Patient X

by David Peace

  ‘Nemo took the woman by the shoulders and marched her towards the door: “Really, that is quite enough! You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs Bunting, frightening this poor man, our guest, in such a manner …”

  ‘“I’m not frightening him,” she said, “I’m warning him!”

  ‘Nemo pushed the woman backwards out onto the landing, then shut the door in her face. He turned to me, sighed, then said, “I really do apologise, Mr Natsume, whatever must you think?”

  ‘I put him at his ease and said, I do not believe superstitious old crones are native only to the British Isles.

  ‘Nemo smiled and said, “You’re not a superstitious man yourself then, Mr Natsume? A believer in ghosts, for example? We are often told that Japan is a land overrun with spirits and demons. Of course, one reads so much bunkum these days, one can never know the truth.”

  ‘I smiled, too, and said, Well, as a matter of fact, our ghosts and demons seem rather to have gone out of business since the Restoration of the Emperor. Of course, I do not presume to speak on behalf of the Mrs Buntings of Japan, of which there are many.

  ‘Nemo laughed, picked up the decanter and poured us each a glass of wine. “Let us drink then to the Mrs Buntings of Japan and England. Long may they thrive, for I fear our modern world would be somewhat dull without their sort. And to your own good health, too, of course …”

  ‘And to your own health, too, and to your kindness and hospitality, I said, and we raised our glasses, and then began to drink and eat. The bread was stale and the meat tough, the cheese like rock and the fruit without flavour, yet the wine was good and the conversation flowed, too, over books and letters, music and art, politics and history, his country and mine, my travels and his, and so, when the clock chimed ten, I was disappointed our evening was coming to an end.

  ‘“How time flies in good company,” said Nemo. “But it’s getting late, and you must be anxious to get back across the river. However, fear not! I will accompany you and see you safely home …”

  ‘I protested there was no need, but Nemo would not hear of it. We put on our coats, picked up our hats, stepped out onto the landing, and then, it was then I said, But what about the studio?

  ‘In all our talk, and with the wine, as the hours had passed we had forgotten the very purpose, the reason for my invitation, my visit. Yet now, upon the landing, I sensed a reluctance in my host and quickly said, But if not now, then perhaps another time.

  ‘Nemo turned, looked at the steep steps that led up from the landing into the darkness above, and said, “It had slipped my mind, I had quite forgotten. I’m sorry. But of course, if you insist …”

  ‘Forgive me, I said. I do not insist. I am merely curious to see your work. But if it’s not convenient and we haven’t time …

  ‘“He really should be going,” called up a voice, the voice of the old maid, on the flight below, looking up at us.

  ‘But Nemo just smiled, a thin and brief, sad smile. He put his foot on the first step and said, “I have the time, and I am grateful for your interest. I only hope you will not be disappointed. But please follow me, and do take care. These stairs can be quite lethal.”

  ‘In fact, the stairs more closely resembled a ladder on a ship, an impression only heightened by a handrail made of rope and to which I clung as I climbed up behind Nemo.

  ‘At the top of the steps, Nemo paused on the narrow ledge before the door. He reached inside his pocket for a key, turned it in the lock, pushed open the door and said, “Let me first light the lamp …”

  ‘I stood before the ledge, on the last of the steps, and waited until the soft light of a lamp fell through the door upon my face and Nemo called out, “Ready when you are, Mr Natsume.”

  ‘I stepped through the door into the attic and gasped: even in lamplight and shadow I could sense it was an enormous room, half barn, half church, with a sloping ceiling low on either side but twice the height of a man in the centre and where, at the highest point of its spine, a glass skylight had been installed. The clutter of one hundred junkshops danced before me in the faint and trembling light, but even such a muddle could not diminish my sense of the size of the space.

