Fracture

by Andres Neuman

  The interviewer asks him whether, after all this suffering, he and his family have considered leaving the village. Moving somewhere farther away from the sea.

  Our life is the sea, replies the fisherman. The sea is all we have. It’s a part of our family. Occasionally it gets furious. But most of the time it protects and teaches us.

  And on this occasion, the reporter asks, what has the sea taught you?

  That sometimes you have to go out fishing twelve hours a day, replies the fisherman.

  * * *

  Lying back on the guest bed, amid a liquid silence like an effervescent beverage, Watanabe makes one last search on his cell phone.

  Something everyone had been fearing for weeks has been officially confirmed: a nuclear meltdown did indeed occur in the three reactors that were operative when the catastrophe struck. A flow of molten energy. Its power dispersed in an uncontainable vapor. The plant has become a pressure bomb.

  In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Mr. Watanabe decides he will continue his journey south.

  He falls asleep with a circle of light on his stomach, his fingers wrapped around his phone.

  At dawn the next morning he opens his eyes abruptly.

  He spruces himself up and prepares to set off early before his hosts get up. Partly because he wants to make the most of the daylight hours, and partly to avoid Mr. and Mrs. Arakaki’s bickering. He plans to leave a thank-you note for them in the kitchen, together with his card. He writes out the message carefully. He closes his suitcase and makes his way along the corridor.

  No sooner has he stepped into the kitchen than Mrs. Arakaki pops up, as if out of a cupboard, with a cup of freshly brewed tea. Then she hands him his breakfast wrapped in paper napkins.

  She accompanies him to the door. Eyes moist, she confesses that he reminds her very much of her older brother.

  HE KEEPS HEADING SOUTH, beneath a sky so clear it seems suspect. The sun is a gold medal out of context. The sunroof floods with light and starts to get hot.

  As his water bottle empties, his maps begin to contradict each other. According to the paper map, he is somewhere between the districts of Kashima and Haramachi. The GPS places him in Minamisōma. That town is also shown on the paper map, but a few kilometers farther on. Could the place names of this region have switched? Could the ground have moved so much? In the surrounding fields, sunflowers gleam like a cascade of coins.

  Wait a minute. Isn’t this something he’s seen or thought before? Mr. Watanabe wonders. Is he turning into one of those old people who repeat themselves without realizing it?

  In any case, he knows he is entering the thirty-kilometer radius. The voluntary evacuation zone. Its inhabitants have been told to leave the area or else to stay indoors. He can’t get over the irony: they are placing in the hands of the people a decision relating to a power plant they were never consulted about in the first place. Privatize the profits and collectivize the problems. A mixed economy, he says to himself, averting his gaze from the road.

  On the dirt tracks leading off either side of the main road, he sees the NO ENTRY signs. With unnerving indifference, the rice and soybean fields stretch beyond them. The same fields which, until the disaster, were renowned for producing the country’s most exquisite rice.

  He is thrown by the contrast between the serene appearance of the countryside and the grave warning signs. The landscape offers him one vision, and the signs force him to reinterpret it to the opposite effect. When you can no longer believe your eyes, he thinks, the whole world verges on mirage.

  His car penetrates the morning and the sky fills with clouds, like a wall being stacked with bricks.

  Minamisōma turns out to be more extensive than he’d thought. According to official charts, the northernmost part of the town falls just outside the evacuation zone, while the south is wedged between the thirty- and the twenty-kilometer radii. The city is therefore divided by two sets of safety rules and two states of mind. An amphibious municipality.

  After a few minutes, he comes to a crossroads by an Eneos gas station, one of the designer-brand oil companies with which Me does business. Watanabe remembers that the earthquake had caused a fire at one of its refineries in Sendai, right where his journey began.

  The traffic lights blink. The sporadic pedestrians hasten across the street. As he awaits his turn, an enormous hospital catches Mr. Watanabe’s eye. He turns in the opposite direction.

