LIVE, LOVE, LAUGH

John

John trudged a solitary track away from the hotel. On initial glance, he didn’t realise that the reflection—one of a haggard tourist in a shapeless jacket—belonged to him. But there was no one else. It was him warping along the windows of slow-waking bakeries. He was tired enough to have become a stranger to himself. The yellow arrows directed him away from the town and up through pine forest. He passed only a couple of people who were out exercising their dogs. John gave them a wide berth. The concrete path was even and clean. To his right was the lake: objectively gorgeous, overlooked by snow-capped mountains, and the subject of several photos he had sent to his wife. To his left was a parade of parks, embankments, well-placed houses, weeds, and tall, purple lupins. He recalled his sister’s joke about collecting a rare flower to win back his wife. He had it now, his treasure, but his unease over its efficacy grew with each conversation he had with Ana. They had managed to speak three times since his arrival in New Zealand, three and a half if the first dismal attempt counted. The connection had been unreliable.

On his third night, they had figured out scheduling. The conversation had gone as follows:

His wife said, “I saw the pictures you sent of your colleague. The one who had the baby. Very sweet.”

She wasn’t being ironic or sarcastic. It had thrown him. It wasn’t like her at all. 

She said, “Are you still there? Can you hear me?”

He said, “Yes.”

She said, “So small, wasn’t he? It scared me. Le petit prince…”

He said, “I don’t understand.”

She said, “I wonder whether that mother—the one in the picture—knew already…”

He said, “Are you still there? I think you’ve frozen.”

She said, “I started to imagine what it must be like. The responsibility.” She repeated, “It scared me.”

He said, heart pounding, “You’re thinking about having kids?” And the pounding of his heart cracked open a seed—because that was exactly what she was saying—and the seed began sprouting and blooming and filling his chest with a bouquet of wonder and relief and joy. It would grow from his mouth and ears. The petals were formed of all of those feelings he’d once had. Those feelings when she had said yes to marriage, then when she’d shown up to the wedding. But it was more than that, because, because…

She said, “You don’t like kids. And I’m not a good person.”

He said, “I would love our kids.”

She said, “Is it snowing?” And she wouldn’t be steered from a conversation comparing weather conditions.

The second conversation they’d managed had been two days later. She seemed to have been drinking and was more distracted than usual.

He said, “Are you okay? Have you been doing your app?”

She said, “Of course. Health is wealth.”

He said, “And what did you talk about?”

She said, “That I fear I am an addict and crave attention from inattentive people.”

He said, “I wish you were here.”

She said, “No you don’t,” and then, “Have you been skiing? How’s the weather?”

The third conversation, the one that had occurred just the previous night, had left him sleepless. He had tried to read himself into unconsciousness. Tried foreign television—back-to-back episodes of a show about doctors and nurses who all slept with each other—but that was no use either. He was scared. Angry. Stuck.

She said, “I spoke to my father. In person.”

He said, “How is he?”

She said, “Old.”

He said, “It’s not like you to give him your time.”

She said, “Not like him to give anyone time. He owed me some documents. He made a special trip to Bijushima.”

He said, “Bijushima? Ana, you didn’t go to Bijushima?”

She said, “I did.”

He said, “Fuck! What the hell? Why the hell would you go to that fucking cursed shithole of a rock? It almost killed you. Ana, you promised!”

She said, “I’m back at home now. Still painfully alive.”

He said, “Why would you do that?”

She said, “I needed to work something out.”

He said, “About your mother? You could have waited for me.”

She said, “I’m tired. I miss you.” Then she ended the call.

Afterward, John tried several methods of reconnection. She wasn’t picking up. Out of heroic desperation, he called his father-in-law. He got an answering service. He didn’t leave a message. Still, fifteen minutes later, John received a text.

