Melodie Read online




  ‘Akira Mizubayashi is a man whose dog, Mélodie, taught him what it means to be human because she enabled him to discover his creatureliness in their companionship. It was a discovery that could be made only in the light of love, with patient attention. Mizubayashi reflects upon, and in the quality of his prose shows us by example, what literature can reveal about the truthful possibilities in our relations to fellow creatures who are not human beings.’

  Raimond Gaita

  MÉLODIE

  MÉLODIE

  a memoir of love and longing

  AKIRA MIZUBAYASHI

  Translated by Stephanie Anderson

  MELBOURNE UNIVERSITY PRESS

  An imprint of Melbourne University Publishing Limited

  11–15 Argyle Place South, Carlton, Victoria 3053, Australia

  [email protected]

  www.mup.com.au

  First published 2016

  French text © Akira Mizubayashi, 2016

  English translation © Stephanie Anderson, 2016

  Design and typography © Melbourne University Publishing Limited, 2016

  This book is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means or process whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  Every attempt has been made to locate the copyright holders for material quoted in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been overlooked or misattributed may contact the publisher.

  Cover design by Mary Callahan

  Text design and typesetting by Patrick Cannon

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Mizubayashi, Akira, 1951– author.

  Mélodie: a memoir of love and longing/Akira Mizubayashi; originally published in French; translated by Stephanie Anderson.

  9780522869880 (paperback)

  9780522869897 (ebook)

  Mizubayashi, Akira, 1951–

  Mélodie (Dog)

  Dogs—Japan—Anecdotes.

  Grief.

  Other Creators/Contributors:

  Anderson, Stephanie, translator.

  843.92

  In memory of Jiro Mizubayashi, my father

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Prelude

  1 A Howl In The Night

  2 2 December 2009

  Part I To Be Sensitive, to Be Compassionate

  3 A Double Birth

  4 The Pain of the First Night

  5 First Meal

  6 Waiting for the First Outing

  7 First Outing

  8 Ardent Youth

  9 To Understand

  10 First Separation

  11 The Puppies

  12 Pity

  Part II Absolute Fidelity: To Wait Till It Kills You

  13 Help!

  14 Vomiting

  15 Punishments

  16 Walks

  17 The Shower

  18 A Stillbirth

  19 An Evening Party

  20 Waiting

  Part III ‘You Ask that I Forget You? Fear Not, My Beloved.’

  21 To Wake or Not to Wake?

  22 Eat Me!

  23 To Be Constant or to Waver

  24 The Final Days

  25 Cremation

  26 Mélodie and Her Companion

  27 Unfaithful—Yet Yearning for Fidelity

  Finale

  28 ‘All the Animals Are Dead’: The Afterlife of Mélodie

  FOREWORD

  A JAPANESE MAN I’d never met before approached me in front of Gallimard: ‘You’re the author of The Difficulty of Being a Dog! My dog has been dead for two years, and I dream about her every night.’

  That was the beginning of our friendship. A friendship, I should add, between three of us under the aegis of our departed dogs: my Ulysse, J-B Pontalis’s Oreste and Akira Mizubayashi’s Mélodie.

  Having published his fine homage to the French language, A Language from Another Place, Akira Mizubayashi felt the need to create, again in French, this evocation of his beloved golden retriever Mélodie, a poetic tombeau (tomb: an elegy), as it used to be called. Mélodie was in fact one of those to whom A Language from Another Place was dedicated.

  As we read, tears will inevitably come to our eyes, more than once. Akira Mizubayashi knows not only how to move us, but also how to make us acknowledge somewhat paradoxical feelings. For example, the often-mentioned death of his father and the allusion to his ashes along with those of the animal. Or again, because of their high-spirited dance, two dogs are compared to Octavian and Sophie in Der Rosenkavalier. And Mizubayashi shares music, Mozart, with the aptly named Mélodie.

  The narrative makes us aware, too, of the extent to which the habits of daily life are not the same in Tokyo and Paris. What does a Japanese dog do when, on returning home, you take off your shoes?

  We are made conscious more than once that the author is a specialist of the eighteenth century. But his philosophy spans the thinkers of the Enlightenment to Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai. We learn he is against Descartes (animal-machines) and Malebranche, but for Rousseau and even more so Montaigne. This book is a hymn to fidelity and still more a philosophical reflection on waiting. What better embodiment of waiting than a dog? The dog named Hachi who, every evening, waited for his master at the train station exit. But in vain because his master was dead. Hachi waited for ten years before he in turn was to die. Today he has his own bronze statue at Shibuya station.

  Near the conclusion of this book in which memory speaks with no fear of flouting the rules of propriety, we shall come across Akira Mizubayashi walking in the footsteps of Henry James to erect in his turn an altar to the dead.

  Roger Grenier

  From the heart—may it go to the heart!

  LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN, Missa Solemnis

  Tereza kept stroking Karenin’s head, which was quietly resting in her lap, while something like the following ran through her mind: There’s no particular merit in being nice to one’s fellow man. She had to treat the other villagers decently, because otherwise she couldn’t live there. Even with Tomas, she was obliged to behave lovingly because she needed him. We can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions—love, antipathy, charity or malice—and what part is predetermined by the constant power play among individuals.

  True human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power. Mankind’s true moral test, its fundamental test (which lies deeply buried from view), consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy: animals. And in this respect mankind has suffered a fundamental débâcle, a débâcle so fundamental that all others stem from it.

