‘And you wanted me to eat it?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I guess you knew too much. Why do you sound so surprised? I’ve been threatening you with a gun for days.’
‘Yes, but it’s plastic.’
‘No it’s not.’ She waved it at me and I took it out of her hand. It was a cheap plastic toy; I’d understood when she pushed it in my back. I pulled the trigger a couple of times and it made a clicking sound a bit like a stapler.
‘There were no murders, were there?’ I said. ‘None of this is real.’
‘The gun’s not real; I had to come up with something quick to stop you from just walking out and taking me with you. It was the only thing I could think of.’
‘Well, it worked.’
‘Until now.’
‘Are you really dying?’
‘I should be, if the poison works properly.’
‘But you only just ate the sweet. What about before? Why were you falling behind and crying?’
‘I was scared. I thought you weren’t going to look back and I would have to go up and outside.’
‘What the hell has looking back got to do with it?’
‘You’ll find out later.’
‘Did you kill all those other people?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it fucking matters.’
‘I’m not going to answer that question. Ask me something else.’
‘You came and found me in the garden while I was asleep, didn’t you?’
‘I took your keys and turned your phone off to make sure no one would answer it when the Night Guy tried to call. Sorry. I hope you got back into the hotel OK and didn’t have to sleep outside.’
‘Why did you leave me locked up for so long, just for you to die in a tunnel?’
‘The only plan I could think of to get you out was this one. It wasn’t my first choice. I was hoping to have a better idea, but it never came. Hey, Ben Constable?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you put your arms round me?’
‘OK.’ I’m a fool for that kind of thing. I sat down on the floor next to her and she rested her head against my chest in the dark. She was hyperventilating and trembling. I stroked her hair.
‘Are you really dying?’
‘Yes.’
Half of my heart was breaking and the other half was stone. I wasn’t going to fall for any more tricks. Great, now I’m a cynic.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Butterfly.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want saving.’
‘OK, I’m sorry I fucked everything up in your subterranean utopia.’
‘Oh, well. You weren’t to know.’
‘Surely there is a better ending than this.’
‘I’m dying in your arms, what more could you want?’
‘I want you to come and have more adventures. We could go and do chivalrous deeds like you said before.’
‘Windmills.’ Now she was crying again. ‘All those giants were windmills. I think it’s time I gave up chivalry.’
‘No, they were real, I promise you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘If sanity comes with death, maybe you should stay insane.’
‘Don’t worry, at this late stage there is little chance of me sorting out a lifetime of mental issues.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Will you write a book about me?’ She was digging her fingers into me, holding on tight.
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I use all your emails and letters and the notebooks?’
‘The books I stole are in that bag I gave you.’ Now her voice was cracking.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I think they’ve turned the lights down,’ she croaked.
‘They must be bringing in a birthday cake.’
‘It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?’
‘Soon.’
‘Did you sleep with thirty women this year?’
‘Well, it’s not quite my birthday yet, but so far, no.’
‘Oh, well. Maybe next year,’ she whispered.
‘How about this for an ending?’ I said. ‘We could make a deal where I leave and go home and in the book I write I say that I was with you when you died, but really you don’t die and carry on living underground. And I would never tell another living soul and I would never try to contact you or come and find you and you would be free and happy. And I would live with the lie a hundred per cent until eventually I would believe it. I swear I can do it. Don’t die, Tomomi Ishikawa. Not again, please.’ I squeezed her a bit, but she didn’t move or make a sound.
‘Butterfly?’
I put my hand on her diaphragm. She was still breathing, quick little breaths, and then they stopped. I held my breath, copying her, and just when I couldn’t hold it anymore her body burst out into violent convulsions. I couldn’t believe the force of it. I held on as tight as I could to stop her from damaging herself. It went on for several minutes and then calmed into occasional spasms. And then I choked and tears came to my eyes. I was scared. I didn’t know what was happening.
‘Shhh. It’s all right,’ I lied. ‘Everything’s all right.’
She went limp again. I put my hand on her diaphragm, but now I couldn’t feel any movement. I put my fingers on her pulse. It was there. Her heart was beating weakly and with a made-up rhythm and pauses that were too long.
‘Shhh.’
She was sitting on a rock by a river and a line of children crossed a low wooden footbridge towards her, stopping at a small island in the middle of the stream to pick wildflowers. As they passed they said ‘Konnichiwa’ and presented her with the flowers, and she bowed her head in thanks to each one. Then she lifted herself to her feet and turned, walking slowly, following the path with the flowers in her hand, upstream along the river as it splashed over rocks, dancing in circles and rushing on. She walked upstream towards the source, back to the beginning.
I closed my eyes and held her for what seemed like a long time. I knew she was dead, but I waited anyway so that she wasn’t on her own. I guess we were there for an hour like that, sitting in the dark. I felt her pulse one last time, but there was nothing.
