Operation 52

The Old Man's Story

Part III

The next morning I ate breakfast again at the hotel. This time there was another patron, despite it being so early. I regarded him carefully and affirmed that it was the same albino man as before. He sat in the far back of the hotel, wiping the eggs of his plate with a piece of toast. Today he wore a military uniform. It made him look younger, somehow, almost like it brought back the young man of days yonder.

He wasn't too far from me, in fact, I could probably hold a conversation with him from here. He didn't seem to notice me, however. If he really was Ludwig's older brother I could get some information out of him, I was sure. But that may end up as a longer story still.

"Um, excuse me?" I called over to him.

He perked up his head and squinted at me, pausing his chewing.

"Yes…?" he responded.

"I—I'm very sorry to bother you during breakfast—but is it possible, sir, that you could answer a question for me?" I fumbled, trying not to mess up my words and somehow make it seem like an insult.

He gave me a questioning look, "Well, spit it out."

"Are you, by chance, the older brother of someone named Ludwig?"

He flinched at the sound of the name and ducked his head. His eyes widened and he became suddenly very interested in his water, stirring it with his finger. Brushing his hair away from his eyes with several withered fingers, he didn't answer for some time.

"I'm sorry if I asked a bad question," I began but he hushed me with a wave of his hand.

"No," he said and stood up, coming over to my table and pulling up a chair. From this distance I could decipher his features better. His face was oval shaped and pale. He must have been a striking young man back when he was younger, extremely handsome even. Now he still retained some his dignified days of youth, but most of it had fallen away, like leaves from an aging tree. "I'm Gilbert Bielschmidt, by the way."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bielschmidt, I'm Matthew Williams."

"Let's speak in French," he said, switching over with surprising fluency. "I feel like that would be easier for the both of us."

"Yes, I suppose that would be better."

Gilbert shifted, clearing his throat. He gazed around the room and, after a slight pause, fastened his eyes on me.

"Yes, my younger brother is named Ludwig."

"Was he on Operation 52?"

"Yes."

"Oh…"

Gilbert offered me an encouraging smile. "Don't worry. I need to confront the pain sooner or later, so I better do it now. It's true. My brother went on this mission with two other men. I received his letter telling me this too late. I had been doing some military operations as well, more of a lackey than an actual soldier, I suppose, but I was there nonetheless. I shot several bullets, I hit several men, and I did some other things I'm not very proud of. When I got the message I didn't think much of it. He rarely expressed emotion and the letter was no exception. It was formally written, telling me not to wait for him and to not worry too much over it. I was a naïf kid back then, so I thought it was pretty cool that he had been sent out on that mission. In fact, I was jealous. Needless to say, I'm not anymore. After he did not come back I felt a deep, moving sort of sorrow that lasted for a long, long time after. I got notice of his death just as I returned home. You can imagine the amount of emotions that went through my head…"

"I'm very sorry," I said sympathetically.

"Don't be… But how did you know about that Operation? I thought that information was under lock and key."

"Word got out," I lied. For some reason I didn't fancy telling him about Mr. Honda.

He didn't seem to believe me, but he didn't have the energy to question it either.

"Well, I have some things I need to do. Why don't you meet me for dinner tonight in the restaurant across the street? Then I'll tell you the rest of the story." Leaving it at that, Gilbert returned to his table and gathered his watch that he had left on the table. I wouldn't have left it personally; since I was convinced someone would steal it. He didn't appear to care anymore. I suppose when you lose your only brother, losing anything else is just an insignificant detail.

I left not long afterwards. The waitress, the same one from the day before, stood at the door. She bade me to have a good day and I returned the kindness. She giggled when I smiled and brushed away a strand of long hair from her face.

I drove back to Mr. Honda's place and went through the forest with even more ease that before. Mr. Honda kneeled before the sliding doors, looking out into the forest. When he spotted me he gave me a kind smile.

"Hello, Mr. Williams."

"Hello, Mr. Honda," I said, slipping off my shoes and entering the house. I pulled my satchel off my shoulder and dug through it, finding the bigger of the wrapped parcels. I took it out and gave it to Mr. Honda with a polite bow.

He looked at it in surprise, taking it in his hands and feeling it with his fingers. "You didn't have to get an old man like me a present."

"I thought I would, anyway." I smiled. He thanked me as he opened the package and examined the figure inside.

"It's very cute, and also somewhat mysterious, too." He stood up and walked to his kitchen, placing the figure on the counter. "Thank you," he said, admiring it from a distance before returning to sit by me.

