The Box Man (7 page)

I decided for the time being to leave. There was no merit in simply hastening the conclusion. If I just made up my mind, I could remove the box at any point. After taking my time and getting my feelings in order, it might be just as well to come again tomorrow. Before leaving, I decided to have a peep into her room. I crossed over the gravel path that led to the entrance (being covered with dirt, it made no noise). Turning the box sideways, I pushed my way into the thicket of asters as tall as a man. A cleavage like the inside of a convoluted shell flickered in my eyes-perhaps it was due to some association of ideas that came from the intense fragrance of the grass. Perhaps it was the hollow under her armpits. But the back of the building faced northward, and all the windows were small and high. Her windows especially were cut off by heavy curtains and I could barely distinguish any light, but I had not hoped for anything more. Not yet ready to give up, I kept waiting for something, concealed under the eaves. The wind shook the gutter, making great drops fall down, and my box resounded like a bass drum. But there was no reaction from her room.

Of course, it was nothing at all to get out of the box. And since there was nothing to it, I felt no compulsive need to leave it. Yet I wanted someone, if possible, to lend me a hand.

Three and a Half Page Insert on Different Paper

(It’s not only the paper that’s dissimilar. For the first time a fountain pen is being used, and the writing is clearly different. If in time someone makes a clear copy in a new notebook with other notes, they should simply standardize the paper and the writing. There’s no need to worry about the difference in writing and in paper now.)

-Well then. Now what? (said the doctor). -I’m thirsty. (she complained).

-There’s a crack in that glass.

-I don’t care.

-Well …

-I took them off … just as I promised.

-I’m asking about the light.

-Is this all the beer there is?

-I’m interested in how dark it was as you were taking your clothes off.

-It was pitch black. It was so dark it took me a long time to unfasten my brassiere.

-There’s no relationship between the light and the brassiere. Anyway you can do that by touch.

-Well, I suppose so, but…

-Let it go. And then what?

-He lost patience and insisted on helping me unfasten the brassiere … he wouldn’t listen.

-Strange.

-Why?

-It was pitch black, wasn’t it? How did he know you were having trouble with the brassiere?

-Oh, he just knew… some way or other.

-Then you did get him to help?

-Not at all.

-Why?

-I made a promise, didn’t I, absolutely not to let him touch me? Besides, see how long my arms are. I can shake hands behind my back.

-All right. So then you took off your clothes in the dark, and after you had finished, you turned on the light. Is that right?

-Yes, I think so… .

-Well, what about the shot?

-I gave it, of course.

-Naked?

-You can’t break the capsule by feel.

-Being naked’s enough. It’s ridiculous to go so far as giving a shot naked.

-It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?

-There’s a big difference.

-Don’t raise your voice so.

Listen to me. You’re a lot more frankly naked when some of your clothes are off than when they’re all off. The same logic holds true for shots. A naked body doing something is more completely naked than a simple nude. You can’t get away with saying you didn’t know it.

-I realize that. I’ll be careful from now on.

-Try repeating what happened in order once more from

the beginning.

-So I took off my clothes, turned on the light…

-Before that, the light was out, wasn’t it?

-So I turned out the light, took off my clothes, turned on the light, and then gave the shot.

-Pretty amazing. During all that time you didn’t say a word … isn’t it?

-I don’t mean that…

-We’re going to be in trouble if you abridge whenever you want.

-He didn’t say anything important. It’s true. I recall we talked about the weather … as he patted my hair like this …

-You promised not to let him use his hands.

-But it was only my hair.

-It’s the same thing … anywhere…

-But he just happened to touch my hair just by chance, and…

-Don’t shield him.

-It was just when I was leaning over to turn on the lamp by the pillow.-The lamp?

-He asked me to.

-What?

-There are places you can’t see very well with the light coming only from above.

-Drop it there. There’ll be no end to it if you spoil him so much.

-You’re right. I’ll be careful.

-Then what did he say?

-He said it looked like rain… since my hair was winding into little curls.

You were just wet with perspiration.

Yes, I was dripping.

But just a minute. Before his weather report, you were asked to put the light on, weren’t you?

-Yes, the light came first.

