“May I remind you that these are my notes. Whatever way I write them it is purely up to me.”
“Perhaps it is, in certain circumstances. Maybe, for example, you wrote all this nonsense for some reason I don’t know. Or maybe over twenty four hours went by while you were unconscious. Or maybe the rotation of the earth was put out of kilter by some natural calamity. But if you go so far as to claim that, then I can set forth a completely different hypothesis. Yes, quite different. There’s no need to claim that you are the author of these notes. Because there’s absolutely no problem even if the author is someone other than yourself.”
“Stop these false charges. I am actually writing. The seashore’s dark and enveloped in the smell of the sea. Right overhead tiny insects swarm like smoke around the naked, filthy light bulb in the bathhouse. For some reason when they fall on my box they make a sound that resembles raindrops, so I realize they’re larger than I thought. Now I put a cigarette to my lips, strike a match, the flame lights my naked knees, I approach the burning tip of the cigarette to my knees and look-I clearly feel the heat. These are realities that no one can doubt. If I were to stop writing here and now, no other character, not another line would appear.”
“Hm… Then perhaps someone different is writing in some other place.”
“Who?”
“Me, for example… .”
“You… ?”
“Yes, perhaps I’m the one writing. Perhaps it is I who am going on writing as I imagine you who are writing as you imagine me.”
“What for?”
“For indicting the box man. Maybe I’m trying to impress on people that he really exists.”
“That’s an unexpected turnabout. If we suppose that you are the author, then the box man becomes simply a figment of the imagination.”
“Well, then, suppose I am trying to impress on you the fact that he doesn’t actually exist in order to prove his irreality.”
“Ah, indeed. I wondered if that weren’t it. I had a premonition. But no matter how many tricks you try, they are destined to be futile. Because I have material proof. Yes, perhaps I should have warned you ahead of time before entering into negotiations. If you know that I am not unarmed, even you won’t act rashly. No, I have no intention of putting that proof to had use; if I had I would have done so long ago. If only you would show your sincerity. give
you all the material evidence later.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re trying to suggest.”
“Please. I feel quite dizzy from lack of sleep just doing nothing. Well, then, let me tell you. Who was it, I wonder, who shot me with an air rifle? I’ve got my eye on someone.”
“A lot of people have air rifles in this neighborhood. The weasels apparently wreak havoc in the chicken houses,” she suddenly said again, repeating the same excuse. Creakingly, somehow time began to move. I did not wish to hurt the girl, but I found it unpardonable that she should side with the fake box man.
“Unfortunately there’s unshakable proof, you know. The instant I was hit, I at once snapped the shutter-a professional reflex. I saw the developed picture that very day. I had made a good shot. It was a back picture of someone busily going up the sloping road, concealing a rifle by trying to fit it to the length of his body under his arm. The way he cut his hair, the new made to order suit fitted to his round shoulders, the conspicuous wrinkles in his trousers, nonetheless of the best material, and the distinctive low shoes like slippers.” Then my tone changed to a plain and simple one, and I addressed myself exclusively to her: “Shall we play a little guessing game? Some profession where one is constantly taking off and putting on shoes, one where there is often the opportunity of sitting in Japanese fashion, one belonging to the financially upper classes, one where one can wear one’s hair without worrying what others think. What would you guess? I don’t think it’s all that hard. Anybody would immediately think of a doctor on house calls, wouldn’t he? Furthermore, it happens that the mounting road I photographed was right next to the soy factory at the foot …”
At this point events suddenly took an abrupt turn. The fake box man-the fake box man who until then had stood straight upright merely expressionless, harmless, like a trash can that had sprouted legs-began to shake his box awkwardly, making an annoying sound. The vinyl curtain over the observation window separated, and from within a long stick was thrust out. It was an air rifle. Aimed straight at my left eye.
“Stop it!” I parried in a casual tone, half jokingly. “I seem to have a touch of phobia for extremities, a weakness in me. So pointing at me like that …”
“Won’t you show me the film?”
