Warning: To those, who dare to read my strange creation I have no intention of writing a story for everyone. I am afraid that my readers should have so-called "teeth" so as to chew my forethoughts or else you wouldn't be able to swallow it, particularly, to digest. I apologize for my bare frankness. Besides that I am grateful for your attention and appreciate your feed-back, because every opinion is the subjective reflection of my story. More mirrors make the author notice more drawbacks. I am speaking of constructive criticism, of course. Carping will crush against the wall of indifference. I also advise you to pay attention to details, marked and latent symbols, tropes etc. Otherwise the reader won't catch the "red thread" and won't be able to collect the pieces into one pattern.
Sincerely, but not yours, Nobody's
Chapter 1
Black-letter days and flying chrysanthemums
According to the Universal law of baseness when a man is walking down the street, from above falls either a brick or a pigeon gift … but Heavens may drop unexpected things.
There are two types of shortish men: the choppers and those who reach heights.
A semi-secluded Tokyo side-street meandered along the vivid fence, knocked together out of the thickset houses for the little inhabitants. Inside of this narrow world November wind had fallen into the habit of lingering over passer's-by coats. The belated autumn passed its cold, numb hand over human faces and architectonic façades, deliberately bothering wind chimes. The hiss of the flaw was entailed by their mocking chants as though they were lamenting a dead man.
The unbleached linen of the sky was suspended above the fulvous roofs. The rows of clouds chased one another along the dull canvas, trying to reach the finish line of the invisible horizon first. A hooligan gust of wind burst into the attic gap, the "pilferer" snatched a heap of paper leaves from the window-sill and scattered the sheets on the crannied concrete. Only one piece caught on the ledge and didn't join its brethrens.
Once again Ranku Matsumoto was competing with the unstoppable course of time and, as usual, she was losing the race. If she were overdue Ranku would always turn to this solitary street. Lately she had discovered the route and used it as the salutary short-cut. The young woman was walking with vigorous strides, desperately gripping her writhed bag in her armpit. The autumn wind licked Ranku's hair with its dank tongue.
When Matsumoto escaped from the apartment the clock showed 17 minutes past 11. What a hopeless case! The lack of punctuality was her scourge and yet Matsumoto usually managed to arrive opportunely.
No matter how violent was her step, Matsumoto's thoughts were far ahead of her feet. Her conscience was urging her on as if it were a rider who berated and lashed his sluggish mare.
Suddenly the wind rushed in her face and instantly something landed flat on her left shoulder. Ranku heard the Homeric laughter of the chimes: "Damn it. I swear I'll deplume that flying bomber". But when she cast a sidelong look at the "polluted" spot, fortunately, it turned out to be a yellowed piece of paper. Matsumoto crossly tore the flyer off her black coat and was about to throw it away when she noticed the delicate outline of kiku (1). The radial rows of pale petals were assembled in the sumptuous inflorescence. Its faded contour revealed the ephemeral essence of the natural marvel. Ranku could never commit the crime against the white chrysanthemum, the sacred flower (2) of her heart. Below the kiku some lyrical verses were embodied in the refined calligraphy. She absently read the three lines.
Once remembered
Then forgotten
The chrysanthemums on black silk
The rising tide of odd familiarity spread within her breast, rushed up and frothed in her temples. For a moment Ranku felt quasi (3) she had recurred herself, having recited the hokku (4) repeatedly. But in a flash that delusion of reiteration drained off. It didn't disperse into parental nothingness but vanished like ripples in the troubled water. Matsumoto rubbed her forehead with her palm, dispelling the somber vestige.
- That cursed work will either change me into a lunatic or bring me to the grave.
What an encouraging prospect!
Incidentally, Matsumoto was the kind of woman who could quickly recover. So she pulled herself together, thrust the ill-fated paper into the pocket and resumed marching.
- I wish I had wings or, at least, a pair if seven-league boots instead of high heels.
… … … … … … …
On a topographic map Tokyo tube (5) looks like a bundle of inconceivable cobwebs that were interlaced at random by two generations of Japanese transportation engineers. Without fail, the "sons" of metro-construction took great pains in hope of rationalizing the labyrinth of wormholes but, in the end, they muddled up the fathers' brainchild once and for all. The conglomeration of underground, overland and elevated "tracts" resembles fishily the circulatory system. There is the heart, the cramped accumulation encircled by the "great snake", and a dozen of main vessels (Chuo, Tokaido, Masashino, Joban lines and so on and so forth) which ramify into smaller arteries, then numerous capillaries.
It's as easy as a pie to go astray or, better to say, to find yourself in the unexpected point of destination.
Ranku had to habituate to the daily ordeal. She called it inwardly the meat mixer and sometimes the foul place. Only after being smashed, pressed, downtrodden, squeezed and hugged did the martyr, literally, crawl out to the surface. Formerly, Matsumoto crammed the requisite road and even if she were sleep-walking she would accurately board the right train.
Ranku happily admitted with a peaceful heart that she had happily skipped the peak hour: the majority of conscientious citizens had already been working for the public good. Otherwise she would have been the victim of "morning ramming".
