My Falling Down House

by Jayne Joso

  I close my heavy eyes hoping to return to the dreams of a cat, to a warm caress. I lick my lips and curl up on the floor now in sand-coloured silk. I feel myself murmur, a strange form of self-comfort, a soft purr, and reach back into slumber. It’s getting cold.

  WINTER

  1.

  It is night-time and downstairs I hear movements. Perhaps it is the shapeshifter returned, its kindness run out, come to do me harm. Listening carefully it seems there is more than one. And they have voices. People. I curl up tightly as though I might not be noticed if anyone comes up here, so far no one has climbed the stairs and if they do I will clearly be seen. I am itching from something and it is hard to keep still. If I had the skills of a shapeshifter then I might easily assume a character that would have me escape this place or admit no particular attention. Wearing sand does not make you sand, purring does not make you a cat, and twisting and twitching draws attention.

  The voices trail away. Return. Spiral up. I catch only fragments.

  The sound of a foot on the first step below. Am I mistaken?

  I catch my breath. This is the moment I have most dreaded. It brings on a fear that drains the life from you. The moment just before you are caught, before someone comes and finds you out. Once it is certain, once I am in their grasp, their hands clapped upon my shoulders, then it will be over, I can submit and take what comes, but the fear just now, it grips and shivers me. I twitch and twitch about. I must keep still.

  But what will they do to me? They might have weapons and means of restraining the captive, though they have no need for I am quite unable to fight. But I should take action. If not to fight then to hide. I hope they won’t beat me. By now I have slipped the last robes from the drawers, guiding them gently open, pleased they make no sound, and I have arranged the robes so that they cover me completely. I lie as close to the floor as I can. Nose, cheek, lips against the wooden boards. Perhaps I will be taken as nothing more than a messy pile of clothes. Laundry even. But I cannot breathe. I sweat covered over like this. And lately I have been alternately hot and cold as though I have fever again. What a mess. It’s no good this way, I need at least to have my head uncovered, and underneath the clothing the sounds become muffled and I would rather not be taken completely unawares. What a choice I have: suffocated or discovered? It’s no life to exist like this.

  When they climb the stairs and find me, most likely they will fall back in fright, for I cannot imagine how revolting I must look by now. Malnourished, hairless, bitten over and bloodied (the bites did not heal well, there is scaring everywhere and the scabs seem to catch on the smallest thing and bleed again); my body bruises these days at the slightest touch, I hardly recognise it as my own; and I am naked here save for this elegant female robe. They will detest me. And I? I will be driven forever from civilised society, cast out, shunned, and completely discarded. Utterly, most likely violently, thrown away.

  I doubt anyone would even bother to lock me up in a jail or put me on trial. This fine garment cannot hide its hideous contents. They will be sickened by my appearance and how I live, by what I am, and what they imagine me to be. For surely, this is disease? My crazed state, my physical weakness, my frightening appearance? People will be repulsed. They might even suffer some great ill effect simply from catching sight of me. I am certain that I would not be given a fair trial for the gathering number of things I might then stand accused of.

  Indeed, I might be breaking more laws than I know. I have taken up residence without permission in a property that is not mine, I have paid no rent here; I have stolen from the temple; displaced moss and other elements within the temple grounds (to achieve the self-planting – but a matter not easily explained and likely to be read as deviant), and though my intention was to leave the place as I found it, I still think that perhaps I did not, disturbed as I was by Lightfoot; and, though I aimed to shore up this place against the elements, I failed completely and did not take the work involved seriously enough (though this is perhaps more a matter for my own conscience than the law, and I feel I could argue this point at least). Added to this, I have taken a full sack of rice in here and consumed it in its entirety; and helped myself to any number of things with regard to materials and my requirements for constructing the prototypes (which largely eclipsed my plans for fixing things – a measure perhaps of just how selfish I have become); then, I have helped myself to a bowl of ramen placed in here, and later some other tasty dish or perhaps dishes, casually assuming I had some right to do so, needless to say: without even offering thanks. However these things stack up, I am surely in all kinds of other trouble and am probably breaking all kinds of laws relating to my exit from society and the normal run of things – it always seems to be the case that when a person is missing, when someone finds himself ejected from society or else ejects themselves, that ultimately the police become involved, and when the lost are found it often appears as though a crime has been perpetrated. Perhaps it is also possible to break certain laws by accident, with no ill intent. Is any allowance ever made for this? Do courts show leniency with regard to such things? I don’t have answers. And then there could be times when you find yourself quite out of your mind; somewhere very distant from the self you know and recognise, perhaps even hallucinating at certain moments, knowing not even which way is up, perhaps then further crimes are committed, again for which you had no intention or desire, and for which there is even no memory. What then? Or else the memory is temporarily tried, dimmed, muted. The knowledge returning only later. And because of this delay, whatever is said will have the appearance of being unreliable, made up, perhaps a calculated fantasy. Lies.

  It is frightening to sense that you may have done something and have no sense of recall, no way to pull it back, no way to check over the behaviour, the actions, the movements of recent hours and days. It terrifies me. Brings me almost to a state of paralysis. And still it can all be the work of dreams. The trickery of sleep. But I do not know how things like this are played out in courts of law, or what truly happens to the dispossessed when they return, are found, and caught.

