—
The little mouse who had escaped was busy. It was releasing its fellow prisoners, who were not only grateful to be released, but said so.
Reiko’s Universe Box
KAJIO SHINJI
Translated by Toyoda Takashi and Gene van Troyer
Kajio Shinji (1947– ) is an award-winning Japanese author who came to science fiction and fantasy in an unusual way. While running his inherited string of gasoline-stand franchises, Kajio wrote stories on the side. For several decades, he managed this exquisite balancing act, until in 1984 he quit the gasoline-stand business to become a full-time writer. Kajio has won the Nihon SF Taisho Award and the Seiun Prize three times.
The film Yomigaeri, a supernatural mystery about the investigation of several unexplained cases of resurrected people, is based on his novel of the same name. He is also renowned as a master of humorous science fiction in Japan—often emulated but rarely equaled for delightfully imaginative and funny twists that season what are still, at their core, seriously thought-provoking tales. He cowrote the manga Omoide emanon with Kenji Tsuruta, who also illustrated the series. The manga is based on his short story of the same name. In 1991, he won the Nihon SF Taisho Award for his novel Salamander senmetsu. More recently, he has achieved mainstream bestseller status in Japan.
Kajio has been a part of the science fiction community since middle school, when he began participating in Shibano Takumi’s famous Uchujin fanzine. He also made his debut because of that publication, when Hayakawa’s SF Magazine reprinted his story “Pearls for Mia” in 1970. This beautiful and haunting love story remains a favorite of many readers in Japan today. However, he is best known for his Emanon cycle. In 1979, he released the first story in this popular series, establishing himself as a leader in the Japanese science fiction community and making Emanon a permanent feature of the literary landscape. Since then, Kajio has continued to add installments of the cycle, adapting it to cover a staggering range of themes and ideas, and it still captures new fans today.
His gently mind-expanding and strangely upbeat short story “Reiko’s Universe Box” first appeared in Japanese in 1981 and was subsequently published in English in the anthology Speculative Japan (2007).
REIKO’S UNIVERSE BOX
Kajio Shinji
Translated by Toyoda Takashi and Gene van Troyer
“I wonder who gave this to us?” Reiko, still wearing her coat, turned the gift in her hands.
The box, a forty-centimeter square, was so light that she thought it might well be empty. A myriad sparkling galaxies patterned the creamy wrapping paper and a satin ribbon with an elaborate bow like a star’s corona bound it. Among the many wedding gifts, it really seemed out of place.
“Could it be a mistake? There’s no card on it.”
“Let’s put it off till tomorrow,” Ikutarō grumbled from the armchair. “I never imagined that a honeymoon would be this tiring.”
“But…Just this one, dear. I’d like to see what’s inside.”
Giving up, he nodded. She smiled to him and started undoing the ribbon. “You should take off your coat, at least,” he told his bride, then rose and went into the kitchen.
Inside the wrapping paper was a white carton. Embossed golden letters on it said: The Universe Box…Presented by Fessenden & Co.
“Isn’t it strange? There’re no names inside, either.”
Ikutarō brought two cups of coffee and placed one in front of her.
“Have a coffee break. I guess they forgot to identify themselves in their haste.”
He picked up a bundle of telegrams from their wedding well-wishers. Reiko opened the carton without finishing her coffee. A transparent cube came out, packed in Styrofoam pads.
At first she could see only absolute darkness in the cube. But, as her eyes focused, she began to make out small specks of light.
“Look! There’s a universe inside!”
She set the universe box on the coffee table in front of her husband.
“Well, it must be a new type of decoration,” he said drolly. “Did you know there are similar fantastic ornaments, using optical fiber or transparent bubbles of wax? Maybe this is just the latest variation. Anyway, I’m afraid we can’t enjoy its beauty in this dinky apartment. We’ll have to stash it in the closet till we can move into a bigger place.”
Ikutarō’s indifference couldn’t have been plainer. His eyes quickly went back to the telegrams.
He paid more attention to what I said before we got married, Reiko thought.
A sheet of paper was still in the carton.
HOW TO USE THE UNIVERSE BOX
This box contains a real universe. You can use it for interior decoration. Furthermore, there is no need to worry about supplying energy as the box is powered by its own internal stellar processes. CAUTION: Do not reset the dial on the lower part of the box. It controls the progression of time within the box.
In case of product defect, we are ready to replace the whole box free of charge. Please send it back to our research and development department, postage collect.
FESSENDEN & CO.
How can I send it back when you don’t give your address? she thought.
“Hey, I have a good idea.” Ikutarō, a little irritated by his wife’s divided attention, took the box and wrote something with a white marker pen along the black base: In memory of our wedding…Ikutarō & Reiko. “Now it’ll remind us of our happiest moment whenever we see this note.”
He showed her his inscription, his contented smile somewhat smug.
“Now that your curiosity about this gift is satisfied, you’d better put it away. We have to visit relatives and other people tomorrow, you know, to thank them. It’s about time we hit the sack, since we have an early day tomorrow.”
