Short Story: "The House in the Green Shade" by Akira Sawatari

When I first saw the house, I couldn't help but smile, thinking how like Takehiko it was.
Lush, overgrown vines aggressively covered the entire exterior wall, transforming the house—a structure that held emptiness within—into a mass of vigorous life. Of course, if people were living there, the plants wouldn't be crawling around so brazenly, so perhaps this state of affairs was a result of Takehiko's absence.
Regardless, the thought of the neighbors and the landlord gnashing their teeth in frustration made my laughter quickly turn into a sigh. After all, I was the one who would have to go pay the overdue rent.
It was two days ago that I received word from my uncle that Takehiko had been missing for three months. He had headed to the New Guinea highlands for fieldwork as usual, but he hadn't returned by his scheduled date. Delays in returning were common enough, but the problem was that he had secured a position as a lecturer at I University starting in April. His mentor, Professor K, had apparently said he would appease the administration for a while, but at this rate, he risked losing his first job opportunity.
But what made me prick up my ears even more was the comment Takehiko had reportedly made in a phone call from Narita: that this time, he was bringing a bride home. In other words, Takehiko had a lover in the field and was even thinking of marriage.
What kind of woman was she? My curiosity was piqued. I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. I felt that my bond with Takehiko was something deeper than love or sex.
That was why I dismissed the possibility that he was already dead, as some feared. No matter how unscientific it might be mocked as, I felt that if Takehiko were dead, I would surely know it.
For the few years since I lost my parents in an airplane accident, Takehiko had been equivalent to everything left in the world for me. Although I was taken in by my uncle's family, as a young girl who had even lost the ability to speak, I opened my heart only to Takehiko, seeing the world through his eyes and touching the outside world using his hands. To Takehiko, who was not yet in his teens, the presence of a girl five years his junior who was mentally parasitic on him must have been quite a burden, but he stayed by my side silently. I knew no other way to survive.
When I turned ten, I thought I had to set him free. I told him, "You are the only one, so please don't go far away and leave me behind." He nodded. Therefore, it was impossible for Takehiko to die without saying anything to me.
Yesterday, a large envelope arrived from Indonesia. There was no sender's name. When I opened it, I found a thick notebook with frayed edges and coffee stains. Since he had sent his precious field notes, it was certain that some unforeseen situation had occurred, but—
I entered through the small wooden gate on the side.
Seeing it up close, I was once again surprised by the vigor of the vines. I had heard that he chose to rent this old house, which was over fifty years old, not only because the rent was cheap, but also to ensure space for his materials. However, he must have also liked the expression of this house, which was detached from the ups and downs of the floating world. It was in contrast to the adjacent lot, where heavy machinery had moved in and the building was currently being demolished. The sight of the house, already more than half turned into a pile of rubble, was somehow pitiful, and as I watched it for a while, I made eye contact with a young man wearing a yellow helmet standing in front of a power shovel.
I opened the front door with the spare key I had received from the real estate agent.
Even though it was still May, the stifling tropical air was trapped inside.
Wooden masks lined up in the entryway and hallway greeted me boisterously. Each was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, with the largest ones perhaps nearly a meter tall. They were grotesque yet humorous. I greeted the ebony spirit that was staring sharply at me with a small "Excuse me" and stepped up onto the floor.
In other rooms, wooden drums, instruments like zithers, and bamboo flutes were stored in a cluttered manner. Then there were piles of academic books, a mix of Japanese and Western. There was also an outdated computer that looked like it was no longer in use.
I walked around the house looking for any clues. When I tried playing one of the unlabeled CDs in the player, the entire room was suddenly filled with a soft rhythm. The mysterious sound of metal percussion instruments spreading with complex overtones, and the sound of a flute flying around like a small bird between them. It was likely something Takehiko had recorded himself. The microphone also picked up whispering voices in the local language.
