BEFORE FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON, Watanabe arrives at the entrance to a skyscraper in Shinjuku. On the day of its inauguration, it was vaunted as the tallest in Tokyo. From a distance, it looked like a pencil standing out among a bunch of erasers. Another one soon superseded it. We’re addicted to records, he thinks. Or we’re simply addicts.
As he enters the building, his sense of relief evaporates. What if, due to some electrical fault, he is forced to take the stairs? Would his lungs and knees withstand it? What would it be like to sleep in the foyer, to camp out beneath his own home?
Once he sees that the elevators are working, Mr. Watanabe allows himself a lengthy sigh. But, before he presses the button, fresh doubts assail him. What if there’s a power outage while he’s going up? On days such as this, is anyone from the emergency services available? How does the alarm work? Why has he never bothered to learn about these things?
The elevator deposits him peacefully on the twenty-eighth floor. He jumps out. The carpeted corridor is redolent of a muted garden.
Watanabe inserts the key, opens the door to the apartment, walks through the tiny hallway, inserts the key, opens the door, and enters his apartment. This isn’t a repetition. Or rather it is, of the apartment itself: when he bought it, among the other alterations, he had a thick additional wall built. Now he lives in a house within a house. He is bunkered within himself. If something terrible happened, part of the skyscraper could get damaged, or the twenty-eighth floor, even the outer wall. But perhaps not the inner dwelling. His home. The survivor’s.
Clashing with the rest of the decor, an old black-and-white-striped rug covers the floor like a pedestrian crossing. To compensate for his reclusiveness, Mr. Watanabe likes to imagine he is crossing the street when he enters his abode.
He takes off his shoes before going into the living room, quite spacious by Tokyo standards. Although at this point in his life he can afford it, he hasn’t forgotten that when he lived with his aunt and uncle, he couldn’t cross his bedroom with his backpack on. Narrow spaces have never bothered him. His claustrophobia is vertical. That’s why what he most appreciates is the ceiling, approximately three and a half meters high, one surpassing the norm. Watanabe feels that this meter hovering above his head is the space where his ideas and memories float.
From the very moment he steps into the living room, he senses that something isn’t right. As an obsessive, he knows that each space possesses a secret equilibrium, which any imbalance can disturb. Some of the furniture has moved slightly, a confirmation that this earthquake was more powerful than usual. Watanabe advances like a detective investigating the crime committed in his own room.
He instantly notices the disarray among his collection of banjos. Some have slipped off their stands and are lying on the floor. A few strings have come away from their bridges. The necks are pointing every which way, hinting at multiple culprits. The sound boxes sing infinitesimally of their fall.
Mr. Watanabe contemplates this catalog of toppled instruments. He stoops to examine them, then puts them back in place. None appears to have suffered irreparable damage. But then, he corrects himself, to what extent is damage reparable? Wouldn’t it be worth doing something different? Why hide the imperfections in his banjos, why not incorporate them into their restoration? All broken objects, he reflects, have something in common. A crack joins them to their past.
One by one, he caresses the instruments that have survived the toppling. He is convinced that things which have been on the verge of breaking for whatever reason—slipping, falling, smashing, colliding with one another—enter a second life. An amphibious state that makes them meaningful, impossible to touch in the same way as before.
This explains perhaps his growing admiration for the ancient art of kintsugi. When a piece of pottery breaks, the kintsugi craftspeople place powdered gold into each crack to emphasize the spot where the break occurred. Exposed rather than concealed, these fractures and their repair occupy a central place in the history of the object. By accentuating this memory, it is ennobled. Something that has survived damage can be considered more valuable, more beautiful.
Inspecting his library, Watanabe discovers that a few volumes on the uppermost shelves have been dislodged. Is there a pattern to these literary movements? Might they make up a kind of seismic anthology? Might certain authors be more predisposed to being displaced? He pauses to cross-check whether these books correspond in some way to his preferences. The result surprises him.
At the far end of the room, a small detail causes him to shudder. He sees that the doors of the butsudan are ajar. And a couple of objects that evoke his parents and sisters have toppled over on the tiny shrine. He dares not stand them upright immediately, as if to do so would be to contradict their will.