“I didn’t bring it along. It’s my only trump that will guarantee me an equal right to speak.”
“Search him!” the fake box man urged her in a shrill voice.
She hesitated. Entreatingly she looked up at me. With her hands clasped at her breast and seeming to push up the collar of her dress, she began to shift her balance forward. Whereupon the front of her white ironed tunic (had she put it on sometime without my realizing it?) gaped wide open. Only the topmost button was fastened. Under the white dress she was naked. I had half expected that, but I was taken by surprise. The nakedness under the white garment gave the feeling of a nakedness stripped more naked than ordinary. The white dress was not a white dress, but had turned into the ceremonial garment of a sacrificial victim. The strong curved skin surfaces, uniformly taut, were suggestive of some strange machine I did not understand. The narrow jaw and the roundness of her belly alone did not suit her and were childlike. I wracked my brain. As in someone else’s briefcase, the disorder in my head was extreme. Her left leg moved forward, trying to support the leaning weight. At once my field of vision contracted, and I felt aggressive. I myself did not understand why.
“All right, I’ll do it myself. It’s not worth bothering yourself with.” I went to the box in the corner by the door in which I had put my clothes when they were removed, opened the neck of a mountain climbing bag (probably an American Army surplus item), and fished out a stuffed toy crocodile. “As far as I’m concerned I’m lucky just to find that you feel guilty. I had the feeling your conditions were simply too good to be true.”
The crocodile that I took out was a little less than eighteen inches in length, the circumference of the torso sixteen and a half; it was a toy crocodile painted green with inset plastic eyeballs and fangs, a warty back, claws of light brown, and a red, snapping mouth. Anyone looking at this merry, overly innocent doll would surely have his fighting ardor dampened. A child’s toy usually makes the average adult lose his hostility unless he has a morbid dislike of children. In view of my psychological tendencies, this was not an ordinary doll. The crocodile was a blackjack that I had invented. I do not refer to cards, but to the blackjack, the deadly weapon that has gained notoriety by being favored principally by the Mafia and the secret police. I take the shavings and spongy filling out and usually carry around just the outside bag, but this morning I had a premonition and in advance stuffed it with sand from the beach. If you take hold of the tail end and just give it a shake, you feel how really dangerous it can be. If you strike with all your force you crush the skull. Of course, there’s no need to go about things so enthusiastically. You can attack someone fatally and yet leave no outer wound; that’s the good feature of the blackjack. When you’ve finished using it, you unfasten the end and scatter the sand that comes out around the garden. If there’s any trouble it would never occur to anyone that a crocodile skin could be used as a dangerous weapon.
Pretending to give the crocodile to the fake box man with some reluctance, I struck from below at the end of the gun barrel. The destructive power was unimaginable from the speed. The rifle barrel bit into the upper frame of the window, and the box jumped. An angry groan came from the doctor, who had been taken by surprise. At the same time I heard the sound of air escaping, as if someone had driven a nail into a bicycle tire. The bullet had gone up toward the ceiling, but the sound of it hitting could not be heard. I wrested the gun from his grasp. The doctor, not to be outdone, thrust his arm out the observation window. He clutched my right cheek like a rice cake, and with unexpected power I brought the sandbag crocodile down on my opponent’s farther shin. There was a damp and heavy sound as of a hatchet biting into unseasoned wood. Uttering a shriek, the doctor drew his arm back into the box. I broke out in sweat at the vociferations that ran the gamut of the vowels. I began striking at the head at the top of the box to try to make him stop and then paused. I did not want to hurt the box. I continued to beat at his farther shin, this time taking more care (I would be in something of a fix if he were able to remain in the hospital under the pretext of broken bones). The doctor squeezed himself up into a small ball and became perfectly passive like the wastebasket he had said he was. If he had not groaned like an empty pipe, I should never have thought a man was hiding inside the box. At first I looked at the box expressionlessly. The wan ten o’clock sun flowing in from the window melted into the white of the mortar wall, filling the room, and in it the box seemed like a scooped out hole.
