I Haven't Dreamed of Flying for a While

by Taichi Yamada

  ‘No, that was something else.’

  ‘What was is it you said then?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  It all seemed a little ridiculous, but I didn’t think it would be appropriate to end the conversation on that note, so I asked, ‘What do you hate?’

  ‘Everything. Anything and everything.’

  Perhaps she was younger than I had thought she was.

  ‘Mr Taura…’

  The woman said my name. It made my heart miss a beat. She knew my name because the nurse had introduced us earlier, but I felt like the anonymous world divided by the partition had been shattered. What was her surname again? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps I hadn’t wanted to remember it. An unconscious excuse to my wife as I was going to be alone with a woman, although this was out of necessity and not because I was interested in the woman. Or perhaps I wanted to eliminate anything earthly from this strange night spent separated from a woman by a flimsy partition.

  ‘Pardon?’ I asked, unable to make out what the woman had said.

  ‘I said, when you talk to yourself, what kind of things do you say?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of things…’

  I hesitated for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman apologised immediately. ‘You wouldn’t want to share it, would you?’ She let out a small laugh and said, ‘What am I doing, acting all bubbly. Asking such a thing?’

  I detected a quiver in her voice as if she was about to cry and it made me feel the womanliness in her.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ I said, to soothe her, but in truth I did feel slightly annoyed. It was typical woman’s talk — blaming herself, then feeling sorry for herself.

  ‘I didn’t get the feeling that you were acting bubbly. Were you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t usually talk this much.’

  ‘You’ve been in a private room for longer than I have. It’s no surprise that you’re talking a little more than usual.’

  ‘I should go to sleep now…’

  ‘Sure, if you like.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Let’s do that then.’

  ‘All right…’

  We were left with an unsettling feeling — as if we had suddenly cut our conversation short. Then once again, I could hear the sound of the repair work in the distance.

  ‘Excuse me…’ I said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m going to use the urine bottle before going to sleep.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do in these situations.’

  ‘Well, I guess these kinds of situations rarely present themselves.’

  ‘That’s true.’ A man and woman with their beds so close together…

  ‘Please go ahead.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I found it funny that I had gotten her permission to go and I let out a small laugh. She did too. Conscious of the sound I would be making, I was unable to get anything out. And perhaps out of consideration, she began creating some noise by fixing her bed. I tried to go while she was doing this, but I couldn’t let it out in time.

  Tinkle, tinkle. The desire that wells up at the thought that a woman was listening to that sound. Was it sadism? Or masochism?

  ‘Tinkle, tinkle,’ I said. ‘There’s this famous poem called “Washbasin”.’

  ‘By Mitsuharu Kaneko.’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes…’

  It was a poem about prostitutes in Guangdong, China. The preface described how the women straddle a washbasin in front of their customers and urinate with a ‘tinkle, tinkle’.

  ‘It starts out, in the washbasin, a lonesome sound,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said.

  As I put the urine bottle away, I continued.

  ‘Pools of rain, a Tanjung evening.’

  How strange. It had been twenty-seven or twenty-eight years since I’d read that. It had been buried deep down in my memories and I hadn’t remembered it at all until now.

  ‘It reverberates endlessly in my stirring, sinking, tired heart.’

  I was able to continue smoothly.

  ‘As long as life continues.

  ‘You should listen.

  ‘To the loneliness of the sound in the washbasin.’

  ‘You remember it well,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  I was surprised myself. It was strange that I did remember it so well. But at the same time I was pleased that I was able to recite a poem smoothly in front of a woman.

  ‘I can’t believe that I have to make this sound in front of a woman I’ve known for only four or five hours,’ I said, admittedly feeling a slight frisson of pleasure.

  ‘And then to recite a poem about urinating. Terrible if you think about it,’ I continued.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the woman, but she did seem to be enjoying it. I felt like we had become a little closer.

  ‘I say, “Aargh”,’ I said.

  “Aargh” as in…?’

  ‘When I talk to myself. That’s what I say most often,’ I said cheerfully.

  ‘You say “Aargh” to yourself,’ she said, in a similarly jovial manner.

  ‘That’s right. You know, maybe you’ve seen someone on a train say “Aargh” unconsciously? Well, I do that. Doesn’t it happen to you?’

  ‘It does, actually.’

  ‘You say “Aargh”?’

  ‘Yes. I suddenly remember something I can’t stand, say “Aargh”, then despise myself and feel like I can’t do anything to make things better.’

  The woman’s voice was cheerful, however, and it made me chatter on.

  ‘I’m not my usual self today. Reciting a poem, of all things.’

  ‘Is it a bad thing?’

  ‘I’ll probably be muttering to myself later.’

  ‘Out of embarrassment.’

  ‘What’s so embarrassing?’

  ‘It’s just not like me, that’s all.’

  ‘You think so? From your voice, I wouldn’t have thought so at all.’

