?” he asked, looking deeply troubled.
“It’s their photographs that will disappear, not my mother and father,” I said. “I’ll never forget their faces.”
“They may be nothing more than scraps of paper, but they capture something profound. Light and wind and air, the tenderness or joy of the photographer, the bashfulness or pleasure of the subject. You have to guard these things forever in your heart. That’s why photographs are taken in the first place.”
“Yes, I know, and that’s why I’ve always been very careful with them. They brought back wonderful memories every time I looked at them, memories that made my heart ache. As I wander through my sparse forest of memories, photographs have been my most reliable compass. But it’s time to move on. It’s terrible to lose a compass, but I have no strength to resist the disappearances.”
“But even if you can’t resist them, you don’t have to burn your photographs. Important things remain important things, no matter how much the world changes,” said R. “Their essence doesn’t change. If you keep them, they’re bound to bring you something in return. I don’t want to see any more of your memories lost.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head wearily. “Nothing comes back now when I see a photograph. No memories, no response. They’re nothing more than pieces of paper. A new hole has opened in my heart, and there’s no way to fill it up again. That’s how it is when something disappears, though I suppose you can’t understand…”
He looked down, his eyes sad.
“The new cavities in my heart search for things to burn. They drive me to burn things and I can stop only when everything is in ashes. Why would I keep them when I don’t think I will be able to recall the meaning of the word ‘photograph’ much longer, not to mention the danger if the Memory Police find them. They’re even more vigilant after a disappearance, and if they suspect me, that will put you in danger.”
He said nothing more. Taking off his glasses, he pressed his fingers to his temples and heaved a deep sigh. I took the paper bag full of photographs that I’d been holding to the incinerator at the back of the garden.
The disappearance of fruit was much simpler. When we woke in the morning, fruit of every sort was falling from trees all over the island. A pattering sound could be heard everywhere, and in the northern hills and the forest park, fruit came down like a hailstorm. Some were as big as baseballs, some small as beans, some covered in shells, some brightly colored—fruits of all kinds. Though the morning was perfectly still, fruit fell from the branches one after the other.
They fell on your head if you walked outdoors, and if you failed to watch your step, you trampled them underfoot. Then, before long, the snow began to fall, covering all the fruit.
It was the first time in ages that snow had fallen. When it started, it had seemed as though white sand was being blown in with the wind, but gradually the flakes grew larger, and in no time the whole countryside was covered. Snow collected on the tiniest leaves on the trees, on the streetlights, on the window frames—and it stayed there for a very long time.
The hunt for memories became a daily activity in the midst of the snowstorm. The Memory Police roamed the town in trench coats and boots. The coats were made of material that looked soft and warm, and the collars and cuffs were trimmed in fur that had been dyed deep green. You could have searched every clothing store on the island and never have found such elegant coats—which made them stand out immediately in any crowd.
Sometimes the Memory Police would appear in the middle of the night, completely surrounding a whole block with their trucks, and search every house without exception. At times these searches would yield results, but at other times they came up empty. No one knew which block would be chosen next. I began waking at night at the slightest sound. My eyes focused on the pattern in the carpet, floating up out of the darkness, while my thoughts turned to R, holding his breath below. I prayed he would pass the night in safety.
The townspeople avoided going out any more than necessary, and on weekends they stayed home and shoveled the snow. They closed their curtains at dusk and lived as quietly as possible. It was as though the snow had frozen their hearts.
Nor did the secret we harbored escape the influence of the island’s oppressive atmosphere. One day, out of the blue, the old man was taken by the Memory Police.
* * *
. . .
I raised the trapdoor and called, “They must have learned something! What should we do?”
I was trembling so hard it was difficult to climb down the ladder, and when I reached the floor, I collapsed on the bed.
“I’m sure they’ll be coming soon. We’ve got to hide you somewhere safer, but where? We should hurry before it’s too late. What about going to your wife’s family? But I suppose that’s the first place they’d look. No, I know. What about the abandoned school where we leave her messages? There must be plenty of rooms you could use: the teachers’ lounge or a laboratory, the library or the cafeteria. That would be the perfect place to hide. I’ll go to prepare it right away.”
R sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. As the warmth of his hand worked its way into my skin, I trembled harder and harder, unable to stop myself—even though I knew he meant his touch to soothe me.
