by Ann
Coming home, off-center slew into her parking space, radio up way too loud, singing and her voice a bray in the cut-engine quiet; she almost slipped going up the stairs. Shushing herself as she poured a glass of milk, her invariable after binge cure-all. Lifting the glass she caught from the damp skin of her forearm an aftershave scent, mixed with the male smell of Tony. Jeff? It didn’t matter, such a pretty boy.
But not as pretty as the boy next door.
And, her thought seeming eerily a signal, she heard the preliminary noises, shifting warm through the wall as if they stroked her: Anne’s breathy wordless voice, that rush of sound, half-sinister whirlwind pavane. Pressed against the wall itself, her bare-skinned sweat a warm adhesive, Lurleen stood, mouth open and eyes shut, working her thin imagination as Anne, presumably, worked her thin body, both – all three – ending in vortex, whirlpool, mouthing that dwindling symphony of screams, Lurleen herself louder than she’d ever been, with any man. Loud enough that they could, maybe, hear her through the walls.
Slumped, damp, she could not quite admit it, say to herself You want them to hear you. You want him to hear you, whoever he is. You want what Anne’s getting, better than any bar pickup, better than anything you ever had. Glamorous and dirty. And scary. And hot.
By the next night she was ready, had turned her bed to face the wall lengthwise: willing herself, forcing herself like an unseen deliberate splinter in their shared and coupling flesh – she would be part of this. She had never had anything like what went on there, never anything good. She would have this if she had to knock down the wall to get it. Fingers splayed against her flesh, heels digging hard into the sheets and letting go, crying out, hear me. Hear me.
Exhausted at work, but on time, she couldn’t take any of Roger’s bitching now, not when she had to think. Make a plan. Anne, she was a sorry-looking bitch, no competition once the boyfriend got a good look at Lurleen. The trick was to get him to look. To see. See what he’d been hearing, night after night. Of course it wouldn’t be all that easy, if Anne had any brains she would want to keep her boyfriend and Lurleen far far apart. Lurleen decided she would have to take it slow and smart, be smart, not exactly her strong point but she could be slick, she knew what she wanted.
She began to stalk Anne, never thinking of it in so many words but as sure and surely cautious as any predator. Waiting, lingering in the hallway after work, for Anne to come home from whatever unfathomable job she did all day. Never stopping to talk, just a smile, pleasant make-believe. She made it her business to do her laundry when Anne did hers; at the first whoosh and stagger of the old machine Lurleen was there, quarters in hand; her clothes had never been so clean; she had to see. Any jockey shorts, bikini underwear, jockstraps, what? She meant to take one if she could, steal it before, before it was clean. Smell it. You can tell a lot about a man, Lurleen believed, from the smell of his skin, not his aftershave or whatever but the pure smell of his body. Until his body was beneath hers it was the best she could do. She pawed through the laundry basket, poked around in the washer: nothing. Just Anne’s Priss-Miss blouses, baggy slacks, cheap bras, and just about everything beige. Balked angry toss of the clothing, stepped on it to push it back into the basket. Maybe he liked Anne because she was so beige, so…nothing? Could a man want a woman to be nothing? Just a space to fill? Lurleen had known plenty of guys who liked their women dumb, it made them feel better, but anyway Anne didn’t seem dumb. Just empty.
And still, night after night the same, bed against the wall, Lurleen could be determined, Lurleen could work for what she wanted. Drained every morning, the sting of tender skin in the shower, even Roger noticed her red eyes.
‘Not moonlighting, are you,’ but she saw he knew it was no question, half-gaze through those tired eyes and she even, for a moment, considered telling him, considered saying I want the boy next door, Roger, I want him real bad. I want him so much I even jerk off so he can hear me, so he can know how he turns me on. I want him so much I don’t know what to do.
