The Elephant Vanishes Part 22

An hour went by, and still she failed to show. A parade of songs crossed the dance floor-waltzes, fox-trots, a battle of the drummers, high trumpet solos-all wasted. I began to feel that she might have been toying with me, that she had never intended to come here to dance.

Don't worry, whispered the dwarf. She'll be here. Just relax She'll be here. Just relax.

The hands of the clock had moved past nine before she showed herself in the dance-hall door. She wore a tight, s.h.i.+mmering one-piece dress and black high heels. The entire dance hall seemed ready to vanish in a white blur, she was so sparkling and s.e.xy. First one man, then another and another, spotted her and approached to offer himself as an escort, but a single wave of the hand sent each of them back into the crowd.

I followed her movements as I sipped my beer. She sat at a table directly across the dance floor from me, ordered a red-colored c.o.c.ktail, and lit a long cigarette. She hardly touched the drink, and when she finished the cigarette she crushed it out without lighting another. Then she stood and proceeded toward the dance floor, slowly, with the readiness of a diver approaching the high platform.

She danced alone. The orchestra played a tango. She moved to the music with mesmerizing grace. Whenever she bent low, her long, black, curly hair swept past the floor like the wind, and her slender fingers stroked the strings of an invisible harp that floated in the air. Utterly unrestrained, she danced by herself, for herself. I couldn't take my eyes off her. It felt like the continuation of my dream. I grew confused. If I was using one dream to create another, where was the real me in all this?

She's a great dancer, said the dwarf. It's worth doing it with somebody like her. Let's go It's worth doing it with somebody like her. Let's go.

Hardly conscious of my movements, I stood and left my table for the dance floor. Shoving my way past a number of men, I came up beside her and clicked my heels to signal to the others that I intended to dance. She cast a glance at me as she whirled, and I flashed her a smile to which she did not respond. Instead, she went on dancing alone.

I started dancing, slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster until I was dancing like a whirlwind. My body no longer belonged to me. My arms, my legs, my head, all moved wildly over the dance floor unconnected to my thoughts. I gave myself to the dance, and all the while I could hear distinctly the transit of the stars, the s.h.i.+fting of the tides, the racing of the wind. This was truly what it meant to dance. I stamped my feet, swung my arms, tossed my head, and whirled. A globe of white light burst open inside my head as I spun round and round.

Again she glanced at me, and then she was whirling and stamping with me. The light was exploding inside her, too, I knew. I was happy. I had never been so happy.

This is a lot more fun than working in some elephant factory, isn't it? said the dwarf. said the dwarf.

I said nothing in return. My mouth was so dry, I couldn't have spoken if I had tried to.

We went on dancing, hour after hour. I led, she followed. Time seemed to have given way to eternity. Eventually, she stopped dancing, looking utterly drained. She took my arm, and I-or, should I say, the dwarf-stopped dancing, too. Standing in the very center of the dance floor, we gazed into each other's eyes. She bent over to remove her high heels, and with them dangling from her hand, she looked at me again.

WE LEFT THE DANCE HALL and walked along the river. I had no car, so we just kept walking and walking. Soon the road began its gradual climb into the hills. The air became filled with the perfume of white night-blooming flowers. I turned to see the dark shapes of the factory spread out below. From the dance hall, yellow light spilled out onto its immediate surroundings like so much pollen, and one of the orchestras was playing a jump tune. The wind was soft, and the moonlight seemed to drench her hair. and walked along the river. I had no car, so we just kept walking and walking. Soon the road began its gradual climb into the hills. The air became filled with the perfume of white night-blooming flowers. I turned to see the dark shapes of the factory spread out below. From the dance hall, yellow light spilled out onto its immediate surroundings like so much pollen, and one of the orchestras was playing a jump tune. The wind was soft, and the moonlight seemed to drench her hair.

Neither of us spoke. After such dancing, there was no need to say anything. She clung to my arm like a blind person being led along the road.

