Number9dream

by David Mitchell

They say that for every single cockroach you see, there are ninety relatives out of sight. Under the floor, in cavities, behind cupboards. Under futons.

the telephone rings – ‘Lost property? I’m calling about a friend’s wig.’ I groan. We have hundreds of wigs. Luckily it is a glam-rock wig with sequinned spangles, so I can identify it in the five minutes

All these people like my mother paying counsellors and clinics to reattach them to reality: all these people like me paying Sony and Sega to reattach us to unreality.

her whisper is a ghost writhing naked in the curves of my inner ear.

I recently broke free of a sewer woman who peels promises like a whore – a fair description – peels condoms on and off.’

His eyes are those of a mad scientist on the eve of world domination.

‘A student? But it’s four in the afternoon on Sunday! He’ll probably be having breakfast.’ ‘He’s a postgraduate. Computers.’ ‘In that case he won’t have got out of bed yet.’

I imagined students only ever talked about philosophy, engineering and whether love is something sacred or merely sexual programming: they are discussing the best way of getting past the hydra on Zax Omega and Red Plague Moon.

could you get into a Tokyo library computer and look up the address of the person who is borrowing this book?’ Suga wipes away the beer froth. ‘You must be joking.’ ‘Can you do it?’ ‘Can I piss straight when I waz?’

What are we up to now? Plan E.

The cook is an old man who died several days ago.

‘I get such a hard-on from casual violence,’

‘Who am I?’ The Yakuza head repeats my question. His lips barely move and his voice is tone dead. ‘My accountant calls me Mr Morino. My men call me Father. My subscribers call me God. My wife calls me Money. My lovers call me Incredible.’

Waiting to be born must be nine months of sheer bliss. Like a bar where you never have to pay the bill. Like the late sixties.

We all get exactly the nightmare we deserve.’

My final memories of life are the stupidest things. An unclaimed Haruki Murakami novel I salvaged from lost property, half finished, in my locker at Ueno – what happened to the man stuck down his dry well with no rope?

I clean up the living room and the kitchen, hide my rubbish, and go up to the attic to read. I feel safest up there. I am turning into a reading machine.

Here comes my saviour, leaping over the flooding drain with a newspaper held over his head. His bald patch glistens in the rain.

I find a callbox under the emergency stairs in a Uniqlo.

I was sentenced to death by hanging yesterday.” “Well, sir, at least you still have your health.”’

Your father is a man devoid of honour! When he separated from your mother he would happily have cut her adrift without a thought for her future! It was your grandfather who ensured her financial survival.’ This is news to me.

Cat appears on the stairs – during my week in hiding she learned how to open my capsule door. I tell her to go back but she ignores me, and after replacing a stack of returned videos I find her settled on the counter chair, so I have to make do with a wobbly stool.

Beware of holidays in paradise, lad. You think too much about what you never did.’

I hear the drumming of water, and for a moment think the heat has turned to rain – then I realize that no, to answer the last question he asked me three weeks ago, Suga cannot piss straight when he wazzes.

the unwashed morning streams in over three days of washing-up and a major spillage of socks and papers.

I stow it in the most unused corner of my apartment – my condom box under my socks – until I figure out what to do.

The evening is in pieces. The train arrives. We sit next to each other back to Ueno, but we may as well be sitting in different cities.

Emotions are so tiring. I guess this is why I avoid them.

The moment anything becomes good, it is doomed.

‘The human condition is a card game, man. Our hand is dealt in the womb. During infancy we lay a few cards down, pick up a few more. Puberty, man – more cards – jobs, flings, busts, marriage . . . cards come, cards go. Some days, you got a strong hand. Other days, your winning streaks end in bad gongs.

Another hot dawn glows in the real world outside.

I plug myself into my Discman. No music. Weird I changed the batteries yesterday evening. I press ‘Eject’ – there is no CD inside, only a playing card. Nine of diamonds.

I got your letters. But therapy that closes wounds in you just opens wounds in me.