The Memory Police

Chapter 16

We decided to celebrate the old man’s birthday in the secret room.

“Now that the calendars are gone, there’s no way to know when it really is, so please don’t make a fuss,” he told us. But birthday parties have been a tradition in this house since long before I was born, and even if we couldn’t recall the exact date, I knew that his came around every year just as the cherry blossoms were budding out. I was quite certain that time was fast approaching. I also thought that a party would be good for R, who had spent so many dull days hidden away.

I went to the market every day for a week in order to assemble the ingredients for the festivities. As the neighbors had said, the shelves in the stores were poorly stocked, there were lines here and there, and it was particularly difficult to get anything of good quality or a bit out of the ordinary. Still, I patiently made the rounds to every corner of the market.

A sign was posted in front of the greengrocers: “Tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m., we expect a shipment of fifty pounds of tomatoes and thirty pounds of asparagus.” It had been months since we’d seen any sign of either, but if I could buy some, I could make a fresh salad for the party. The next morning I showed up at the store two hours early, but there was already a long line. As I waited, I anxiously counted and recounted the number of people ahead of me, and when it was finally my turn, there was almost nothing left on the shelf. What’s more, the tomatoes were green and small, and the asparagus tips were broken off. Still, I was luckier than those behind me who had waited almost as long but came away empty-handed.

A circuit of all the other grocers in the market yielded a small bunch of parsley to decorate the dishes, a few spindly mushrooms of indeterminate variety, a handful of worm-eaten beans, three red and three green peppers each, and a withered head of celery.

And I ended up giving the celery to an old beggar woman.

“Excuse me, young lady. Would that possibly be celery I see peeking from your sack? If it’s not too much to ask, I wonder if you’d mind sharing a bit of it with me.” Her tone was extremely polite as she approached. “I took a fall in the street from all the snow and I must have dropped my wallet. I don’t know what to do. This weather is awful for an old woman like me. You can see that my basket is empty.”

She held a plastic shopping basket in front of me, which was, as she’d said, quite empty. I could have passed by without stopping, but for some reason the void in the basket struck me as so sad that I filled it with the celery.

The next day and the day after that I saw the same old woman holding her empty basket in front of someone in the market. I looked for more celery, but there was none to be had anywhere.

The market itself was crowded with people at all hours of the day. Snow had been pushed up in the alleys between the stalls, covering piles of vegetable scraps and fish scales, bottle caps and plastic bags. Shoppers wandered between the stalls, clutching the things they had managed to buy, looking around eagerly for something more interesting. The sounds of laughter or a minor dispute could be heard here and there among the shops.

There were still all sorts of things I wanted to buy. Butter for a cake, wine, spices, fruit for a punch, flowers, a lace tablecloth, new napkins. But I knew I would not be able to get even half of these, since I had to keep some money in reserve for the most important thing: the present.

Buying meat and fish was relatively easy. The shop owners were both friends of the old man.

“I put aside the most tender chicken I had,” said the butcher, bringing out a package that had been tied up like a present with a proper bow.

The fishmonger let me choose from a bucket full of live fish. After hesitating for several minutes, I finally selected one that was more than a foot long with spots on its back.

“You have a good eye,” said the fishmonger. “This one will be delicious, with nice firm flesh. You’re lucky—we don’t catch many of these.” As he spoke, he snatched up the fish and slapped it down on his cutting board. After striking it once with a heavy stick shaped like a pestle, he scaled and gutted it in the wink of an eye. Clutching the package carefully to my chest, I set off home.

The old man showed up precisely on time that day, dressed in his only suit and wearing a striped tie. His hair had been neatly slicked back.

“Come in!” I told him. “I’m so glad you came.”

He bowed as he passed through the door, holding his hand to his throat as if self-conscious about his tie.

He let out a cry as he reached the bottom of the ladder in the secret room.

“How magnificent!”

“It may be a bit crowded, but the decorations dress it up nicely, don’t you think? R helped me with everything,” I said, feeling rather proud.

We had put things not related to the party away, and then we’d set up a long, narrow folding table for us to sit around—which took up nearly every inch of available space.