  ‘I’m a deputy director of a prefab company.’

  ‘So does that mean you can’t recite poetry?’

  ‘I was just surprised. I didn’t know I had that poem memorised.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  The woman’s voice bounced, making her seem like a different person from the one I’d first talked to and I felt a piercing desire to remove the partition.

  ‘Anyway, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ I said.

  ‘Shouldn’t be doing what?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, we said we were going to go to sleep, but here we are talking again.’

  ‘It’s like a night on a school trip.’

  ‘You did that sort of thing? I asked.

  ‘What you mean, “that sort of thing”?’

  ‘I mean, with boys, like this.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she laughed. ‘I went to an all-girls school.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I just felt it would be a shame to go to sleep…’

  Then she suddenly fell silent before adding in a soft voice, ‘What am I saying?’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ I said quickly. ‘I think it would be a shame to go to sleep too.’

  She stayed silent.

  ‘I mean, there’s no reason to make ourselves go to sleep. We’ll probably be saying goodbye tomorrow. We can sleep as much as we like then.’

  ‘I,’ said the woman, ‘really do feel it would be a shame to go to sleep.’

  ‘I feel the same way. Perhaps because we get along.’

  ‘I remembered feeling this way before. And I was trying to recall when.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Going back in time. A long, long way back. And I realised that it was a school trip. And that’s why I mentioned it.’

  ‘I had the same experience. Throwing pillows and stuff.’

  ‘But it’s st
range, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Normally, you would expect to have those kinds of memories with a lover or husband but…’ The woman’s voice fell.

  ‘It’s hard for men and women to reach the point that they are so caught up in conversation that they don’t want to go to sleep. They take a step further before they get there. My memory is with friends also. Talking with friends from school and feeling what a shame it would be to fall asleep. It’s that feeling.’

  ‘Talking in bed…’ she went on, ‘that never happened. Just being held, moving our bodies…’

  I couldn’t say anything in response. Was it the partition that made her say such a thing to a man she didn’t even know? Was it the insensitivity of a middle-aged woman?

  Once again, I heard the sound of metal moving in the distance.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ I finally opened my mouth and realised that the woman had become silent. ‘I mean, my wife accused me of the same thing once. It seems that men are like that. It doesn’t necessarily mean that your husband is cold.’

  ‘I’m going to do it,’ she said softly, as if she were reading something.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Earlier, you said you hadn’t heard. What I had mumbled to myself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I said, “I’m going to do it.”‘

  Do what? It seemed like it would be an appropriate question to ask. But what if she was talking about murder, for example? If that was the case, I thought I’d maybe better keep my mouth shut than risk unleashing some limitless animosity.

  ‘When I say “do it”,’ she continued, ‘I’m not clear about exactly what it is I want to do. But something to betray my husband. Something to push my husband away. To alarm him…’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But in reality, those kinds of strong feelings towards my husband, they disappeared a long time ago. The habit of speaking to myself, on the other hand, that still remains.’

  She let out a deep sigh, as if trying to regain her calm. Someone shuffled past in the corridor, dragging their slippers. A door creaked, then the sound of them changing into wooden bathroom sandals.

  ‘Will you do it for me?’ asked the woman quietly, bringing my attention back to the room.

  I looked at the partition.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Me. Will you please do me?’

  The blue cloth, the only colour in this dark room, stayed completely still, but I could tell she was watching me, that her body would be very close to mine if the partition were removed. I could feel something like the weight of the situation and I let out a small laugh, as if letting out a breath.

  ‘You’re such a tease. For a second there I thought you were serious.’

  ‘I am serious.’

  ‘But how would we do it? Neither of us can move.’

  ‘This kind of thing has never happened before. To be like this with someone other than my husband.’

  ‘It could happen any time if you feel like it.’

  ‘Really? Does this kind of thing happen to you often?’

  ‘Of course not. To be sleeping like this with someone else’s wife? I have to admit it doesn’t happen all the time.’

  ‘Please don’t be offended. And please don’t think that I am teasing. Because I’m not.’

  ‘But I can’t move.’

  ‘You’re right. That must be why I can say such a thing.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I sighed. ‘You surprised me,’ I said with a light laugh.

  But the tone of the woman’s voice didn’t change.

  ‘I have no intention of teasing or making fun of you.’

  ‘To say something like that to an immobile man is teasing in a way.’

  ‘Does it sound like I’m teasing you?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But you could be.’

  ‘Men are so cautious. They don’t like to be teased.’

  ‘And women? They like it?’

  ‘Listen, I’m not teasing. And I don’t think I’m out of my mind either.’

  ‘Well, I want to oblige, but there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ she said, urging me on. But I couldn’t tell what she was urging me to do. I looked at the partition. Could she possibly be telling me to ignore my injury and come over? I felt like I could see her white face through the light blue cloth. Feel a pair of strong eyes looking at me. Though in reality I couldn’t see anything.