  He drives in a straight line toward the east. He has no plan. He doesn’t concentrate on what he’s doing. When he improvises like this, he lets himself drift along in a sort of hypnotic trance, until something grabs his attention. He drives through the half-deserted streets with dreamy satisfaction: all he has to do is follow the arrows and lights. Only three other cars, all the same color as his, cross the tracks where trains no longer pass.

  A pharmacy brings him out of his reverie. Its red-and-yellow signs, its ideograms designed for the nearsighted. Is it possible it has stayed open, despite the lack of customers? He parks and walks over to it. A tiny sign of apology answers his query.

  Opposite, he notices a bank. What exactly happens to people’s loans, mortgages, fixed-term deposits in a state of emergency? The savers have gone, and yet their accounts remain. The creditors leave, but the debts still exist.

  He permits himself the luxury of crossing the road at random, without looking right and left.

  Although it’s a peak hour for business, the bank is also closed. Nevertheless, the cash machine works perfectly and even gives him small denominations. He takes his money and returns to the Verso. Money has a life of its own, Watanabe says to himself.

  He drives toward the town center down an avenue free of traffic jams. Whenever he’s stopped at a light, the few local drivers observe him with concern as if they suspect he may have lost his way, or possibly his mind.

  Before reaching city hall—not exactly what he’s interested in seeing—he turns left toward the south, where the traffic becomes even more infrequent. Has he made it within the thirty-kilometer zone? He tries to tune in to a local radio station but all he hears are brief noises, crackles, an electric silence.

  Presently, he sees a sign that makes him slow down and adjust his glasses.

  YO-NO-MORI. I didn’t die.

  In a moment of confusion, Watanabe had whispered the words in Spanish.

  It’s the name of a park, the ideal place to stretch one’s legs.

  He soon locates a parking area near the entrance, opposite a sports ground. White lines separate space after empty space.

  There are only a couple of cars in sight. Mr. Watanabe leaves his perfectly aligned with the others. No one wants to take the place of people who won’t be coming.

  Positioned behind a pile of cardboard boxes, a young yakitori vendor eyes him hopefully. Watanabe smiles at him and walks on by.

  He heads for the park’s entrance. The ground turns to earth.

  * * *

  In Yo-no-mori Park everything seems to arrive late. Light arrives late from the ragged clouds. Shade, to the stone benches. His gaze, to the branches stripped of blossoms. Watanabe counts no more than half a dozen people walking around. The center is deserted. So, too, is the iron horse on the playground: an animal with more holes than substance.

  He makes out two figures in the distance. Two figures stooping among the sunflowers. One bigger than the other. He draws closer, cupping his glasses with the side of one hand. He has left his sunglasses in the car.

  A man, roughly his age or slightly younger, is sowing seeds with the help of a little girl. A little girl with faint shadows under her eyes. For some reason, she reminds him of his little sister Nagae. The man is making furrows in the ground with his hoe. The girl opens her fingers to let some seeds fall.

  The men greet each other, without seeming surprised at the other’s presence.

  Here we are, says the man, standing up straight, bowing, and wiping the palms of his hands on his thighs. Sunflowers absorb
the toxins from the earth and lower the levels of cesium.

  Plants make the best company, Watanabe replies. They ask so little and give so much.

  That’s right, says the man. There are people who think gardening is just a distraction. On the contrary, there’s no better way to pay attention to life.

  Hello, darling, says Watanabe as he crouches, his lower back stiff from hours of driving.

  Say hello to the gentleman, sweetheart, the man says.

  The little girl hides behind his legs.

  They introduce themselves. Mr. Sasaki: teacher, resident, and activist. His granddaughter, Ai: shy to start with, but once she gets to know you, well, you wouldn’t believe it. And Yoshie Watanabe: journalist, recently arrived from the capital to visit his sister in Sōma and to do research for an article about the situation in the region.

  When he hears he is a journalist, Mr. Sasaki stands up straighter and becomes loquacious, assuming this to be some sort of interview. He complains that the Tokyo media is not properly reporting the realities of the situation. That the only thing TV channels want is shattered families and decontamination suits. That they aren’t interested in showing the people who are struggling to carry on with their lives at home. Watanabe is glad of the misunderstanding, which will allow him to speak little and listen all he wants.

