from happening at the same time in waking reality, but the rules are different in dreams. I smell autumn fruit. ‘My, what a small world,’ says Mrs Persimmon. ‘Hello again. May I sit here?’
‘Sure.’ I dump my backpack on the overhead rack.
She sits as if afraid of bruises. ‘And did you enjoy my persimmon?’
‘Uh, it was delicious. Thank you. How was my dream?’
‘Had better.’ The weird old lady pulls her knitting out.
‘May I ask, what do you do with the dreams you, uh, gather?’
‘What do you do with persimmons?’
‘I eat persimmons.’
‘Old ladies also require nourishment.’
I wait for an explanation, but Mrs Persimmon gives none. A nuclear power station slides by, a frigate at anchor, a lonesome windsurfer. I feel I should make polite conversation. ‘Are you going to Kagoshima?’
‘Between here and there.’
‘Are you seeing relatives?’
‘I attend conferences.’
I wait for her to tell me what sort of conference eighty-year-olds attend – fruit farming? Stitchwork? – but she concentrates on her knitting. I think of atoms decaying. ‘Are you some sort of dream interpreter?’
Her irisless eyes are not safe to look into for very long. ‘My younger sister, who handles the business side of things, describes our profession as that of “channellers”.’
I assume I mishear. ‘You collect Chanel accessories?’
‘Do I appear to be such a person?’
Try again. ‘Channeller? Is that, uh, a sort of engineer?’
Mrs Persimmon shakes her head in mild exasperation. ‘I told my sister. This word-meddling confuses people. We are witches, I told her, so “witches” is what we should call ourselves. I have to begin this row again. This is a scarf for my grandmother. She moans if it isn’t perfect.’
‘Excuse me – did you say you are a witch?’
‘Semi-retired, since I turned five hundred. I believe in making room for the young ones.’
She is winding me up very wittily, or she is beyond mad. ‘I would never have guessed.’
She frowns at her knitting. ‘Of course not. Your world is lit by television, threaded by satellites, cemented by science. The idea of women fuelling their lifespans by energy released in dreams is as you say, beyond mad.’
I hunt for an appropriate answer.
‘No matter. Disbelief is good for business. When the Age of Reason reached these shores, it was us who breathed the deepest sigh of relief.’
‘How can you, uh, eat dreams?’
‘You are too modern to understand. A dream is a fusion of spirit and matter. Fusion releases energy – hence sleep, with dreams, refreshes. In fact, without dreams, you cannot hold on to your mind for more than a week. Old ladies of my longevity feed on the dreams of healthy youngsters such as yourself.’
‘Is it wise to go around telling people all this?’
‘Whyever not? Anyone insisting it were true would be locked up.’
I vaguely regret eating that persimmon. ‘I, uh, need to use the bathroom.’ Walking to the toilets it seems that the train is standing still but the landscape and I are flying by the same swaying speed. My travelling companion is beginning to scare me – not so much what she says, but how she says it. I wonder how I should handle her. But when I return to my seat I find she has gone.
Red plague eradicated all human life from the globe. The last crow has picked the last flesh from the last bone. Ai and I alone survive, thanks to our natural immunity. We live in Amadeus Tea Room. Satellites’ orbits spin lower and lower, and now the electronic rafts float by our balcony, near enough to touch. Ai and I entertain ourselves by going on long walks through Tokyo. I choose diamonds for Ai, and Ai picks the finest guitars for me. Ai performs Debussy’s Arabesque live at the Budokan, then I run through my Lennon repertoire. We take it in turns to be the audience. Ai still makes delicious salads, and serves them in TV dishes. We have lived this way, as brother and sister, for a long time.
One day we hear a meeeeeeeeep noise on the balcony. Meeeeeeeeep. We peer out, through the ajar window, and see a hideous bird strolling towards us. Pig-big, turkey-scrotumed, condor-shaggy. Its beak is a hacksaw blade. Its alcoholic eyes are weeping sores. Every few steps it vomits up an eyeball egg, and then sits on it, wriggling to push it up its butt-hole. ‘Quick!’ says Ai. ‘Close the window! It wants to get in!’ She is right, but I hesitate – that beak could sever my wrist in one snap. Too late! The bird