by Jayne Joso
Nothing! I am nothing but a small man, getting smaller. How messed up is it, that rather than reveal my improved condition and begin the lifetime’s worth of thanks I owe, I have taken advantage of her incredible good will? It’s indefensible. It has to stop! I must thank her, allow her to see what an excellent job she has done. I will show her that I can not only sit up but that I can in fact walk and do most ordinary tasks entirely unaided.
Imagine then, that upon her next visit, she will be greeted by the fruits of her great patience and labour. She will see the strength returned to me, the energy and spirit, and we will talk and talk and talk. And then surely we will share a meal as normal people do. It will be a feast, the atmosphere of a very great celebration, a party. And in this happy atmosphere we will forge a friendship at the very least.
8.
Overnight my ambitions have continued to grow, and I know that until she returns again my mind will run on, and truly, I see no reason that once we have shared in some sensible time together, by which I mean: engaged in conversation and in the proper activity of developing the box dwelling to a finished state, for certainly she will be interested in this, why we should not reasonably develop deeper feelings. Then, as I move back into society and take up a position as a normal, moderate member, I expect we will make plans to share our lives together. We will find a house. We will make a house. Who knows, it might be entirely of cardboard. It makes full sense, for she is clearly enamoured with the prototypes, for who else had sheltered them so well and arranged them so beautifully in the room down there? It is possible that I am getting ahead of myself, and it does no good and is not respectful for one person to make all the plans for two, but these will merely be suggestions. If she would prefer to live in a wooden dwelling or concrete, then I am sure I can be flexible.
It is so exciting to permit your mind to draw the map of ‘how it might be’. Truly it fills my heart and I am almost drawn to tears.
I question whether the case I make is ridiculous, but I would have to argue that the evidence of this woman’s natural care for me is of an unusually altruistic nature, and one that seems full of affection, and every last bit of this has to be factored in. For what kind of person would take such tender and devoted care of someone they do not know? She is not employed in this capacity, for who would be paying her to do this? She is not obliged in any familial sense, and is no friend of mine (and though I have known kindness from friends, the scale of this is far out of the ordinary), neither is she my girlfriend (not yet, at least), so why, oh why should she care, unless having happened upon this place and finding me inside, she perhaps took pity in the first instance and later found she had feelings for the silent man? Don’t pity and altruism have limits? For certain they do. And so I am sure her care is for reasons other than charity alone. There has also been too great a display of thought and imagination, I would even call it creativity. And so it’s clear, it’s perfectly clear that she has feelings that are far beyond those of simple caring.
My mind settles again on how much I admire her, and quickly I feel stifled by thoughts of losing her, though I know I’ve no right.
But I realise now that if I confess what I have done – that I have hidden the true level of recovery from her – she will surely, and rightly, fly into a rage and leave immediately, and even without a display of anger, for certain she will not come back. But I have to do it, I have to tell her everything. My mind moves through the consequences of so much honesty. I have made my lip bleed from biting it. I know that I can take things to extremes; perhaps I miss something, some detail that would permit a partial explanation, some middle way. The consequences arm themselves. My head begins to ache. The burden of guilt. And I don’t hit upon the detail that I need.
I don’t know how to manage this, how to find a reasonable route. I think of possible outcomes. The pressure grows inside my head. Haven’t I suffered enough? I cannot escape the sense I have of the loss of time, as though I am old, and this feeling that some decades have been sucked out of my life, and that I am left with only the poor remainder. I cannot get it back! I might never recover the level of strength and the passion I once had, and yet this woman cares for me without this. I hear my aunt, she tells me to grow up, to accept what has happened, to do the right and honest thing. But I know that I will misuse this advice, that I will twist the words, I see that. It is entirely with my own interests in mind that I act. I feel a modicum of shame in this, but truly, what sense would there be in having this woman run away? Making her disappointed in me? Making her feel that she helped a selfish and self-indulgent man? A man quite so unworthy. Well, I had better stop. That’s far too much honesty already, it swells my brain. If I carry on I will doubtless find myself writing my crimes and all my private thoughts in large print and flying them outside this house for all to see. Thoughts can really tangle a head in knots. Tying it down. Strangling it. Suffocating the life inside. I have decided on a reasonable way forward and that is the route I choose!
