Fracture

by Andres Neuman

  At that moment, Mr. Watanabe remembers that one of Me’s competitors is increasing its investments in agriculture. More precisely, in strawberry farming. Japanese manufacturers are making strange investments and selling video games to balance their books, he laments, meanwhile their Korean rivals are inventing organic diode screens. It’s even rumored that they are working on a television that will emit smells to reinforce its images. All that effort, to reproduce something as old as synesthesia. Technology, like acid trips, comes from within.

  When the driver pulls away, the dalmatian sticks its head and front legs out of the half-open window. The boy pulls it back and the dog resists. The boy thrusts his arms through the window to get a better grip. The dalmatian’s head remains trapped in the rectangle, like a hunting trophy barking freely.

  The father slams on his brakes. Gets out of the car. Tethers the dog. Shouts at the boy. Then climbs back into his seat, raises an arm to wave goodbye, and speeds away from the city.

  Watanabe goes over to the cashier. Despite the promises he’s made himself, he can’t help thinking about what’s happening in his industry. His will has retired, but not his subconscious. In order to offset the crisis in local markets, and the fall in productivity, the companies have started to buy up foreign businesses. Among the latest rumors he has heard, the one that most strikes him is the offer Canon is planning to make for a Swedish manufacturer of surveillance cameras. Billions are involved. Money, safety, and surveillance: that seems to be the new formula.

  Cash or card? repeats the checkout girl.

  What? Watanabe comes to his senses. Oh, sorry. Card.

  As he pays, he is surprised by the amount. In fact, he can’t even recall the last time he filled a gas tank. Could it have been in Madrid? Or during a trip somewhere with Carmen? The checkout girl informs him that prices have risen again due to the emergency. And also, he suspects, because people are questioning nuclear energy.

  Oil always wins, says the checkout girl, adjusting her little cap.

  You’re absolutely right, says Watanabe.

  His polite response seems to make the girl extraordinarily happy, as if she isn’t used to customers telling her she is right—or any of her other fellow human beings, for that matter. All at once, she livens up and becomes talkative.

  You should have seen it, she exclaims, the lines that formed during the night. Back in March, I mean. Where your Toyota is parked, it was impossible to walk. People came from all over to get a few liters. The limit was twenty per person, not a drop more. They had to wait so long that some of them left their cars and went home to sleep, then came back in the morning. I’m not exaggerating, sir.

  * * *

  To the west of the city there are open windows. Next to one of the open windows is a garden. In the garden is a little girl. In that little girl is fear. That would be the summary of his first scouting mission in Sōma.

  He has just leaned over the fence, said hello to her, noticed her distrust. Watched her play in the late afternoon. Observed with relief, and secret surprise, that a little girl is still able to have fun with a Hula-Hoop. He has marveled at the speed of her waist. Reflected on how this small body is the center of all concentric circles, the reason the future will go on spinning despite everything. He remained silent as long as necessary, waiting for her to come over to him.

  My name is Midori, the little girl says, still making the hoop spin.

  I imagined so, Mr. Watanabe whispers, smiling.

  What did you imagine?

  That your name was Midori. I could tell.

  She stops spinning, grasping the hoop as she looks askance at him. Her disbelief gradually melts before the seriousness of his gaze.

  What’s your daughter’s name? Midori asks.

  I don’t have any children, replies Watanabe.

  Really? she says, astonished.

  If we all had children, he says, there would be too many people.

  Here, there aren’t too many people. There aren’t enough children. My best friend isn’t here.

  And where has she gone?

  I don’t know. She went away with her parents. At school they say she’s coming back soon.

  And what do your parents say? Why did they stay?

  I don’t know. Dad and Mom say there’s nothing dangerous here. And if Dad and Mom say that, it’s because there’s no danger.

  Mr. Watanabe contemplates her in silence.

  That’s right, isn’t it? Midori insists. Isn’t it?

