by Неизвестный
Just then a canteen came rolling over the edge of the pit. Casually, Kamakichi picked it up, then realized he could hear water still splashing inside. He felt as if his face had been dashed with cold water, and a terrible chill ran down his spine.
At the 3:00 P.M. break the assistant section chief asked if the men had come across any gold fillings. The engine on the heavy-duty equipment owned by Toa Electric had been switched off, but still the men made no effort to reply. “It’s amazing. All these bones and not one goldcapped tooth in the lot. I wonder why.” The answer to this question he had posed like some mysterious riddle was patently obvious, but something kept the men from speaking up. It required too much energy.
That was when Kamakichi happened to notice a flat piece of bone sitting right in front of him. It was shaped like a spatula, and a fragment of rusted metal protruded from its surface. When he picked it up and looked at it closely, he could see that a sharply pointed blade had pierced all the way through to the other side. “It must have hurt like hell,” he said, muttering almost to himself. Even he was shaken by the implication of his own words.
What was that? Suddenly he was overcome by a hallucination that his father was lying right next to him. Yes, there he was, lying on his side. Kamakichi had never thought much about his father until now. It had always seemed natural for his father not to be around. Except once—and that was when he had gone for an interview at the bank and they had rejected him for the job. He had resented being a son with a father who had never been more than a fleeting figure—a ghost—in his life.
Before anyone knew it, the construction boss was back, standing around and talking with the assistant section chief. It appeared they were discussing the next step in the project. Since there was no sign that “the bull” was about to start up again, the men in the city hall work crew stretched out and decided to relax for a while.
“Cut it down?” They could hear the high-pitched voice of the assistant section chief.
“The landscape people will be here tomorrow to do their survey, and we can’t wait any longer. We’re way behind schedule.”
“But what a waste. You can’t just cut down a tree as big as this one. And didn’t you say this spot was going to be part of the hotel garden?”
“But that’s exactly why it’s in the way. Besides, it’s only a local tree that grew here naturally. We’ll be bringing in coconut and fern palms as part of the garden’s motif.”
The assistant section chief made no attempt to question the construction boss further.
“Since it has to be cut down, we might as well do it now,” the construction boss said. “Then, starting tomorrow, we’ll put up a tent over there for shade at break times.”
“Damn it. This is an outrage! It’s out-and-out violence, that’s what it is. Now you’ve gone too far.” Suddenly Hippie-Beard had leapt to his feet.
Startled by the young man’s voice, everyone started to get up. But his expected protest did not last. And, looking as cool as could be, the construction boss ignored him.
“Our company has no intention of doing anything to inconvenience you.”
Just then, the old turtle woman pushed her way through the men and stepped to the front of the group.
“Well, Mr. Bossman. You say you’re going to chop down the banyan tree? And just who do you think it belongs to? That tree there was planted by my father. What’s more, it has come to be possessed by the spirits of thousands of dead people. That’s where their spirits live. Don’t you have any common sense?”
There was something of the shamaness about the old woman. Her raised eyebrows floating high on her forehead and her old, yellowed eyes coated with moisture gave her the look of a woman possessed.
“I can’t say I know much about the customs in these parts,” said the construction boss. “Besides, the title to the land has already been transferred, and . . .”
“I’ll never permit it. Never. Because this tree here is my father’s. Don’t you have any appreciation for all the hardship and suffering people had to go through in the past?”
“We can’t allow you to interfere with our job. No matter what you say.”
The men continued to stand where they were, silent and expressionless.
The construction boss’ face was full of anger as his eyes surveyed, one by one, the row of apathetic faces before him.
At last the assistant section chief spoke. “Isn’t it possible to move the tree somewhere else?”
“There’d be no problem, if it were all that easy. But look, I only work for somebody else, just like you.”
The turtle woman stepped between the two men. “Look here, you. If you so much as lay a finger on that tree, there will be a curse on you wherever you go in Okinawa, and, before you know it, bad luck will come crashing down on that head of yours.”
Kamakichi leaned back against the banyan tree as he studied the withered nape of the old woman’s neck. Given his druthers, it was a scene he would have preferred never to have witnessed. How much better it would have been if he had averted his eyes and looked the other way. He felt his head grow feverish, and from time to time a knot tightened in his chest that made him feel as if he were going to be sick at any moment.
The surface of the banyan tree was rough to the touch, and it hurt when he rubbed his back against the trunk. Still, there was something about the tree that made him feel cool and refreshed. It made him think of his father again.
For no apparent reason he reached up and tore a single leaf from the branch overhead. Almost automatically his fingers went to work, and after trimming off the edges, he rolled the leaf up. Then, pinching one end of the rolled leaf between his fingers, he blew through it as hard as he could. The piercing screech it made took everyone by surprise. Even the construction boss’s yellow safety helmet appeared to flash and—bang!—explode in the bright sunlight as he turned toward the sound of the whistle.
