Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

  “Predictable,” the Colonel says, shaking his head. “The Gatekeeper is entrusted with the care of shadows. He shoulders the entire responsibility. The Gatekeeper can be a difficult man; harsh when not called for, blind to his own faults. Your only move is to wait for his mood to change.”

  “Then I will wait,” I say. “Yet what does he have to fear from me?”

  The Colonel finishes his coffee, then takes out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. The white square of cloth, like his uniform, is worn but clean and pressed.

  “He fears that you and your shadow will become one again.”

  At that, he returns his attention to the chessboard. This chess differs from the game I know in its pieces and their movements. Hence the old officer always wins.

  “Ape takes High Priest, you realize?”

  “Go ahead,” I say. I move a Parapet to cover the Ape’s retreat.

  The Colonel nods, then glares again at the board. The tides of fortune have almost swept victory to the old officer’s feet. Even so, he does not rush into the fray as he compounds strategem upon strategem. For him, the game is not to defeat the opponent, but to challenge his own abilities.

  “It is not easy to surrender your shadow and simply let it die,” he says, deftly maneuvering his Knight between the Parapet and my King. This leaves my King vulnerable. He will have checkmate in three moves.

  “No, it is not easy,” stresses the Colonel. “The pain is the same for everyone, though it is one thing to tear the shadow away from an innocent child who has not gotten attached to it, and quite another to do it to an old fool. I was in my sixty-fifth year when they put my shadow to death. By that age we already had had a lifetime together.”

  “How long do shadows live once they have been torn away?”

  “That depends on the shadow,” says the old officer. “Some shadows are fit and some are not. In this Town, severed shadows do not live long. The climate is harsh and the winters long. Few shadows live to see the spring.”

  I study the chessboard and concede defeat.

  “You can gain yourself five moves,” says the Colonel. “Worth fighting to the end. In five moves your opponent can err. No war is won or lost until the final battle is over.”

  “Then give me a moment,” I say.

  While I reassess my options, the Colonel walks over to the window and parts the thick curtains slightly to peer out.

  “These few weeks will be the hardest for you. It is the same as with broken bones. Until they set, you cannot do anything. Believe me.”

  “You mean to say I am anxious because my shadow still is not dead?”

  “I do,” the old officer nods. “I, too, remember the feeling. You are caught between all that was and all that must be. You feel lost. Mark my words: as soon as the bones mend, you will forget about the fracture.”

  “You mean to say, as soon as my mind vanishes?”

  The Colonel does not answer.

  “Excuse me for asking so many questions,” I say. “I know nothing about this Town. How it works, why it needs the Wall, why the beasts are herded in and out every day. I do not understand any of it. You are the only one I can ask.”

  “Not even I know all the rules,” says the old officer under his breath. “There are things that cannot and should not be explained. But there is no cause for concern. The Town is fair in its own way. The things you need, the things you need to know, one by one the Town will set these before you. Hear me now: this Town is perfect. And by perfect, I mean complete. It has everything. If you cannot see that, then it has nothing. A perfect nothing. Remember this well. That is as much as anyone can tell you; the rest you must learn for yourself. Open your eyes, train your ears, use your head. If a mind you have, then use it while you can.”

  If the Workers’ Quarter, where the Librarian lives, is a place of past brilliance, then the Bureaucratic Quarter, which spreads to the southwest, is a place of color fading into parched light. Here, the spectacle of spring has dissolved into summer, only to be eroded by the winter winds. All along the gentle slope known as the Western Hill stand rows of two-story Official Residences. The buildings, originally three-family dwellings with common entrance halls, are painted white. The siding and doors and window frames—every detail is white. None of these Official Residences have hedges, only narrow flower beds below tiny porches. The flower beds are carefully tended, with plantings of crocus and pansy and marigold in spring, cosmos in autumn. The flowers in bloom make the buildings look all the more tawdry.

