The sea was near, and there were people living surprisingly close by, but Mai was in a place governed by the laws of another world.
The tide was at its fullest, she figured: it would begin to recede now. It didn't matter. Life and death were not at odds; they coexisted snugly right where she was.
Mai gave a wan laugh and looked around at the darkness the baby had left behind, and allowed herself to think about its future.
She hoped, of course, that morning would come soon, but she had a feeling that night would continue for quite some time yet. She wasn't sure if her consciousness could hold out until dawn.
Suddenly she had the feeling that the stars had come right down close to her. Or was it that her body had started to float? It didn't feel too bad.
Death was almost there.
LEMON HEART
1
November 1990
............................................................, and
his dream was set in a theater, one that seated about four hundred people, the kind he was so used to, and had been for so long. He wasn't in the audience seating or onstage, but in a sound booth overlooking the stage from behind the seats; evidently he was in charge of sound effects. In front of him, illuminated by a work light, were the mixer in its cabinet and a reel-to-reel tape deck. He was seated on a chair, the index finger of his right hand on the tape recorder's play button and his left hand on the mixer, adjusting sound levels; his gaze was fixed on the play onstage. He knew, all too well, that this was a dream. And he knew, roughly, what was going to happen next, if he didn't wake up first, which didn't look like it was going to happen...and it was this self-awareness that he found so mystifying. He couldn't figure out what to call this neither/nor state he was in, as he crossed and recrossed the border between sleep and wakefulness.
The sound booth was located next to the lighting booth. It played an important role in supporting and in-tensifying the drama unfolding onstage. His job was to watch the progress of the play and provide music and sound effects at just the right moments, in response to signals from the stage director and in synch with the lighting man. This troupe was quite particular about how the music was handled. The actors' movements and lines were meant to match the rhythms of the songs he provided, so if his timing on the start button was off, it would ruin the whole play. They required constant concentration from their soundman: he wasn't able to relax, even for a moment, until the play was over.
Onstage, his favorite actress was performing, with great earnestness, the part she'd at long last landed. It was her debut—her career as an actress depended on each one of these precious moments, and she was savoring them.
He liked her personally, which only made him more determined to get the sound cues exactly right. His every thought was concentrated on the finger that would press play. He could feel sweat beading on his fingertip.
The music would play, and she'd sing a snippet of song: that was how the scene went. He'd push the play button, and from the speaker in front of the stage would come the sound, a snippet that he'd recorded and edited himself. That was what was supposed to happen.
He pressed play.
But what came from the speaker was no sound he'd ever heard before. Not only was it not music, it was too creepy even for one of their sound effects. Though he could hardly make it out, he thought it sounded like someone moaning—when the scene called for a cheerful little song. It was more than enough to destroy the play.
He watched the tape reel spin. It was his tape, the one he'd put together: no doubt about that. And he knew exactly what sounds were on it, and where. This keening wail was totally unforeseen.
Who the hell put this on here!
There was no time to think of a solution. Doubt as-sailed him from every side, and in his panic he allowed an effect scheduled for the next scene to play now. The ringing of a telephone echoed through the theater. The situation was beyond salvaging now.
The actress was young and inexperienced, and she couldn't improvise her way out of the situation. She simply stopped and looked up at the sound booth. With the house lights down and the booth's work light on, she'd be able to see him from the stage.
She looked up at him with a weapon-like clarity of gaze, and an accusatory gleam began to come into her eyes.
How dare you ruin my debut like this!
He gave up. He had no explanation for how those moans had gotten there. There was no way he was to blame—if anything, he was the victim. But he couldn't even voice his excuses: his body had stiffened, and he couldn't move. It felt like sleep paralysis.
Now all the actors onstage had stopped performing and were looking up at the sound booth. Audience members, too, following the actors' gazes, were beginning to turn around in their seats, half standing up to stare at him. His whole body felt the force of their recrimina-tions.
It's not my fault! It's not my fault!
He didn't speak the words aloud, but somehow the microphone picked up the voice in his head and ampli-fied it until it resounded throughout the theater.
"It's not my fault! It's not my fault!"
This attempt at self-vindication, more like a desperate cry, only poured oil on the flames. The crowd's reproach reached an even higher pitch, engulfing the hall.
But the sharpest gaze of all belonged to the young actress making her first appearance on a stage. The woman who had joined the troupe at the same time as him, with whom he'd done odd jobs together when they were interns, the woman with whom he'd exchanged encouraging words, the woman who had gradually become the object of his affections... He wanted to help her. He couldn't. Far from it: he was dragging her down. All he wanted, and he wanted it from the bottom of his heart, was for her to succeed as an actress, and now he was stealing that future from her, and all he could do was gnash his teeth... He could say he loved her all he wanted, but in reality it all came down to this.
Clutching at his chest, drowning in sweat, Toyama awoke from his dream.
For the first few minutes after waking up from the dream, he didn't know where he was. Then, as he got his breathing under control and looked around, Toyama began to grasp the situation. Mirrored ceiling, a circular bed that wasn't his, a woman in a towel sitting next to that oversized bed...
He tried to look up at her, and suddenly his chest hurt like it was being squeezed. He shivered; he could feel a cold sweat break out on his back. His chest and back had been giving him a lot of pain lately; this time, too, it made him uneasy. Not again, he thought; maybe he ought to see a doctor after all.
"You were having a nightmare."
She flashed him a playful smile, as if he'd shown her something really amusing.
Toyama groaned and lay there supine and motion-less for a time. He was afraid that if he made the wrong move now he'd get dizzy and fall over. He waited for his breathing to relax.
At length he gingerly rolled over on the bed. He might be alright.
He quietly separated himself from the woman, weighing what he'd dreamed against what he knew to be real; he heaved a sigh. How many times had he dreamed terrifying things, knowing all the while that it was a dream? And each time, even knowing it for what it was, he cowered before the same dream, and then felt relief when he was able to confirm it wasn't real.
He looked at his watch and asked the woman, "Hey, how long have I been asleep?"
"Fifteen minutes, maybe? I saw you were asleep and went to take a shower. When I got back, you were having a nightmare. You're being punished for all the bad stuff you do, don't you think?"