She wasn’t getting anywhere. Drumming slow one finger against the order counter, staring right past some guy bumbling on about some opera or something, she wasn’t getting anywhere and it was wearing her out. No time for anything else, bars, guys, whatever, there wasn’t any other guy she wanted. Anne’s smiles growing smaller, tighter, her gaze more pinched, was she catching on? Tired from sitting in the hallway, once or twice another neighbor had caught her at it, loitering tense and unseeing until the tap-tap-tap on her shoulder, Hey are you OK? ‘Fine,’ harsh involuntary blush, ‘just looking for an earring.’ Right. Tired from staking out the parking lot, hot breeze through the window; she didn’t even know what kind of car he drove. Tired to death and still no glimpse of him, proud author of the sounds, it was killing her to listen but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop.
And then that night, mid-jerk, mid-groan, they stopped. The sounds. Ceased completely but not to complete silence, a waiting sound, a whisper. Whispering through the walls, such a willing sound.
She yanked on a T-shirt, ends tickling her bare ass as she ran, hit on the door with small quick fists, ‘Anne? Are you OK?’ never thinking how stupid she might look if the door opened, never considered what excuse she might give. I didn’t hear anything so I thought you might be in trouble. Right. So what. Bang bang on the door.
‘Anne?’
The whisper, against the door itself. Hearing it Lurleen shivered, convulsive twitch like a tic of the flesh, all down her body and she pressed against the door, listening with all her might. ‘Anne,’ but quietly, feeling the heat from her body, the windy rush of her heart. Waiting. ‘Anne,’ more quietly still, less than a murmuring breath, ‘let me in.’
Abruptly, spooking her back a step: the sounds, hot, intensity trebled but wrong somehow, guttural, staggering where they should flow, a smell almost like garbage but she didn’t care, once the first scare had passed she pressed harder into the door, as if by pure want she could break it down, she would get in, she would. T-shirt stuck, sweating like she’d run a mile. I’m sick of just listening. The hall was so hot. Sweat on her forehead, running into her eyes like leaking tears. The doorknob in her slick fingers.
It turned. Simple as that.
In the end so quick and easy and it seemed almost that she could not breathe, could not get enough air to move but she moved all right, oh yes, stepped right inside into the semidarkness, a fake hurricane lamp broken beside the bed but there was light enough, enough to see by.
Like angels in love, mating in the cold graceful rapture of thin air. Hovering above the bed, at least a yard or maybe more, no wonder she never heard springs, instead the groaned complaint of the walls itself as his thrusting brushed them, on his back the enormous strange construction that kept them airborne, as careless as if it had grown there amongst the pebbled bumps and tiny iridescent fins. His body beautiful, and huge, not like a man’s but so real it seemed to suck up all the space in the room, big elementary muscles and he was using them all. Anne, bent like a coat hanger, it hurt to see the angle of her back, her eyes wide and empty and some stuff coming out of her mouth like spoiled black jelly but it was too late, Lurleen had sent the door swinging backwards to close with a final catch, and in its sound his gaze swiveling to touch hers: the cold regard of a nova, the summoning glance of a star.
Her mouth as open as Anne’s as she approached the vast brutality of his embrace, room enough for two there, oh my yes. Fierce relentless encroachment promising no pleasure but the pleasure of pain. Not an angel, never had been. Or maybe once, long, a long long time ago.
The Ice Man
Haruki Murakami
Translated into English by Philip Gabriel
Haruki Murakami (1949–) is an iconic Japanese writer whose novels, short stories, and works of nonfiction have garnered him significant critical acclaim and numerous awards, including the Franz Kafka Prize and the World Fantasy Award for his novel Kafka on the Shore (2005). The Guardian praised him as
‘one of the world’s greatest living novelists’ for his works and achievements. ‘I write weird stories,’ Murakami told Salon in 1997. ‘I don’t know why I like weirdness so much. Myself, I’m a very realistic person.’ Based on a dream his wife had, Murakami’s ‘The Ice Man’ (1991) is a prime example of the weirdness in his fiction, which usually comes intertwined with the surreal or quietly absurd.
My husband’s an Ice Man.
