My Falling Down House

by Jayne Joso

  I set the box down, sat on the step close by and read Yumi’s note. It told me in no uncertain terms what she had already yelled to my face several days earlier, it was over, I was useless, adding now that she never wanted to speak to me again. Only this last part had already been made clear. Bright red tape clear.

  I remember almost waking from that dream, I rolled around sweating, trying to climb out of it, and I heard the cicada beside me forcing away the earth in their attempts to set themselves free, but I fell back, and fell back into dreaming, and was made to enter this street again. I had the box with me. Forever fixed to my hands, my fingers gripping tightly. And I was made to walk this same route over, and over. And each time I journeyed down the street the box got heavier, the sun became more blinding, the atmosphere more menacing. And I saw myself in the distance, in miniature, trying to make it down the street, box in my arms, nothing on my feet, sun in my eyes; willing myself, just willing myself, not to be seen. This played itself out in endless repetition, and each time I arrived at the falling down house and tried to make my way in, I was thrust back to the top of the street with a hit to the chest, and had to make way again, over and over, and always carrying the box. And with each repeat the stress increased, for someone would see me, they would notice the man, they would notice the man and wonder at his repeated journeys. They would see what place he entered, and they would want to know the reason why. I have no business here. No business here at all. Someone will come. Perhaps the police, wanting to investigate, already on their way. Or a team of psychiatrists keen to unpack my brain. What kind of man am I? What am I doing here? Occupying such a run-down dwelling, what kind of person does that? And falling down or not, I have no right at all to be here, I stay both without permission and without payment. No sir, I did not even ask. No, I do not have a key. I broke in, I suppose, but the door, it was not locked. And my appearance? I was here some long months before in a suit, in a state of complete drunkenness, and now in a state of general disarray, possibly approaching the appearance of the homeless and the dispossessed. A man who could not easily be vouched for, not locally at least, for not a soul would know me hereabouts; and no sir, I possess no ID, not a single thing to name me. And the extreme changes in my appearance – these are in fact exactly the kinds of things which make people take notice. How peculiar my behaviour will seem, a young man, his hair grown long, a box in his hands, no shoes upon his feet.

  Having lost so much I have almost come to feel I have no right even to exist, and perhaps I don’t. I search for words to explain why I am here, and who I am, but they do not come, and I can no longer be sure that my behaviour is not strange, for I feel myself grown nervous. The vagrant, the illegal immigrant, what stress they must have. I think about my box.

  Again, I am made to press on down the street. I force my head upwards, trying to give the appearance of casual confidence, of nonchalance. But each time it gets harder. At the door, I wait cautiously, I glance over my shoulder. I push at the door. But this time, this time, someone walks by, a man, and so I cannot enter. I move my head to avoid his gaze. I might have dropped something or perhaps I am simply waiting for someone. I keep still and hope he will think nothing more of it and simply move along. But he does not move and the waiting just gets longer. The box is heavy. My breathing short. My temper rises. Why doesn’t he just go away? Carry on about his business. His own business. What does he want from me? And now another follows on behind him and someone else leaves their dwelling. And all the while the box gets heavier. Pain begins to rise in my legs and in my back. Why is this place suddenly so busy? What do they want with me? Agitated. My temper truly failing now, I almost lash out. But I know I have to find a lighter frame of mind. I stand motionless and pretend to myself that I am not there. I take the decision to remove my mind from my body, for no one can strike up conversation with only my shell. And if I do not occupy my body then I cannot be accused. For you surely cannot accuse someone if they are not fully present. And standing before the door, in my mind I feel myself begging: just let me slip inside this place and let me breathe again. I am just a young man!

  And then I woke.

  11.

  It was daylight. I looked at my body, how thin it had become. I thought about food.

  Cat arrived. He dropped something at my feet. A partially masticated corpse. I turned away. Tried to focus my thoughts.