  He smiles. Her doubts dispelled, the hoop starts to spin more energetically than before.

  At the far end of the garden, a curtain is quickly drawn.

  * * *

  A few streets down, he sees a line of people waiting to be examined by a team of technicians in white overalls. The technicians seem to move with disoriented slowness, like astronauts outside their spacecraft. They guide each person inside a mobile unit, then close the door.

  As he has no better ideas, Watanabe decides to join the line. This way he can observe things more calmly and pass unnoticed. He stands behind a young boy who is propping up a racing bike.

  You aren’t from here, says the cyclist, turning toward him. Which town are you from?

  Watanabe replies that he has come from the neighboring prefecture. Then he adds that due to the lack of personnel, they are allowing citizens from the south of Miyagi to get tested in the north of Fukushima. That he likes Sōma a lot. And that he has a niece here called Midori.

  The young man gives his full name, although Mr. Watanabe retains only the last name: Hoketsu. The line advances slowly, amid protests from those complaining that at this rate, they’ll miss their dinner. The cyclist Hoketsu tells him that the examination schedules are getting later and later, perhaps because the areas being checked are steadily growing, and there aren’t enough personnel to deal with them. The technicians assure them that thanks to these mobile test centers, the town isn’t in any danger. But then why are they wearing those suits? the young boy argues. Why don’t they take them off when they get here?

  Just as they are nearing the end of the line, when they are practically the only two left, the cyclist Hoketsu draws close and says something in his ear.

  You know what? he whispers. There’s something worse in the air than radiation leaks from the nuclear plant. Spirits. Nobody talks about that. The spirits of the dead are traveling through the air, and the radiation could be affecting them too.

  As soon as the young man enters the mobile unit, Watanabe starts to dread the examination. He wonders whether a particularly sensitive instrument could detect residual traces of atomic radiation in his body. The mere thought of testing positive, arousing the concern of the experts, and being subjected to an emergency procedure is intolerable to him.

  It’s a mistake, he tells the technician at the door, sorry. Actually, I live in Tokyo. Here are my papers. I just came here to see my niece Midori.

  It’s a mistake, he repeats.

  And takes flight.

  * * *

  He walks at a brisk pace. It’s already getting dark. He needs a hotel and a restaurant. Or possibly a hotel with a good restaurant; he is more hungry than sleepy.

  Suddenly, he hears a voice and comes to a halt. A voice that resembles a song and a prayer. He follows the plangent trail. Beneath a dissenting cherry tree still in bloom, he makes out an old man. Shabbily dressed, eyes closed, and a half smile on his lips, the old man is singing in a childish tone: Sakura sakura yayoi no sora wa …

  Watanabe stops to listen, partly because the voice intrigues him and partly because he is waiting for the old man to open his eyes. He wants to see what they look like. For them to look at each other.

  Good evening, sir, good evening, a passing couple greets him.

  They walk arm in arm, obviously out of step. The man struggles with a stiff left leg. She pauses at each step, bringing her shoes together before taking the next one.

  Watanabe returns their greeting, and when he
bows, he discovers with embarrassment the muddy marks on his own shoes.

  They introduce themselves briefly. They motion toward their house somewhere in the distance. He tells them the near truth. It becomes immediately obvious that the Arakakis are one of those couples who disagree with each other by default.

  This is the best time of day for a stroll, wouldn’t you say, declares Mr. Arakaki. There’s the breeze, and it’s cooler out.

  Yes, says Mrs. Arakaki, but it’s a bit late.

  All the better. That way we work up an appetite.

  But then you eat practically nothing.

  Watanabe tries to agree with both of them, even as he glances sidelong at the cherry tree.

  Do you know him? asks Mr. Arakaki.

  Sorry, who? replies Watanabe, distracted.

  Old Kobayashi. He’s a little touched, if you get my meaning. He lives off handouts. He’s been here who knows how many years.

  He does handicrafts, too, adds Mrs. Arakaki. And he isn’t all that crazy. He’s a very nice man.