Through the intercom a repugnant imitation of a woman's voice announced about the Toei Shinjuku train arrival and Matsumoto darted at breakneck speed towards the platform. She managed to rush into the car just in time but not perfectly for the "jaws" shut down and trapped the lap of her paletot (6).
- Those hungry doors. It's my personal fool day.
She sighed and prepared herself to bear her awkward position for regular twenty minutes. The irony of it all! A meter farther glaringly shined a vacant seat.
… … … … … … …
GISC or General Innovation Stock Company was the first-rate corporative giant in the whole country. The commercial "whale" fed on human creativity and was indulged in the idea traffic. It bought and sold patents, developed modernization projects and introduced experimental models. Always on the wave of progress, it swallowed the enormous amount of brainpower in order to reign over the common minds. The motto of GISC was engraved on the central arc in front of the formidable many-storied bastion, the reminiscent of an ant hill carved out of the mountain of plastic and metal: " Only those, who possess information, are the true Gods ".
Regarding the administrative aspect the GISC Empire was divided into thirteen departments. Each of sections governed its respective field and occupied several floors, apart from medical and scientific-research departments which reserved detached blocks for their purpose.
The infamous 10th bureau was responsible for the external market. Its main function was to impart luster to the finished project, "pack" it in the promotional envelope and palm off on a favorable client.
Since last month there was a tremendous agiotage caused by the unusual affair which was anticipated by both sides: GISC and a promising latter-day organization.
The bureau of export was in charge of the amalgamation and was the one to establish the cohesion. The firm hadn't yet given its consent and made it clear that it was still looking forward to the forcible argument. In one word, its leaders implied their mercenary desire.
The chief office on the 34th floor resembled the raging infernal cauldron. When Matsumoto burst into the bureau, all of the employees, save the 1st assistant, were absorbed in the process, all the small "screws" were at their fixed place - the commercial mechanism had already been started and achieved its pace of work.
That was the result of the superintendent's effort. Hitsugaya-san was a fair and strict "regent" with the "height" problem. He had risen very rapidly and at the edge of twenty four was sitting in the director's armchair and contrived to command his subordinates' respect. He was praised for his efficiency and remarkable wit. The young man suffered from one exterior shortcoming: he had to crane his neck in order to examine the face of a subordinate who stood at attention.
No one had ever dared to gratify him since the incident with the clerk who wanted to please the short man and bowed too low. The employee didn't expect to be icily reprimanded at the end of his report.
- Your report is scanty and inaccurate. Would you be so kind and do it anew. By the way, fawners won't be tolerated from now on.
After that event Hitsugaya-san won two expressive aliases. Those, who saw a severe tyrant in him, secretly called their fearful superior "Frostbite" while the others, who paid him high tribute, named their exigent head "Hataraki man".
Matsumoto tried to seize the opportunity of the surrounding ado and creep imperceptibly in her private office but was caught red-handed by the content soprano of a secretary:
- Matsumoto-san, Hitsugaya-san has asked me to invite you in his office as soon as you deign to appear. The secretary's oculars flashed triumphantly.
- Shit…I mean that was my first intention. I'll be there in a minute.
- Hitsugaya-san suggested that the documentation should be laid on his table immediately.
- Tell him I'm on my way, - she babbled in a cloying tone and then mumbled under her breath – to the blazing inferno. She'll get it hot.
Hataraki man was literally snowed under with work. His face portrayed concentration and the cheek-bones tensed when he heard the modest tap on the door.
-Come in. Since when are you so shy, Matsumuto? You are late once again. If I wouldn't pardon your indiscipline, fines would eat away your salary. I'm tired of my first assistant's negligence. No complaint, Matsumoto? Silent, aren't we?
- I am waiting for the end of the tirade.
- Touché (7). You have a glib tongue and what's about your assignment?
- Accomplished but…
- Show it…
Ranku nervously drew out the crumpled batch of documents and gingerly extended it to her boss. At first he frowned but then his both brows furiously arched in bewilderment:
- Are these dirt pits? Have you soaked the papers in a puddle, Matsumoto? These are not accepted. Now I want you to desert my office and retype every word and number. And I mean it promptly. Get out.
Matsumoto didn't utter even a sound and evanesced with lightning speed. She shut the door softly and rounded the corner to get out of harm's way. There's no need to provoke his wrath further. Hitsugaya would be ranting and raving if she didn't reform the report in time. Her job was hanging by the elastic thread of his patience.
She found herself inside of the secure abode of her office. Ranku threw the papers on the table and fell onto her customary couch, the privilege of the first assistant. She shook her head and stood up. Matsumoto approached the glass square and cracked the window: the moist air was thoroughly imbued with the odor of streets but Ranku felt the tart autumn fragrance. It smelled of chrysanthemums.
Lexical decoder:
(1) Kiku (Japanese) – chrysanthemum
(2) Chrysanthemum is the sacred flower of Japan and symbolizes spiritual generosity and immortality.
(3) quasi – as though
(4) hokku – a poem consisting of three lines( each has a certain number of syllables) originated from Japan. The laconic hokku is the tune born to charm. Its hidden reason is to remain obscure and incomprehensible.
(5) tube – subway
(6) paletot (French) – overcoat
(7) touché (French) – touch