I want each of you to push his boulder as far as he likes. The place you stop pushing your boulder is where you will live. The higher you go, the more of the world you will be able to see from your home. It's entirely up to you how far you want to push your boulder.
Mari looks bored, but she is clearly listening. Mari nods. It's a pretty simple story. And they started pushing them along as the god told them to. Now these were huge, heavy boulders, so rolling them was hard, and pushing them up an incline took an enormous effort. The youngest brother quit first. He said, 'Brothers, this place is good enough for me. It's close to the shore, and I can catch fish. It has everything I need to go on living.
I don't mind if I can't see that much of the world from here. He said, 'Brother, this place is good enough for me. There is plenty of fruit here. The trail grew increasingly narrow and steep, but he did not quit. He had great powers of perseverance, and he wanted to see as much of the world as he possibly could, so he kept rolling the boulder with all his might. He went on for months, hardly eating or drinking, until he had rolled the boulder to the very peak of the high mountain.
There he stopped and surveyed the world. Now he could see more of the world than anyone. This was the place he would live—where no grass grew, where no birds flew. For food, he could only gnaw on moss. But he had no regrets, because now he could look out over the whole world.
And so, even today, his great, round boulder is perched on the peak of that mountain on an island in Hawaii. That's how the story goes. Mari asks, "Is it supposed to have some kind of moral?
The first one," he says, holding up a finger, "is that people are all different. Even siblings. And the other one," he says, holding up another finger, "is that if you really want to know something, you have to be willing to pay the price. That's for sure. But the eldest brother was curious to see as much of the world as possible, and he couldn't suppress that curiosity, no matter how big the price was he had to pay.
He gives up and continues his meal. This time, he concentrates his attention on the chicken salad and finishes it without a word. He takes his time chewing and drinks a lot of water. He asks the waitress to refill his water glass several times. He eats his final piece of toast. His empty plates have been cleared away. I suppose you can go home by taxi, but the next train's not until tomorrow morning. But I live alone, and we're going to be practising all night.
Plus if I really have to get back, my buddy's got a car. There's hardly any heat, though, so it gets pretty cold this time of year. But they're letting us use it for free, so we take what we can get. How'd you know? Can't blame 'em, though. Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton didn't become rock stars playing the trombone. Ever see Jimi Hendrix or Pete Townshend smash a trombone on stage? Of course not. The only thing they smash is electric guitars. If they smashed a trombone, the audience'd laugh.
An old LP. I can't remember why I bought it at the time. I had never heard any jazz before. A guy named Curtis Fuller played the trombone on it. The first time I heard it, I felt the scales fall from my eyes.
That's it, I thought. That's the instrument for me. The trombone and me: it was a meeting arranged by destiny. He looks baffled. But, I don't know, it's incredible. For a girl nowadays to know 'Five Spot After Dark'… Well, anyway, Curtis Fuller gave me goose bumps, and that got me started playing the trombone.
I borrowed money from my parents, bought a used instrument, and joined the school band. Then in high school I started doing different stuff with bands. At first I was backing up a rock band, sort of like the old Tower of Power. Do you know Tower of Power? My university's not much of a school, but we've got a pretty good band.
He glances at his watch. Her face says, Nobody's stopping you. You know our phone number. How can I say hi from you? I don't even know your name. You'll think of something. Never have been. He starts to say something, changes his mind, and stops.
He takes a deep breath. He picks up the bill from the table and begins calculating the money in his head. Can you pay for us both later? He glances first at her and then at her book. After a moment's indecision he says, "I know this is none of my business, but is something wrong? Like, problems with your boyfriend or a big fight with your family?
I mean, staying in town alone by yourself all night… " Mari puts on her glasses and stares up at him. The silence between them is tense and chilly. He raises both palms towards her as if to say, Sorry for butting in. I hope I see you then. She could tell the difference between a Gucci and a Prada at a glance, though, I'm pretty sure. He takes a notebook from his coat pocket and writes something in it with a ballpoint pen.
He tears the page out and hands it to her. Call me if anything happens. Uh, do you have a cellphone? He picks up his trombone case. A hint of his smile still remains as he says, "See ya.
Without really looking at the scrap of paper, she places it on the table next to the bill. She holds her breath for a moment, props her chin on her hand, and goes back to her book.