As a budding cultural anthropologist, Takehiko was researching the oral traditions and religious culture of the Gawan tribe, who had only recently come into contact with civilization. The Gawan tribe, who had had no contact with Western culture until the 1970s, possessed a rich oral culture precisely because they did not have a written language. "They remember everything of the past in the form of 'songs'," Takehiko wrote. "'Songs' are both poetry and singing. When they gather, they sing these songs, sometimes sonorously, sometimes in whispers, to confirm their history." Suddenly, I realized that I, too, felt a faint sweat on the back of my neck, as if I were in a tropical country. I turned off the player for the time being. This music seemed to have the power to kidnap the listener into another dimension in one breath.
In the notebook I had found myself reading until dawn yesterday, the trembling of Takehiko's heart as he dove into a sea of different values and different perceptions, and gradually became accustomed to the meaning system of that world while feeling bewildered, was vividly written. "Among the Gawan tribe's worldview, what is particularly unique is the concept of 'aufe' and 'taufe'. 'Aufe' is a concept close to meanings like 'living', 'visible', 'touchable', or 'belonging to the same time (as the 'self' who is speaking)', but it does not exactly match any of them. On the other hand, 'taufe' is its opposite concept, and to give 'taufe' is synonymous with taking away 'aufe'. Only excellent shamans who have undergone long training—who are also always poets in Gawan society—are well-versed in this dual nature of 'aufe' and 'taufe', like the two sides of a coin. Such a shaman-poet is considered to be someone who stands on the boundary between 'aufe' and 'taufe'."
I remembered what he had said when I met him before. "In a non-literate society, history becomes one with poetry. As a result, perhaps following the physiology of orally told poetry, one-time events melt into archetypal stories, and dated events are swallowed up by a time that circulates eternally. For example, Watson, the Englishman who first announced the existence of the Gawan tribe to the world, is still alive in the poetry they sing, even though he died in the jungle. And he is one of the spirits, a white-faced trickster who disturbs their world."
When I heard that story, I thought, that's not bad. In a sense, I am still the young girl who depends on Takehiko, and even my parents haven't truly died. Inside my heart, no linear time flows. Isn't it more natural to think that way?
However, Takehiko didn't seem to be easily convinced. He wrote: "I once asked a Gawan friend of mine, if the history told by the Gawan epic is true, then what is it that you are teaching at school? He was a man who had left the forest with his family when he was young and was now a junior high school teacher. In the epic, human history begins deep in the forest and is watched over by great spirits. There is no essential change there. On the other hand, in the outside world, humans evolved from apes, many empires were born and perished, atomic bombs fell on the earth, and humans reached the moon. It is impossible to believe both at once. What do you think? He answered like this: It's not that one is wrong. When we are in the forest, the epic is the truth for us. Because we are already a part of it. At that time, we were eating at a diner in town, and on the TV, a young actor was playing a man being stabbed to death by a villain. 'Is he feeling pain right now?' He suddenly asked, pointing at the TV. 'What do you mean? I don't understand,' I replied. 'In this very moment, what is that man feeling?' the other repeated. 'It's acting, so he probably isn't feeling pain. Isn't it more like, am I looking good, or will this work be a hit?' I said. He brought his face close to the distance where his breath could reach me. Only the whites of his eyes were shining brightly in his dark skin. 'I'm not talking about the actor. What is the man in the movie feeling? Listen, as long as this movie is being shown, that man will continue to bleed and continue to die for a number of times close to eternity. It will be repeated over and over again. That pain is neither a lie nor a deception. That man is definitely dying. That is what 'taufe' is. You people from the outside don't understand that meaning.'"
The notebook ended with those words. No further information about Takehiko's present was written. It wasn't that there were no clues. From the middle of the notebook, one name appeared frequently: Namite. She was also a Gawan girl who had come to town, and she got to know Takehiko while working at the market.
Namite was from a family of singers. Although she was still young, she could skillfully tell many songs, which were history, myth, and legend all at once. I can imagine Takehiko's face, excited to have found a wonderful informant. And how that eventually turned into something more than intellectual interest.
But now, I have to look for clues to his whereabouts.
I searched the house for maps of places he might visit, notes with contact information, or scribbled memos.
And I found it. Unexpectedly easily. Three notebooks were shoved into the drawer of the desk that seemed to be used as a study. The strange thing was that I hadn't noticed them when I looked through it briefly earlier.
