1.19 Haishoku Yoi!

An order to get ready for lunch comes through the squawk box. Not quite what you'd callloud and clear, mind you, but this is the first time I manage to catch what's been barked at me through the ancient intercom system. For a moment there's a fleeting sense of achievement. My standards are crumbling.

Cops and military officials the world over have a penchant today 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 the Japanese jail, where a simple request that the inmates prepare to be served lunch is whittled down to the concise imperative:

配食用意!

(Haishoku yoi! Literally, meal distribution preparation!)

Gilligan pushes his trolley up to my window, does a 180, and backs the trolley the rest of the way up the corridor. A minute later he returns with that mother of all tea pots and wheezes, "Cold tea." I dump this morning's barley tea in the sink, rinse the pot, and place it on the ledge for him.

"Thanks," I say as Gilligan fills it.

One whiff of the tea and I can smell that it's the same damn tea we were served in the morning, only cold this time.

"Damn."

What are the odds that they've got a tin of Le Mêlange Fauchon tea hidden on the top shelf in the kitchen pantry?

“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 up 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. But, you know, I still don't feel much like eating. Imagine that! I return the dishes to the ledge.

Meanwhile, my next-door neighbor Digger is making 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.

"No appetite," I reply.

“Che’,” he clucks impatiently.

As he's 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, putting Melancholy Baby on the ledge.

"Already? Che’."

"Yeah. I haven't got much of an appetite, but up here I’m starving," I say with a tap to my forehead.

" Che’," he clucks again and takes the book away.

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.