All right. Now I have to tell what happened on the third day. This is really the end of my story, though it isn’t the end of the story, if you know what I mean. You don’t? You soon will. Keep reading.
It was midmorning, and the train platform wasn’t very crowded. At that time of day it was mostly middle-aged or elderly people, off to the museum or lunch with their friends. And because it was the older generation, there weren’t too many smartphones among them. A few had those clamshell phones, but they aren’t nearly as mesmerizing as smartphones because they don’t have as many functions, and also their displays aren’t as bright or interesting. Since my death, I’d been mulling over the possibility that the smartphone inventors actually program some sort of addictive component into the display. It certainly is uncannily hard to look away.
Along came a fiftyish woman, beautifully dressed, walking slowly along in The Pose, frowning at the display of her smart-phone. I noticed it was a brand new one. She was even more rapt than an ordinary phone user, probably because she was still learning how to use it. In fact her concentration was tinged with annoyance. Something wasn’t right with her phone—it wasn’t doing what it was supposed to. I used to wonder why older people got so annoyed at their electronic devices, but now I saw the reason. Older people were used to having the tools they used obey them. They thought of them as servants. But these new devices could disobey their owners. In a way, they weren’t the servants, but the masters. Everyone had to learn how their devices liked things to be done. People had to adapt to the rigorous paradigms of their machines. This was a fundamental shift in human experience, and older people hadn’t yet succeeded in adapting their thought patterns to the lockstep rhythm of their devices. Their brains were still organic, and they expected the machines to act organically too.
In her trance, the woman was drifting closer and closer to the edge of the platform.
Since she was older, and so very fixated on her phone, I decided to warn her a little early—the train had been announced, but it wasn’t in range of sight or hearing yet. I fired off a blast—but she kept right on going. No reaction. I fired off another one. The approach music began. Time was getting short. I fired off a third one, as strongly as I could. I had never had to do this before and was getting a bit anxious. The woman was done for if I couldn’t get her attention. I heard the train approaching, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her feet had crossed the blind man’s strip and hovered on the edge. Her gaze never left the screen. And this gave me my great idea.
Summoning all the energy I had at my disposal, I concentrated on the woman’s phone screen. I fired off a blast stronger than ever before, and succeeded in making my face appear on her screen. But—too late—I realized that what appeared was the face I had died with: bloody, smeared and broken. It was hideous, contorted in the snarl of death. I had wanted to use my face to warn her, but instead this awful thing filled her vision.
She reeled backward on her high heels, fortunately away from the platform’s edge, and fell heavily to the ground. At first I was elated—at least she hadn’t fallen into the path of the train. But she wasn’t moving. Her hand clutched the phone, once, twice, and then loosened and the phone fell to the pavement. Her eyes were closed and her face twisted with pain.
Another passenger, a few meters away, cried out in surprise and rushed forward. It was an efficient-looking man. He bent down, took the woman’s pulse, and called out to another passenger to phone for an ambulance. “She’s had a heart attack, I think!”
I watched in horror, rooted to the spot. People rushed past and through me as the wail of an ambulance got louder and louder. A couple of station officials appeared, pushing past the small ring of people that had gathered around the fallen woman. I heard the efficient man, who still knelt next to her, say, “Yes, she’s dead.”
What had I done? Instead of saving the woman, I had killed her. My awful bloody face had scared her to death. I didn’t know what to do.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I had not been touched since I had died, so it was a great surprise. I whirled around, and found myself looking into the face of the woman. She was lying on the ground a little way away, but she was also standing there, looking into my eyes.
“You can go now,” she said to me. Then, with great calm, she walked over and sat down on one of the platform seats.
I found I was now able to leave the station. In fact, as soon as the words left her lips, I began to feel that I was floating upward. A period of amorphous sensation followed, and the next thing I knew, I was here, sitting at this desk. A Wise One appeared and explained to me that my job was over. It had been handed over to the next person to die at that station. That woman would now assume the task of warning inattentive smartphone users of their danger, until another death occurred and the next dead person took over.
“That’s the way it works,” he said. “Usually, some negligence is involved in the handover. The rescuer is distracted for a moment, or he is ultimately unable to get the phone user’s attention. But in your case, you were actively involved in the woman’s death. That’s unusual, and it’s the reason why we are giving you the opportunity to write an account of the incident.”
“But aren’t you going to blame me?” I stammered. “I failed to save her. In fact, I killed her. Don’t I have to be punished?”
“No. Her heart attack was imminent anyway. She realized that, and she took full responsibility for her own death. She requested to take over from you because she knew that you believed you were acting for the best. You were, weren’t you?”
“Of course,” I answered, relieved. “I had no idea that horrible thing would happen. I was just trying to get her attention and save her.”
“Yes, we understand. And so does she. There is no cause for punishment, and you have accrued no karma from your action. If anything, this incident has clarified for us the terrible power of the smartphone screen. We must redouble our efforts.”
“So what happens now?”
“Well, as soon as you have finished writing your account, you will be free to begin your journey.”
That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now that I’ve got it all clear in my mind, I’m going to write my report, and then I’ll be off. Thank you for your attention.