Topping the hill, the road led into an open field surrounded by pine woods. The broad expanse looked like a calm lake. Evenly covered in waist-high gra.s.s, the field seemed to dance in the night wind. Here and there a s.h.i.+ning flower poked its head into the moonlight, calling out to insects.

Putting my arm around her shoulders, I led her to the middle of the gra.s.sy field, where, without a word, I lowered her to the ground. "You're not much of a talker," she said with a smile. She tossed her shoes away and wrapped her arms around my neck. I kissed her on the lips and drew back from her, looking at her face once again. She was beautiful, as beautiful as a dream. I still could not believe I had her in my arms like this. She closed her eyes, waiting for me to kiss her again.

That was when her face began to change. A fleshy white thing crept out of one nostril. It was a maggot, an enormous maggot, larger than any I had ever seen before. Then came another and another, emerging from both her nostrils, and suddenly the stench of death was all around us. Maggots were falling from her mouth to her throat, crawling across her eyes and burrowing into her hair. The skin of her nose slipped away, the flesh beneath melting until only two dark holes were left. From these, still more maggots struggled to emerge, their pale white bodies smeared with the rotting flesh that surrounded them.

Pus began to pour from her eyes, the sheer force of it causing her eyeb.a.l.l.s to twitch, then fall and dangle to either side of her face. In the gaping cavern behind the sockets, a clot of maggots like a ball of white string swarmed in her rotting brain. Her tongue dangled from her mouth like a huge slug, then festered and fell away. Her gums dissolved, the white teeth dropping out one by one, and soon the mouth itself was gone. Blood spurted from the roots of her hair, and then each hair fell out. From beneath the slimy scalp, more maggots ate their way through to the surface. Arms locked around me, the girl never loosened her grip. I struggled vainly to free myself, to avert my face, to close my eyes. A hardened lump in my stomach rose to my throat, but I could not disgorge it. I felt as if the skin of my body had turned inside out. By my ear resounded the laughter of the dwarf.

The girl's face continued to melt until suddenly the jaw popped open, as if from a sudden twisting of the muscles, and clots of liquefied flesh and pus and maggots sprang in all directions.

I sucked my breath in to let out a scream. I wanted someone-anyone-to drag me away from this unbearable h.e.l.l. In the end, however, I did not scream. This can't be happening, I said to myself. This can't be real, I knew almost intuitively. The dwarf is doing this. He's trying to trick me. He's trying to make me use my voice. One sound, and my body will be his forever. That is exactly what he wants.

Now I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes-this time without the least resistance-and I could hear the wind moving across the gra.s.sy field. The girl's fingers were digging into my back. Now I wrapped my arms around her and drew her to me with all my strength, planting a kiss upon the suppurating flesh where it seemed to me her mouth had once been. Against my face I could feel the slippery flesh and the maggoty lumps; my nostrils filled with a putrid smell. But this lasted only a moment. When I opened my eyes, I found myself kissing the beautiful girl I had come here with. Her pink cheeks glowed in the soft moonlight. And I knew that I had defeated the dwarf. I had done it all without making a sound.

You win, said the dwarf in a voice drained of energy. She's yours. I'm leaving your body now She's yours. I'm leaving your body now. And he did.

"But you haven't seen the last of me," he went on. "You can win as often as you like. But you can only lose once. Then it's the end for you. And you will will lose. The day is bound to come. I'll be waiting, no matter how long it takes." lose. The day is bound to come. I'll be waiting, no matter how long it takes."

"Why does it have to be me?" I shouted back. "Why can't it be someone else?"

But the dwarf said nothing. He only laughed. The sound of his laughter floated in the air until the wind swept it away.

