Dragon Palace by Hiromi Kawakami

Author:Hiromi Kawakami
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stone Bridge Press

THIS IS how my day begins.

I wake early—most mornings, before my wife.

If the sun is up, a faint light shines through the cracks in the ceiling. I lie there a while, gazing at the thin rays of sunshine entering the room.

On cloudy days, or if it’s raining, no light enters. When it snows, which is rare, an almost imperceptible whiteness filters through, even before daybreak.

Under the covers is nice and warm, but the tip of my nose is cold. I’d like to use the toilet, but it’s so cozy I have a hard time getting myself out of bed.

In the end, my wife is the one who gets up first. She’s a creature of the morning, humming a tune as she bustles about lighting the kitchen stove and launching into the housework.

By the time I’m finally dressed and ready to go check on the humans I hauled in yesterday, or the day before, or the days before that, the stove is glowing red, the kettle is singing away, and the smell of toasting bread fills the room. My wife is quick on her toes, that’s for sure.

The humans I picked up, they’re all in the next room.

Most are sprawled on the floor. There is a generous supply of mattresses and pillows, blankets and quilts. Few ask for permission to use them. Some burrow in the moment they arrive. Some shove aside the humans who are already sleeping there to steal their place in the warm bedding. Some stomp about the room, trampling on those lying on the floor. They’re all like that. After about half a day, though, each has marked out their own territory and the room has quieted down.

Every morning, I go about tapping each human on the shoulder. First, to make sure they’re alive. Second, to see if they want to leave right away, or if they’re going to stay for a while.

I drag those who have died to the pit and toss them in. The pit is even deeper than the hole we live in, at least a hundred meters to the bottom. I didn’t dig it myself. Nor did my wife. It was our ancestors, generations of them, who scraped it out, bit by bit.

Its original purpose was as a receptacle for the dead of our own clan. As the years passed, however, our numbers steadily diminished until now the only ones of us left in this world are our parents and our younger siblings—a pair of sisters and a pair of brothers.

All of them, parents and siblings alike, moved far south, beyond Kyushu, to live in the deepest recesses of the earth. In that underground redoubt they can pass their days quietly, undisturbed by any human intruders. My wife’s mother sends an email every so often, urging us to get out of Tokyo as soon as possible and join them. She seems to be afraid that our siblings will announce that they plan to follow us to Tokyo.

A simple tap on the shoulder tells me which humans can leave—those ready to go are able to respond.

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