Patient X

by David Peace

  *

  Monday morning, in the classroom, before the board, behind his desk, Ryūnosuke opened his briefcase and took out the notes for his lecture: Poe again. Ryūnosuke opened the book. He glanced up at the class, the rows of students at their desks in their Naval Academy uniforms, bored before he’d even begun. They were not the only ones. Ryūnosuke sighed to himself, then began to read aloud: ‘The Premature Burial … There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he does not wish to offend, or to disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense “pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake of Lisbon, of the Plague of London, of the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But, in these accounts, it is the fact – it is the reality – it is the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence …’

  Ryūnosuke paused, glanced up from the text to the class and froze, petrified: the students in their uniforms were still sat at their desks, but they were not the only ones; behind each of them stood their exact double, like the bleached trunks of winter trees, each double dressed in white hospital robes and a military cap, some wearing dark glasses, some leaning on crutches, with bandaged heads, with bandaged limbs, some without arms, some without legs, some with no faces, no faces at all, row upon row, the sitting and the standing, an army of doubles, a Doppelgänger Korps, the students and their doubles, all staring at Ryūnosuke, Ryūnosuke trembling now, Ryūnosuke shaking now, the students giggling now, giggling at Ryūnosuke, their doubles laughing now, laughing at Ryūnosuke, Ryūnosuke dropping the book, forgetting his briefcase, Ryūnosuke fleeing from the classroom, tearing down the corridor.

  *

  In his study in the new house in Kamakura, Yasukichi Horikawa threw down his pen, cursed and lit another cigarette. He had hoped to finish the latest instalment of his story, which was being serialised in the Osaka Mainichi; some days he felt it was the best work he had ever written, the story of an artist and his devotion, his obsession to his work; other times, times like tonight, he felt it was as flawed as all his other work, flawed by his own lack of devotion to his craft, his own lack of obsession to his own writing, his mind often distracted, consumed by thoughts of money and of time; never enough money, never enough time. Somehow he had managed to reduce his teaching hours while increasing his salary, much to the annoyance, even contempt, of some of his colleagues at the Academy. Yet still he needed more money, so still he accepted more commissions, so still there was not enough time, so this story for the Mainichi, this story which was so close to being his best work to date, this story was just one of the many he had agreed to write. If only he could give up teaching at the Naval Academy, if only he could find a position at a university, with a better salary, better hours, more hours to write. If only, if only. He cursed again. Then cursed himself; if only he could stop thinking about money and time, if only he could think solely about writing, his writing, not even thinking about writing, just writing, actually writing! He put out his cigarette. He picked up his pen, tried to get it moving again. But it was gone, gone; the moment lost, lost again. He put down his pen again. He got up from the desk, from his work. He went to the bathroom, then to the bedroom.

  Yasukichi lay down beside his sleeping wife. He picked up a book from the floor and began to read in bed. The book was The Night-Side of Nature, or, Ghosts and Ghost-Seers by the English novelist Catherine Crowe, first published in 1848. Yasukichi had found the book one afternoon in Jimbōchō; he knew Baudelaire admired the book, but he had also heard that in the process of researching and writing the book, Catherine Crowe had lost her mind; believing spirits could render her invisible, she was found naked one winter night in an Edinburgh street. Yasukichi had bought the book without a second thought, and had read it twice at least. Now he turned again to the chapter on doppelgängers, yet soon his eyes began to fall, to close, to open and fall again, to open then fall again, fall again and close –

  A vaudeville performance; on the stage, a hanging screen, a magic lantern show, scenes from the Sino-Japanese War, scenes from the Russo-Japanese War, the large crowd about him cheering the Japanese flag, screaming at the top of their lungs, ‘Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!’ A hand grabbing his sleeve, the hand gripping his arm, squeezing it tighter and tighter, a woman, a woman he recognised but could not place, laughing now, laughing and pointing, pointing and saying, ‘It’s you, it’s you, it’s always you …’

  On the stage, before the screen, Yasukichi saw his double, his exact double, saw him standing on the stage, beside a box, in a tuxedo, in a top hat, calling out to the crowd, calling for a volunteer, the woman, that woman pointing at Yasukichi, pushing him forward, the crowd grabbing Yasukichi, pushing him forward, towards the stage, onto the stage, his double, in his tuxedo, in his top hat, opening the box, the world growing charnel, grim Darkness overspreading the earth, the woman, that woman on the stage, too, before the box, kissing Yasukichi on his lips, pushing Yasukichi into the box, into the box, the lid falling, the lid closing, the lid shut –

  It was dark – all dark; complete and utter darkness. Yasukichi tried to speak, tried to shout, to scream, but his lips, his tongue were parched and silent, his lungs, his heart gasping, palpitating, his arms, his wrists striking the sides of the box, his feet, his face but inches from its wood, the wood, the box now trembling, now shaking, shaking and screaming, screaming with the sound of a saw, a saw and her teeth, her teeth –

  How canst thou tranquilly sleep …?