SHIMIZU YOSHINORI
Shimizu Yoshinori (b. 1947) began his writing career producing science-fiction novels and juvenile literature. In 1981 he hit his stride with the publication of the first of many amusing popular pastiches on such varied topics as college entrance examinations and the pitfalls of using a Japanese word-processing program. Shimizu even tried parodying classic works in both his native and Western literary canons. This story, “Jack and Betty Forever” (Eien no Jyakku & Beti, 1991), is typical of his satirical dig at the rigid norms of Japanese social interaction.
JACK AND BETTY FOREVER (EIEN NO JYAKKU & BETI)
Translated by Frederik L. Schodt
Jack stared at the woman’s face and felt time go into reverse inside his brain. She had a sophisticated, intelligent look, and sparkling brown eyes. She was no longer young, but she was still attractive and in full possession of her feminine charms.
Why, it’s Betty, he thought fondly, as his speech control center regressed some thirty years. Words he would have normally used in conversation—the Say, you’re Betty, aren’t you? sort of thing—failed him, and he found himself reverting to the quaint speech patterns of his junior high school days.
“Are you Betty?” he asked.
A look of surprise spread over the woman’s face when she heard this. And then her speech also became quaint, as if she, too, were overcome by nostalgia.
“Yes, I am Betty,” she said.
“Are you Betty Smith?”
“Yes, I am Betty Smith.”
There was no mistaking it. Her speech was filled with overtones of a time long past.
Then she asked him a question.
“Are you Jack?”
“Yes, I am Jack.”
“Are you Jack Jones?”
“Yes, I am Jack Jones.”
Thus, after meeting on the street for the first time in thirty years, the two of them began their odd conversation.
“Ah, it is so good to see you again,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said Betty. “I still have many memories from the old days.”
“Yes, I am single.”
“Let us drink a cup of coffee, or a cup of tea.”
“Yes, let us do that.”
Jack invited Betty to a local coffee shop. When they were inside, he asked, “Is this a table?”
“Yes,” she answered, “this is a table.”
“Is that a sofa?”
“No, that is not a sofa. That is a chair.”
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you.”
“May I sit down, too?”
“Yes, you may sit down.”
Just when Betty had reached the age when she would have gone to a good high school, her family had moved from the suburbs of Chicago to Utah. That was why Jack hadn’t seen her since then. He was filled with fond memories. It had been thirty-four years. Both of them were now fifty years old.
“What do you do?” Betty asked, wondering what sort of work Jack did.
“I am a lawyer,” he replied.
“That is a good job.”
“Two months ago, however, I lost my job.”
“Oh, that is too bad.”
“I was a lawyer for an automobile manufacturer. The company went bankrupt because of increased imports of Japanese cars.”
“That happens often, doesn’t it?”
Jack suddenly assumed an ironic expression. “Do you remember,” he asked, “that when we were in junior high school there was an English-language text-book for Japanese people modeled after us?”
“Yes. I remember it well. They used our names for the title.”
“And because of that, at our school we deliberately started speaking English in a way that was easier for Japanese people to understand.”
“Yes. I still find it hard not to speak like that.”
“And now, thirty years later, I lose my job because of some Japanese who learned English from that same textbook.”
“It is too bad.”
Jack decided to change the subject. It was too depressing to talk about this when meeting an old friend.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Two weeks ago, I began living in Chicago again.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at the Women’s Liberation Association.” Jack was a little surprised. Could the pretty young girl he remembered really be a militant in the Women’s Lib movement?
“Are you married?” he asked.
“I used to be married,” she said. “However, I live alone now.”
“Did you and your husband divorce?”
“No. He died.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“He went to Vietnam right after we were married.”
“Oh. Was he killed there?”
“No. He came back from Vietnam. However, he developed a mental illness. One day he barricaded himself in a supermarket and shot eight people to death with a gun. Then he was shot to death by the police.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”
“That is all in the past, however.”
“How have you been?”
“I have been fine. And you?”
“I have been fine. Do you have any children?”
“Yes, I have one son. He is a high school student.”
“Do you live with him?”
“No, he lives with my mother. Do you remember my mother?”
“Yes, I remember your mother. When I was twelve, you introduced me to her.”
“She still remembers you.”
“How is she?”
“She is fine.”
“How is your father?”
“He died.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”
“His store went bankrupt when McDonald’s entered the neighborhood. He was driven to despair, and one day after he had been drinking, his car ran off the road into a canal and he drowned.”
An awful lot can happen to a person in thirty years, Jack thought. He wished there something they could do about their speech patterns, though.
