Not Dark Yet (14 page)

22

HE DREADED GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, TO the city, to his family, to the questions, but he had promised Michael and Katsuhiro that he would.

He phoned Beanie to let her know he was planning to return for a brief visit.

“You’re coming home for Christmas?” Beanie said. “When? I’ll stay with Andy over the holidays, he’ll be pleased.” Beanie laughed, sounding a little nervous. He imagined her glancing about in the apartment, assessing what had to be cleaned and how many days she had left till he was there.

“No need for that,” he said. “I’ll take the sofa. I’m just stopping by for a few days. I have to travel south right after New Year’s.”

“But it’s your apartment, your bed,” Beanie said.

“It’s been your apartment for the last months,” he said. “Just give me some clean sheets and the second duvet and I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Beanie sounded much less tense than before.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said.

“All right. When will you get here?”

“I’ll arrive the evening before the family dinner,” he said. He
didn’t want to stay for long in the apartment when it was full of Beanie’s belongings.

“Super!” Beanie said. “The cats and I will be waiting for you.”

“How are they?” he said in order to move the conversation over to a less difficult subject.

“They have been absolute darlings,” Beanie said. “Eating well, purring loudly, curling up to me in bed every night. I love them.”

“I miss you all,” he said and meant it.

“We’ve missed you too and I know the cats are looking forward to seeing you again,” Beanie said. “We all are.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you as well,” he said.

He wanted to call Michael too, but knowing that if he did, the second thing Michael would ask was how long he’d stay, stopped him. Beanie would disseminate the news anyway.

There wasn’t much to pack. All his good clothes were in the apartment, the gifts he ordered had been sent to the post office in the train station by the honeycomb towers, and the winter and training clothes he had in the cabin would not be needed in the city. He took only the small backpack and it was half full at best, with clean underwear, his wool scarf, leather gloves, wallet, and phone. He walked to the train platform in the foredawn, following the path that snaked through the underbrush. The morning was cold and fog-filled, with a peculiar scent of expectation.

When the train arrived the cars were almost full and he had to push his way through three compartments before he found an empty seat behind two elderly couples that were playing cards. The seat was partially blocked by the seniors’ many pieces of luggage, which there was no room for in the overfilled racks by the door. Even the shelf above the windows was full of bags and backpacks and clothing.

“Pardon me,” he said, squeezing past the pensioners’ suitcases. The far seat was hidden by thick coats and scarves hung on the hook by the window. He put his backpack on the floor
and sat down in the aisle seat. As the train arrived at the stops along the coast, it became increasingly delayed and the compartment more and more crowded. In the warm and heavy air he fell asleep between the luggage and the passengers standing in the aisle. Outside, the day brightened slowly, but the light was gray and wan, and would remain only for a few hours. As opposed to earlier in the winter, now the trees in the valleys and the mountainsides were bare, with only the occasional green conifer.

When the train finally clacked into the central train station in his home city, in a web of glinting rails and overhead wires, it had grown dark and most of the passengers were asleep. He picked up his backpack, queued for the doors, and stepped out on the familiar concrete. The wall of noise from people and traffic, the orange glare from the sodium lamps, the scent of sweat, perfume, exhaust, and cigarette smoke, made his months in the mountains instantly vanish.

Another crowded, warm, and noise-filled train took him from the city central to the subterranean steel and glass corridors of the station by the apartment buildings. Bobbing with the crowd, not attempting to run ahead or lag behind, he moved with the throng out the tunnels, up through the park, and into the parking lots below the high-rises. The five six-sided structures rose nineteen floors above the asphalt, the illumination from their rows of windows glittering in the winter night.

He rang the doorbell and took out the keys, but Beanie opened the door before he could use them. She shrieked and threw her arms around him with such force that he stumbled backward and the red, white-trimmed velour hat she was wearing fell to the floor. Beanie smelled of licorice and cigarettes and the perfume from some jeans designer he couldn’t recall the name of, but which he strongly associated with her, and hugged her hard.

