Silence Once Begun (14 page)
INT
.
That was the last time you saw him.
JIRO
I remember the haircut he had, it had been done badly, so a part of his head wasn’t completely shaved. When
I see him in my head, that’s the Sotatsu I see. But he is standing in a street.
INT
.
When you picture him, you picture him in a prison outfit, with his head shaved, but he is outdoors?
JIRO
He is in a street, and he has the box I was going to give him. But it isn’t open, it isn’t playing. It’s just closed there in his hand.
Brother
)
[
Int. note
. That night, after our return, I had gone to my room to sleep, but I was still up, looking at some notes I had taken. After a while, there came a tapping on my door. I opened it, and it was Jiro. He came in and admitted that he had not told me the truth that day, or not all of it. I asked him what it was that he had held back. He told me that on the final visit, something different had happened. I asked him what it was that was different, and why he had held it back. He said it was something he hadn’t shared with anyone, and so it wasn’t clear to him whether he would share it with me or not, up until this evening. I asked him how that visit, that last visit, how it had gone differently. He said Sotatsu had given him two letters that he had written. He said he had those, and asked if I wanted to see them. I said, yes. I said, I didn’t realize that he was allowed to write things. Jiro said that it seemed some of the prisoners were allowed that, and it seemed Sotatsu was one of them. He gave me a paper box with a little clasp on one side. I told him I would be very careful looking at them. He went to the door but stood watching me. I asked him if he wanted these documents to be kept out of the book. He didn’t say anything, but stood there. Finally he said he wanted the book to be complete. He didn’t want anything left out of it. That is why he changed his mind and brought the letters. I thanked him and he went off, leaving me to open the box.]
[The document (sides one and two) will follow this page.]
Holograph Will of Oda Sotatsu. My belongings described below should be given to my family members in the following manner
.
BOOKS, perhaps a dozen, on table by window __ to my sister
.
my CLOTHING, old pants, new pants, shirts, socks, and others __ burned
.
my FURNITURE __ given away
.
my KITCHEN contents, pots, knife, etc. _ to my mother
.
my RECORDS, RECORD PLAYER, _ to my brother
.
my DRAWINGS, JOURNAL __ burned
.
my WORM SHOVEL, FISHING POLE, TACKLE __ to my father
.
my BICYCLE __ to my brother
.
my SCARF __ to my sister
.
my BIRD STATUES _ to my mother
.
ANYTHING ELSE _ burn or give away
.
… my rent was paid when I was taken away, but now hasn’t been since then. I don’t know what that means for anything
.
[
Int. Note
. The document has been folded and unfolded many times. It appears that it has even begun to tear along some of the folds. I imagine Jiro has opened it often to read it. When I saw him the next day, the day I was to leave his house, I returned the letters to him, and asked whether he had showed this to their father. He replied that he had not. He had never had the slightest intention of doing so, nor would he. At the time of the publication of this book, Jiro and Sotatsu’s father is dead (d. 2006), so he will never see the letter in this life.]
Father
,
I know why you don’t come to see me. You are right that this is my fault. It is a complicated thing, but also very simple. It is so simple I can see through it like a glass window. When I do that, I see you and the others and you are waiting for something. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t think you know either. Someone writes something because someone thinks it should be written, it should be said. So, I write this, but I don’t know why it should be, just that something should be said, before this is through
.
Where the house met the back gate, I used to hide things. You never knew that. Mother, Jiro, no one ever knew it. There is a hollow spot there, and I would put a thing there now and then. This is the kind of feeling I have now. I wanted you to know that I am not worrying anymore. I am not worrying now
.
OS
Watanabe Garo
)
[
Int. note
. Watanabe Garo was extremely reluctant to disclose the details of the execution procedure. I argued with him for a long time, playing on his vanity, his ego, trying to get him to say the exact words he shared with Oda. Finally, only with a cash payment and guaranteed anonymity did he disclose the details.]
INT
.
All right, we’re recording.
GARO
He was sitting there and looking at me and I was standing. I felt pity for him then. It seemed like he was affected, like what Mori said to him had changed him somehow, and I didn’t want him to have to change. He hadn’t been affected by things before. I wanted to let him be who he had been during his time in the prison. It was a good way for him, and I didn’t want this whispering to have altered him. It shouldn’t have happened, and I thought, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could talk to him and fix it, and things would go back to being the way that they were.
INT
.