Burt Bacharach's "The April Fools" plays through the restaurant at low volume. A woman lies in bed, asleep. A young, beautiful woman: Mari's sister, Eri. Eri Asai. We know this without having been told so by anyone. Her black hair cascades across the pillow like a flood of dark water. We allow ourselves to become a single point of view, and we observe her for a time. Perhaps it should be said that we are peeping in on her. Our viewpoint takes the form of a midair camera that can move freely about the room.
At the moment, the camera is situated directly above the bed and is focused on her sleeping face. Her small, well-shaped lips are tightened into a straight line. At first glance, we can discern no sign of breathing, but staring hard we can make out a slight—a very slight—movement at the base of her throat.
She is breathing. She lies with her head on the pillow as if looking up at the ceiling. She is not, in fact, looking at anything. Her eyelids are closed like hard winter buds. Her sleep is deep.
She is probably not even dreaming. As we observe Eri Asai, we gradually come to sense that there is something about her sleep that is not normal. It is too pure, too perfect. Not a muscle in her face, not an eyelash moves. Her slender white neck preserves the dense tranquillity of a handcrafted product.
Her small chin traces a clean angle like a well-shaped headland. Even in the profoundest somnolence, people do not tread so deeply into the realm of sleep. They do not attain such a total surrender of consciousness. But consciousness—or its absence—is of no concern as long as the functions for sustaining life are maintained.
Eri's pulse and respiration continue at the lowest possible level. Her existence seems to have been placed upon the narrow threshold that separates the organic from the inorganic—secretly, and with great care. How or why this condition was brought about we as yet have no way of knowing. Eri Asai is in a deep, deliberate state of sleep as if her entire body has been enveloped in warm wax.
Clearly, something here is incompatible with nature. This is all we can conclude for now. The camera draws back slowly to convey an image of the entire room. Then it begins observing details in search of clues. This is by no means a highly decorated room. Neither is it a room that suggests the tastes or individuality of its occupant. Without detailed observation, it would be hard to tell that this was the room of a young girl.
There are no dolls, stuffed animals, or other accessories to be seen. No posters or calendars. On the side facing the window, one old wooden desk and a swivel chair. The window itself is covered by a roll-down window blind. On the desk is a simple black lamp and a brandnew notebook computer its top closed. A few ballpoint pens and pencils in a mug.
By the wall stands a plain wood-framed single bed, and there sleeps Eri Asai. The bedclothes are solid white. On shelves attached to the opposite wall, a compact stereo and a small pile of CDs in their cases.
Next to those, a phone. A dresser with mirror attached. The only things placed in front of the mirror are lip balm and a small, round hairbrush. On that wall is a walk-in closet.
As the room's only decorative touch, five photographs in small frames are lined up on a shelf, all of them photos of Eri Asai. She is alone in all of them. None shows her with friends or family.
They are professional photographs of her posing as a model, photos that might have appeared in magazines. There is a small bookcase, but it contains only a handful of books, mostly college textbooks.
And a pile of large-size fashion magazines. It would be hard to conclude that she is a voracious reader. We are invisible, anonymous intruders. We look.
We listen. We note odours. But we are not physically present in the place, and we leave behind no traces. We follow the same rules, so to speak, as orthodox time travellers.
We observe but we do not intervene. Honestly speaking, however, the information regarding Eri Asai that we can glean from the appearance of this room is far from abundant. It gives the impression that preparations have been made to hide her personality and cleverly elude observing eyes.
Near the head of the bed a digital clock soundlessly and steadily renews its display of the time. For now, the clock is the only thing in the room evidencing anything like movement: a cautious nocturnal creature that runs on electricity. Each green crystal numeral slips into the place of another, evading human eyes. The current time is p. Once it has finished examining individual details, our viewpoint camera draws back momentarily and surveys the room once again.
Then, as if unable to make up its mind, it maintains its broadened field of vision, its line of sight fixed in place for the time being. A pregnant silence reigns. At length, however, as if struck by a thought, it turns towards— and begins to approach—a television set in a corner of the room: a perfectly square black Sony.
The screen is dark, and as dead as the far side of the moon, but the camera seems to have sensed some kind of presence there—or perhaps a kind of foreshadowing. We wait. We hold our breath and listen. The clock displays " Could someone have entered the room and turned on the switch without our noticing? Could a pre-set timer have come on?