  Slowly I came to my feet. There were no sounds just now that I did not know. Nothing I did not recognise. Nothing here to harm me. I would wash.

  I thought of Shizuka and wondered how she was doing. I hoped she had not lost her job. But cleaning is essential, and banking is not. She would probably be alright. Still, I wished her something better.

  I turned the tap, but the water was no longer refreshing. My skin had grown sensitive, and I experienced the cold water like something that would burn me. The red marks seemed to attest to that. I could not trust it. I turned off the tap and patted my skin.

  By now my dreams were becoming so lucid, they seemed to meld with reality so cleanly that at times I was no longer confident which were true conscious moments and which were dreams, phantoms. For several hours I would inhabit a stream of thoughts only finally to wake up fully and realise that the moments or hours before belonged to a dreamscape and my unconscious self. I was disturbed by this and could only find comfort in the fact that although there was sometimes a delay in my awareness, I did still retain the capacity to distinguish between the two states. I could still make out what was real. But for how much longer? I couldn’t entertain the idea that I might lose this faculty altogether, and so I tried actively to cultivate my mental activity during the periods when I was certain I was conscious. Always taking notes, updating the inventory, adding in anything I deemed essential.

  I was especially pleased by all the boxes I had found, and had by now named the room in which they lay the box room. It seemed appropriate to name each room, define its function, its personality. And the work I was doing was useful. But as each clear moment visited me, thoughts of my declining health and my ability to stay aware keenly fed my anguished state. I had to find food. Soon, I wrote again, soon...

  I began to tease myself, summoning up memories of summer picnics and feasting at New Year. For when a man lacks water, that is all he will think of. The hunger was becoming quite paralysing but I needed to push myself into moving, into finding something more. I thought that if I could achieve a state of absolute hunger, provoked by fantasies of tasting, of savouring, and the remembrance of fullness, that this might just animate me, force me into action, into overriding all other fears, that I find myself some better food. And so I allowed the thoughts to run.

  I thought of my time as a box man and how Shizuka would sometimes stop by late into the evening with a small set of containers of wonderful spicy food. Once she brought my favourite dish, yukhoe. Beautiful fresh raw beef; a raw egg yolk, shining golden, settled in the centre, soon beaten in with the smallest drop of sesame oil and some true hot seasoning. That would be the perfect nourishment right now. In the matter of taste, even a little kimchi would suffice, though it would not fill me nor build my strength. But I would like at least to taste a little kimchi. Kimchi, and an ice-cold summer beer. Shizuka was addicted to Korean food, I never saw her eat anything else, and right now I would give anything for a few of those delicious dishes, perhaps something with garlic.

  And now I smell something. Do I imagine it? I imagine it. For sure, I do. But this is a food I know too well, and it is real. It must be real. Its flavour hopping on the breeze, a newly fractured window permitting its entrance. I crane my neck and touch my face, wondering if some residue might be captured there. I lick my fingertips. Something? It’s hard to tell. I breathe it in again. It is familiar, appetising, and though it is subtle, my nose tells me it is something tasty. Tasty and real. And it is weaving its way inside this place in a very tantalising manner. Miso. It is miso. And how I have missed you. The winds favour me and the fla
vour dances in here just now from the garden side. I follow my nose and must look over there more closely.

  I wipe a window.

  Travelling in a straight line across the way there is a house whose dimensions seem to match, I would almost say mirror, those of this decayed dwelling – though the one over there appears to be in pristine condition. To the right, joining both the perfect dwelling and my own, is what exactly? A temple? I crane my neck further, I cannot see as clearly as I would like to, but it is a temple. Must be.

