by Frank Wynne
*
Marcovaldo’s wife that morning simply didn’t know what to put in the pot. She looked at the rabbit her husband had brought home the day before, now in a makeshift cage, filled with shavings. It arrived just at the right moment, she said to herself. There’s no money; his wages have already gone for the extra medicines the Public Health doesn’t cover; the shops won’t give us any more credit. Raise rabbits, indeed! Or wait till Christmas to roast it! We’re skipping meals, and we’re supposed to fatten a rabbit!
“Isolina,” she said to her daughter, “you’re a big girl now, you have to learn how to cook a rabbit. You begin by killing it and skinning it, and then I’ll tell you what to do next.”
Isolina was reading a magazine of sentimental romances. “No,” she whined, “you begin by killing it and skinning it, and then I’ll watch how you cook it.”
“What a help!” her mother said. “I don’t have the heart to kill it. But I know it’s a very easy matter; you just have to hold it by the ears and hit it hard on the back of the head. As for skinning, we’ll see.”
“We won’t see anything,” the daughter said, without raising her nose from the magazine. “I’m not hitting a live rabbit on the head. And I haven’t the slightest notion of skinning it, either.”
The three little ones had listened to this dialogue with wide eyes.
Their mother pondered for a moment, looked at them, then said, “Children …”
The children, as if by agreement, turned their backs on their mother and left the room.
“Wait, children!” their mother said. “I wanted to ask you if you’d like to take the rabbit outside. We’ll tie a pretty ribbon around his neck and you can go for a walk with him.”
The children stopped and exchanged looks. “A walk where?” Michelino asked.
“Oh, a little stroll. Then go call on Signora Diomira, show her the rabbit, and ask her if she’ll please kill it and skin it for us, she’s so good at that.”
The mother had found the right method: children, as everyone knows, are caught up by the thing they like most, and they prefer not to think of the rest. And so they found a long, lilac-colored ribbon, tied it around the animal’s neck, and used it as a leash, fighting over it, and pulling after them the reluctant, half-strangled rabbit.
“Tell Signora Diomira,” the mother insisted, “that she can keep a leg for herself! No, better the head. Oh, she can take her pick.”
The children had barely gone out when Marcovaldo’s room was surrounded and invaded by orderlies, doctors, guards, and policemen. Marcovaldo was in their midst, more dead than alive. “Where is the rabbit that was taken from the hospital? Hurry: show us where it is, but don’t touch it; it’s infected with the germs of a terrible disease!” Marcovaldo led them to the cage, but it was empty. “Already eaten?” “No, no!” “Where is it then?” “At Signora Diomira’s!” And the pursuers resumed their hunt.
They knocked at Signora Diomira’s door. “Rabbit? What rabbit? Are you crazy?” Seeing her house invaded by strangers, in white jackets or uniforms, looking for a rabbit, the old woman nearly had a stroke. She knew nothing about Marcovaldo’s rabbit.
In fact, the three children, trying to save the rabbit from death, had decided to take it to a safe place, play with it for a while, and then let it go; and instead of stopping at Signora Diomira’s landing, they decided to climb up to a terrace over the rooftops. They would tell their mother it had broken the leash and had run off. But no animal seemed so ill-suited to an escape as that rabbit. Making it climb all those steps was a problem: it huddled, frightened, on each step. In the end they picked it up and carried it.
On the terrace they wanted to make it run: it wouldn’t run. They tried setting it on the edge of the roof, to see if it would walk the way cats do; but it seemed to suffer vertigo. They tried hoisting it onto a TV antenna, to see if it could keep its balance: no, it fell down. Bored, the children ripped away the leash, turned the animal loose at a place where all the paths of the roofs opened out, an oblique and angular sea, and they left.