  ‘Nemo stood some distance in, a lantern in his hand. He waved the light from right to left and said, “Please forgive the mess, and mind your step, but do come in, come in, come closer please …”

  ‘I walked towards him, or rather waded in, the floorboards strewn with a carpet of debris: books and newspapers, boxes and tins, empty bottles and broken crates, remains of furniture and strips of cloth, old clothes and odd shoes, brushes in jars, brushes in vases, a ladder here, an easel there, all covered in dust or caked with paint –

  ‘The artist was before me now. His coat gone, Nemo had put on a cap, pulled it low across one eye and tied a red kerchief about his neck. He set down the lantern on a small deal dining table, pointed to a battered horsehair sofa, smiled and said, “Do take a pew …”

  ‘I sat down, yes, though even then I could not have told you why I did, what made me stay, not turn and leave. For he had changed, and more than his clothes I knew, I knew; within that space, within that moment, I knew he’d changed, knew all had changed, including me, especially me, the me who stayed, the me who said, who said, who said, And the paintings? I do not see any paintings …

  ‘Nemo picked up a biscuit tin from the table, sat down beside me on the sofa and said, “You really are a most persistent chap, I have to say, and I should be flattered you are so keen. But the light it fails us both, so I’m afraid these sad sketches must suffice –”

  ‘I accepted the proffered biscuit tin from his hands and placed it in my lap. I took the lid off the tin, set it to one side, then turned back to look inside. A broken pencil lay in two halves upon a loose sheaf of irregular papers. I took out the sheaf of papers, the parts of the pencil falling with a clink and a clank into the bottom of the tin, and then, one by one, sheet after sheet, sketch after sketch, I went through those pages, those seventeen scraps, until the last, until the end.

  ‘I had come to this country, this city to learn. The biggest, greatest city on the earth, the centre, the capital of the world. To drink from its cups of knowledge, to taste the wisdom of its harvests, then to return to Japan laden with the fruits of my learning, to share my studies, to teach what I myself had been taught. But here I sat, in this city, in this house, in this attic, on this sofa, parched and starved and close to death, the sum total of my account an unreadable report.

  ‘Yes, I had come to the end, the ends of the earth. I steadied my hand, straightened the papers and put them back inside the biscuit tin. I replaced the lid, steadied my voice and said, You see such things, I’m sorry.

  ‘Beside me on the sofa, his knee against my own, Nemo took the tin from my lap and quietly said, “And you do not?”

  ‘I stared straight ahead, past the lantern on the table, my eyes too inured to the shadows now, a wardrobe looming up over an iron bedstead, its bedding torn, its mattress split, a grim pillow at its head, an easel standing before the scene, a canvas waiting in its place. I closed my eyes, closed my eyes and whispered, No.

  ‘“No, of course you don’t,” said Nemo, his voice a sigh but close, so much closer now. I felt him push my leg, felt him grip my thigh, heard him say, “You were most fortunate then, for it is a sickness.”

  ‘He released my thigh from his grip. I heard him get to his feet. I opened my eyes. He was standing by the table. He dropped the biscuit tin with a clang and, in one sweep of his arm, he picked up the lantern and turned, span on his heel, moving towards the bedstead, but turning, still spinning, round and around, the light circling, conjuring apparitions from the darkness, illuminating the cavern walls in a primitive, savage glow, revealing canvas upon canvas, the beam ever more brutal, more feral until, until he collapsed, half upon the bed, half upon the floor, his face to the ceiling, the lantern dangling in his hand, its rays still swinging, swaying back and forth …

  ‘I stood u
p, but too late again; I had awoken from my own nightmare into the nightmare of another man, another country –

  ‘He was sat up on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pillow from the mattress, held it to his nose, closed his eyes, then sighed and said, “Yes, oh yes, this will help you see …”

  ‘He opened his eyes. He stood up, the pillow in his hands. He walked towards me, the pillow outstretched, the yellow cast of its cloth, its leakages of spittle, all brown and stained, coming closer, ever closer, ever closer: “If you could but see what I have seen, if you could but dream the dreams that he once dreamed …”

  ‘I picked up the biscuit tin, gripped it tight, held it up before my face, before this man, his hands, the pillow, that pillow, that pillow in his hands, forcing me backwards, pushing me down, down –

  ‘“Inhale,” he said. “Inhale and see!”