But no: our ever-alert camera circles to the back of the device and reveals that the television's plug has been pulled. Yes, the TV should, in fact, be dead.
It should, in fact, be cold and hard as it presides over the silence of midnight. But it is not dead. Scan lines appear, flicker, break up, and vanish. Then the lines come to the surface of the screen again. The faint crackling continues without let-up. Eventually the screen begins to display something.
An image begins taking shape. Soon, however, it becomes diagonally deformed, like italics, and disappears like a flame blown out. Then the whole process starts again. The image strains to right itself. Trembling, it tries to give concrete form to something. But the image will not come together. It distorts as if the TV's antenna is being blown by a strong wind. Then it breaks apart and scatters.
Every phase of this turmoil is conveyed to us by the camera. The sleeping woman appears to be totally unaware of these events occurring in her room. For now, nothing can disturb her deep sleep. The television is a new intruder into the room. We, too, are intruders, of course, but unlike us, the new intruder is neither quiet nor transparent.
Nor is it neutral. It is undoubtedly trying to intervene. We sense its intention intuitively. The TV image comes and goes, but its stability slowly increases. On screen is the interior of a room.
A fairly big room. It could be a space in an office building, or some kind of classroom. It has a large plate-glass window; banks of fluorescent lights line the ceiling. There is no sign of furniture, however. No, on closer inspection there is exactly one chair set in the middle of the room. An old wooden chair, it has a back but no arms. It is a practical chair, and very plain. Someone is sitting in it. The picture has not stabilised entirely, and so we can make out the person in the chair only as a vague silhouette with blurred outlines.
The room has the chilling air of a place that has been long abandoned. The camera that seems to be conveying this image to the television cautiously approaches the chair.
The build of the person in the chair seems to be that of a man. He is leaning forward slightly. He faces the camera and appears to be deep in thought. He wears dark clothing and leather shoes. We can't see his face, but he seems to be a rather thin man of medium height. It is impossible to tell his age. As we gather these fragments of information from the unclear screen, the image breaks up every now and then. The interference undulates and rises. The static also quiets down.
Without a doubt the screen is moving towards stability. Something is about to happen in this room. Something of great significance. Martin Denny's "More" is playing in the background. The number of customers has decreased markedly from thirty minutes earlier, and there are no more voices raised in conversation. The atmosphere suggests a deeper stage of night. Mari is still at her table, reading her thick book. In front of her sits a plate containing a vegetable sandwich, virtually untouched.
She seems to have ordered it less out of hunger than as a means to buy herself more time at the restaurant. Now and then she changes the position in which she reads her book—resting her elbows on the table, or settling further back into her seat. Sometimes she raises her face, takes a deep breath, and checks out the restaurant's dwindling occupancy, but aside from this she maintains her concentration on her book.
Her ability to concentrate seems to be one of her most important personal assets. There are more single customers to be seen now: someone writing on a laptop, someone text-messaging on a cellphone, another absorbed in reading like Mari, another doing nothing but staring thoughtfully out of the window.
Maybe they can't sleep. Maybe they don't want to sleep. A family restaurant provides such people with a place to park themselves late at night. A large woman charges in as if she could hardly wait for the restaurant's automatic glass door to open. She is solidly constructed, not fat. Her shoulders are broad and strong-looking. She wears a black woollen hat pulled down to the eyes, a big leather jacket, and orange pants.
Her hands are empty. Her powerful appearance draws people's attention. As soon as she comes in, a waitress asks her, "Table for one, ma'am? Spotting Mari, she takes long strides in her direction. When she arrives at Mari's table, she says nothing but immediately lowers herself into the seat across from Mari. For a woman so large, her movements are quick and efficient.
Mari, who has been concentrating on her book, looks up. Finding this large stranger sitting opposite her, she is startled. The woman pulls off her woollen hat. Her hair is an intense blonde, and it is cut as short as a well-trimmed lawn.
Her face wears an open expression, but the skin has a tough, weathered look, like long-used rainwear, and although the features are not exactly symmetrical, there is something reassuring about them that seems to come from an innate fondness for people. But who, in fact, holds the role of author?
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For any literature project, trust Short Stories for Students for all of your research needs. Score: 3. Mari sips her coffee and glances up from a book as a young man, a musician, intrudes on her solitude. Both have missed the last train home. They realise they've been acquainted through Erl, Marl's beautiful sister.
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