The second day was worse.
Kazi sat in the office all day, a million and one papers on the desk, all needing to be read as quickly as possible. The windows showed him the world outside, it all looked so far away, people on the street like ants, no one was coming for him, ever. People did come into the office though, other people, the came and spoke, some in a soft questioning tone, others more violently; shaking their fist and demanding answers.
Kazi had no idea what to say to any of them, there was a feeling of having to reassure them, even if it meant lying but, no one was that stupid here, everyone knew everything was dire. The phone would ring and ring and ring and, Kazi would stare at it as it did. At first it seemed like a good idea to answer but, the first hundred times he did it was someone who wanted answers or reassurance.
He had none.
He needed both but, everyone was looking at him. His hands spent the day at his head, trembling or turning pages over. His eyes read black on white, English words, Japanese words, a hundred million words; clauses, stipulations, agreements, infractions, exceptions, guidelines, connections, everything and he read them silently on the highest floor of the tallest building in the city that prodded at the sky but, never received an answer.
Every so often someone would come into the office with a stack of papers and an apologetic face before leaving them on the desk and when that was full, on the chair and when that was full on the floor; until Kazi was walled off in a fort of information.
Kazi would look at the clock and it would read Two-Twenty Five in the afternoon and he'd look back down at the papers all hundred million of them and read them, every line, twice and still there was nothing, no answers, just more questions. He'd read and read and read and when it felt like an hour or two had gone by he'd look back at the clock and it would read Three-Forty Five in the morning. Kazi would look out the window and see the dark sky, the quietness of Japan cooing softly, his hands would shake; maybe out of nervousness, maybe out of fatigue. Unsteadily he'd rub one on his forehead and dig into his pocket with the other, his fingers would wrap around them small tubular bottle and unscrew the top desperately.
Two shakes and the small white pill would land in his hand and he'd stare at it, as if it was going to speak. The prescription had long worn off he forgot how many of these he was supposed to take. Was it based on severity? Probably not, his fatigue was always severe. He left it up to chance, when he shook the bottle he took whatever came out. Sometimes it was a lone warrior, or a happy couple and even sometimes a family out for a weekend excursion and then like a pedestrian magician he made them vanish with a gulp and continued to read.
The days began to bleed into each other nights and early mornings were identical twins, the sun was a strange abhorrent being that symbolized, what? Another day of failure? Another day he hadn't been 'home'.
When he was in Italy there were days like this, days where he wasn't sure what was going to happen the next day or if he'd see it, or if he'd want to see it. The sun played an ominous role, always rising and warning him of what was to come, would he see the next rise? The next fall?
Here he was again, staring out the window at the sun as it came over the horizon, creeping up from behind the buildings. How many times had the phone rung in the middle of the night/day blend? Kazi knew he'd have to return them, all of them sometime today, talking on the phone and reading, all information getting confused and bundled up into each other.
At Five-Fifty Seven someone walked into the office just as Kazi's eyes were begin to fold. He was the new assistant, a young guy, younger than Kazi, handsome, smart, obedient an odd choice for the rigid job. In his hand was a green folder stuffed with papers, his eyes pitied Kazi as he came forward but, he put the folder in the center of the desk.
"These just came in" he spoke; Kazi wearily opened the folder and skimmed the words, nothing processed, just a blur of ink.
"What are they, Matashi?" Kazi asked; his voice retained its strength though he barely heard himself.
"It's a complete break down of the tournament," Matashi explained. "It has everyone who won, loss or forfeited all the way to the third before last round." Matashi explained.
"What happened to the other two rounds?" Kazi asked; his interest beginning to shape.
"Not sure," Matashi began. "Seems as if there was some kind of malfunction." Matashi surmised.
"Of course." Kazi murmured.
"It seems the last recorded winner we have is a man named, Paul Pheonix." Matashi explained.
"Have we managed to contact him?" Kazi asked; Matashi shook his head slowly and frowned.
"No, they think you ought to-" Matashi began.
"I'll get on it," Kazi sighed. "Have to be careful though. If he suspects something is up he might try to lie and claim the prize." Kazi yawned and his eyes fell onto the window again.
How did this happen?
"You should get some rest." Matashi warned but, Kazi forced a weak smile to his face.
"Not until this is cleared up," He admitted. "Not until we know the truth."