The words of the elderly scholar resounded like that famous line from Molière’s comedy: “What the devil was he doing in that galley?”
All Antarcticans knew the answer. Even the four men who were going to their deaths knew it. Long years of living amid the ice, coupled with all the tears they had shed thinking of a world that had died so young, had washed away their foolish desires for glorious deaths. The four who had been chosen were themselves well aware that there would be no glory in their ends. Neither did they even have the concept of “duty” dangling behind the cheap tinsel that was glory.
Somebody has to do it, so reluctantly, I’ll do it.
The four men and those who would deliver them all knew that they were not going to die as heroes. Does someone who jumps into freezing water to save a drowning child do so because of some idea that they are trying to fulfill their duty? Do they do it for glory? Because they’re trying to be a hero? The exaggerated glory of players who join teams to great fanfare—heroes—don’t they make clowns out of those who go down to the grave? Antarctica was the scientists’ republic. The soldiers as well had lost the nations to which they had pledged loyalty, and by living with the scientists for four years, had broken free of those amusing concepts of military duty and responsibility, which were nothing more than mere rulekeeping. What the deaths of their comrades and life amid the ice irresistibly created in people was a clarity they could do nothing to change, as of the classical philosophy outlined in the heart of that old man.
And so they were not fearful of death, and it therefore followed that they didn’t try to stir up emotions in order to face the task ahead. They simply furrowed their brows, clucked their tongues, and went off to die. In a time when courage had ceased to be a virtue that some had and most did not, it appeared in its original, rough-hewn, true form. Somebody had to perform this task, and if no one had refused to be chosen, who would sing of the bravery of the ones who were chosen?
The common, indeed only, emotions shared by those that were chosen and the ones who saw them off were those of sorrow and of directionless anger. The sorrow of those who stayed behind—that their comrades should have to lose their lives on such a strange errand; and the sorrow of those on their way to death—that they should have to die for such a bizarre reason. And then there was that inexpressible anger toward the foolish, barbaric “world” which was carried by both those who were going and those who were staying behind—anger that even after the destruction, such an awful thing was being forced on Antarctica.
2. On the Last Night of Winter
“Departure is in twenty-four hours,” Admiral Conway said as he walked into the room. He seemed downhearted and old this week, which was most unlike him. The three members of the Supreme Council who would be taking over for him also appeared gaunt and haggard.
“Is there anything you’d like to have done?” he asked.
“No special treatment, please,” Major Carter said laughing. “Calling this an ‘operation’ is overdoing it. Now that I think about it, even a child could do this. We pull right up into the neighborhood in the submarine, swim to shore, and go push a button. It’d be a lot harder if you just told us to go outside in the middle of a blizzard.”
“You can say that,” murmured Dr. la Rochelle. “But Moscow is going to be very difficult.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Captain Nevski. “Captain Zoshchenko knows the course through the canals very well.”
“We’ll be in constant radio contact,” Admiral Conway said, turning to the side. “Come what may, do your job well.”
“How are things coming along with scattering the stations near the Ross Ice Shelf?” Yoshizumi asked.
“We’ve moved the small facilities, and the mamas and the children. But the American expedition’s facilities are concentrated there,” Admiral Conway said, still turned away as he trailed off. “Do you really think the earthquake is going to happen early?”
“I do. I redid the calculations, but with incomplete historical data—”
“At the time, it couldn’t be helped. We’ll just have to pray that the Soviet missiles are few in number and high in precision. At least precise enough that they won’t hit other stations—”
“That won’t happen,” said Captain Nevski. “After a twenty thousand kilometer flight, they are precise to a radius of one and a half kilometers from the target point.”
“We eat in the big cafeteria in one hour,” said Barnes, captain of the British team. “The cook was in tears for lack of ingredients, so please manage your expectations. At any rate, it’ll likely be fur seal, penguin, and whale meat again.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Marius. “It’ll be the last time I have to eat penguin.”
“And after that …” said Admiral Conway, trailing off. With his face turned away, he softly set four keys down on the desk. “These are the keys for your quarters tonight. Take whichever you like.”
