Хироми Каваками - Record of a Night Too Brief

“Correct answer!”

“Quite correct!”

“Correct! Yes, quite correct!”

By the time I had answered fifty questions, the kiwis were getting tired, and so was I. We were all of us panting.

“Surely that’s enough. Happy now?” the kiwis asked me, wheezing.

“ Me? It doesn’t make any difference to me! ” I replied.

At this, the kiwis started screeching:

“That’s outrageous !”

“See? This is why nobody likes her.”

“It’s this kind of behaviour that makes you just want to…”

I listened without saying a word, as the kiwis got more and more agitated, coming out with every criticism and insult they could think of.

“Well, if that’s how you see it, how about if I just sell off the lot of you to an illegal trader of exotic birds!” I yelled, finally.

They suddenly piped down.

“You don’t have to react quite so harshly…”

“We didn’t mean it like that … ”

“That’s so heartbreaking …,” some of them muttered.

“I’m sick of it! Just sick and tired of having to spend my nights being pushed around by creatures like you!” I yelled, even louder.

Every bird fell silent. Without a word, they started pecking at the grasses at their feet, some wandering off into the bushes.

“Well, we didn’t mean to hurt you,” they said. Turning their small, round rear ends to me, they disappeared.

The scent of flowers drifted over from somewhere. The flowers must have just blossomed a few minutes ago. Their scent had been blown quickly over on a breeze from the west.

As the last of the kiwis called out “Goodbye!” and vanished, the scent of the flowers grew overpowering. The nature of the air was changing: night was on the point of giving way to early dawn.

I waited a few moments, breathing in the scent of the flowers, but the undergrowth was utterly silent.

“Hey, guys!” I tried calling. “I apologize! I think I said too much!”

But no kiwis emerged.

The scent of the flowers remained for a while longer, trailing in the air.

I could hear a dry, rustling sound. It came from deep within the girl’s body.

I put my ear to her stomach and listened. It was a low sound that kept the same steady beat, like someone walking over grass, or like a rhythmic clank below the whirr of an astronomical clock.

The girl was breathing deeply and evenly, asleep. A thin film of odourless perspiration had started to moisten the nape of her neck and the space between her breasts. Like water rising in a lake, it gathered in every single hollow of the sleeping girl, and then brimmed over and cascaded: lines of sweat spread out over the girl’s body, dripping down onto the earth.

The sweat poured off the girl’s body as she lay there on the soft grass.

Drinking in the sweat, the grass on which the girl lay started to grow. The blades of the grass lengthened, the apical buds grew into branches, and the lateral buds rapidly sprouted into leaves. In the twinkling of an eye, the girl’s body was surrounded by a dense profusion of foliage.

In addition to growing upwards, the vegetation spread outwards, producing concentric circles around the girl as she lay on the ground. Thousands of leaves of grass sprouted from the ground, each one putting forth bright-green new buds, and growing at incredible speed.

If I listened carefully, I could hear rustling sounds falling like rain around me. It was the sound of branches growing, and leaves unfurling. The sound was fresher and more vital than the one I had heard from within the girl’s body.

The vegetation surrounding the girl grew thick and luxurious, eventually becoming a forest. In the deepest part of the forest, the girl continued to sleep. Pressing my ear to her stomach, I could still hear the rustling inside her, echoing the dry rustling falling outside her.

Soon the rustling seemed to be coming from more places: I realized that even though the forest had stopped growing, the rustling was still coming—from all directions around me.

What I was hearing was the sound of footsteps. A whole host of footsteps, coming towards me, crushing the undergrowth on the forest floor.

The footsteps belonged to the inhabitants of the forest, and even though I couldn’t see them because all the leaves and branches got in the way, I knew exactly which direction they were heading: I could judge it from the sounds blown towards me by the wind. At first they headed to the west, then they headed south, after that they headed east, and finally they headed north: the inhabitants were continually shifting direction.

The hundreds of footsteps were going round and round in a circle, I realized, making their way closer to the centre of the forest.

As they came closer, other sounds mixed with the footsteps: whispered exchanges of conversation, the clearing of throats, soft laughter, bugle calls. After a while, between the trees, I caught glimpses of the inhabitants. Gaudy feathers and bits of coloured cloth flashed among the trees.

The inhabitants’ voices were now clear enough for me to understand distinct words, and the bugle calls and drumming grew ever louder.

Finally, the inhabitants showed themselves.

Each was about one metre in height. They had round faces. They were smiling, wrapped in ornately patterned cloth, and holding either a musical instrument or a long pole. They were barefoot, and chewing energetically. Their mouths were smeared with whatever they were eating. With their round faces, and their mouths smeared with food, the inhabitants walked in a procession around the sleeping girl.

The girl continued sleeping. As if in response to the rustling sound the inhabitants were making with their bare feet, the rustling sound coming from within the girl’s body got even louder.

The inhabitants continued filing round the girl, in ever-tightening circles. When they got so close to the girl that it was impossible to reduce the diameter of the circle, they started to go round, again and again, describing a circle whose circumference remained constant.

The shuffling of their feet, their hushed voices, the drums, the bugles and their chewing mixed together in a cacophony, filling the centre of the forest with sound.

High in the sky the morning star twinkled, and below it the inhabitants tirelessly kept up their circular file. Soon I noticed their bodies trembling slightly after each completed circle, and I could see that they were getting smaller and smaller.

And in the twinkling of an eye, they were now no bigger than ants. Even after they had shrunk to the size of ants, the inhabitants were still chatting to each other in hushed voices, blowing their bugles, banging on their drums, and chewing.

After a few more circles, these miniature inhabitants formed a long line, marched straight inside the girl’s body, and disappeared.

When the last of the inhabitants had disappeared, I put my ear to the sleeping girl’s stomach, and heard, mixed with the rustling sound, the faint sounds of bugles and drums.

Dawn was due to arrive soon, we had heard, so a celebratory feast was to be held.

Numerous people whom I knew had been invited to a mansion on the bank of a river. We were all on easy, familiar terms, so the drinking started immediately, without pre-dinner speeches, and we then turned our attention to the lavish spread on the banquet table. I was drawn to the salted bonito viscera and the salted sweetfish entrails, but since no one else seemed to have any interest in them, I contented myself with the root vegetables and grilled fish.

After a bit, the host, who was the owner of the mansion, rose to his feet and, with his chin, made a slight upward movement. Immediately there was a tremendous commotion in the kitchen, and a gaggle of women in aprons and men with crew cuts came running out. Leaping over the table, they sprinted into the garden and made their escape. A couple of them were not so athletic, and their feet knocked cups and plates to the floor.