Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (35 page)

"Was my explanation enough for you?" inquired the Professor.

"It'll do, thanks," I replied.

"S'ppose you're still mad?"

"Sure," I said. "Though I guess anger won't do much for me now, will it? Besides, I'm so blitzed, I still haven't swallowed the reality of it. Later on, when it hits me, I might get furious. But by then, of course, I'll be dead to this world."

"Really, I hadn't intended to go into so much detail," said the Professor. "If I hadn't warned you, it'd have all been over and done with before you even knew it. Probably would've been less stressful, too. Still, it's not like you're goint'die. It's just your conscious mind what's goint'dis-appear forever."

"Same difference," I said. "But either way, I'd have wanted to know. At least where my life's concerned. I don't want some switch like that tripping on me without my knowing about it. I like to take care of my own affairs as much as I can. Now, which way to the exit, please?"

"Exit?"

"The way out of here, to above ground."

"It takes some time, takes you right past an INKling lair."

"I don't mind. At this point, there's not much that can spook me."

"Very well," said the Professor. "You go down the mountain to the water, which is perfectly still by now, so it's easy't'swim. You swim to the south-southwest. I'll shine a light that way as a beacon. Swim straight in that direction, and on the far shore, a little ways up, there's a small openin'. Through that you get to the sewer. Head straight along the sewer and you come to subway tracks."

"Subway?"

"Yessir, the Ginza Line. Exactly midway between Gaien-mae and Aoyama Itchome."

"How did this all get hooked up with the subway?" "Those INKlings got control of the subway tracks. Maybe not durin' the daytime, but at night they're all over the stations like they own the place. Tokyo subway system construction dramatically expanded the sphere of INKling activity. Just made more passages for them. Every once in a while they'll attack a track worker and eat him." "Why don't the authorities own up to that fact?"

"'Cause then who'd work for the subway? Who'd ride the subway? Of course, when they first found out, they tried brickin' over holes, brightenin' the lightin', steppin' up security, but none of that's goint'hold back your INKling. In the space of one night, they can break through walls and chew up electrical cables."

"If it exits between Gaienmae and Aoyama Itchome, that would put us where right now?"

"Somewhere under Meiji Shrine, toward Omotesando. Never pinpointed the exact spot. Anyway, there's only one route, you can't go wrong. It's narrow, meanders a lot. From here you'll be headin' in the direction of Sendagaya, toward the INKling lair, a little this side of the National Sports Arena. Then the tunnel takes a turn to the right, in the direction of the Jingu Baseball Stadium, then on past the Art Forum to Aoyama Boulevard to the Ginza Line. Probably take you 'bout two hours't'reach the exit. Got it?"

"Loud and clear."

"Get yourself past the INKling lair as quickly as possible. Nothin' good can come of dallyin' 'round there. Mind when you get to the subway. There's high-tension lines and subway cars. Be a pity't'make it that far and get yourself hit by a subway car."

"I'll remember that," I said. "But what are you going to do?"

"I'll stay down here for a while. I sprained my foot. Anyway, if I surfaced now, I'd only be chased by the System or Semiotecs. Nobody's goint'come after me here. Fortunately, thanks to you, I've got provisions. This all should keep me alive for three or four days," said the Professor calmly. "You go on ahead. No need't'worry 'bout me."

"What about the INKling-repel devices? It'll take both of them to reach the exit, which will leave you without a single porta-pack."

"Take my granddaughter along with you," said the Professor. "The child can see you off, then return't'fetch me."

"Fine by me," she said.

"But suppose something were to happen to her? What if she were caught or—"

"I won't get caught," she stated firmly.

"Not to be worryin'," said the Professor. "The child's really quite dependable for her age. I trust her. And it's not like I'm without special emergency measures. Fact is, if I have a battery and water and pieces of metal, I can throw together some makeshift INKling repellent. Quite simple, really, though short of the full effect of a porta-pack. All along the way here, didn't y' notice? Those bits of metal I scattered? Keeps the INKlings away for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes."

"You mean the paperclips?" I asked.

