“Please make up with your father. I want you two to get along.”
SATURDAY: IF I DISAPPEARED FROM THE WORLD
I don’t know whether I’m happy or unhappy. But there’s one thing I do know. You can convince yourself to be happy or unhappy. It just depends on how you choose to see things.
When I woke up the next morning Cabbage was asleep next to me. I could feel his soft fur, and hear his little heart beating away. So cats hadn’t disappeared from the world. That meant that I was going to disappear from the world.
If I disappeared from the world . . . I tried to imagine what it would be like. I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have ever happened. Everyone dies eventually. The fatality rate is 100%. So when you think about it in that way, whether it’s a happy death or an unhappy death depends on how you’ve lived your life.
Again my mother’s words came back to me:
“In order to gain something you have to lose something.”
In exchange for my life, I made mobile phones, movies, and clocks disappear from the world, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of cats. I realize that it might seem stupid for me to give up my own life for cats. But that’s just the way it is. It’s who I am. There was a real possibility that I was some kind of idiot, but I really don’t get any satisfaction out of extending my life in exchange for other people losing something they hold very dear. For me, cats are no different from the sun and the ocean and the air we breathe. So I have decided to stop making things disappear from the world. I have decided to accept the life that has been given to me exactly as it is, even though it seemed like it would be on the rather short side. So that means that I’m going to die soon.
When Cabbage and I got home last night Aloha was waiting for us. He wore his usual loud outfit—Hawaiian shirt and shorts, with a pair of sporty sunglasses perched on his forehead. I was annoyed to see him, but on the other hand, a part of me found seeing the same old outfit almost reassuring. It’s kind of frightening how easily you get used to things.
“Hey, where the hell were you? I thought maybe you’d been spirited away or something. I was about to lodge a missing person’s report with the man upstairs.”
“Sorry.”
“Whoa there, what happened? Lost your mojo? You gotta jump right in there and get back into the groove.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, it’s OK. No worries. Let’s just get on with it. Time to erase . . . you know what . . .”
Aloha pointed his finger at Cabbage and began humming a cheerful tune.
“I won’t do it.”
“Huh?”
“I said I won’t do it. I won’t make cats disappear.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’m serious.”
I looked at Aloha’s surprised expression and couldn’t help laughing.
“What’s so funny? You’re gonna die, man. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. I’m OK with that. I’m not going to make any more things disappear.”
“But you can live a lot longer.”
Aloha looked disappointed.
“Yeah, but just being alive doesn’t mean all that much on its own. How you live is more important.”
Aloha retreated into silence. Then after staring at my face for a long time he opened his mouth to speak.
“Well . . . looks like I’ve lost to God again. Man, humans! Can’t do anything with them.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing . . . forget it. It’s my loss. Go ahead and die if you want to!”
“Hey, that’s not nice! Although of course, I am going to die.”
I laughed, and then Aloha started to laugh too.
“Well, I guess we’ll be going our separate ways now, huh?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Strangely enough, I’m kind of sad.”
“Yeah, me too. You were a really interesting guy.”
“You too . . . a real funny devil!”
“Don’t get me started!”
“By the way, what does the Devil normally look like?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, actually, I don’t really have any one specific form.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Devil only exists in the hearts and minds of humans. Then you humans express that in lots of different forms. It’s kind of random. Like with horns and a pitchfork, or in the form of a dragon.”
“Ah, I see now.”
“Though I take particular exception to the horns and pitchfork—I mean, give me a break! It’s just bad taste, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, you’re right about that one.”
“I don’t like that look at all.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“So you see, the form I take all depends on your imagination. The devil in your heart looks just like you.”
“But your personality is totally different to mine.”
“Hmmm, yes. But I think that’s the important bit. In other words, I’m the person you could have been.”
“In what sense?”
“It’s the side of yourself that you never showed. You know, cheerful but shallow, wearing flashy clothes, doing whatever you wanted without worrying about what other people would think—saying whatever you want, no matter how inappropriate.”
“Yeah . . . the total opposite of me.”
“Right. I’m made up of all those little regrets in life. Like, what if, whenever you reached a fork in the road in life, you’d gone the other way? What would have happened? Who would you have become? That’s what the Devil is all about. It’s what you wanted to become but couldn’t. It’s both the closest thing and the farthest thing from who you are.”
“So . . . do you think I turned out OK?”
“Hey, I’m not exactly the best person to be putting that question to!”
“I wonder if I’ll have any regrets when it comes time to die.”
“Oh, of course you will. You want to live, right? You might even beg the Devil to come back! Humans tend to regret the life they never lived, the choices they never made.”
Those who know they will die tomorrow live to the fullest in the limited time they have.
