“Many thanks, Corporal sir.”
“And give my warmest greetings to your brother,” added the corporal, stamping his passport with “Unfit for Service”.
“It’ll be a pleasure, Corporal sir,” said my father, taking his document and turning to go and get dressed.
“Ah, one other little thing,” said the corporal.
My father came to a sudden halt and turned back slowly to face him.
“Yes?” he asked, terrified, in the faintest of voices.
“Nothing, my lad, except it’s a good thing your brother wasn’t born with flat feet, isn’t it?”
Guffawing, his head enveloped in smoke, the corporal lowered his gaze once more and carried on flicking through the other passports with a bored expression.
8
If we lend credence to the strange symmetries of History, it would appear that in my family, every second generation, someone saves themselves from some disaster thanks to a misunderstanding over the name Neuman. Some day I’d like to have a son, so that the surname I give him can protect him, if only by mistake. Yet I suspect I will never have a son. And this non-existence will be the most silent, perfect salvation.
THE LAST MINUTE
BATHTUB
MY GRANDFATHER took off one item of clothing after another until he was naked. He looked at his ailing body, emaciated yet erect. The bathroom mirror had darkened with him over the years: what remained was a precarious patina flecked with dots, and a forty-watt light bulb above it. My grandfather folded his clothes neatly. He placed them on top of the toilet lid. He paused for a moment, his woollen slippers dangling from his fingers, and decided to put them out in the corridor. Then he locked the door from the inside.
It wasn’t cold. He felt much more comfortable naked. Then he felt self-conscious and turned on the taps. The tiles began to steam up. My grandfather dipped his hand into the water and stirred it. He modified the temperature several times. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and waited.
The gushing taps stopped rippling the surface. The water turned from opaque to clear. Slowly, my grandfather dipped one foot in, then the other, testing the temperature with his buttocks. He remained sitting in the tub with his knees bent and his arms wrapped round his legs. He sighed. Far-off episodes came back to him: a boy in short trousers on a bicycle delivering bread; an obese, bedridden lady giving him instructions and demanding breakfast; a tall, fair-haired gentleman, vaguely foreign, patting his head on the quayside of the port; a gigantic, red, white and black liner sailing into the distance; green, open fields, a house with no chimney; the small library an erect boy explored at night, amid the obese lady’s cries; an unattended funeral, an enormous coffin; a different house, with more light, a beautiful young woman smiling at him; a boy in short trousers, on a bicycle, who would never have to deliver bread at dawn; another girl doing her homework in the kitchen; a factory, scores of nameless shadows and a few friendly faces; a boy and a girl, no longer on bicycles, no longer with exercise books; a wedding; another wedding; an empty house, less light; a companionable, soothing voice; the identical walks on identical mornings; a bittersweet peace; the consulting room at a clinic; a doctor talking nonsense; an old woman going out shopping; an oblong envelope handwritten in blue ink on the dining room table; a naked old man, curled up, surrounded by still water.
There was no sound, apart from the soft dripping of one of the taps. Drop by drop he counted up to ten, twenty, thirty, fifty, reaching a hundred drops. He unfolded his arms, and, holding his head, he lay back until his spine was pressing against the marble bottom. Under the water, amid opaque reflections, my grandfather pressed his lips firmly together so no air would escape and forced himself to lie still.
But then something unforeseen happened, something I have imagined: all of a sudden my grandfather sat up energetically and began gasping. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair turned into a jellyfish; but he was still breathing. This time, no image appeared in his mind. He was alone with the water, the taps, the tiles, the bathtub, the steam and the mirror, his naked body. I know that at that moment, breathless and alone, my grandfather must have given a half-smile and attained a final well-being.
It was then, yes, that he sealed his lips and eyelids once more, lay back until he could feel the marble, and my grandfather ceased to be my grandfather.
POISON
KENZABURO would pay the best fisherman in Tokyo to set aside a globefish for him. The government regulated its fishing, sale and distribution. The official price was high, so coastal restaurants would buy only a small amount each morning. The guidelines for cleaning it were strict and the penalties harsh. And all for nothing, reflected Kenzaburo, who once a week would sit in his apartment in Shinagawa and wait for the fishermen to deliver his globefish. And all for nothing, Kenzaburo told himself, for eating takifugu involved a decision that had nothing to do with the government or health and safety. Not even with hunger.
Kenzaburo had breakfasted on tea and bitter fruits. His maid, Yakomi, had discovered him standing quietly beside the wooden lattice, caressing a green and yellow vessel with his fingertips. Kenzaburo sensed he was being watched, turned his head and looked with polite disdain at Yakomi. “There is a bird,” he told her, “a white bird as fluffy as rice on the fountain in the courtyard. It pains me to see it because I know the rain will soak its feathers and it won’t be the same anymore, do you see?” Yakomi didn’t reply, she removed the black and gold tray with the breakfast things and vanished through the sliding panel.
At nine-thirty the two fishermen arrived. Yakomi ushered them in, but they bowed their heads and told her no, they mustn’t cross the threshold of such a worthy dwelling, much less dressed in rags. One of them glanced uneasily at the polished stone steps leading up to the entrance, and also at Yakomi’s ankles. She asked them to wait. She went to Kenzaburo to explain the fishermen’s qualms. Kenzaburo flew into a rage (a measured, whispered, sardonic rage, the way violence always manifested itself in him) and he ordered her to show the fishermen in at once, and to offer them bamboo tea, as well as two of his finest kimonos.
Seated on the tatami mat in the reception room, Kenzaburo contemplated the designs on the lampshades. Silence prevailed, save for the occasional sound of metal or porcelain from the kitchen. The wooden flooring had grown darker. At the back of the room, on a folding table, there was a picture of a young woman. The photograph had aged despite its immaculate silver frame. The girl’s blurred face was smiling with an air of forgetfulness. Kenzaburo looked away from the portrait, and thought about the fishermen who had just left his house having scarcely tasted their tea.
Instead of rejoicing, the fishermen had seemed distressed by the apparent burden of being entertained by such an honourable gentleman, when they knew they could never return the compliment. Perhaps by bringing more fish, Kenzaburo had joked, but one of the men shook his head. Noticing their timid voices, their skins scoured by the salt, Kenzaburo had felt sad. To cheer himself up, he asked them about the day’s catch, and the fishermen told him that, as it was Sunday, they had caught mainly mackerel and herring, so that they could return to their families sooner. When Yakomi had brought in the tea, Kenzaburo noticed one of the fishermen shift uneasily. At that moment, another tedious silence had descended, and then Kenzaburo observed how curious it was that the words in French for fish and poison were almost identical. Neither of the two fishermen showed much interest in this coincidence, but one of them said that the globefish they had brought him was the finest specimen they had ever had the honour to catch thanks to the divine intervention of the almighty Amaterasu. The other nodded. Kenzaburo’s gaze wandered up to the rafters for a moment, and then he had felt cold all of a sudden. Thanking the fishermen for their careful selection of his globefish, he had paid them too much, had acknowledged their flustered bows, called Yakomi, watched the three figures slip through the red sliding panel, and then solitude.