Pieces of You

ANDANTE (Fall, 1998)

I always make sure there's an opening in the room – an inch at the door, or maybe even at the window. May grandmother taught me that if one dies during sleep, the soul needs an exit, or it will be forever trapped in the room.

Two years ago, lying in bed, I heard a voice outside my door. It was silent enough to ignore, yet once heard, it burrowed in my thoughts. What I could no longer hear with my ears I did with my mind, and this was enough to keep me sleepless until sunrise.

Eventually, I was forced to close my door.

***

It rained all Friday. The drive home was an ordeal though too much water in city with too much attitude. My bumper would need a little work, maybe fifty dollars. My ears had taken the heavier damage.

By the time I got home, the rain had subsided into a light drizzle. After dumping my clothes in the dryer, I reclined in bed, drinking a glass of water while flipping through an ostentatiously large art book. Bruegel. Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. I took a final sip, put the half-empty glass on the bedside table, then closed my eyes.

The window was left open a little, not simply for me to hear the rain, but for me to feel the city's light breeze. I lay there for over an hour, eyes closed but awake, imagining tiny raindrops exploding on my forehead. Soon my thoughts began sinking, slow like a feather falling, dissembling an overdue peace.

Then the voice returned. I could hear it through the shut door, even against the rain. For a moment, I thought I was imagining it. I wished I was.

I slowly rose to my feet and lifted up a curtain. Raindrops gathered like small spiders against the window's surface. They crawled slowly down the slick surface, touched the sill, and disappeared. Tomorrow would be another damp morning. I turned, flicked on the halogen on my desk, and put on my slippers. The lamp spotlighted a tiny picture frame. My father in a tuxedo, my mother smiling, both wrapped in a black and white youth now alien to me.

At first, I thought the voice was coming from the atrium. I stepped out, closing the door silently behind me. All the shoes were there. Even my father's heavy rain boots. They were dry. The voice was coming from the living room, a few paces down the hallway. It sounded like my father. I found myself wanting to ignore it, to walk back into my room and listen to the rain. But I walked on.

The hallway was my mother's pride. She affectionately called it The Mishima Hall of Fame, a shrine to her husband and son's excellence. I had always thought it was pretentious – framed photos, plaques, newspaper clippings covering both walls. When I had friends over, I would be a little embarrassed walking through it with them. Since my senior year in high school, however, I grew busy, and rarely had to worry about guests. The light seldom came on in the hallway since.

My father was sitting, alone, on the couch in the living room. He was a marble statue in the dark – a black, motionless shape silhouetted by the night's dim glow. I stood out of sight, standing halfway in the hallway, watching without listening. At first I thought the TV was talking – a baseball highlight was on the screen – but it was on mute. My father raised a hand, gesturing into empty space. A soliloquy in some forgotten play. I stood there for over an hour, never speaking, simply watching him speak to himself. I didn't know what he was saying. I didn't want to.

***

I remember the most beautiful piano I ever saw. We had one in the house, of course, but it was nothing like the white Steinway at the Tokyo Bunka Kaikan Concert Hall. It stood like a grand swan – the hood raised like a magnificent wing, slender legs gracefully supporting its snow-white frame.

I was only nine then, too young to fully understand Mozart, but I watched in awe as the pianist swayed with each note. What I remember most, though, was not what I saw on stage. I remember the tiny Japanese woman seated four seats next to me. She leaned forward, possibly because she was hunchbacked, or maybe just to get a better view of the piano. She wore a sky blue kimono – an ocean of silk youth on an antique Japanese doll. At the first note, I saw her leathered face brighten, her almond eyes close, and her smile fold small flaps in her cheeks. She never opened her eyes again. Not even to applaud, not even to leave.