That’s what some people say, but I tend to disagree. When a person becomes aware of their impending death, they have to make a compromise between the life they wish they could have led, and the reality of death. Sure there are all the little regrets, the broken dreams, but you have to go easy on yourself, and be flexible. Having had the chance to make things disappear from the world in order to gain just one more day of life, I’ve come to realize that there’s a certain beauty in those regrets. Because it’s proof of having lived. I won’t eliminate anything more from the world. And I may regret it at the moment I actually die, but that’s OK with me. No matter how you look at it, life is full of regrets anyway.
I was never able to be completely myself or live my life in exactly the way I wanted to. I’m not sure I ever even figured out what exactly “being myself” really meant. So I’ll die with all those failures and regrets, all those unfulfilled dreams—all the people I never met, the things I never tasted, the places I’ve never been. But that doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m satisfied with who I am and how I’ve lived. I’m happy to have been here at all. Where else but here could I have been?
The last week has been so strange—first finding out I didn’t have long to live, and then the Devil appearing, and making things disappear from the world in order to give me another day of life. It’s kind of like the apple that was offered to Adam and Eve, a bet between God and the Devil. Maybe what God was really asking me to consider wasn’t the value of the things I was making disappear, but the value of my own life.
God created the world in six days, and in the same number of days I went and made things disappear, one at a time. But I couldn’t bring myself to make cats disappear, and instead I de
cided that I would become no more. And soon I’ll have my day of rest too.
Seeing me deep in thought like this the Devil laughed at me.
“In the end you came to know exactly how wonderful life is. You became aware of who the most important people to you are, and the value of lots of other important, irreplaceable things. You traveled around the world you live in and saw it anew. And you found that despite the boredom and routine of that world, there is a real beauty in it. That on its own makes my having come here worth it.”
“But I’m going to die soon.”
“Probably so. But one thing’s for sure. You’re happy now that you’ve realized that.”
“I wish I would have realized that sooner.”
“Yeah, but no one really knows exactly how long their life will be. It could be another few days or it could be a few months. It’s the same with everyone. No one knows exactly how long they’re going to live.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“So there’s really no such thing as too late or too soon.”
“That’s a nice way of thinking about it.”
“Don’t you think so? Anyway, I just thought I’d throw that in as an extra freebie since this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other. Make sure the last thing you do is done with passion. Go all the way! Well, it’s time now. Goodbye!”
Aloha said goodbye in his usual complete lack of seriousness, he gave me a wink (that is, his poor imitation of a wink) and then he was gone. Cabbage let out a sad-sounding meow.
Then I began to get my affairs in order. I was preparing to die. First I cleaned my room and threw away anything unnecessary. I got rid of embarrassing diaries, out-of-date clothing, and photos I hadn’t been able to part with until now. Fragments of my life appearing and then disappearing. I wondered whether Aloha would have given me an extension on my life if I had thrown away things like this. But anyway, I had no regrets. I was relieved now that I didn’t need to make anything else disappear. I threw away all kinds of things that brought back memories while Cabbage did his best to get in the way. By the time I was done it was evening.
Orange rays of light spilled in through the window, landing on the metallic box sitting on top of the dining-room table. I’d found the box deep inside the wardrobe. It was a shabby old thing that had, at one time, contained cookies. It was my box of treasures from when I was a little kid. I stared at it for a while. It held things that were important to me at one time, and I’d completely forgotten about its existence. Whatever was in it, I probably wouldn’t consider it treasure at this point in my life.
People are fickle that way. Something they once valued becomes meaningless to them almost overnight. Even the most treasured presents, letters, and beautiful memories are forgotten about, becoming useless odds and ends. Long ago I had sealed my treasures in this box along with my memories. I hesitated over opening it. I couldn’t do it. I went out instead.
I left the apartment and headed to the funeral home. I decided to plan my own service. The funeral home was on the far edge of town and had an elegant ceremonial hall, showing just how lucrative this business was. I talked to the salesman and discussed their various packages. The salesman was warm and understanding when I explained my circumstances, and went through the fees for the various items. I would have to buy a portable Buddhist altar, a coffin, flowers, a portrait of myself to display by the coffin, an urn for my ashes, a Buddhist tablet, a hearse, and of course I’d have to pay for the cremation. It all came to 1,500,000 yen. This is how much it would cost for one small funeral, which I was obviously paying for myself. Everything cost something—the cotton stuffed in the corpse’s nose, the dry ice placed in the coffin, and so on. The blow-by-blow explanation seemed to go on and on.
The dry ice alone (put in the coffin so that the body won’t decay) would cost 8,400 yen per day. So stupid! Each of the items was ranked with a breakdown of the price given. Even after death there’s a scale you’re graded against! What awful creatures we humans are!
But it doesn’t stop there. You can also go for options like natural wood, or it can be carved, lined with suede, or even lacquered—cost per item anything from 50,000 to 1,000,000 yen!
The salesman led me into a dimly lit room where they displayed the coffins. I tried to imagine myself inside of one of those things. My funeral. But who would come? Let’s see . . . friends, former lovers, relatives, former teachers, colleagues . . . and how many of these people would really grieve for me? And when it came time for the eulogy, what would they say about me?