“Antowanetto is fine. She knows about the file. The apartment concierge is on alert to report any unusual activity. We will discuss further on your return. Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

The message was calming. Then, as he thought more and more about it, it wasn’t. A rage began warming, simmering, bubbling, then boiling over. The room was too small and his fury was too big; either he or it would break. He wanted to throw things. He wanted to knock all the stationery and soaps and tiny liquor bottles and shit from all of the perfect surfaces. He wanted to heft the mattress out of the window and onto the street. He wanted to scream. This guy. This fucking guy! The President pulled all the strings and held all the cards where Ana was concerned. Always had. Always would. He had power enough to destroy his daughter. Any sway that John had was nothing compared to his  

After that, the red-hot anger, the realities of the injustice and distance, made it impossible to sleep. When he fell into a kind of half-dozing state, his dreams were infected with horror. There was blood—Ana’s, always Ana’s. It was rushing out from under a door. The hotel door. There was too much of it. He raised his arms to pound against it, to make it open, but when he did, he saw his hands weren’t empty. In his clenched fists, stuck tight with congealing blood—blood that was forming a monstrous scab over his hands—was a sword. 

Fuujin’s? No. No, this was the real world. The katana from the President’s office. 

It was too much. Sleep and wakefulness were equally unbearable. 

John had begun his walk at five-thirty A.M. All was quiet, and the mountains appeared like the backs of snow-dusted giants. The space and air and the reminder of his smallness helped somehow. The air was perfumed by unfamiliar vegetation. That, too, had a medicinal quality: a soothing reminder of matters outside of himself.

He paused in his hike when the sun rose. He sat on a bench on which was carved ‘Live. Love. Laugh.’ Bit demanding for a seat. He decided he could manage ‘Sit. Stay. Seethe,’ and went with that. 

But perhaps he was confusing anger for sorrow. Perhaps his sense of urgent obligation was only there to protect a while against a hopelessness as immense as the lake before him, large enough to capture whole mountains. Its surface rippled disconsolately; it must have swallowed drowning victims, surely.  Tomorrow he would be home. There was one last chance to chat with Satoshi.

The thrill he always felt at an unread note only built with time. It was like an addiction, one even worse than the game. If he was going to do it, now would be the time to propose that they meet. In Arrowtown, obviously. There was no reason for Satoshi to believe John was anything but genuine. Or perhaps he could admit to his fictional attributes: his imaginary son, his demure Japanese wife. 

But this message was different.

 

John closed the chat.

He felt the strangeness before he even touched the door handle. It only became more apparent when he entered their lounge. No one was there. That was to be expected. Ana had classes. She would be working in the studio. He rolled in his suitcase, wondering whether there was in fact a different scent or if it was just his imagination. It had to be the latter. Imagination and jet lag. Che. Lousy homoeopathic pills. 

He unpacked, separating clean laundry from dirty, and took the stolen photo of his mother-in-law in both hands. His trophy. His key. He had considered reframing it in something more modern—block-mounted, perhaps—but the entire piece felt important: the chipped wood of the frame, the discoloured matting with fly dirt in its corners, the handwritten paper note: ‘Future Olympians pose for the Otago Daily Times.’

Ana would love it. Would probably cry to see it. He thought of sending her a message to say he was home already, that they should celebrate. But a surprise would be better, wouldn’t it? He went into their room, tossed off his stupid Tokyo Electric jacket, and fell backwards onto the bed. It was a beautiful thing, to be home and flat and alone. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, thinking again that it seemed that there was a different smell. A perfume? 

He checked again for new message notifications, but there was only one from Natsuko with some stupid invitation to a farming game where you sent each other lives.

Today was the start of a new day. Today would be the shift they needed. It would begin with the photograph—which, honestly, was perfect given Ana’s interests—and from here they could focus on a life. Their lives. This was it. He closed his eyes. This was the flower from atop the mountain, the unlocked treasure chest. 

He awoke to the sound of music from the lounge. It was just after six; she couldn't have been home for long. Not long enough to have entered and seen the photo, which he’d held against his chest as he dozed. When he followed the music out into the lounge, he discovered the source of the strangeness. He’d missed it when he came in: another Piece. A painting, modestly sized, perhaps a little amateurish. The kind of thing you might pick up from a cheap souvenir stall. The Piece was in the style of a traditional scroll. The painted script that ran down the bottom right-hand corner said "Genji and Lady Fujitsubo meet in secret." The illustration, framed in sprays of wisteria, showed a prince-type touching the collar of a woman in an elaborate kimono. 

"Do you like it?" Ana asked from behind him. "From the first novel in the world: The Tale of Genji."

"Is that a comic?"