  The dispossessed, they stumble along awhile and unless they swiftly reengage with the order of the world, their status is diminished and on their heads are laid accusations relating to so-called subversive behaviour, to strangeness and transgression, and these are then difficult, perhaps impossible, to deny.

  I sweat.

  I wonder, where is Cat?

  Society evolves its perception of weakness, of poverty, of mental and physical ills and even something as simple as a ‘run of bad luck’, and like some host agent renders those troubled by such things as hostile and dangerous. It finds all those conditions and experiences interchangeable somehow. It grows the fear of them into something easy to drink, easy to assimilate and replicate. But the disease lies surely in the host. And is dispensed by it.

  I know how I have regarded people I have seen living homeless lives, how badly I have thought of someone who has lost their job, and as for certain types of illness or those too low born to contemplate, I know I have harboured the feeling that their situation is simply a poor reflection of their character and perhaps also of their family. Put simply, they must have brought it on themselves. I have already stated that once I am completely well again, returned to myself, employed, properly housed, newly loved, yes ... once I have re-joined society in the full and proper manner, I intend again to shun all those I might have shunned before, for I realise that being part of civilised society is to do exactly that. Is that not the case?

  Now my body shakes. And tears pour heavily from my swollen eyes. Truly, what is it that happens to me? Perhaps it is just the disappointment of finding I’m the man that I am. My heart so full of sadness, it swells ... aches. My head feels heavy and my thoughts are very complicated. I would rather have no thoughts at all than be stuck with these.

  I fail, and I fail again. And perhaps there is nothing more.

  2.

  They are gone, t
he voices circling the rooms downstairs and the bodies that carried them. I am certain. I woke with a start to the sound of a door closing firmly and the remnants of warm chatter and sighs that slipped away into the temple garden.

  My eyes are sticky, perhaps a mild infection. The kind known in childhood. I brush the drier parts away and worry how I could have let myself fall asleep while I should have been on watch. I do not know what I would have done had someone climbed the stairs, but I should have kept awake. I am not prepared for anything up here, except perhaps for dancing. What a mad old man I would appear to them, staggering about. Lucky that I was not found. I am so weak I could be knocked to the floor with nothing more than a stern look. And I am not convinced that I fell asleep but rather fell unconscious.

  It is very cold now. I feel a stark shift in temperature, the air is different, and as I pull myself closer to the window I see that night-time has already changed into its winter robes. The sky and moon look so different as they move through the seasons; it looks misty out there just now, calm and misty.

  If ever you experience the thought that you will not make it through, that you might not live, then you must not let it settle. You should perhaps not even acknowledge it in case it should stick and take hold of you. Fortunately, I have not had such a thought, and for that I am glad. I am fine. Really, fine. I have things to do. I am a busy man with plenty to attend to. But before I can get started I must check what mischief has been done downstairs.

  I have wrapped myself in three robes, placing one over the other for warmth, tied at the waist with a fine silk rope. This will do quite well and gives me the cheerful feeling that perhaps I am an actor or comedian preparing for a role. What a frightening sight my face must be, but I will imagine just for now that I am handsome.

  I take the steps quite carefully, steadying myself as I go. Resting at a halfway point I consider how lucky I have been, so far managing to avoid being discovered. For I am truly fearful that had I been found I may have been restrained physically, perhaps even chemically, my arm strapped down, some terrifying substance shot into my vein. It’s hard to know what happens to people. Behind the scenes. But here, I am. Still free. Free and busy.

  Things have been changed down here. I take the very last step and am greeted by quite a spectacle. What has been done? New tatami. Fewer in numbers than I had before, but these are certainly enough and I like them very much. I step onto them lightly and in awe. Did I enter now a palace? Or do I step out upon the stage? What else? A nice plump futon. Something I did not have before. And blankets. I check just now and the old ones seem to have been taken away. I am aware also of a rather unpleasant odour. I know it. The smell of fuel. Kerosene. A row of containers, and in the kitchen more. And then I spy a box, a big one. A brand new box. Well, I would have been happy to welcome such a fine-looking specimen even if it were empty, and I could surely find a home for it, and indeed, might make a home of it. It is the casing for a very fine kerosene heater. Perhaps the latest design!

  I have so far only stroked and admired this heater for it seems my arms are too weak just now to lift it out, and I would rather not break the box but keep it completely intact. I do not yet know how I will use it. And the heater, it warms me just by the knowledge of its presence.

  I sit a moment. My head is light. I need water. And had better bathe my eyes. I hope that when I have done so these new things will not prove to have been imagined. Sounds come. What’s that? Cat. He is here. He mews. He knows me. I stroke his head but my hand feels tender and I have to stop. He is disgruntled but doesn’t leave. He pads about and inspects the new items. He looks at me for an explanation. I have none, he turns his head and sniffs at the air.

