The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

by The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  Up to the very last, the TV People don’t say a word. The three of them check the screen one more time, confirm that there are no problems, then switch it off by remote control. The glow contracts to a point and flickers off with a tinkling noise.

  The screen returns to its expressionless, gray, natural state. The world outside is getting dark. I hear someone calling out to someone else. Anonymous footsteps pass by down the hall, intentionally loud as ever. KRRSPUMK DUWB KRRSPUMK DUWB. A Sunday evening.

  The TV People give the room another whirlwind inspection, open the door, and leave. Once again, they pay no attention to me whatsoever. They act as if I don’t exist.

  * * *

  —

  From the time the TV People come into the apartment to the moment they leave, I don’t budge. Don’t say a word. I remain motionless, stretched out on the sofa, surveying the whole operation. I know what you’re going to say: That’s unnatural. Total strangers—not one but three—walk unannounced right into your apartment, plunk down a TV set, and you just sit there staring at them, dumbfounded. Kind of odd, don’t you think?

  I know, I know. But for whatever reason, I don’t speak up, I simply observe the proceedings. Because they ignore me so totally. And if you were in my position, I imagine you’d do the same. Not to excuse myself, but you have people right in front of you denying your very presence like that, then see if you don’t doubt whether you actually exist. I look at my hands half expecting to see clear through them. I’m devastated, powerless, in a trance. My body, my mind are vanishing fast. I can’t bring myself to move. It’s all I can do to watch the three TV People deposit their television in my apartment and leave. I can’t open my mouth for fear of what my voice might sound like.

  The TV People exit and leave me alone. My sense of reality comes back to me. These hands are once again my hands. It’s only then I notice that the dusk has been swallowed by darkness. I turn on the light. Then I close my eyes. Yes, that’s a TV set sitting there. Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking away the minutes. TRPP Q SCHAOUS TRPP Q SCHAOUS.

  * * *

  —

  Curiously, the wife makes no mention of the appearance of the television set in the apartment. No reaction at all. Zero. It’s as if she doesn’t even see it. Creepy. Because, as I said before, she’s extremely fussy about the order and arrangement of furniture and other things. If someone dares to move anything in the apartment, even by a hair, she’ll jump on it in an instant. That’s her ascendancy. She knits her brows, then gets things back the way they were.

  Not me. If an issue of Home Ideas gets put under an An-An, or a ballpoint pen finds its way into the pencil stand, you don’t see me go to pieces. I don’t even notice. This is her problem; I’d wear myself out living like her. Sometimes she flies into a rage. She tells me she can’t abide my carelessness. Yes, I say, and sometimes I can’t stand carelessness about universal gravitation and IT and E = mc2, either. I mean it. But when I say things like this, she clams up, taking them as a personal insult. I never mean it that way; I just say what I feel.

  That night, when she comes home, first thing she does is look around the apartment. I’ve readied a full explanation—how the TV People came and mixed everything up. It’ll be difficult to convince her, but I intend to tell her the whole truth.

  She doesn’t say a thing, just gives the place the once-over. There’s a TV on the sideboard, the magazines are out of order on the table, the mantel clock is on the floor, and the wife doesn’t even comment. There’s nothing for me to explain.

  “You get your own supper okay?” she asks me, undressing.

  “No, I didn’t eat,” I tell her.

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t really hungry,” I say.

  The wife pauses, half-undressed, and thinks this over. She gives me a long look. Should she press the subject or not? The clock breaks up the protracted, ponderous silence. TRPP Q SCHAOUS TRPP Q SCHAOUS. I pretend not to hear; I won’t let it in my ears. But the sound is simply too heavy, too loud to shut out. She, too, seems to be listening to it. Then she shakes her head and says, “Shall I whip up something quick?”

  “Well, maybe,” I say. I don’t really feel much like eating, but I won’t turn down the offer.