  The teacher talks at breakneck speed, and gesticulates slowly. His body is arriving late to his own thoughts.

  It turns out that they have a few things in common, which makes their exchange easier. Watanabe learns that Sasaki studied in Tokyo. That he spent some time in Hiroshima with the Jesuits until he left the order and became a Spanish teacher. Now he devotes all his time to his family, to books, and to flowers. Just like Watanabe, he appears to have lived several lives.

  Watanabe admits that he, too, is retired (although he still writes the occasional article, he adds, remembering his own lie). That he spent his childhood in Nagasaki. And that he lived in Spain for more than ten years. Mr. Sasaki is delighted to learn this.

  They speak about how Madrid has changed. How expensive Barcelona has become. Sasaki acknowledges his soft spot for Córdoba. Watanabe prefers Granada and the Almería coast. The teacher reminds him that that’s where an American plane accidentally dropped the thermonuclear bombs, and to this day no one knows how much they polluted the sea.

  Bored by the conversation, Ai starts to gambol about the park. Her grandfather watches her out of the corner of his eye while they talk. He invites Watanabe to sit down on one of the stone benches.

  On a more personal note, Mr. Sasaki confides that moving would present a risk for his wife. Settling in a strange place and changing her habits might worsen her current state.

  When a loved one’s health fails, Sasaki says, sighing toward the trees, how can I put this? Your center of gravity changes. Mine is much lower. Do you know what I mean?

  Mr. Watanabe responds with an affirmative silence.

  According to the teacher, four out of every five inhabitants in this part of town decided to leave. He preferred his family to stay put. He knows of some neighbors who left in a hurry and are now living with distant relatives, in cheap hostels or shelters. Over time, he claims, this has become so awkward that some of them are returning and are even bringing their children back with them. Which is a relief for his granddaughter.

  As if the wind had carried his words to her, Ai turns around in the distance, waves, and laughs.

  Fortunately, his house was relatively undamaged by the earthquake. And his water and electricity were not cut off. So, where would they be better off? They avoid opening the windows for longer than a few minutes a day, and they have blocked the vents. In theory, he explains, they should go outside as little as possible. But lately, tired of being shut away inside and always eating the same things, he has started to go for walks. He takes his car to go shopping on the far side of the city, outside the evacuation zone. He strolls in the park or to the edge of the Niida River. Naturally, each morning he checks his dosimeter, and if the radiation levels are high, he stays at home. If they are average, he goes out on his own. If they are low, like today, he takes his granddaughter with him. And they plant sunflower seeds.

  In any event, says the teacher, brushing off his dusty trousers, it’s a crazy situation. I write a blog, you know, about everything that’s happening here. I’m amazed to see it’s getting more and more visitors. They keep sending me comments.

  Watanabe takes his phone out of his pocket.

  With the enthusiasm of youth, and the false modesty of adulthood, Sasaki adds, It’s nothing special. But it might interest you.

  Watanabe types. He locates the blog.

  It’s obvious you’re a seasoned journalist, says the teacher. Instead of plying me with questions, you let me talk.

  That’s the key, he replies, putting away his phone. That’s the key.

  I’m going to tell you something, says Mr. Sasaki. I’ve spent weeks looking into the big nuclear jiko. And I can assure you that there are some suspicious coincidences.

  Breaking the rule he himself has just subscribed to, Watanabe asks what they are.

  The teacher starts to list them: Secrecy by the authorities. Contradictory news, data wars. A gradual widening of compromised zones, unfinished evacuations. Suppression of health reports and omissions in subsequent studies.

  The Americans, he says, did it in Pennsylvania. The Soviets did it in Chernobyl. Now they’re doing it to us in Fukushima. Governments believe, or pretend to believe, that in an emergency situation we are incapable of facing the truth. Although they have no proof of this, because they’ve never even tried to tell us the truth, they continue to pull the wool over our eyes. It’s the perfect strategy! If they succeed, they manipulate the information to their own advantage. If the deception is uncovered, they swear they were lying to us for our own good.