  I never said he wasn’t nice, her husband retorts.

  I know. He’s simply a free man.

  There’s no such thing as a free man.

  But some are freer than others.

  When old Kobayashi has finished singing, he pulls open a plastic bag, extracts a chamber pot, and exclaims contentedly: Chirp, chirp!

  * * *

  As they bump along together, they tell him about the city’s precarious recovery. Mr. Arakaki praises the groups of volunteers that are helping with the relief efforts. His wife declares that life returned to normal when the government started to collect the garbage again. Garbage, thinks Watanabe, the height of normalcy. Together the couple laments (and their agreement on this one point creates an almost disturbing effect) that the delivery companies still won’t service their region, as they have a fragile parcel they wish to send to their daughter in Tokyo. They explain that it’s a glass dinner set for her wedding anniversary.

  Do you know what I read the other day? asks Mrs. Arakaki. That when water is served in beautifully colored glasses, the taste of it changes. It’s scientifically proven.

  Scientifically? says her husband. Are you joking?

  Yabai! she replies, losing her patience. The power of suggestion has a scientific basis too. Psychology proves it.

  Everything’s scientific nowadays!

  You may know a great deal about taxes and invoices, but you know nothing about colors.

  The discussion continues for a while. Until, turning toward Watanabe, the couple ask his opinion. They seem prepared to accept his verdict, whatever it is. To avoid offending either of them, he offers to deliver the parcel to their daughter in person as soon as he gets back to Tokyo.

  Moved by the proposal, the Arakakis shower him with thanks and insist he dine with them. He tries to refuse. He explains he has been driving all day, that he is looking for a hotel, and that, given the hour, he would be most grateful if they could recommend one. The Arakakis shake their heads in unison. They make all kinds of exclamations. They entreat him not only to dine with them, but also to stay the night at their house.

  It’s the least we can do, Mr. Arakaki concludes.

  You can’t imagine how happy this will make my daughter, Mrs. Arakaki adds, tugging at his arm.

  * * *

  He settles himself in the guest room. Which is in fact their daughter’s old room, untouched since her departure. Photographs showing the speedy development of the absent girl, posters narrating her evolution from princess to goth, school certificates, picture books, necklaces and bracelets, gadgets that were once technological novelties and the cause of an ephemeral enthusiasm. Everything is immobile, as if time’s batteries had run out before the astonished gaze of a thousand toy animals.

  Once we reach a certain age, Mr. Watanabe reflects as he connects his phone to the charger, our houses stop moving. It happens little by little, without us noticing. The windows start to shut. The present ceases to run through the corridors. It’s not until a stranger—or a much younger person—enters that everything becomes terrifyingly clear. Then, every detail betrays us. Every object loudly professes just how much its owner has aged.

  After opening his little red suitcase, taking a shower with unutterable relief, and changing his clothes, he checks his phone. He decides not to look at his texts and emails. He reads in the foreign press about vast quantities of tritium and cesium that are leaking into the Pacific Ocean: waves of radioactivity dispersing into the sea. Environmental agencies calculate that at this rate, in a couple of years it will amount to a hundred years’ worth of the power station’s output during normal operation. According to those same studies, it will be only a matter of time before the contaminated waters reach the coast of California.

  He can’t find any mentions of this in the national media. The same kind of cover-up happened with American foreign policy when he lived in the States, he thinks.

  He browses the websites of Fukushima Minpo, Fukushima Minyu, and other regional media outlets. He reads that in the bay closest to the plant, a fish has been discovered with levels of radiation astronomically higher than the maximum permitted for human consumption. He tries to imagine the insides of that fish; its gills, its internal organs, its nervous system flooded with cesium. Thousands and thousands of becquerels per kilo in just one specimen. If all seas are one and the same, thinks Watanabe, that fish would be all fish.

