By the end of those three days the Rat’s apartment was filled with empty cans and cigarette butts. He missed the woman like crazy. His whole being longed for her warmth. He wanted to enter her and stay there. Yet he could never go back. Face the music, he told himself. You’re the one who burned the bridges. You’re the one who plastered the walls and sealed yourself inside, right?
The Rat looked down at the flashing beacon. The sky was starting to brighten, turning the ocean gray. Then, at the very moment the darkness was swept away by the clear morning sunlight like a tablecloth yanked from a table, the Rat fell into bed and slept—his pain, with no other place to go, stretched out beside him.
The Rat’s determination to leave the town had once seemed unshakable. He had taken a long time to arrive at that decision, thought it through from every conceivable angle. Having ensured that there were no cracks in his reasoning, he had lit a match and torched the bridges, sending all the attachments he had to the place up in flames. Sure, a few traces of himself might stick around. But no one would care. As the town kept changing, those remnants would eventually vanish…Everything would follow its prescribed course.
And then there was J.
The Rat couldn’t figure out why J’s existence bothered him so much. It should be simple, he thought; just walk in, tell him I’m leaving town, and wish him the best. It wasn’t as if they were best buddies—they hardly knew anything about each other. In the end they were just two passing strangers who had chanced to meet. So why this pain? The Rat lay on his bed and punched the air with his fist.
It was just after midnight on Monday when the Rat lifted the shutters of J’s Bar and slipped underneath. As usual, J had turned off half the lights and was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette. When he saw the Rat come in he smiled and nodded. In the gloom, J looked strangely old. A shadow of black stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, his eyes were sunken, and his thin lips were dry and cracked. Veins stood out in his neck, and his fingertips were yellow with nicotine.
“Feeling tired?” the Rat asked.
“Yeah, a little,” J said. He fell silent for a moment. “It’s one of those days. We all have them.”
The Rat nodded and pulled up a chair.
“There’s a song that says, ‘Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.’ ”
“They got that right,” J said, staring at his fingers holding the cigarette.
“You should hurry home to bed.”
“To hell with that,” J said, shaking his head. He shook it slowly, as if shooing away a bug. “Doubt I’ll be getting much sleep tonight anyway.”
By reflex, the Rat glanced at his watch. Twelve twenty. The gloomy basement was dead quiet—time itself seemed to have died. With the shutters down, not a shred was left of the sparkle the Rat had sought there for so many years. Everything was faded and bone tired.
“Could you bring me a Coke?” said J. “Grab a beer for yourself while you’re at it.”
The Rat stood up and went to the fridge, returning with the drinks and two glasses.
“How about some music?” J asked.
“Not tonight,” said the Rat. “Let’s keep it quiet.”
“Feels like some kind of funeral.”
The Rat laughed. They sat there drinking the Coke and the beer in silence. The ticking of the Rat’s watch on the table was almost deafening. Twelve thirty-five, yet it felt as if they had been there for ages. J barely moved. The Rat watched J’s cigarette burn down in the glass ashtray until the butt turned to ash.
“Why are you so tired?” the Rat asked.
“Why?” J shifted his crossed legs as if he had just remembered to move them. “No special reason, I guess.”
The Rat downed half his beer and returned the glass to the table with a sigh.
“You know, J. Everyone’s rotting, correct?”
“True enough.”
“And there are many ways to rot,” the Rat went on, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I think each individual’s choices are really limited. We can choose between only a couple of ways—two or three at the most.”
“You could be right.”
What was left of the Rat’s beer sat in the bottom of his glass like a puddle of water, the bubbles gone. He pulled a crumpled pack from his pocket, drew out a cigarette, and put it to his lips. “But I’ve come to believe it doesn’t really make a damn bit of difference. One way or the other, we’re all going to rot. Don’t you think?”
J just listened, holding his glass of cola at an angle.
“Yet people keep changing. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out what the point was.” Chewing on his lip, the Rat stared at the table in thought. “So here’s my conclusion. Whatever changes they go through, whatever progress they make, in the end it’s only a step on the road to decay. Am I wrong?”
“No, I don’t think you’re wrong.”
“That’s why I couldn’t care less about anyone who happily trots along toward the void…Or this whole friggin’ town, for that matter.”
J said nothing. The Rat did the same. He took a match from the box on the table, struck it, and watched the flame burn down the shaft before lighting his cigarette.
“The problem is,” said J, “you are about to make a change. Am I right?”
“Dead on.”
Neither spoke for a few seconds. Ten seconds, perhaps. It was J who broke the silence.
“People are awkward creatures. A lot more awkward than you seem to realize.”
The Rat emptied the last of his beer into his glass and downed it in a single gulp. “I’m lost.”
J nodded.
“It’s hard to know what to do.”
“I figured that much.” J smiled. The talking seemed to have tired him out.
The Rat slowly stood up and stuffed his cigarettes and lighter in his pocket. The clock said it was already past one.