“The first thing we need to do is calm down.” He spoke slowly as he loosened my fingers from his knee one by one. “If they knew about this place, they wouldn’t have arrested him, they would have come straight here. So there’s nothing to worry about for the present—they haven’t found us out. But they might, if we make a careless mistake. More than likely, they are looking elsewhere.”
“But why did they take the old man?” I asked.
“You can’t think of any reason? Had he been stopped on the street while he was carrying something suspicious? Or had the Memory Police come to search the old boat?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said, staring at the tips of my fingers, which were still numb despite his gentle care.
“So then don’t worry. The investigation probably has nothing to do with me. They’re always gathering information. They round up anyone and question him or her about anything at all. A neighbor raising roses in his greenhouse; someone buying slightly more bread than strictly necessary for the number of people in their family; suspicious shadows on the window curtains—things like that. At any rate, we should wait here as quietly as we can. That’s the best plan.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I just hope nothing terrible has happened to him.”
“What could have happened?”
“They could have tortured him. There’s no knowing what they’re capable of. And then even if he didn’t want to, he might break down and tell them about this place.”
“You mustn’t let yourself worry so much.” R hugged my shoulder tightly. The electric coils of the space heater lit our faces from below, and the fan continued to rotate with a creaking noise, like the whimper of some small animal.
“If you tell me you need me to leave here, I’ll go,” he said, his voice low and calm.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m not afraid of being arrested. I’m afraid that you’ll disappear. That’s why I’m trembling like this.”
I shook my head as I said this, my hair brushing against his sweater. He held me in his arms for a long while, though there was no way to measure the flow of time in this room where the sun never entered.
I wondered how long we sat there. As the heat of his body warmed me, the trembling gradually subsided. Finally, I pulled free of his embrace and stood up.
“I’m sorry to have lost my nerve,” I said.
“There’s no need to apologize. The old man is our friend.” He looked down at his lap.
“I suppose all I can do is pray,” I said.
“I’ll pray, too.”
I climbed the ladder and released the latch. Then I pushed open the trapdoor. When I turned to look back, R was still sitting on the bed, staring at the coil in the heater.
* * *
. . .
The next day, without consulting R, I decided to pay a visit to the headquarters of the Memory Police. I knew that he would have been opposed if I had so much as mentioned this plan, and it was true that nothing good was likely to come from intentionally entering their stronghold. But I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Even if I couldn’t get in to see the old man, I would probably be able to learn something about his situation and perhaps even send something to him in his cell. I wanted to help him in any way I could.
The sun was shining weakly that morning, but on the sidewalks, the snow was still piled up, fluffy and new, and it came up to my ankles with each step I took. The Memory Police wore snow boots, but the townspeople had great difficulty making their way through the streets. With their backs bent and their bags clutched to their chests, they pushed ahead step by careful step, like so many animals trudging along, lost in thought.
The snow poured down into my shoes as I walked, and before long my socks were soaking wet. In my bag, I had brought some extra clothes, a blanket, a hand warmer, a tin of hard candies, and five rolls I had baked earlier that morning. On the avenue where the tramway ran, an old theater had been renovated to serve as the Memory Police headquarters. The main entrance was reached by climbing a flight of wide stone steps flanked on either side by ornate pillars. The flag of the Memory Police hung limply atop the building in the still morning air.
Guards were posted on either side of the entrance, their legs slightly apart, hands crossed behind their backs, eyes staring straight ahead. I hesitated, unsure whether I should announce my business to them or try to enter without saying anything. The wooden door ahead of me was thick and heavy, and I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to open it by myself. But the guards continued to ignore me, as though they were under orders not to speak.
“I wonder if I could ask a question.” Having summoned my courage, I addressed the guard on the right. “I’ve come to see someone and deliver a few things to him, and I’d like to know where I should go.”
The guard continued looking straight ahead and never batted an eyelash. He was pale and much younger than I was, just a boy. The fur trim at his collar looked damp, as though snow had melted on it.
“Then may I go inside?” I said, this time addressing the guard on the left. But the result was the same. So, having no other choice, I put my hand on the knob and tried to pull the door open. As I’d imagined, it was extremely heavy, but by hitching my bag over my shoulder and tugging with both hands, I was at last able to move it little by little. Needless to say, neither young man made any move to help me.
Inside, the hall was dim, with an enormously high ceiling. A number of officers dressed in the familiar uniforms paced back and forth across the room. There were also a few outsiders hurrying along with tense looks on their faces, but no voices could be heard, no sound of laughter. Nor was there any music playing. Just the ringing of heels against the hard floor.
