He went to see her and told her exactly how he felt. How lonely his life had been until then. How much he had lost over the years. How she had made him realize all that.
She was an intelligent young woman. She had come to like this Tony Takitani. She had liked him from the start, and each meeting had only made her like him more. Whether she could call this love or not, she did not know. But she felt that he had something wonderful inside, and that she would be happy if she made her life with him. And so they married.
By marrying her, Tony Takitani brought the lonely period of his life to an end. When he awoke in the morning, the first thing he did was look for her. When he found her sleeping next to him, he felt relief. When she was not there, he felt anxious and searched the house for her. There was something slightly odd for him about not being lonely. The very fact of having ceased to be lonely caused him to fear the possibility of becoming lonely again. The question haunted him: what would he do? Sometimes the fear would make him break out in a cold sweat. It went on like this for the first three months of their marriage. As he became used to his new life, though, and the possibility of her suddenly disappearing seemed to lessen, the fear gradually eased. In the end he settled down and steeped himself in his new and peaceful happiness.
One time the couple went to hear Shozaburo Takitani play. She wanted to know what kind of music her father-in-law was making. Do you think your father would mind if we went to hear him? she asked. Probably not, he said.
They went to a Ginza nightclub where Shozaburo Takitani was performing. This was the first time Tony Takitani had gone to hear his father play since childhood. Shozaburo Takitani was playing exactly the same music he had played in the old days, the same songs that Tony Takitani had heard so often on records when he was a boy. His father’s style was smooth, elegant, sweet. It was not art. But it was music made by the skillful hand of a pro that could put a crowd in a good mood. Tony Takitani sat and listened to it, drinking much more than was usual for him.
Soon, however, as he lent his ear to the performance, something in the music began to make him feel like a narrow pipe filling quietly, but inexorably, with sludge. He found it increasingly difficult to breathe, or even to go on sitting there. He couldn’t help feeling that the music he was hearing now was just slightly different from the music he remembered his father playing. That had been years ago, of course, and he had been listening with the ears of a child, after all, but the difference, it seemed to him, was terribly important. It was infinitesimal but crucial, and it was perfectly clear to him. He wanted to go up onto the stage, take his father by the arm, and ask, What is it, Father? Why is it so different? But of course he did nothing of the sort. For one thing, he could never have explained what was in his mind. And so he said nothing. Instead, he went on listening all the way to the end of his father’s set, drinking whiskey and water. When it was over, he and his wife applauded and went home.
The couple’s married life was free of shadows. The two never fought, and his work continued as successfully as ever. They spent many happy hours together, taking walks, going to movies, traveling. For someone so young, she was a remarkably capable housewife. She understood the virtue of moderation, she was quick and efficient with the household chores, and she never gave her husband anything to worry about. There was, however, one thing that did concern him somewhat, and that was her tendency to buy too many clothes. Confronted with a piece of clothing, she seemed incapable of restraint. In a flash, a strange look would come over her, and even her voice would change. The first time he saw this happen, Tony Takitani thought she had suddenly taken ill. True, he had noticed it before they married, but it started getting serious on their European honeymoon. She bought a shocking number of items during their travels. In Milan and Paris, she made the rounds of the boutiques from morning to night like one possessed. They did no touring at all. They never saw the Duomo or the Louvre. All he remembered from their trip was clothing stores. Valentino, Missoni, Yves Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Ferragamo, Armani, Cerruti, Gianfranco Ferré: with a mesmerized look in her eyes, she swept up everything she could get her hands on, and he followed after her, paying the bills. He almost worried that the raised numbers on his credit card might be worn down.
Her fever did not abate after they returned to Japan. She kept on buying new clothes almost every day. The number of articles of clothing in her possession skyrocketed. To hold them, he had several large armoires made to order. He also had a cabinet built for her shoes. Still there was not enough space for everything. In the end, he had an entire room made over as a walk-in closet. In their large house, they had rooms to spare, and money was no problem. Besides, she did such a marvelous job of wearing what she bought, and she looked so happy whenever she had new clothes, that Tony Takitani decided not to complain to her. Oh, well, he told himself, nobody’s perfect.