When it was alone, the rabbit began moving. It ventured a few steps, looked around, changed direction, turned, then, in little hops and skips, it started over the roofs. It was an animal born prisoner: its yearning for liberty did not have broad horizons. The greatest gift it had known in life was the ability to have a few moments free of fear. Now, now it could move, with nothing around to frighten it, perhaps for the first time in its life. The place was unfamiliar, but a clear concept of familiar and unfamiliar was something it had never been able to formulate. And ever since it had begun to feel an undefined, mysterious ailment gnawing inside itself, the whole world was of less and less interest to it. And so it went onto the roofs; and the cats that saw it hopping didn’t understand what it was and they drew back, in awe.
Meanwhile, from skylights, from dormer windows, from flat decks, the rabbit’s itinerary had not gone unremarked. Some people began to display basins of salad on their sills, peeking then from behind the curtains, others threw a pear core on the rooftiles and spread a string lasso around it, someone else arranged a row of bits of carrot along the parapet, leading to his own window. And a rallying-cry ran through all the families living in the garrets. “Stewed rabbit today” – or “fricasseed rabbit” – or “roast rabbit”.
The animal had noticed these lures, these silent offers of food. And though it was hungry, it didn’t trust them. It knew that every time humans tried to attract it with offers of food, something obscure and painful happened: either they stuck a syringe into its flesh, or a scalpel, or they forced it into a buttoned-up jacket, or they dragged it along with a ribbon around its neck … And the memory of these misfortunes merged with the pain it felt inside, with the slow change of organs that it sensed, with the prescience of death. And hunger. But as if it knew that, of all these discomforts, only hunger could be allayed, and recognized that these treacherous human beings could provide, in addition to cruel sufferings, a sense – which it also needed – of protection, of domestic warmth, it decided to surrender, to play the humans’ game: then whatever had to happen, would happen. So, it began to eat the bits of carrot, following the trail that, as the rabbit well knew, would make it prisoner and martyr again, but savoring once more, and perhaps for the last time, the good earthy flavor of vegetables. Now it was approaching the garret window, now a hand would stretch out to catch it: instead, all of a sudden, the window slammed and closed it out. This was an event alien to its experience: a trap that refused to snap shut. The rabbit turned, looked for other signs of treachery around, to choose the best one to give in to. But meanwhile the leaves of salad had been drawn indoors, the lassos thrown away, the lurking people had vanished, windows and skylights were now barred, terraces were deserted.
It so happened that a police truck had passed through the city, with a loudspeaker shouting: “Attention, attention! A long-haired white rabbit has been lost; it is affected by a serious, contagious disease! Anyone finding it should be informed that it is poisonous to eat; even its touch can transmit harmful germs! Anyone seeing it should alert the nearest police station, hospital, or fire house!”
Terror spread over the rooftops. Everyone was on guard and the moment they sighted the rabbit, which, with a limp flop, moved from one roof to the next, they gave the alarm, and all disappeared as if at the approach of a swarm of locusts. The rabbit proceeded, teetering on the cornices; this sense of solitude, just at the moment when it had discovered the necessity of human nearness, seemed even more menacing to it, unbearable.
Meanwhile Cavalier Ulrico, an old hunter, had loaded his rifle with cartridges for hare, and had gone to take his stand on a terrace, hiding behind a chimney. When he saw the white shadow of the rabbit emerge from the fog, he fired; but his emotion at the thought of the animal’s evil bane was so great that the spatter of shot fell a bit off the mark onto the tiles, like hail. The rabbit heard the shot rattle all around, and one pellet pierced its ear. It understoo
d: this was a declaration of war; at this point all relations with mankind were broken off. And in its contempt of humans, at what seemed, to the rabbit, somehow a base ingratitude, it decided to end it all.
A roof covered with corrugated iron sloped down, oblique, and ended at the void, in the opaque nothingness of the fog. The rabbit planted itself there on all four paws, first cautiously, then letting itself go. And so, slipping, surrounded and consumed by its pain, it went towards death. At the edge, the drainpipe delayed it for a second, then it tumbled down …
And it landed in the gloved hands of a fireman, perched at the top of a portable ladder. Foiled even in that extreme act of animal dignity, the rabbit was bundled into the ambulance, which set off full-tilt towards the hospital. Also aboard were Marcovaldo, his wife, and his children, to be interned for observation and for a series of vaccine tests.