Steam rose from the platters of food that had already been set out. The spaces between the dishes were decorated with dried herbs and wildflowers. Since the tablecloth was old and well used, I had set out as many platters as possible in order to cover up the stains, and I had arranged the knives and forks, the glasses and napkins to look as nice as possible.

“Sit down,” I told him. “You’re right here.”

It was quite complicated for the three of us just to take our seats. We had to move on tiptoe in the narrow space, taking care not to bump into the plates or flowers. R took each of us by the hand, helping us to reach the bed, before he maneuvered himself into the lone chair.

Then he opened the wine, which looked more like soapy water, put up as it was in an old, scratched bottle. It had come from the hardware store where they produced it clandestinely in the yard out back, but it was the only thing I could find. Still, I was relieved to see that when it had been poured into our glasses it glowed a lovely pale pink under the lamp.

“A toast!” I said, and we had only to raise our glasses slightly from the crowded table to bring them together.

“Happy birthday!” R and I cried.

“To your health,” the old man added, as the glasses clinked softly.

It had been a long time since any of us had been so jolly. R was much more talkative than usual, and the old man’s eyes wrinkled with pleasure. As for me, after just one sip of wine my face was glowing and I felt utterly happy. It was as though we had forgotten where we were. Still, from time to time, after a particularly loud burst of laughter, we would cover our mouths and look around sheepishly at one another.

The serving of the fish was an event in itself. It had been steamed in sake and was set on a platter decorated with greens.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I told them. “I’m sure it will end up a mess. Would one of you do it instead?”

“Don’t be silly! It’s the hostess’s duty to serve the main dish,” R said.

“And such a beautiful fish it is!” added the old man.

“I suppose it is,” I admitted, “though it lost the lovely spots on the back when I cooked it.”

“There’s a little cavity here on the head,” R said.

“That’s where the fishmonger hit it to knock it out. It was swimming around until just a short while ago, so it should be delicious, though it would have been even better if I’d had some celery to flavor it,” I said.

“Give our guest of honor some of the meat from the back, where it’s most tender,” said R.

“Of course,” I replied. “But watch out for the bones.”

The conversation flowed on without pause. Our voices, the clattering of dishes, the sound of wine flowing into glasses, the creaking of the bed, all blending together with nowhere to go in the tiny, hidden room.

In addition to the fish, we had pea soup, salad, sautéed mushrooms, and pilaf with chicken—all quite simple and in small quantities. R and I tried to make sure that the old man’s plate was never empty and that we found the tastiest bites from each dish to serve him. And he, in turn, ate slowly and gratefully.

When everything had been consumed, we stored the plates under the table in order to make room for the cake.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t manage to bake something grander,” I said, as I pushed it toward him. It really was rather pitiful—barely enough to cover my palm, without whipped cream or chocolate or strawberries to decorate it.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said the old man, turning the plate to admire it from all sides. “I doubt there’s a more beautiful cake in the whole wide world.”

“I nearly forgot!” said R, taking a packet of thin candles from his pocket and pushing them gingerly into the top of the cake. Anything less gentle would no doubt have reduced the whole thing to crumbs, since I’d been forced to use fewer eggs and far less butter and milk than called for in the recipe, which had yielded a fragile, flaky mass.

“And we won’t need this,” R added, reaching out to turn off the lamp once his match had lit all the candles. We huddled still closer together as it grew dark, and I could feel the heat of the little flames on my cheeks.

Darkness spread out behind, like a soft veil of shadows shrouding the three of us and keeping out the noise and cold and wind, all trace of the outside world. In here, there was only our breath and the gently flickering flames.

“Well then, blow them out,” I said.

The old man nodded and blew ever so carefully in short puffs, as if afraid that he would send cake and candles flying across the room.

“Happy birthday!” R and I shouted again, applauding the old man’s efforts.

“I have something for you,” I said. As R turned on the light, I reached under the bedspread and pulled out the present I had hidden there: a porcelain shaving set I’d found at the notions store that also had a place for a bar of soap and a pot of talcum powder.

“You really shouldn’t have done all this. I don’t know what to say.”