He had hoped for a quiet evening before the big family dinner, but past the door, in the clearly newly cleaned and tidied
apartment, stood Michael and Katsuhiro. They waited patiently until Beanie had pulled him inside and closed and locked the door, and when he could finally embrace Michael, it was like he had never been gone at all.

23

HE CAME BACK FROM SLEEP IN BLOCKS, FRAGMENTS of being. First he was an arm lying on top of the duvet which the rest of his body slept beneath. Then, somehow, he was the cobalt-colored glass lamp on the table at the end of the sofa. After that he was cat paws stepping on his chest, and finally, he was a face that woke up and took in the room.

The cat that approached him was the cream-colored one, the smallest and gentlest of the two felines he shared the apartment with. She sniffed his nose, and gave him slow, loving blinks with her elongated, copper-colored eyes. He stroked her soft, warm back and she purred loudly and kneaded the duvet with her paws. The living room was silent and gray, and beyond his feet that pressed against the armrest at the far end of the sofa shone the window which filled the north wall. Beyond the glass was the balcony, which didn’t reach further out than the length of a small table and two chairs, separated from the neighboring verandas by narrow concrete walls. Above the tall glass railing the sky was filled with clouds, looking like mist, thoughts, misconceptions.

When he lived in the apartment he used to enjoy lying on the sofa, seeing nothing but the edge of the veranda ceiling and the sky, and pretending he was in a parachute, a balloon, or a plane.
Now he might have the chance of actually living in the heavens, but in a vessel which would be hurtling toward another planet. The thought brought apprehension, a slight tightness in his chest, but also a rush of joy and excitement. What if he made it through the tests? What if he had the chance to go to Mars?

It would, of course, only happen after years, perhaps decades of learning, training, and simulating. First there would be the basic knowledge for astronauts: piloting, parachuting, experiencing high gravity in centrifuge and microgravity in parabolic flight, learning the general aspects and procedures of current spacecraft, launch systems, and orbital habitat. Then the more detailed and specialized knowledge of the function and structure of specific parts of the spacecraft and orbital habitat, training inside full-scale models and in underwater tanks, both at the astronaut facility of the continent’s space organization and those on other continents. If he were selected for a mission, the training would be narrowed down to the specific needs for that flight: the scientific experiments, technological upgrades, or mechanical maintenance to be performed.

Mars itself would require at least half a year of traveling into the darkness, and a similar amount of time on the surface of the planet, which would be unknown, unfamiliar, despite the rovers and probes and orbiters that had already been there, to collect samples and carry out experiments, possibly to search for traces of liquid water and microbial life. Then another half year going back through the vastness of space, the orbit and trajectory arcing just right at the right time, what only species of a certain technological prowess, curiosity, and risk-taking could do. Would he ever come back? Would he even want to?

He shifted beneath the duvet, the cat lying flat on his chest with her paws curled up beneath her. She lifted her head and glanced at him, then squeezed her eyes together and blinked. She made it harder to breathe, but he had missed the warm presence of the feline and her thrumming, peaceful purring too
much to move her. There was a loud meow and the other cat, who was larger and darker and more insistent, jumped up on the sofa. She strode across his belly and curled up on the duvet. The cream-colored cat moved to snuggle against the gray cat and create a chorus of purrs with her. He closed his eyes and a bolt of lightning rose up from his body to pierce him without pain. He let it burn and move as it wished, and fell into sleep to the sound of the cats.

When he woke again the apartment was still semi-dark and the clouds had dispersed to mist. Beneath the closed bathroom door a glow was visible and he could hear the shower going. Beanie was singing, a song he didn’t recognize or catch the words to. The unfamiliar fragrance of her shower gel dispersed by the steam mixed with the scent of basil, rosemary, thyme, and parsley from the potted herbs that now crowded the kitchen counter, making the apartment feel like it truly belonged to someone else. He pulled the duvet with the cats still curled up together gently aside, rose, and knocked on the bathroom door.