  The wife changes into around-the-house wear and goes to the kitchen to fix zosui and tamago-yaki while filling me in on her friends. Who’d done what, who’d said what, who’d changed her hairstyle and looked so much younger, who’d broken up with her boyfriend. I know most of her friends, so I pour myself a beer and follow along, inserting attentive uh-huhs at proper intervals. Though, in fact, I hardly hear a thing she says. I’m thinking about the TV People. That, and why she didn’t remark on the sudden appearance of the television. No way she couldn’t have noticed. Very odd. Weird, even. Something is wrong here. But what to do about it?

  The food is ready, so I sit at the dining-room table and eat. Rice, egg, salt plum. When I’ve finished, the wife clears away the dishes. I have another beer, and she has a beer, too. I glance at the sideboard, and there’s the TV set, with the power off, the remote-control unit sitting on the table. I get up from the table, reach for the remote control, and switch it on. The screen glows and I hear it tinkling. Still no picture. Only the same blank tube. I press the button to raise the volume, but all that does is increase the white-noise roar. I watch the snowstorm for twenty, thirty seconds, then switch it off. Light and sound vanish in an instant. Meanwhile, the wife has seated herself on the carpet and is flipping through Elle, oblivious of the fact that the TV has just been turned on and off.

  I replace the remote control on the table and sit down on the sofa again, thinking I’ll go on reading that long Garcia Marquez novel. I always read after dinner. I might set the book down after thirty minutes, or I might read for two hours, but the thing is to read every day. Today, though, I can’t get myself to read more than a page and a half. I can’t concentrate; my thoughts keep returning to the TV set. I look up and see it, right in front of me.

  * * *

  —

  I wake at half past two in the morning to find the TV still there. I get out of bed half hoping the thing has disappeared. No such luck. I go to the toilet, then plop down on the sofa and put my feet up on the table. I take the remote control in hand and try turning on the TV. No new developments in that department, either; only a rerun of the same glow and noise. Nothing else. I look at it awhile, then switch it off.

  I go back to bed and try to sleep. I’m dead tired, but sleep isn’t coming. I shut my eyes and I see them. The TV People carrying the TV set, the TV People moving the clock out of the way, the TV People transferring magazines to the table, the TV People plugging the power cable into the wall socket, the TV People checking the screen, the TV People opening the door and silently exiting. They’ve stayed on in my head. They’re in there walking around. I get back out of bed, go to the kitchen, and pour a double brandy into a coffee cup. I down the brandy and head over to the sofa for another session with Marquez. I open the pages, yet somehow the words won’t sink in. The writing is opaque.

  Very well, then, I throw Garcia Marquez aside and pick up Elle. Reading Elle from time to time can’t hurt anyone. But there isn’t anything in Elle that catches my fancy. New hairstyles and elegant white silk blouses and eateries that serve good beef stew and what to wear to the opera, articles like that. Do I care? I throw Elle aside. Which leaves me the television on the sideboard to look at.

  I end up staying awake until dawn, not doing a thing. At six o’clock, I make myself some coffee. I don’t have anything else to do, so I go ahead and fix ham sandwiches before the wife gets up.

  “You’re up awful early,” she says drowsily.

  “Mmm,” I mumble.

  After a nearly wordless breakfast, we leave home together and go our separate ways to our respective offices. The wife works at a small publishing house. Edits a natur
al-food and lifestyle magazine. “Shiitake Mushrooms Prevent Gout,” “The Future of Organic Farming,” you know the kind of magazine. Never sells very well, but hardly costs anything to produce; kept afloat by a handful of zealots. Me, I work in the advertising department of an electrical-appliance manufacturer. I dream up ads for toasters and washing machines and microwave ovens.

