by Isis, Justin
—I thought it was you, she said. I wondered if you’d notice.
—I’m sorry. Your flat is right here, isn’t it? I should have figured...
She put out her cigarette.
—Let’s talk inside, she said.
He followed her to the door and took a last drag while she found the key.
The apartment was larger than he’d expected. A wide table sat in the center of the living room, and next to the television was a wooden shelf lined with porcelain plates.
—Do you collect these?
—Un.
He looked at one of them. Printed on its surface was a mountain range: the Alps, he thought.
—Sit down, she said.
He took a seat next to the shelf, across from the table. Nanako went to the kitchen.
—You’re too early, I haven’t finished cooking.
—Can I help?
He looked at the wooden shelf, glanced around the room, shifted his attention to the kitchen, the television. There were no photographs anywhere. All that stood out in the room was the shelf, the television and the sliding door.
—No, just stay there.
He moved his seat over. From here, he could see through the sliding door: more chairs, the edge of a table, and, he realized, someone else in the apartment. All he could see was their bare feet.
—Is anyone else going to be joining us?
Nanako looked up from the sink.
—No.
She followed his eyes.
—It’s just him, she said. He won’t be having anything.
He stood and walked to the sliding door.
—Your husband?
Nanako made a little sound.
—No, of course not.
He slid open the door. The man was sitting at the table, bent over in a posture of concentration. He looked at least ten years older than he and Nanako.
—I’m sorry to interrupt, he said, and introduced himself.
The man didn’t look up.
—You won’t have dinner with us?
—Nn.
Scattered across the table were the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Looking over the man’s shoulder, he saw that the completed section formed the outline of the Eiffel Tower.
—You’ve almost finished that.
The man looked up. His eyes were clear and unlined, almost those of a boy’s, but the thinning, greyish beard covering his chin gave the impression of an old man.
—I’ve lost some of the pieces.
—Well it looks almost complete to me.
—You’re not going to be able to see the top. I’ve lost the pieces for it.
The man stared at him, and he looked at the table to break his gaze. He was right: the polished black cherry wood shone through the gaps in the puzzle, patches of the Paris scene stripped away to show the void beneath. A child strolling at the base of the tower was missing a head; the irregular edges of the pieces made it seem as if a cloud of flies had engulfed her. The grey steel of the base flowed upwards into nothing.
He heard the clink of plates behind him and turned. Nanako had already set most of the table without him noticing. Two parallel glasses faced each other on either side. He looked down at the man — his face already returning to the pieces — and closed the sliding door behind him. Taking his place at the table, he stared across at Nanako and waited for her to start.
—I’m not a cook, she said. Stop looking at it, it’s not going to get any better.
He started on his salad.
—It’s good to see you again, he said. I’ve been too busy recently and lost touch with half my friends.
Nanako held up a slice of raw whitefish and dipped it lightly in the small dish beside her plate.
—I’m busy, too.
As he watched her raise the whitefish to her lips he remembered her face, its soft stone surface, the movement of her jaw and the vague sleepiness that settled on her eyes as she ate. There was nothing to compare it with now. The woman across from him raised and lowered her chopsticks in neat, quick movements, looking away as she spoke. As in the dream, he felt his intrusion on some private sacrament. I’m not real, he thought: not at all real.
—Do you want some tea?
—Thank you.
He took a piece of salmon, let it cool his tongue. Nanako was quiet, then, and he waited for her to finish. They ate mostly in silence, her occasional questions leading to nothing. He tried to hold her gaze, but it was difficult to concentrate. He finished his salad and took a last sip of tea.
—Let me help you with the dishes.
—All right.
By the time he finished with the masses of tiny plates, Nanako had moved to a chair by the window. He sat next to her as she lit a cigarette and pulled an ashtray over from the table. He looked at her fingernails, their neat trim.
—I thought I should tell you... one of the reasons I called, the other night, I had a dream about you...
—You dreamed about me.
—Yeah.
She looked over.
—I’ve dreamed about you before.
He nodded, moved closer.
—Back then, she said. When you were with Aoi, I mean.
—Uh huh.
—I never liked her. She said I had a fat face.
He remembered the two girls walking, before. They’d held hands, sometimes.
—You were roommates though. When I met you. You...
Nanako finished her cigarette and crushed the stub in the ashtray.
—Yeah. I haven’t talked to her in a long time.
—Uh. I couldn’t figure her out either.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed her nails before. They were the same short fingers he remembered, but the nails had been cut and polished, a faint pink tinge at their edges. He was close enough to her now to see their lining.
—What happened in your dream? she asked.
—Nothing, really, it was just your face. I saw your face. You weren’t looking at me though…you were looking at something else and you seemed happy, I think. But you were off-center…I don’t know how to describe it. It was like a photograph that’s been blown up, and you were just part of the background, but everything was focused on you...
Her eyes lowered.
—Your face was so peaceful, I thought you looked like a Buddha.
A smile, but not one he recognized.
