When the phone rang at 3:20 p.m. I was sprawled out on the tatami, staring at the ceiling. A pool of winter sunlight had formed in the place where I lay. Like a dead fly I lay there, vacant, in a December spotlight.
At first, I didn’t recognize the sound as the phone ringing. It was more like an unfamiliar memory that had hesitantly slipped in between the layers of air. Finally, though, it began to take shape, and, in the end, a ringing phone was unmistakably what it was. It was one hundred per cent a phone ring in one-hundred-per-cent real air. Still sprawled out, I reached over and picked up the receiver.
On the other end was a girl, a girl so indistinct that, by four-thirty, she might very well have disappeared altogether. She was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine. Something had brought them together, this guy and this indistinct girl, and something had led them to break up. I had, I admit, reluctantly played a role in getting them together in the first place.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, “but do you know where he is now?”
I looked at the phone, running my eyes along the length of the cord. The cord was, sure enough, attached to the phone. I managed a vague reply. There was something ominous in the girl’s voice, and whatever trouble was brewing I knew that I didn’t want to get involved.
“Nobody will tell me where he is,” she said in a chilly tone. “Everybody’s pretending they don’t know. But there’s something important I have to tell him, so please—tell me where he is. I promise I won’t drag you into this. Where is he?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I told her. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. I was telling the truth about not having seen him for a long time, but not about the other part—I did know his address and phone number. Whenever I tell a lie, something weird happens to my voice.
No comment from her.
The phone was like a pillar of ice.
Then all the objects around me turned into pillars of ice, as if I were in a J. G. Ballard science-fiction story.
“I really don’t know,” I repeated. “He went away a long time ago, without saying a word.”
The girl laughed. “Give me a break. He’s not that clever. We’re talking about a guy who has to make a lot of noise no matter what he does.”
She was right. The guy really was a bit of a dim bulb.
But I wasn’t about to tell her where he was. Do that, and next I’d have him on the phone, giving me an earful. I was through with getting caught up in other people’s messes. I’d already dug a hole in the back yard and buried everything that needed to be buried in it. Nobody could ever dig it up again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she said suddenly.
I had no idea what to say. I didn’t particularly dislike her. I had no real impression of her at all. It’s hard to have a bad impression of somebody you have no impression of.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “But I’m cooking spaghetti right now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said I’m cooking spaghetti,” I lied. I had no idea why I said that. But the lie had already become a part of me—so much so that, at that moment at least, it didn’t feel like a lie at all.
I went ahead and filled an imaginary pot with imaginary water, lit an imaginary stove with an imaginary match.
“So?” she asked.
I sprinkled imaginary salt into the boiling water, gently lowered a handful of imaginary spaghetti into the imaginary pot, set the imaginary kitchen timer for eight minutes.
“So I can’t talk. The spaghetti will be ruined.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m really sorry, but cooking spaghetti is a delicate operation.”
The girl was silent.
The phone in my hand began to freeze again.
“So could you call me back?” I added hurriedly.
“Because you’re in the middle of making spaghetti?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you making it for someone, or are you going to eat alone?”
“I’ll eat it by myself,” I said.
She held her breath for a long time, then slowly breathed out. “There’s no way you could know this, but I’m really in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I said.
“There’s some money involved, too.”
“I see.”
“He owes me money,” she said. “I lent him some money. I shouldn’t have, but I had to.”
I was quiet for a minute, my thoughts drifting toward spaghetti. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’ve got the spaghetti going, so . . .”
She gave a listless laugh. “Goodbye,” she said. “Say hi to your spaghetti for me. I hope it turns out O.K.”
“Bye,” I said.
When I hung up the phone, the circle of light on the floor had shifted an inch or two. I lay down again in that pool of light and resumed staring at the ceiling.
When the phone rang at 3:20 p.m. I was sprawled out on the tatami, staring at the ceiling. A pool of winter sunlight had formed in the place where I lay. Like a dead fly I lay there, vacant, in a December spotlight.
At first, I didn’t recognize the sound as the phone ringing. It was more like an unfamiliar memory that had hesitantly slipped in between the layers of air. Finally, though, it began to take shape, and, in the end, a ringing phone was unmistakably what it was. It was one hundred per cent a phone ring in one-hundred-per-cent real air. Still sprawled out, I reached over and picked up the receiver.
On the other end was a girl, a girl so indistinct that, by four-thirty, she might very well have disappeared altogether. She was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine. Something had brought them together, this guy and this indistinct girl, and something had led them to break up. I had, I admit, reluctantly played a role in getting them together in the first place.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, “but do you know where he is now?”
I looked at the phone, running my eyes along the length of the cord. The cord was, sure enough, attached to the phone. I managed a vague reply. There was something ominous in the girl’s voice, and whatever trouble was brewing I knew that I didn’t want to get involved.
“Nobody will tell me where he is,” she said in a chilly tone. “Everybody’s pretending they don’t know. But there’s something important I have to tell him, so please—tell me where he is. I promise I won’t drag you into this. Where is he?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I told her. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. I was telling the truth about not having seen him for a long time, but not about the other part—I did know his address and phone number. Whenever I tell a lie, something weird happens to my voice.
{No comment from her.}
The phone was like a pillar of ice.
Then all the objects around me turned into pillars of ice, as if I were in a J. G. Ballard science-fiction story.
“I really don’t know,” I repeated. “He went away a long time ago, without saying a word.”
The girl laughed. “Give me a break. He’s not that clever. We’re talking about a guy who has to make a lot of noise no matter what he does.”
She was right. The guy really was a bit of a dim bulb.
But I wasn’t about to tell her where he was. Do that, and next I’d have him on the phone, giving me an earful. I was through with getting caught up in other people’s messes. I’d already dug a hole in the back yard and buried everything that needed to be buried in it. Nobody could ever dig it up again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she said suddenly.
I had no idea what to say. I didn’t particularly dislike her. I had no real impression of her at all. It’s hard to have a bad impression of somebody you have no impression of.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “But I’m cooking spaghetti right now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said I’m cooking spaghetti,” I lied. I had no idea why I said that. But the lie had already become a part of me—so much so that, at that moment at least, it didn’t feel like a lie at all.
I went ahead and filled an imaginary pot with imaginary water, lit an imaginary stove with an imaginary match.
“So?” she asked.
I sprinkled imaginary salt into the boiling water, gently lowered a handful of imaginary spaghetti into the imaginary pot, set the imaginary kitchen timer for eight minutes.
“So I can’t talk. The spaghetti will be ruined.”
{She didn’t say anything.}
“I’m really sorry, but cooking spaghetti is a delicate operation.”
{The girl was silent.}
The phone in my hand began to freeze again.
“So could you call me back?” I added hurriedly.
“Because you’re in the middle of making spaghetti?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you making it for someone, or are you going to eat alone?”
“I’ll eat it by myself,” I said.
She held her breath for a long time, then slowly breathed out. “There’s no way you could know this, but I’m really in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I said.
“There’s some money involved, too.”
“I see.”
“He owes me money,” she said. “I lent him some money. I shouldn’t have, but I had to.”
I was quiet for a minute, my thoughts drifting toward spaghetti. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’ve got the spaghetti going, so . . .”
She gave a listless laugh. “Goodbye,” she said. “Say hi to your spaghetti for me. I hope it turns out O.K.”
“Bye,” I said.
When I hung up the phone, the circle of light on the floor had shifted an inch or two. I lay down again in that pool of light and resumed staring at the ceiling.