After he had spoken thus, the three men turned their backs toward the door.
“Well, well, you’re going to let us have private rooms tonight?” said Marius, casually picking up one of the four keys and playing with it in his big hand. “Now that you mention it, this station building has private bedrooms for exactly four high-ranking officers. I wonder if that means the bigwigs are sleeping in bunks tonight.”
The important thing was that the meal everyone ate together was a quiet and simple affair. Only the liquor, contributed from the best each station had to offer, was luxurious and plentiful. Everyone got reasonably drunk and ate a reasonable amount. There were the occasional toasts: “To Antarctica!” and “To the firemen!” After dinner, Marius played the piano. He had an unexpectedly sure touch, and everyone was surprised to hear him playing César Franck and Darius Milhaud. When they asked him, he said that he had attended the Conservatoire in Paris and, a lifetime ago, had debuted as an up-and-coming musician. But then he’d gotten his heart broken, drowned himself in alcohol, and volunteered for the navy.
“Ancient history,” Marius said, laughing. “Paris, youth, art, romance. It was a nice world, wasn’t it?”
The thought that that was already forever lost sank heavily into the hearts of them all. When Marius sang “Retourné a Paris” in a low tone to his own accompaniment, it was Admiral Conway who broke into silent tears. Carter nudged Marius to make him stop, but the admiral looked up, the deep wrinkles in his face wet with tears, and stopped him. “It’s all right. Please play some more—all kinds of songs. Just don’t sing. If we all start remembering the songs we were on the verge of forgetting, we’ll still be singing them when it’s time to head out tomorrow.”
Marius continued playing—many nostalgic songs of the world that had been destroyed. Folk songs, love songs, songs about daily living, songs of youth. Songs of every nation, songs of every people. As the music continued, the lost human world and its fragile way of life seemed to rise up, ghostlike, from beyond the melodies. The blue sea and mountains of the Mediterranean coast, polkas on snowy Alpine nights, lovers forever holding one another on the banks of the Seine, the crowds and the noise of New York’s Fifth Avenue, the beaches of Waikiki, Tokyo at night, London soirees, the songs of farmers ringing over the fields of Russia, the voices of the gauchos singing as they crossed the pampas of South America, méringues sung at Caribbean festivals, the days and nights of the towns, villages, and cities with all their pleasures. Parents and friends and cheerful drunks, the twilight glow that lent an extra degree of gentleness to people’s faces, the floods of neon, the roller coasters, the pastoral rondo of a carousel …
“Why did that gentle old world have to be destroyed, Carter?” The elderly Admiral Conway was an old New Dealer who had participated in the Second World War and lived to tell the tale. Now he looked like a positively aged man, and even his body appeared much smaller. Like a lonely old man who had outlived all his relatives, he was sniffling and crying. “And why … why did we have to live through it? Even after our world was lost?”
Carter quietly approached the old man and gave Marius a knowing glance. “Come on, I think it’s time for bed now,” Carter said gently. “It’s late already.”
“One more toast before we go,” the old man said, wiping his tears and picking up his glass. “To the world that was destroyed, to Antarctica that survived, and to you who are going to die for our sake.”
Everyone picked up their glasses, but Conway, still holding his, didn’t drink. He was looking toward the window intently.
“Look,” said the admiral with a nod of his chin. “They’re especially magnificent tonight.”
Outside the dirty window glass amid the freezing cold, huge multicolored curtains were fluttering all across a spectacularly clear Antarctic night sky. Red and blue and pink …
When Yoshizumi opened the bedroom door, the light was on inside and someone was lying in his bed. Surprised, he quickly tried to shut the door, but then a voice called out from the covers. “It’s all right. Come in.”
In a panic, he tried to get outside. But when he checked his key, he saw that there was no mistake.
“What’s the matter with you? This is your room.” It was the voice of a drowsy-sounding woman. “Hurry up and come in. Close the door and lock it. You’ll catch cold.”