"Yessir, paperclips are ideal. Cheap, don't rust, magnetize in a jiff, loop them't'hang 'round your neck. All things said, I'll take paperclips."

I reached into my windbreaker pocket, pulled out a handful of paperclips, and handed them to the Professor. "Will these be enough?"

"My, oh my," exclaimed the Professor with surprise. "Just what the doctor ordered. I was actually a bit concerned. I scattered a few too many on the way here and I was thinkin' I might not have enough. You really are a sharp one."

"We'd better be going, Grandfather," said the girl. "He doesn't have all that much time."

"Take care now. Step light," said the Professor, "and don't let the INKlings bite. Ho-ho-ho."

"I'll be back for you soon," said the granddaughter, planting a peck on his forehead.

"I'm truly sorry 'bout the way things turned out," the Professor apologized one last time.

"I'd change places with you if could. I've already enjoyed a full life. I'd've no regrets. But you, there's all that time you had comin'. There's a lot of things you'll leave behind in this world."

A loss greater than I would ever know, right? I said nothing.

"Still, it's nothing't'fear," the Professor philosophized. "It's not death. It's eternal life. And you get't'be yourself. Compared to that, this world isn't but a momentary fantasy. Please don't forget that."

"Let's get going," said the girl, taking my arm.

Musical Instruments

THE young Caretaker of the Power Station invites us into his modest quarters. He checks the fire in the stove, then takes the boiling kettle into the kitchen to make tea. It is good to drink the hot infusion; we are cold from our day in the Woods. The wind-cry does not subside.

"I pick this herb in the Woods," the Caretaker tells us. "I dry it in the shade all summer, and in winter I have it for tea. It stimulates and warms the body."

The drink is fragrant, with an unassuming sweetness.

"What is the plant called?" I ask.

"The name? I have no idea," he says. "It grows in the Woods, it smells good, so I make tea with it. It has green stalks about yea high, blooms midsummer, I pick the young leaves… The beasts like to eat the flowers."

"The beasts come here?"

"Yes, until the beginning of autumn. Toward winter, they will not come near the Woods. In warm weather, they come here in groups and I play with them and I share my rations… But winter, no. They know I will give them food, and still they do not come. All winter I am alone."

"Will you join us for lunch?" the Librarian offers. "We have brought sandwiches and fruit, too much for two."

"That is kind of you," says the Caretaker. "I have not eaten the food of another in a long time… Oh yes, there are forest mushrooms I picked, if you care to try."

"Yes, very much," I say.

We share her sandwiches and his mushrooms, and later have fruit and more tea. We hardly speak a word. In the absence of talk, the cry of the empty earth pours into the room and fills our silence.

"You never leave the Woods?" I ask the Caretaker.

"Never," he replies, with a shake of his head. "That is decided. I am to stay here always and man the Power Station… Always, until someone comes to replace me. When, I do not know. Only then can I leave the Woods and return to Town… But now is always, and I cannot. I must wait for the wind that conies every three days."

I drink the last of my tea. How long has it been since the wind-cry started? Listening to its droning wail, one is pulled in that direction. It must be lonely to pass the winter here in the Woods.

"But you have come here to look at the Power Station?" the young Caretaker remembers.

"We have come looking for musical instruments," I say. "I was told you would know where to find them."

He regards the knife and fork crossed on his plate.

"Yes, I have musical instruments here. They are old, I cannot say whether they will play… That is, you are welcome to them. I myself cannot play. My pleasure is to look at their shapes. Will you see them?"

"Please," I say.

He rises from his chair and we follow.

"This way. I have them in my room," he says. "I will stay here and clean up," she says.

The Caretaker opens a door, turns on the light, and invites me in. "Over here," he says.

Arranged along the wall are various musical instruments. All are old. Most of them are string instruments, the strings hopelessly rusted, broken or missing. Some I am sure I once knew, but do not remember the names; others are totally unknown to me. A wooden instrument resembling a washboard that sprouts a row of metallic prongs. I try to play it, but can make no song. Another, a set of small drums, even has its own sticks, yet this clearly will not yield a melody. There is a large tubular instrument, one obviously meant to be blown from the end, but how do I give breath to it?