“Good night,” the Rat said.
“Good night,” said J. “Hey, here’s something someone once told me: Walk slowly, and drink lots of water.”
The Rat smiled at J, opened the door, and headed up the stairs. The street was brightly lit and totally deserted. He sat down on the guardrail and looked up at the sky. So then, he thought, how much water do I have to drink?
20
The Spanish instructor telephoned during lunch the Wednesday after the November holidays ended. My partner had gone to the bank, and I was in the kitchen eating the spaghetti our office girl had whipped up. She had boiled it about two minutes too long and had substituted finely chopped shiso for basil, but it still tasted good. We were in the midst of a serious discussion about the art of cooking spaghetti when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver, but after a few words, she shrugged and handed it to me.
“I’m calling about Spaceship,” he said. “I’ve located it.”
“Where?”
“It’s a bit difficult to say over the phone,” he said. A moment of silence followed.
“By which you mean?” I asked.
“I mean it’s hard to explain on the phone.”
“Like I won’t believe it until I’ve seen it?”
“No,” he said after a pause. “It’d be hard even if it were sitting right in front of you.”
I couldn’t think of a response, so I waited for him to go on.
“Look, I’m not blowing this out of proportion, and I’m not joking, either. We simply have to meet.”
“Sure thing.”
“How about this afternoon at five?”
“Fine with me,” I said. “Will I get to play?”
“Of course,” he said. I thanked him and hung up. Then I dug back into the spaghetti.
“Where are you going?”
“To play pinball. I’m not sure where.”
“Pinball?”
“Yeah. You know, hitting balls with flippers.”
“Of course I know. But why pinball?”
“Why? This world is rife with matters philosoph
y cannot explain.”
She put her elbows on the table, propped her chin in her hands, and thought for a moment.
“Are you good at pinball?”
“I used to be. It was the only thing I could really take pride in.”
“I’ve got nothing like that.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to lose.”
While she pondered that one, I ate what remained of my spaghetti and helped myself to a ginger ale from the fridge.
“There can be no meaning in what will someday be lost. Passing glory is not true glory at all.”
“Who said that?”
“Can’t recall. But I agree with the idea.”
“Is there anything in this world that can’t be lost?”
“I believe there is. You should too.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Maybe I see the world through rose-colored glasses. But I’m not as big a fool as I seem.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not bragging—I just think being an optimistic fool beats the alternative.”
She nodded. “So that’s why you’re off to play pinball this evening.”
“You got it.”
“Stick up your hands.”
I raised my arms to the ceiling while she inspected the armpits of my sweater.
“Okay,” she said. “Have a good time.”
I met the Spanish instructor at the same coffee shop as before, and we piled into a taxi without delay. Straight down Meiji Avenue, he told the cabbie. Once we were moving he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and offered me one as well. He was wearing a gray suit and a blue necktie with three diagonal stripes. His shirt was blue too, though somewhat paler than the tie. I had on a gray sweater, jeans, and my scuffed desert boots. I felt like a failing student summoned to his professor’s office.
When we passed the Waseda Avenue intersection the cabbie asked if we were going much farther. Turn on Mejiro Avenue, the instructor said. A moment later we did.
“Is it very far?” I asked.
“Pretty far,” he answered, fumbling for another smoke. I looked out my window at the shops passing by.
“Our machine was damn hard to find,” he said. “I started by running down my list of pinball fanatics, one by one. I contacted the whole lot, not just in Tokyo but across the country, all twenty of them. But I didn’t come up with anything. None of them knew any more than we do. Next, I made the rounds of the dealers who handle used machines. There aren’t many. But the total number of transactions is huge. Getting them to work through their lists was a real pain.”
I nodded and watched as he lit his cigarette.
“Thank goodness we knew the approximate date. February 1971, right? I told them to focus on that time frame. And they found it! Spaceship, maker Gilbert and Sands, serial number 165029, February 3, 1971, tagged for disposal.”
“Disposal?”
“Scrap. Crushed in a compactor, like in Goldfinger. Turned into a cube of metal to be recycled or dumped offshore.”
“But you said…”
“Let me go on. Anyway, I thanked the dealer and went home. I figured it was a lost cause. But something deep inside kept nagging me. Call it intuition. He was wrong, said this little voice. It wasn’t like that. So the next day I returned to the same dealer. And then I went from his office to the scrap yard. I watched them work for half an hour, went into the office, and gave my card to the guy at the desk. A university lecturer’s business card does wonders with people who don’t know what we do in reality.”
He was speaking somewhat faster than the first time we had met, which made me a little uncomfortable.
“I manufactured a story—told him I needed to learn more about the scrap business for a book I was writing.
