Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  “But what if”—I unpick loops in my phone cord—“you are right, and, uh, allocating meaning is one more job that our minds do, how come different people have different meanings of life? How come some people have no meaning? Or forget the meaning they started with?”

  “Experiences, influences, diseases, divorces. What is that noise?”

  “Suga snoring.”

  “I never imagined a cat could snore that loudly.”

  “Suga is human. Sort of.”

  “And is Suga a he or a she?”

  I hunt in vain for traces of jealousy. “He. Very much so. A drunk friend crash-landed far from home. I let him sleep on my floor but he took my futon.”

  “Oh. Want to hear something private, about myself?”

  I sit up. “Sure I do.”

  “I am a diabetic. A full-blown one. Every evening, for the last thirteen years, I have injected insulin into my arm. I conform to a meal regimen. If I neglect this, I may go into insulin shock. If my hypoglycemia is severe enough, I may, quite possibly, die. I have to carry a chocolate cookie around with me twenty-four hours a day. The basic meaning of my life is to balance death and sugar. People without time bombs built into their genes are not likely to have the same meaning. Maybe the truest difference between people is exactly this: why we think we are here.”

  Suga growls in his sleep. My cigarette glows. “Mmm.”

  “What’s the matter with you tonight, Miyake?”

  I tap my cigarette into a beer-can ashtray. “Meeting my father has been my meaning. Now I am about to—what do I do after I meet him?”

  “Why worry about it now?”

  “I dunno. I worry about things and I can never stop.”

  “Eiji Miyake, I want to sleep with you right now.”

  I choke on a lungful of smoke. “What?”

  “Only a joke. I just wanted to prove that it isn’t as difficult to stop worrying as you think. Debussy never worried about his meaning of life. He just got on with doing what he loved.”

  “Debussy—you mentioned him the other night. What band was he in?”

  “Claude Debussy. Tell me you are joking.”

  “Claude Debussy . . . drummer in the Jimi Hendrix Experience, right?”

  Ai does not have a gullible bone in her body. “Eagles will peck out your liver, blasphemer. I’m playing him for my tone piece in tomorrow’s audition. Want to hear?”

  “Sure.” This is a first.

  I hear her clunk and shuffle about. “Lie back and gaze at the stars.” “This is Kita Senju, not Tahiti. The sky is all murk.”

  “Then I’ll play you ‘Et la lune descend sur le temple qui fut.’ ”

  “Help.”

  “It means . . . ‘And the moon sets o’er the temple that was.’ Near enough.”

  “You speak French as well as everything else?”

  “I’ve been planning to run away to France since I was six, remember.”

  “France. What an elegant meaning of life.”

  “Shush, or you won’t hear the stars.”

  The oil in the frying pan spits. I botch the second egg, crush shell fragments between my fingers, and the spermy mess drops in. I love the way the clear part skins over white. I rescue the toast, nearly in time, and scrape the charcoal into the sink. The pile on my futon stirs— “Uuuoooeeeaaaiii.” Suga—this unclodded lungfish—winches his head and surveys my capsule. I stub out my Philip Morris in an eggshell, draw the curtains, and the unwashed morning streams in over three days of dishes and a major spillage of socks and papers. Suga is not pretty. His neck is boiled-octopus pink and a volcanic island chain of mosquito bites trails over his face. He blinks. “Miyake? What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Oh. What am I doing here?”

  “This is where you died last night.”

  “I gotta do a dinosaur piss. Which is the john?” I point with a nod. Suga gets up and goes. He comes out sighing, zipping up his fly. “Your toilet smells as bad as Ueno. Deep chemistry. Smells like serious upchuck.”

  “How about a nice fried egg for breakfast, swimming in tasty oil?”

  “. . . Did I puke last night?”

  “You kindly got most of it down the toilet. Come anytime.”

  “I need to drink a swimming pool.”

  I fill a beer mug with tapwater. Suga downs it in a marathon gulp. “Thanks. Any chance of coffee?” I give Suga mine and start another pan of water boiling. Suga bunches the futon into a log, sits at the table, drinks his coffee, goes “aaaaaah,” and rolls down his shirtsleeves to hide his eczema. “I never knew you play the guitar. Is that kid on the swing your little sister?” Near enough. “Yes.” I tip the eggs onto the toast, clear junk, and sit down to eat. “Then the man in the funny sunglasses is your father?” My yolk bleeds yellow. “Not quite. John Lennon.” Suga plies his temples with his thumbs. “I heard of him. October comes earlier every year. So where am I exactly?”

  “Above a video store in Kita Senju.”

  “When did I get here?”

  “About eleven last night.”

  “You live above your workplace? The commuting must be a bitch.”

  “Be grateful I had somewhere nearby to drag your carcass, otherwise a dog would be pissing on you in the gutter right now. How did you get here last night? Did you get a taxi from the station? You were in no condition to walk far.”

  Suga shakes his head blankly. “I really can’t remember.”

  The eggs are good. “And why did you come to visit me?”