IN THE END, the dwarf was right. Every policeman in the country is out looking for me now. Someone who saw me dancing-maybe the old man-reported to the authorities that the dwarf had danced in my body. The police started watching me, and everyone who knew me was called in for questioning. My partner testified that I had once told him about the dancing dwarf. A warrant went out for my arrest. The police surrounded the factory. The beautiful girl from Stage 8 came secretly to warn me. I ran from the shop and dove into the pool where the finished elephants are stockpiled. Clinging to the back of one, I fled into the forest, crus.h.i.+ng several policemen on the way.

For almost a month now, I've been running from forest to forest, mountain to mountain, eating berries and bugs, drinking water from the river to keep myself alive. But there are too many policemen. They're bound to catch me sooner or later. And when they do, they'll strap me to the winch and tear me to pieces. Or so I'm told.

The dwarf comes into my dreams every night and orders me to let him inside me.

"At least that way, you won't be arrested and dismembered by the police," he says.

"No, but then I'll have to dance in the forest forever."

"True," says the dwarf, "but you're the one who has to make that choice."

He chuckles when he says this, but I can't make the choice.

I hear the dogs howling now. They're almost here.

-translated by Jay Rubin

I MUST HAVE BEEN MUST HAVE BEEN eighteen or nineteen when I mowed lawns, a good fourteen or fifteen years ago. Ancient history. eighteen or nineteen when I mowed lawns, a good fourteen or fifteen years ago. Ancient history.

Sometimes, though, fourteen or fifteen years doesn't seem so so long ago. I'll think, that's when Jim Morrison was singing "Light My Fire," or Paul McCartney "The Long and Winding Road"-maybe I'm scrambling my years a bit, but anyway, about that time-it somehow never quite hits that it was really all that long ago. I mean, I don't think I myself have changed so much since those days. long ago. I'll think, that's when Jim Morrison was singing "Light My Fire," or Paul McCartney "The Long and Winding Road"-maybe I'm scrambling my years a bit, but anyway, about that time-it somehow never quite hits that it was really all that long ago. I mean, I don't think I myself have changed so much since those days.

No, I take that back. I'm sure I must have changed a lot. There'd be too many things I couldn't explain if I hadn't.

Okay, I've changed. And these things happened all of fourteen, fifteen years back.

In my neighborhood-I'd just recently moved there-we had a public junior high school, and whenever I went out to run shopping errands or take a walk I'd pa.s.s right by it. So I'd find myself looking at the junior-high kids exercising or drawing pictures or just goofing off. Not that I especially enjoyed looking at them; there wasn't anything else to look at. I could just as well have looked at the line of cherry trees off to the right, but the junior-high kids were more interesting.

So as things went, looking at these junior-high-school kids every day, one day it struck me. They were all just fourteen or fifteen years old They were all just fourteen or fifteen years old. It was a minor discovery for me, something of a shock. Fourteen or fifteen years ago, they weren't even born; or if they were, they were little more than semiconscious blobs of pink flesh. And here they were now, already wearing bra.s.sieres, masturbating, sending stupid little postcards to disc jockeys, smoking out in back of the gym, writing f.u.c.k f.u.c.k on somebody's fence with red spray paint, reading-maybe- on somebody's fence with red spray paint, reading-maybe-War and Peace. Phew, glad that's done with.

I really meant it. Phew Phew.

Me, back fourteen or fifteen years ago, I was mowing lawns.

MEMORY IS LIKE FICTION; or else it's fiction that's like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemed a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore. You're left with this pile of kittens lolling all over one another. Warm with life, hopelessly unstable. And then to put these things out as saleable items, you call them finished products-at times it's downright embarra.s.sing just to think of it. Honestly, it can make me blush. And if or else it's fiction that's like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemed a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore. You're left with this pile of kittens lolling all over one another. Warm with life, hopelessly unstable. And then to put these things out as saleable items, you call them finished products-at times it's downright embarra.s.sing just to think of it. Honestly, it can make me blush. And if my my face turns that shade, you can be sure everyone's blus.h.i.+ng. face turns that shade, you can be sure everyone's blus.h.i.+ng.

