My Falling Down House

by Jayne Joso

  I feel a tension in my chest just now, the anticipation of company, the knowledge that the visitor is to all intents and purposes a friend. I breathe deeply; I have to be calm. My face entirely covered, I keep myself still as though I am sleeping, in that way if they are truly shy or nervous, I will not startle them. I hear neat and tiny steps now as the last of the stairs are climbed, and the house croons warmly that the visitor is most welcome.

  Realising that they are now quite inside this room I found I have just had to restrain myself from uttering a greeting and from bowing my head, and now I am almost laughing at my stupidity, but if I am not careful I will surely choke.

  I hear the tiny trays of food as they are gathered up. Empty by now, finally I ate all. The cover is now partially lifted, though not by me. My head is being touched, I hear a voice. It is certainly a woman’s voice. I sigh happily inside. She speaks with the assumption that I am sleeping. It seems she is pleased with my progress. I am doing rather well. It is quite a change in me that I have eaten and not vomited (I have still been sick!?), and that I have managed to feed myself. The sheet is now drawn back from my face and out of respect I have kept my eyes shut tight. I feel my colour rise and wonder if it can be noticed. You cannot imagine what it feels like to be so greatly praised merely for staying alive. In all my life I don’t think I was ever praised so highly for doing so very little. I like this feeling. Now my head is tilted and I am given water. I am not sure if I should try to speak. When the woman speaks it’s as though she finds me not entirely awake, not fully conscious, and certainly she assumes that I will not comprehend. She talks with complete ease, entirely to herself. I like this also. It makes me feel as though I have access to her private thoughts. Am I bad? I am sure she would speak less freely if she knew that I am actually quite alert just now. The only exception to her assumption is when she encourages me to wake enough that I might drink, or when she is cooing me, as she does now, but even that is done in the manner assumed when someone is very sick and when, most likely, they are not terribly aware of what goes on. But I am seriously glad that I am finally sufficiently conscious to enjoy this experience. Of course it must also have been wonderful (and certainly it was incredibly kind) that this took place when I was truly sick, but of the times I can recall it was only in some minor and momentary sense, whereas now I feel it as a prolonged and full experience and it is truly blissful.

  I keep myself as still as possible that she is not aware that I am now completely awake and fully understand.

  She says that though she is pleased by various signs of progress she is worried about my mind; she hopes that I may still make a full recovery. She pauses and then adds that she believes it is entirely possible but thinks there is still some way to go. She needs to see some signs that my mind is active, and she intends to work on this when I begin to respond and display a true awareness. She hopes to be able to pay me visits with greater regularity in order to achieve this. This is thoroughly exciting! I am eager to talk to her, but I remain silent and completely still.

  By now I am dying to show her the boxes and the prototypes and explain my plans for them. I suppose I want to impress her. I want to explain how I intend to work on the cardboard dwellings, and the next stage in my plans, how I want these to be clever and dynamic dwellings that might be adapted to all kinds of situations. But for now I do not utter a word, not even a sound, I don’t know why ... but that’s a lie. I know why more clearly than I know anything. I want to lay here with her soft hand upon my head, hearing only the sound of her sweet voice, and her ideas for me uttered in that wonderfully warm and round and caring tone. I can’t tell you how amazing this is after all I have suffered, all that I have been through. I am selfish and wretched, I know. I take advantage, but only for now, for just this brief time. I lay in my nest and wrestle away my conscience. I drift into a heavy sleep as though I have drunk the night long on my favourite beer, my head caressed so tenderly. And I feel ... truly drunk just now ... on life.

  6.

  It seems that I have wrestled my conscience away quite well, for each day, having taken good note of the woman’s visits (which now rarely seem to waver), I have positioned myself in my cotton nest and arranged myself in a way that suggests my still weakened state. I do not speak at all, and when she tries, as she has begun most recently, to elicit a response, I give none. And this is easily explained, but it is important to note that it is not some perverted desire of mine to be bathed and cared for by a woman when there is no longer need, nor it is my desire to be fed as though she is my slave or servant. Nothing could be further from my mind. I simply don’t want her to leave. I don’t want her visits to end. That’s it.

  If she realises that I am already doing well, recovering at a rate faster than she expects, then after just a few more brief visits to check that I am still making progress and have not relapsed, she will certainly cease to come. I like her. That’s how it is. And I am not afraid to admit it. Of course it is easy to like a person because they are kind and gentle and so on, and I appreciate these virtues enormously. But there is something more. I like her company, I have come to depend on her visits, and I have fallen for the tender heart she displays towards this stranger. She is immensely intelligent; endlessly, I would say wildly, curious about the world, really she talks about such tremendously interesting things, and I could lie here and listen and listen ... and so, and so? I do. And I couldn’t bear it if it stopped. I am not that used to being in the company of such a clever person. Yumi was only about as clever as myself. But this woman is really someone special. I can’t tell you how painful it has become trying to hold out from speaking with her. But I know that almost as soon as any recovery is revealed it will signify the end. Of course, I am far from being in complete good health, but I am also very far from dying. I could most certainly fend for myself by now, and day by day I continue to progress and get stronger. Spring is here and so the coldness is no longer a threat, and there is really no need for anyone to worry about me or go out of their way, but I cannot give her up! It is entirely ridiculous, I know. She is not mine. She is not mine to give up. But I can’t help but feel attached. I am wrong, I know. But I cannot allow myself to think of just how wrong I am or I will be forced to put it right, and I’m not ready to. I’m not going to.