  Suga shrugs. “Miyake, when I was blotto last night . . . I don’t suppose I blabbed any stupid stories or anything? I spout utter drivel when I drink. If I said anything, there wasn’t, y’know, a word of truth in it. Pure bull. Everything I said. Or may have said.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But I didn’t actually say any, y’know, crazy stuff, did I?”

  I weigh things up. “No, Suga. Nothing.”

  Suga nods. “Yeah, I thought as much. Me and alcohol. Pfff.” In strolls Cat and immediately recognizes Suga as a soft touch. “Hello, beautiful!” Suga pets Cat while Cat checks out the food situation. “What are you doing shacking up with this dubious character, then?”

  “Your gratitude overwhelms me.”

  “Why did you leave Ueno after only two weeks of a life sentence?”

  “Family stuff. So, do you have, uh, seminars today?”

  Suga shrugs. “What day are we on?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll go today.”

  “Not questing for Holy Grail?”

  “Pointless.” Suga takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. The gesture makes him look sixty-something. “Deep timewaste. I quit hacking.”

  “Am I hearing this right?”

  “I backdoored the Pentagon two weeks ago. Guess what?”

  “No Holy Grail?”

  Suga combs his hair with his fingers. “Nine billion Holy Grails. I looked inside one. I found another nine Holy Grails. And in each of them?”

  “Nine billion Holy Grails?” I have to get ready for work.

  “It adds up to . . . no offense, but you don’t have the math.” Suga sighs. “The whole thing was just some government nerd practical joke. Every hour I spent hacking—and it adds up to years—I could have spent more profitably with my finger up my fat one. All that time, gone. Even looking at a computer makes me ill.”

  “So what do you do at the university?”

  “I don’t. I—walk around the streets. At night. I sleep in the day.”

  “Why not just find another site to hack?” I fetch a clean T-shirt from my curtain rail. It is dry but crumpled, so I plug in my iron.

  “For hackers,” Suga sighs, “well, for the best ones, Holy Grail is the ultimate meaning of hacking, right? Nonhackers couldn’t understand this. Imagine if you suddenly discovered, say, your father isn’t who you thought he was. I don’t even have the heart to post the ne
ws to my news-group. They would never believe me, anyway. They’d think I’d gone over to the other side. I would have.”

  I add my plate to my sink collection and try to find two socks that match, sort of. “Nine billion Holy Grails filled with nine billion Holy Grails.” I flick out the legs of my ironing board and set it upright. “What a great hiding place for a Holy Grail.” It was an off-the-cuff comment, and Suga opens his mouth to answer, but changes his mind. He strokes Cat, who cruises at ninety purrs per minute. My iron breathes steam. Suga opens his mouth. “No,” he says. “I ran a mylo-P search as a matter of course, and checked thousands of sample grail files, from all over the document field. Holy Grail is just an exercise in infinity. In meaninglessness.”

  November 13

  Weather, unknown at present. We are silent running. Ten minutes ago the lookout sounded the alarm—a squadron of Lightnings heading straight this way. Rehearsed pandemonium ensued as the crew prepared the I-333 for diving before we were spotted. “Lookouts below! Dive! Dive!” Abe, Goto, Kusakabe, and I returned to our bunks. “Hatches secured!” Seawater filled the ballast tank. A high-pitched wail was air forced out through the topside vents. I-333 tipped at 10 degrees. Light bulbs exploded. Dull pain rings in my ears. Our lives are in the hands of the crew now. We are down to a maximum of 80 meters. The hull of I-333 groans like nothing I ever heard. Nobody dares make a sound. Cpt. Yokota has told us of rumors about buoys dropped by the enemy that emit sonar, and allow acoustic-guided missiles to locate and destroy submarines. Maybe Cpt. Yokota is right: courage is the highest quality for a soldier, but technology is a fine substitute. I keep thinking about all the water above us. What I detest most about I-333 is the smell: it assaults my senses whenever I return from the bridge. Sweat, excrement, rotting food, and men. Men, men, men. Ashore, surprises are often welcome. They break dull routine and bring excitement. Aboard a sub, surprises can prove lethal. I am writing these words to distract my mind. Abe is meditating. Goto is praying. Kusakabe is reading. A kaiten pilot is the most dangerous agent of destruction in maritime history, but how vulnerable I feel now.

