The Box Man (14 page)

An important turning point occurred in the eighth year. Until then I had got the doctor to take charge of outside contacts such as attending medical meetings; but gradually his abnormal speech and conduct began to be obvious, and abuse and defamation of him, including the suggestion that he was mad, began to get back to us. In addition, since we were being investigated because of the excessive amount of drugs we were using, I also felt in danger; and after talking things over with the doctor we closed the clinic and moved here to this city. That is the course of events up to the present.

But because of this situation, the doctor’s mental state grew worse and worse, he became weary of life, and an inclination to suicide became obviously pronounced. At Nana’s suggestion we stopped having him appear in public even for outside events and decided that I should register myself as him. Although there were some formal modifications in our setup, the actual situation remained unchanged, even the doctor was in complete agreement with the plan. Fortunately the patients’ trust in me was strong here too, and even if my guilt were confirmed I can say that I was confident there would be no damage suits filed nor would I be prosecuted. If we suppose that an injured party that is not aware of being injured is not an injured party, I should like to say that neither was I, who had no sense of having inflicted injury, a person who had caused damage; but for all of that I do not think it is right to break the law. Since I receive protection of life and property as a citizen of the state, it is not possible for me to go against the law.

Now we come down to last year. I have already described how I engaged a new apprentice nurse and how this became the cause of my living apart from Nana. But I report all revenues and expenditures to her and continue to recognize her rights as co-manager. Furthermore, as Nana has recently opened a piano school and is coaching students in the city, after more details on the situation from her I should like to request that you recognize that there are no errors in my statement.

Now no immediate reason occurs to me why the doctor fled the hospital and chose the path of solitary death. He used a room on the second floor; but since he went to bed and got up at varying hours and frequently used the emergency stairs to come and go as he wished, it is impossible to assume responsibility for all his acts. I must tell you of a little dispute that occurred recently. The doctor developed a morbid preference for sweets under the pretext that he missed his old research where he produced sugar from wood. When I tried to curtail his hunger for reasons of his health, he became exceedingly angry. But I cannot believe that that was the cause of his death. Since the corpse was wearing a cardboard box over its head, it is conceivable, I think, that he did not originally intend to die. It is possible he simply slipped during his walk on the embankment still wet from the rain of the day before.

Further, you ask why he was wearing cardboard over his head. I have absolutely no idea. For several months derelicts have been wandering around town wearing cardboard boxes, and there arc witnesses too; if you ask whether the cardboard wasn’t the doctor’s disguise, I cannot go so far as to deny the possibility that he had so dissimulated himself without my knowing it. The doctor seemed to believe that along with his name, address, and license, he had handed me his personality and had become a nobody. Since he also fell into extreme misanthropy, it is not incomprehensible that when he went out he felt like trying to hide himself by wearing a box over his head. As the findings of the autopsy made clear, the scars from the hypodermic needles on the inside of the arm and on the thighs had already formed scabs. When addiction progresses as far as this, it’s not worth, I think, being particularly surprised at such eccentric behavior.

There are eyewitnesses who saw a box man enter and leave the hospital; from their testimony and from the scars made by the shots over a long period of time, his connection with the hospital is under suspicion. As a result of that, I have been summoned. ‘Without the eyewitness, the box man would have been disposed of as simply an unidentified body, and I must say, I would find it most regrettable if there were a hint of criticism that I was continuing in my illegal medical practice and not telling anyone. Both the nurse and I had promised not to visit the doctor’s room unless he rang for us. Any number of times until now, more than half a day has gone by without our being called. It was only late Sunday night, when we did become suspicious, that we checked the room. I was firmly resolved that if he did not return by dawn, it was absolutely unavoidable to file a search request with the police even though my illegal medical activities would be exposed.

It was the doctor more than anyone else who was strongly against my giving up my medical work. On the one hand, he plied me with flattery and even threatened me with repeated suggestions that if I gave it up he might commit suicide. It’s already common knowledge how very cunning and reckless a drug addict is in getting his hands on drugs. Indeed the doctor’s suicide would be very troublesome. First, even though I might draw up a death certificate, it would have the same name and surname as mine, and I could scarcely present that to the government office. Repeatedly I had had to entreat the doctor respectfully to put aside the idea of suicide. He, on the contrary, wanted even greater quantities of drugs; his highhanded directions to let him admire the naked body of Toyama Yoko, the newly arrived nurse’s apprentice, and to have her give him an enema naked caused me considerable concern. But I didn’t necessarily bear him any bitterness. Since those who are sick suffer pain that those in good health do not understand, I consider that they should always be treated with sympathy.

As the doctor had long since come not to need me, I too from now on had no obligation to go on deceiving the world by continuing to engage in illegal medical practice. Illegal medical practice causes trouble for the patient, economically and physically. It was the doctor’s view that if there was no claimant there was no crime, but I considered that being a fake doctor did constitute a crime, and I gave a lot of thought to the subject. I should like to use this opportunity of making a clean breast of everything and put paid to the heavy responsibilities I have borne in my heart for so long.

The above is all true.

The Executioner

Bears No Crime

You have apparently decided at last to take some action. The vague metallic sound I hear now is that of a syringe being placed in the sterilizer. I could distinguish that noise alone from any distance. Like a sand rat that catches the scent of water over six miles away.

To go on … The skylight on the stair landing seems to be rattling in the wind… there’s no mistake … it is the sound I can hear only at those times when the door to your room opens and closes. I can hear … the sound of your bare feet treading cautiously along the corridor of plastic tile. You are coming slowly along at the rate of about one step every second. Of course, your head is completely covered by the box. With the eleventh step the sound changes, and you seem to be treading on wet mats, and now I imagine you have just placed your foot on the stair. You are mounting, one step, and then another, and gradually your pace slows down. Soon you arrive at the landing and stop for a moment, whereupon you shift your box half around and look up. Following the banister along the corridor on the second floor, you come to a small room at the very end set back the depth of the stairs. The door is varnished cryptomeria hoards, almost indistinguishable from the walls and extending the full width of the narrow passage.

