22



Jellyfish from All A r o u n d the World

*


Things Metamorphosed



I sit down in front of Cinnamon's computer at the appointed time and use the
password to access the communications program. Then I input the numbers I've been
given by Ushikawa. It will take five minutes for the circuits to connect. I start sipping the
coffee I have prepared and work to steady my breathing. The coffee is tasteless, though,
and the air I inhale has a harsh edge to it.
Finally, the computer beeps and a message appears on the screen, in forming me that
the connection has been made and the computer is ready br two- way communication. I
specify that this is to be a collect call. If '. am careful to prevent a record of this
transaction from being made, I should be able to keep Cinnamon from finding out that I
used the computer (though of this I am anything but confident: this is his labyrinth; I'm
nothing but a powerless stranger here).
A far longer time goes by than I had anticipated, but finally the message appears that
the other party has accepted the charges. Beyond this screen, at the far end of the cable
that creeps through Tokyo's under ground darkness, may be Kumiko. She, too, should be
sitting before a monitor, with her hands on a keyboard. In reality, all I can see is my mon-
itor, which sits there making a faint electronic squeal. I click on the box to choose Send
mode and type the words that I have been rehearsing over and over in my brain.
>I have one question for you. It's not much of a
question, but I need proof that it's really you out there.
Here it is: The first time we went out together, long
before we were married, we went to the aquarium. I want you
to tell me what you were most fascinated to see there.
I click on the symbol for sending the text (I want you to tell me what
you were most fascinated to see t here . -<) . Then I switch to
Receive mode.
The answer comes back after a short, silent interval. It is a short answer.
>Jellyfish. Jellyfish from all around the world .<
My question and the answer to it are lined up on the upper and lower halves of the
screen. I stare at them for a while. Jellyfish from all around the
world.< It has to be Kumiko. The real Kumiko. That very fact, though, serves only to
fill me with pain. I feel as if my insides are being ripped out. Why is this the only way that
the two of us can talk to each other? I have no choice now but to accept it, though. And
so I begin typing.
>Let me start with the good news. The cat came back this
spring. All of a sudden. He was kind of emaciated, but he
was healthy and unharmed. He's stayed home ever since. I
know I should have consulted with you before I did this,
but I gave him a new name. Mackerel. Like the fish. We're
getting along together just fine. This is good news, I
guess.<
A delay follows. I can' t tell whether it is due to the time lag inherent in this form of
communication or a silence on Kumiko's part.

>I'm so happy to hear the cat is still alive! I was
worried about him.<
I take a sip of coffee to moisten my now dry mouth. Then I start typ ing again.
>Now for the bad news. Actually, aside from the fact that
the cat is back, it seems that everything else is going to
be bad news. First of all, I still haven't been able to
solve any riddles.
I reread what I have written, then continue to type.
First riddle: Where are you now? What are you doing
there? Why do you continue to stay away from me? Why don't
you want to see me? Is there some reason for that? I mean,
there are so many things that you and I have to talk about
face -to-face. Don't you think so?<
It takes her some time to reply to this. I imagine her sitting in front of the keyboard,
biting her lip and thinking. Finally, the cursor begins to dart across the screen in response
to the movement of her fingers.
>Everything I wanted to say to you I wrote in the letter
I sent. What I most want you to understand is that, in many
ways, I am no longer the Kumiko you knew. People change for
all sorts of reasons, and in some cases the transformation
makes them go bad. That is why I don't want to see you. And
that is why I don't want to come back to you.
The cursor halts and remains blinking in one spot, searching for words. I keep my
eyes fixed on it for ten seconds, twenty seconds, waiting for it to form new words on the
screen. The transformation makes them go bad?
If possible, I would like you to forget about me as soon
as you can. The best thing for both of us would be if you
were to complete the formalities for divorce and begin a
whole new life. It doesn't matter where I am now or what I
am doing. The most important thing is that, for whatever
reason, you and I have already been separated into two
entirely different worlds. And there is no way we can ever
go back to being what we were. Please try to understand how
painful it is for me to be communicating with you like
this. You probably can't imagine how it tears me apart.<
I reread Kumiko's words several times. I find in them no sign of hesitation, no
suggestion they come from anything but the deepest, most painful conviction. She has
probably rehearsed them in her mind any number of times. But still, I have to find a way
to shake this impenetrable wall of hers, if only to make it tremble. I go back to the
keyboard.
>What you say is somewhat vague and difficult for me to
grasp. You say you've gone bad, but what does that mean in
concrete terms? I just don't understand. Tomatoes go bad.
Umbrellas go bad. That I can understand. Tomatoes rot and
umbrellas get bent out of shape. But what does it mean to
say that you have "gone bad"? It doesn't give me any
concrete image. You said in your letter that you had sex