  Someone knocks several times on the door, causing a tiny gorilla on the adjacent shelf to wobble. Mrs. Arakaki announces that dinner is ready.

  The table is laid with far more food than three people can eat. Watanabe attributes this excess to his hosts’ hospitality, and possibly also to a longing for family feasts. The three of them clink glasses.

  This sake, says Mr. Arakaki as he raises the drink to his lips, is wonderful. We buy it from a brewery in the Aizu valley, in the west of the prefecture. They don’t filter or pasteurize it after the fermentation process. And it’s made exclusively using rice from our region. What a shame they have nothing like this in Tokyo.

  Watanabe keeps the wine in his mouth for longer than is polite.

  They have lots of other things in Tokyo, argues Mrs. Arakaki.

  To think that our honorable guest hasn’t yet been to the Sōma Horse Festival, her husband continues, ignoring her comment. You must come back to see it. There’s no other spectacle like it in the world.

  There won’t be any horses this year, my dear. Don’t you see that there isn’t even enough transportation? We can’t live as if nothing’s changed.

  Mr. Arakaki doesn’t answer. He pours himself another glass of sake and turns on the television. It’s time for the evening news.

  As soon as it catches his eye, Watanabe recognizes the Me TV set. An old model, typical of the beginning of the century, he estimates. Reliable and solid, if a little clunky compared to the current minimalism. Too many buttons, perhaps, for its available functions. A not entirely user-friendly menu, which makes you too reliant on the instruction manual. Still intended for analog leisure, back when a television was only a television, and telephones just telephones. Clear, balanced sound. Definition more than acceptable for its time. And, damn it, admirable resistance. Mr. Watanabe feels a surge of pride from seeing it in perfect working order.

  Having finished his appraisal of the device, he transfers his attention to what’s on the screen.

  They are interviewing the mayor of Ōtsuchi, a small town in the prefecture of Iwate. A few kilometers to the north, Watanabe realizes, of where he was driving earlier that afternoon. He thinks he has heard the name before. Possibly because, as the reporter mentions, there is—or, unfortunately, used to be—a large Tokyo University marine research laboratory there.

  Speaking into the microphone with the disconcerting calm of someone who has already seen too much, the mayor gives a few facts about his town’s devastation. Ten percent of the inhabitants have lost their lives, one of the hi
ghest figures in the entire region. Actually, he points out, he wasn’t really the mayor, but felt obliged to take over the post. His predecessor’s dead body was found on the shore when the waters subsided.

  Now, at the dinner table, not even the exchange of glasses or the clink of plates can be heard.

  I’ve lost five assistants, says the accidental mayor. One of them drowned before my eyes. Another killed himself out of sheer despair. That was before the helicopters arrived. There were corpses floating everywhere. Colliding with one another. I can still see them when I look at the ocean.

  Watanabe asks if he can turn up the volume. Mr. Arakaki passes him the remote control, and he sits holding it in his hands like the offspring of an old family pet.

  When the helicopter rescued me, the mayor is saying, I saw our town from the air. I thought everything was over. Everything. My assistants were between twenty-five and thirty. The same age as my children. I can’t understand why I’m the one who has survived.

  Watanabe turns up the volume further. The voice starts to buzz uncomfortably. It sounds like it’s coming from inside the room, from someone eating with them. Mrs. Arakaki glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

  All the farms have been destroyed, shouts the accidental mayor. We had a fleet of six hundred fishing boats. Now only a handful are seaworthy. So in addition to being destroyed, abandoned, and in mourning, we can’t go fishing either.

  At these last words, and not before, the mayor bursts into tears.

  Mr. Arakaki helps himself to some more seaweed salad.

  Watanabe lowers the volume.

  The reporter reappears in a different part of the Ōtsuchi coast, interviewing one of the few fishermen who still have their boats.

  I’m doing all I can to bring food for my neighbors, says the fisherman. I go out fishing twelve hours a day. I can’t do more than that. My arms aren’t what they used to be.