“Does your son play baseball?” he asked.
“No, he does not play baseball.”
“Does he play football?”
“No, he does not play football.”
“Does he play the piano?”
“No, he does not play the piano.”
“What does he do?”
“Sometimes he does drugs and rapes women.”
An awkward silence ensued.
After a while Betty asked Jack a question.
“Are you married?”
“I used to be married. Now, however, I am single.”
“Are you divorced?”
“Yes, I am divorced. After the courts took away our child, who was born from an artificially inseminated surrogate mother, we stopped getting along.”
“Is your mother well?”
“No, she died two years ago.”
“How is your father, who used to be an engineer?”
“He is in an old folks’ home, but he is fine.”
The conversation was strained. The awkward quality of their speech was one reason, but the subject matter was also putting a damper on things. Life wasn’t quite as bright and cheery as they had imagined as children. Both Jack, who had once had such rosy cheeks, and Betty, whose eyes had been so clear and beautiful, were now middle-aged, and living in a harsh reality.
Jack tried to think of something more entertaining to talk about. “I remember your two older sisters,” he said.
“I remember them, too,” Betty answered.
“Jane was the oldest sister.”
“Yes, Jane was the oldest.”
“She was a teacher.”
“She still is a teacher. She has been teaching all her life and she is still single. Sometimes people call her an ‘old maid,’ and she has a fit.”
“Your next oldest sister was Emily. She was a university student.”
“Yes, and after graduation she worked at a computer company.”
“That is a good job.”
“She became neurotic, however, and committed suicide.”
The conversation came to a halt.
To ease the awkwardness, Jack said the first flattering thing he could think of.
“The clothes you are wearing are very beautiful, aren’t they?”
Betty looked suspicious for a second, but then suddenly seemed to realize this line of conversation was much easier. She relaxed, and replied, “Thank you.”
“That shirt is one of the most beautiful shirts I have ever seen,” Jack continued.
“I bought it at a supermarket in the town where I used to live in Utah.”
“What is that shirt made of?”
“This shirt is made of cotton.”
“What is that skirt made of?”
“This skirt is made of acrylic fiber.”
“You are not wearing a jacket.”
“No, I am not wearing a jacket.”
“Why are you not wearing a jacket?”
“It is too hot to wear a jacket today.”
It is too—to—. It was such a familiar construction.
“I think so, too.”
“I have never experienced such a hot day.”
“This is one of the hottest days in memory.”
“Lincoln was one of the greatest men in the history of the world.”
“You are one of the most beautiful women in America.”
“That is one of the most obviously flattering remarks I have ever heard in my life.”
They had evidently reached a dead-end with the construction One of the most—in—.
Jack was wearing a jacket, so he said, “On a day this hot, I usually take off my jacket as soon as I get home.”
“You probably take off your jacket to feel cooler.”
“As soon as I take off my jacket I will feel cooler.”
Jack regretted this line of conversation. It led nowhere.
“Where is the house that you now live in?�
�
“I live in a room in an apartment building nearby.”
“Where is it?”
Betty pointed outside the window, and said, “Go east on this street, and turn left at the third intersection.”
“I will.”
“Then turn right at the second intersection and go a little farther. You should see a white building on the left side.”
“I will probably see it.”
“I live there.”
Jack had absolutely no idea where she lived. But apparently it wasn’t far away.
Betty suddenly changed the subject. She, too, seemed to want to get away from this stilted conversation.
“Whom do you admire?” she asked.
“I admire Neil Armstrong and John F. Kennedy.”
Jack sensed a slight disappointment in Betty.
“Whom do you admire?” he asked.
“I admire George McGovern and Buckminster Fuller,” she answered.
I’d better not discuss politics with this woman, Jack decided. Fuller, he knew, was the scholar who was practically a guru to the hippies who had made the Whole Earth Catalog. McGovern was the presidential candidate who had been supported by yippies, and lost. He and Betty apparently had very different politics and philosophies. He decided to steer clear of those subjects, and stick to something safer. The only problem was that they were both speaking so oddly that he didn’t know what to talk about. He blurted out a silly sentence that no normal person would ever use in such a situation.
“This is a window,” he said.
Betty, as if relieved, replied in the same vein.
“This is a floor,” she said.
The two of them smiled, and exchanged some safe conversation.
“I have a pen.”
“I have a receipt from the dentist.”
“I have a short pencil.”
“I have a shaver to remove unwanted hair.”
“Is this your suppository?”
“No, that is not my suppository.”
“Where do you keep your birth control pills?”
“I keep them in my handbag.”
“Who are your favorite actresses?”
“I like Meryl Streep and Sissy Spacek. Who are your favorite actresses?”
