Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Knocking on Doors

When we manage to stumble into the apartment and wedge open the blinds to look outside, there's already a growing crowd. Like angry villagers with pitchforks and torches. Burn the witches, burn the witches, they might as well have been chanting. But they don't appear aware of which apartment unit we are in.

A thought occurs to me and I tell Shizuka to hold on, before taking off, out of the apartment again. She is still caught off guard, disoriented with the quick development of events. Even with her precognitive capabilities, she had not foreseen this coming. Moreover, she seems to be at a lost in actual circumstance, beyond theoretical conjecture and discussion. She nods and stays watch, one hand on the windowsill.

Out in the hall, I begin to peel the names off of name plates. Maeda, Yasuda, Choi, become crumpled pieces of paper in my hand. I work as fast as I can. To a bystander, I must appear no different than a psychopath with a strange fetish for name plates. My unkempt hair, mismatched hoodie and plaid pajamas certainly aren't helping. I leave the Old Man's name plate in its place. If I disturb it, it may trouble me in the future, is the impression it gives me. I figure the name labels I've collected are sufficient already. It is just a precautionary exercise. I don't expect them to be able to knock on every door in the middle of the night asking - or demanding - for us. Even though they act as the Cause, with an unusual ability to remain undetected by Shizuka, they must have some sort of Etiquette to follow. After all, they are inclined to obey the System. I can't imagine how they could violate so much standard protocol without having repercussions in the first place. Certainly, forming a crowd outside an apartment pushing on one o'clock in the morning is not documented in an ordinary citizen's version of Etiquette. Are there multiple editions of Etiquette for different groups of people? Do members have an exclusive pardon? Is there a warrant for this?

On the first floor, a single door is all that bars us from the crowd outside. I can almost see the shadows and figures flitting back and forth, restless predators at the beginning of a long hunt.

"I'll return the name plates tomorrow," I say after I've returned and bolted our door with both locks. Shizuka nods, her face grim.

"I don't think they'll be as aggressive as to be knocking on doors in the middle of the night." Her eyes remain locked on the crowds milling outside.

"Probably not."

"But they know we're here now," she pauses. She places one palm on the glass. "We need to be out of here by tomorrow morning."

"Looks like we never had a choice in the first place. The man's call might have been a little late. They likely had someone posted here to keep an eye out for us." I turn off the lights. "If we hadn't thrown out the phones we might be in a better position."

She says nothing.

In the darkness, I scavenge through my drawers and retrieve two flashlights. I toss one to her. She catches it with two hands as sure as a baseball player. There are only the weak, pale fingers of moonlight pushing through gaps in the blinds and the hole she had made to look outside. It isn't enough to see, but her form is outlined with a single silver thread of light. A juxtaposition against the Stygian sea. From this angle, she looks like a ghostly visitant. I just happen to be in the right place, at the right time, to be able to stop and observe a rare miraculous sight unfold, before it slips away, as if it had never appeared, before the world returns to knock on my door. Perhaps she has returned from another realm or dimension, or she is an illusion that will cease to exist someday. But what does she seek? What does she want? I can't see her lips or her face. I wonder what exactly she had seen when she decided to approach me in the first place. What vision did she have in mind? Had she known all this would happen?

She says nothing in response.

I switch on the flashlight. Its thin beam shatters my reverie. The beam settles even weaker than the moonlight outside. My apartment is on the third floor but too easily accessible with a gaping balcony. It would be conspicuous if only our lights remain on. The Choi's would have put their children to bed and the Old Man surely doesn't stay up watching late television. And the Yasuda's are away.

"Let's pack up. I guess we have to find a new place to stay. I hope the back door is still accessible. If it's not we'll need a good idea."

She turns to me as if she had been waiting for my invitation to share the good idea. "Do you have black suits?"

"I do have one."

"It might work."

"What about you," I ask.

"Brought one with the rest of my clothes. A Konaka, never worn, bought it because, well, you never know. I thought I might need it at some point." She smiles.

She flicks on her flashlight. Her light is much stronger. It must have a newer battery. I always had flashlights and utility knives handy but I never change the batteries. "We'll head out of town. There's one place where we may have a chance. I reckon it will be available in these circumstances."

"Where would it be?"

"You've been there before," is all she says.

I'm uncertain when I had begun to doubt her judgment. It must have snuck up like a stretching shadow under a slow and silent sunset. It was an imperative obligation in the beginning. She knew more than I did and I was swept away into her world, her story, in an attempt to save myself. Fictional or real, it didn't matter at the time. Her steady conviction and carefully measured intensity was so impressive, I couldn't find the will to resist at all. Nor did I want to. It was perhaps the first time I had come in contact with someone else, who attempted to make a connection. Like someone who had broken a glass cage and reached inside to offer a hand, even if it cut them. At the same time, I wonder if it was the other way around, that I was outside, and she was in the cage, breaking out. I just happen to be the nearest to her and she would hold on to me. Nevertheless, she became a steady presence, the root and the foundation where everything could build on. She would lead the way forward towards something new, whatever it was. A revolutionary. A visionary. A crusader. Someone who wanted change. Yet, though she had talents and ability, it became an instability, an impedance that obscured the line between truth or delusion. The longer I spent with her, the more I realize that her words are only the tip of an iceberg, terribly distorted and warped in a corner. The longer I ponder the given facts and experiences, the more conclusions I could arrive at, quicker and more efficiently, growing more adept at connecting loose ends and unfinished puzzle pieces. Perhaps I have started to push past the corner where we had begun.

But it remained in question whether true revolution, true change, could be possible, or if it could even begin. Where establishments of old could have been overthrown, modern society and the hegemonic dominance of a megalithic system now has adapted to automatically fill loopholes and problems. Patchwork with unions when workers complained of inequality, rigged voting systems when disagreements occur, new bills and amendments, purchasing of small faltering companies by larger corporations, constructing and selling new suburban homes when the population grows, modifying genetics when food is scarce, credit cards and debt when bank accounts run low, controlling thought and values with media and subliminal messages. The world is moving at a much faster rate than we could comprehend.

It must have only been half an hour into discussions about what to bring and what to leave behind, when the noise began, two in the morning. They were more aggressive and infuriated than we had imagined. It first started as quiet inaudible chanting, like the rustle and murmurs between trees in a forest. But soon, in crescendo, it became a chorus we could make out through the windows. They brought loudspeakers and microphones. They brought signs, cameras and spotlights. They brought loud dogs and drums. They entered the building and trampled up and down the stairs, seemingly for no purpose like nocturnal predators stalking prey.

Then the entire building rattled. And all its residents huddled beneath covers.

They shouted our names.

Rebels must be punished, rebellion is unforgivable, they proclaimed.

Someone called the police.