The first time I met him was at a hotel at a ski resort. It’s hard to imagine a more appropriate place to meet an Ice Man. He was in the lobby of the hotel, noisy and crowded with hordes of young people, seated in a corner as far as possible from the fireplace, quietly absorbed in a book. It was nearly noon, but the clear, cold morning light seemed to shine on him alone. ‘That’s an Ice Man,’ one of my friends whispered. At the time I had no idea what sort of person an Ice Man was, and my friend couldn’t help me out. All she knew was that he was the sort of person who went by the name of Ice Man. ‘They must call him that because he’s made out of ice,’ she added, a serious look on her face. As serious as if the topic wasn’t an Ice Man but a ghost, or someone with a contagious disease.
The Ice Man looked young, though that was offset by the white strands, like patches of leftover snow, mixed in among his stiff, wiry head of hair. He was tall, his cheeks were sharply chiseled, like frozen crags, his fingers covered with frost that looked like it would never, ever melt. Other than this, he looked perfectly normal. He wasn’t handsome, exactly, though some would find him quite appealing. There was something about him that pierced right through you. Especially his eyes, and that silent, transparent look that gleamed like an icicle on a winter’s morning – the sole glint of life in an otherwise provisional body. I stood there for a while, gazing at the Ice Man from across the lobby. He was absorbed in his book, never once moving or looking up, as if trying to convince himself that he was utterly alone.
The next afternoon he was in the same spot, as before, reading his book. When I went to the dining room for lunch, and when I came back with my friends from skiing in the evening, he was always there, seated in the same chair, the same look in his eyes as he scanned the pages of the same book as before. And the next day was exactly the same. Dawn to dusk found him seated alone, quietly reading, for all the world like part of the frozen winter scene outside.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, I made up an excuse and didn’t join everyone on the slopes. Instead, I stayed behind in the hotel, wandering around the lobby. With everyone out skiing, the lobby was like an abandoned city. The air there was sticky and hot, filled with a strangely depressing odor – the smell of snow that had clung to the soles of people’s boots and had slowly melted in front of the fireplace. I gazed out the windows, leafed through a newspaper. Finally I worked up my courage, went over to the Ice Man, and spoke to him. I’m pretty shy, and hardly ever strike up a conversation with a stranger, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to talk to him. This was my last night in the hotel and if I let this chance pass I probably would never have another.
You’re not skiing? I asked, trying to sound casual. The Ice Man slowly raised his head, looking like he was carefully listening to the wind blowing far away. He gazed intently at me and then quietly shook his head. I don’t ski, he said. I’m fine just reading and looking out at the snow. His words floated up in the air, a white comic-book bubble of dialogue, every word visible before me. He gently wiped away some of the frost from his fingers.
I had no idea what to say next. I blushed and stood there, rooted to the spot. The Ice Man gazed into my eyes and gave what looked like a faint smile. Or was it? Had he really smiled? Maybe I was just imagining it. Would you like to sit down? he said. I know you’re curious about me, so let’s talk for a while. You want to know what an Ice Man is like, right? He chuckled. It’s all right, he added. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re not going to catch a cold just talking to me.
We sat on a sofa in a corner of the lobby, hesitantly talking as we watched the swirling snow outside. I ordered a cup of hot cocoa, but the Ice Man didn’t drink anything. He was just as shy as I was. On top of which, we had little in common to talk about. We talked about the weather at first, then the hotel. Did you come here alone? I asked him. I did, he responded. Do you like skiing? he asked. Not particularly, I replied. Some of my girlfriends dragged me here. I can barely ski. I was dying to find out more about what an Ice Man was all about. Was he really made out of ice? What did he eat? Where did he live in the summer?
Did he have a family? Those sorts of questions. Unfortunately, the Ice Man didn’t talk about himself at all, and I didn’t dare ask the questions that whirled around in my head. I figured he didn’t feel like talking about those things.
Instead he talked about me, who I am. It’s hard to believe, but he knew everything there was to know about me. Who was in my family, my age, interests, my health, what school I was attending, my friends. He knew it all. Even things I’d long forgotten, he knew everything about.
I don’t get it, I blushed. I felt like I had been stripped naked in front of people. How do you know so much about me? I asked. Are you a mind reader?