—Oh... Nanako said. Oh, no, I’m not the Buddha…
He wanted to tell her that he remembered her sadness, the sight of her tears and the need to save them, somehow, from being eaten... a mummified world appeared in his thoughts, delicately tended.
—I hadn’t thought about you for a long time. I started thinking about when we used to know each other... just seeing your face made me remember all that.
He was perched on the edge of his chair now, close enough to touch her.
—What did you remember? she asked, looking at him.
—The way you walked, I guess... you had your own way of walking. I remember meeting you, coming back to my flat. You stood out from everyone else.
Ignoring his own words now, he met her gaze.
—I think I’ve forgotten everyone else from then, you’re the only person I really remember.
A mote of ash had caught on her sleeve. He reached over, her eyes following his hand, and brushed it off. His hand dropped to her wrist, held it lightly.
—I was a lot different then, she said. Almost just a kid.
Her eyes had opened, the whites brilliant, edged in black. He opened her hand, rested his fingers on the soft center of her palm. His other hand went to her shoulder. He held its curve; her arm shifted under him.
—You’ll have to work tomorrow, she said. You’ll need to sleep, so... maybe you should leave.
This was a suggestion, not a command, but already Nanako was curling into her limbs like a struck spider. The compactness of her body, retained after age, gave her the same lightness, a natural recession. Her hand
withdrew, closed. He stood.
—I’m sorry... you might be right.
She picked up the ashtray and returned it to the table.
—No, not sorry...
The same lightness in her voice. He couldn’t tell whether the words absolved or accused him. A sound from the other room, then. He walked past the kitchen, taking his umbrella from the shelf by the door. He turned the handle, looked back at Nanako across the kitchen floor. He thanked her, promised something vague, and left.
Outside, the night had cooled. He took off his coat, slung it over his shoulder and made for the third floor stairs. He was passing by the ledge when he noticed a brightness off in the distance. A fire, perhaps — but there was no sound, and the constant pulse was hardly natural. An accident, more likely; the floodlights of an ambulance. He dismissed it and descended, the tip of his umbrella clacking against each step.
He came out at the ground floor and crossed past the gate. Nanako’s expression came back to him, her intention buried: there was no change in the surface of her natural compassion, condensed and perfected over time like a hammered silver earring. What was the cause of this desire to torture a Buddha? He supposed it was the purity of her suffering, that it seemed baseless, elemental. Now through his weakness and inattention it had flowered out of sight.
Beyond the intersection the streets were deserted. Probably no fire at all, although the light filled every window. No smoke or sound — but when he looked up, the sky had changed. The stars could not be seen even through a haze, and the moon was gone. But a constant sterile light bleached the sky. He looked at his hands, saw the tiny flaws in his skin. He blinked.
He came to the open area before the station, and the sky, hidden before by buildings, opened too. A great oval mass had taken the place of the moon, all hair and eyes, discharging light. He recognized it at once. It was beautiful.
The face from the dream filled his sight, frozen in awed observance. He understood at once. Instead of becoming the woman he’d seen, the face had continued to exist, looking over his shoulder to the next world. Shamed by its sincerity, the stars had murdered themselves.
He entered the station and followed his route back home. It was a different line than the one he’d taken to Kita-Senju, and, as his pass had expired, he had to search his pockets for coins. On the train, everyone’s eyes avoided him.
The steady light had faded. When he got off the train and made for his street, he could see it only in patches, illuminating the edges of windows, or reflected in the mirrors of a passing car. As each of these patches vanished in turn, he saw that it was not that the light itself was gone, but that the face had grown larger. Its muscles were glossed with sweat from remaining on the perpetual edge of attainment, and although its features stood still, he could sense its exertion in the excessive brightness of its eyes and the flushed color of its cheeks where the blood seemed to hang heavy.
As he wondered how long the face could remain in this world, a sense of insignificance he hadn’t felt since the dream came to him. Why, when he alone had anticipated the face, should he be refused its communion? Crossing the street to his flat, two other concerns came to him. Since he remained an ant beside what had transfixed the face, any contact he made with it would go unnoticed. The other consideration was more prosaic: the physical problem of the face. Every time he glanced up, it occupied more of the sky. It was no longer possible to see any blank patches beyond the buildings, only an expanding horizon of flesh whose surface shimmered like tears.
He stopped at the intersection. The passive terror of the dream flared up for a moment, but if he waited longer—
Through a distortion of perspective, the face seemed both within reach and as distant as a dawn. If he ran in any direction he would never strike it, but if he extended a hand it was within reach, each eyelash accessible. He decided he would reach for the face and, gripping its broad cheeks, tear it to pieces.
But a terrible thing happened. It wouldn’t tear. As he seized it and pulled, he succeeded only in stretching it. The heavy flesh was too much for him to bear, and the sides of the face distorted outward, their own weight pulling them down. He felt an instant regret at ruining Nanako’s perfection, and he reached again for the corners of her mouth to fix them. After a few moments he saw the hopelessness of his effort, as every fresh movement only warped the surface further. No matter how much he stretched it, he couldn’t reassemble her smile.