Was there something you could see in the way he looked, something different?
GARO
I can just say what I said.
INT
.
Please.
GARO
I said to him, I said, you don’t know when it’ll be. That much is true. The prisoner can’t ever know the
day of his execution. One day it is the day and that’s that. They bring you a snack, some kind of special snack. Something nice. Then they take you out of your cell. They take you to a hall and you notice it is a hall where you haven’t been before. At first maybe you think you are being exercised, or being taken to the infirmary. But, no, it is perfectly clear, this is a different section. It is a hall that is rarely used and it feels that way. You go down the hall and there are little windows and there are no bars, no bars on the windows. Outside you can see a lawn. Then you come to a door. The guard doesn’t have a key. The door just opens. Someone stands behind the door all the time waiting and when someone comes, when the time is right, he opens the door. You go through it. Now you’re in a semi-open space. There is a desk with a guard-sergeant. He has a lamp and a book. He checks your papers against the book. You do not have your papers. In fact, you’ve never seen them. But the guard who came with you has them. A doctor comes out, along with three other guards, ones you have seen before, ones who have dealt with you in the past. You are examined and the doctor and guards sign off. They are making a written statement that you are in fact you, that it is no one else but you standing there at that moment. You sign the document as well, agreeing that you are yourself. When it is done, the sergeant unlocks a door on the far side of the area. He does this once the others have left. It is a procedure. It is all a procedure. They leave; he unlocks the door; you go through. Your two guards have been exchanged for two others. They go in with you, one on each side. You are now in the first of three rooms. The execution suite is composed of three rooms. The first is a chapel. A Buddha statue
is on the altar. A priest is waiting. You may have seen him before, on his visits to these very cells. He speaks to you warmly. He might be the only one to meet your eyes. He asks you to sit. There by the altar he reads to you and what he reads you are the last rites. Now you know for sure. Even if you have been pretending that it isn’t so, now it is suddenly clear. Although you have told yourself some irrational story, that on the day of your execution some event of some kind will occur, and that from this event you will know it is the day of your execution, nonetheless, such an event is an invention. The guards do not wear different uniforms. You are not offered a cigarette. You do not go outside to be taken elsewhere in a covered van. Whatever event you have imagined, it is empty and meaningless. You are read the last rites, and that experience is fleeting. So soon it is over. So quickly you are raised onto your two legs. A door in the farther side of the room opens. You go through. The next room is smaller. Someone is waiting there, too. It is the warden. He is dressed very beautifully and appears distinguished, like a general. He waits until you are positioned properly. He waits. When you are standing where you should, he reaches into his pocket. He takes out of his pocket a piece of paper. What is he going to say? Even the guards are restless in this far room. What he reads is this: he is ordering the execution. He uses your name several times, pronouncing it with wonderful care, and it is like you have never heard your name before. You are to be killed by the order of someone or something. He leaves the room and the door locks. Another guard has come in. He has a bag and out of the bag he produces handcuffs. These are placed on your wrists and firmly tightened. Next he produces a blindfold. The guards
move around you as if you are delicate. They are performing a series of operations on an object. You are secured. Your arms are secured. Your head is secured. The blindfold is applied to your head and face. Now you can no longer see. The guards guide you now. You go through a door which must have opened soundlessly, the door beyond the warden and the second Buddha statue. You realize you have looked at the last thing you may ever see. If you are wild, if you have become wild, if you become wild, it no longer matters because you have been secured. But most are not wild. Most are led into the room without complaint. Even with animals, covering the eyes produces docility. The bag the guard brought was full of docility and you feel it. The guards have been gentle with you; they are guiding you. You are positioned in the final room, the last room. You feel the space of it around you. The guards touch your shoulders and your head. They lay something over your head, down over the blindfold. They are so gentle with you, like barbers. It is a rope they have laid upon your neck. The rope is laid like a stiff collar on a new dress shirt, and made snug. Everyone is around you, very close. Then, delicately, they remove their hands from you, from off your shoulders, your neck, your arms. They step away. Now it is quiet. You can feel the rope’s upward direction. Occasionally it brushes against the back of your head. Perhaps you can guess where you entered the room. You are doing things like that, guessing with senses that are not operating. A noise comes, a trapdoor has been released and you fall through the floor as if it were not a floor, not the floor of a room such as you have known, but the floor of a room like a gallows. That is the last room, a room like a gallows tree.
