We forgot about our phones for a long time. It wasn't as if the garbage can in the bedroom was particularly full and needed to be put out; we were rather clean - I preferred to keep my apartment as minimal as possible, not unlike her own, and I discovered she compulsively wiped surfaces and rearranged displaced objects for leisure. Ironically, while trying to resist the System, it became clear we had an inherent need for a construct of sorts. But is it Systemic influence or intrinsic personality? Or perhaps human nature?
In a way, our lives began to take a cyclic shape of its own. Without our phones around, it was unnaturally quiet without any more unwelcome disturbances. Normally it would be fortunate but it became wound up tension, compiling more pressure into one single point, not unlike the still days before Cosmo Clock 21. Surely there was another climatic clash prepared ahead. If there's a structure to our struggle, it would be the rise and fall of uncertainty and suspense.
We were still keeping to a discreet inconspicuous lifestyle, until the concert and the Cause's campaigns blew over, uncertain of how far the reach had been and how memorable our photo was. We would see reports of demonstrations blowing up all over the country, silent protests at first and then the angry mobs, never with a specific purpose. They'd complain and we'd stay in my apartment, in a state of suspended purgatory, only heading out for necessary supplies. We woke up at around nine - though habitually at slightly different times each day - made coffee and watched the news. Then we would do simple bodyweight work outs to keep in shape and on some nights, have sex when we felt like it. At some point, it dawned on me that she could hear the thoughts of my neighbours and I mentioned it. To which she assured me, the Yasuda's nightly had no direct influence on her own needs. It's just necessary, she said, without telling me why.
I decided to trust my impression that she always knew what and when was right. Sex was right because that was what she learned on top of Cosmo Clock 21, and it wasn't something I minded. I had a feeling it was a prerequisite to understand how to function together, cohesively and mutually - a prerequisite that she had long resigned herself to. But I could never tell if she was acting by obligation or desire. Or if I had been a part of her plan at all.
I learned about her body and all its intricacies - muscle and bone structure, what gives pleasure or discomfort - and she learned about mine. It wasn't so different from analyzing a piece of literature, in all its conscious design, authorial conjecture, rhetoric and semantics, allegorical implications, intertextualities and allusions, poetic devices and grammatical constitution, and then conjuring an appropriate response to her form. Poet to poet. Thesis to thesis. Every location carried meaning and triggered overpowering messages through our bodies to our brains, opening access to a different realm, moving from rhythm to plot structure, the self to the fundamental archetypes, a word in its syntagmatic structure. In a way, we were joined in the presence of a universal collective. It likely had a permanent effect, somewhere, though we did not know where it was. Such a possibility encouraged and motivated us to continue, if even just in rebellion against Etiquette. But for us, no doubt, it did make us more comfortable and straightforward with one another. It was the ultimate act of exposing the totality of our beings to each other. She seemed to trust me.
"How do you feel?" she asked one night.
"Satisfied."
She laughed. She hit me playfully. "I mean have you been feeling something else?"
"Something else?"
"Something more." She looked disappointed.
"I feel like I should be feeling something more. There's something missing. The feeling that something is missing, is growing."
"Hmmm," she trailed off. I watched the rise and fall of her breathing, her breasts.
Then she took my hand suddenly and placed it over her chest.
"Do you feel it?"
She was warm. "Your heartbeat?"
"There's more to it."
I remained silent. Her warmth bled up my fingertips through my veins. I realized how whole and alive she felt under my hand. She was real. I felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her. So I leaned over and did so. She closed her eyes.
"I've started to understand," she finally said, after a while. "I'll make sure you feel it eventually, what I can now. It'll take some time."
"How are you going to do that?"
But she had fallen asleep.
We took turns fixing simple budget meals, and on the off-day, purchased stale bento and pre-cooked yakisoba from a convenient store nearby. The only thing we did crave was good coffee from the cafe where we had met. Home-made Nescafe did not curb our demanding connoisseurship. Her specifics and my shifting spontaneity. She asked if it would be safe to venture to the Starbucks down three blocks but answered to her own misgivings - she had a continual presentiment that the Sounds were indeed assiduously combing through the city. She had wanted her chai latte no doubt, but I suggested a shot of espresso to spice it up. She expressed her remorse about it quite vocally. Perhaps being able to avoid the cold was a blessing in disguise, I told her, but I could tell she was restless. She had been the one to initially launch our great escapade after all and Christmas was in a few days. No doubt her adventurous spirit was impeded. I felt guilty that we couldn't partake in seasonal activities nor could I purchase a gift for her. Still, I watched her composure and determination recover and rebuild tenaciously like a spider repairing its web.
On Christmas Eve, just as we had finished watching Christmas programs on television and were laying out the futons, she stopped, dropping her blankets and looked off into blank space for a good five minutes, like there was something within or beyond the wall. I had grown accustomed to her occasional cognitive excursions, some from seconds to ten minutes at a time. But I couldn't get used to when she would wake up in the middle of the night.
"They're here," she says, when she finally breaks out of reverie.
"Here? Right now?"
"Yes."
We had been expecting something like this. I intend to reach for the baseball bat but she holds out her hand. "It's okay. I don't think it's anything momentous yet."
So we sit down in the dark, side by side instead, waiting for something to happen. I hear the tick of the clock in the kitchen and the hum of the old fridge. The darkness itself doesn't seem particularly threatening, but the silence is weighted like something had died in the ventilation system.
"Listen," she says.
I keep quiet and try. I hear nothing out of the ordinary. Just electric appliances and the passing of time. I hear her light breathing and my heartbeat. Then, her heartbeat. Surely that isn't what she was referring to.
"I don't hear anything."