"Before we start the story," I said, remembering what I had forgotten the previous visit, "I was wondering: do you know anything about my brother? His future, his present…? I'm worried for him."

"Yes, he suffered that accident. Didn't he?" Mr. Honda said, sitting across from me. He hadn't set the table up yet. I was earlier than usual and I didn't want tea anyway.

I crossed my legs and placed my hands on my knees, watching him expectantly.

"I'm not an oracle, Mr. Williams, so I can't give you your fortune whenever I please. However, I can give you a vague explanation, I suppose."

"Vague or not, I want some sort of idea I can grapple with, something to set my mind at ease. I wish I called him earlier, actually." My brother wasn't stupid, but he could be rather oblivious to danger and plunge right in at any moment. Our mother would worry herself sick over him, pulling me to her side and asking for my quiet comfort.

"Yes… Alfred will change. His life will be swept upstream into new courses faster than even he can handle. But nothing will be all bad or all good. Sometimes it will seem like a lot of bad things have clumped together and hurled themselves at him, and other times good things will rain down on him. I think I can offer you something more concrete, actually, and that's that he will receive the best present in his life very soon."

I thought about the keychain in my pocket and wondered if that was it. Then I came across thinking about my own future. It made me nervous and weary, like a high school student considers his or her life ahead.

"Thank you Mr. Honda," I said quietly.

"I feel ready to tell you the third and final part of my story, now," he said.

"I'm ready, too." I put my notepad on my lap and readied my pen.

Sighing to collect his thoughts, he began:

I remained sitting there with Feliciano for a long while, even after his death. I forgot to count the days or hours, and I had no means to either. I'm sure I was there for at least a day. I couldn't feel hunger, only a gnawing thirst. But sorrow swelled so deep in my chest that hunger was a petty trouble. Eventually, however, I needed to get going. Something drove me on, some deep need to live. I squirmed out of the rope at my wrists, which were surprisingly loose. It took nearly an hour, or what felt like one, to finally free myself of them. I then undid the binds at my feet and stood up. My legs trembled. I thought I would topple over so I slowed down, looking over at Feliciano.

Empty eye sockets glared at the ground, blood trailed down his cheeks like tear stains. I didn't know how to tell him goodbye. I choked with sobs and trembled at the thought of leaving him alone without a burial, but I needed to get going. I walked back to the tent and tried to find something that would be of use. Most of our supplies had been destroyed or stolen. I dug through one of the bags and found a cracked radio, but still functional. I called for help on it. I didn't care if someone interfered with the signal. I knew no one would, however. I told them that I was the only one alive and that the message was not delivered, but destroyed. I didn't have the energy to make it to HQ to deliver that news. My vision was blanking on me, shifting in and out of reality.

I put on some extra pants I found that hadn't been stolen and a shirt, but I felt cold. I felt horribly chilled, down to the bone even though it wasn't cold outside at all. I took one of our canteens and drained it, digging for food, but all of it had been destroyed. I planned to sleep. Weariness stripped me of wakefulness like a child rips petals from a flower. But I needed to make sure I wasn't being tracked. I exited the tent again. The tent itself rattled haphazardly in the wind. Some of its legs must have been damaged by the intruders. Outside I went to where the horses were. One had escaped, one was severely injured, and the other was dead. The injured one moaned in such humanoid tones I thought it was a man at first. Blood spirit from the bullet wounds like water from a fountain. The intruders must have shot it so we couldn't escape. I didn't think I could watch any more death so I returned to the tent and lay down on the hard, dry dust. I fell asleep listening to the groans and whining.

I slept for a very long time.

When I woke up I was already in a hospital. I drearily opened my eyes and tried to understand what was happening. I'm sorry, Mr. Williams, but the details of this time are so unclear. All I remember is the moment I woke up a nurse stood over me. This part I remember clearly, as though it had happened an hour ago. She had dark hair tied up and under a little white hat. Her sleeves were short and exposed her long arms. She patted my forehead with something damp and placed something cold against my chest, probably to listen to my heart beat. After that I lost consciousness again.

The next time I woke I was looked over by the Lieutenant who sent us out on the mission. He shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in me. I muttered an apology. When I fell asleep again that time I dreamt. I remember the dream very well.