When the volume of her clothing became too great to fit into the special room, though, even Tony Takitani began to have some misgivings. Once, when she was out, he counted her dresses. He calculated that she could change outfits twice a day and still not repeat herself for almost two years. Any way you looked at it, she had too many dresses. He could not understand why she had to keep buying herself clothing like this, one piece after the other. She was so busy buying them, she had no time to wear them. He wondered if she might have a psychological problem. If so, he would have to apply the brakes to her habit at some point.
He took the plunge one night after dinner. I wish you would consider cutting back somewhat on the way you buy clothing, he said. It’s not a question of money, I’m not talking about that. I have absolutely no objection to your buying what you need, and it makes me happy to see you looking so pretty, but do you really need so many expensive dresses?
His wife lowered her gaze and thought about this for a time. Then she looked at him and said, You’re right, of course, I don’t need so many dresses, I know that. But even if I know it, I can’t help myself. When I see a beautiful dress, I have to buy it. Whether I need it or not, or whether I have too many or not: that’s beside the point. I just can’t stop myself.
I will, though, try to cure myself, she said (adding that it was like a drug addiction). If I keep on going this way, the house is going to fill up with my clothing before too long. And so she locked herself in the house for a week, and managed to keep away from clothing stores. This was a time of great suffering for her. She felt as if she were walking on the surface of a planet with little air. She spent each day in her roomful of clothing, taking down one piece after another to gaze at it. She would caress the material, inhale its fragrance, slip the piece on, and look at herself in the mirror, never tiring of the sight. And the more she looked, the more she wanted something new. The desire for new clothing became unbearable.
She simply couldn’t stand it.
She did, however, love her husband deeply. And she respected him. She knew that he was right. I don’t need this much clothing. I have only one body to wear it on. She called one of her favorite boutiques and asked the proprietor if she might be allowed to return a coat and dress that she had bought ten days earlier but had never worn. That would be fine, madame, she was told; if you will bring them in, we will be glad to take them back. She was one of their very best customers, of course; they could do that much for her. She put the coat and dress in her blue Renault Cinque and drove to the fashionable Aoyama district. There she returned the clothes and received a credit on her card. She thanked them and hurried to her car, trying not to look at anything else, then drove straight down the highway to home. She had a certain feeling of lightness at having returned the pieces. Yes, she told herself, it was true: I did not need those things. I have enough coats and dresses for the rest of my life. But as she waited at the head of the line for a red light to change, the coat and dress were all she could think about. Colors, cut, and texture: she remembered them in vivid detail. She could picture them as clearly as if she had them in front of her. A film of sweat broke out on her forehead. Fore
arms pressed against the steering wheel, she drew in a long, deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw the light change to green. Instinctively, she stepped down on the accelerator.
A large truck that was trying to make it across the intersection on a yellow light slammed into the side of her Renault at full speed. She never felt a thing.
Tony Takitani was left with a room full of size 7 dresses and 112 pairs of shoes. He had no idea what to do with them. He was not going to keep everything his wife had worn for the rest of his life, so he called a dealer and had him take away at least the hats and other accessories for the first price the man offered. Stockings and underthings he bunched together and burned in the garden incinerator. There were simply too many dresses and shoes to deal with, so he left them where they were. After the funeral, he shut himself in the huge walk-in closet, staring all day at the rows of dresses that filled every available bit of space.
Ten days later, Tony Takitani put an ad in the newspaper for a female assistant, dress size 7, height approximately 161 centimeters, shoe size 22 centimeters, good pay, favorable working conditions. Because the salary he quoted was abnormally high, thirteen women showed up to be interviewed in his studio-cum-office in Minami-Aoyama. Five of them were obviously lying about their dress size. From the remaining eight, he chose the one whose build was closest to his wife’s, a woman in her midtwenties with an unremarkable face. She wore a plain white blouse and tight blue skirt. Her clothes and shoes were neat and clean, but they were definitely showing signs of age.