In any case, this woman deserves more than to be let down by me at the last moment. I want her to find me to be all the things she deserves me to be. If things go as well as I hope, surely I need never let her down again. She need never know how much I kept back, or for how long. She can find me recovered, for sure. But I can make the recovery appear to be a far more recent event, occurring perhaps in just the last days, then there will be no need of confession, no need of reprimand, there will be no reason to get angry or to reject our friendship, in fact there doesn’t need to be any bad feeling at all.
I am very animated now, if I’m not careful she will enter again too quietly and I will be discovered in some celebratory dance, a bamboo hat upon my head. I should try to sleep awhile, and when she next arrives I must appear only to have made a minor improvement. This I will do incrementally over a number of days, slowly revealing a man returning to health at a realistically steady pace.
9.
I didn’t expect that she would come back so soon, but literally, just as I laid myself down I sensed her presence, fortunately right now she remains downstairs. She is not as quiet as Lightfoot, but she is small in stature, and she moves about with the precision of a dancer. Things are tidied away down there, and thankfully I had not just gone down there myself. It might not be long before she comes up, so I had better calm my breathing, right now it is heavy enough to hear.
She climbs the stairs. Silence. A too long silence. I lie beneath a sheet. Breathe but quietly, Takeo. Quietly and slow. She moves something, and now I am newly fearful. I remember that I moved one of the bamboo hats. I played around with it, seeing how it felt upon my head. It belongs to one of the figures that she made and I did not put it back. With nothing else to represent the very top of that figure it will now appear headless. What are the chances that she will not notice? A head is missing. I will have to explain it, and then I will confess. There’s no point in adding lies to the scene. A head is missing, and the next will be mine. I can barely breathe. I have to come clean. It’s always the fine detail that catches people out, and I will just have to take it.
What happens? Stabbed! I am stabbed! My leg! I don’t breathe, the pain is crazy. I have opened my eyes but so far cannot see. And I have screamed out so loud I fear I have shaken up this house as though for the very last time. Surely the roof falls in. Such a blinding pain. I catch my breath. It makes no sense. What happened?
My vision starts to clear and I see now, though some measure away from me, the implement, the weapon. Not even a knife. I have been stabbed, hard, in the leg with a chopstick. A chopstick. I have no idea how to describe this pain. Torturous, insane-makingly painful. My stomach has gone into spasm and I am infuriated by the sheer humiliation of this – finding you have not even been attacked with a true weapon, but only some ordinary domestic tool! Savage! Truly savage! I wish my eyes would more clearly focus that I might make a full assessment of what goes on here. That stabbing was issued with such force, pure sweet madness! If I had no
t been caught so unawares, I now have strength enough to defend myself, and I would do so! But this surprise attack, so deeply savage in the delivery, has left me nauseous and crippled in pain.
I gather myself, and now I am drawn to wonder whether the attack is over? Is there a second strike to come? More? Am I to be killed?
I have pulled my knees up and find that I am retching. Takeo Tanaka! I hear my name called out, firm and loud. It is a voice that I know – not possible – but when finally, my eyes allow themselves reliably to see, they settle on a face. It is Shizuka, the woman from my office.
10.
When I saw my attacker, the pain was forgotten, and though I was shocked, I was hugely relieved to find that it was Shizuka and not Yumi or any crazed man. But still, and to my surprise, she kept her position, crouched, one foot outstretched, ready to strike me again, perhaps this time with different moves.
When she was sure that I recognised her she rose up and stepped back, and choosing deep tones, she issued the most severe lecture.