  I have moved to the window to check if anyone is there in the garden. Lights have come on about the temple, but I cannot see a soul. I cannot make sense of things. Why did no one climb the stairs and seize me? They know that I am here. They must. I threw out the infested tatami, and now they are replaced. And checking near the stove I have been delivered what can only be described as provisions. For I now discover a fresh sack of rice, all shiny and new; and there are vegetables. Hardy winter vegetables. I have scratched the surface of one and know them to be real. Surely, surely they are quite real. I grow emotional, somewhat sentimental. Unsure if I hear voices. Unsure of where they begin. In the head? Outside the head? Gone. And so, no matter. Best that I make myself busy.

  I will cook a pot of rice immediately, for whilst I do not entirely trust my thoughts, my stomach will not lie. And once I have eaten I might have strength enough to set the heater going.

  Cat has stayed. He watched as I set the rice to cook. And now that it is ready he takes a little.

  I am caused to believe that whoever brought me these goods and supplies may also have been responsible for the ramen and perhaps the food brought upstairs as I slept. If this is the case, then it has to be temple people, perhaps their staff or some acquaintances. Lightfoot? Perhaps he has a brother.

  This rice is so delicious, I can hardly believe the difference between the last of that old sack and these bright new shiny grains. If only there was some miso soup and pickles to accompany it, that would in fact be perfect. Pickles. I wish I had not thought of them. But the moment I am recovered I will drown myself in pickles. I will construct a vessel, large enough to contain my body and I will fill it entirely with pickles. I will roll about awhile and gorge, then lie back contented.

  It is difficult to know if I am yet entirely mad, and then I speculate whether it might happen incrementally, and then I wonder if obsessing about pickles is a sign. But daydreams of pickles are surely the work of a healthy mind? Cat has gone.

  So many things remain unanswered here. I half see and think I see. There are sounds in my head not always easy to ignore. And sometimes voices. Things shift, always ‘sense’ and ‘no sense’. And always, everywhere, contradiction. I have been certain at times that what happens is the work of the shapeshifter, and then it is clear that people have been here. The arrival of these goods has to be the work of temple folk but the bowls of food are surely less easily explained. For I did not wake, saw no one. No note was left. And out of sheer hunger I still believe it is possible that I imagined these. But I eat the rice just now and am reminded of the fullness I experienced when I ate before, and the savoury flavours of the second dish come back to me. So, the food was real, the noodles and then the bowl of hotter-flavoured food; and was there more even? I find I can now identify at least that the last dish was spicy, spicy and delicious, though I do not know its name – but however these dishes came to me it was not by those who brought the tatami and other goods. The dishes of food were delivered by someone with a lighter tread. It must be so, or I would have heard them. This might imply Lightfoot, but I am adamant that it cannot have been him. I am also certain about the difference in the number of people and the tread of those who came, in fact, I feel confident about the weight of their steps to the degree that I would know them even if only one of them came here again. Whatever it was that brought the bowls of food was not the same as those who brought the tatami. I pick over the detail. Un-weaving, re-conceiving. And I notice a warmth of feeling, and find this activity rather a pleasure. I grow certain now that my impaired faculties finally begin to show signs of improvement, my hearing … yes, this freshly heightened sense being just the very first stage. Am I starting to recover, to rebuild, to reassemble? It’s not easy to evaluate, but I feel that my hearing is now sharper than it ever was! And if it takes a while for the rest of me to catch up then I must rely on it where other senses still test me. The planting! Finally, it takes effect, it is so exciting to consider that this was not a waste of time. And far from being the ridiculous antics of a madman, it may have been an act that will yet prove pivotal in my recovery. Who knows, perhaps quite soon my hair will grow again. I move my fingers over my scalp and find it still bare. But to have my hearing restored, enhanced even, is plenty to recover my spirit just now. I must simply wait
and see. Again, I had better keep busy, let things take their course.

  I will try to wash and then I must look closely at the heater. I would like to cook the vegetables soon, but I shall not disturb them just now, they look rather beautiful there, lined up in a row. It is as though friends have arrived.

  3.

  It is a strange habit to have formed, but after any activity I find myself asleep again as though I have taken some special medicine for sleeping. I can only think it is the result of being in such a wanting state that makes my body capable of so little and for such short periods of time. And there is nothing to do but accept it. Outside any usual social order, there is no one here to chase my tail and no one’s tail that I might chase. I live here inside a house which is falling apart, inside these fragile walls, beneath a suspect ceiling, beside some dismantled cardboard and a tidy haul of handy tools. A world of my own, and in many ways hard to fault. So I must take advantage of my deviant position. For really, it has many advantages. It fills me often with a sense of mischief and this sensation is worth a very great deal. It is an inside-house liberation. For within these walls, I dance to no one’s tune.

  After more fresh rice I climb the stairs once more. It’s so cold now, but I cannot set the heater working despite my best efforts and so I make my way again to bed.

  These poor kimonos are being treated so roughly by me. Still used as my bedding despite the futon and blankets down below, but I cannot bring myself to use them. So new and clean and bright, I have formed habits, and a brand new futon with its too white sheets is no place for a wretch. Returning to this upstairs room is now quite automatic, and so I slip inside my silken nest.