Tony Takitani said to the woman, The work itself is not very difficult. You just come to the office every day from nine to five, answer the telephone, deliver illustrations, pick up materials for me, make copies. That sort of thing. There is only one condition attached. I’ve recently lost my wife, and I have a huge amount of her clothing at home. Most of what she left is new or almost new. I would like you to wear her things as a kind of uniform while you work here, which is why I specified dress size and shoe size and height as conditions for employment. I know this must sound strange to you, but believe me, I have no ulterior motive. It’s just to give me time to get used to the idea that my wife is gone. I’ll have to make small adjustments to the atmospheric pressure or whatever it is. I need a period of time like that. And during that period, I’d like to have you nearby wearing her clothing. That way, I’m pretty sure, it will finally come home to me that my wife is dead and gone.
Biting her lip, the young woman immediately set her mind to work. It was, as he said, a very strange request—so strange, in fact, that she could not fully comprehend it. She understood the part about his wife’s having died recently. And she understood the part about the wife’s having left behind a lot of clothing. But she could not quite grasp why she herself should have to work in the wife’s clothes in his presence. Normally, she would have had to assume that there was more to it than met the eye. But, she thought, this man did not seem to be a bad person. You had only to listen to the way he talked to know that. Maybe losing his wife had done something to his mind, but he didn’t look like the type of man who would let that kind of thing cause him to harm another person. And finally, whatever the case, she needed work. She had been searching for a job for a very long time, and her unemployment insurance would run out the following month. Then she wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. And probably, too, she would never again find a job that paid as well as this one did.
I think I understand, she said. Though not exactly. And I think I can do what you are asking me to do. But first I wonder if you can show me the clothes I will have to wear. I had better check to see if they really are my size. Of course, said Tony Takitani, and he took the woman to his house and showed her the room. She had never seen so many dresses gathered together in a single place outside of a department store, and each dress was obviously a quality piece that had cost a lot of money. The taste, too, was flawless. The sight was almost blinding. The woman could hardly catch her breath. Her heart started pounding for no reason at all. It felt like sexual arousal, she realized.
Suggesting that she check the fit, Tony Takitani left the woman alone in the room. She pulled herself together and tried on a few dresses hanging nearby. She tried on some shoes as well. Everything fit as though it had been made for her. She took one dress after another in hand and looked at it. She ran her fingertips over the material and breathed in its fragrance. Hundreds of beautiful dresses were hanging there in rows. Before long, tears welled up in her eyes. She could not stop herself from crying. The tears poured out of her. There was no way to hold them back. Her body swathed in a dress of the woman who had died, she stood utterly still, sobbing, struggling to keep the sound from escaping her throat. Soon Tony Takitani came to see how she was doing. Why are you crying? he asked. I don’t know, she answered, shaking her head. I’ve never seen so many beautiful dresses before. I think it must have upset me. I’m sorry. She dried her tears with a handkerchief.
If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have you start at the office tomorrow, Tony Takitani said in a businesslike manner. Pick out a week’s worth of dresses and shoes and take them home with you.
The woman devoted much time to choosing six days’ worth of dresses. Then she chose matching shoes. She packed everything into suitcases. Take a coat, too, said Tony Takitani, you don’t want to be cold. She chose a warm-looking gray cashmere coat. It was so light, it could have been made of feathers. She had never held such a lightweight coat in her life.
When the woman was gone, Tony Takitani went back into his wife’s clothing room, closed the door, and let his eyes wander vacantly over her dresses. He could not understand why the woman had cried when she saw them. To him, they looked like shadows that his wife had left behind. Size 7 shadows of his wife hung there in long rows, layer upon layer, as if someone had gathered and hung up samples of the infinite possibilities (or at least the theoretically infinite possibilities) implied in the existence of a human being.