  Half-light, grey-light, daylight on a hillside. That woman walking towards the gates of his house, his family house in Tabata, his wife darning some cloth at the kotatsu, the woman pausing by a stone lantern in the garden, his wife singing to their son, the woman sliding open the doors to his house, his wife kneeling before her in the genkan, the woman holding out her newborn baby towards his wife, his own son crying, the baby screaming, his wife crying, the woman screaming, his wife turning to look for him, on the futon, in a Chinese-patterned robe, on his chest a Bible open, his wife shaking him, shouting at him, pleading with him, ‘Wake up, wake up …’

  *

  Ryūnosuke, an editor and an older colleague, Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, were sat at a café table in Jimbōchō, puffing on one cigarette after another, listening to the music from a gramophone on the other side of the room, gossiping about politicians, joking about other writers. But Ryūnosuke said very little; in truth, he felt in awe of the older writer, not only the strength of his work, but also the sheer power of his personality, his vitality, his utter vitality. Even the black suit and red necktie he was wearing today loudly announced the confidence and magnetism of the man, attracting the attention of the rest of the room, all eyes and ears turned his way, glued to their table –

  ‘I spent half the day riding around in an automobile.’

  ‘Was there some research you needed to do,’ asked the editor.

  His cheek resting on his hand, the older colleague replied with complete abandon, ‘No, I just felt like riding around the city.’

  Ryūnosuke envied the older man’s freedom, and his eyes must have betrayed his jealousy because now the other man asked, ‘Are you busy working on something at the moment?’

  Ryūnosuke sighed. ‘Even though I feel as though I am prostituting myself, I have promised to write a detective story for Chūō kōron …’

  ‘Me, too,’ exclaimed the older man. ‘How funny! And I must say, I am relishing the challenge. What is your story about?’

  Ryūnosuke sighed again. ‘Well, I have barely begun, but I plan to write something around the notion of doubles …’

  ‘Me, too,’ exclaimed the older man again. ‘How funny! Mine is almost finished and i
s the tale of two artists, Ōkawa and Aono. They are bitter rivals. But Ōkawa comes to see Aono as his doppelgänger and he even cites the famous story by Edgar Allan Poe …’

  ‘What a brilliant idea,’ said the editor. ‘And how wonderful it will be for readers to be able to compare how you both choose to address the same theme; the two brightest stars of the literary firmament, side by side, in direct competition, so to speak …’

  Ryūnosuke felt ill. He excused himself and got up from the table. Quickly, he walked towards the bathroom door, locked himself inside, crouched down and vomited into the toilet. Again and again.

  Ryūnosuke stood back up. He turned to the sink. He ran the water, washed his face, washed his hands, dried his face, dried his hands, and then stared at his reflection in the mirror: what have you done …

  On the way back to the table, Ryūnosuke stopped by the gramophone. The music had ended. He leant over the gramophone to read the label on the record: Schwanengesang – Schubert.

  Ryūnosuke felt afraid. He looked across the room for his older friend and the editor. But his friend and the editor were not there. And at their table was only one coffee cup. His own coffee cup. Ryūnosuke put down a silver coin on the counter and started out of the café –

  ‘That will be twenty sen, sir.’

  The coin Ryūnosuke had thrown down was copper, not silver.

  *

  Yasukichi Horikawa put down his pen again. He picked up the packet of Golden Bat cigarettes. He put them straight back down on the desk. He picked up the packet of Shikishima instead. He took out a cigarette. He put it to his lips. He picked up the box of matches, shook it twice, then took out a match and lit his cigarette. He looked down at the manuscript paper and sighed, blowing smoke across the desk. He reached for the pile of envelopes. He flicked through them, turning them over one by one, reading the name and address of the sender on the back. He came to an envelope with no name or address on the back. He felt the blood in his veins freeze over, the air sucked from his lungs. He dropped the cigarette in the ashtray. He picked up the letter knife. He opened the envelope. He took out the letter and read:

  Sir,

  You are being watched.

  I warned you, but you did not listen. You doubted my resolve and sincerity. But you will not doubt me now:

  You were seen together on the Ginza, among the crowds, all the people, brash and brazen, casually strolling along as though you had never known the existence of sin, under the electric lamps, before the store windows, pausing before a Western tailor shop, laughing at the mannequins, entering a bookstore, browsing through the titles. Yes, your face may well burn with embarrassment as you read, yet still you cling to the notion that this letter is but a lucky guess, an elaborate prank, do you not? Well, in the bookstore, on its second floor, with the woman at your side, that woman on your arm, you came to the collected works of Dostoevsky, and you took down one volume, and you turned to its title page: the novella Dvoynik.

  You bought the book, you left the store, and together you walked on, on and on, until you came to a second-hand shop. In the window was a stuffed swan, its neck erect, its wings yellow and moth-eaten. Here, before this stuffed swan, in plain sight, you embraced, kissed and parted. She headed south, you headed north.

