An order to get ready for lunch crackles through the squawk box. Not quite loud and clear, mind you, but this is the first time I catch what’s being barked through the ancient intercom system.
Cops and military officials the world over have a penchant for brevity and truncated commands. The American revolutionary Israel Putman’s “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes” has evolved over the years to “Hold fire!” It’s no different in a Japanese jail, where simple requests are honed down to the imperative.
Haishoku yōi! (配食用意! Prepare for meal distribution!)
Gilligan pushes his trolley up to my window, does a one-eighty, and backs it the remainder of the way up the corridor. He returns a minute later with that mother of a tin pot and wheezes, “Cold tea.” I dump the barley tea from this morning into the sink, rinse the pot, and place it on the ledge.
“Thanks,” I say as Gilligan fills it.
One whiff of the tea and I can tell that it’s the same damn barley tea we were served earlier, only cold.
“Dammit.”
What are the odds that they’ve got a tin of Le Mêlange Fauchon tea hidden on the top shelf in the kitchen pantry?
“Well, at least it’s cold,” I tell myself as I pour a cup.
When Gilligan returns, I’ve got my plate waiting for him this time.
“You don’t need that,” he says.
“Huh?”
“The plate. You don’t need it.”
“Oh,” I say, putting the plastic plate back on the shelf.
Gilligan passes a bowl of soup under the bars, then a bowl of rice and a plate of food.
“Thanks,” I say again as he disappears out of sight.
I arrange today’s lunch on my desk: salad with cucumber and onion and a packet of mayonnaise, a potato croquette with a packet of . . .
Ketchup or is it catsup. I never know which. Ah, if only I had a dictionary. If only I weren’t in this fucking jail.
I take a bite of the rice, a sip of the soup, and nibble at the rest, then return the plates to the windowsill.
Next door, Digger is kicking up a disgusting racket, slurping and smacking his fat lips and sucking bits of food out between his teeth and . . .
“Do you hate it?” Gilligan asks when he comes by to pick up the plates.
“Excuse me?”
“The food. Do you hate it?”
“No appetite,” I reply.
“Che’,” he clucks.
As he is removing the dishes, I ask if I might not be able to get another book.
“Book day’s tomorrow,” he says, sullen and tetchy.
“But I’m finished with this,” I say, placing Melancholy Baby on the ledge.
“Already? Che’.”
“Yeah. I haven’t got much of an appetite, but up here I’m starving,” I say tapping my forehead.
“Che’,” he clucks again and takes the book away.
The first posting/chapter in this series can be found here.
Rokuban: Too Close to the Sun and other works are available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.