These shadows had once clung to his wife’s body, which had endowed them with the warm breath of life, and made them move. Now, however, what hung before him were mere scruffy shadows cut off from the roots of life and steadily withering away. What were they now but worn-out old dresses devoid of any meaning whatsoever? Their rich colors danced in space like pollen rising from flowers, lodging in his eyes and ears and nostrils. The frills and buttons and epaulettes and lace and pockets and belts sucked greedily at the room’s air, thinning it out until he could hardly breathe. Liberal numbers of mothballs gave off a smell that might as well have been the soundless sound of a million tiny winged insects. He hated these dresses now, it suddenly occurred to him. Slumping against the wall, he folded his arms and closed his eyes. Loneliness seeped into him once again like a lukewarm broth of darkness. It’s all over now, he told himself. No matter what I do, it’s over.
He called the woman and told her to forget about the job. There was no longer any work for her to do, he said, apologizing. But how can that be? the woman asked, stunned. I’m sorry, but the situation has changed, he said. You can have the clothes and shoes you took home. I’ll give them to you, and the suitcases, too. I just want you to forget this ever happened, and please don’t tell anyone about it, either. The woman could make nothing of this, and the more she pressed for answers the more pointless it seemed. I see, she said finally, and hung up.
For some minutes, the woman felt angry at Tony Takitani. But soon she came to feel that things had probably worked out for the best. The whole business had been peculiar from the start. She was sorry to have lost the job, but she figured she would manage somehow or other.
She unpacked the dresses she had brought home from Tony Takitani’s house, smoothed them out, and hung them in her wardrobe. The shoes she put into the shoe cabinet by the front door. Compared with these new arrivals, her own clothes and shoes looked horrendously shabby. She felt as if they were a totally different type of matter, fashioned of materials in another
dimension. She took off the blouse and skirt she had worn to the interview, hung them up, and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Then she sat on the floor, drinking a cold beer. Recalling the mountain of dresses she had seen in Tony Takitani’s house, she heaved a sigh. So many beautiful dresses, she thought. And that “closet”: it was bigger than my whole apartment. Imagine the time and money that must have gone into buying all those clothes! But now the woman who did it is dead. And she left a roomful of size 7 dresses. I wonder what it must feel like to die and leave so many gorgeous dresses behind.
The woman’s friends were well aware that she was poor, so they were amazed to see her wearing a new dress every time they got together—and each one a sophisticated, expensive brand. Where did you ever get a dress like that? they would ask her. I promised not to tell, she would say, shaking her head. And besides, even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.
In the end, Tony Takitani had a used-clothing dealer take away every piece of clothing his wife had left behind. The dealer gave him less than a twentieth of what he had paid, but that didn’t matter to him. He could have let them all go for nothing, as long as someone took them away. Away to a place where he could never see them again.
Once it was emptied out, Tony Takitani left the room empty for a long, long time.
Every once in a while, he would go to the room and stay there for an hour or two doing nothing in particular, just letting his mind go blank. He would sit on the floor and stare at the bare walls, at the shadows of his dead wife’s shadows. But as the months went by he lost the ability to recall the things that used to be in the room. The memory of their colors and smells faded away almost before he knew it. Even the vivid emotions he had once cherished drew back, as if retreating from the province of his memory. Like a mist in the breeze, his memories changed shape, and with each change they grew fainter. Each memory was now the shadow of a shadow of a shadow. The only thing that remained tangible to him was the sense of absence. Sometimes he could barely recall his wife’s face. What he often did recall, though, was the woman, a total stranger, shedding tears in the room at the sight of the dresses that his wife had left behind. He recalled her unremarkable face and her worn-out patent leather shoes. With that, her quiet sobbing rekindled in his memory. He did not want to remember such things, but they came back to life before he knew it was happening. Long after he had forgotten all kinds of things, including the woman’s name, her image remained strangely unforgettable.
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman Page 21