INCREDIBLE VOYAGE
Shūsaku Endō
Translated from the Japanese by Van C. Gessel
Shūsaku Endō (1923–1996) was a Japanese author who wrote novels, short stories, drama and essays from the rare perspective of a Japanese Roman Catholic. Together with Junnosuke Yoshiyuki, Shōtarō Yasuoka, Junzo Shono, Hiroyuki Agawa, Ayako Sono (his co-religionist), and Shumon Miura, Endō is categorized as one of the “Third Generation”, the third major group of Japanese writers who appeared after the Second World War. He lived most of his life with only one lung, having had the other removed after a bout of tuberculosis.
Late autumn in the year 2005. Yamazato Bontarō, a young physician at the K. University Medical Centre, had just finished making the rounds of the patients’ rooms with Dr Yagyū. When he returned to the deserted laboratory, the head nurse came in to tell him that there was a telephone call for him, from a woman.
Conscious of the nurse’s ears pricked to hear what he had to say, Bontarō picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello.’ He was surprised to hear the voice of Sonomura Sayuri.
‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just outside the hospital. Do you think you could see me?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘When I was in class today, I coughed suddenly, and some blood came out.’ Sayuri sounded frightened.
‘You coughed up blood? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I was frightened and left class early. I came this far, only to find out my brother isn’t there.’
Sayuri was a student in the Literature Department at K. University. Her brother Gōichi worked with Bontarō under Dr Yagyū’s supervision. The two young men had got to know each another during their first year in medical school; somehow one strong- and one weak-willed fellow had hit it off smoothly, and they had become fast friends.
‘Please stay where you are. I’ll be right there.’
Bontarō quickly hung up the receiver and left the nurses’ station. The prospect of seeing Sayuri made his heart flutter. During his first year at medical school, she had seemed no more than a budding high-school girl, but recently when he dropped in at Gōichi’s house, she had begun to appear almost dazzlingly beautiful to him. On these occasions he would lament his own unattractiveness, and would be overcome by the bitter realization that she was like a jewel dangling just beyond his reach. This was the woman who had just summoned him on the telephone.
He raced down the corridor, which was jammed with outpatients. As soon as he reached the main entrance of the hospital he caught sight of her pure white dress. Her tiny face looked as pale as that of a baby bird.
‘You said you’d coughed up blood. About how much was there?’
‘Around half a cup.’
Tuberculosis, he wondered, or just a simple case of bronchitis? In either case there was no need for concern; with the medical facilities available in the year 2005, treatment of these diseases had become as simple as twisting a baby’s arm. At the very worst, she might have lung cancer, but that would be exceptional for someone her age.
‘Have you felt like you’ve had a cold?’
‘Yes, now that you mention it. These last couple of days.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. You’ve simply got an inflammation of the bronchae,’ Bontarō announced with a deliberately cheerful face. ‘There’s no need to consult your brother. I can fix you up myself. But shall we take some X-rays just to be on the safe side?’
‘Where is Gōichi?’
‘Probably at the Cancer Centre. It’s Dr Inokuchi’s day there, and he probably went along with him.’
Sayuri seemed anxious that her brother was not at the hospital, but she did as Bontarō instructed and followed him into No. 3 X-ray Room. He quickly drew up a chart and asked Iwamura, the X-ray technician, to take the pictures. Then he turned around and caught a glimpse of Sayuri’s round white shoulder as she quietly began to undress. Flustered, he called, ‘Well, thanks,’ to Iwamura and headed down the corridor.
The sun shone warmly through the windows as an outpatient asked him directions to the examination room. Eventually Sayuri finished with the X-rays and came to see him, running her fingers through her tousled hair.
‘Will I be all right?’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you’ll be all right. Even if it’s TB, we’re no longer living in the days when it took a year or two of treatment. They were grateful back then to have streptomycin to use. Now we don’t even bother with drugs; we just burn up the afflicted area with electrical radiation. Recovery takes a mere two weeks.’
How happy he would be if a charming young woman like this were to love him, he thought. But that could never be. Sayuri would doubtless marry some wealthy young man.