Reiko had yet to take off her coat. She nodded absently to him, still gazing into the compelling universe.
—
Ikutarō worked in the business section of a large trading company and often visited the office where Reiko had clerked and done secretarial duties—which, on his initiative, was how they met. He had that high-energy, push-forward spirit that every capable sales executive should have. Also, he had a sense of humor that always made her laugh loudly, even during office hours. His gentle eyes and tanned skin glowed, and he would hold his head higher to show his thick neck and chest when he talked about his university days as a soccer player.
He must be a good guy, she would tell herself, so she said yes without reservation when he asked her out—her first date ever, actually: not that she was too shy or selective, just that none of the guys until then had interested her enough. That’s all. That, and she wasn’t the kind of girl who went man hunting. She was a patient girl who could wait for Prince Charming on his white charger. And there he had been.
Their first date: a movie, a melodrama, her choice. He compromised, and it was a yawner even for her. Once upon a time boy met girl—they had to overcome mediocre and stereotyped hardships to get together—they lived happily ever after. The End. Reiko glanced at Ikutarō. He wasn’t sleeping, but his glassy-eyed gaze fixed on the screen seemed absentminded enough to suggest he had mastered sleeping with his eyes open.
After the movie they had tried to have a meaningful conversation for about an hour over drinks at a cocktail lounge. Only at the end did a common topic miraculously emerge: both of them had seen the Disney movie Dumbo the Flying Elephant when they were children. Talking about that movie kept them going for another half hour.
They parted after promising a second date. On their fifth date, two months later, Ikutarō took her hand and suddenly, naively but clearly, said: “Reiko, please give me your hand in marriage.”
It was perhaps the most clichéd proposal imaginable—somehow that made it endearing—but she wasn’t even sure she loved him. Maybe she did, because he must have loved her enough to propose—and even if she didn’t, love might grow in her because of his evident love for her. Still, she wasn’t sure and her unce
rtainty irritated her. She said she’d have to think it over, and when he phoned two fretful days later—days she had spent castigating herself for her indecisiveness—she accepted his proposal over the telephone.
She was a flexible girl, after all.
“Before I marry you, I have to tell you one thing,” Ikutarō said as if he were laying out the ground rules for brokering a business deal. “I won’t be coming home early or regularly. I’m a salesman with executive responsibilities, and I often have to entertain customers until late at night. Sometimes, I have to drink with them, sometimes play mahjong with them. But I think you can understand why I have to serve them this way—it’s all for your happiness.”
He said the same thing again just before, then just after, the wedding. To make her happy, he had to get more money. He had to work harder and longer than any of the other sales staff.
For three months after the wedding he would regularly call her to let her know what time he would be home. After that it became every other time. Then, it became once every three times. Nevertheless, every night she would prepare dinner and wait for his return.
“When I’m late, you don’t have to wait up, Reiko,” he told her, but not only did she not feel like going to bed alone, he wanted a baby—every night when he came home, he would ask for the signs—and they worked at bringing them about—and if she went to bed, she would sleep and not be in the most receptive mood for lovemaking.
On the other hand, while waiting for him she didn’t feel like watching TV or reading books or magazines. She did housework, rearranged the contents of the refrigerator and the cupboards, and tinkered with the meals she prepared for him. You could say it was a form of meditation for her.
One night the weather was rather balmy, so she went out onto the veranda. Their rooms were on the third floor of an apartment tower, and from the veranda she could see the road to the bus stop. It was already past midnight. Reiko put her elbows on the rail wet with dew and placed her chin on her palms, waiting for Ikutarō’s return without expectation.
“All this overtime might kill him, I’m afraid,” she murmured to herself. “He works too hard. He must be completely exhausted.”
Traffic below was sparse; only after long intervals would a lone car pass by. Soon, a taxi stopped beside their apartment. She could tell it was her husband even from this distance and in the dark. She noticed the heavy smell of alcohol about him when he came through the door.
“Oh, you’re still up, are you?” That was all that he said. Then he went to bed—or maybe it’s more accurate to say he collapsed into it—somewhat guiltily, she thought.
He was sound asleep—passed out probably—before his head hit the pillow.
Reiko thought that his mental fatigue must be almost unbearable. Anxious for his health, she put away the dinner dishes and the uneaten meal.
Such was life, though sometimes he ate the meals.
—
The next week, he came home unusually late. Reiko made not a single grumble about it, which might have made him uncomfortable.
“I’m trying hard to land a new customer right now,” he said a little defensively before leaving for work the next morning. “The manager of the purchasing department at his trading company. He wants me to play mahjong with him every night.”
That night, too, she waited for him out on the veranda. Tears sprang unexpectedly from her eyes, though she could not understand the reason at first. Then it came to her.
She was lonely.
She looked up at the night sky to stop her tears.
“There are no stars at all!” she said in a small surprised voice.