  All in all, it would appear that there is an inner courtyard, surrounded by four buildings. These appear to be linked. This suggests the temple as the starting point, and implies that the three other structures, including the house I dwell in, belong in some way to the temple itself. In the centre there is the garden, and this is very neat, quite unlike the area close to this house where it is heavily overgrown. From here I can make out a small pond, tall slender clusters of bamboo, trees, and moss, a great deal of moss, and stones of various sizes, each of them entirely smooth. And now I see someone. An old man peers in my direction. For the moment he does not seem to see me. Perhaps he is so old that he cannot focus well enough to find my shape behind the glass. But I had better keep still. His face looks gentle. His hair is white, his beard, short and wispy. His eyes are tired but kind and twinkling. The light changes, and he has gone. He had a look of my grandfather about him. No matter. And now there’s someone else, but they are further away and I cannot make them out so well. An old woman perhaps? Seems that way. She is bent over as she moves, as though afraid to occupy the upper space, her back almost a table-top. Perhaps this is a local woman come to leave an offering at the temple, or perhaps she is one of the staff there. Would that she would fetch me some miso soup and some other great dishes to accompany it.

  It looks so calm, almost serene out there. Quite different from the banal street life on the other side. I like it much better.

  The old woman has gone, but now another sweeps the steps up to the temple entrance. A man is tending the broad but simple garden. I smell incense. A second man has joined him, a younger man. A woman arrives carrying foodstuff, fruit or so, an offering I expect. A child follows on behind her. They enter the temple. Where do they all come from? It is a somewhat ethereal experience to stand and watch this simple activity. There is a pervading sense of gentle continuity as each person moves about the space and goes about their daily chores with ease. Someone leaves the temple now, a monk. Bows are exchanged. I am calmed by the atmosphere of tranquillity I see, but I had better move or someone will certainly catch my shape at the window.

  The slightly salty taste of miso lifts and hovers in the air, and I am decided. When the light has gone, I will make my move.

  12.

  The sun has played with me today; waiting for the light to fade never took so long. I can’t stand it, and I simply won’t go on like this. I must eat. I can only hope that no one sees me. I try the door on this side and realise it is the first time I have done so. I must be cautious that it does not make a deal of noise. So many leaves inside this place, all dry and crisp, blown in on some forgotten autumn, thick with dust. I had better sweep them further in for if they blow outside and into the temple garden I will arrive out there like some bizarre phantom pushing on the seasons long before their time.

  I brush them up in haste. All done. A mountain of dust and dirt-filled leaves now stands inside my room. Mount Fuji in an autumn coat.

  At the door again, I gather myself. My heart lies in my mouth and I can hardly breathe. I step out. The light drops. I take a breath. The moon is out. My courage rises.

  Poorly dressed with nothing on my feet, my skin unwashed some days, I will have the appearance of a beggar. No matter.

  In my hometown in the mountains, the temple doors always went unlocked, and the same was true of many houses, but I doubt that will be the case on the outskirts of the city. I might find trouble. I must be swift and silent and firm in this endeavour. I don’t have a plan; I am simply driven to satisfy this hunger. I make the moves up as I go. And it will work, for it has to, I must eat now or I will be driven insane.

  I hear voices. I shiver and crouch down low and it grows quiet. I keep still awhile. I take a step and stop again. Breathing deeply. Not sure whether to move or not. I stay put a moment longer. The moss feels good beneath my feet. And the smell! The air is fresh and light. I inhale again and my body draws in a hundred scents from nature; my heart rises. I must steady myself. I watch. I move. Someone leaves the temple. I am too much in the open and might be seen. If someone carries a light, I will certainly be seen. My moves have to be better timed. Better intuited. I should stay close to the trees as long as it’s possible. Too much adrenaline. My heart pounds.

  I make my way again. Pushing towards the house up ahead, drawn by its lights, all the while mindful to keep my body in the dark. There will be people there, for sure. But there will also be food. I press on. Pausing. Breathing. Shifting in silence. Placing each foot with care. I pass the temple. The wind moves the trees. I hold still. Afraid. The wind falls now. I move again. Breathe again. Step. Stop. Breathe again. Then finally, the living quarters of the temple. The perfect version of my ramshackle dwelling. A gentle rustling inside as people go about their business with a pattering of feet over tatami and floors of wood; their voices soft and light, if somewhat distant.