  The matter of maintaining the appearance of one who is still far from recovered is not always easy. In fact, it causes me trouble. For in between visits I can no longer simply lie about and rest the day and night through. I am up and about and have been examining the paper prototypes downstairs and have accumulated a considerable pile of fresh notes. I have also begun to refigure the plans for the box house. At first I was easily tired from all the activity but as the days have gone on I have been able to do more and more. But I cannot actually put my plans into action for fear that the woman might look around the other rooms and find the things that I’ve been working on. It becomes insanely frustrating.

  To lie sick for so very long and achieve nothing is utterly crushing. And so the moment you feel the energy rise inside you again, you can barely wait to get on with things, to re-join life, to rediscover all that you used to do, to redefine what you might do, refigure how things might be. So much excitement! And trying to suppress this is increasingly difficult and often very uncomfortable. On top of this, neither can I sneak downstairs and prepare myself a little extra rice or so, again for fear of this being discovered. By now, you see, I am actually needing rather more food than the woman has brought me (though I hasten to add that I am in no way ungrateful). She does not know that I am expending all this energy and now have need of much more sustenance. And then, the most obvious part of all of this is that I must remain entirely vigilant in case Lightfoot or anyone else decides to pay a visit, delivering something, or else checking on the vagrant hiding out in their quake-challenged dwelling.

  Sneaking about like this, in a place that has by now become my home, is really becoming stressful, in fact, it is more so since
I have begun to recover, but there is no other way. And so, when I anticipate the woman’s next visit I have to make sure that my tracks are well covered; that my notes are hidden, that if they were found they would not appear to be especially new (I dirty my feet and walk about on them in the hopes of giving them an aged appearance); flattening out the sheet on the futon that you cannot tell I have taken a brief rest there (and this I do because I have longed so much to lie upon something more comfortable than my nest upstairs); and then I must check the place over, doing my utmost to ensure that it looks just as it did when she left the last time. I can only hope that she does not grow too suspicious of this man who now gains weight and whose skin must surely radiate a healthier glow – still no hair, but that will come soon I expect.

  So strange, I fall for a woman I have not met and have not even seen. I might not like her face, and yet I don’t believe that’s possible.

  I know this cannot go on much longer, but just a few more days, I tell myself, for I will hate it when she’s gone. How ridiculous I am. Takeo Tanaka, a ridiculous lovesick man. I cover my eyes in shame, but at the same time I smile, I cannot help it, I begin to notice a feeling I have not had for a very long time, for I notice I am happy.

  7.

  During the woman’s last visit, it was clear that she was becoming somewhat frustrated at my lack of improvement and indeed my lack of response in general: I do not move, my eyes do not open, and I do not speak, in fact I seem to register very little awareness at all. She struggles to make sense of this as I eat so well these days. She refuses to be beaten, and has devised some brilliant activities to try and encourage progress. This has included storytelling, and though often I find I easily drift back to sleep, I am wonderfully grateful, and the stories are always the most seamless pathway to dreaming. She has also hung the most beautiful decorations from high up, that they are easily visible as I lie here: delicate cut-out paper creations of cherry blossom and edible springtime plants, and butterflies – they flutter above me as the breeze catches them. But by far the most impressive of these innovations has been the arrangement of various clothing: trousers, shirts, hats, kimonos and fans as though they are in fact people. She seeks to provide me with a sense of community and society, that I should feel I have some company. She talked all the while she arranged them, and for that I am glad, for if I had risen after she had left and simply found these ‘figures’ gathered all around, I’m sure they would have startled me in the darkness.

  As she assembled each one she explained how she hoped the figures would provide some positive stimulus, perhaps towards encouraging me to feel relaxed and comfortable enough to speak; but above all she hoped it would help me find the place less lonely during the times that she is not here, for she had a job to run to, and must guard carefully against losing it or things would really turn quite bad. She wondered, just briefly, that if this were to happen whether she might not end up quite like me. But she would not let her mind rest on such a terrifying thought. Quite right, I thought. Quite right.