Genbei’s Curse
1948
A winter’s washing day. Splinters of sunlight reflected upward from puddles between the courtyard flagstones onto the weathered eaves. Two wooden laundry buckets stood side by side, one of them steaming with soapsuds and a wooden washboard sticking out.
Sachiko plunged her red wrinkled hands into the other bucket, which was full of cold rinse water, and snagged an elusive hand towel. Wringing it out—a sharp tug of both wrists in opposite directions—produced a twinge in her shoulders that made her wince. She straightened slowly from her crouching position and reached to pin up the towel. Long-familiar movements, repeated too often. Her whole body was a complex choir of small, thrumming pains. The evening bath sometimes helped, if the water hadn’t gone tepid by the time it was her turn.
Gently pounding both hips with wet fists, Sachiko surveyed her work. All around her, dripping clothes hung like wrinkled ghosts. Belly bands, sleeveless undershirts, children’s flannel trousers, dishtowels, bathing towels, and an endless procession of limp, grayish old men’s undershorts. The chore was the same every day, but today she had won the weather lottery—the strong sunshine was beginning to tease little tendrils of vapor from the folds of the hanging clothes. The laundry would dry without having to be hung up over the stove in the kitchen later.
Sachiko grasped the edge of the wash bucket to tip the water across the flagstones, when a harsh voice rang out. “Don’t tip that water out! You aren’t finished!” Genbei, her father-inlaw, had lurched his way out onto the open verandah, grasping a pillar with one chalky hand and holding a wad of dingy cloth in the other.
Oh god, he’s wet himself again, was Sachiko’s first thought. But no, it was worse t
han that. The brown stains and the dreadful odor told their own story. Sachiko drew back involuntarily.
“You come here! Useless girl!” the old voice cawed. “Don’t I get an answer? Such bad manners!”
“Yes, Father. I’m sorry,” Sachiko murmured without moving toward him.
“It’s your cooking—so bad I got a stomachache and couldn’t make it to the toilet in time. Now get these washed. And come and change my futon covers too. Hurry up! I’m cold.” He flung the clothes down onto the flagstones and his unsteady old man’s footsteps receded down the verandah.
Gritting her teeth, Sachiko transferred the clothes to the wash bucket with the extreme ends of her fingers. The water no longer steamed. She hurried into the kitchen and set the big kettle on the fire, then down the hall with an armload of fresh linen to the old man’s bedroom.
The room was dim and stuffy, and stank of charcoal fumes and excrement. Holding her breath, Sachiko worked silently, changing the bed linen with abrupt, nervous movements. Genbei huddled over the hibachi charcoal brazier and glared malevolently at her. Insults erupted from him like boiling water spitting from an overfilled kettle. “Stupid. Ugly. What was my son thinking. He could have gotten ten better wives without even lifting his hand. Bad-mannered. Terrible cook. Worse housekeeper.”
Finally Sachiko was finished. “There you are, Father, all nice and clean,” she said as she hurried to the doorway, taking a huge lungful of fresh air from the passage. “You lie down and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.” She could still hear him muttering as he lowered himself carefully onto the futon.
Her back renewed its complaints when she lifted the heavy kettle and carried it outside to replenish the wash bucket. The steaming water splashed onto the reeking linens, and she scrubbed them furiously without looking at them. A few tears fell into the murky water. Sachiko didn’t even notice that she was crying again.
After washing her hands several times, Sachiko took the old man his tea and then slumped at the kotatsu heated table. The clock ticked and the hibachi beside her whispered occasionally as the charcoal shifted. Raising her hand to brush the hair from her forehead, she imagined she smelled a whiff of excrement. With a convulsive movement she got up and washed her hands once more, then rubbed them with a drop of camellia oil from her secret stash under the washbasin.
Her eyes went to the black-framed photograph of her mother-in-law on the wall. Oh Mother, she whispered, you are well out of it. Why did you die and not me? You were the one to tend to Father’s every need, to make the delicacies he loved, to arrange his teacups and futons and hibachi just so. You were the one who spoiled him, treating him like an invalid even though he isn’t. And now you’ve deserted me. You’ve gone to the Pure Land and I’m left in hell.
The sight of the smiling old lady did give some comfort, Sachiko had to admit. She had been a truly good soul. Now that she was gone, Sachiko tried to live up to her memory, but it was an uphill struggle. Worse, she was mostly alone with Genbei, because his yelling drove her husband and children away. Yujiro stayed longer and longer at his small business in town; the children stayed out playing at their friends’ houses. Only Sachiko was left, stuck, trapped, a drudge at the beck and call of a senile old man.
Suddenly the silence skittered away like a frightened cat. “Sachiko! Girl! Sachiko!”
Sachiko stuck out her tongue in the direction of the voice and heaved herself upright. With leaden steps she trudged down the hall and put her head around the door of Genbei’s room. “What is it?”