  I look in through a window now and spy a large cooking pot. Wonderful vegetables bubbling away. Steam rising. The smell, so subtle and so, so good. And I sense the heat. I must time this carefully. No one must see me. No one must hear me. No one must suspect.

  But then without a second thought the moment had chosen itself, and I snuck into the kitchen and gorged myself, shovelling whatever was to hand into my mouth, almost burning myself at times. I ladled a helping of leftover miso soup, and drank it back in desperation. I forced down all kinds of vegetables as fast as I could and filled myself up with leftover noodles and pickles, grabbing also at sweet stuff, all kinds of delights, surely leftovers from the temple’s many ceremonies, and all the while my temperature rising, my head growing light. I had imagined moving in swiftly and taking what I could find, perhaps not too much, returning to my dwelling, resting there and eating like a civilised man. It was not like that. I moved without thought, my senses on high alert, monitoring the moves of those I had seen inside the place, and those I had merely heard. If anyone surprised me I could not vouch for what I would do, the hunger filled me with a violence, a torment never known, and knives lay near at hand. As I crammed the food into my mouth I tried keenly to separate and number the voices there and held each of them distinct inside my mind, measuring their distance, willing them, ordering them, not to come near.

  I fed like an animal, and like the most efficient thief I stole whatever foods lay easily in reach, filled my pockets to the brim, and I glided from that place like the expert ninja I had become.

  On the way back I vomited. The shock of good food was too much for my stomach. And eating like a hungry dog? That’s not good. It can never be good. I cleaned myself up. Then I drank water, but only in small amounts. I emptied my pockets and placed the modest haul of temple food out of Cat’s reach, for he clearly had his own supply. By now it was almost pitch dark, clouds wrapping the moon in a heavy woven cloth. I would rest. Then I would take the remaining food more slowly.

  The last of the food still made my stomach bad. This time my bowels could not take it. I bathed and bathed, and had to bear the sensation of cramps, and the pain of the cold water as it ran over me. Not a good state. I did not truly know if rice was sufficient to keep a man, but I knew we never ate rice that was old, and though it bored me to eat only rice and at times it swelled my stomach, it did not make me sick. After the temple fare my guts made noises I could never have imagined and I begged them to go easy. Still there is pain. Perhaps I should not drink this water. I had better take to boiling it.

  13.

  I slept awhile. When I
woke I was cold and something had happened to me. I touched my head. My hair was gone. Moonlight caught the soft white strands scattered where I lay; had someone slept beside me? Had another head rested here? I touched my head again, my hair, my thick black hair, was gone. I felt around my skull in disbelief. Not a strand there. I touched my face and felt around my neck and chin, nothing, not a single hair, not even the faintest trace of stubble. But I was surely dreaming – I put both of my hands to my head and ran them round and around it. My scalp, bare and smooth as a large and shiny fruit. Was this true? I am a young man with a good head of hair. Thick black hair. Hair that is sometimes admired. As a boy, my grandmother would gently run her fingers through it, and when she did so I would arch my back and purr, the perfectly contented cat. I had hair. Thick black hair. So what happened? And what about my chin? By now a considerable amount of stubble had grown and several long and somewhat spindly hairs that were heading towards a beard. They had ambition, and I had plans for them. Where had they gone? Is this a joke? Someone plays a trick? Did my former co-workers find me here? Did they spy on me, and out of mischief think it fun to shave off a whole head of hair? And what is this useless pile of frail white hairs here?

  I checked myself over. From head to foot no hair at all, not on any part of my body.

  I am become a fish. A baby. A very old man. I am twenty-five. It’s not possible. Have I slept a whole lifetime through and woken only now as my elderly self? It’s not possible. I can move every part of me, there is strength in my arms, my eyes can see. I am still twenty-five. I am still a young man. But I have lost my hair.