It had been a long time since last she had looked up at the stars. Smog blanketed the sky and hid the stars, which she had not realized until then. She felt a strange awe because she could not see them. Quietly, she went back into her room, wiping her tears.
And she remembered the universe box. There had been stars in that, she recalled, and with another jolt of surprise, realized that was the last time she had seen stars. Where is it? she wondered. She at last found the package in a corner of the closet, covered with a film of dust.
She hastily took it out of the carton.
Now she could see the details of the gift that she had looked over so closely that night so many months ago. There was a real universe enclosed within a transparent cube. Regardless of the bright light in her room, there was absolute darkness in the cube.
She looked closer.
Since the depth of the cube appeared to be only forty centimeters, she should have been able to see the opposite side of her living room through the cube. But all she could see was the seemingly impenetrable darkness in the box.
Is it a hologram? she wondered.
A star floated at the apparent center of the cube, by far the largest one. About seven centimeters in diameter, it was a white star around which she could see ten or more tinier points of light moving almost imperceptibly.
“Fascinating!” She sighed with wonder. Looking into the cube made her calm and peaceful. She sat there peering into the universe box until her husband returned. She barely noticed when he came in.
The next day she went shopping downtown, which was not usual for her. Ordinarily, she went to nearby supermarkets to shop for groceries and commodities. But this time she wanted books, and there were no comprehensive bookstores in the neighborhood. The multistory national chain bookstore on Chuo Boulevard, just down from the train station, was the place to go.
Reiko bought a book titled Mysteries of the Universe: A Practical Guide. The universe box had aroused her curiosity, and this book struck her as elementary and easy enough to understand. Maybe she’d get a good idea of what was going on inside the universe box. At home, she pored over the book. The world of stars, until now almost completely unknown to her, seemed to blossom like a garden of colorful flowers before her eyes. She was hooked.
That night, waiting for Ikutarō, she watched the universe box on the kitchen table.
The largest star must be a “fixed” star, like our sun, the book told her. I wonder if it’s a white giant, since it shines white, she mused. Anyway, it must be older than the sun. So, all of these small bodies going around it are planets like the Earth.
Little by little, the universe in the box showed changes. She could see the motion of the rice-grain-sized planets, though it was almost imperceptibly slow.
“Do these planets have moons?” she wondered. She observed closely, but could not tell for sure.
“Oh, I’d like to see a shooting star!”
At the time, she had yet to learn that a shooting star was actually a meteor entering the atmosphere that burns from air friction. But she wanted to make a wish that she would be able to have a good life with Ikutarō.
Her husband finally came home and had dinner with her. She was distracted by the universe box, and failed to respond to his questions a couple of times. He smiled bitterly, feeling guilty about her absentmindedness because his late-night homecomings might have been what made her this way—enchanted by the magic of the universe box.
One night, as she gazed into the universe box with her chin resting on her palms, she had an idea. She got up and turned off the lights. With the curtains drawn, there was only the light of the universe box shining thinly into the room.
She sat down again before the cube within the darkness. There were no sounds; only the light from the star was there. She felt as if she were somehow entering the miniature universe when she kept looking at it.
No, she thought, this is not a miniature universe but my private universe.
Then, it happened. Something gaseous with a white tail passed before her eyes.
“It’s a comet!”
The comet in the universe box moved toward the star, maybe covering a millimeter a minute, trailing a long incandescent tail. Over the next few hours it seemed to grow in size, blazing spectacularly, and then it plunged into the star’s corona and died with a brief flare. It wa
s the first dramatic scene she had witnessed in the universe box. Appreciation—no, glee—filled her.
“This universe is really alive!”
If Reiko had been wondering why this small box attracted her so much, she stopped: she no longer felt the least lonely. For the first time she thought of giving the star and its family of planets names. The central star should be Ikunōsuke, using part of her husband’s name. Then, the planets came: they should be Tarō, Jirō, Saburō, and so on, following the traditional Japanese way of naming boys. Of the planets, Tarō was the largest, almost one-third of the size of the central star, Ikunōsuke. She could tell the size of the planets by observing their day and night sides.
She didn’t notice that her husband had entered the apartment.
“What on earth are you doing without the lights!?” he demanded irritably. He smelled like whiskey.
She winced when he turned on the lights, feeling like she’d been yanked back into reality. Is this real? she wondered.
“That damned universe box again? You’re still hooked?” He sounded even more annoyed. Reiko did not answer.
“I’m hungry. Do we have anything to eat?”
He was rummaging in the refrigerator. She hadn’t prepared dinner. The clock struck ten o’clock. The resonance of the dry sound seemed to linger in the kitchen.
“Okay,” Ikutarō said in disgust. “I’ll go to bed. No dinner.” He glanced sharply at her and added, “You’d better get to bed early. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, too. I want breakfast.”
She stared into the universe box for almost half an hour after he fell asleep.
The Big Book of Science Fiction Page 137