Still, you grasp human existence in terms of these rather absurd activities resting on relatively straightforward motives, and questions of right and wrong pretty much drop out of the picture. That's where memory takes over and fiction is born. From that point on, it's a perpetual-motion machine no one can stop. Tottering its way throughout the world, trailing a single unbroken thread over the ground.

Here goes nothing. Hope all goes well, you say. But it never has. Never will. It just doesn't go that way.

So where does that leave you? What do you do?

What is there to do? I just go back to gathering kittens and piling them up again. Exhausted kittens, all limp and played out. But even if they woke to discover themselves stacked like kindling for a campfire, what would the kittens think? Well, it might scarcely raise a "Hey, what gives?" out of them. In which case-if there was nothing to particularly get upset about-it would make my work a little easier. That's the way I see it.

AT EIGHTEEN OR NINETEEN I mowed lawns, so we're talking ancient history. Around that time I had a girlfriend the same age, but a simple turn of events had taken her to live in a town way out of the way. Out of a whole year we could get together maybe two weeks total. In that short time we'd have s.e.x, go to the movies, wine and dine at some pretty fancy places, tell each other things nonstop, one thing after the next. And in the end we'd always cap it off with one h.e.l.l of a fight, then make up, and have s.e.x again. In other words, we'd be doing what most any couple does, only in a condensed version, like a short feature. I mowed lawns, so we're talking ancient history. Around that time I had a girlfriend the same age, but a simple turn of events had taken her to live in a town way out of the way. Out of a whole year we could get together maybe two weeks total. In that short time we'd have s.e.x, go to the movies, wine and dine at some pretty fancy places, tell each other things nonstop, one thing after the next. And in the end we'd always cap it off with one h.e.l.l of a fight, then make up, and have s.e.x again. In other words, we'd be doing what most any couple does, only in a condensed version, like a short feature.

At this point in time, I don't actually know if I really and truly loved her or not. Oh, I can bring her to mind, all right, but I just don't know. These things, they happen. I liked eating out with her, liked watching her take off her clothes one piece at a time, liked how soft it felt inside her v.a.g.i.n.a. And after s.e.x, I liked just looking at her with her head on my chest, talking softly until she'd fall asleep. But that's all. Beyond that, I'm not sure of one single thing.

Save for that two-week period I was seeing her, my life was excruciatingly monotonous. I'd go to the university whenever I had cla.s.ses and got more or less average marks. Maybe go to the movies alone, or stroll the streets for no special reason, or take some girl I got along with out on a date-no s.e.x. Never much for loud get-togethers, I was always said to be on the quiet side. When I was by myself, I'd listen to rock 'n' roll, nothing else. Happy enough, I guess, though probably not so very happy. But at the time, that was about what you'd expect.

One summer morning, the beginning of July, I got this long letter from my girlfriend, and in it she'd written that she wanted to break up with me. I've always felt close to you, and I still like you even now, and I'm sure that from here on I'll continue to ... et cetera, et cetera. In short, she was wanting to break it off. She had found herself a new boyfriend. I hung my head and smoked six cigarettes, went outside and drank a can of beer, came back in and smoked another cigarette. Then I took three HB pencils I had on my desk and snapped them in half. It wasn't that I was angry, really. I just didn't know what to do. In the end, I merely changed clothes and headed off to work. And for a while there, everyone within shouting distance was commenting on my suddenly "outgoing disposition." What is it about life?

That year I had a part-time job for a lawn-care service near Kyodo Station on the Odakyu Line, doing a fairly good business. Most people, when they built houses in the area, put in lawns. That, or they kept dogs. The two things seemed mirror alternatives. (Although there were were folks who did both.) Each had its own advantages: A green lawn is a thing of beauty; a dog is cute. But half a year pa.s.ses, and things start to drag on everyone. The lawn needs mowing, and you have to walk the dog. Not quite what they bargained for. folks who did both.) Each had its own advantages: A green lawn is a thing of beauty; a dog is cute. But half a year pa.s.ses, and things start to drag on everyone. The lawn needs mowing, and you have to walk the dog. Not quite what they bargained for.