  Yet, Watanabe interjects, information is far more difficult to control nowadays.

  That depends, replies Mr. Sasaki. If you take the trouble to delve into the revision history of every article on Wikipedia, for example, you will see the struggle to control the ones about nuclear accidents and their effect on public health. I’m not talking about specialized literature, of course, but that’s where people go for information. As for more scientific sources, well. As you know, multinationals finance the investigations of their own activities.

  In the distance, the little girl is scaling the iron horse. Her grandfather rises to his feet. He calls out her name in warning. She freezes, hesitates for an instant, then keeps climbing.

  Let’s take Namie, he goes on, which is in the forced evacuation zone. They say there are only wild boar left there. The residents fled north en masse, believing they’d be safer. The government had signs that the fallout might spread in that direction but they didn’t dare tell anyone. Now they’re distributing medical guides, not too different from the ones they gave out at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The displaced families prefer not to say where they are from. In Tsukuba, apparently, they’ve been asked to provide radiation certificates. Several colleagues have written telling me that their female students fear being unable to marry or get pregnant. Just like after the war, if you follow me?

  Perfectly, murmurs Mr. Watanabe.

  All of a sudden, his breath feels restricted. The breeze has stopped, or else the pollen is affecting his lungs.

  He inhales deeply. Coughs. He feels his wrist. He searches for his vein with two fingers.

  Sasaki asks if he is feeling all right. He indicates that he is with a flick of his hand, as though repelling an insect.

  The teacher tells him about the contaminated rubble on the southeast coast, in the prohibited zone. Every day, more and more residents from the neighboring towns are organizing protests. No one wants these remains in their backyard. Fears that the wind could spread the toxic dust are mounting. In the meantime, the task of clearing up continues. The aim is to bury everything as quickly as possible.

  Ove
rcoming another brief coughing fit, Watanabe asks what the authorities have to say about this matter.

  Mr. Sasaki applauds his granddaughter, who is waving to them from the summit of the hollow animal. Afterward he replies that the politicians say one thing and then the exact opposite. They don’t want people to panic, only to be reasonably fearful. That’s impossible.

  As impossible as fearful reason, Watanabe remarks.

  Sasaki suggests that whenever a power plant opens, senior managers from the electricity company should move nearby with their families. Many of the prefecture’s mayors now spend their entire time kicking up a fuss about the company responsible for Fukushima. Generally speaking, they are the same people who vaunted the supposed advantages of building the power plant in the first place. Anyone who spoke out against it was accused of being old-fashioned.

  Squinting, Mr. Watanabe tries to guess what the teacher’s opinion of it was at the time. He doesn’t dare ask.

  What the authorities fail to see, says the teacher, is that catastrophes spark revolutions that no one would otherwise attempt. We all want to return to normal, but I wonder if we can or if we should.

  I think I’ll write those words down, says Watanabe.

  If I end up dying because of these politicians, Sasaki adds with unexpected glee, I swear on my granddaughter’s life that I intend to keep haunting them. It must be exhausting to be a ghost, don’t you think?

  That’s what I’ve been telling myself for centuries, he replies.

  The teacher lets out a hearty guffaw, and his gaze floats, as if his laughter were a bubble about to burst. Then he grows serious.

  He asks Watanabe about the situation in Sōma. He wants to know if his sister is having any difficulties. Watanabe describes the domestic routines of the Arakakis, referring to them as his own relatives. Almost inadvertently, he makes up a few details to complete the picture.

  Sasaki maintains that the alarmists are complicating matters. He compares the term used by the media at the beginning of the crisis, evacuation, with the one they started to impose later, exclusion. Where his house is situated has officially gone from being a voluntary area to one preparing for emergency. What was first called an evacuation zone is now on alert. The state, the teacher complains, uses toxic language. Those who have chosen to remain, saving the government a lot of money and resources by doing so, receive scarcely any aid. Many of his friends have left because their basic needs weren’t being covered. According to what he has heard, they have to put up with a great deal of discomfort in the shelters, when they still have perfectly good homes.