‘Goodbye, Butterfly. It’s been very strange.’
I moved her to the recovery position and walked off. After a couple of steps I turned and went back. I kissed her head and smoothed her hair. ‘Shhh. Everything’s all right.’ And it was now; I’d already done my mourning. I felt all right, lighter, maybe even good.
* * *
I got to the metro tracks with a few hundred pages of The Divine Comedy to spare. When I arrived on the platform at Buttes Chaumont everything was closed and the lights were dim. I walked up the steps, but shutters blocked my way out, so I went back to the platform, found a seat and sat staring at the wall. Cat came and rubbed his cheek against my shin and then lay down on the ground, slightly covering my toes, and settled down to sleep. It was good to see him. I got out my phone and turned it on. I’d been underground for nine days. Then the phone started beeping and text messages came in. Two from my bank with my account balance, a reminder that I had been invited to dinner the previous Saturday, two from friends wondering whether I’d disappeared, and three messages from Beatrice: ‘Hey, I’m gonna b 10 mins late’ and then ‘Where R U?’ and finally ‘Ben Constable?’. I felt happy.
I got out the plastic bag Butterfly had given me. As promised she’d returned the notebooks and there was a single shit of paper with her scribbled handwriting.
Dear Ben Constable,
Well, it’s been quite a ride. I’m dead now and this time for real. I guess you know that, though, because if everything goes to plan, you will have been with me. I made a deal with myself: I would offer you a poisoned sweet. If you ate it, you would die and I would stay underground. If you didn’t, I would follow you o
ut, so long as you didn’t look back, but if you turned and looked, I would eat the sweet and die. If you’re reading this, then you looked back. I told you not to. You made me eat the sweet. You killed me. It’s a trick, of course, but I just wanted you to know what it feels like to kill someone. Just so you could know something else about me.
If it has any meaning left, then I am sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Go write that book now.
Big kiss, Butterfly. X O X O X O
X I X X L X X O X X V X X E X X Y X X O X X U X X (Did I ever tell you?)
Ps. Oh, nothing . . . . . . . . .
A Letter to Tomomi Ishikawa—November 2008
Paris—November 27, 2008
Dear Tomomi Ishikawa,
Sometimes I get so lost in the story that I forget what is true and what isn’t. I don’t really have any memories of you anymore, just memories of memories. You have somehow passed into my imagination and I’m no longer sure what you look like or how your voice sounds. Did we really used to sit and smoke on a tiny cobbled street in Ménilmontant at five in the morning? We surely only did that a few times. Perhaps it wasn’t such a great friendship after all, but it did once seem that way.
I feel like I should apologise for the book, apologise for coming to find you when you didn’t want me to, apologise for killing you off. But it’s just a story and you’re not dead and I didn’t come to find you (and never will), and I’m pleased with the book, not ashamed. You should be too. It’s written with love and good humour.
It took me well over a year to get round to putting pen to paper. I nearly let the whole thing drop. But the story kept turning round my head and it evolved and became ever more intricate, and then one day I woke up and knew that I wanted to write it, with or without your help.
Having finally got round to it, the whole thing went quickly. I wrote the first draft in a month (last June). I went away to Wales and lived in a wooden cabin in a garden full of flowers overlooking a green valley with a river where a train with one carriage occasionally passed back and forth. Since then I have been working on it a little each day. And now, in a few minutes, it will be over and I will be robbed of your company. Like your fictional counterpart, I would like to drag it out. Linger a few moments more.
Hey, you were in my dream (you’ve actually been in a lot of my dreams; when I get stuck with the story I go to sleep and you and Cat come and do all manner of weird things to nudge me onwards). Before I went to sleep I had been thinking about this letter and trying to work out what I wanted to say. In the dream you were the sandman (in France he sprinkles sand on children’s eyes to give them dreams, but in the version I know he steals the eyeballs of naughty children who won’t go to sleep and gives them to his own children, who live in the moon), but instead of stealing eyes you were stealing souls of people who were close to death. And you tugged at the souls and they stretched like invisible elastic and you pulled and pulled and then they would pop free and the person would die and you would just discard the soul because you had no use for it. The problem was that I could see this happening from my own point of view. It wasn’t you at all. It was me. (I should have guessed. All those pointless murders came from my deranged brain, not yours.)
I don’t really think that you deserve the honour. I made Tomomi Ishikawa a better friend than you were. But inevitably the book is, in part, a hymn of praise. You entertained me, we laughed, delighted and shocked each other, we explored dark places and said unsayable things, you captured my imagination and inspired me. This is a homage to our curious friendship that was, and whether I like it or not I think this story is already dedicated to you.
Goodbye.
