some wine?”
“Here you are, honey. By the way, how did your work go today?”
“Well. Not so bad.” I didn’t tell her I’d nearly been killed. I’m the type who prefers not to take work home.
“Wow. These fish goujons are fantastic,” I said. “And I haven’t had konjak noodles for a long time. Hey! You’ve dropped some pork skin over there.”
“Funny. I didn’t bring any pork skin.”
I picked it up from the ground. It wasn’t pork skin – it was a human ear. The ear of some poor wretch who’d been blown apart by a shell. I quickly hurled it into the distance.
After finishing a whole bottle of wine, I was feeling rather tipsy. I stood up lazily, rifle in hand.
“Where are you going, honey?” asked my wife.
“Time to check the ammo,” I said as I set off towards the rock. “Back in a minute.”
“Mind how you go!”
That’s what she always said when I left the house. But here, there were no cars to run me over, no roadworks or manholes to fall into. There was no danger overhead or under foot. Of course, I had to be careful about the enemy. But I wasn’t worried, as I’d been told the enemy wouldn’t come at night. With that comforting thought in mind, I reached the rock in good spirits. Then something hit me really hard on the back of the head. I saw a dazzling display of fireworks dancing at the back of my eyeballs before I lost consciousness.
When I came to, I found myself tied to one of the ammunition boxes, bound with something that felt like wire. A man was laying fuses to each of the six piles of ammunition, connecting them all to a detonator he’d placed about a hundred yards away. He was obviously a saboteur from the Gabati army. He was planning to blow up all the ammunition, and me with it. I was going to shout out for help. But I stopped myself in time. If I called out now, my wife would come. Then the man would capture her too, and we’d both be blown up together. She didn’t deserve that.
Even so, I didn’t want to die. The man came towards me, so I decided to plead for my life. “Help me! Please! I don’t want to die! I’m a non-combatant. I’m just here to repair rifles. Don’t kill me!!”
“Sorry. I can’t let you go,” said the man. In the moonlight, I could see him clearly now – a goofy-looking, weasel-faced man with glasses. “You won’t suffer. It’ll be over in a split second.”
“No, but really, I’m not a soldier at all. I’m Japanese!” I urinated with such force that my trousers swelled up like a balloon. “I’m a Japanese company employee. I’m just a day soldier!”
“You mean – you’re Japanese too?!” He spoke in Japanese as he came towards me. “I work for a pharmaceuticals company that makes explosives,” he whispered in my ear. Then he grinned and nodded. “But that’s OK. I’m just a day soldier, too.”
Hello, Hello, Hello!
“Could I buy some new clothes, dear?” said my wife. “I’ve had these for two years now.”
“True,” I replied with a frown.
I needed a new suit myself. Being a company man, my clothes should have been more important than my wife’s, from a practical point of view. But if I’d said that, we’d only have ended up having another row. Of course we would. And the result would have been an overwhelming victory for my wife, as always. She’d have pointed out that I didn’t earn enough money. That, even after five years of marriage, we couldn’t afford to have children and were still living in rented accommodation. I would have been denounced for my incompetence and left without a leg to stand on.
Just as I was wondering how to respond, the apartment door opened and a middle-aged man appeared.
“Hello, hello, hello! Here I am, here I am, here I am! Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!”
The man walked straight into our apartment, came up to the kitchen table where we sat and continued to speak as we looked on in amazement. “New clothes, is it? Out of the question. You mustn’t buy new clothes. Must she, sir? You mustn’t buy new clothes, madam. Just look at your husband’s suit. It’s nearly worn out. Your husband’s clothes are more important than yours are. Aren’t they, madam? But even then, it’s too soon to have a new suit made. You can still use your old one,