I sat down on the spot and turned the pages, and the distance between the two had narrowed considerably.
Takehiko was taken by Namite to visit her relatives' village. A slash-and-burn field cleared in the jungle and a small settlement. That night, when I woke up in the middle of the night, the pale moonlight was illuminating the inside of the hut made of wood and grass. I got up and went outside the hut, as if guided by a thin, high-pitched voice coming from somewhere. In the village square, women were singing songs and dancing in a circle. It was a song praising the beauty of the moon. Following tradition, the women wore only loincloths, and their breasts proudly caught the moonlight. When I recognized Namite in those silhouettes, I knew I had fallen in love.
Suddenly, the sound of a chime rang out. Someone was hitting the chime repeatedly with an impatience that couldn't wait even a second.
I ran down and hurriedly opened the front door. The man in work clothes and a yellow helmet I had seen earlier was standing there. "Well then, we'll start working here from now on, so please excuse us." The man said only that and left. He was a young man with dark eyes and an expressionless face.
Tilting my head, I returned to the second floor and immersed myself in the rest of the notebook.
The two loved each other and took time to convince their relatives of their relationship. They visited the village, participated in festivals, and shared sake made from fermented sago palm starch.
However, the situation began to move in an unexpected direction. A nickel ore vein, a rare metal, was discovered in the area where the Gawan tribe lived. A group of men with chainsaws were sent in to cut down the lush trees and build prefabricated houses. A road, straight as if cut with a knife, crossed the green carpet.
Takehiko witnessed that ominously geometric reddish-brown line from the seat of a Cessna flying at an altitude of 2,000 meters. Beside him sat a representative from a Japanese metal trading company, and on the other side sat Namite.
The trader explained fluently: that Japanese and Chinese trading companies were currently competing over the nickel ore vein, that they were strengthening their lobbying of politicians in Jakarta, and that this mine development could not help but have significance in national strategy.
He wrote: "I was chewing over the trader's words one by one and translating them into Namite's ear, while asking myself what meaning there could be in such things. What do military supplies or national strategy have to do with the Gawan tribe, who until very recently lived a life equivalent to the Stone Age? However, Namite, while nodding slightly to each of my words, stared intently down at the sight of her home jungle, as if to burn everything firmly into the back of her eyeballs."
Suddenly, the house vibrated violently, and the plaster on the walls peeled off, falling onto the surface of the tatami mats with a rattling sound.
I braced myself, thinking it was an earthquake, but the shaking grew even larger along with a low, irregular roar.
Not wanting to be distracted, I put on the headphones that were nearby, plugged in the jack, and pressed the switch.
Immediately, the tones of another dimension flowed into my head.
Was this also recorded by him? It was smaller in scale than what I had heard earlier, and because it lacked the sound of metal instruments, it felt softer and somehow soaked into the folds of my soul. Was this repeated sound a small drum? Eventually, a woman's chanting was added to it. Even if I didn't understand the words, the filled emotion was conveyed. Sadness, anger, the poignancy of wandering. The sight of being driven from the forest overlapped with that melancholy.
The wish to stand between the trading company and the Gawan tribe and settle the situation within a range of compromise could not be fulfilled.
Friction between trading companies, schemes of local power brokers, and fighting over interests. I heard that violence was constant at the development base camp.
Even among the Gawan tribe, the younger generation was saying that there was no choice but to use force. A plan was made to raid the camp under the cover of night and drive away the hired workers. Even if it was said that the workers were also ethnic minorities who had been robbed of their land in other regions, it was not accepted. And how were they going to drive them away anyway? They had bulldozers, dump trucks, and even bodyguards with guns.
Eventually, centered on the youth group, traditional wood and grass huts were built on the front line of the area where logging was continuing. They intended to hole up there. At first, company people, and then men with mean looks, visited for negotiations and were turned away. It seemed they were private soldiers of local power brokers. One of the men warned them that they would start the removal at dawn the next morning. "If you don't leave by then, be prepared for blood to flow." Namite, who was standing next to me, squeezed my hand tightly.