Well, as it ended up, we mowed lawns for these people. The summer before, I'd found the job through the student union at the university. Besides me, a whole slew of others had come in at the same time, but they all quit soon thereafter; only I stayed on. It was demeaning work, but the pay wasn't bad. What's more, you could get by pretty much without talking to anyone. Just made for me. Since joining on there, I'd managed to save up a tidy little sum. Enough for my girlfriend and me to take a trip somewhere that summer. But now that she'd called the whole thing off, what difference did it make? For a week or so after I got her good-bye letter, I tried thinking up all sorts of ways to use the money. Or rather, I didn't have anything better to think about than how to spend the money. A lost week it was. My p.e.n.i.s looked like any other guy's p.e.n.i.s. But somebody-a somebody I didn't know-was nibbling at her little nipples. Strange sensation. What was wrong with me?

I was hard-pressed to come up with some way of spending the money. There was a deal to buy someone's used car-a 1000cc Subaru-not bad condition and the right price, but somehow I just didn't feel like it. I also thought of buying new speakers, but in my tiny apartment with its wood-and-plasterboard walls, what would have been the point? I guess I could have moved, but I didn't really have any reason to. And even if I did up and move out of my apartment, there wouldn't have been enough money left over to buy the speakers.

There just wasn't any way to spend the money. I bought myself a polo s.h.i.+rt and a few records, and the whole rest of the lump remained. So then I bought a really good Sony transistor radio-big speakers, clear FM reception, the works.

The whole week went past before it struck me. The fact of the matter was that if I bad no way of spending the money, there was no point in my earning it.

So one morning I broached the matter to the head of the lawn-mowing company, told him I'd like to quit. It was getting on time when I had to begin studying for exams, and before that I'd been thinking about taking a trip. I wasn't about to say that I didn't want the money anymore.

"Well, now, sorry to hear that," said the head exec (I guess you'd call him that, although he seemed more like your neighborhood gardening man). Then he let out a sigh and sat down in his chair to take a puff of his cigarette. He looked up at the ceiling and craned his neck stiffly from side to side. "You really and truly do fine work. You're the heart of the operation, the best of my part-timers. Got a good reputation with the customers, too. What can I say? You've done a tremendous job for someone so young."

Thanks, I told him. Actually, I did have a good reputation. That's because I did meticulous work. Most part-timers give the gra.s.s a thorough once-over with a big electric lawn mower and do only a mediocre job on the remaining areas. That way, they get done quickly without wearing themselves out. My method was exactly the opposite. I'd rough in with the mower, then put time into the hand tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. So naturally, the finished product looked nice. The only thing was that the take was small, seeing as the pay was calculated at so much per job. The price went by the approximate area of the yard. And what with all that bending and stooping, my back would get plenty sore. It's the sort of thing you have to be in the business to really understand. So much so that until you get used to it, you have trouble going up and down stairs.

Now, I didn't do such meticulous work especially to build a reputation. You probably won't believe me, but I simply enjoy mowing lawns. Every morning, I'd hone the gra.s.s clippers, head out to the customers in a minivan loaded with a lawn mower, and cut the gra.s.s. There's all kinds of yards, all kinds of turf, all kinds of housewives. Quiet, thoughtful housewives and ones who shoot off their mouths. There were even your housewives who'd crouch down right in front of me in loose T-s.h.i.+rts and no bra so that I could see all the way to their nipples.

No matter, I kept on mowing the lawn. Generally, the gra.s.s in the yard would be pretty high. Overgrown like a thicket. The taller the gra.s.s, the more rewarding I'd find the job. When the job was finished, the yard would yield an entirely different impression. Gives you a really great feeling. It's as if a thick bank of clouds has suddenly lifted, letting in the sun all around.