No, the Ice Man said, I can’t read minds. I just know these things. Like I’m looking deep into a clear block of ice. When I gaze at you like this, I can see everything about you.
Can you see my future? I asked.
No, not the future, he replied blankly, slowly shaking his head. I’m not interested in the future. I have no concept of the future. Ice contains no future, just the past, sealed away. As if they’re alive, everything in the world is sealed up inside, clear and distinct. Ice can preserve all kinds of things that way – cleanly, clearly. That’s the essence of ice, the role it plays.
I’m glad, I replied, and smiled. I was relieved – there was no way I wanted to hear about my future.
We got together a few times after we returned to Tokyo, eventually dating every weekend. We didn’t go on typical dates, to see movies, or spend time in coffee shops. We didn’t even go out to eat. The Ice Man hardly ever ate. Instead we’d spend time on a park bench, side by side, talking. We discussed all kinds of subjects, yet not once did the Ice Man talk about himself. Why is this? I asked one day. Why don’t you ever talk about yourself? I want to know more about you – where you were born, what kind of parents you had, how you came to be an Ice Man. The Ice Man gazed at me for a while, then slowly shook his head. I don’t know the answer to those things, he responded quietly and decisively, exhaling his hard white breath. I have no past. I know the past of everything else, and preserve it. But I have no past myself. I have no idea where I was born. I don’t know what my parents looked like, or whether I even had any. I don’t know how old I am, or if I even have an age.
The Ice Man was as isolated and alone as an iceberg floating in the darkness.
I fell deeply in love with him, and he came to love me, the present me, apart from any past or future. And I came to love the Ice Man for who he is now, apart from any past or future. It was a wonderful thing. We began to talk about getting married. I had just turned twenty, and the Ice Man was the first person I’d ever truly loved. What loving him really meant was, at the time, beyond me. But that would have been true even if it hadn’t been the Ice Man I was in love with then.
My mother and older sister were totally opposed to our marriage. You’re too young to get married, they argued. You don’t know the man’s background – even where or when he was born. How are we supposed to explain that to our relatives? And listen, they went on, he’s an Ice Man, so what happens if he melts? You don’t seem to understand this, but when you get married you take on certain responsibilities. How can an Ice Man possibly fulfill his duties as a husband?
Their fears were groundless, however. The Ice Man wasn’t really made out of ice. He was just as cold as ice. So even if it got hot, he wasn’t about to melt. He was cold, all right, but this wasn’t the kind of cold that was going to rob someone else of his body hea
t.
So we got married. No one celebrated our wedding. No one – not my friends, or relatives, or my family – was happy about us getting married. We didn’t even have a wedding ceremony. The Ice Man didn’t have a family register, so even a civil ceremony was out. The two of us simply decided that we were married. We bought a small cake and ate it, just the two of us. That was our ceremony. We rented a small apartment, and the Ice Man took a job at a refrigerated meat warehouse. The cold never bothered him, of course, and he never got tired, no matter how hard he worked. He never even ate very much. So his boss really liked him, and paid him more than any of his fellow employees. We lived a quiet life, just the two of us, not bothered by anyone else, not troubling anybody.
When we made love, I always pictured a solitary, silent clump of ice off somewhere. Hard ice, as hard as it could possibly be, the largest chunk of ice in the entire world. It was somewhere far away, though the Ice Man must know where that chunk of ice is. What he did was convey a memory of that ice. The first few times we made love, I was confused, but soon I grew used to it. I grew to love it when he took me in his arms. As always, he never said a word about himself, not even why he became an Ice Man, and I never asked him. The two of us simply held each other in the darkness, sharing that enormous ice, inside of which the world’s past, millions of years’ worth, was preserved.
Our married life was fine. We loved each other, and everyone left us alone. People found it hard at first to get used to the Ice Man, but after a while they started to talk with him. An Ice Man’s not so different from anybody else, they concluded. But deep down, I knew they didn’t accept him, and they didn’t accept me for having married him. We’re different people from them, they concluded, and the gulf separating them and us will never be filled.