  November 14

  Weather deteriorating. I-333 is about halfway to our destination. Relations between Abe and Kusakabe have worsened. Yesterday evening Abe challenged him to chess, and when Kusakabe declined, said, “Seems strange for a kaiten pilot to be afraid of losing a game.” The accusation was dressed up as a joke, but jokes are usually other things in disguise. I think Abe is jealous of the territory Kusakabe refuses to share. Without a word Kusakabe put his book down and set up the chessboard. He destroyed Abe like you would destroy a six-year-old. He took about ten seconds per move. Abe took longer to move, his face grew grimmer, but he could not bring himself to resign. Kusakabe promoted a pawn to a queen three times while Abe’s king waited in a corner for the inevitable. When Abe knocked his king over, he joked: “I only hope your final mission is as great a success as your chess playing.” Kusakabe replied, “The Americans are formidable opponents, Lieutenant.” Goto and I were afraid these insults could only lead to violence, but Abe calmly put the chessmen away. “The Americans are an effete race of cowards. Without his gun, the Yankee is nothing.” Kusakabe folded the board. “We have lost this war by swallowing our own propaganda. It poisons our faculties.” Abe lost control, grabbed the chessboard, and flung it across our cabin. “Then exactly why are you here, kaiten pilot?” Kusakabe stared back defiantly at our superior officer. “The meaning of my sacrifice is to help Tokyo negotiate a less humiliating surrender.” Abe hissed with rage. “Surrender? That word is anathema to the Yamato-damashii spirit! We liberated Malaya in ten weeks! We bombed Darwin! We blasted the British from the Bay of Bengal! Our crusade created a co-prosperity sphere unrivaled in the east since Genghis Khan! Eight corners united under one roof!” Kusakabe was neither angry nor bowed. “A great pity the Yamato-damashii spirit never figured out how to stop the roof from collapsing in on us.” Abe shouted hoarsely. “Your words disgrace the insignia on your uniform! They insult your squadron! If we were on Otsushima I would report you for seditious thought! We are talking about good and evil! The divine will made manifest!” Kusakabe glared back. “We are talking about bomb tonnage. I wish to sink an enemy carrier, but not for you, Lieutenant, not for the regiment, not for the bluebloods or the clowns in Tokyo, but because the fewer planes the Americans have raining bombs on Japan, the greater the chances my sisters will survive this stupid bloody war.” Abe struck Kusakabe’s face with his right hand, twice, hard, then hooked him with his left. Kusakabe staggered but did not fall, and said, “An excellent line of reasoning, if I may say so, Lieutenant.” Goto got between them, although Kusakabe made no sign of striking his superior. I was too shocked to move. Abe spat at Kusakabe and stormed out, but there are not many places to storm to on a submarine. I got a damp cloth to bathe the bruise, but Kusakabe picked up his book as if nothing had happened. So calm, I almost suspect him of provoking Abe in order to be left in peace.

  November 15

  Weather: rain and wind, tail of a typhoon. I am suffering mildly from diarrhea, but sick bay dispensed some effective medicine. We have lost contact with I-37, our sister submarine on this mission. An all-systems kaiten service took up most of the day. Following yesterday’s incident, Abe avoided speaking unless he had to. Kusakabe addresses him with a politeness that is almost aggressive. His left eye is half-closed by a bruise. Goto told the crew that Kusakabe fell out of his bunk. I doubt the crew believed him. I asked Kusakabe if his offer to lend me his book of English kabuki was still open, and Kusakabe said sure, and recommended a play about the greatest soldier in Rome. Listen: “Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it’s spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men.” Even when Abe came into our cabin I carried on reading it. Western military values are perplexing, however. The soldier, Coriolanus, talks about honor, but when he feels betrayed by the Romans, instead of registering his disapproval by hara-kiri, he deserts and fights for the enemy! Where is the honor in that? This afternoon an unescorted American freighter was sighted, but Cpt. Yokota is under strictest orders not to fire a conventional torpedo until the kaiten mission is completed. Goto swore he for one would never breathe a word to Admiralty HQ if Cpt. Yokota ignored this directive, which I only realized later was a black joke. I-47 sent a communiqué warning of two enemy destroyers SSE 20 km, so we let the freighter escape. Later, Goto and I fabricated a model warship from stiff card, and practiced kaiten approach angles with a mock periscope. Then, as casually as a comment on the weather, Goto said, “Tsukiyama, I want to introduce you to my wife.” For once, he was quite serious. He wedded her on our final weekend leave. “If she wants to remarry after my death,” he said, more to himself than to me, “she has my blessing. She may have more than one husband, but I will only ever have one wife.” Goto then asked me why I volunteered for special attack forces. It may strike you as odd that we never discussed this topic at Otsushima or even Nara, but our minds were too involved in the “how” to see the “why.” My answer was, and is, that I believe the kaiten project is the reason I was born.

  Suga lumbers downstairs. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I close the journal. “How are you feeling?”

  “A ten-megaton headache.”

  “My boss keeps a first aid box somewhere—”

  “I have a unique immunity to painkillers. I cleaned your toilet. I never cleaned one before. I hope I used the right cloths and stuff.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suga sniffs and watches the screen for a while. It is an American movie—most of them are—I chose at random called An Officer and a Gentleman. From the box I thought it might be about the Pacific War and the navy my great-uncle fought, but I was wrong. The star—he has a pained-rodent face—is stuck in boot camp in the 1980s. “Well,” says Suga, “I see why you quit in Ueno. Is this a
ll you do? Sit on your butt and watch movies all day?”

  “Same as sitting on your butt and watching computer screens.”