One time and one time only-after I'd done my work-did I ever sleep with one of these housewives. Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two she was, pet.i.te, with small, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She closed all the shutters, turned out the lights, and we made it in the pitch-blackness. Even so, she kept on her dress, merely slipping off her underwear. She got on top of me, but wouldn't let me touch her anywhere below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And her body was incredibly cold; only her v.a.g.i.n.a was warm. She hardly spoke a word. I, too, kept silent. There was just the rustling of her dress, now slower, now faster. The telephone rang midway. The ringing went on for a while, then stopped. I'd done my work-did I ever sleep with one of these housewives. Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two she was, pet.i.te, with small, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She closed all the shutters, turned out the lights, and we made it in the pitch-blackness. Even so, she kept on her dress, merely slipping off her underwear. She got on top of me, but wouldn't let me touch her anywhere below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And her body was incredibly cold; only her v.a.g.i.n.a was warm. She hardly spoke a word. I, too, kept silent. There was just the rustling of her dress, now slower, now faster. The telephone rang midway. The ringing went on for a while, then stopped.

Later, I wondered if my girlfriend and I breaking up mightn't have been on account of that interlude. Not that there was any particular reason to think so. It somehow just occurred to me. Probably because of the phone call that went unanswered. Well, whatever, it's all over and done with.

"This really leaves me in a fix, you know," said my boss. "If you pull out now, I won't be able to stir up business. And it's peak season, too."

The rainy season really made lawns grow like crazy.

"What do you say? How about one more week? Give me a week. I'll be able to find some new hands, and everything'll be okay. If you'd just do that for me, I'll give you a bonus."

Fine, I told him. I didn't especially have any other plans for the time being, and above all, I had no objections to the work itself. All the same, I couldn't help thinking what an odd turn of events this was: The minute I decide I don't need money, the dough starts pouring in.

Clear weather three days in a row, then one day of rain, then three more days of clear weather. So went my last week on the job. It was summer, though nothing special as summers go. Clouds drifted across the sky like distant memories. The sun broiled my skin. My back peeled three times, and by then I was tanned dark all over. Even behind my ears.

The morning of my last day of work found me in my usual gear-T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts, tennis shoes, sungla.s.ses-only now as I climbed into the minivan, I was heading out for what would be my last lawn. The car radio was on the blink, so I brought along my transistor radio from home for some driving music. Creedence, Grand Funk, your regular AM rock. Everything revolved around the summer sun. I whistled along with s.n.a.t.c.hes of the music, and smoked when not whistling. An FEN newscaster was stumbling over a rapid-fire list of the most impossible-to-p.r.o.nounce Vietnamese place-names.

My last job was near Yomiuri Land Amus.e.m.e.nt Park. Fine by me. Don't ask why someone living over the line in Kanagawa Prefecture felt compelled to call a Setagaya Ward lawn-mowing service. I had no right to complain, though. I mean, I myself chose that job. Go into the office first thing in the morning, and all the day's jobs would be written up on a blackboard; each person then signed up for the places he wanted to work. Most of the crew generally chose places nearby. Less time back and forth, so they could squeeze in more jobs. Me, on the other hand, I chose jobs as far away as I could. Always. And that always puzzled everyone. But like I said before, I was the lead guy among the part-timers, so I got first choice of any jobs I wanted.

No reason for choosing what I did, really. I just liked mowing lawns farther away. I enjoyed the time on the road, enjoyed a longer look at the scenery on the way. I wasn't about to tell anyone that-who would've understood?

I drove with all the windows open. The wind grew brisk as I headed out of the city, the surroundings greener. The simmering heat of the lawns and the smell of dry dirt came on stronger; the clouds were outlined sharp against the sky. Fantastic weather. Perfect for taking a little summer day trip with a girl somewhere. I thought about the cool sea and the hot sands. And then I thought of a cozy air-conditioned room with crisp blue sheets on the bed. That's all. Aside from that, I didn't think about a thing. My head was all beach and blue sheets.

