Dance Dance Dance

11

We faced each other across a small table, talking. The table was very old, round, set with one candle in the middle. The candle had been stuck directly onto a saucer. And that was the entire inventory of furnish­ings in the room. There weren't any chairs. We sat on piles of books.

It was the Sheep Man's room.

Narrow and cramped. The walls and ceiling had the feel­ing of the old Dolphin Hotel, but it wasn't the old hotel either. At the far end of the room was a window, boarded up from inside. Boarded up a long time ago, if the rusty nails and gray dust in the cracks of the boards were any indica­tion. The room was a rectangular box. No lights. No closet. No bath. No bed. He must've slept on the floor, wrapped in his sheep costume.

There was barely enough room to walk. The floor was lit­tered with yellowing old books and newspapers and scrap-books filled with clippings. Some were worm-eaten, falling apart at their bindings. All, from what I could tell, having to do with the history of sheep in Hokkaido. All, probably, from the archive at the old Dolphin Hotel. The sheep refer­ence room, which the owner's father, the Sheep Professor, pretty much lived in. What ever became of him?

The Sheep Man looked at me across the flickering candle flame. Behind him, his disproportionately enormous shadow played over a grimy wall.

«Beenalongtime,» he spoke from behind his mask. «Let's-ussee, youthinnerorwhat?»

«Yeah, I might have lost some weight.»

«Sotellus, what'stheworldoutside? Wedon'tgetmuchnews, notinhere.»

I crossed my legs and shook my head. «Same as ever. Nothing worth mentioning. Everything's getting more com­plicated. Everything's speeding up. No, nothing's really new.»

The Sheep Man nodded. «Nextwarhasn'tbegunyet, we-takeit?»

Which was the Sheep Man's last war? I wasn't sure. «Not yet,» I said.

«Butsoonerorlateritwill,» he voiced, uninflected, folding his mitted hands. «Youbetterwatchout. War'sgonnacome, nothreewaysaboutit. Markourwords. Can'ttrustpeople. Won'tdoanygood. They'llkillyoueverytime. They'llkilleach-other. They'llkilleveryone.»

The Sheep Man's fleece was dingy, the wool stiff and greasy. His mask looked bad too, like something patched together at the last minute. The poor light in the damp room didn't help and maybe my memory was wrong, but it wasn't just the costume. The Sheep Man was worn-out. Since the last time I'd seen him four years ago, he'd shrunk. His breathing came harder, more disturbing to the ears, like a stopped-up pipe.

«Thoughtyou'dgetheresooner,» said the Sheep Man. «We-beenwaiting, allthistime. Meanwhile, somebodyelsecame-'round. Wethought, maybe, butwasn'tyou. Howdoyoulike-that? Justanybody, comewanderinginhere. But anyway, was-expectingyousooner.»

I shrugged my shoulders. «I always thought I would come back, I guess. I knew I had to, but I didn't have it together. I dreamed about it. About the Dolphin Hotel, I mean. Dreamed about it all the time. But it took a while to make up my mind to come back.»

«Triedtoputitoutofmind?»

«I guess so, yes,» I said. Then I looked at my hands in the flickering candlelight. A draft was coming in from somewhere. «In the beginning I thought I should try to forget what I could forget. I wanted a life completely dissociated from this place.»

«Becauseyourfrienddied?»

«Yes. Because my friend died.»

«Butyoucameback,» said the Sheep Man.

«Yes, I came back,» I said. «I couldn't get this place out of my mind. I tried to forget things, but then something else would pop up. So it didn't matter whether I liked it or not, I sort of knew I belonged here. I didn't really know what that meant either, but I knew it anyway. In my dreams about this place, I was . . . part of everything. Someone was crying for me here. Someone wanted me. That's why I came back. What is this place anyway?»

The Sheep Man looked me hard in the face and shook his head. «'Fraidwedon'tknowmuch. It'srealbig, it'srealdark. All-weknow'sthisroom. Beyondhere, wedon'tknow. Butanyway, you'rehere, somust'vebeentime. Timeyoufoundyourwayhere. Wayweseeit, atleast. ...» The Sheep Man paused to rumi­nate. «Maybesomebody'scryingforyou, throughthisplace. Somebodywhoknewyou, knewyou'dbeheadinghereanyway. Likeabird, comingbacktothenest. . . . Butlet'sussayitdifferent. Ifyouweren'tcomingbackhere, thisplacewouldn'texist.» The Sheep Man wrung his mitts. The shadow on the wall exag­gerated every gesture on a grand scale, a dark spirit poised to seize me from above.

Like a bird returning to the nest? Well, it did have that feel about it. Maybe my life had been following this unspo­ken course all this time.

«Sonow, yourturn,» said the Sheep Man. «Tellus'boutyourself. Thishere'syourworld. Noneedstandingonceremony. Takeyourtime. Talkallyouwant.»