“He was willing to cooperate. But he couldn’t recall any pinball machines from February 1971. That was natural: two years had passed, and there’s no way he can track everything he handles. All he does is put the stuff together, toss it in the compactor, and wham! So I asked him one last question. If I saw something I wanted—say a washer or a bike frame—that was about to be scrapped, would he sell it to me if the price was right? Sure, he said. And are there ever cases like that?”
The autumn dusk had swiftly faded and the road was sinking into darkness. Our taxi was approaching the suburbs.
“He told me I should check with the supervisor on the second floor if I needed more detailed information. Of course I went up and asked. Did he know anyone who might have picked up a pinball machine around February 1971? Yes, he answered, I know one such person. When I pressed him for details, he gave me the man’s telephone number. It seems this guy is called when any machines come in. He slips the supervisor some money for the privilege. And how many had he bought up? I asked. That’s hard to say offhand, he said. The guy looks over each one; then he takes it if he likes it and leaves it if he doesn’t. A ballpark estimate is okay, I said. I don’t need a specific number. Well, he said, I’m sure he’s picked up at least fifty machines.”
“Fifty machines!” I cried.
“You got it,” the lecturer said. “That’s the man we’re going to see.”
21
Outside it had turned pitch black. Not a monochromatic but a layered black, as if various black paints had been slapped on like butter.
I sat with my nose to the taxi window looking out. As time passed, the black came to appear somehow flat, as if someone had taken a razor to matter without substance, and the darkness was the severed end. The result was a most odd perspective, at once three-dimensional and two-dimensional. A giant night bird with outspread wings rose before me.
The farther we drove, the more scattered the houses became, until all that was left were fields and groves of trees, from which arose the rumbling of a million insects. Low-lying clouds hung over the landscape like giant boulders while the creatures cowered, silent in the dark. Only the bugs retained their voice.
The Spanish instructor and I took turns smoking cigarettes without exchanging a word. The cabbie was smoking too, as he scowled at the passing headlights. My fingers drummed on my knee. From time to time, I had the urge to open the cab door and flee.
Switch panels, sandboxes, reservoirs, golf courses, torn sweaters, pinball—how long would this go on? I sat there bewildered, clutching my random assortment of cards. I wanted to turn around that very instant and head home. Take a nice bath, crack open a beer, grab my cigarettes and my Kant, and climb into my warm bed.
So why was I racing through the darkness? To keep a date with fifty pinball machines. It was idiotic. A dream. A dream without substance.
Yet the siren call of the three-flipper Spaceship never wavered.
We were five hundred yards off the road in the middle of an empty field when the Spanish instructor told the cabbie to stop. The ground was level, with soft grass that brushed our ankles like river water in the shallows. I got out of the cab, stretched, and took a few deep breaths. I could smell chickens nearby. No lights were visible, but the faint illumination from the road brought the landscape into dim relief. The buzz of countless insects surrounded us. They seemed ready to drag me down somewhere by my feet.
We stood there, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Is this still Tokyo?” I asked after a long pause.
“Of course. Where did you think we were?”
“It looks like the edge of the world.”
The Spanish instructor nodded gravely. The fragrance of grass and the smell of chicken shit enveloped us as we smoked our cigarettes in silence. The smoke rolled along the ground like smoke from a signal fire.
“There’s a chain-link fence over there.” He pointed into the dark as if shooting a pistol on the practice range, his arm extended straight from his side. I could make out something fencelike if I strained my eyes. “Follow it for three hundred meters and you’ll hit the warehouse.”
“Warehouse?”
“Yes,” he said, without glancing in m
y direction. “It’s a big building—you can’t miss it. It used to be cold storage for chicken carcasses. But it’s not in use anymore. The chicken company went broke.”
“But I still smell chickens.”
“Smell chickens…? Ah yes. Their smell soaked into the soil. It’s even worse when it rains. You can almost hear flapping wings.”
Nothing was visible inside the chain-link fence. It was a frightening darkness. Even the insects sounded suffocated.
“The warehouse is unlocked. The owner left the door open for you. The machine you’re looking for is inside.”
“Have you been in there?”
“Only once…He was kind enough to let me take a look,” he said. I could see the orange tip of the cigarette between his teeth bobbing in the dark. “The light switch is to your right as you enter. Watch out for the stairs.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Go in alone. That’s the deal.”
“The deal?”
“That’s right,” he answered, extinguishing his butt in the grass with his foot. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish. Just turn off the lights on your way out.”
The air was growing colder every minute. A blanket of chill rose from the ground.
“Have you met the owner?”
“Yes,” he answered after a short pause.
“What kind of man is he?”
The instructor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Nothing special about him,” he said with a shrug. “At least on the outside.”
“Then why would he go out and buy fifty pinball machines?”
“Listen, there are all kinds of people in this world. It’s that simple, I guess.”
I doubted it was that simple. But I thanked him anyway and headed off along the chicken plant’s chain-link fence. No, not that simple at all, I thought. There was a slight difference between collecting fifty pinball machines and, say, fifty wine labels.