The Caretaker sits on the edge of his cot, its coverlet neatly tucked, and watches me examine the instruments. "Are any of these of use to you?" he speaks up. "I don't know,"

I hesitate. "They're all so old." He walks over to shut the door, then returns. There is no window, so with the door closed, the wind-cry is less intrusive.

"Do you want to know why I collected these things?" the Caretaker asks. "No one in the Town takes any interest in them. No one in the Town has the least interest. Everyone has the things they need for living. Pots and pans, shirts and coats, yes… It is enough that their needs are met. No one wants for anything more. Not me, however. I am very interested in these things. I do not know why. I feel drawn to them. Their forms, their beauty."

He rests one hand on the pillow and puts his other hand in his pocket.

"If you wish to know the truth, I like this Power Station," he continues. "I like the fan, the meters, the transformer. Perhaps I liked these things before, so they sent me here. But it was so long ago. I have forgotten the before… Sometimes I think I will never be allowed to return to Town. They would never accept me as I am now."

I reach for a wooden instrument. It is hollow and sandglass-shaped, with only two strings remaining. I pluck them. A dry twang issues.

"Where did you find these instruments?" I ask. "From all over," he says. "The man who delivers my provisions brings them to me. In the Town, old musical instruments sometimes lie buried in closets and sheds. Often they were burned for firewood. It is a pity… That is, musical instruments are wonderful things. I do not know how to use them, I may not want to use them, I enjoy their beauty. It is enough for me. Is that strange?"

"Musical instruments are very beautiful," I answer. "There is nothing strange about that."

My eyes light upon a box hinged with leather folds lying among the instruments. The bellows is stiff and cracked in a few places, but it holds air. The box has buttons for the fingers.

"May I try it?" I ask.

"Please, go ahead," the young Caretaker says. I slip my hands into the straps on either end and compress. It is difficult to pump, but I can learn. I finger the buttons in ascending order, forcing the bellows in and out. Some buttons yield only faint tones, but there is a progression. I work the buttons again, this time descending.

"What sounds!" smiles the fascinated Caretaker. "As if they change colors!"

"It seems each button makes a note," I explain. "Each one is different. Some sounds belong together and some do not."

"What do you mean?"

I press several buttons at once. The intervals are awry, but the combined effect is not unpleasing. Yet I can recall no songs, only chords.

"Those sounds belong together?"

"Yes."

"I do not understand," he says. "It seems I am hearing something for the first time. It is different from the sound of the wind and different from the voices of the birds."

He rests his hands on his lap, as he looks back and forth between my face and the bellows box.

"I will give you the instrument. Please have any others you want. They belong with someone who can use them," he says, then turns his ear attentively to the wind. "I must check the machinery now. I must see that the fan and the transformer are working. Please wait for me in the other room."

The young Caretaker hurries away, and I return to where the Librarian waits.

"Is that a musical instrument?" she asks.

"One kind of musical instrument," I say.

"May I touch it?"

"Of course," I say, handing her the bellows box. She receives it with both hands, as if cradling a baby animal. I look on in anticipation.

"What a funny thing!" she exclaims with an uneasy smile. "Do you feel better that you have it?"

"It was worth coming here."

"The Caretaker, they did not rid him of his shadow well. He still has a part of a shadow left," she whispers to me. "That is why he is here, in the Woods. I feel sorry for him."

"Sorry?"

"Perhaps he is not strong enough to go deeper into the Woods, but he cannot return to Town."

"Do you think your mother is in the Woods?"

"I do not really know," she says. "The thought occurred to me."

The Caretaker comes not long thereafter. I open the valise and take out the gifts we have brought for him. A small clock and a cigarette lighter found in a trunk in the Collection Room.

"Please accept these. They are a token of my gratitude for the instrument," I say.

The young Caretaker refuses at first, but eventually gives in. He studies the objects.

"You know how to use them?" I ask.

"No, but there is no need. I will be fine," He says. "They are beautiful in themselves. In time, I may find a use for them. I have too much time."