  Strolling the Hill, one can imagine its former splendor: children playing gaily in the streets, piano music in the air, warm supper scents. Memories feign through scarcely perceived doors of my being.

  Only later did this slope become the Bureaucratic Quarter, which, as the name suggests, was an area for government officials, undistinguished ranks of officialdom lodged in mediocrity. They too have gone, but to where?

  After the bureaucrats came the retired military. Surrendering their shadows, cast off like molted insect shells, each pursues his own end on the windswept Western Hill. With little left to protect, they live a half dozen old majordomos to a house.

  The Gatekeeper indicated that I was to find my room in one of these Official Residences. My cohabitants proved to be the Colonel, four commissioned officers under him, and a sergeant, who cooks the meals and does the chores. The Colonel passes judgment on everything, as was his duty in the army. These career soldiers have known numerous battle preparations and maneuvers, revolutions and counterrevolutions and outright wars. They who had never wanted family are now lonely old men.

  Rising early each morning, they charge through breakfast before going their own way, as if by tacit order, to their respective tasks. One scrapes peeling paint from the building, one repairs furniture, one takes a wagon down the Hill to haul food rations back up. Their morning duties done, they reassemble to spend the rest of the day sitting in the sun, reminiscing about past campaigns.

  The room assigned to me is on the upper story facing east. The view is largely blocked by hills in the foreground, although I can see the River and the Clocktower. The plaster walls of the room are stained, the window sills thick with dust. There is an old bed, a small dining table, and two chairs. The windows are hung with mildewed curtains. The floorboards are badly damaged and creak when I walk.

  In the morning, the Colonel appears from the adjacent room. We eat breakfast together, then repair to a dark, curtained room for a session of chess. There is no other way to pass the daylight hours.

  “It must be frustrating. A young man like you should not be shut indoors on such a beautiful day,” says the Colonel.

  “I think so too.”

  “Though I must say, I appreciate gaining a chess companion. The rest of the men have no interest in games. I suppose I am the only one with any desire to play chess at this late date.”

  “Tell me, why did you give up your shadow?”

  The old officer examines his fingers, sun-strafed against the curtains, before leaving the window to reinstall himself across the table.

  “I wish I could say. It may have been that I spent so long defending this Town I could not walk away. If I left, my whole life would have been for nothing. Of course, it makes no difference now.”

  “Do you ever regret giving up your shadow?”

  “I have no regrets,” speaks the old officer, shaking his head. “I never do anything regrettable.”

  I crush his Ape with my Parapet, creating an opening for my King.

  “Good move,” says the Colonel. “Parapet guards against penetration and frees up the King. At the same time, it allows my Knight greater range.”

  While the old officer contemplates his next move, I boil water for a new pot of coffee.

  9

  Appetite, Disappointment, Leningrad

  WHILE I waited for her, I fixed supper. I mashed an umeboshi salt plum with mortar and pestle to make a sour-sweet dressing; I fried up a few sardines with abura-agé to
fu-puffs in grated yama-imo taro batter; I sautéed a celery-beef side dish. Not a bad little meal.

  There was time to spare, so I had a beer as I tossed together some soy-simmered myoga wild ginger and green beans with tofu-sesame sauce. After which I stretched out on my bed, gazed at the ceiling, and listened to old records.

  The hour was well past seven, and outside it was quite dark. But still no sign of her. Maybe she thought better of the whole proposition and decided not to come. Could I blame her? The reasonable thing would have been not to come.

  Yet, as I was choosing the next record, the doorbell rang. I checked through the fisheye lens, and there stood the woman from the library with an armload of books. I opened the door with the chain still in place.

  “See anyone milling around in the hall?” I asked.

  “Not a soul,” she said.

  I undid the chain, let her in, and quickly relocked the door.

  “Something sure smells good,” she said. “Mind if I peek in the kitchen?”