  * * *

  —

  In my office building, I pass one of the TV People on the stairs. If I’m not mistaken, it’s one of the three who brought the TV the day before—probably the one who first opened the door, who didn’t actually carry the set. Their singular lack of distinguishing features makes it next to impossible to tell them apart, so I can’t swear to it, but I’d say I’m eight to nine out of ten on the mark. He’s wearing the same blue jacket he had on the previous day, and he’s not carrying anything in his hands. He’s merely walking down the stairs. I’m walking up. I dislike elevators, so I generally take the stairs. My office is on the ninth floor, so this is no mean feat. When I’m in a rush, I get all sweaty by the time I reach the top. Even so, getting sweaty has got to be better than taking the elevator, as far as I’m concerned. Everyone jokes about it: doesn’t own a TV or a VCR, doesn’t take elevators, must be a modern-day Luddite. Maybe a childhood trauma leading to arrested development. Let them think what they like. They’re the ones who are screwed up, if you ask me.

  In any case, there I am, climbing the stairs as always; I’m the only one on the stairs—almost nobody else uses them—when between the fourth and fifth floors I pass one of the TV People coming down. It happens so suddenly I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should say something?

  But I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, and he’s unapproachable. He leaves no opening; he descends the stairs so functionally, at one set tempo, with such regulated precision. Plus, he utterly ignores my presence, same as the day before. I don’t even enter his field of vision. He slips by before I can think what to do. In that instant, the field of gravity warps.

  At work, the day is solid with meetings from the morning on. Important meetings on sales campaigns for a new product line. Several employees read reports. Blackboards fill with figures, bar graphs proliferate on computer screens. Heated discussions. I participate, although my contribution to the meetings is not that critical because I’m not directly involved with the project. So between meetings I keep puzzling things over. I voice an opinion only once. Isn’t much of an opinion, either—something perfectly obvious to any observer—but I couldn’t very well go without saying anything, after all. I may not be terribly ambitious when it comes to work, but so long as I’m receiving a salary I have to demonstrate responsibility. I summarize the various opinions up to that point and even make a joke to lighten the atmosphere. Half covering for my daydreaming about the TV People. Several people laugh. After that one utterance, however, I only pretend to review the materials; I’m thinking about the TV People. If they talk up a name for the new microwave oven, I certainly am not aware of it. My mind is all TV People. What the hell was the meaning of that TV set? And why haul the TV all the way to my apartment in the first place? Why hasn’t the wife remarked on its appearance? Why have the TV People made inroads into my company?

  The meetings are endless. At noon, there’s a short break for lunch. Too short to go out and eat. Instead, everyone gets sandwiches and coffee. The conference room is a haze of cigarette smoke, so I eat at my own desk. While I’m eating, the section chief comes around. To be perfectly frank, I don’t like the guy. For no reason I can put my finger on: There’s nothing you can fault him on, no single target for attack. He has an air of breeding. Moreover, he’s not stupid. He has good taste in neckties, he doesn’t wave his own flag or lord it over his inferiors. He even looks out for me, invites me out for the occasional meal. But there’s just something about the guy that doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s his habit of coming into body contact with people he’s talking to. Men or women, at some point in the course of the conversation he’ll reach out a hand and touch. Not in any suggestive way, mind you. No, his manner is brisk, his bearing perfectly casual. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people don’t even notice, it’s so natural. Still—I don’t know why—it does bother me. So whenever I see him, almost instinctively I brace myself. Call it petty, it gets to me.

  He leans over, placing a hand on my shoulder. “About your statement at the meeting just now. Very nice,” says the section chief warmly. “Very simply put, very pivotal. I was impressed. Points well taken. The whole room buzzed at that statement of yours. The timing was perfect, too. Yessir, you keep ’em coming like that.”

  And he glides off: Probably to lunch. I thank him straight out, but the honest truth is I’m taken aback. I mean, I don’t remember a thing of what I said at the meeting. Why does the section chief have to come all the way over to my desk to praise me for that? There have to be more brilliant examples of Homo loquens around here. Strange. I go on eating my lunch, uncomprehending. Then I think about the wife. Wonder what she’s up to right now. Out to lunch? Maybe I ought to give her a call, exchange a few words, anything. I dial the first three digits, have second thoughts, hang up. I have no reason to be calling her. My world may be crumbling, out of balance, but is that a reason to ring up her office? What can I say about all this, anyway? Besides, I hate calling her at work. I set down the receiver, let out a sigh, and finish off my coffee. Then I toss the Styrofoam cup into the wastebasket.

