The Gargoyle (20 page)

It’s a strange but consistent trait of people who consider themselves unattractive. They look embarrassed if you suggest that they might be interested in someone; because they feel unworthy of receiving attention, they also deny that they would dare to give it.

We were not yet close enough for me to pry, so when Gregor attempted to change the topic, I let him.

Sayuri came bouncing into my room, speaking in italics. “
Good morning! Do you have a moment to talk about your treatment
?”

I told her I did not. My voice was a dull thud that jangled with metallic edges, like a cutlery tray being dropped to the ground. It was precisely the effect I’d hoped to achieve.

“Shock!”
Sayuri exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand before assuring me that laughter is indeed the best medicine, and began explaining that she was there to conduct a series of tests on my strength and dexterity. My body’s abilities, she explained, were “yet to be determined,” so she would use an instrument called a goniometer to measure the range of motion in my joints. She took hold of my arms and bent them at the elbows, jotting down the results in a little book. She then tested my legs, discovering that my right knee (the one that had been so badly busted) did not have much give. She duly noted this also in her little book. “A bit of a problem.”

Next, to gauge sensation in various parts of my body, she jabbed at me with a goddamn stick and asked how it felt. I told her it felt like she was jabbing me with a goddamn stick. Oh, how she laughed; what a fine comedian I was.

Sayuri handed over her pencil to my undamaged hand and asked me to write a phrase into her book. I wrote, unsteadily,
Where is she?
(It is another example of my stellar luck that the fire spared my right hand, when I was born left-handed.) Sayuri paid no attention to the words I wrote; she was interested only in my dexterity. She moved the pen to my left hand, the one missing a finger and a half, and asked me to write another sentence. I managed to scribble out the words
Fuck this.
Sayuri looked at my literary undertaking, and commented that at least it was legible.

She wrapped things up by saying that I’d soon have an exercise program, and that was pretty exciting! “We’ll have you on your feet, strolling around, before you even know it!”

I said that I already goddamn well know how to walk, so how could I possibly get excited about that?

Sayuri pointed out—in a most gentle manner—that while I had known how to walk in my old body, I would have to learn how to do it in my new one. When I asked whether I’d ever be able to walk like a normal person again, she suggested that perhaps I was looking at the process in the wrong way and that I should just concentrate on the first steps rather than the entire journey.

“That’s just the kind of cheap Oriental wisdom I don’t need in my life.”

I suppose it was then that she realized I was looking for a fight and she took a step closer. She said that how well I would eventually walk depended on many things, but mostly on my willingness to work. “Your fate is in your own hands.”

I said I doubted it really mattered to her one way or the other how my progress went, as she’d get her paycheck just the same.

“That’s not fair,” Sayuri replied, providing just the opening that I was hoping for. I took the opportunity to explain to her what “not fair” really was. “Not fair” was the fact that when she went home in the evening to eat sushi and watch
Godzilla
on the late night show, I’d still be lying in my hospital bed with a tube sucking piss out of my body.
That,
I pointed out, was unfair.

Sayuri realized there was no point in continuing to talk to me, but still she was graceful. “You’re scared and I understand that. I know it’s difficult because you want to imagine the ending but you can’t even imagine the beginning. But everything will be okay. It just takes time.”

To which I replied: “Wipe that condescending look off your face, you Jap bitch.”

Marianne Engel arrived at my bedside the next day with a small sheet of paper that she shoved into my hands. “Learn this,” she said, and drilled me on the words until I had committed them to memory.

An hour later, Sayuri Mizumoto came into the room, her head held high. She glanced at Marianne Engel, but then focused her eyes on mine. “The nurses said you wanted to see me.”

I did my best to affect a small bow in her direction, though it wasn’t easy lying down. I started to speak the words I’d memorized: “Mizumoto san, konoaidawa hidoi kotoba o tsukatte hontouni gomenasai. Yurushite kudasai.” (This roughly translates as
I’m truly sorry that I spoke such terrible words to you the other day. Please forgive me.
)

It was obvious that I’d caught her off guard. She replied. “I accept your apology. How did you learn the words?”

“This is my—friend, Marianne. She taught me.” Which was true, but it did not explain how Marianne Engel knew Japanese. I had asked, of course, but for the preceding hour she’d refused to discuss anything other than the mistakes in my pronunciation. I also did not know how, after seven days away from the hospital, she knew that I’d insulted Sayuri. Perhaps one of the nurses had told her, or Dr. Edwards.

It was sheer coincidence that this was the first time the two women had met. Marianne Engel stepped towards Sayuri, bowed deeply, and said,

Sayuri’s eyes opened with astonished delight and she bowed back.

Marianne Engel nodded. 

Sayuri smiled.