The X-rays were ready in twenty minutes. Bontarō decided to show them to Dr Fukanuma, a chest specialist in Internal Medicine. His own eye could detect no abnormalities in the X-rays, but he wanted to get a second opinion.
‘To me, your chest looks like that of a baby. But I’d like a distinguished physician to have a look at the pictures. Please wait here.’
Glancing at the X-rays that exposed her ribs and lungs for all to see, Sayuri blushed and nodded her head.
Dr Fukanuma was in Internal Medicine Laboratory No. 1, peering into a microscope. When he saw Bontarō he called, ‘Hi!’ Though they worked in different departments, Bontarō was fond of this burly doctor.
‘Fine. I’ll have a look at them.’
‘From what I’ve seen, there aren’t any cavities in the lung area. And there don’t appear to be any shadows in the bronchial passages.’
‘Ah-hah. Then it’s probably a simple case of bronchitis.’ As he peered at the lighted screen, Dr Fukanuma poked a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with his cigarette lighter. Then suddenly he put out the lighter and said softly, ‘Wait a minute! What’s this? This spot here near the heart … I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.’
‘Where, Doctor?’
Fukanuma looked searchingly at Bontarō’s anxious face, then pointed to a spot on the X-ray with his stubby finger. It was smaller than a bean, a spot that on casual examination might be mistaken for a blood vessel.
‘Doctor, is it cancer?’
‘I think so. We’ll need to do some more thorough tests, but …’
Fukanuma’s diagnosis proved correct. The detailed examinations were performed by Bontarō and Sayuri’s brother Gōichi, who came hurrying back to the hospital when he heard the news. The Eccleman Reaction was positive; the electronic brain scan came back positive – everything supported the diagnosis that the mucosa between the heart and lungs had been attacked by cancer. Unfortunately, since it lay in the region between the heart and lungs, the cancer was in the most precarious position, surgically speaking. I regret to have to inform you that, even in the year 2005, the only way to cure cancer was through surgery; I do, however, have an obligation to report the facts as they exist. I cannot tell a lie.
‘Does Sayuri know about this?’ Bontarō asked, a dismal expression on his face. He had never dreamed that his offhand diagnosis would be refuted by such grave findi
ngs.
‘We’ve told her that it’s tuberculosis. She doesn’t know anything about medical science,’ said Gōichi, his face stiff. ‘At the moment she’s resting peacefully in her room.’
‘It’s a dangerous operation. Do you want to go through with it?’
‘What choice have we got? Father’s agreed to it.’
Bontarō knew how hazardous this operation could be. To date, at K. University they had seen only two cases of lung cancer in this part of the body; in both instances surgery had failed. The patients had died on the operating table. Knowing this history, Bontarō could understand how Gōichi felt as he pondered his sister’s chances for survival.
I must point out here that surgery in the year 2005 was nothing like the procedures you are familiar with today. In 1998, at the University of California, micro-gamma rays that could shrink objects to a fraction of their normal size were discovered; this led to a sweeping revolution in surgical technique. Dr Friedman was conducting research at the University on cancer-destroying rays, when one day he accidentally turned the No. 606 light-rays on his laboratory mice and went out for lunch. When he returned to his laboratory, he was astounded to find that the mice had shrunk to the size of fleas, and that the wire cage which contained them had been reduced to the size of a soya bean. This discovery had as profound an effect on the medical world as the discovery of penicillin and streptomycin, which began the antibiotic revolution of the 1940s.
For instance, surgeons no longer anaesthetized their patients and cut into their bodies and internal organs as they do today. When such antiquated methods are used, unsightly scars are left on the patient’s body, even when extensive plastic surgery is done. Furthermore, it is a very serious matter to cut open the human body. How much more desirable to shrink the doctor to one-thousandth the size of a body – precisely half the size of a flea – have him slip inside the patient’s body, cut out the infected areas from within, and then slip back out again. Not a single scar would remain. The patient could leave the hospital with a body as pristine as the one he had brought in before the operation.