It was not the bamboo hat that had given me away. I had been far more careless. Far more. I had left an impression on the futon downstairs, giving away the time I had spent resting there; I had begun to assemble a cardboard dwelling, and had left plenty of evidence of this ... I had also left a trail of cooked rice – exactly how active had I been? I had no memory of this. Added to which, she had gone through my notes – not hidden as well as I had hoped – but truly these are private things and I disliked the idea that she had so easily taken to rummaging, and so, she was quite aware of the remarkable progress I had made – and hidden! And so, the hat was a very minor piece of evidence by comparison. What she found particularly vexing was the fact that I must have been recovering at quite a formidable rate over quite some days, and yet I had allowed her to stay in the dark and worry. I had also lain here as though still entirely incapacitated and terribly ill whilst she troubled herself with ever more complex ideas with which to stimulate and re-fire my mind, my interest in the world, my imagination, anything at all... Like a fool, I interrupted, I uttered only one word, but I should not have. Remarkable, I said, feeling both moved and humbled. She took it that I was mocking her. I was not. But I realised it seemed that way, especially in view of my deceit. I trusted her. Even jabbing me in the leg was a master stroke, it was almost a kind of enlightenment to me. I had sunk so deeply into myself, what better way to snap me out! I did not say this. But I shouldn’t have said anything. It was clear it would not go well.
After she had stopped speaking we both kept silent. Marking one another, though I soon let my gaze fall. I felt terrible. A great tiredness hit me, and then I felt rather emotional, but more than anything I felt a sense of indescribable awkwardness.
My thoughts settled inside themselves again. Shizuka noticed. She said I must be tired out after being scolded like that, but still, I deserved it, and the chopstick attack was probably as big a shock as it was painful. I didn’t want her to be sorry, or to retract anything. I felt like shit but I was tired and embarrassed and felt I couldn’t trust myself to behave in a reasonable way, or to say something appropriate, and so I kept quiet. I stared at the floor.
Shizuka knelt down close. Just the sound of breathing for a while. Some tension. I swallowed on a dry throat, and coughed awhile. She passed me some water. I took the cup. I held it a moment, observing the liquid, wanting to drink. Then I looked straight into her eyes. So strange to have this kind of contact after so very long. The friend, the cup. My neck tingled and I had to look away. I sipped the water. Nodded my thanks. Put the cup down. I looked at her again, risking the eye-contact, and this time we both started to laugh, and I began to cry. She took me in her arms and held me so gently but close. I could hear my breathing, and for a moment I looked around, thinking it was Cat. He wasn’t around. I said I ought to get myself up and perhaps make some tea, and we laughed again.
My sudden retreat into formality was strange, as though this really was my house, my home, and Shizuka a visiting guest. She would rather have a beer in any case, and we ought to celebrate, for no matter how it came about, a sick man was now very much improving, in fact, he was doing rather well; and two good colleagues were becoming aware that their ordinary workplace chatter had in fact been grand preparation for a much greater, much deeper friendship. A true and real friendship. Boxes, I said inwardly. It’s all about boxes. Happy fat tears galloped down my cheeks. They were streaked with joy, and sweet.
Shizuka cleansed the wound to my leg. I was embarrassed at this, now in the full knowledge of her identity. Embarrassed in a way I never was before. Strange to think I had laid back and permitted all kinds of intimacy whilst content that we were strangers.
She joked about my skin, that despite my recovery, it was still thin and pale like shoji paper. I smiled at this but I didn’t laugh. I wished I looked much better.
After dressing the wound, which I ought to have done myself, Shizuka set out to fetch some beers. We had speculated as to the condition of my stomach, and whether it would be strong enough to cope with alcohol just yet. We agreed that it was surely time to test it.
Almost as soon as she was gone my head set off on a crazed, delusional highway. I wasn’t sure if any of this had really happened. Perhaps just parts were real, others imagined? But the wound would smart again, I would place my hand near the dressing, bizarrely finding the pain reassuring, proof enough that things had happened just as I remembered them. I hoped.