with somebody other than me, but could that make you "go
bad"? Yes, of course it was a shock to me. But that is a
little different from making a human being "go bad," I
would think.<
A long pause follows. I begin to worry that Kumiko has disappeared somewhere. But
then her letters begin to line up on the screen.
>You may be right, but there is more to it than that.
Another deep silence follows. She is choosing her words carefully, pulling them out
of a drawer.
That is just one manifestation. "Going bad" is something
that happens over a longer period of time. It was something
decided in advance, without me, in a pitch-dark room
somewhere, by someone else's hand. When I met and married
you, it seemed to me that I had a whole new set of
possibilities. I hoped that I might be able to escape
through an opening somewhere. But I guess that was just an
illusion. There are signs for everything, which is why I
tried so hard to find our cat when he di sappeared that
time.
I keep staring at the message on the screen, but still no Send mark appears. My own
machine is still set to Receive. Kumiko is thinking about what to write next. " Going
bad" is something that happens over a longer period of time.
What is she trying to tell me? I concentrate my attention on the screen, but all I find there
is a kind of invisible wall. Once more the letters begin to line up on the screen.
I want you to think about me this way if you can: that I
am slowly dying of an incurable disease-one that causes my
face and body gradually to disintegrate. This is just a
metaphor, of course. My face and body are not actually
disintegrating. But this is something very close to the
truth. And that is why I don't want to show myself to you.
I know that a vague metaphor like this is not going to help
you understand everything about the situation in which I
find myself. I don't expect it to convince you of the truth
of what I am saying. I feel terrible about this, but there
is simply nothing more I can say. All you can do is accept
it.<
An incurable disease.
I check to be sure that I am in the Send mode and start typing.
>If you say you want me to accept your metaphor, I don't
mind accepting it. But there is one thing that I simply
cannot understand. Even supposing that you have, as you
say, "gone bad" and that you have "an incurable disease,"
why of all people did you have to go to Noboru Wataya with
it? Why didn't you stay here with me? Why aren't we
together? Isn't that what we got married for?<
Silence. I can almost feel its weight and hardness in my hands. I fold my hands on the
desk and take several deep breaths. Then the answer comes.

>The reason I am here, like it or not, is because this is
the proper place for me. This is where I have to be. I have
no right to choose otherwise. Even if I wanted to see you,
I couldn't do it. Do you think I DON'T want to see you?
There is a blank moment in which she seems to be holding her breath. Then her
fingers start to move again.
So please, don't torture me about this any longer. If
there is any one thing that you can do for me, it would be
to forget about my existence as quickly as possible. Take
those years that we Lived together and push them outside
your memory as if they never existed. That, finally, is the
best thing you can do for both of us. This is what I truly
believe.<
To this I reply:
>You say you want me to forget everything. You say you
want me to leave you alone. But still, at the same time,
from somewhere in this world, you are be gging for my help.
That voice is faint and distant, but I can hear it
distinctly on quiet nights. It IS your voice: I'm sure of
that. I can accept the fact that one Kumiko is trying hard
to get away from me, and she probably has her reasons for
doing so. But there is another Kumiko, who is trying just
as hard to get close to me. That is what I truly believe.
No matter what you may say to me here, I have to believe in
the Kumiko who wants my help and is trying to get close to
me. No matter what you tell me, no matter how legitimate
your reasons, I can never just forget about you, I can
never push the years we spent together out of my mind. I
can't do it because they really happened, they are part of
my life, and there is no way I can just erase them. That
would be the same as erasing my own self. I have to know
what legitimate reason there could be for doing such a
thing.<
Another blank period goes by. I can feel her silence through the monitor. Like heavy
smoke, it creeps in through a corner of the screen and drifts across the floor. I know about
these silences of Kumiko's. I've seen them, experienced them any number of times in our
life together. She's holding her breath now, sitting in front of the computer screen with
brows knit in total concentration. I reach out for my cup and take a sip of cold coffee.
Then, with the empty cup between my hands, I hold my breath and stare at the screen the
way Kumiko is doing. The two of us are linked together by the heavy bonds of silence
that pass through the wall separating our two worlds. We need each other more than
anything, I feel without a doubt.
>I don't know .<
>Well, I DO know.
I set my coffee cup down and type as quickly as I can, as if to catch the fleeting tail of
time.
I know this. I know that I want to find my way to where

you are - you, the Kumiko who wants me to rescue her. What
I do not know yet, unfortunately, is how to get there and
what it is that's waiting for me there. In this whole long
time since you left, I've lived with a feeling as if I had
been thrown into absolute darkness. Slowly but surely,
though, I am getting closer to the core, to that place
where the core of things is located. I wanted to let you
know that. I'm getting closer to where you are, and I
intend to get closer still.<
I rest my hands on the keyboard and wait for her answer.
>I don't understand any of this.
Kumiko types this and ends our conversation:
Goodbye.<<<




The screen informs me that the other party has left the circuit. Our conversation is
finished. Still, I go on staring at the screen, waiting for some thing to happen. Maybe
Kumiko will change her mind and come back on- line. Maybe she'll think of something
she forgot to say. But she does not come back. I give up after twenty minutes. I save the
file, then go to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. I empty my mind out for a while,
breathing steadily by the refrigerator. A terrible quiet seems to have descended on
everything. I feel as if the world is listening for my next thought. But I can't think of
anything. Sorry, but I just can't think of anything.
I go back to the computer and sit there, carefully rereading our entire exchange on the
glowing tube from beginning to end: what I said, what she said, what I said to that, what
she said to that. The whole thing is still there on the screen, with a certain graphic
intensity. As my eyes follow the rows of characters she has made, I can hear her voice. I
can recognize the rise and fall of her voice, the subtle tones and pauses. The cursor on the
last line keeps up its blinking with all the regularity of a heartbeat, waiting with bated
breath for the next word to be sent. But there is no next word.
After engraving the entire conversation in my mind (having decided I had better not
print it out), I click on the box to exit communications mode. I direct the program to
leave no record in the operations file, and after checking to be sure that this has been
done, I cut the switch. The computer beeps, and the monitor screen goes dead white. The
monoto nous mechanical drone is swallowed up in the silence of the room, like a vivid
dream ripped out by the hand of nothingness.



I don't know how much time has gone by since then. But when I realize where I am, I
find myself staring at my ha nds lying on the table. They bear the marks of having had
eyes sharply focused on them for a long time.
"Going bad" is something that happens over a Longer
period of time.
How long a period of time is that?