Читать книгу The Paper Man - Gallagher Lawson - Страница 15

8

TWO WEEKS WENT BY, SLOWLY ERODING HIS HOPE. THERE WERE several phone calls searching for a bookkeeper, but they all inquired if he already had a work permit.

“Ask them to sponsor you,” Maiko whispered into his uncovered ear.

Each caller refused. Despite the recent optimism that had risen inside him, it became apparent that living in the city wasn’t easy. Still, he lived for going out, and quickly grew used to the straw hat. To be around people, tall buildings, and smell the salty air was thrilling. On several occasions, he spotted the radio tower near the lighthouse, and he continued to listen to the one-eyed man’s rants whenever Maiko wasn’t there to shut off the radio.

On the streets, he often imitated people walking in front of him. What he wanted was to blend in so well that he was almost invisible. He practiced different gaits, swings of his arms, hunching his shoulders or pulling them back. Listening to their voices, he even tried on their vocal patterns, including the ones with megaphones demanding that the city secede on its own. On an empty street, he shouted their demands with their same intensity, where only the mockingbirds listened and nodded with approval when he sounded just like the original.

He blended into the frequent demonstrations and protests that flared up everywhere. Before a tall corporate tower, a teenager began throwing anchovies at its windows. Then from the crowd came bodies of squid and octopus, fresh from the fish market that stuck to the glass and slid down, leaving streaks of slime. Michael dodged the falling sea creatures, afraid their wetness would ruin his newly painted skin. Police arrived; the crowded erupted, and Michael hurried away unscathed and proud of himself.

They’d lost track of the rejections when a call came from a fish cannery in the harbor. It happened one morning while Maiko sat at the kitchen table altering a shirt she had found in the street and then had washed to give to Michael.

“M&M Bookkeeping,” Maiko said when she answered the phone. “One moment.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Another customer!” she whispered to Michael, who was leafing through the classified ads of the City Mirror.

“A client,” he corrected her.

He spoke in single word sentences. Maiko waited. “Ask if you need a work permit,” she said. But he didn’t. When he hung up the phone, he sat at the table and said nothing.

“Well?” she finally asked, holding his hand in hers.

“I might have a job,” he said to Maiko. “No work permit required.”

She leaped up and hugged him. He stumbled back from the impact, reeling from the closeness of her body to his. Despite her vanilla perfume, in the curve of her neck he smelled the scent of mushrooms.

“What did they say?”

“They want me to come by tomorrow morning. What will they say about my body?” He pawed at the dent on the side of his face. At a job interview he would be under scrutiny, and each imperfection would be a debit against him.

Maiko observed his face, turning her head to take him in from all angles. He lowered his hand and allowed her to stare at the dent. Her look was never malicious—it always had genuine concern, and he was becoming comfortable around it.

Her cheeks brightened as she smiled.

“I know! I’ll make you a mask. To even out your face.”

In the bathroom, he looked at his face one more time. It was the last part of him that still had damage from his first day in the city. He turned to his good side, then to the dent. It still shocked him when he saw it under a light. The day of the rainstorm, the one-eyed man, and the dead mermaid—everything seemed like a dream from long ago. He had been so afraid then. What would have happened if he had not made it to the bridge? Where would he be if he had not crossed paths with Maiko?

He decided that she would be able to approximate his true face again by mirroring the good side. He glanced again in the mirror, wondering what his father would say if he could see Michael now. Using the lid of the toilet as a table, Michael smoothed down a piece of paper from Maiko’s desk and began writing:

Dearest Father, I thought you should know that I have started a new life.

With a sharpened pencil he had taken from the kitchen, he wrote slowly and carefully to make his writing as clear as possible.

I have found work, and I already have a new home. I live with a woman who cares deeply for me. She prepares my meals and washes my clothes. She has improved my body and made me more resistant to the elements.

In the bathroom, things were warm and stuffy. He wanted just then nothing more than lots of water poured on his body. It was a dangerous desire, but that was the energy of the city, the only thing that would have a calming effect, because the energy inside him was so hot that he might set his paper body on fire from the inside out. A douse of liquid, so seductive and so necessary. He ran out, scared by his own desires.

Maiko was in the kitchen waiting for him. He tucked the letter in his pocket.

She unbuttoned his shirt; then reclining him against the kitchen table, she rubbed a sticky, cold jelly on his face that made his entire body shiver. She began layering strips of newspaper across his nose. He lay listening to the sound of her tearing paper, in the dark, before he finally opened his eyes.

Eventually, he asked her, “Did you ever want to be an artist?” If he had better hands he would have liked trying sculpture. Seeing Maiko’s fingers stirred this vague desire to do more art.

“I don’t know. I like to make things, but I just think of myself as more into crafts than art.”

“What’s the difference?” He had never distinguished the two; now it seemed there were two methods to achieve the same thing.

“I suppose it’s how serious you are about what you’re making. Don’t move your mouth now.”

He watched her, and it was strange and exciting that he could observe her so close and she didn’t seem to mind. She hummed out haikus and brushed her bangs, and glue stuck to the strands of hair.

“This needs to set a bit before I can remove it,” she said. He continued to lie on the table, waiting. Then, like most sensations in his paper body, it took a few moments to realize that her hands were resting on his stomach. He stayed still, for it was more important to him in this moment to show that he wasn’t afraid, even though he felt himself trembling inside; it was more important to no longer be like an adolescent from the inland but like a city dweller who could handle any surprise thrown at him. Her hands moved in ever so slow strokes, and through the eye holes of the mask he saw her head turn to look at him.

“You’re so lucky,” she finally said. “You’ll always be young. You don’t have to worry about getting older.”

“But I want to be older. I want to look my age. Someday I want gray hair and aches in my joints.”

She laughed. “You say that now.” Her hands brushed along his chest.

He didn’t know what to say. With the mold on, it was as if a huge weight pressed upon his entire body. He thought he might be suffocating until finally she pulled off the mold and wiped away the jelly. Then, the mask in her hands, she added more paper pulp to the mold to shape it and compensate for the distorted, dented side of his face.

“This needs to dry,” she said, “before I can paint it.”

Despite having the mask removed, he still felt he had a huge weight pressing upon him. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, sitting up.

“But it’s night time,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine. I won’t talk to anyone.” She frowned. He tried to ignore her stare. After putting the straw hat on, he pocketed his pencil. As a substitute to a shower, he decided, he would walk at night where the coastal air felt like cold water. If he stayed inside any longer he would explode. “I need some air after having the mask on.”

She studied him, looking for a reaction, he assumed. He didn’t know what to give her as a response.

“Don’t be too long,” she said.