“Too much tea.” Genbei threw back the quilt to reveal a huge wet patch on the fresh clean linen. His crotch was also sodden. The hot smell of urine rose in the turgid air. Stunned, Sachiko looked at the old man’s face. His lips were stretched over his toothless gums and his old eyes were twinkling. Was he actually grinning? Sachiko’s brittle discipline shattered like a pane of glass, and the demons of hysteria came hurtling out. She began to shriek.
“No! No!! NO!!!” Her hair whipped across her face as she shook her head violently. “You are disgusting! I’ll never wash your underwear again! Not one more piece of clothing, not one more futon cover! Never! Never! I’ll die before I do!” She whirled toward the door.
“Oh yes?” the old man shouted. He tottered to his feet, his eyes burning, and stretched out one bony arm. “Then I curse you! Get out! Get out! You are no longer a member of this family! You will die—you’ll die in a ditch! I curse you!”
With a gasp of horror, Sachiko banged the door shut and pounded down the corridor as if a million devils were after her.
An hour later she was still sitting at the kotatsu, her head on her arms, listening to her pounding heart as it gradually resumed its normal rhythm. Finally she raised her head and realized that daylight was fading: the house was utterly silent. She really ought to see if the old man was all right, but she couldn’t make herself go back there.
With a clatter the front door slid open and Yujiro’s voice came faintly. “I’m home.” He entered the room and stopped when he saw Sachiko’s face. “What’s the matter?”
“Father …” she whispered. Yujiro turned immediately and his heels pounded along the wooden corridor toward the bedroom. The footsteps returned, quickly, and Yujiro paused in the doorway. Sachiko wanted to turn and look at him, but her neck would not move.
“He’s unconscious,” he muttered, his voice thin with shock. “I’ll go use Mrs. Yoshida’s phone.” He went out, sliding the door closed softly, like a person at a funeral. In a moment she heard his footsteps go by outside, on the path between their house and the neighbors’.
Sachiko got up and slowly prepared a simple evening meal. When it was ready, she put it on the table, covered it with a cloth, and went to her own room. She lay down and pulled the quilt over her head. The winter dark came down around her. She lay quaking with shame and terror, unable to get the curse out of her mind. Did such things really happen? Only in morality tales for children, surely? If only she hadn’t started that stupid quarrel. Just a little more gaman, one last teaspoonful of endurance, would have gotten her through. And then maybe the old man wouldn’t have collapsed.
The thumping and bumping that followed a little later, as Genbei was carried off to the ambulance, were muffled by the quilt, but Sachiko heard everything.
Genbei had had a stroke. He was now a true invalid. He lay all day in his room, unable to get up unassisted, wound in a clumsy cloth diaper. A local woman was hired to take care of the old man and to wash his mountains of laundry. Sachiko was horrified at herself, but somehow she remained adamant. She never touched another piece of his stinking linen again. She washed the family’s clothes separately. She never went into Genbei’s bedroom unless it was unavoidable, and she never spoke to him.
Sachiko told her husband the story of that awful morning, and for once he didn’t say she was crazy or just making things up. But the local woman was expensive, and money grew tighter. The villagers gossiped. After all, plenty of people had aged parents to take care of. Why were they wasting money on a servant?
Old Genbei finally died after another stroke. He had not spoken another word since the day he cursed his daughter-inlaw. Neighbors who came in to help get the house in shape for the funeral whispered to each other and looked askance at Sachiko, who seemed to have gone gray overnight. Meanwhile the story of the curse had somehow spread through the neighborhood. People discussed it in undertones, half horrified and half amused.
1998
Sachiko lay in bed. Her comfortable old futons had been placed on a wooden platform to make it easier to care for her. The bright, clean sunshine of another winter filtered through the shoji paper screen at her side, but the bedroom itself smelled of sickness and age. She had been in this bed for a year, a prisoner of a wasting disease. Alone, widowed, and old—with only her son and his wife, who had moved in when she became bedridden, to care for her.
A sudden sharp vision came to her, of her own struggles with the daily chores, so lon
g ago. As far back as she could remember, she had been perpetually on the verge of tears. The difficulties of her life had loomed so large that they had crowded out all her other experiences. She now had trouble remembering a single happy moment with Yujiro, her children, or her garden.
Through her pain and weakness, Sachiko became aware of another sensation. She had to go to the bathroom. She needed help to get out of bed, but there was no sound nearby—her daughter-in-law must be in another part of the house, and there was no way to call her.
Helplessly, Sachiko felt the warm urine seep out of her into the futon. As the smell wafted up to her nostrils, she recalled the day of Genbei’s curse. This, this moment right now, was the real curse—to be useless, unnecessary and helpless, just an old body in a wet bed, waiting to die.
The wet bedclothes gradually cooled and Sachiko began to shiver. It seemed like ages before her daughter-in-law, Shinobu, knocked timidly and came into the room. “Lunchtime soon, Grandmother,” she said.
Sachiko suddenly found that she was in a towering rage. Her trembling body glowed with the heat of it. “About time you checked on me!” she cried in a cracked voice, struggling to sit up. “I need you to change the bed linen. You were off somewhere and I couldn’t call you when I had to go. Where on earth have you been? Useless girl!”
The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper and Other Short Stories Page 2