  You stood in a queue, you boarded a trolley. Between the red lettering of the advertisements hanging from the ceiling, before the ashen flecks of the dirt staining the windows. You sat among the passengers. The carriage moving out of the lights, the trolley heading into the darkness. You got up from your seat, you alighted from the trolley. The crowds now absent, only shadows now present. You walked up a slope. You turned right, you turned left. You pushed open a gate in the wall around a house. And the gate swung shut behind you. In the night and in the rain. Among the stone lanterns, behind the tall trees. Despite the hour, despite its lateness. There was a light in the house, children’s voices from a bedroom. Then the light was gone, now the children were silent. You climbed the steep ladder, you walked along the passage. You entered your study. The study was lined with books, the floor covered in papers. On a table were pots, in the pots were brushes. You took off your raincoat. You hung up the coat. Then you took off your skin. You hung up your skin. And the thing that remained stood in the centre of the room. Smaller than a man, maybe just over three feet. Lighter than a man, perhaps but thirty pounds. Its pallor green, its sheen reptilian. The thing had webbed hands, the thing had webbed feet. And an oval-shaped saucer on top of its head, beneath short, coarse brown hair. Now the thing picked out a fine brush. Then the thing walked over to the skin. The entire pelt of a human body hanging from a peg. And the thing began to touch up the skin with its brush. A dab here, a spot there. Now the thing stepped back from the skin on its peg. Then the thing put back the brush in its pot. The thing walked back to the skin on the peg. The thing lifted up the skin from the peg. Now the thing shook the skin out like a cloak. Then the thing wrapped the skin around itself. And now the thing was a man again, the thing was you again. And then you turned to the window. And in the night, and in the rain. You smiled at me, without shame, without shame, then laughed and said, ‘Quack, quack! Pleased to meet you. My name is Tock.’

  Your true-self has been seen. Now you will be exposed.

  No more warnings, no more chances.

  Yasukichi let the letter fall from his hand onto the desk. He stared down at the letter, the letter lying on top of the blank sheet of manuscript paper, lying beside his copy of Dvoynik.

  *

  Ryūnosuke could hear the sound of the rain falling in the bamboo grove outside. The wind in the trees and the waves on the river. Ryūnosuke looked down at the cigarette he was holding between his fingers. It was still lit, it was still long. Ryūnosuke shook his head and said, ‘I do not understand …’

  ‘It is not a question of understanding,’ said the man. ‘It is a matter of believing. Simply believing …’

  Ryūnosuke looked across the table at the man again. And Ryūnosuke said, ‘So you cannot help me?’

  The man rose from the table. He walked over to one of the piles of books and papers. He picked up a book from the pile. He sat back down at the table. And he handed Ryūnosuke a Bible –

  ‘Only the man who governs his passions can attain peace and sainthood. But the man who fails to control his passions, that man is condemned to live in Hell as a demon.’

  *

  It was the Age of Winter, still the Age of Winter, around the second anniversary of the death of Sensei. Yasukichi Horikawa had caught the train from Kamakura to Tokyo, crossed the city, bought flowers and come to the northern entrance to the Zōshigaya cemetery. He was wearing a raincoat, carrying the flowers. He entered the cemetery and walked down an avenue lined on each side with Maple and Zelkova trees, their leaves fallen. There was nobody else in the cemetery, nobody living, only two crows, noisily flying over him, swooping ever lower and lower, their wings overshadowing him as he walked. Yasukichi looked up at the two crows, naming them Han-shan and Shih-te, but Han-shan and Shih-te seemed now to be laughing at him – A-hō! A-hō! – mocking and taunting him. Yasukichi walked on, turned at the junction onto the central avenue, down its broad path, then took the second turning on the left and finally came to the grave of Sensei.

  This was the permanent grave, a tall, grey tombstone, made of granite, completed for the first anniversary of the passing of Sensei, grand and imposing, a monument to the man. But somehow, in some way, Yasukichi felt the design of the grave was out of character with the man, the writer he had been honoured, privileged to have known. Still, Yasukichi divided the flowers into two. He placed them in the two metal vases on the low altar shelf before the tomb. 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 laid them in the granite tray between the two metal vases of flowers. He stepped back, he bowed his head before the grave and he closed his eyes …r />
  ‘Approach everything rationally, and you become harsh. Pole along in the stream of emotions, and you will be swept away by the current. Give free rein to your desires, and you become uncomfortably confined. It is not a very agreeable place to live, this world of ours …’

  Yasukichi put his palms together. He bowed once more, then opened his eyes. He said goodbye to Sensei, then turned to walk away from the grave –

  A man was standing in his way, blocking his path, the man his exact, ink-stained double.

  ‘How in the world’, said Yasukichi, ‘did you follow me?’

  ‘Ce grand malheur,’ said the man, ‘de ne pouvoir être seul.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself,’ asked Yasukichi. ‘After all this time? Your only words are still but borrowed words?’

  ‘No,’ said the man. ‘I have come to say goodbye. And to give you one last chance: leave me alone, leave my world! Be gone, be gone! Take refuge somewhere else, with someone else …’

  ‘How dare you! How dare you say such things to me,’ said Yasukichi. ‘It’s you who should leave me alone, leave my world! You who should become a new and better man. For I have seen you, seen you as you really are, as you are now and as you will be. And a great disaster is on its way.’