The Missing Person and the Calculator
The way my husband disappeared was like a drop of water falling on scorching asphalt on a summer afternoon – a sizzle, then evaporated without a trace. No argument, no warning, not even a hastily scribbled farewell note. He just vanished, along with his running shoes by the entryway, a few neatly ironed shirts in the closet, and the seven years we had shared. That was four years ago.
Today, four years later, I sat by the window in an inexpensive coffee shop. Condensation gathered on the cool surface of the glass in my hand, like silent tears. Outside was a less-than-bustling Tokyo street, pedestrians hurrying by, their expressions indistinct. The air held a mixture of coffee, dampness, and a certain urban weariness. Across from me sat my lawyer, a man in a well-fitting suit with an expression as precise as a calculator. He had just handed me a document, a court judgment. The divorce petition was approved, which was expected. What was unexpected was the final item on the judgment: household labor compensation.
"Pursuant to the relevant provisions of the Civil Code, and based on the evidence you provided," the lawyer explained in a monotone devoid of any inflection, as if reading a weather forecast, "the court has discretionarily ruled that the husband must pay you a sum for household labor compensation. The amount is... three hundred seventy-eight thousand, six hundred fifty-two yuan."
Three hundred seventy-eight thousand, six hundred fifty-two yuan. The number landed like a cold, hard pebble in the placid waters of my life. I stared at the figure on the judgment, precise down to the last yuan, feeling a bit dizzy. Seven years of marriage, countless mornings ironing shirts, countless plates of meticulously prepared spaghetti, countless times scrubbing limescale from the bathtub, countless nights waiting for him to come home late... All this intangible time and energy, condensed, calculated, and finally converted into such a specific number. As if someone had tried to measure the density of fog with a ruler.
What kind of person was my husband? Honestly, the longer time passes, the blurrier his image becomes. I remember he liked Bill Evans' piano music, especially on rainy Sunday afternoons. He would listen quietly on the sofa, holding a thick hardcover book, usually with a dark blue cover. He ate quickly, as if something was always chasing him. He didn't talk much about his work, nor did he share his inner thoughts much. Our conversations mostly revolved around the weather, what to have for dinner, or the next movie to watch. Like two planets in fixed orbits, accompanying each other, yet never truly drawing near.
His disappearance itself was like a Bill Evans piece, full of white space and unspoken melancholy. The police came, asked questions, took notes, then retreated like the tide, leaving me with a house full of silence. Friends tried to comfort me, but their words felt like knocking on thick glass, muffled and distant. Gradually, I grew accustomed to living alone. Making coffee for one in the morning, saying goodnight to an empty room in the evening. I even got a cat, a taciturn Russian Blue with green eyes similar to my husband's, deep and inscrutable. We keep each other company, without disturbing one another.
Now, this "compensation" has barged in like a belated, peculiar ghost. What is it? Compensation for my lost youth? A price tag on the daily, repetitive, trivial labor? Or a symbolic punishment for his silent departure?
The lawyer was still talking, explaining the enforcement procedures, bank accounts, deadlines. His voice was clear, professional, each word as standardized as if printed by a machine. But I barely heard him. My thoughts drifted elsewhere. I thought of Kafka's novels, where protagonists struggle within vast, cold, incomprehensible bureaucratic systems, searching for meaning, often in vain. Isn't this judgment, this number precise down to the last yuan, the result of such a system at work? It attempts to quantify the unquantifiable with money, to define a relationship that has already vanished like smoke using legal clauses.
Three hundred seventy-eight thousand, six hundred fifty-two yuan. What could I do with it? Travel to Greece, watch the sunset over the Aegean Sea? Buy an expensive Steinway piano, even though I can't play? Or deposit it in the bank, watch it become an even colder string of digits?
Regardless, it could never fill the void left by my husband's disappearance. That void wasn't just because of his leaving, but stemmed from a certain alienation and unknowability that had always existed in our life together. He was like a discordant note that appeared briefly in the score of my life, then abruptly stopped, leaving behind an endless rest.
The coffee had gone cold. I picked up the judgment; the paper felt surprisingly real. I nodded at the lawyer and said, "I understand. Thank you."
Stepping out of the coffee shop, the afternoon sun was a bit blinding. The street was still busy, everyone moving towards their own destinations. I folded the judgment, put it in my bag next to my wallet and the half-read collection of Raymond Carver short stories. The Russian Blue cat was waiting for me at home, perhaps curled up on the sofa, dozing with narrowed eyes.
Three hundred seventy-eight thousand, six hundred fifty-two yuan. The number brought neither relief nor anger, only a deeper sense of confusion and aimlessness. It hung like a riddle at the entrance to my future life. Perhaps what matters isn't the money itself, but what it represents – the world's attempt to understand and define everything, even people and things that have long since dissipated into the air, like water vapor.
I took a deep breath. The air still carried that familiar urban scent, a mixture of weariness and some tiny spark of hope. Then, I took a step forward, merging into the moving crowd. As for where I was going, I hadn't decided yet. Maybe I'll go home and cook a pot of spaghetti first, with lots and lots of basil. Just like before. Only this time, just for myself.