  I cannot explain just how much I admire her. If I were a young woman tending a sick and spindly man who seems more capable of vomiting than conversation, I would run. Why doesn’t she run? Why does she do this? It makes no sense. If nothing else, I imagine I would have become insanely bored by such a man, and caring for him. But then it has also crossed my mind that she ought to have called on someone professional to intervene. Her behaviour, as thoughtful as it is, seems altogether too eccentric to be that of any traditional nurse. And surely a nurse would have alerted someone and had me taken to a hospital. Why hasn’t she done that? Made a call and had me taken in? I’m sure she’s neither a doctor nor a nurse, for they are generally quite obedient types, they follow rules, don’t they? And they would at some stage of my demise have thought to have me taken to a more sanitary place where I might receive direct and particular medical care, special care, tailored to my condition. It has also crossed my mind, that regardless of her profession, she might still have thought to tell someone. Strange. Still, it seems she has certainly got me past the worst of things entirely by herself, medically trained or not. And by now, this really ought to be the homestretch, I can see that, and there wouldn’t be any point in alerting anyone. And yet she does not know of my recovery. So her concern should be all the greater. Yes! For she has commented on the time it takes. Is it pure stubbornness that prevents her asking someone for help, alerting the authorities? Has she set herself a task and will see it through at all costs, even if I die? She is much like myself in that regard. I see that. I don’t know her reasons, and I don’t actually want anyone else involved, any greater intervention, certainly not in any official capacity, and so perhaps that’s it, perhaps she is somehow aware of my predicament in a fuller sense. She sees things as they are: as far as she can tell I am a vagrant, a homeless man, a man with no stake in society, no place, no relationships, and no real occupation. Judging by my condition and circumstances it might have seemed like easy detective work. But what is clear is that despite my desperate situation, and my illegal occupation of this dwelling (not to mention any further crimes I may unwittingly be guilty of), she does not turn me in – even if it would mean that I might more readily and conveniently be tended to. I find this both wonderful and beautiful, and yet entirely bizarre, bordering on suspicious. I hope this is not some terribly elaborate scheme. Some strange plan plotted by some shapeshifter come to cause me trouble. Am I lulled into a false sense of security by some demon who now cunningly adopts a comforting form only to trap me in some relentless nightmare later on? For the first time in days I feel my heart again too clearly. It jumps in a way that draws my attention. I reach for breath. The mouse begins to splutter as he falters, his feet barely able to make contact with the pedals. I place my hand upon my chest and hope to calm things. It’s not good to carry these thoughts. I don’t remember that I ever had such a ridiculously pronounced suspicious streak. What happens to me? It’s no good. I sense myself falling, and dark thoughts move in on me.

  I am, by now, must be – twenty-six, and yet I feel a shift of some forty years and not merely this matter of months. Forty years, and a life skipped over, not experienced; and evinced by demise not celebrated with stories, the chapters of a life. Again the sensation of a life compressed, a life collapsed in on itself. It’s wholly unfair!

  I have smacked my hand to my mouth. I uttered the last thought aloud. I issued a scream. I also jumped high. I can’t answer for it. An eruption. A splitting of voice from soul. I have crouched down so low on the floor now away from the window in the insane hope that no one heard me, that no one looked up. What a fool I am. It pierced. It was something primal. My throat left sore from it. The throat hurts but I am laughing, trying to contain the sound, at the same time, I am crying. From some place deep inside emotions pour.

  It is so long since I have heard the sound of my own voice, it is strange to hear it as such a pure scream. I have not heard the sounds I can make, outside my own head, in such a very long time. The sound of the voice that I have long accepted as mine is the one inside my skull. And that voice is quite unlike the one that emits the scream. And yet I know it to be mine.

  I had better keep still awhile. No one has come here, but they might. I must try to keep quiet.

  I feel a sudden apprehension about my recovery. Utterly strange, for having lain so long, been ill so long, desperate, and in every conceivable sense thrown away, you would expect only to be thrilled to feel well again, but that isn’t quite what it feels like. It’s rather as though I visit myself, and do not find the guy I was expecting.

  I emerge in an altered state, of course, but it’s not how I thought it would be. I think back to the boxes, and the coding – my inadequate repair work. Flaws … so many flaws in my labours. Flaws inside flaws, then accidents that seem to work, that move things on, that open things up, that reveal some small but significant detail, a seed for something more. Rarely is there only ever a total falling away, a com
plete failing. Nothing ever is entirely failed. Is that the case? Something might be damaged, shot through with errors, ridden with defects, but perhaps never can I say a thing simply has no use at all.

  Whether a better or a lesser man, I cannot tell. I am altered by the events and circumstance of these past months, and I expect, by some substantial degree. It is simply that I would hope to be a better man. My deepest fear is that my naiveté will find itself replaced by nothing more than suspicion, suspicion and a deep cynicism, and whatever kindness I was capable of may have been overwritten by selfishness and self-obsession. Improvements are one thing, but it is not that useful if I have been through all of this only to come out less than the man I was. It is still close to impossible to alleviate my anxiety. My mood shifts as though it runs the edge of a half moon, about to take flight at one moment, about to plummet at the next. I am going to have to monitor myself as much as possible and make sure to keep myself in check. This has to include my behaviour as regards the woman, and I now refuse to give in to the tempting thought that there is anything underhand in her actions; I think I will truly enter some entropic state if I continue to succumb to a run of suspicious thoughts and mean-minded reasoning.

  If only I knew her name, I am sure it is easier to think badly of someone when you don’t know them in some usual way. Whilst someone remains in the realm of the stranger it is all too easy to paint them with whatever traces of deviancy you want to. I see this in my own character quite intensely. Bitching about this woman that I do not know. I get a choking sensation. For if she were ceramic, perhaps just a fragile pot, it seems that in a certain moment, I would simply smash her to pieces.