I went on thinking about these very things while getting the tank filled at a gas station. I stretched out on a nearby patch of gra.s.s and casually watched the attendant check the oil and wipe the windows. Putting my ear to the ground, I could hear all kinds of things. I could even hear what sounded like distant waves, though of course it wasn't. Only the rumble of all the different sounds the earth sucked in. Right in front of my eyes, a bug was inching along a blade of gra.s.s. A tiny green bug with wings. The bug paused when it reached the end of the gra.s.s blade, thought things over awhile, then decided to go back the same way it came. Didn't look all that particularly upset.

Wonder if the heat gets to bugs, too?

Who knows?

In ten minutes, the tank was full, and the attendant honked the horn to let me know.

My destination address turned out to be up in the hills. Gentle, stately hills, rolling down to rows of zelkova trees on either flank. In one yard, two small boys in their birthday suits showering each other with a hose. The spray made a strange little two-foot rainbow in the air. From an open window came the sound of someone practicing the piano. Quite beautifully, too; you could almost mistake it for a record.

I pulled the van to a stop in front of the appointed house, got out, and rang the doorbell. No answer. Everything was dead quiet. Not a soul in sight, kind of like siesta time in a Latin country. I rang the doorbell one more time. Then I just kept on waiting.

It seemed a nice enough little house: cream-colored plaster walls with a square chimney of the same color sticking up from right in the middle of the roof. White curtains hung in the windows, which were framed in gray, though both were sun-bleached beyond belief. It was an old house, a house all the more becoming for its age. The sort of house you often find at summer resorts, occupied half the year and left empty the other half. You know the type. There was a lived-in air to the house that gave it its charm.

The yard was enclosed by a waist-high French-brick wall topped by a rosebush hedge. The roses had completely fallen off, leaving only the green leaves to take in the glaring summer sun. I hadn't really taken a look at the lawn yet, but the yard seemed fairly large, and there was a big camphor tree that cast a cool shadow over the cream-colored house.

It took a third ring before the front door slowly opened and a middle-aged woman emerged. A huge woman. Now, I'm not so small myself, but she must have been a good inch and a half taller than me. And broad at the shoulders, too. She looked like she was plenty angry at something. She was around fifty, I'd say. No beauty certainly, but a presentable face. Although, of course, by "presentable" I don't mean to suggest that hers was the most likable face. Rather thick eyebrows and a squarish jaw attested to a stubborn, never-go-back-on-your-word temperament.

Through sleep-dulled eyes she gave me the most bothered look. A slightly graying shock of stiff frizzy hair rippled across the crown of her head; her two thick arms drooped out of the shoulders of a frumpy brown cotton dress. Her limbs were utterly pale. "What is it?" she said.

"I've come to mow the lawn," I said, taking off my sungla.s.ses.

"The lawn?" She twisted her neck. "You mow lawns?"

"That's right, and since you called-"

"Oh, I guess I did. The lawn. What's the date today?"

"The fourteenth."

To which she yawned, "The fourteenth, eh?" Then she yawned again. "Say, you wouldn't have a cigarette, would you?"

Taking a pack of Hope regulars out of my pocket, I offered her one and lit it with a match. Whereupon she exhaled a long, leisurely puff of smoke up into the open air.

"Of all the ..." she began. "What's it gonna take?"

"Timewise?"

She thrust out her jaw and nodded.

"Depends on the size and how much work it needs. May I take a look?"

"Go ahead. Seeing's how you gotta size it up first."

There were some hydrangea bushes and that camphor tree and the rest was lawn. Two empty birdcages were set out beneath a window. The yard looked well tended, the gra.s.s was fairly short-hardly in need of mowing. I was kind of disappointed.