He wiped his hands on his sleeves and crossed to the other side. The deformed face followed him home, still softening. It was hanging over his building, the edges of its cheeks melting into jowls, twin flaps dangling past the door like empty scrotums. It wouldn’t meet his gaze, and when he reached to close its eyelids they receded past reach. But as he entered the building and took the elevator to his floor, the face extended itself to him from all corners.
He closed the door behind him. As he walked to the living room the face asserted itself again, rearing up past the ceiling. He sat on his knees and examined it. Whatever the face was looking at, it wasn’t meant for him — not yet. Nanako had said she wasn’t a Buddha, but perhaps he’d dreamed the future and the face was somewhere else now, its presence only a reflection. The solidity of the flesh he’d held in his hands assured him of its reality, but he felt as if, like a densely packed snowball, what he’d touched would run through his fingers if held to heat, its base matter insubstantial as steam. The uncertain texture of the face troubled him, just as its expansion and omnipresence had destroyed his perspective. It would not be possible to live if the eyes would not look at him, if the face filled all—
The kitchen knives were his only defence. With no forethought his hand went for the black plastic handle of a carving knife. He held it to the light and a sickly reflection glinted off the smooth steel circles running down the handle. He raised it further, to the indentation below the bottom lip—
It was the first time he’d cut a woman’s face. Surprised at the texture, the way the edge of the blade slid through the soft resistance of her flesh, he pulled back and watched the cut filling with blood. He pressed his lips to the wound and staunched it. The warmth that filled his mouth put him in mind of a nursing child, coursing to his throat and leaving a pleasant feeling of weight.
He drew back and spat out the excess blood. There was no sign that the face had noticed his intrusion in its flesh. Its eyes remained fixed in the exact position he’d seen in the dream. He held up the knife again, but after another tentative incision an idea came to him. Taking the edge of the bottom lip in hand, he punctured its corner and sawed it off, the blade passing through fibrous veins and the underside’s gently tinted pulp. The removal of the lip opened a new vista, a lighter landscape of teeth and the pink meat of her gums.
He brought the lip to his mouth, chewed its edge. He was not surprised to find that the residual blood tasted less copper than cinnamon. A rancid honey dripped from the raw edges of the wound; he caught a gob and bathed his face in it. Separating a chunk from the lip, he swallowed it whole.
Stepping back again, he looked over his work. The problem of the face’s attention had not been resolved, as all of its awareness was now concentrated in the eyes. He tossed the lip aside and it struck the floor like a fattened slug.
He lifted his foot to the jaw and pushed himself up, balancing both feet on the bottom row of teeth. From here he reached out and stroked the edge of Nanako’s nose. Beneath his hand he sensed its pores breathing, its surface alive with a quiet internal pulse. All of her gentleness and compassion resided in this flattened nose, he decided. He couldn’t bring himself to cut it, so he stepped down and moved onto the elongated cheeks, carving their flesh away until the sides of the face made gleaming hollows. The tops of her cheeks followed, entrancing him with their slickened fat and striated muscle. The formation of the latter implied a meticulous design; through the welter of blood he could make out only brief shreds of its patterning like the torn wing of a butterfly. Even after he’d f
layed her jaw and the overhead light stripped shadows from the crevices of her teeth he thought of the immanence of the dream, as if he was only now unfolding its layers.
Bringing his face past the nose, he stared into her eyes. From here, their slivers of color became concentric shards, a spectrum of olive and amber only merging into black from a distance. There was no resistance; not a single tremor passed through the lids. The blade slid through and each eye sighed as he punctured it. A ropy fluid streamed over his hands, its mix of milk and water close to semen. He reached above him and cut off some hair from the single great fringe hanging past her forehead.
He stepped down. It was less a face now than a skinned skull. He reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, taking off his belt with the other hand. His pants dropped to the floor. What he was about to do next demanded his purity.
He stepped up again, this time parting the jaw. Runners of blood from the exposed muscles mixed with the cloudy fluid leaking from the eyes, so that a kind of waterfall filmed the opening of the mouth. Stepping through it, he felt a sweet warmth sticking to his skin. Scrabbling over the bottom wall of teeth and landing on the slack flank of the tongue, he could see only a tiny light ahead of him, nearly drowned in the cavernous dark. As he pushed forward, dropping to his knees, the light expanded. He reached out for something to steady him, hands tearing on the edges of her teeth, legs slipping in spittle. By the time he made it to the edge of her throat he found himself swimming in the darkness, following the point of light. Slowly the surrounding murk filled with a steady luminance, and he looked up to find the crypts of her tonsils clustered with stars like eggs.
He looked up and felt as if he were huddled on the floor of a vast cathedral. The back of the tongue heaved under him; a constant hail of fluid smeared the surfaces of the lights. He could barely open his eyes, the bleariness giving him the hazy impressions of a newborn. Enormous shapes seemed to spin above him and vanish; below a greater darkness called. He pressed his face to the pit of her throat, its warm weight constricting his vision.