As he always did when I gave him something, the old man held out both hands to receive it, as he might have when making an offering at the household altar.

“You’ll be quite the man of fashion,” said R, nodding approval at my choice.

“Why don’t you put it in the bathroom on the boat? It will make me happy to think of you using it every morning.”

“I certainly will. The pleasure will be mine. But could I ask what I would do with this?” he said, holding up the puff that was meant for applying the talcum powder and eyeing it dubiously.

“It prevents razor burn. Like this,” I said, taking it and brushing it lightly against his jaw. He closed his eyes tightly and pursed his lips, as if I were tickling him.

“That feels wonderful!” he said, stroking his cheek. R laughed as he pulled the candles out of the cake.

“I have a present for you, too,” said R. We had finished the cake, barely three bites each, and were sipping our tea, one cup each.

“I wish you wouldn’t worry about an old man like this, when you’ve got so much to worry about yourself.” He seemed overwhelmed.

“Don’t be silly,” R said. “I wanted to show my gratitude for everything you’ve done, though I’m afraid it’s not much of a present.” He turned in his chair, opened the desk drawer, and brought out a wooden box that was about the same size as the cake I had baked. The old man let out a muffled cry as we stared at the object that had been set in front of us.

The box was stained a dark brown and carved with a geometric pattern of diamond shapes. Four small legs resembling cat’s paws were attached to the bottom. A blue glass bead was set in the lid, which was attached with small hinges, and the color seemed to change as the angle of the light shifted. The design wasn’t particularly unusual, but something about the look of it made you want to hold it in your hand and open the lid.

“I’ve used it for a long time, for tiepins and cuff links. I’m sorry it’s secondhand, but I don’t think you’ll find anything like it in the stores now. I suppose you could say it’s from another time.” R opened the lid, and as he did it almost seemed to me that warm rays of light came from his hands. The old man and I looked at each other and held our breath. There was a quiet creak from the hinges and then we heard a sound coming from inside the box.

The box was lined with felt and a mirror was affixed to the inside of the lid, but beyond that there was apparently nothing else inside. No record spinning, no hidden instrument, and yet a melody was coming from it.

It might have been a lullaby, or a song from an old film, or a hymn. I had a feeling it was something my mother had hummed from time to time, but I couldn’t quite remember. The sound was like nothing I’d ever heard before, unlike any stringed instrument or woodwind. It was simple but with a certain sense of style, soft as a murmur and yet in no way weak. As I listened, transfixed, I felt the same slow, spinning sensation that I felt every time something disappeared.

“Where is it coming from?” the old man asked before I could say anything. We were both clearly puzzled.

“The box is playing the song,” said R.

“But it’s just a box. No one’s touching it, and nothing’s moving. How can that be? Is it a trick of some kind?” I asked. R smiled but said nothing more.

Before long the song began to slow and the notes seemed to blur and tumble hesitatingly one after the other. The old man cocked his head and peeked anxiously into the mirror. Suddenly, a final note sounded in midtune, and silence returned to the hidden room.

“Is it broken?” the old man murmured, clearly upset.

“No, not at all,” said R. He picked up the box and gave three turns to a key attached to the bottom. No sooner had he done so than the music resumed, louder and more cheerful than ever.

“Oh!” the two of us cried together.

“It’s like magic!” added the old man. “I don’t know how I can accept a gift like this.” He reached out toward the box several times only to drop his hands to his knees again, as if afraid he might destroy the magic by touching it.

“It’s not really magic,” R said. “It’s an orugōru.”

“Oru…”

“…gōru.”

The old man and I divided the word between us.

“That’s right.”

“What a beautiful word.”

“Like the name of a rare animal or flower,” said the old man.

We whispered it to ourselves again and again in order to commit it to memory.

“It’s a music box. It plays music all by itself thanks to an internal mechanism. You don’t remember? Even when you’re looking at one? You probably had a few here in this house, somewhere on a shelf or in a drawer. From time to time, when the thought occurred, you would have picked it up and wound the mechanism, to hear a familiar old tune.”