"They're coming." There is almost a reverence in her voice.
"Who? How many?"
"The Images, I don't know, one? Two?"
"What do they want?"
"I don't know. They don't have thought processes. I won't know until They're right on our doorstep."
"But this means They're finally making a decisive step forward right?"
Yes, she says and then doesn't say anything else.
A few minutes later, I can hear it distinctly: heavy tapping shoes down the hall, tracking up the stairs, steadily growing louder. He would have passed by the Old Man on the first floor, likely asleep, the Korean Choi family whose kids are probably tucked in, and the Yasuda's who have likely gone out and wouldn't return till tomorrow morning. He would find my name plate "Maeda" printed in simple square font, as bland as possible. Character for "before" and "rice field". What would he do then?
We hold our breath. My muscles are pulled taut in anticipation. I suddenly remember my strange experience when Ahn Mi Hyun had appeared behind us like a scene out of a science fiction conspiracy novel and I find myself short of breath. But the moment that unnerved me the most was their treatment of Shizuka. I realize I am more concerned about her safety than my own.
She reaches over and grips my hand with surprising strength. "I'll be fine."
"I don't want to see you hurt."
Her voice is quiet and grim. "They're here."
A moment later, there's a knock on the door. Three raps and a muffled formless voice.
"Delivery from Yamato Yuubin."
We listen intently, hardly breathing, and wait.
Three knocks again.
"Delivery from Yamato Yuubin." A robotic male voice. Like an automated announcement at a train station. It's deep and formal. But interestingly, there are no more distinguishing features. No extra textures, no accent, no change in pitch or intonation. If I'm to imagine the black suit, black pants, black sunglasses, black shoes, the concept comes together as a package, making perfect sense.
"Don't answer," she whispers when I try to get up. She is still holding my hand with much conviction. She doesn't sound urgent but her grip is pleading with me.
"Whatever you do, don't answer," she says again.
"I won't."
She smiles faintly in the dark.
There are three more knocks. Knuckles rattling metal. Urgent and loud. He has picked up the tempo. Rap rap rap. I am tempted to answer, if only just to stop the noise. It is beginning to sound like a hammer to the skull.
There's silence again. This time for a while.
"He's still there," she whispers in my ear.
"I know you're home, Maeda-san," the voice outside says. Loud and clear, but it isn't a shout at the top of his lungs. Just loud enough to make it into the apartment and reverberate through the air. Muffled and toneless, but strong. We huddle together like children in a game of hide-and-seek. The window in the bedroom only allows fragments of streetlight to slip in, but they begin to appear like long fingers reaching, searching for us.
He speaks again. "I am sure you wouldn't like it for me to leave a notice, and then set up for another re-delivery date. It would save us both much time if you answer the door now and accept the parcel. I'm no NHK fee collector. Nor am I posing as one. I am from the Yamato Postal Company. I can assure you, accepting a delivery would not hurt. It is Christmas after all, it's only good news."
Then he knocks three more times. No one speaks. No one moves. Shizuka is holding my hand tight. I feel her fingernails dig into my skin.
I typically pretend to not understand Japanese when the NHK fee collector comes around. My English is likely convincing enough; he hasn't been back in half a year. However, I hadn't been expecting a delivery man to sound akin to a NHK fee collector on Christmas Eve. He is rather comfortable with his dramatic monologue. Perhaps he knows our nearest neighbours aren't home. He might have even watched and surveyed the residents of our complex, day in and day out. Maybe he had knocked on the doors, or retraced his steps every night, catching the general impression of each unit and its activity.
Delivery is usually made during the working day, beginning with the quiet announcement of the company they are from and nothing more, nothing less. If the recipient answers the door, they would be all smiles. They would ask for a signature. If not, a notice for redelivery would be given. The recipient would have to collect the parcel within a set number of days.
Neither of us had ordered anything.
"Maeda-san, this is against company policy but I am leaving the parcel at the door, because I know you're home. You will wish to see this parcel."
Curiosity begins to nudge into my mind. An explosive? A new and black J. Press suit? Cartons of eggs?
Three more raps. Slower and more renounced. Then everything goes quiet. There is a suggestion of finality to the silence this time. A conclusion. But has he truly left? Would he leave so easily?
Shizuka shakes her head. Not yet, wait for it.
It seems like the long pause between each move of a chess game, the time in which players would hunch over in intense concentration and arduous calculation, hoping to trump the other, gain access if only to a little foresight. Patience is key. I can almost hear the clicking of gears in his head against the organic germination of ours. Neither of us makes a move.
But finally, after many long minutes, he gives in; we hear the sound of his footsteps tap down the hall, slow and ominous. It gradually recedes into the hum of the fridge.
I give it another two minutes. Then I stand and stretch. I realize how stiff and tense my body had been. Joints creak and pop, and my back is sore. Shizuka tugs on her sweater and follows suit as I head to the door.
I don't unlock it or open it. I look out from the peephole. The view of the hall through the fish-eye lens is distorted, warping everything into swimming curves and blurred edges. Colour through the hole is desaturated, and bluer than usual. But it has a good view. Half of the hall is visible, from the immediate wall right next to the door, towards the stairs leading up to the third floor, until the area directly in front of the Yasuda's. If anyone had been standing at any point beyond their door, I would be able to see it. There's also no way he would know the exact scope of vision I had through the peephole, logically speaking.
"He's gone," Shizuka says. "But it's best to leave the parcel there, and pretend it had never come."
"Why?"
"It's just a feeling."
"I need to know what it is."
She hesitates. "You can open the door if you want."
I study her for a bit longer. "I'm going to open the door."
She bites her lip.
I grab the doorknob and twist. The door always takes some effort. But I manage to wedge it open.