  * * *

  —

  At one of the afternoon meetings, I see TV People again. This time, their number has increased by two. Just as on the previous day, they come traipsing across the conference room, carrying a Sony color TV. A model one size bigger. Uh-oh. Sony’s the rival camp. If, for whatever reason, any competitor’s product gets brought into our offices, there’s hell to pay, barring when other manufacturers’ products are brought in for test comparisons, of course. But then we take pains to remove the company logo—just to make sure no outside eyes happen upon it. Little do the TV People care: The Sony mark is emblazoned for all to see. They open the door and march right into the conference room, flashing it in our direction. Then they parade the thing around the room, scanning the place for somewhere to set it down, until at last, not finding any location, they carry it backward out the door. The others in the room show no reaction to the TV People. And they can’t have missed them. No, they’ve definitely seen them. And the proof is they even got out of the way, clearing a path for the TV People to carry their television through. Still, that’s as far as it went: a reaction no more alarmed than when the nearby coffee shop delivered. They’d made it a ground rule not to acknowledge the presence of the TV People. The others all knew they were there; they just acted as if they weren’t.

  None of it makes any sense. Does everybody know about the TV People? Am I alone in the dark? Maybe the wife knew about the TV People all along, too. Probably. I’ll bet that’s why she wasn’t surprised by the television and why she didn’t mention it. That’s the only possible explanation. Yet this confuses me even more. Who or what, then, are the TV People? And why are they always carrying around TV sets?

  One colleague leaves his seat to go to the toilet, and I get up to follow. This is a guy who entered the company around the same time I did. We’re on good terms. Sometimes we go out for a drink together after work. I don’t do that with most people. I’m standing next to him at the urinals. He’s the first to complain. “Oh, joy! Looks like we’re in for more of the same, straight through to evening. I swear! Meetings, meetings, meetings, going to drag on forever.”

  “You can say that again,” I say. We wash our hands. He compliments me on the morning meeting’s statement. I thank him.

  “Oh, by the way, those guys who came in with the TV just now…” I launch forth, then cut off.

  He doesn’t say anything. He turns off the faucet, pulls two paper towels from the dispenser, and wipes hi
s hands. He doesn’t even shoot a glance in my direction. How long can he keep drying his hands? Eventually, he crumples up his towels and throws them away. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he’s pretending not to hear. I can’t tell. But from the sudden strain in the atmosphere, I know enough not to ask. I shut up, wipe my hands, and walk down the corridor to the conference room. The rest of the afternoon’s meetings, he avoids my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  When I get home from work, the apartment is dark. Outside, dark clouds have swept in. It’s beginning to rain. The apartment smells like rain. Night is coming on. No sign of the wife. I loosen my tie, smooth out the wrinkles, and hang it up. I brush off my suit. I toss my shirt into the washing machine. My hair smells like cigarette smoke, so I take a shower and shave. Story of my life: I go to endless meetings, get smoked to death, then the wife gets on my case about it. The very first thing she did after we were married was make me stop smoking. Four years ago, that was.

  Out of the shower, I sit on the sofa with a beer, drying my hair with a towel. The TV People’s television is still sitting on the sideboard. I pick up the remote control from the table and push the “on” switch. Again and again I press, but nothing happens. The screen stays dark. I check the plug; it’s in the socket, all right. I unplug it, then plug it back in. Still no go. No matter how often I press the “on” switch, the screen does not glow. Just to be sure, I pry open the back cover of the remote-control unit, remove the batteries, and check them with my handy electrical-contact tester. The batteries are fine. At this point, I give up, throw the remote control aside, and slosh down more beer.

  Why should it upset me? Supposing the TV did come on, what then? It would glow and crackle with white noise. Who cares, if that’s all that’d come on?