  “Go right ahead. But are you sure there weren’t any strange characters hanging around the entrance? No one doing street repairs, or just sitting in a parked car?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” she said, plunking the books down on the kitchen table. Then she lifted the lid of each pot on the range. “You make all this yourself?”

  “Sure thing. I can dish some up if you want. Pretty everyday fare, though.”

  “Not at all. I’m wild about this sort of food.”

  I set out the dishes on the kitchen table.

  We sat down to eat, and I watched awestruck as she, with casual aplomb, lay the entire spread to waste. She had a stunning appetite.

  I made myself a big Old Crow on the rocks, flash-broiled a block of atsu-agé fried tofu, and topped it with grated daikon radish to go along with my drink. I offered her a drink, but she wasn’t interested.

  “Could I have a bit of that atsu-agé, though?” she asked. I pushed the remaining half-block over to her and just drank my bourbon.

  “There’s rice, if you like. And I can whip up some miso soup in a jiff,” I said.

  “Fabulous!” she exclaimed.

  I prepared a katsuobushi dried-bonito broth and added wakame seaweed and scallions for the miso soup. I served it alongside a bowl of rice and umeboshi Again she leveled it all in no time flat. All that remained was a couple of plum pits.

  Then she sighed with satisfaction. “Mmm, that was good. My compliments to the chef,” she said.

  Never in my life had I seen such a slim nothing of a figure eat like such a terror. As the cook, I was gratified, and I had to hand it to her—she’d done the job with a certain all-consuming beauty. I was overwhelmed. And maybe a little disgusted.

  “Tell me, do you always eat this much?” I blurted out.

  “Why, yes. This is about normal for me,” she said, unembarrassed.

  “But you’re so thin.”

  “Gastric dilation,” she confessed. “It doesn’t matter how much I eat. I don’t gain weight.”

  “Must run up quite a food bill,” I said. Truth was, she’d gastrically dilated her way through tomorrow’s dinner in one go.

  “It’s frightening,” she said. “Most of my salary disappears into my stomach.”

  Once again, I offered her something to drink, and this time she agreed to a beer. I pulled one out from the refrigerator and, just in case, a double ration of frankfurter links, which I tossed into the frying pan. Incredible, but except for the two franks I fended for myself, she polished off the whole lot. A regular machine gun of a hunger, this girl!

  As a last resort, I set out ready-made potato salad, then dashed off a quick wakame-tuna combo for good measure. Down they went with her second beer.

  “Boy, this is heaven!” she purred. I’d hardly touched a thing and was now on my third Old Crow on the rocks.

  “While you’re at it, there’s chocolate cake for dessert,” I surrendered. Of course, she indulged. I watched in disbelief, almost seeing the food backing up in her throat.

  Probably that was the reason I couldn’t get an erection.

  It was the first time I hadn’t risen to the occasion since the Tokyo Olympic Year.

  “It’s all right, nothing to get upset about,” she tried to comfort me.

  After dessert, we’d had another round of bourbon and beer, listened to a few records, then snuggled into bed. And like I said, I didn’t get an erection.

  Her naked body fit perfectly next to mine. She lay there stroking my chest. “It happens to everyone. You shouldn’t get so worked up over it.”

  But the more she tried to cheer me, the more it only drove home the fact that I’d flopped. Aesthetically, I remembered reading, the flaccid penis is more pleasing than the erect. But somehow, under the circumstances, this was little consolation.

  “When was the last time you slept with someone?” she asked.

  “Maybe two weeks ago,” I said.

  “And that time, everything went okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. Was my sex life to be questioned by everyone these days?

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “A call girl.”

  “A call girl? Don’t you feel, how shall I put it, guilt?”

  “Well … no.”

  “And nothing … since then?”

  What was this cross-examination? “No,” I said. “I’ve been so busy with work, I haven’t had time to pick up my dry-cleaning, much less wank.”

  “That’s probably it,” she said, convinced.

  “What’s probably it?”

  “Overwork. I mean, if you were really that busy …”

  “Maybe so.” Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept in twenty-six hours the night before.