-You’re not reliable.

-I’m sorry. I’m already exhausted. I’m not suited to this sort of thing. Look, my legs are trembling as if I’d got on top of an electric washer.

Well, come over here. My lap’s better than any washer.

-I’d like a smoke.

-Smoking late at night makes your skin rough.

-It’s better than being naked.

-You’re exaggerating. Don’t go thinking a fellow like that’s a man. Being naked in front of him is no more than taking your panties off in the bathroom.

-You, Doctor, are the one who’s concerned with my nakedness in front of him. You ask too many questions.

-I only want to know the truth.

-I’d at least like to forget what’s over.

-Apparently there are things you want to forget at any cost.

-Unfortunately they’re nothing you imagine, Doctor.

-If that’s true, fine.

-It is. First he wiped away the eye mucus and made me take all kinds of poses; he watched me as if he were on a treasure hunt. But the shot began to take effect at once, and the look in his eyes gradually became strange. In less than five minutes he was staring at the fluorescent light and seemed quite oblivious of me.

-It’s all right to let him dream the way he wants. -But last of all he made me give him an enema.

-An enema?

-It was too much. The same question over and over. I wondered if he would never tire of asking. Imagine it… he asked me to check to see whether he had an erection or not. I was so annoyed I fooled him and told him it looked about eighty percent up. Immediately he got angry. He told me to stop talking nonsense, that he should know best about himself.

-If he knew, he didn’t have to ask you, did he?

64 / The Box Man

-Then he began badgering me. When he smelled my perspiration he apparently got an erection, so he told me to get more to the side.

-Don’t joke. What part of the castrated pig was up, I wonder.

-Well, he wasn’t up. He began to cry instead. I was amazed. Or maybe he was pretending to cry. When I looked closely I could see he was crying, but only by the set of his mouth and his voice. And then… what halitosis! As long as he was badgering me, I could stand it only by holding my breath. He was apparently rather excited. He said he couldn’t stand looking up my crotch when I was on alI fours.

-Did you go so far as to do that?

-Not at all. It was the fault of the shot. I just stood there stock still. And he just imagined what he wanted. But it’s strange, isn’t it. Maybe that’s hypnotism. He wasn’t actually seeing me, yet just by thinking that he wanted to, I somehow came to have the impression I was being seen. From the moment I thought I was being seen by him all my strength suddenly left me, and I was unable to give up imagining I was on all fours. The blood left my buttocks, and they grew pale and numb. I had the feeling of turning into a stone.

-What about the enema, then?

-Oh, that was later. Suddenly just when he stopped crying, he let out a scream like a patient with a heart attack, saying to hurry up, that he wanted nitroglycerine.

-A weird fellow.

-All the same, he didn’t have an erection, but apparently there was some reaction. He ground his teeth and panted, and when I listened closely I could hear him saying, “Thanks … thanks.”

-Why didn’t you refuse the enema?

You yourself said not to take it seriously, didn’t you?

-Quite true, quite true.

-Please, let me rest. I wanted you to tell me that all this was unimportant.

-Well, let’s take a pause here. Don’t just stand there • . . come over here. Take off your stockings.

-I’m not wearing any stockings.

-Hurry up, come on… . What sort of pose did he explicitly want you to take?

-Turn off the light… .

In Which It Is a Question, of the Sullen Relationship Between the I Who Am Writing and the I Who Am Being Written About

The naked girl on all fours. The inverted triangle formed by her torso, her thighs, and her upper arms was burned deep into the backs of my eyeballs; and wherever I looked a flesh colored openwork forever overlaid my field of vision. The pores of my whole body opened their mouths at the same time, and tongues dangled limply from them. I was nauseous … abnormally tense … from lack of air. I had not had enough sleep either.

Nonetheless, when and how did I get to this point? Apparently I’m deceiving myself. Eighteen minutes past three. Now I’m here at the municipal seaside bathhouse facing the Port of T across the harbor. A deserted sandy beach where hermit crabs crawl noisily about. A soaked green triangular flag flapping round a bamboo pole. No matter how much of the way back here is downhill, I couldn’t possibly have just come rolling down. I must have had some purpose, whatever it was.