"I don't know." She pushed up against his back, arms wrapping around his stomach. “I’m glad you’re home.”

John turned in the embrace and kissed his wife’s forehead.

“You’ll make me grey,” he said. 

She pulled back to inspect his hairline, then seemed to notice the frame in his hands. “What’s this?”

He suggested that they sit on their couch in their preferred positions, piles of cushions arranged just so for their comfort. Ana seemed to hesitate before joining him. 

“Are you going to tell me about Bijushima?” he asked.

At his request, an expression that John had long forgotten the shape of on his wife’s features surfaced: guilt. On her, it looked like sweet, knowing sorrow. And a challenge: ‘You knew I was like this; you knew this might happen.’

She seemed unable to meet his eyes for a long, silent stretch. He shifted and fluffed the cushions as though they might bring  them comfort.

“My father gave me the documents,” she said mechanically. “He told me what was in them and asked that I destroy them.”

“He—Ana—you need to know that I would have told you if I’d thought it would be all right—”

She didn’t move or speak.

“You know I just wanted to protect you—”

“What do you mean?” She looked up, guilt ebbing away.

“The files. The reports. After you were admitted, I told him everything. Everything we had read. About your mother, and the—the train, and the autopsy. He made me promise not to say—” his words fell away.

She watched him for an extended silence.

John swallowed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“All this time, and you couldn’t tell me? Did you not think that some part of me was remembering? That something was happening when I started doing light installations? Lights in a tunnel? Honestly, John.” She got up and started pacing in front of the window, her silhouette rhythmically interrupting the setting sun’s glare.

John pulled the picture frame against his chest. “I was supposed to protect you.”

Ana continued prowling like a caged creature. The oversized shirt she was wearing—one of his?—flowed behind her. Every so often, she snatched at the curtains as she passed them. Then she stopped, standing stock-still. “Protect me from what? Myself?”

“No! Just—”

“John, this is me. All of it. All of the—the madness and hideousness and—”

“No,” he said. And he spun the photograph to face her. He held it out like a shield. Like a mirror. As though he were a hero and she a gorgon. “This is you,” he said. “This is a part of you.”

Eventually, Ana reanimated to carefully take the picture from his hands.

“Light as memory,” she said. She was speaking to the photo—or to herself—rather than to John. It was weird. “The radiance from the sun travels eight minutes to touch us,” she went on. “It is easier to appreciate a star once it has died.”

“What are you saying?”

“Where did you get this?” she asked gently.

“A hut. On a snow-covered mountain. At the bottom of the world.”

Ana hummed, smiled—again, to herself more than him—and propped the picture up on a low table across from couch, one meant for vases and cards. As though the members in its frame were old friends: guests awaiting tea and snacks and an opportunity to pass on their inconsequential news. 

“My father keeps a copy of that picture too.” Ana said, returning to sit, shaking her head and looking out to the orange sky. 

A copy. John’s heart sank. It was the nature of photographs taken in that era; the only original was the negative. The version that would never hang on a gallery wall. 

“Why do you do these things?” his wife asked.

“For you,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“Why? I’m not trying to rescue you. If anything, it is you who has been trapped in the castle. You who has been bound to a life designed by my father. You might have travelled the world. I never rescued you.”

John’s laughter surprised her into silence. “I don’t need that from you. It’s not your way.”

“My ‘way’?”

“You’d never be a fool over anyone.”

“Are you sure?” She looked bereft again.

“I would never ask you. It’s too much, Ana. You wouldn’t understand.”

At that, she stared openly at him. And that look, the sorrow mixed with guilt, came back so intensely that he wanted to flinch away. Because he knew what was going to happen. She was going to say something. She was going to say something now and he wouldn’t be able to stand it and he wasn’t sure where he’d packed his inhaler, whether it was still in his hand luggage. 

“Tea?” he asked, getting up.

“John—” she said.

“We don’t have to keep the photo.” He went to pick it up, keeping his back to her impossible gaze.

“John,” she repeated with a terrible firmness to her voice.

He stopped moving. He wondered whether this would be the moment, caught without his inhaler, that his lungs finally gave out. That it all closed in. That he would drown.

“What happened on Bijushima?” he said quietly, closing his eyes.

After a dreadful silence, she said, “Someone else. Someone that wasn’t you.”