Mr. Watanabe heads for the kitchen. He pours out a glass of wine to calm himself, or at least enrich his lack of calm. When he opens the cupboard, he sees that the cleaning products and cans of food have rolled over and are intermingled. He suspects there’s a hidden meaning to this disarray but can’t think what it is.
He returns to the living room, the glass reddening his hand. He drains it quickly and slumps onto the sofa. He rubs his ankles with difficulty. Then he switches on the television and goes online to immerse himself in the news.
Just at that moment, on the table, he spots his transit pass, intact, hateful: the glimmer of an earlier city where nothing had happened. His missing glasses have slid to the edge. The sun has started to do likewise.
Between his second and third glass, Watanabe learns of the damage caused in the northeast of the country. Particularly in the Tōhoku region, where the army is carrying out rescue operations. If soldiers are involved, he deduces, the casualties must be greater than those reported in the news. This is his fourth glass. His unease spills over the map of the present.
He is astonished to discover the magnitude of the earthquake he has just witnessed: the biggest in the country’s history. Bigger even than the Great Kantō Earthquake, which has always served as the legendary extreme. Today a record has been broken that nobody wanted to break.
Mr. Watanabe reads the long list of places affected, and does so extremely slowly, as if by spelling out their names he could restore them. Sumatra, Valdivia, Alaska. Esmeraldas, Arica, Kamchatka. Lisbon. Mexico City. Japan, Japan, Japan.
Every major earthquake with its epicenter in the sea is invariably followed by something worse. He knows they have been called seaquakes, maremotos, raz de marées, depending on where they struck. Until there were two hundred thousand deaths, and a million evacuees on the Indonesian coast. That was the tsunami, terrifyingly global.
He searches for news in the U.S. media. An alert has just been issued in Hawaii, and a warning on the West Coast. Earthquakes are part of history. Or is history a slice of seismology? Watanabe imagines an underground tremor gradually expanding until it shakes the entire planet.
On the screens of his devices, their reflections distorted on the surface of the empty wine bottle, he sees skyscrapers swaying, their tips almost touching.
He sees cracks in the highways, chewing asphalt like a set of teeth.
He sees turmoil in stores, aisles turned upside down, merchandise falling.
He sees spinning houses, walls losing the perpendicular, rattling lights, a rebellion of shapes, their owners beneath tables.
He sees the absurd strength of the tsunami, its sweep of filthy water, planes floating at Sendai airport, cars washed away like boats, the naturalness of liquid drowning civilization’s warren.
Apparently, a dozen or so nuclear power plants have been shut down. And conflicting reports are coming in about the Daiichi plant in the prefecture of Fukushima. Watanabe learns that at the time the earthquake struck, three of its reactors were in operation. As soon as it was detected, they automatically shut down. When they did so, they stopped generating the electricity for the reactor’s cooling system, which works with boiling water. Under normal circumstances, the external grid would have been activated, but this was damaged by the earthquake. The emergency power generators kicked in. But instantly stopped when the tsunami hit. Simple. Or not.
Watanabe realizes that the information is mimicking the shock waves from the tsunami: estimates of the damage are growing by the minute. To judge by their commentaries, many people regard the official figures with the same mistrust as they did the ceiling during the earthquake.
Soon afterward, a state of emergency is declared in reactors one and two at the Fukushima nuclear plant. People are being evacuated in a limited area around the facility: three kilometers. This distance brings back dreadful memories for Mr. Watanabe. However, the government announces there have been no radiation leaks.
For some reason, his cell phone still has no signal. In his inbox he discovers an email from Carmen, who is writing from Madrid. They haven’t been in touch for a while: that’s what disasters are for. Carmen has seen the news and is concerned. She wants to know if he’s okay, if he needs anything. She tells him she has found a Facebook group called Spaniards in Japan who have experienced the earthquake. She ends by saying: I can’t believe this is happening on March 11.
Watanabe sends a brief reply. He thanks her for her concern and confirms that he is safe and sound. Then he sends a second message, adding that he is delighted to be back in touch, and inquires after her grandchildren. He immediately starts composing a third message, making it clear that of course they had never really lost touch, but that it means a great deal to him to be able to communicate on a day like this, when the people we are closest to, et cetera. He rereads what he has written, deletes it, and closes his email.