I desperately wanted to be able to tell R that I remembered, but no matter how hard I concentrated, the object sitting before me did not trigger a single memory. “So this is something that has already disappeared?” asked the old man.

“That’s right,” R replied. “A very long time ago. I’m not quite sure when I realized that the disappearances weren’t affecting me, but I think it must have been about the time the orugōru disappeared. I told no one. I knew instinctively that I had to keep silent. But that was also when I decided to begin hiding as many of the objects that disappeared as I could. It was impossible for me to simply discard them the way everyone else did. Touching them became a way of confirming that I was still whole. This box was the first thing I ever hid. I unraveled a seam in the bottom of my gym bag and sewed the box inside.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“Which is why I can’t possibly accept something so precious.”

“Not at all. The best gift I can give you is one of the things I’ve been hiding. Of course I know something so insignificant can never make up for all the risks you’ve taken on my behalf. But I’ll be happy if I can help delay or stop this decay in your hearts even in some small way. I’m not sure how to do that, but I think there might be some benefit from holding these forgotten objects in your hands, feeling their weight, smelling them, listening to them.”

R turned the box over and wound the key. The melody started again from the beginning. I could see the knot of the old man’s necktie and my left ear reflected in the mirror.

I looked over at R. “So you really think our hearts are decaying?”

“I don’t know whether that’s the right word, but I do know that you’re changing, and not in a way that can be easily reversed or undone. It seems to be leading to an end that frightens me a great deal.” As he spoke, he swiveled the handle of his teacup back and forth. The old man continued to stare at the music box.

“An end,” I murmured to myself. It was not as though I had never thought about this. End… conclusion… limit—how many times had I tried to imagine where I was headed, using words like these? But I’d never managed to get very far. It was impossible to consider the problem for very long, before my senses froze and I felt myself suffocating. Nor was it helpful to talk about this with the old man, since he simply repeated over and over that everything would be all right.

“It feels terribly odd to have something that has disappeared right here before my eyes,” I said. “After all, this is something that supposedly no longer exists. Yet here we are looking at this box and listening to the music and pronouncing the name… o… ru… gō… ru. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

“Not strange at all. The box exists without any doubt and it’s right in front of us. The music continues to play, before the disappearance and after. It plays on faithfully, as long as the key is wound. That’s its role, now and forever. The only thing that’s different is the hearts of those who once heard it.”

“I understand,” I said. “It’s not the box’s fault that it disappeared. But what can we do? It’s disturbing to see things that have disappeared, like tossing something hard and thorny into a peaceful pond. It sets up ripples, stirs up a whirlpool below, throws up mud from the bottom. So we have no choice, really, but to burn them or bury them or send them floating down the river, anything to push them as far away as possible.”

“Is the music from the box that painful?” R asked, bending over and crossing his hands on his knees.

“No, not at all. I don’t think so at all,” the old man hurried to put in.

“In any case, I suspect the feeling would go away once you got used to it,” said R. “In fact, the sound of a music box is particularly soothing. Which is why you should wind it up once a day, in the quietest place on the boat, where no one is likely to hear. I’m sure you’ll be able to get the effect of the sound before long. Nothing would make me happier,” he added, lowering his forehead to his folded hands.

“Of course!” said the old man. “I’ll be very careful with it. I’ll put it in the cupboard in the bathroom where I keep the tooth powder and hair tonic and soap, so there’ll be nothing suspicious about having a box like this mixed in, and then I’ll open it in the morning while I’m shaving with this beautiful set you’ve given me and in the evening when I’m brushing my teeth. How elegant I’ll feel, listening to music while I’m doing my little rituals, and how lucky I feel today, being here with you and celebrating a birthday at my age.”

His face was so covered in wrinkles that it was impossible to tell from his expression whether he was laughing or crying. I pressed my hand against his back.

“It was a wonderful party,” I said.

“Indeed it was,” said R. “The best birthday party I can remember.” He reached out to slide the music box toward the old man. The tune danced around us, echoing off the walls of the room. Using both hands, the old man gently closed the lid, as if determined to show how terrible it would be to break it. The hinges creaked and the music died.

At that very instant, the front doorbell gave a shrill ring.