He was a nice and funny guy, or he was lazy, impatient, hot-headed, unpopular, a loser who couldn’t get a date.
What will they talk about? What memories will they share as they gather around my casket?
Thinking about this I started to wonder. What had I given to the people around me while I was alive? What would I be leaving behind? My whole life will be summed up in those moments that I won’t be around to see—the time after I’m dead. In all the thirty years I’d been alive this was the first time I’d ever thought about this. My whole existence had taken place within this little sliver of time that sat between two much larger chunks of time—during which I didn’t exist. It’s been within this narrow slice that I have made my mark . . . for whatever it’s worth.
I returned home to a space that, after the cleaning and organizing, seemed as if it had been hollowed out. Cabbage came up to me and meowed again and again, as if complaining about having been left alone there. The apartment was so empty now, there was something eerie about it. I placed the raw tuna I’d bought at the fish shop in the old shopping district on a plate. Cabbage signaled his pleasure with an odd-sounding meow as if to say, “Indeed, you have finally gathered my meaning!” Then he started gobbling down the tuna.
While Cabbage was busy eating I picked up the old cookie container on the table and stared at it for a while. Then finally I opened it. This is where I kept all my hopes and dreams as a boy. It was my stamp collection.
There were stamps of all colors and sizes from around the world. All at once the memories began flooding in. They were memories of my father. When I was a small boy my father bought me a collection of Olympic commemorative stamps. They were small and colorful, and too special to use for mailing letters. After that, my father often brought me presents of stamps. Small and large stamps, Japanese stamps and stamps from foreign countries. My father was so shy and reserved, he rarely spoke. So the stamps became a kind of way for us to communicate. It’s strange, but it’s almost as if I understood what he was thinking about depending on the kind of stamps he gave me.
When I was in elementary school my father traveled to Europe with a group of friends. He sent postcards from all of the places he visited. There were large, colorful stamps on the postcards. The one I remember most clearly had a picture of a cat yawning. It made me laugh. It looked just like Lettuce. It was one of the few jokes my father ever came up with. It made me happy, and I removed the stamp by soaking the postcard in water overnight. I added it to my collection. I couldn’t sleep that night imagining all the places my father had visited in Europe. I imagined him on a street corner in Paris, buying the cat stamp at a shop, speaking in stilted French, and then sitting in a cafe writing the postcard. I even imagined him dropping the card into a yellow mailbox, and then the postman collecting it, taking it to the airport where it was loaded with other mail heading for Japan. And then finally the postcard would be delivered to my own town and then to our house. The entire journey of the postcard after it had been posted fascinated me.
Finally I understood why I ended up being a postman. I would spend ages gazing at the stamps, all the different colors and the many countries they’d come from. There were all kinds of pictures and designs on the stamps. Pictures of people and places I could only imagine. They became really precious to me.
Then I thought about all the things I might have made disappear from the world if I’d gone on with the Devil’s deal. Maybe the world would
n’t have changed that much without these things in it, but at the same time, it’s all these individual objects, along with all the other things that exist, that make up this world. That’s what occurred to me as I held these little squares cut out of paper. Somehow I began to feel like the whole process of placing a stamp on an envelope and mailing it, it arriving at its destination, had a deeper meaning. Just imagining it gave me a certain warm, happy feeling.
Then I realized what I needed to do in the time left to me. I needed to write you a letter. I needed to write about all the things I’d never told you these past years. The thousands of words that lay dormant within me, all the greetings I never sent your way, the emotions I never shared. I let all my feelings flow out of me onto the paper, and put a stamp on it. I imagine all the stamps scattering and falling like flower petals, decorating my final moments.
So many stamps with so many pictures: a festival, a horse, a gymnast, and a dove; a Japanese woodblock print, and an ocean. A piano, a car, people dancing, and flowers, great men remembered by their various nations. An airplane, a ladybug, a desert, and a yawning cat. At the moment of my death when I lie down and close my eyes. All of them swirl round and round above me. A phone rings, and on the screen an old silent movie plays—Limelight, then the hands of the clock begin to move, and all the letters fly through the air. Red, blue, yellow, and green, purple, white, and pink. The many-colored envelopes flutter away into the pale-blue sky. And quietly, I breathe my last. Before the myriad of stamps, and the letters expressing endless pain, but also unlimited happiness, in all my smallness, alone, I die with a faint smile on my face.
So now I sit down to write a letter. A letter which is also my last will and testament. Who should I address my last letter to? I ponder this for a while when Cabbage comes up to me and meows. Ah yes, that’s it. Now I know. I will address my letter to the same person that I’ll deliver Cabbage to before I die. There’s only one person it can be. Maybe I’ve known for a long time, but couldn’t admit it to myself.
If Cats Disappeared From the World Page 12