I was in a white hall. It stretched out seemingly into infinity. I couldn't see an end, no matter which way I looked. To my sides the walls were blank and smooth. I had no choice but to walk. I went forwards, on and on and on and on. The hall unfurled before me, never ending. I walked for what felt like days, though I felt no exhaustion or starvation. There was a constant beeping sound ringing in my ears. I understood later that it came from the heart monitor beside me. I reached a door at last and reached over to open it, but my hands touched only air. There was no handle. The door itself was clearly defined by the crevice it made in the wall. I pushed and shoved at it, pulling with my fingernails, and at one point it did open. On the other side of the room I heard screams. They were Feliciano's and Ludwig's. The sounds wrapped together, twisting into a taught rope of sound that tore into my muscles, into my bones, into my nerves—into my very being.

I woke up after that and remained awake until I was dismissed a week after my arrival. I had lost a considerable amount of weight, but I was no longer at a dangerous level either. I went home finally to my family. I remained at my parent's home, tended to by my mother and comforted somewhat with by my father. I regained my health and enough psychological strength to find a job.

After I got a job in publishing I made enough money to rent my own apartment. I tried my best to forget the past, to forget all that happened, but I couldn't. It haunted my every waking moment. I could not make any more friends. I never married nor had a partner besides the few I hosted in my school years. I hardly remember who they were. I spent ten years in the company and then moved through jobs, becoming at one moment well-to-do and at another impoverished. Finally I settled with a job as an accountant, which I had originally been trained to do, all the way until I bought this house and retired fifteen years ago.

My family went down their life course, I visited funeral after funeral, and even then I didn't feel much.

"Even now, Mr. Williams, I still hear the screams. I still smell the blood. I still wonder why I couldn't die, why fate had to be so cruel to me." Mr. Honda looked at me and examined my eyes. I felt that if I peered back, looked inside him, then I would smell the blood and hear the screams.

I recalled how I had come in contact with Mr. Honda. I was browsing around for stories to put in my book and people to interview. At the time I didn't want to leave the country, or even the province, but a college of mine said she had a friend who was a relative of Mr. Honda's. She told me about how he had been sent on a secret mission and how it may fit in my book.

"If his mission was so interesting," I retorted, "then they probably would have covered it."

"Actually, he's never told it to anyone," she replied. "But I doubt that will change for you. I'll talk with my friend and see if you could correspond with him."

She talked to the friend and I gave her my mailing address. No longer than a week passed that I received a letter from Mr. Honda. I contemplated going to Japan and sapping most of my money for the trip. But then again it would make my Japanese classes in college worthwhile and I would have a trip to remember for the rest of my life. So, I packed my bags and left. Once in Japan it took some time to locate the town he lived in. I rented a car, found the hotel, and there I was.

"Thank you so much for telling me your story, Mr. Honda. I understand that it must have taken a lot of energy to tell it, and cost you a good deal of pain," I said.

Mr. Honda spread his fingers out on his knees, looking down at them. "No, you mustn't thank me for that. I needed to tell the story anyway. It was bound to come out sooner or later. And speaking of those times has softened their impact on me. Perhaps soften isn't the right word, but they certainly made them more bearable. I doubt I will ever forget, even in my most senile hours."

I thanked him again and looked back out into the forest. I could see how the dirt path sloped up a hill and cut through the forest before being swallowed by vegetation. The sky was mostly clear, but over cast in the horizon, as though the clouds had slipped down the glove and settled in that position where the earth met with the horizon. The sun shone down, giving everything a soft glow.

"Mr. Honda?" I said, turning back to him.

"Yes?"

"Would you care to join me and an acquaintance for dinner tonight? I'll come by and pick you up." Before I knew what I was saying, I had said it. Now the words hung in the air. I was tempted to pull them back, but they were long gone.

Mr. Honda considered this.

"I would enjoy that very much, but I will walk there. I need the walk anyway."

"The place is—oh, but you know don't you?"

Mr. Honda nodded.

"Until then," I stood up, collected my shoes, and left.

I drove straight to the hotel, catching a glance of the restaurant as I passed. It was closed now. The curtains were drawn and the door was locked. Several advertisements hung on the windows, peeling at the corners. I parked my car and went to the room, greeting the receptionist as I walked by.

In the room I fell down on the bed, my hands on my stomach and my legs hanging over the edge. I closed my eyes, feeling strangely sleepy. I would nap until then, I decided, and my head rolled to the side on the pillow, sleep overcoming me.

I didn't dream.

