Yukiko Motoya - The Lonesome Bodybuilder - Stories

“It was an accident. It was the same last week. I didn’t mean to. I just wasn’t aware I had to be that careful when I unbuckle my seat belt.”

Her husband seemed to be making an effort to understand. Still holding his face in his hands, he nodded repeatedly. But then, in a strained voice, he cried, “I don’t understand,” and started rocking his body back and forth, as though he believed it would make things more bearable. Subtly at first, and then harder and harder. As Tomoko looked on helplessly, he made a movement as if he were tearing off parts of his head, and got up and strode off toward the front door. Tomoko followed, and found him silently sweeping the floor of the entrance hall, which had just been swept two days ago.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Please. Stop.” Tomoko took the broom from his hand, and led him by the arm back to the sofa. “I promise. I promise I’ll be careful from now on.”

“Sure.” His voice was hollow. He started rocking again, and Tomoko watched until she started to feel like a boat drifting out to sea, too far to get back to shore.

“I don’t do it on purpose,” she said as patiently as she could. “Please. Just believe me about that.”

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

Once again, something moved swiftly inside his straw. There was no doubt this time. A fine tremor was running through her husband’s body, traversing it from end to end. Tomoko almost cried out in horror, but her husband didn’t seem to be aware of anything.

“Are you accusing me of being destructive deliberately?” She felt a duty to act as though she hadn’t noticed what was happening.

“No, I’m not saying that.”

It was as she’d feared. Around the area where a mouth would be, her husband’s straw was quaking. Something was pushing on it from inside. Tomoko’s eyes were glued to his face.

“I’m not saying that, but it’s obvious that you think it’s no big deal if the car gets damaged.”

Every time he spoke, she felt she was about to catch sight of something from between the straw. Her husband’s insides were teeming. What was in there?

“You already promised just last week that you’d be more careful.”

“What I promised was about the door,” Tomoko said, forcing the words out, desperate to keep the conversation going. “You know I’ve been really careful opening the door since then. But I just never thought I had to make sure not to let the seat belt bounce up and hit the door.”

“Do you really need me to spell out every last thing?”

Just as he said “every last thing,” something fell out of his mouth. Whatever it was, it seemed to have been swallowed by the deep pile of the carpet or, at any rate, was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll pay attention, I promise. I’ll do better from now on.”

“Can you give me a more specific strategy?” he asked accusingly, noticing Tomoko’s less-than-heartfelt tone.

“A strategy? For being more careful?” Tomoko couldn’t look away from her husband’s face. Something had started welling up from between the straw—tiny musical instruments. An assortment of different musical instruments, barely large enough to pick up with the tips of her fingers, was flowing out of her husband. Trumpets. Trombones. Snare drums. Clarinets. Harpsichords. “A strategy for taking my seat belt off more gently?” she said quietly, distracted by the instruments.

“I mean, you don’t actually feel it’s a serious problem. When you open the door carefully, you only do it to avoid me getting angry about it.”

Her husband was starting to sound enraged. Was that somehow related to the instruments falling out of his body? Tomoko said, “I feel like I’ve been doing it thinking I should treat the car well, but does it not seem that way to you?”

“I don’t believe for a moment you think that.” The flow of instruments sped up even more. They were piling up at his feet into a mound that almost hid his slippers. At the same time, her husband’s body was shrinking.

“Why do you get to decide what I think?” On reflex, Tomoko thrust her hands out under his face, trying to stem the cascade of instruments, which showed no sign of stopping. “I think you want to call me a bad person. Then why don’t you just say so? Why do you have to be so passive-aggressive about it?” Her hands filled up almost immediately, and hundreds of drums and flutes spilled over the edges of her fingers. “I’m impressed you could even marry someone you felt this way about!”

Her husband kept talking, causing an outpouring of hundreds of pairs of cymbals. “If you really— crash —felt bad about doing it— crash crash crash —you wouldn’t even think about making excuses.”

How? How could he not know he was spewing instruments?

The flow of instruments let up. Tomoko looked up quickly, and saw that the form of her husband where he sat on the sofa was utterly transformed. Bereft of his insides, he was now reduced to a pitiful amount of unstuffed straw. The string that had tied him together was loose in places, and he looked as though he might fall apart at any moment. Which was him? Tomoko wondered. The musical instruments that had fallen out of him, or the husk of straw that remained—which was her husband?

“Please, can we just stop fighting now?” she cried.

At this, her husband seemed to pause, and finally closed his mouth instead of saying whatever he had been about to say. In a cold, distant voice, he said, “You’re right. Fighting’s only a waste of time.”

Tomoko looked into the black void that was now visible from between his straw. He’s out of instruments. There were small piles of them on the carpet that added up to almost exactly the size of him—alto horns, euphoniums, marimbas. She gingerly tried to reach for her husband’s hand. But her husband, apparently no longer able to support the weight of his soccer jersey, collapsed before their hands could touch, like a plant blown down by the wind. Tomoko grasped his limp hand where it lay. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s all my fault. I won’t ride in your car anymore.”

“Sounds good,” he said weakly.

Tomoko realized that his scent, which had been as familiar and cherished as towels dried in the sun, had changed into the smell of animal feed. She stood up, and looked down at her empty husband as he lay still, with his back to her.

Inside her head, another Tomoko said, Why did I get married to a thing like this? Why was I so happy to be married to a bunch of straw? Her husband was utterly unmoving. Maybe he was already dead. If I hit this body with something , she wondered, would it feel like there was nothing inside? As she looked down at him, the picture of a fire burning brightly burst vividly into her mind. The image of something going up in violent flames on the stark white sofa, in the morning sunlight filling this room in this house. Tomoko didn’t yet know what happened when you set fire to straw. How would it burn? Her heart beat faster just imagining it. Just a little flame would probably ignite it all in the blink of an eye…

Tomoko came to her senses. Unable to bear to see him like this any longer, she started to put the fallen instruments back inside the straw. She couldn’t tell whether they were broken, but as she gathered them gently in both hands and poured them into the gaps, his body expanded like a sponge sucking up water. Tomoko repeated the movement over and over. From carpet to straw. From carpet to straw.

Just once during the process, Tomoko stopped and picked up a fallen stalk, and carefully touched it to the flame of an incense lighter. The flame reared up like a live thing. Tomoko sighed at its beauty, and thought about how she’d like to set a whole bundle alight like this sometime. She finished pouring the last of the instruments back into the gaps in her husband.