There in the dim light, staring at the shadow on the wall, I poured out the story of my life. It had been so long, but slowly, like melting ice, I released each circumstance. How I managed to support myself. Yet never managed to go any­where. Never went anywhere, but aged all the same. How nothing touched me. And I touched nothing. How I'd lost track of what mattered. How I worked like a fool for things that didn't. How it didn't make a difference either way. How I was losing form. The tissues hardening, stiffening from within. Terrifying me. How I barely made the connection to this place. This place I didn't know but had this feeling that I was part of. ... This place that maybe I knew instinctively I belonged to....

The Sheep Man listened to everything without saying a word. He might even have been asleep. But when I was through talking, he opened his eyes and spoke softly. «Don'tworry. Youreallyarepartofhere, really. Alwayshavebeen, alwayswillbe. Itallstartshere, itallendshere. Thisisyour-place. It'stheknot. It'stiedtoeverything.»

«Everything?»

«Everything. Thingsyoulost. Thingsyou'regonnalose. Everything. Here'swhereitalltiestogether.»

I thought about this. I couldn't make any sense of it. His words were too vague, fuzzy. I had to get him to explain. But he was through talking. Did that mean explanation was impossible? He shook his woolly head silently. His sewed-on ears flapped up and down. The shadow on the wall quaked. So massively I thought the wall would collapse.

«It'llmakesense. Soonenough, it'llallmakesense. Whenthe-timecomes, you'llunderstand,» he assured me.

«But tell me one thing then,» I said. «Why did the owner of the Dolphin Hotel insist on the name for the new hotel?»

«Hediditforyou,» said the Sheep Man. «Theyhadtokeep-thename, soyou'dcomeback. Otherwise, youwouldn'tbehere. Thebuildingchanges, theDolphinHotelstays. Likewesaid, it'sallhere. Webeenwaitingforyou.»

I had to laugh. «For me? They called this place the Dol­phin Hotel just for me?»

«Darntootin'. Thatsostrange?»

I shook my head. «No, not strange, just amazing. It's so out-of-the-blue, it's like it's not real.»

«Oh, it'sreal,» said the Sheep Man softly. «RealastheDolphinHotelsigndownstairs'sreal. Howrealdoyouwant?» He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, and the flame of the candle shuddered. «Andwe'rereallyhere. Webeenwaiting. Foryou. Wemadearrangements. Wethoughtofeverything. Everything, soyoucouldreconnect, witheveryone.»

I gazed into the dancing candle flame. This was too much to believe. «I don't get it. Why would you go to all the trou­ble? For me?»

«Thisisyourworld,» said the Sheep Man matter-of-factly. «Don'tthinktoohardaboutit. Ifyou'reseekingit, it'shere. The-placewasputhereforyou. Special. Andweworkedspeciallhard-togeyoubackhere. Tokeepthingsfromfallingapart. Tokeep-youfromforgetting.»

«So I really am part of something here?»

«'Courseyoubelonghere. Everybody'sallinhere, together. Thisisyourworld,» repeated the Sheep Man.

«So who are you? And what are you doing here?»

«WearetheSheepMan,» he chortled. «Can'tyoutell? Wewearthesheepskin, andweliveinaworldhumanscan'tsee. Wewerechasedintothewoods. Longtimeago. Long, long-timeago. Canhardlyrememberwhatwewerebefore. Butsince-thenwebeenkeepingoutofsight. Easytodo, ifthat'swhatyou-want. Thenwecamehere, tolookaftertheplace. It'ssomewhere, outoftheelements. Thewoodsgotwildanimals. Knowwhatwemean?»

«Sure,» I said.

«Weconnectthings. That'swhatwedo. Likeaswitchboard, weconnectthings. Here'stheknot. Andwetieit. We'rethelink. Don'twantthingstogetlost, sowetietheknot. That'sourduty. Switchboardduty. Youseekforit, weconnect, yougotit. Getit?»

«Sort of,» I said.

«So,» resumed the Sheep Man, «sonowyouneedus. Else, youwouldn'tbehere. Youlostthings, soyou'relost. Youlostyour-way. Yourconnectionscomeundone. Yougotconfused, think-yougotnoties. Buthere'swhereitalltiestogether.»

I thought about what he said. «You're probably right. As you say, I've lost and I'm lost and I'm confused. I'm not anchored to anything. Here's the only place I feel like I belong to.» I broke off and stared at my hands in the candle­light. «But the other thing, the person I hear crying in my dreams, is there a connection here? I think I can feel it. You know, if I could, I think I want to pick up where I left off, years ago. That must be what I need you here for.»

The Sheep Man was silent. He didn't seem to have more to say. The silence weighed heavily, as if we'd been plunged to the bottom of a very deep pit. It bore down on me, pin­ning my thoughts under its gravity. From time to time, the candle sputtered. The Sheep Man turned his gaze toward the flame. Still the silence continued, interminably. Then slowly, the Sheep Man raised his eyes toward me.

«We'lldowhatwecan,» said the Sheep Man. «Though-we'regettingoninyears. Hopewestillgotthestuffinus, hehheh. We'lltry, butnoguarantees, nopromisesyou'regonnabe-happy.» He picked at a snag in his fleece and searched for words. «Wejustcan'tsay. Inthatotherworld, mightnotbeany-placeanymore, notanywhereforyou. You'restartingtolook-prettyfixed, maybetoofixedtopryloose. You'renotsoyoung-anymore, either, yourself.»