  ‘Down, down, the tin against my chest, the pillow pressed into my face, the smell, the stench of oil, of sweat, struggling but falling, falling backwards, falling but struggling, his weight upon me, body crushing me, smothering me, suffocating me, in English dreams, their imperial lusts, I was struggling, still struggling, struggling and falling, falling away and falling apart, I was falling apart, I was falling apart, bells tolling one, two, three, four, pealing five, six, seven, eight, ringing nine, ten, eleven, twelve, striking thirteen, thirteen, thirteen –

  ‘“Mr Sweeney, please,” came the voice in the dark, in the light, the silhouette in the doorway. “Her Majesty has breathed Her last.”’

  *

  Sōseki had ceased speaking, his cheek resting on his hand.

  Ryūnosuke and Kume did not move, they did not speak. Nightingales were singing in fragments in the garden, a breeze through the leaves of the orchard.

  ‘Now Zeppelins rain down bombs upon the place, while their war persists and rages on, on and on without end, without end …’

  His words, his voice trailed off.

  Sōseki stood up behind his desk, unsteady on his feet. He waited, caught his breath. He turned, walked over to the bookcases on the far wall. He knelt down, took out a parcel wrapped in a black cloth from the bottom shelf. He stood up, carried the parcel to his desk. He set it down upon the top, untied the cloth. He picked up a red tin, decorated in yellow, white and black. He handed the tin to Ryūnosuke and said, ‘Here. You keep it now.’

  Ryūnosuke stared down at the tin in his hands, the words on its lid: Huntley & Palmers Biscuits – Superior Reading Biscuits.

  A Twice-Told Tale

  Alone now, Yasukichi lit a cigarette and began roaming the office.

  True, he taught English, but that was not his real profession.

  Not to his mind, at least.

  His life’s work was the creation of literature.

  ‘The Writer’s Craft’, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, 1924

  It was the Age of Winter, the autumn after the death of Sensei, and the ninth of the month. Ryūnosuke had finished teaching at the Academy early that day, had caught the train from Yokosuka to Tokyo, crossed the city, bought flowers and come to the northern entrance to the Zōshigaya cemetery. From the dawn, the clouds had threatened rain and Ryūnosuke was wearing a raincoat over the Western clothes in which he taught, carrying a Western umbrella along with the flowers. He entered the cemetery and walked down an avenue lined on each side with Maple and Zelkova trees, their leaves yet to turn. There was nobody else in the cemetery, nobody living. Ryūnosuke turned off the thoroughfare, went down the paths, between the stones, the paths to the dead, the stones for the dead, over roots and moss already damp in anticipation of night and rain, the branches of the trees bowing listlessly, welcoming the approach of twilight, the coming of Ryūnosuke to the grave.

  Ryūnosuke leant his umbrella against the low hedge fence which enclosed the plot, stepped inside and stood before the grave. It was a temporary grave, the name of Sensei descending in black characters down the pale wood of a tall sotoba, towering beside the smaller marker to his daughter. Ryūnosuke knelt down before the rough mound of earth at the feet of the two markers. There were two vases and narrow incense holders standing in the dirt. Ryūnosuke removed the withered flowers from the vases, laid them to one side. He divided the fresh flowers he had brought into two. He placed them in the two vases. He took a box of incense sticks and his matches from the pocket of his raincoat. He removed nine sticks of incense, put the box back inside his coat, struck a match, lit the sticks and stood them in one of the holders in the mound. He stood up, he bowed his head before the grave of Natsume Sōseki and he closed his eyes …

  ‘Are you working hard? Are you writing something? I am watching your future. I want you to be great. But don’t get too impatient. I want you to go forward boldly like an ox; we have got to be oxen. So often we try to be horses, but it’s very hard indeed to be thoroughly oxen. So please don’t be impatient; don’t wrack your brain. March forward untiringly. The world knows how to bow to perseverance, but seldom remembers momentary flares. Push right on to the death. That alone matters. Don’t seek out rivals and try to beat them. Then there will be no end to your rivals; they will keep coming one after another and annoying you. Oxen do push on and on, always aloof. If you ask me what to push, I will say: push the man within, but not the artist.’