Mortuary.

The room is not treated differently because it has dead bodies in it; it is inconspicuous out of consideration for the feelings of patients entering the hospital (or of those who have been there for some time) who are especially sensitive to death. Furthermore the emergency exit is nearby and it is convenient for carrying out the corpses.

Of course, I am not yet a corpse. I am not all that perky, but still I am not a corpse. The reason I who am not dead am in the mortuary-for your sake I should stress this strongly-is not particularly that I am receiving the usual treatment accorded a dead body but that I requested being here. I like this room. That there arc no windows more than anything else suits my present mood perfectly. Lately the regulatory function of my pupils seems to have noticeably declined, and daylight makes my eyes tingle as if irritated with sand. Further, I have completely lost human defensive reactions such as feelings of anger, discontent, and hatred and feel very much at home in this room proportioned quite like a coffin the depth being two and a half times the width.

Since you have come to this room you seem motionless. Just as I look for signs of you on the other side of the door, so you too look for signs of me, I suppose. If the door is aware, it is surely having a big laugh over us. However, I understand your feeling of hesitation. No matter how much sympathy you have for me, you must under any circumstances perform the duties of executioner. It is natural that you should be heavyhearted. Even I, if our places were switched, would tremble and hesitate. Moreover, the one whom you kill is well aware of being killed. You don’t look as if you could chatter casually with the one you are cutting up and who is aware of being killed. I wonder if you will feel more at ease if we engage in a debate on death than in small talk. It probably won’t work. A debate is even more grotesque. However, as we exchange looks in silence, soon the covering of our nerves will wear thin and produce a short circuit that will burn us badly.

The best thing for you is that I be fast asleep. The best thing is to send me quietly into that other world while I’m asleep. But the light slap of a drug addicted patient is something you are quite aware of. Though he is drowsy all year long, his sleep is not deep. You are not so foolish as to expect me to sleep soundly. Actually, like this, I’m awake. I am sitting up in bed, and my pen is running right along. I’m wiping away the secretion in my eyes with boric acid, and this is a condition you don’t want me in. But you may be at ease. Before your hand touches the handle of the door … as soon as you show signs of moving a single pace from there … I intend to pretend I am sleeping. You obviously will see through this pretense, I dare say, but you will be more at ease than if I really go to sleep. If I really go to sleep, there is the danger of waking up, but you don’t have to worry about that when you feign sleep. Anyway before that I shall drop the notes on the floor and attract your attention and let you know that I am in a consciously feigned sleep. The principal offender in killing me will always be me; you are no more than an accomplice. I have absolutely no intention of pushing the responsibility off onto you alone. Since any time’s as good as any other, I want you to begin. Even at this very instant, it makes no difference. The moment you take action will be the end of these notes.

If you wish, I shall leave something like a little posthumous memorandum for you. I think there’s no absolute necessity for it, but just by chance it may make you feel better. Yet it’s ridiculous to be accused of the crime of helping a suicide.

As with a knitted jacket, everything comes undone from a truly trifling rent. It may be well to cut out the following few lines (seal them up in a vinyl bag so they will not get wet) and fasten them to the fingers of the body. Just a minute. No, not to the fingers but somewhere where it would be easy for the corpse to tic them on himself. Oh yes, what about placing them around the neck in a ring? No, since we want it to appear to be an accidental death, until the investigating authorities, who are suspicious, get here, I should perhaps bide them somewhere in this room. In a pipe coupling of the bed, which will be discovered at once with a little effort, but which at first glance is not obvious. The rest of the notes cut out are, of course, to be incinerated.

I personally chose death. If the findings suggest murder, it will all be the fault of my clumsiness… .

No, to make this too apologetic is not wise. Indeed, I may sow the seeds of suspicion if I do. It is better to be more straightforward.

I have resolved to die. Let’s stop the hypocrisy of hope at this point. Toffee feels pretty hard until you put it in your mouth and suck on it. But you want to crunch it to pieces at once. A piece of candy once broken will never again return to its original form.

Do I look as if I still have some lingering attachment to life? In spite of myself, my real feelings Caine out. But worry is useless; no matter how attached I am, attachment is merely that. My reason understands very well that I should not go on living any longer. It’s amazing that I should still have my reason. But this reason is as fragile as a castle of sand by the seaside that the rising tide begins to wash over. Another two or three large waves and it will disappear without a trace. At once I change my mind, and greedily I feel like beginning to resist death. First I shall woo the girl boldly, and if I am refused (and refused I shall be), I shall kill her and over a period of days I shall enjoy eating her corpse. This is not a figure of speech; I shall literally put her in my mouth, chew on her, relish her with my tongue. I have already dreamed time and time again of eating her. I won’t cook her too much; underdone is fine. She is submissive, and even when she turns into meat, her smile will be unquenchable and she will have a taste somewhere between veal and wild fowl and will be utterly delectable. Apparently my sentiments toward her have been boiled down and now converge into appetite. If my appetite has increased to the point of devouring her, like it or not, I cannot avoid clinging to life. And so, while my reason remains, somehow I wish to wind things up. Of course, suicide is an honorable act, and as long as it is an act, it will not become reality by reason or aspiration alone. A little attachment, a little appetite, become pretexts for hesitation. While my reason is awake, I can manage not to pretend to brush aside at least your helping hand. So I beg of you, won’t you please lend me a helping hand while I’m asking for it? It’s both for your own good and for mine.