When I woke up it was time to go. I grabbed my satchel, preparing to pay for the meal, and glanced in the mirror. I didn't hate my appearance. I never really did, not even when I had a mouthful of braces and zits spotting my cheeks. Now freckles clustered at my cheek bones and nose, even though I didn't spend that much time in the sun. I pulled my hair back and tied it with a loose piece of string, and left.

I walked to the restaurant to find Gilbert already there. We went to a table with four seats. I explained that I had invited a friend, one that he may enjoy meeting. Gilbert took this in without a change of attitude.

"The more the merrier," he said, in fact.

The waitress came by and asked if we wanted a drink. We both ordered a beer. When she left, her skirt swinging, Mr. Honda finally arrived. He no longer wore his kimono. Instead he wore dress pants and a cotton dress shirt, looking almost young again. He sat with us and called the waitress over, ordering a glass of water.

She came back with the water and beers, taking our orders next. I ordered some fish, like last time, and the others ordered something else that I didn't pay attention too. We did not speak. She brought back the meal and we ate, slurping loudly to indicate our pleasure with the food.

Once we were half-way done with our meal, Gilbert began to speak. He asked simple questions about me and about Mr. Honda.

"So, we all met because of Operation 52, huh?" Gilbert said, indicating a transition in our conversation. "And you were there, weren't you?" He asked Mr. Honda.

Mr. Honda responded in the affirmative.

"I see… So, what happened to my brother?"

Mr. Honda then gave him an extremely abbreviated version of the story, telling him about how the lieutenant gathered them, about the desert, and about how they were discovered. He told him that Ludwig was dead. How he came to be so, he abstained from saying. Perhaps he didn't have the energy or he did not want to sadden Gilbert.

Once we finished we went outside and that was the last time I saw either of them. I never exchanged addresses or any sort of contact data with Gilbert and he did not give me any inclination to indicate that he wanted any in the first place.

The next day I exited the hotel, returned the car, and boarded my plane ride back home. Once there I drained the last of my savings to see Alfred in the US. When I saw him he was able to walk around just fine. He still had a sickly bruise on his ribs, but otherwise was at rest.

He invited me to dinner and I stayed; my car outside ready to take me home at any time. I gave him his gift and he thanked me for it, putting it on his pocket and hugging me in gratitude.

We ate and I described my trip, giving him a brief synopsis of Mr. Honda's tale. I was happy to see him anyway. Just as I prepared to leave his house and go home there was a knock on the door: three timid taps. He stood up and went over, opening the door. At his doorstep, just like all those strange fairytales, was a basket. Inside a baby was bawling, its tiny fists beating against the blanket. Pinned to the top of the basket was the note. Alfred took the baby home, confused, but there was a layer of thick elation on his face.

"A baby, huh?" he said.

I understood what the biggest gift he would receive was, then.

The next day I went home. He had several of his friends come and go to keep the baby, up until the baby—a girl—was five, and then he married and settled down.

The day after the baby's arrival, back at home, I began to search for a job. The notepad I had was crammed with Mr. Honda's story, up to the last page where my handwriting got squished together.

A couple weeks later I received news of Mr. Honda's death. The news hit my like a freight train. I ceased to sleep well. For a month I thinned and survived on bread and water. I wanted my mother and Alfred to pet my hair and comfort me, but none were in sight.

I never wrote that book.

I found a job at a bank and somehow paid off all my debts. I hadn't heard word from Alfred in years. I had shut myself off from the world.

And, for some reason, I didn't feel lonely.

I imagined that this was how Mr. Honda felt. He must have suffered like I had. Even though I hadn't received his events first hand, the mere sharing of them had poured half the pain into me. That's why I didn't write the book. Even when I was rather old and I had found the notepad, I still didn't want to share it with the world.

The world was vaster than I used to think. Sure, I knew it was real big and full of tunnels and passageways, but all those little details in between are what became visible at the time. Each body that roamed the earth had its own being and its own memories. Many thought they were an independent entity, and others understood that they were just another piece of the machine. Whenever I hear that the world is "imperfect" I'm bound to disagree.

The world is perfect. The world is not the perfect one usually imagines, however. It's not clean or peaceful, but in its dirt and chaos there is a perfect balance. The world is balanced so precariously. People roam the earth and make up a part of that perfection. Even the dirt under my fingernails is perfect. If one thing was off the world would be thrown out of balance, and then it would be imperfect.

But there was so much more to people, a whole new level of understanding that Kiku knew about. I wish I had asked him at the time. But even that is perfect.

Maybe that was the purpose of Operation 52.