The Memory Police

by Yoko Ogawa

  A deep stillness was rapidly spreading over the island. The gap grew ever larger between the rates at which old things decayed and disappeared and new ones were created. No one had ever come to repair the cracks in the streets that had been left by the earthquake, and the restaurants, movie theaters, and parks in town were deserted. The number of trains had shrunk, and the boat at last sank completely beneath the surface of the sea.

  Among the new things to be created were small crops of daikon radishes, Chinese cabbages, and watercress that poked their way out of the earth, some sweaters and lap robes made by the ladies who worked at the knitting factory, and a supply of fuel that came by tanker truck from somewhere. Not much else. Except the snow that continued to fall without respite. There was no sign whatsoever that snow would disappear.

  It occurred to me suddenly that it was fortunate that the old man had died before the disappearances of the body had begun. That meant that I could still recall the feeling of his dear hand in mine.

  He had already lost enough as it was, and rather than live on with the expectation of more disappearances, it was easier that he died still in possession of his own body. When I’d seen him laid out on the cart, his body had been stiff and cold, but his arms and shoulders, his chest and feet had retained traces of the gentle strength with which he had protected R and me.

  But I suppose the order of the disappearances made no real difference—if in the end everything disappeared anyway.

  The days flowed by monotonously and uneventfully. I went to work. Typed with my left hand. Took Don for his walk. Prepared simple meals. Aired the sheets on the rare sunny days. And spent my nights with R in the hidden room. I could think of nothing else I needed to do.

  It became more and more difficult to climb down the narrow ladder into the room. I cried out as I let myself fall into his waiting arms, and he was always able to catch me with great skill.

  But no matter how tightly we held each other on the bed, we could not escape the fact that the distance between us continued to grow. No part of our two bodies—his so perfectly symmetrical, strong, and alive and mine so sickly thin and lifeless—seemed in accord. Yet he never stopped trying to draw me as close to him as possible. It made me terribly sad to see how eagerly he held out his arms and drew them back, and often I found tears coming to my eyes.

  “There’s nothing to cry about,” he would tell me, wiping my cheeks with his palms. At such times I thought how lucky I was to still have cheeks. But in the same moment I grew uneasy wondering where the tears would go when my cheeks disappeared, how his hand could wipe them—and the tears would flow even harder.

  * * *

  . . .

  The hand that had written the story, my eyes overflowing with tears, the cheeks that had received them—they all disappeared in their turn, and in the end all that was left was a voice. The citizens of the island had lost everything that had a form, and our voices alone drifted aimlessly.

  I no longer needed to fall into R’s arms to descend to the hidden room. There was no need to lift the heavy trapdoor, since I was now able to slip through the narrow crack around it. In that sense, the complete disappearance of my body was actually a form of liberation. Still, if I was not careful, my unreliable and invisible voice might be swept away with the wind.

  “It’s peaceful with just a voice,” I said. “With just a voice, I think I’ll be able to accept my final moment calmly and quietly, without suffering or sadness.”

  “You mustn’t think like that,” R said. I could tell that he wanted to reach his arms toward me, but he remained still. With nowhere to go, his hands seemed to float before him.

  “You’ll finally be able to leave here,” I told him. “You’ll be free to return to the outside world. The Memory Police have given up their hunt. Of course, how could they go on hunting people who are no more than voices?” I wanted to smile but then I realized that it would be useless. “The outside world is in ruins, crushed under the weight of the snow, but you’ll manage. I know you’ll be able to melt the frozen world bit by bit, and I’m sure others who have been in hiding will come out to join you.”

  “But none of it will mean anything if you’re not here with me.” He seemed to be trying to caress my voice.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to be with you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He reached out and grabbed at the air where he imagined my voice to be, but he missed the mark. Still, I could feel the warmth of his body.

  The air current in the room changed directions, and, as though at that signal, my voice began slowly to disappear.

  “Even when I’m gone, you must take care of this room. I hope my memory will live on forever here, through you.”

  It was becoming more difficult to breathe. I looked around. My body was now included among the objects arranged on the floor. I lay there between the music box and the harmonica, my two legs protruding at odd angles, my hands crossed on my chest, my eyes lowered. In the same way he had wound the spring on the music box or blown into the harmonica, I imagined R would now caress my body in order to call forth memories.

  “Do you really have to go?” he asked, gathering to his chest the air he held in his hands.

  “Good-bye…” The last traces of my voice were frail and hoarse. “Good-bye.”

  For a very long time, he sat staring at the void in his palms. When at last he had convinced himself that there was nothing left, he let his arms drop wearily. Then he climbed the ladder one rung at a time, lifted the trapdoor, and went out into the world. Sunlight came streaming in for one moment but vanished again as the door creaked shut. The faint sound of the rug being rolled out on the floor came to me from above.

  Closed in the hidden room, I continued to disappear.

  About the Author

  Yoko Ogawa’s fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, A Public Space, Granta, and Zoetrope: All-Story. Since 1988 she has published more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction and has won every major Japanese literary award. She lives in Tokyo.