While Yoshizumi was getting over his surprise, he did as he was told. He pushed aside the covers of the rough bed, and found a fat, considerably advanced-in-age, golden-haired woman—completely naked.
“What’s the matter?” the woman asked, laughing at the dumbstruck Yoshizumi.
When she laughed, many wrinkles appeared around the outer edges of her eyes and mouth. There were large bags under her eyes and the skin on her throat also hung rather loosely. Her sagging breasts swayed back and forth, and there were three creases in her stomach.
“I’m Irma Auric. You disappointed to get an old auntie like me? Couldn’t be helped, though; seven of the ‘mamas’ are pregnant now, and five are nursing. There are some young, good-looking ones here too, but we had to draw straws; you got me, so deal with it.”
Yoshizumi smiled, not knowing what else to do. Irma gave him a slap on the shoulder.
“Well, go warm up in the tub first.”
The temperature was starting to drop, and it was four degrees Centigrade in the timeworn bathroom. Shivering, Yoshizumi got into the tub without the benefit of a heater. When he came out, Irma had turned down the lights, sat down on the bed, and was holding her head in her hands firmly. The lines of this obese middle-aged woman’s body rose up in silhouette. When Irma looked at him, a tired little smile appeared on her face.
“Well,” said Irma in a thick voice. “Come on over, Mr. Handsome. What did you put your on boxers for?”
Standing there in the entrance to the bathroom, Yoshizumi suddenly felt a desire for something blazing up inside him. It was something that was very nice to have when one couldn’t relax—something absolutely necessary in embarrassing situations—it took him two full minutes to realize that what he wanted was a cigarette. More than a year and a half had already passed since the last of the tobacco had disappeared from Antarctica. Grimacing, Yoshizumi sat down in a chair. The room was stuffy and hot. Irma got up from the bed and came over. Holding Yoshizumi’s shoulders with her powerful fingers, she gave him a perfunctory kiss. The white woman’s strong body odor was cloying, and a faint odor of cheese was coming from her mouth. After that, she pulled away immediately and plopped back down on the bed, arms and legs open. After which there was a silence that continued for quite some time.
“What’s the matter?” said Irma. “Not coming?”
Yoshizumi said nothing. Irma slid off the bed. “What, you impotent or something? Or—this isn’t your first time, is it?”
“No!” said Yoshizumi, frowning. “I’m thirty-five already.”
“Were you married?”
“No.”
“Thirty-five—you don’t look it. Japanese people look young, don’t they?” Irma sighed as she spoke. “You don’t want to? Because I’m over the hill?”
“It isn’t that—please understand,” Yoshizumi muttered.
“You’re a funny one. All this time, and you’ve never had a woman? You’ve never slept with one of the mamas?”
“No.”
“The white men always just about break down and cry. I may be past my prime and I may be ugly as sin, but a veteran knows more about how to treat a man than some young chickadee. So I get good word of mouth with the young guys. You really don’t wanna do it with a woman? Even after doing without for four or five years? Maybe you think a doll would be better? They say they make some good ones in Japan.”
“Is that so?”
Suddenly, Irma drew herself up and spoke deeply, from her diaphragm. “Look over here.”
Yoshizumi looked at Irma. Irma’s face, limned by the diagonal backlight, was majestically beautiful. She had long years of experience as a woman and probably as a mother. It was a face suffused with dignity.
“You’re leaving tomorrow—and not coming back, right?” Irma murmured in a slightly muffled voice.
“I’ll send you a postcard from Washington.”
“For such a nice young man to have to die.” Irma’s hazel eyes grew moist.
“Three and a half billion people died,” said Yoshizumi. “And now the last ten thousand survivors are about to die as well. Too many have died already.”
Suddenly, Irma covered her face and burst into tears. The flesh of her bare shoulders trembled.