Supposing that it is not I who am pushing on with these notes now (I too cannot help but recognize the contradiction in time that has been pointed out by the fake box man), and whoever it may be, I think he has an extremely stupid way of advancing the story line. If he has come this far the next scene can only be one thing in any case. I turn and look at the girl. What attitude does the author intend to have her take now? Depending on how she reacts to me, the outcome, however pleasant or unpleasant it may be, will make clear what I have gained and what I have lost by giving up the box. For example, is she going to accept me like that with the buttons of her white dress unbuttoned, or with them buttoned up? No, it is hardly suitable to make the buttons the measurement of her attitude. But out of amazement she may forget to button them up, and on the other hand she may well button them up once to accept me formally and not abridge the ceremony of unbuttoning them. Thus as long as I stay beyond the two and a half yard line as I am, it will surely be easy to read her expression. If an unconcealable look of relief shows through her tense expression, that will mean that her relationship has, from the first, been one of estrangement with the doctor and that I will rescue her from his highhandedness and restraint; but if, on the contrary, she is afraid of accepting me, that will show that the two have been accomplices from the beginning and that I shall have to escape from this tiger’s den.
Enough. Whichever it was it was indescribable ridiculousness. The objectionable thing was not so much the lack of logic but rather the fact that in all these happenings everything was so smooth. The truth was more fragmented, like a picture puzzle with many pieces missing and filled with flights of imagination. Although I am perhaps not I, was it necessary for me to go on living and going to the trouble of writing these notes? I may seem to be repeating, but a box man is an ideal victim. If I had been the doctor I should have at once offered a cup of tea. Being a doctor, it would be easy for him to slip in a drop of poison. Or … perhaps … had I already been made to drink the cup of tea? I wondered. Perhaps I had. It was possible. Certainly there was absolutely no proof that I was still alive.
AFFIDAVIT
All statements made are truthful. Since you ask about the corpse washed up at T Seaside Park, I make herewith a detailed deposition of my own volition, concealing nothing.
Name: C.
Permanent address: Omitted.
Profession: Doctor’s assistant (orderly).
Date of Birth (day, month, year) : 7 March 1927.
My real name is C, but the full one I use when I practice medicine and the one registered at the Bureau of Public Health is the name of the army surgeon who was my superior officer when I joined the colors as a medical corpsman during the war. I used it with the permission of the officer in question.
I have never yet been condemned for crime to penal servitude nor have I even been questioned as a suspect by the police or the public prosecutor.
I have never been a public servant nor have I ever received any decoration, relief funds, or pension.
I am still unmarried, but in point of fact, concerning my family, until last year I have been living with my common law wife, Nana, who helped me as a nurse in my work and was in charge of all accounts. Originally Nana was the legal wife of the army doctor whose name and identity I borrowed while I was practicing, but since I was cohabiting with her with the doctor’s understanding and approbation there was never any trouble. Until last year there was no conspicuous disharmony between Nana and me, but when I hired Toyama Yoko as a new apprentice nurse, Nana was not happy and suggested we live apart. I agreed, and until now that is what we have been doing.
During the war I discharged my military duties as a medical corpsman, and, putting that experience to good use, I engaged in practice on my own. I enjoyed a good reputation among the patients, and I have never requested instructions or help from a regularly licensed doctor. My special proficiency lies mainly in the area of surgery such as appendectomies. If I am blamed for illegal practice I shall reconsider using another’s name; I shall make amends to the world and promise never to engage in medical work again.
Now I shall discuss the corpse, the cause of whose death is unknown, that you ask about…
The Case of C
Now you are writing.
A dark room where the lights have been turned off with the exception perhaps of the lamp on the worktable. At just this instant you raise your head from the affidavit you are in the act of writing and have just drawn a deep breath. When, in the same position, you turn your neck diagonally to the right, a thin line of light runs over the right edge of the desk. It is a beam seeping in under the door from the corridor. If someone were to pass by, like it or not, his shadow could not help but be inscribed on that line. You wait. Seven seconds, eight … there is no sign of anyone.