«So where does that leave me?»

«Youlostlotsofthings. Lostlotsofpreciousthings. Notany-body'sfault. Buteachtimeyoulostsomething, youdroppeda-wholestringofthingswithit. Nowwhy? Why'dyouhavetogo-anddothat?»

«I don't know.»

«Hardtododifferent. Yourfate, orsomethinglikefate. Ten­dencies.»

«Tendencies?»

«Tendencies. Yougottendencies. Soevenifyoudidevery-thingoveragain, yourwholelife, yougottendenciestodojust-whatyoudid, alloveragain.»

«Yes, but where does that leave me?»

«Likewesaid, we'lldowhatwecan. Trytoreconnectyou, towhatyouwant,» said the Sheep Man. «Butwecan'tdoitalone. Yougottaworktoo. Sitting'snotgonnadoit, thinking's-notgonnadoit.»

«So what do I have to do?»

«Dance,» said the Sheep Man. «Yougottadance. Aslong-asthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don'teventhinkwhy. Start-tothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck. Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. You-gottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhat-youbolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou're tired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon't-letyourfeetstop.»

I looked up and gazed again at the shadow on the wall.

«Dancingiseverything,» continued the Sheep Man. «Danceintip-topform. Dancesoitallkeepsspinning. Ifyoudo-that, wemightbeabletodosomethingforyou. Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays.»

Dance. As long as the music plays, echoed my mind.

«Hey, what is this world you keep talking about? You say that if I stay fixed in place, I'm going to be dragged from that world to this world, or something like that. But isn't this world meant for me? Doesn't it exist for me? So what's the problem? Didn't you say this place really exists?»

The Sheep Man shook his head. His shadow shook a hur­ricane. «Here'sdifferent. You'renotready, notforhere. Here's-toodark, toobig. Hardtoexplain. Likewesaid, wedon't-knowmuch. Butit'sreal, allright. Youandustalkinghere'sreal-ity. Butit'snottheonlyonereality. Lotsofrealitiesoutthere. Wejustchosethisone, because, well, wedon'tlikewar. Andwe-hadnothingtolose. Butyou, youstillgotwarmth. Sohere'stoo-cold. Nothingtoeat. Nottheplaceforyou.»

No sooner had the Sheep Man mentioned the cold than I noticed the temperature in the room. I burrowed my hands in my pockets, shivering.

«Youfeelit, don'tyou?» asked the Sheep Man.

Yes, I nodded.

«Time'srunningout,» warned the Sheep Man. «Themoretimepasses, thecolderitgets. Youbetterbegoing.»

«Wait, one last thing. I guess you've been around all this time, except I haven't seen you. Just your shadow every­where. You're just sort of always there.»

The Sheep Man traced an indefinite shape with his finger. «That'sright. We'rehalfshadow, we'reinbetween.»

«But I still don't understand,» I said. «Here I can see your face and body clearly. I couldn't before, but now I can. Why?»

«Youlostsomuch,» he bleated softly, «thatnowyoucan-seeus.»

«Do you mean . . . ?» And bracing myself, I asked the big question: «Is this the world of the dead?»

«No,» replied the Sheep Man. His shoulders swayed as he took a breath. «Youandus, we'reliving. Breathing. Talking.»

«I don't get it.»

«Dance,» he said. «It'stheonlyway. Wishwecouldex-plainthingsbetter. Butwetoldyouallwecould. Dance. Don't-think. Dance. Danceyourbest, likeyourlifedependedonit. Yougottadance.»

The temperature was falling. I suddenly seemed to remem­ber this chill. A bone-piercing, damp chill. Long ago and far away. But where? My mind was paralyzed. Fixed and rigid.

Fixed and rigid.

«Youbettergo,» urged the Sheep Man. «Stayhere, you'll-freeze. Butifyouneedus, we'rehere. Youknowwheretofind us.»

The Sheep Man escorted me out to the bend in the hall­way, dragging his feet along, shuffle . . . shuffle . . . shuffle. We said good-bye. No handshake, no special salutations. Just good-bye, and then we parted into the darkness. He returned to his tiny room and I continued to the elevator. I pressed the call button. When the elevator arrived, the door opened without a sound. Bright light spilled out over me into the hallway. I got in and collapsed against the wall. The door closed. I did not move.

Well . . . , I thought to myself. Well what? Nothing came after. My mind was a huge vacuum. A vacuum that went on and on endlessly nowhere. Like the Sheep Man said, I was tired and scared. And alone. And lost.

«Yougottadance,» the Sheep Man said.

You gotta dance, echoed my mind.

«Gotta dance,» I repeated out loud.

I pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.

When the elevator got there, «Moon River» greeted me from the ceiling speakers. The real world—where I probably could never be happy, and never get anywhere.

I glanced at my watch. Return time, three-twenty A.M.

Well now, I thought. Well now well now well now well now well now well now . . ., echoed my mind.