Ryu Murakami - Piercing

Mother? Kawashima detected an odour like hair or fingernails burning. A fever was gathering between his temples. Sparks burst where his olfactory and optical and auditory nerves crossed and short-circuited, and his lips were trembling. He touched the nape of his neck. It was wet with perspiration, and he could feel his vocal cords were preparing to scream, all on their own. A scream of horror or exultation? He wasn’t sure. He bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and tore off the gloves he’d been wearing all this time, beginning with the left one. The newly formed scab had stuck to the inner lining; it peeled off, and he could feel fresh, warm blood seeping out again. He bowed his head and clenched the hand in a tight fist, trying to use the pain to gain control of himself.

‘Oh, I forgot!’ the girl said. ‘We have to put something on that finger!’

Kawashima shook his head.

‘But you have to disinfect it! I got some medicine from the doctor — I’ll put some on for you, OK?’

He shook his head again. His eyes were still shut. He was barely listening to what the girl said, but something about the tenor of her voice was triggering a memory. It was like a voice he used to hear back in the Home whenever he had an episode. He’d be lost in his mind, no longer in control of himself, terrorised by the overpowering sense that something was about to burst or rip apart, the fever building between his temples, sparks flying where the sights and sounds and smells short-circuited, and then he’d hear this voice — an actual voice, coming not from within but from somewhere outside himself. It wasn’t a scolding or appeasing or soothing voice, just matter-of-fact and real. Masayuki, hey, it’s dinner time. We’re having everyone’s favourite today — hamburgers! Time to wash up. Let’s go and wash our hands. I know the water’s cold, but we want those hands to be really clean! Everybody’s happy because we’re having hamburgers. See? See how happy they all are? That voice would smother the sparks one by one and slowly cool the fever. Take your fingers out of your ears now and open your eyes. Look around, listen to all the children talking and laughing. Everything’s the same as ever. Nothing has changed, and no one is going to hurt you.

Kawashima exhaled deeply, unclenching his left hand and opening his eyes. Keeping them closed was no more defence against the images that accompanied the sparks than plugging his ears was against the voice from inside, the voice he heard echoing off the interior walls of his skin. Only voices and images from the external world could neutralise those from inside. That was why Kawashima’s greatest fear — far greater for him than the fear of death — was of losing his sight and hearing to some illness or accident. Cut off from actual sights and sounds, with the unchecked terror swelling inside him, he knew he’d go mad in no time. He looked at the girl, hoping she’d keep on talking.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said. ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you! I make really good soup. I mean, it’s just instant, but instant can be delicious if you know what to add.’

Chiaki was wondering what was wrong with the man. Had she offended him? She couldn’t think how. All she’d done was show him her new bandage, but he’d suddenly clammed up and closed his eyes and gone all pale in the face. The climate-control system kept the room at a pleasant temperature, but he was shivering. And he didn’t seem to notice that he’d been biting his lip so hard he’d left a mark and even drawn a little blood.

‘Like tonight, for example? I’m thinking I’ll use a package of cream consommé. Knorr makes a good one, but on a cold night like this, when you feel chilled to the bone, potage is better than consommé, don’t you think? You want something thick and hearty, right? So what I do is, I add a little curry powder, and milk of course, regular milk and also condensed milk, because it complements the sweetness of the corn? And besides, it’s more nutritious that way, right?’

Chiaki was glad to see that as she chattered away the man seemed to be listening closely, although there was something strangely vacant about the way he was nodding his head, focusing now on her bandaged thigh, now on her lips. The bandage must remind him of something, she thought. He’s probably thinking about what I did in his bathroom at the hotel.

Of course. What else could it be?

She knew she’d been bad, but what exactly had she done? Chiaki was never conscious of any pain when she was hurting herself, and never had much memory of the incidents afterwards. All she could recall of the incident earlier this evening were fragmentary images, but she decided to see if she could patch them together. She’d never tried that before, and didn’t really want to now but would do it for his sake. She remembered the way her thigh had looked, all chopped up and covered with blood. Now she had to retrieve the image of the man reacting to that. She concentrated on bringing the image into focus, and a field of little coloured dots of light separated and swirled and came back together and slowly began to set, like gelatine. The first image to resolve itself was the man standing by the bathroom door.

The door opens. The door opens. The bathroom door opens and this man is there. He’s standing there. Just standing there. And his face? His face looks. . scared. He looks so shocked, in fact, so horrified , that I can hardly keep from laughing. That must be it. He caught me being bad in the bathroom, and it scared him so much that just to think about it now makes the blood drain from his face.

‘I have two soup bowls I just bought,’ she said. ‘They’re Wedgwood, and I haven’t even tried them out yet. Don’t worry, it won’t take any time at all to make. I mean, all I have to do is boil the water and cut open the package and pour it in, and then basically just stir in the curry and milk.’

He got scared. Only natural, if you thought about it. After all, she’d been stabbing herself in the leg, right in front of him. How could she have forgotten that horrified look on his face, though? It must be because he didn’t run away, she decided. Yoshiaki had run away, and the guy she was seeing in junior college, Yutaka — he went off saying he was going to call an ambulance and never came back. Hisao tried to stop her and got a cut on his hand, and sure enough he left too. They all ran away. That was why whenever she woke up in the hospital she let herself fantasise that some mystery man had taken her there.

She knew it was just a fantasy, just something her mind had dreamed up. There never had been any such man, not really. There were lots of different men instead, men in white clothes and white helmets who would catch hold of her and give her a shot in the arm and load her into a white van. That was the reality. She knew the mystery man wasn’t real. . and yet she couldn’t help but wonder now. It just might be him, she thought. Because he didn’t run away, even though he was horrified. And even though I bit his hand he just kept whispering gentle words in my ear.

No one had ever treated her like that before.

There was something else, too, something important that she couldn’t quite recall. Another reason she’d thought he must be the mystery man. What was it? She reviewed the images from the bathroom one by one: the man’s horrified face, his gestures, his hands, his arms. What was she forgetting? It was something in the bathroom. Bath towels, soap, shampoo, handbag, blood on the floor, wastebasket, box of tissues, bidet, toilet, toilet paper. . Got it. The telephone.

‘Adding curry powder to soup is a different idea, don’t you think? Did you know that milk and curry go really well together? And sometimes they put corn in curry, right? You don’t want to use any meat or anything. But if you put in a little curry powder — just a little — it accentuates the sweetness of the corn and the milk. I bet you didn’t know that!’