At about eleven o’clock, Kenzaburo ordered the kitchen staff to start. Then he picked up the wicker basket and from between the bamboo leaves removed a cool, moist parcel, which he unwrapped until he could feel the gelatinous skin of the takifugu whose eyes remained intact and open, the eyeballs tensed as though still able to see. The upper membranes were black, with brown streaks that matched the protective spines. Kenzaburo could have sworn the globefish looked tired, as if it had welcomed death as a relief after many years. Yet he knew that was not possible, because globefish lived only a few months before they sacrificed themselves by bursting the poisonous glands in their own stomachs. In the fish’s imperceptible white mouth, with its almost human lips, translucent sputum glistened. Kenzaburo wrapped the fish up again and called Yakomi, who took rather longer than was appropriate to appear behind the printed screen. “Take the fish to the cook,” he told her without averting his eyes from the lattice window, “and tell her to have it ready by twelve-thirty.” Yakomi gave the impression of wanting to say something, but then walked away, her feet gently tapping the floor.
The globefish was wonderful when seasoned with oregano. Although it was more of a Western tradition, Kenzaburo always insisted on a pinch of oregano warmed in oil to take the edge off the globefish’s initial bitter taste, which always chafed the roof of his mouth slightly before dissolving completely and oozing a kind of sweetened sandstone. Yes, the initial taste was the problem, that hostility takifugu showed towards life and mankind, even after death. Why was a deadly fish so delicious? Kenzaburo reflected on the idea of punishment and rose from the mat to light some incense. But rather than sit down again, he stood next to the lattice, listening to the trickle of the fountain. Was there any point in regulating the fishing and sale of globefish? He couldn’t see any. After all, there were plenty of other species in the seas around Japan that were equally nourishing and much cheaper. Surely anyone ordering globefish for lunch knows full well what they are exposing themselves to? Chefs had to know how to extract the poisonous bile before seasoning the fish, but what could the government do about that? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. Kenzaburo shook his head.
At twenty past twelve, Yakomi slipped between two shafts of light to inform Kenzaburo that his lunch was almost ready, and to ask him if he would be so kind as to take a seat at the dining table. From there only a corner of the courtyard was visible, and he was scarcely able to hear the flow of the fountain. Through the bars of the dining room window he could see a cherry tree in blossom, like pink mist beneath the sky. It was hot. The chink of cutlery and glasses reached him from the kitchen. He called Yakomi. He demanded they make less noise, but she told him they had just finished. “Then let them bring it to me,” said Kenzaburo.
The pottery dish was placed in the exact centre of the table. Encircling it, a fruit and rice salad. Yakomi filled his cup with sake. Kenzaburo smiled, for the first time that morning. The young woman was slightly alarmed and swiftly turned her head away. He looked at the globefish, lying on its side whole on the dish, surrounded by vegetables. Then he had a premonition. He took a sip of sake, and called Yakomi back as she made to return to the kitchen. “Yakomi,” he whispered, “tell the cook that I am giving the two of you the rest of Sunday off. Take a stroll around Tokyo, you never leave the house. Go on.” Yakomi stammered her appreciation and vanished, sliding her feet softly as though trying not to awaken Kenzaburo from some unusual dream. Soon afterwards came the sounds of the front door and the garden gate.
Kenzaburo poured himself some more sake, but he did not drink it. The globefish seemed to pulsate and glint through the black buttons of its eyes. He sighed. Then he sat listening to his own sigh echoing in his memory. He closed his eyes, and saw before him the phantom of a pale-skinned young woman smiling at him from afar. He returned to the centre of the table, to the dish, the rice salad, the cup, maroon on the outside, cream-coloured on the inside. He drew the dish closer to his plate and thrust the knife into the globefish’s stomach, helping himself to the portion between the middle of the abdomen and the start of the tail. The flesh yielded passively. A thick, fragrant effluvium seeped through the incision. Kenzaburo began cutting the portion into tiny pieces, waiting for it to cool. He soon realized he could no longer hear the fountain, and everything was sweeter.
MAN SHOT
WHEN MOYANO, hands tied and icy-nosed, heard the command “Ready!”, he suddenly remembered his Spanish grandfather had told him that in his country they usually said “Load!” As he recalled his deceased grandfather, it seemed to him unreal that nightmares should come true. That’s what Moyano thought: that we usually invoke, possibly out of cowardice, the supposed danger of realizing our desires, yet we tend to omit the sinister possibility that our fears may also come true. He did not think this as a matter of syntax, word for word, but did feel the sour impact of its conclusion: he was about to be shot, and nothing seemed to him more implausible, in spite of the fact that, in his circumstances, it ought to have seemed to him the most logical thing ever to happen in Argentina. Was it logical to hear “Aim”? To anyone, at least to anyone decent, that order could never sound rational, even though the entire squad was lined up, their rifles perpendicular to their bodies like branches to the trunk of a tree, and no matter how often during his captivity the general had threatened that exactly this would happen to him. Moyano was ashamed at the lack of sincerity in this reasoning, and of the sham of appealing to decency. Who, at the point of being shot, could worry about such a thing? wasn’t survival the only human value, or perhaps less than human value, that now really mattered to him? was he trying to lie to himself? to die with some sense of glory? to make a moral distinction between himself and his executioners, as a pathetic form of the salvation in which he had never believed? Moyano didn’t exactly think all this, but he intuited it, he understood it, mentally nodding as if at somebody else’s dictation. The general bellowed “Fire!”, Moyano shut his eyes, screwing them up so tightly that they hurt, trying to hide from everything, from himself as well, behind the eyelids, it seemed to him ignoble to die like this, eyes closed, his last gaze should at least be vengeful, he wanted to open them, but didn’t, he remained motionless, thought of shouting out something, insulting somebody, he searched for one or two suitable offensive words, but they did not come. What a clumsy death, he thought, and then immediately: What if we have been fooled? Doesn’t everybody die this way, as best they can? The next sound, the last Moyano heard, was the click of triggers. Far less disturbing, more harmonious even, than he had ever imagined.
That ought to have been the last sound, but he heard something more. To his amazement and confusion, things went on making noise. His eyes still shut, glued by panic, he heard the general shouting, “Sissy, weep, sissy!”, he heard the firing squad convulse with laughter, heard the birds singing, hesitantly sniffed the delicious morning air, savoured the dry saliva between his lips. “Weep, sissy, weep!” the general was still shouting when Moyano opened his eyes, as the squad was dispersing, their backs to him, chatting about the joke, leaving him sprawled there, kneeling in the mud, panting, all dead.