How remote foreign disasters seemed in the past. And yet now, thanks to these screens whose technology he knows inside out, we cannot help but witness them. He wonders whether this has enhanced or diminished his sensitivity. Being a permanent spectator creates a filter, a shock absorber. But it also forces him to endlessly witness ubiquitous suffering.
Watanabe switches on his sound system, which is connected to speakers as tall as a man. A man of his modest stature, at any rate. He chooses one of his favorite recordings. A growling trumpet, meditative piano, smoky double bass. He turns the volume down to the lowest setting. He closes his eyes to cut off the optical torrent. Immerses himself in one of the most pleasurable activities he knows: listening to music without the sound. Re-creating it in his mind. This isn’t something that Mr. Watanabe does with just any recording. He is always incredibly meticulous when he chooses what he’s not going to listen to.
The only thing he does hear is the telephone. The landline clamoring from his bedroom. Annoyed at the inconvenience of the call and yet aware of its possible urgency, he struggles up from the sofa. He feels a sharp twinge in his lower back. He runs, more or less. Pants. Picks up. Answers.
The voice isn’t one Watanabe expected, or recognizes. To his surprise, the caller is an Argentinian journalist who says good morning to him and then good evening. Who apologizes. Who has been up all night working. Who hurriedly explains himself. Who says his name is Quintero or Gancedo. No: Pinedo. And who tries to ingratiate himself by mispronouncing a greeting in Japanese.
This last gesture irritates Watanabe. He considers it condescending, a sort of rhetorical souvenir. To make things worse, the journalist offers to speak in English, even though Mr. Watanabe has a perfect grasp of Spanish.
In any event, he has neither the energy nor the patience. Pinedo stutters slightly, which makes him confusing to listen to. Watanabe gathers that he, he would very much like to, to interview him about the, about the earthquake and the tsunami, yes? because he’s planning a catastrophic investigation, or an investigation into who knows what catastrophes, for who knows where.
He finds it strange that this fellow has tracked down his home phone number. He’s infuriated that the man intends to ply him for information. And, above all, why the hell interview him? Wouldn’t he do better with a politician, someone from the embassy, or a fellow journalist?
Watanabe brusquely interrupts Pinedo’s stammering. Addressing him in a Spanish that indignantly stresses unexpected syllables, he suggests the man search elsewhere for his sensationalist material.
Taken aback, Pinedo explains that, that this isn’t, this isn’t at all what it’s about, because, honestly, on the contrary, what he’s writing about, is, in fact is.
Watanabe responds by saying he isn’t interested in making any statements. He hangs up and pulls out the cable to disconnect the telephone.
After the call, he finds it impossible to regain his composure. He walks up and down the old striped rug. He debates whether to return to the news, eat something, or go to bed. As so often when he doesn’t know what to do, he freshens up his flowers.
He removes the fallen leaves. Crumples the petals between his fingertips. Replenishes the water in the slender receptacle, which wasn’t upset by the shocks. Arranges the flowers, so that they overhang as far as possible. Adjusts the willow fronds. He positions them more for the shadows they cast than anything else. He observes the secret hydrography they trace. Once he is satisfied with the result, he discovers fretfully that one of the stems doesn’t reach the water.
A few last temperas stain the glass of the picture window. Reflections splash. Night drenches the skyscrapers. Human shapes move across, are framed, then vanish. Mr. Watanabe wonders if they can see him, if anyone is watching him.
All at once, a banjo string snaps, emitting a shrill note that continues to reverberate.
Watanabe decides to take an ofuro. That’s what he needs. To scrub his nakedness and envelop it in heat. First exposure, then refuge. A bath that softens him and slowly dissolves him.
He disappears into the rectangle. He tries to allow his skin to absorb the water’s compassion, the steam’s abandon. He fixes his gaze on the ceiling. He remains motionless, listening to the silent gurgle baths make.
As soon as he gets out, he eats an apple and takes a sleeping pill.