As a matter of fact, it was right here that I had made my preparations a week before to go to the hospital to get treatment for my wound. It’s an ideal place for a box man to leave his box unnoticed. I wanted to clean my underwear and my shirt, shave, and wash my hair, to say nothing of my body. I was free to use the hydrant at the station or the boat landing, but the crowds came here late, and if I choose my time well I can take it easy and use the shower in the dressing room without being questioned by anyone.

I really don’t have to hide. Just a moment ago, I finished doing what I had come for. I had cleaned my underwear, shaved my beard, washed my hair and my body. To avoid catching a cold I withdrew temporarily to the box until my underwear and shirt were dry, but this was purely to tide me over, and I intended to leave it presently. Yes, I had the impression of being already half out. You don’t need any particular resolution to scratch where you’re bitten by an insect. The exit to the tunnel was visible right there. If the box is a moving tunnel, the naked girl is a dazzling light flowing in the entrance, waiting intently to be seen. I think that surely here is the opportunity I have been waiting for for three years.

Furthermore, I unexpectedly met the fake box man. My replica was fixedly staring at the girl on all fours with her rump high in the air (defenselessly waiting to be seen). So far I had not felt that the box was all that unsightly. What was disagreeable was the recurrent dream where I became a ghost, and hovering at the ceiling, looked down on my own dead body. Could I still have a lingering attachment for the box at this point? Far from that, I was already thoroughly bored with it. A tunnel is functional only because it has an exit. It makes absolutely no difference if I tear these notes up and throw them away as soon as I finish this last line here… .

It can’t be very long since I began living in a box. I once saw a broken and empty cardboard box roughly stuffed into the narrow space between a public john and a board fence (perhaps around some outdoor parking lot). The box with its resident gone was like a deserted house. The aging process had apparently been rapid, and the box had weathered to the color of withered grapes. But at a glance I was able to distinguish that it was the discarded skin of a box man. There, where it appeared half torn away, was what remained of the observation window … the curled vinyl curtain was still pasted on. On the sides the protuberant clusters of little holes for hearing were all swollen like some skin disease. I tried to strip away the surface. It sounded like adhesive plaster tearing off, and the inside of the box was visible. I instinctively inserted myself into the space and concealed this sloughed off skin from the gaze of those passing by.

On the inside of the box, like a handprint impressed in clay, the traces of the life of the former occupant (let us give him the name B for the moment) were vividly and negatively etched. There were the traces of the cheap chopsticks he had used to strengthen the torn places by attaching them with insulation tape, and clippings of nude photos, now faded and bearing stains the color of bird droppings. There was a red cord to tie to the trouser belt so that the box would not shake; a little plastic box was located underneath the observation window. Further, traces of numerous graffiti covered the entire surface. Large and small white rectangular spaces outlined the spots where such things as the radio, the bag, and the flashlight had formerly been suspended.

My strength drained away and I felt cold. I had the feeling of witnessing the opening of the sarcophagus of B’s mummy. I quivered. I had never contemplated my own (my box’s) death in such a form. I intended to vanish naturally-when the time came-like a volatilized drop of water. But this was the real world, not imagination. How in heaven’s name had B met his end?

Of course, it did not necessarily follow that the death of the box was exactly B’s physical death. Perhaps he just passed through the tunnel and threw the box away. The corpse of the box became a butterfly (if a butterfly is too romantic, then a cicada will do, or a May fly), the castoff skin of a chrysalis that has flown away. I wanted to think it was possible. If I didn’t, I couldn’t have been able to stand it. And to do so I needed proof. I concentrated my gaze on the graffiti all around, searching for evidence. Unfortunately B apparently regularly used a felt tip marker, the ink of which was water soluble, and deciphering was nigh impossible. There was a cover on the little plastic box. If there was some clue it would surely be in there. When I wrenched off the incrusted top the hinge split open. Inside were two ballpoint pens, a handleless knife, a flint for a lighter, a crystalless watch with only the minute hand, and then a small notebook with the cover missing. The first page of the notebook began in this way. Fortunately I copied it on the spot on the inner side of my box (at the time there was still a lot of blank space left), and I am able to quote it exactly.