Ben. X X X
GALLERY READERS GROUP GUIDE
THREE LIVES
OF
TOMOMI
ISHIKAWA
BENJAMIN CONSTABLE
SUMMARY
Ben Constable and Tomomi Ishikawa are friends. They meet for drinks, late-night cigarettes, and witty, imaginative and often surreal conversation. But Ben’s life is turned upside down when he receives what seems to be a suicide note from Tomomi Ishikawa. Not only does the note announce her death, but it invites Ben on an extraordinary treasure hunt that takes him through the streets of Paris and New York City. There are clues and hidden treasures that gradually reveal aspects of Tomomi Ishikawa that Ben did not know. They also appear to disclose a startling revelation: Tomomi Ishikawa is a murderer. Combining cleverly funny dialogue with quirky, enigmatic characters and a fantastic premise that will leave readers guessing, Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa will undoubtedly resonate long after the last page is finished.
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. The story opens with Ben and Tomomi Ishikawa imagining what Ben’s book will be about. The use of imagination is a key element for the characters, especially for Ben. He even has an imaginary cat whose behavior is restricted by “the laws of science”. If he is a figment of Ben’s imagination, why can’t Ben imagine him talking or able to jump great distances? What does that say about Ben’s imagination? What purpose does Cat serve for Ben?
2. Why do you think Ben refrained from calling the police after reading Tomomi Ishikawa’s suicide letter?
3. In her letter to Ben, Tomomi Ishikawa compares sleep and death, the sandman and the grim reaper. She writes, “I wake in fear because, for all I long for death, I run from it like the coward I am. I drink in the hope of one day finding the courage to let go”. Why do you think she longs for death?
4. In a letter to Tomomi Ishikawa, Ben writes, “Ever since writing was invented, people have been documenting their brains, giving names to ideas, noting their dreams, and distorting their memories and making up new ones,” and wonders, “What if nobody reads them?”. Later he burns his journal pages from New York in order to light an underground passage in Paris and wonders, “Would I remember without my notes? Would it all still exist without these pages to remind me?”. What power does the written word hold for Ben? If it is a way to record memory, what happens when memories are distorted? What does Ben think Tomomi Ishikawa is trying to achieve with her letters to him?
5. When Ben searches for the treasure in front of Tomomi Ishikawa’s old school, he thinks “of her, small and delicate, digging by herself in the night, touching the space that was touching my skin now, smelling the street and the dry earth, infringing on my personal space as if her memory were being projected inside me, like claustrophobia”. Why does Tomomi Ishikawa send Ben on his adventure? Is it a treasure hunt or a confessional? What is Ben’s motivation to keep following her clues? If you were in Ben’s place, would you have kept following them?
6. Tomomi Ishikawa often tells Ben that she loves him. What is the nature of the relationship between Ben and Tomomi?
7. Ben suffers from prosopagnosia, a disorder where one cannot easily recognize faces. In what ways does it affect his interactions with others?
8. Do you believe Tomomi Ishikawa really committed the murders? Is she depressed as Ben suggests? Why do you think the author leaves it unclear?
9. At each death, Tomomi Ishikawa includes the last thoughts of her victims. Upon her own suicide, her last thoughts are included, but not from her point of view or Ben’s. Who has written her thoughts?
10. Why do you think the author named the protagonist after himself?
11. Ben always refers to Tomomi Ishikawa by her first and last names or her nickname, Butterfly. Do you think there is any difference in meaning between her name and nickname? Why does he never call her Tomomi?
12. In the story’s final letter, who is writing to whom? What are the three lives of Tomomi Ishikawa depicted in the novel?
13. Tomomi Ishikawa suggests to Ben that she could kill him, steal his identity and write the book herself. What would be the strategic advantage for her in doing so? Are there any clues to suggest this might be the case?
ENHANCE YOUR BOOK CLUB
1. Look up Ben Constable’s website, www.Benjamin-Constable.net
, to find fascinating additional information about the book, including photos of places mentioned in the story, additional writing that did not make the final edit, and stories about the writing of the book. The website also features some of Ben’s short stories, articles, and even music.
2. Ben Constable, the author, named his main character after himself. After reading his biography on his website, what similarities can you distinguish between Ben the author and Ben the character? As an exercise, have members of your group write a fictional paragraph or two with themselves as their main characters. Discuss how you each chose your topics, how strange (or natural) it was to write yourselves as protagonists, and note the similarities between authors and characters.
3. Tomomi and Ben often meet in Paris to drink wine, and even while Ben was in New York City, he needed a bottle of French red to solve one of Tomomi Ishikawa’s clues. Bring a lovely French wine to your meeting—a Château Lafite Rothschild if you want to splurge, or a more modest bottle, perhaps at the recommendation of your wine merchant. If wine is inappropriate, consider creating a yogurt bar with different toppings. Include almonds if you wish, but skip the bitter toffee variety!
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
BENJAMIN CONSTABLE was born in Bristol and grew up in Derby. Prior to studying creative writing, he worked as a recording artist and studio engineer. Currently, he lives in Paris, where he teaches English and is working on his next novel.
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