  “What’s your line of work?”

  “Oh, computer-related business.” My standard reply. It wasn’t really a lie, and since most people don’t know much about computers, they generally don’t inquire any further.

  “Must involve long hours of brain work. I imagine the stress just builds up and knocks you temporarily out of service.”

  That was a kind enough explanation. All this craziness all over the place. Small wonder I wasn’t worse than impotent.

  “Why don’t you put your ear to my tummy,” she said, rolling the blanket to the foot of the bed.

  Her body was sleek and beautiful. Not a gram of fat, her breasts cautious buds. I placed my ear against the soft, smooth expanse above her navel, which, uncannily, betrayed not the least sign of the quantities of food within. It was like that magic coat of Harpo Marx, devouring everything in sight.

  “Hear anything?” she asked.

  I held my breath and listened. There was only the slow rhythm of her heartbeat.

  “I don’t hear a thing,” I said.

  “You don’t hear my stomach digesting all that food?” she asked.

  “I doubt digestion makes much sound. Only gastric juices dissolving things. Of course, there should be some peristaltic activity, but that’s got to be quiet, too.”

  “But I can really feel my stomach churning. Why don’t you listen again?”

  I was content to keep in that position. I lazily eyed the wispy mound of pubic hair just ahead. I heard nothing that sounded like gastrointestinal action. I recalled a scene like this in The Enemy Below. Right below my ear, her iron stomach was stealthily engaged in digestive operations, like that U-boat with Curt Jurgens on board.

  I gave up and lifted my head from her body. I leaned back and put my arm around her. I smelled the scent of her hair.

  “Got any tonic water?” she asked.

  “In the refrigerator,” I said.

  “I have an urge for a vodka tonic. Could I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Can I fix you one?”

  “You bet.”

  She got out of bed and walked naked to the kitchen to mix two vodka tonics. While she did that, I put on my favorite Johnny Mathis album. The one with Teach Me Tonight. Then I humm
ed my way back to bed. Me and my limp penis and Johnny Mathis.

  “How old are you?” she asked, returning with the drinks.

  “Thirty-five,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Almost thirty. I look young, but I’m really twenty-nine,” she said. “Honestly, though, aren’t you a baseball player or something?”

  I was so taken aback, I spit out vodka tonic all over my chest.

  “Where’d you get an idea like that?” I said. “I haven’t even touched a baseball in fifteen years.”

  “I don’t know, I thought maybe I’d seen your face on TV. A ball game. Or maybe you were on the News?”

  “Never done anything newsworthy.”

  “A commercial?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Well, maybe it was your double. You sure don’t look like a computer person,” she said, pausing. “You’re hard to figure. You go on about evolution and unicorns, and you carry a switchblade.”

  She pointed to my slacks on the floor. The knife was sticking out of the back pocket.

  “Oh,” I said, “in my line of work, you can’t be too careful. I process data. Biotechnology, that sort of thing. Corporate interests involved. Lately there’s been a lot of data piracy.”

  She didn’t swallow a word of it. “Why don’t we deal with our unicorn friends. That was your original purpose in calling me over here, wasn’t it?”

  “Now that you mention it,” I said.

  She unhanded me and picked up the two volumes from the bedside. One was Archaeology of Animals, by Burtland Cooper, and the other Jorge Luis Borges’s Book of Imaginary Beings.

  “Let me give you a quick gloss,” she began. “Borges treats the unicorn as a product of fantasy, not unlike dragons and mermaids. Whereas Cooper doesn’t rule out the possibility that unicorns might have existed at one time, and approaches the matter more scientifically. Unfortunately neither one has much to report about the subject. Even dragons and trolls fare better. My guess is that unicorns never made much noise, so to speak. That’s about all I could come up with at the library.”

  “That’s plenty. I really appreciate it. Now I have another request. Do you think you could read a few of the better parts and tell me about them?”