  Ryūnosuke put his palms together. He bowed once more, then opened his eyes. He bent down, picked up the old flowers from the ground and stepped back from the grave. He smiled and said goodbye to Sensei, then turned and walked away from the grave, back down the paths, between the stones, onto the wider avenue.

  Two crows were nosily tracing a circle across the thoroughfare, swooping ever lower and lower, arguing ka-ah, ka-ah. Ryūnosuke smiled up at them as he walked, naming them Kanzan and Jittoku, watching them disappear into the leaves of a great Hinoki cypress tree up ahead. Under its branches, Ryūnosuke could see the dim figure of a man. The face and features of the figure were hidden in shadow and twilight, but he seemed to be dressed almost identically in a raincoat, holding a Western umbrella. Ryūnosuke sighed, looked down at the dead flowers in his hand, shook his head and turned back towards the grave; he had forgotten his umbrella. But when Ryūnosuke had retraced his steps to the low hedge which surrounded the grave, he found his umbrella was gone.

  Ryūnosuke quickly turned and headed back towards the Hinoki tree. Perhaps somehow – though Ryūnosuke could not think how – that man under the tree had picked up his umbrella and had been waiting to return it to him. But now, as he approached the tree, Ryūnosuke could see the man was gone, too. Only Kanzan and Jittoku remained, hopping back and forth under the branches, laughing at his misfortune – A-hō! A-hō! – knowing full well what was coming next for Ryūnosuke –

  A hard, cold rain on the man without an umbrella.

  *

  Monday morning, Yasukichi Horikawa opened the door to the teachers’ lounge. He was not in the best of tempers; he had had a most unpleasant and unproductive weekend, full of cold, sleeping fitfully, unable to finish the story he had foolishly promised an editor. Typically, the only other teacher in the room was his elder colleague K, the German instructor who had seemingly taken a dislike to Yasukichi on first sight. As always, K was standing with his back to the fire, stealing the heat from the room.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Yasukichi, as cheerfully as he could, taking out the notes for his first class from his briefcase.

  K raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t the fashionable young writer who says good morning but not good evening.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Yasukichi. ‘If I have offended you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not offended me, nor even surprised me, just amused me,’ said K. ‘Obviously you do not care to introduce your teaching colleagues to your literary acquaintances, particularly if your “acquaintance” should happen to be an attractive older lady.’

  ‘Really,’ said Yasukichi. ‘I have no idea what you could mean.’

  K snorted, winked and said, ‘On Saturday? At the cine
ma?’

  ‘This past Saturday,’ asked Yasukichi. ‘I was not at the cinema.’

  ‘Really,’ laughed K, approaching Yasukichi. ‘Then that is most strange indeed. And then quite a coincidence, too.’

  ‘How can it be a coincidence?’

  ‘Well, on Saturday evening, I could have sworn I saw you there – at the Denki-kan in Asakusa – in the company of an older lady. I was so convinced that I called out to you as we were leaving, but you just stared blankly through me and walked past without a word.’

  ‘But I wasn’t there,’ said Yasukichi. ‘It wasn’t me, so please don’t say “you”, or that it was a coincidence.’

  ‘But it really is a coincidence,’ said K. ‘Because the film was the revival of Der Student von Prag. You know the film …?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Yasukichi. ‘I know the film, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ smiled K. ‘So then of course you now understand why I say it is quite a coincidence, me watching a film about a doppelgänger, me then seeing you, but it not being you, and so we then can only conclude that I must have seen your doppelgänger.’

  ‘Or that you were too easily influenced by the film.’

  K was now at the table, very close to Yasukichi. He stared at Yasukichi, smiled again and said, ‘Or maybe you were simply embarrassed to be seen in the company of a woman who was very obviously not your fiancée.’

  Yasukichi regretted having let his irritation get the better of him. As calmly as he could, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t there, it wasn’t me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late for class.’

  K looked down at the notes in Yasukichi’s hand, and then smiled again: ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Edgar Allan Poe today.’

  ‘Now that is a coincidence,’ said Yasukichi with a smile.