“Don’t cry, please.” Yoshizumi hesitantly put a hand on Irma’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry. To be honest, I’m tired,” said Irma, sniffling and tearful. “I’m the oldest of all the mamas. It’s not just women that come to my place; there are hairy-faced men too. Every single day, so many men. As the cheerful older lady, as the mother, I’ve always seen very clearly what people are like inside and out. And I’m a middle-aged lady who knows all about the ways of love as well. About men who are growing exhausted, despondent, and hysterical. Every day—every single day—encouraging them, comforting them with my body like a holy whore, I’ve been with thousands of men by this point. And going forward, I just think, ‘How much longer will this go on?’ These dismal nights that last half the year in a world where there’s nothing except ice and snow.”
Yoshizumi quietly stroked the hair of the sobbing Irma. “How about resting for a bit?” he said. “You have a body that’s much more important than mine. From now on, for how long I can’t say, but from now on, we’ll need you to cheer and encourage the men.”
“I’m sorry. I was supposed to cheer you up on your last night, but …” Irma finally wiped away her tears and lifted up her face. “You sure you don’t wanna sleep with me, kid?”
“Sex is not such an intrinsic part of being human, Mama,” Yoshizumi said, smiling. “The idea that sex is an important part of life is a delusion of novelists.”
“You’re talking to me like I’m a child,” Irma said, laughing even as she cried. “When I came to Antarctica on navy duty, I used to talk big, as if I’d just got into college.”
“There is something I’d like to ask you to do for me,” Yoshizumi stammered.
“What?”
“My father died young, but my mother was healthy and lived in the country with my brother and his wife.” Yoshizumi suddenly felt something welling up in his own throat, and hurriedly coughed to clear it. “I was often away on long trips, and when I’d occasionally come back for a visit, I’d rub my mother’s shoulders. Mom always looked forward to that.”
Irma looked up at him. She had cried her gray eyes out, but now they brimmed with a kind of light.
“What a nice boy,” Irma whispered. “Are all Japanese so kind to their parents?”
“Can I give you a shoulder rub?” Yoshizumi said with feeling. “It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”
Irma stared fixedly at Yoshizumi’s face and suddenly moved herself facedown on the bed. A
sob made its way out from the pillow where her face was pressed.
Yoshizumi approached Irma’s back and silently, gently began to rub her shoulders. They were rough with golden down, sprinkled with specks, freckles, and spots, and the flabby flesh was white—and tinged slightly purple—completely unlike the thin little shoulders of his mother. But even so, he massaged them with all his heart. It was a strange sight indeed. In a locked room on a frozen Antarctic night under rippling auroras, a nearly naked man and a naked woman—young man who was to die gently, carefully massaging the naked flesh of an overweight middle-aged woman. Irma began lightly snoring into the still-damp pillow. Tears had washed the makeup from a face that was covered in tiny wrinkles. On her forehead one deep, vertical crease was drawn tight.
3. Return to the Dead Capital
It was nearing high noon on the following day when two black shadows began swimming silently northward across the mist-shrouded waters of Hope Bay, pushing their way through the crust of pack ice that had begun to form on its surface. At last, they were putting behind them the long winter and the night that lasted half the year. Mist blew against the dark shapes of the men on the cliffs who had come to see them off, while heavy, lead-colored snow continued to fall in the midst of the Weddell Sea. Although it was natural that those who were leaving behind the solid white world closed off by night and cold, who were bound for a world drenched in sunlight and green, should feel joyful at this time, everything was now reversed. Those who were seeing them off were overwhelmed by a grim sense of melancholy, as though they were watching a pair of coffins being carried away in a funeral procession, and those who were headed north had their heads hung low in sorrow. These two coffins, carrying four sacrifices for the bloodthirsty gods that had survived the destruction of mankind, who ruled over uninhabited lands, were some ways off from the middle of the bay when they were swallowed up in the swirling fog and lost from view of the shore. Only the sounds of two sirens rang out beyond those mists—sharply, wistfully—echoing off the ice shelf and the icebergs, signaling both submersion and farewell. Even after their lingering reverberations had faded, the people atop the cliffs stood still in gloomy, motionless silence until the low sun that announced the arrival of winter showed its face just briefly from across the sea of ice, then hurriedly dipped below the horizon again.
Virus: The Day of Resurrection Page 35