Facing me was a gently curving stairway leading to a mezzanine lobby, and behind that an elaborate elevator left over from the days when the building had been a theater. To my left were a massive antique desk and chair. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, but the glass around the electric bulbs was cloudy and it cast much less light than one would have imagined. And every available space—next to the elevator buttons, over the telephone on the wall, on the pillars under the staircase—was hung with pennants emblazoned with the insignia of the Memory Police.
An officer was seated at the desk, utterly absorbed in something he was writing. Deciding this must be the reception area, I took a deep breath and approached him.
“I have a package I’d like to have delivered to an acquaintance…” My voice trailed off, echoing from the ceiling before being lost in the vastness of the hall.
“Package?” He paused, twirling his pen in his fingers, and repeated the word as though trying to recall the meaning of some rarely used philosophical term.
“Yes,” I said, thinking this was at least an improvement from the stony guards outside. “Just a few things I thought he could use, some clothes and food.”
The man replaced the cap on his pen with a loud click and then cleared away the pages he had been working on to make space on the desk, where he then rested his folded hands. Finally, he looked up at me with a blank expression on his face.
“Actually, I’d like to see him in person, if that’s possible.” Since I was getting barely any response at all, I decided to throw caution to the wind and add this request.
“And whom would you like to visit?” he said, his words quite polite but his tone so flat that it was difficult to read. I said the old man’s name and then repeated it a second time.
“I’m afraid he’s not here,” he said.
“But how can you be sure if you haven’t even checked?” I answered.
“There’s no need to check. I know the names of everyone who is being held here.”
“But they bring in new people every day. Do you mean to say you memorize the names of every one of them?”
“That’s right. That’s my job, you see.”
“My friend was just brought in yesterday. I’d be very grateful if you could check to see whether he’s here. He must be listed somewhere.”
“I’m afraid that would be useless.”
“Then where is he?”
“This is our headquarters, but we have branch offices in many other places. The only thing I can tell you is that the person you are looking for is not here.”
“So he’s being held in one of your other offices. Could you tell me which one?”
“Our work is divided up into a number of divisions, and the structure is complex. It’s not as simple as you might imagine.”
“I never said it was simple. I just want to get this package to my friend.”
The man’s brow knit with frustration. The brightly polished desk lamp illuminated his folded hands, highlighting the bulging veins. His papers were thickly covered with numbers and letters in a script I did not understand. The rest of the tools of his trade were close at hand—files and cards, a bottle of correction fluid, a letter opener, a stapler.
“You don’t seem to understand how it works,” he murmured, glancing at someone or something behind me. It was the subtlest of gestures, but in an instant two officers appeared and stood on either side of me. These men wore fewer badges on the
ir chests, so I assumed they must be of lower rank than the officer at the desk.
After that, things moved along in silence. Orders were unnecessary, since the procedure had apparently been decided in advance. I was hurried into the elevator, an officer on either side, and then guided through a maze of corridors and into a room at the heart of the building.
As I looked about me, I was puzzled by the unexpected luxury of the furnishings: elegant leather couches, Gobelins tapestries on the walls, a crystal chandelier, and heavy curtains on the windows. There was even a maid who brought in tea. I wondered what they had in store for me. But when I recalled the fancy limousine that had come to take away my mother, I knew I had to be on my guard. I sat down on the couch and set my bag on my lap.
“I’m sorry you’ve gone to the trouble of coming all this way through the snow, but both visits and packages are forbidden.”
The man who had come to sit across from me was short and slender, but the elaborate insignias and medals on his chest seemed to indicate he was quite important. His large eyes made it easier to read his expression. The guards who had brought me to the room stood at the door.
“But why is that?” I said, though I was conscious that I had done nothing but ask questions since I’d arrived at the headquarters.
“Because those are the rules,” the man replied, his eyebrows raised.
“There’s nothing dangerous here, you can see for yourself,” I said, turning over my bag and emptying the contents onto the table between us. The candy tin and the hand warmer rattled noisily as they tumbled out.
“You have no need to worry. Your friend has plenty to eat and a warm room to sleep in,” the man said, ignoring my offerings.
“He’s an old man whose memories disappear right on schedule. He spends his days doing almost nothing at all. Surely you can’t have any reason to keep him here.”
“That’s for us to determine.”
“Then can you tell me what you’ve decided?”