Of Forests & Clocks & Dreams (A Literary & Art Collection)

The Elephant Girl

I didn't really notice it until I had sat there in the bookstore in Daikanyama, reading, for a good half an hour. It was an ordinary phone, black, touchscreen covered in fingerprints like paint daubs, and a cheap made-in-China plastic case. The case had this strange image of a white elephant. It stood on an island, which I then realized resembled the shell of a turtle: a prophetic reminder of the flat earth and the World Tortoise. Perhaps one day we would fall off the edge of the world. But I looked around and no one was here; I was mostly alone. There was this girl in a grey cardigan with brown hair tied up like a fountain browsing through the popular books section. It couldn't be hers. In her right hand was a large white phone, big enough to be a book itself. Further away, a couple talking and laughing and nodding at one another but maybe not to each other; one carried a volume on civilization by Lewis Mumford and the other, H.D. Every now and then their faces would fade behind the shelves and return washed with yellow ochre glows under ceiling lights. There was no one else as far as I could see. I had deliberately chosen a quiet corner among the philosophical dispositions of Borges, Chomsky and Nietzsche. Around me, the spines of these books like trees and letters dancing with virtuosic synchronicity - strange cryptic runes and ancient chants.

I must have examined the phone case for a long time before I returned to my book. It was about people who never slept and someone who couldn't wake up. I had to wonder what people could possibly do at night when all the trains stop running and each hour seems to wind to a halt, the movements of a sloth. The phone began to ring about five chapters in. It wasn't set on silent mode so an undulating pulse sound resonated through the couch I was sitting on. Someone turned to look, and in return, I turned around as if to say it wasn't my phone. Of course, no one was going to answer and I watched a string of arbitrary numbers dangle. No name, no caller ID, no real meaning. I debated whether to pick it up or not, but by then the caller had stopped.

The same number called again a few minutes later. In the novel, Komugi, Korogi, Kaoru were sifting through security camera recordings for the man who had beat up a Chinese call girl in the love hotel. I picked up the phone this time.

I didn't say anything and the other end of the line was quiet.

Then, "hello," I said, "this isn't my phone."

A woman's voice spoke. "Hey, I know, it's my phone, I've left it behind—where are you right now? I'm coming right over to get it, as soon as I can. I apologize for the inconvenience but there are a lot of important things in there, so I must get it back, and I can't trust someone else—I mean a guy who answers the call can't be that bad right?—I can pay you for your time if you want, but I'll be there soon."

I sat there and swallowed the mouthful. "Don't worry," I said, "I'm not going anywhere yet. I'm at the Tsutaya bookstore in Daikayama."

"The one fancily designed like a museum or art gallery or something by Klein..."

"Dytham," I said. I happened to know such things.

"Yes, that group in the architectural pitch right? With the lounge and restaurant and everything. Outside, the white walls look like pixelated interlocking optical illusions and are as thick and dense as a bank vault. As if secrets don't go in or come out. You have to dig for things. Nice place."

"Yes, weren't you here before? When are you getting here?"

She paused. Her voice was hushed and quiet, a nice, pleasant voice, soft and soothing to listen to and cultured and intelligent sounding, but rather talkative. I might imagine a woman with a short bob, hair pushed back exposing her ears, glasses, a ball-point pen clicking, and red lipstick. "I don't know for sure," she explained, "because I'm right in the middle of something, but I will be there as soon as possible today."