Around the two of them, who were huddled together, the young people were beating drums with a small sound all night long. Namite hummed low as if to match them. It was a prayer song directed at the spirits.
Eventually, the dawn light entered through the gaps in the roof and walls thatched with tree bark, like water seeping in. For a moment, I felt sleepy. Something huge hit from the outside. The pillar erected in the center of the hut tilted. The young people stood up all at once. The bamboo frame broke, and the cracked wall collapsed.
I threw away the headphones in a daze. The sound of the drums and the singing did not disappear. The wall was broken and shattered, and from there, the huge metal arm of a power shovel was thrusting in.
Along with the dust, pieces of tile fell from above. I avoided them with both arms and looked for a place to escape.
Beyond the broken white wall. I ran out into the green maze that shone, wet with the dawn light.
Men in work clothes were standing in a group. The men let out thick shouts and set the hunting dogs on them. The Gawan youth also fought back, holding bows. Some raised axes they carried to cut wood.
One of the men in work clothes aimed a gun. There was a gunshot, and my right thigh became hot as if it were burning.
When the men rushed over, the Gawan youth scattered and fled. "If you don't hurry, everyone will be killed, you will be killed too," Namite said under my arm. Namite, not minding being covered in blood, carried Takehiko on her back and walked through the trees. There, my consciousness faded.
The next time I came to, I was on a canoe.
Mixed with the sound of oars hitting the water rhythmically, I heard the buzzing of insects that made me feel sleepy and the high-pitched cries of monkeys stationed in some treetop.
"Are you awake?" asked Namite, who was rowing. "I treated the wound on your thigh as much as I could. We are going to the witch doctor deep in the forest." "Witch doctor?" "Yes, my grandfather is a witch doctor."
When I touched my thigh while lying on my back, it was tied with cut vines to stop the bleeding. My fingers also touched what seemed to be medicinal herb leaves. Since I couldn't move, I used one arm as a sunshade and looked at the sky. White clouds and a sea of green leaves flowing in the corner of my vision.
When evening came, the pain returned. Feverish, things that were neither dreams nor hallucinations visited one after another. Namite docked the boat on the shore and brewed medicinal herbs in water boiled over a fire for me to drink. The anesthetic, as she called it, soaked in pleasantly, and before I knew it, I had returned to my own house on the outskirts of the city. I unpacked my trunk, put my sweaty clothes in a plastic bag and tied it, and threw my unfinished field notebook into the drawer. Happiness welled up just thinking about lying spread-eagled on the tatami mats, looking at the wood grain of the ceiling boards, and going to a local pub to empty a mug of draft beer after a nap.
When I regained consciousness next, at first, I didn't know where I was lying.
In the dim light, countless masks were lined up. All of them had strange eyes wide open, baring their tongues and teeth. I realized it was a forest spirit hut used for rituals and initiations. Namite was sitting beside me.
A part of the darkness stirred, and I could see an old man sitting there. "Young man from across the sea, you who came to marry our daughter, you are going to die soon," the man said. "Do you still feel like you are in a dream?"
Since the pain and fever had subsided, I could calmly examine his words. "Yes, it still feels like a dream. But I understood that I am going to die. There were many things I still wanted to do, but well, it wasn't such a bad life."
The man answered. "You will die, but I can weave you and the girl into a song. You will obtain 'taufe'. In the song, you two will embrace and be intimate forever."
"That's nice. If Namite is okay with it."
Namite smiled and stroked his hair. "When we die, we become spirits and live in the song, deep in the forest."
"I see, let's go together."
"Please, take me with you too." I shouted involuntarily. What attachment could I have to this "reality" now? While lying down, I slowly turned my head, and Takehiko looked at me.
"You came?" he smiled.
"It was a promise that you would take me with you when you went far away. I also want to go into the song, deep into the forest."
"Then, it's a party of three."
The sound of the drums that had been ringing for a while became exceptionally loud and high. A song naturally overflowed from my lips as well. The two stretched out their arms, grabbed my hands, and walked out through the doorway of the hut toward the rustling forest. I know that I am already a song, that I am the words themselves.

©Shigeru Kurakazu