  ‘The partition.’ I said. ‘Would you mind if I moved it?’

  I wanted to see her beautiful face. I’d got the feeling she was beautiful.

  ‘No. I don’t want that. On no account…’ Her voice was thin, but had a firmness that made my heart leap. ‘Please, with your voice.’

  ‘My voice?’

  ‘Yes, with your voice. I’m going to bare my breasts now.’

  I could hear her pushing away her blankets. Peel her hastily unbuttoning her top. My excitement suddenly faded. But hearing her breathing and the slight but hurried movement of the blankets made me question my falling interest and I didn’t want to embarrass her either. Part of me hated myself for feeling this way.

  ‘My breasts,’ her voice shivered. ‘Will you caress them?’

  ‘Sure, okay.’ My words were clumsy. But I couldn’t immediately immerse myself in her world.

  ‘I’m stretching out my right hand,’ I said, though my voice sounded dull to me.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the woman.

  ‘I’m going to touch your right breast.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ I felt momentarily flustered, wishing to say something more fitting.

  ‘Your clear white skin…’ I continued.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your nipples…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m squeezing one of them now.’ I reminded myself I mustn’t laugh. That I should try to become intoxicated in the situation. I heard her let out a deep breath. Heard her massaging her breasts. I didn’t know what to say, but listened intently to the repetition of her heavy breathing.

  Trying not to shatter that world, I told her, ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.’

  ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘I wish I knew what to say.’

  ‘It’s okay, you can stay silent.’

  I listened to her breathing.

  ‘I want to see,’ l said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I want to.’

  I touched the partition.

  ‘No.’ Her voice came hack sharp. ‘No.’

  I pulled my hand back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s okay…’

  ‘I mean, this way. Because we are like this, we can do things that would be embarrassing otherwise…’

  ‘We men,’ I said apologetically. ‘We sometimes fear we’re misunderstanding the words of women. We sometimes wonder whether to take their words at face value.’

  ‘I really don’t want you to do that.’

  ‘Are you baring just your breasts?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you take off your clothes from your waist down?’

  ‘No. But…’

  ‘You could slide your hand in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to slide my hand in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your hair thick?’

  ‘No. If anything…’

  ‘Delicately thin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, you’re right. You can open your legs a little, can’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You have to make it easier for me to touch you properly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I couldn’t get swept away by the moment. If anything, I needed to stay on guard. Afraid that it would all feel dull again if I let my guard down, I pulled out my wet fingers, pushed my body up against hers and pushed myself in.
She let out a cry. I pushed in deeper and deeper. I told her I had come, voiced my ecstasy, and in reality I came into tissues. It had been a long while and my sexual urges had lain dormant for several months.

  * * *

  Around six-thirty the next morning I heard footsteps in the hallway and the door opened.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the head nurse. Then she opened the door all the way and a rolling bed was pushed in.

  ‘That’s not going to work,’ the head nurse scolded, and the bed was immediately pulled back out into the hallway.

  ‘Can’t get it in?’ asked a man’s voice.

  Without responding to him, the head nurse immediately came back into the room, smiled and said, ‘We’re going to move you.’ Then she bent down as if she were looking under the bed.

  ‘This bed is on wheels, so we’re going to release the brakes and move it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s one of those,’ said the young nurse who had been on night duty, as she bent over and looked under the bed.

  ‘Release the wheels,’ said the head nurse.

  ‘Where am I being moved to?’ I asked.

  ‘Room 501,’ said the head nurse, standing up, like she was stating the obvious.

  The nurse who had been on night duty bumped her backside against the partition and turned round.

  ‘Well, I guess we don’t need this any more,’ she said, putting a hand on the metal frame of the partition. I heard a cry, and then I saw her before my eyes.

  ‘Is something the matter? asked the young nurse as she pushed the partition to the foot of the bed. The woman had closed her eyes and turned her face away. But I could see her grey hair and trembling profile. She was old.

  ‘What’s the matter? asked the head nurse.

  ‘Nothing,’ the woman said, resigned. Her eyes were closed and the image of her grey hair and the wrinkled, lifeless skin around her cheeks burned itself into my mind.

  2

  About a month and a half after that, I was transferred to the built-to-order projects department at Tokyo Headquarters. It had only six staff members and so felt more like a household than a department, with the department director, myself, three other permanent employees and a woman on a one-year contract. The department had been established by our chairman, who had passed away the previous summer, and was, in reality, a kind of refuge for people determined by the company to be in no condition to work on the front line.

  With the exception of Mr Imori, a guy in his mid thirties from the Tsuda branch who considered himself a temporary member while recovering from an operation for a duodenal ulcer, the other four employees, including the department director, had on at least one occasion displayed their mental condition too obviously to cover up. I myself, just as we were about to win a contract for a temporary junior high-school building, had skipped a dinner with the Board of Education arranged by my department’s assistant manager, and jumped out of the second-floor window of a sushi restaurant.