“I’m done soon!” Beanie yelled.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll shower at the pool. But may I come inside for a towel?”

“Of course!” Beanie said. “And don’t mind my singing.”

He laughed and opened the brown door with a hand over his eyes, ducked into the steam and scent, and pulled a bath towel from the narrow shelves by the sink. The small iridescent tiles on the floor and walls were damp with moisture.

He brought only the towel, a bottle of liquid soap from his backpack, and a pair of sandals from the hallway in the apartment to the swimming pool. When he locked himself into the changing room he saw the clothes and shoes of another visitor on the white wooden benches. Maybe a Christmas guest or someone who used the day off to enjoy the pool. The four shower stalls
were empty, their white oblong tiles shining in the light from the LED lamps in the ceiling. The window had no curtains or covering; that didn’t seem necessary nineteen stories up and at an oblique angle to the next tower in the row.

He undressed and showered quickly, then hurried into the next room. The glass ceiling and walls gave him the same feeling of being in the sky as the view from his living room did. In the distance sat the high-rises of the city center and below the tower were the park, the rail line, and the dark wetlands which surrounded it. At night the illumination from the city would turn the sky and the marsh golden, but now they both looked gray and dull.

There was no one else swimming, no sign of the other visitor. They might be just using the gym next door. The lights in the room were off, but the illumination from the sky outside was more than enough to see by. He dove into the pool and swam fifty meters under water, two laps, while watching the white tiles and tiny sand particles glide past on the bottom. Living away from the pool had reduced his breath-hold, but he swam slowly and calmly for as long as he could, then went up for air before he had to. Then he swam another fifty meters under water and five hundred meters at the surface, halving his usual routine since he didn’t want to be late. Finally, he floated on the water that slowly smoothed from the cessation of his motions. Outside it had started to rain, large, slow drops that tapped on the glass and wept down the window. Low-lying clouds surrounded the tower on all sides, so dense he could no longer see the ground.

24

AFTER THE SWIM HE RINSED WELL TO GET RID OF the weak yet pervasive smell of chlorine from his hair and skin, and returned to the apartment. It was humid and filled with multiple fragrances from Beanie’s shower gel, shampoo, body lotion, and perfume. The bathroom door was ajar and the hair dryer was on.

“I’m back!” he shouted at the bathroom door. “Can I sneak into the bedroom to get some clothes?”

“Go ahead!” Beanie yelled over the dryer. “Your things are all there. I haven’t touched them.”

He smiled and hurried into the bedroom. The bed was undone and covered in layers of skirts, dresses, blouses, trousers.

“Let me guess, you have nothing to wear today?” he asked.

“Shut up!” Beanie replied.

With the bedroom closet full of his clothes, Beanie had installed a rack for storage next to it. The steel tubing was full of hangers holding blouses, sweaters, pants, skirts, and jackets in various colors, and the ends of stockings, scarves, belts, and socks spilled out of the half open drawers below. He had to step over three stacks of books, magazines, and vinyl records to reach the closet, and push more aside to open the doors. His
clothes were still there, in the clean and folded shapes he had left them.

His brother Katsuhiro and Michael phoned, having arrived at the parking lot to pick them up.

“Come up for a drink first?” he asked.

“No time,” Michael replied. “We’re already late. Use a cattle prod on my sister to hurry her up.”

He laughed. “I’ll be downstairs right away.”

When he opened the door to Katsuhiro’s car, Michael stepped out and hugged him.

“It’s so good to see you,” Michael said, breathing on his neck.

He hugged Michael back and kissed him. Michael smelled of aftershave and newly steamed fabric and his face was very warm. In his skinny suit and narrow tie Michael looked great.

“We need to get Beanie,” Michael said, “or we’ll be standing here for half an hour more.”

Michael took his arm and pulled him toward the entrance. The glass doors admitted them soundlessly. Inside, the foyer was brightly lit and empty, the air still and cold. Michael dragged him into one of the elevators, pushed the button, and kissed him hard. When they reached the floor they were both breathing quickly.