I lay myself down again. Stared at the space ahead. There were easily a dozen questions that I wanted answers to, and fast, and I became quite frantic when the idea slashed through my head that she might now, not come back! Still I couldn’t reliably measure time, and though I had been attacked, suddenly I questioned, was it really her? Could a shapeshifter adopt a phantom shape that appears as someone I know? Could I have conjured her image whilst some other being moved about this place and tended me? Attacked me? And if it was truly her, what now? Anxiety spliced right through me.
She would return.
She would not return.
Once she left the house she would have time to reflect. There were so many reasons for her to be so very angry; and so far I had been let off quite well. By now she would have given it deeper thought, walking and thinking, mulling over my behaviour, and for sure she would take the decision that she wasn’t coming back. I rolled around sweating, immune by now to the pain in my leg. Then sounds. The window in the kitchen down below, bottles as they nudged one another, glass upon glass. I breathed. Wiped my face and arms.
I touched my head as though to tidy my hair, still none. I sat up and waited as steadily she climbed the stairs.
Was my leg alright, now? It was, I said. I truly didn’t care. She set out some snacks and had brought up cups for the beer. She didn’t realise, she didn’t know the thoughts that had ridden my head like an ass. We drank. I sipped, just slowly, then taking a gulp, reminded of a taste I had long missed. And we talked. I cannot say of what, it doesn’t matter, but it was just as it was in the days when I was the Box Man back in the office, for I remembered now more clearly that we had talked and talked so often, and later we had shared in the food she would at times return with. And everything was easy. That’s what I remember. I drank more beer. This is what true friendship is, I thought. That you can talk and talk and talk, you are comfortably engrossed, you feel at rest but sense a simple kind of joy. What a thing. What a very special thing.
But how had she known where I was? How did she find me? My mind shifted back to my monumental list of questions, and my voice now freshly oiled, poured them out. And why did it matter that I had left the office? And just how long had she been taking care of me? And why? And was it only her? Always her? Were there others? Did anyone see her come and go? Had she seen Cat? Did she know Cello? She did not answer. But sat looking from the window onto the temple grounds below. For a moment she appeared to bear the attitude and shape of Cat. But still the sound of my voice, as the
frantic list ran on: was she still employed at that office? Had she moved to another job? Was that alright? Was she treated well enough? Why did she enter through the window? And truly, as I asked at the very beginning, how did she know about this place?
She laughed at me, drew nearer, and filled my cup again and again. She would not answer.
Didn’t I remember? That I had told her about this place, on the far outskirts of town, and in great detail? Not only that, but I had told her the story again and again, and with some pride – how I’d found myself in this place after some long night of partying with co-workers, how much we drank at bar after bar, how I had stayed on the train drunk, had fallen asleep and long since missed my stop; and, finding myself lost, how I had slept in some falling-down dwelling, and despite its dilapidated state, how I had enjoyed one of the best night’s sleep a man could hope for. Then later, when she heard that I had left, she picked up on some gossip ... speculation ... versions ... and then she had her own idea ... and finally, finally she came looking. But why? After how long? She did not answer, she stroked her arm, tilted her head. She moved closer again. Small pauses filtered into our exchange, and in these I think each of us looked distant, pulling back again with caution, with care.
It seemed she left the company shortly after my own departure, I didn’t pry about the circumstances, and for a brief period she had time on her hands. She said she grew curious about trying to find the house. She hadn’t truly expected to find me in it, except for the case that I had drunkenly stumbled in once more and taken up residence perhaps again for just the odd night, but my description of the place had intrigued her. I put down my cup and lay back down. I watched the light as it moved over the timbers high up. I would rather believe, and so I do, that she was deliberately seeking me out, and, that she missed me. Why not? And what’s so intriguing about some old house that’s falling down?