  MILAN KUNDERA, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

  (TRANS. MICHAEL HENRY HEIM)

  PRELUDE

  1

  A HOWL IN THE NIGHT

  SOMETHING LIKE THE howl of a wolf, short and shrill, broke the silence and tore the man from his sleep. He gave a start and sat up. In the gloom he saw the head of the dog, watching him. She was lying on a bath towel at the foot of the big bed, while beside the sitting man, lay a woman, half awake, half asleep. The dog howled again so plaintively that the man thought she was crying out for help. He moved towards her, while she looked steadily at him. From outside, through a crack in the shutters, not entirely closed, there came a wan, washed-out light that lit up the upper half of the dog’s head, revealing her age The man noticed that she was panting, when only a few minutes ago she had been lying peacefully in the soft warmth of the night.

  ‘What’s wrong, my friend?’ the man aske
d. ‘You’re in pain? You want to tell me something?’

  She was holding out her right paw; the man took it. He rubbed his cheek against hers. Then he whispered in her ear, ‘Let’s get you lying next to me.’

  Then, with a swift tug, he pulled the towel on which the dog lay motionless, her gaze still intently fixed on him, moving it two metres or so. She was now lying right in close to the man, like a frightened child nestling in its father’s arms.

  ‘Good night. Sleep well’, said the man.

  The dog stretched out. The man placed his hand on her swollen shoulder. Then he slid it gently, in the direction of the growth of her fur, right down her back. He repeated this several times, and the animal became calm again and her breathing regular. All the fear and agitation of the endless lonely night had gone; she seemed to surrender herself to the reassuring and soothing power of the feeling of not being alone and abandoned, to the tactile and olfactory sensation of this human presence, with her, here and now.

  Finally, the man fell asleep, his right hand on the dog’s neck, which, bulging strangely, felt worryingly vulnerable.

  The next morning, on waking, he found himself in the same position: his hand still resting on the dog’s relaxed body. She hadn’t budged an inch either.

  2

  2 DECEMBER 2009

  NIGHT WAS FALLING. At times you could hear the driving rain and the hysterical howling of the north wind.

  She was tired, she’d become weak. It would soon be her mealtime, but she wasn’t hungry. That morning she hadn’t eaten anything. She wasn’t thirsty either. Her front paws were as big as logs. Her tongue and her upper lip were completely white as if drained of blood. She had no strength left. She was out of breath even though she’d made no physical effort at all. Could she walk? No. Could she get up? Perhaps not. She was in too much pain. She was exhausted. Soon she would be lost, would disappear into the vast and shadowy silence of oblivion. What on earth was the time? When would he be coming home? It was Wednesday. It was the day he came home late, sometimes very late, after ten o’clock. What was he doing? Could she hang on until then?

  She was lying next to the big marital bed, her muzzle placed on the edge, without energy. Suddenly, using all her strength, she tried to get up again. No doubt she wanted to move nearer to the hall so that she could listen out for the merest sound of footsteps approaching. But she couldn’t manage it. She waited for a few minutes. Then, she sat up on her haunches with a start as if she were waking up from a horrible nightmare. Her swollen front feet supported all of her weight. She sighed deeply.

  A sharp pain was becoming more acute. It was tearing at her chest. Her sight was dimming. The lights were going out one by one. Then she picked up the faint sound of a door creaking, the cupboard door closing again. What? Was she going to leave? It wasn’t possible … Oh, please no, please no … With an extraordinary effort she got up and began to walk, painfully … She got to the living room, and she saw Michèle, who’d just put on her coat.

  ‘What are you doing? Why did you get up? You should have called me! Are you thirsty? Do you want some water? … Oh, you’re ill. Yes, I know … Don’t force yourself. Go on, lie down here. And rest … Yes, that’s it. There you are. Is that better? You see, you’ll feel better like that … What’s the matter? You look so sad! … You don’t want me to leave, is that it? But you know, I’ve only put my coat on to go out and get a few things. You don’t want me to go away? Is that why you got up? To tell me not to go … Is that it? Oh yes, that’s what it is …’

  With a slightly hesitant movement as if she were lifting some thing heavy, the dog gave Michèle her swollen right paw. Michèle clasped it and then shook it tenderly, as a sign of affection.

  ‘Yes, I understand now, I understand … Don’t worry, I’m not leaving, I’m staying with you.’

  It was exactly 5.37pm. It was raining. She seemed relieved, she relaxed and stretched out fully. Then she sighed. And after this long sigh there came faint death rattles.

  The howling of the north wind could be heard more clearly now.

  ‘Oh no, you’re not going like that! You can’t do that! No, come on, be brave! I’m going to call Mr D. He’ll come straight away. And then you’ll feel better … But you’re ill, you’re very ill, I can see that. I haven’t heard you crying out in pain like this before. I can’t bear it … I don’t want to see you like this! What can I do for you, tell me, what can I do?’

  While she dialled the vet’s number she went on talking to her dog, not stopping, to give herself courage.

  The dog was in dreadful, crushing, pain. She couldn’t take it any longer. The world was growing darker. Very softly, from the upper part of her visual field, a grey curtain was coming down. She gave the woman sitting beside her a last look of tenderness, which conveyed a silent word whose meaning seemed obvious to her. Her eyes were moister than usual. In the dark silence of that first month of winter, shot through with strangled rattles, an unspeakable fear took hold. A scarcely audible woman’s voice, coming from the cell phone left lying on the floor, said to leave a message …

  ‘My God! No! No … no … NO!’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, it’s me, the meeting’s just finished, I’m coming home straight away. How’s it going?’

  Then silence, for a couple of seconds.

  ‘No, it’s … it’s not good at all. She’s getting weaker, you know … Get home quickly. But be careful on your bike. I don’t know if it’s still raining, but it’s really windy tonight …’

  ‘Yes, I’m leaving in a few minutes. See you soon.’

  I was in a teeming crowd heading towards Y station. It wasn’t raining very heavily. With the break in the weather people began closing their umbrellas. I closed mine. I hurried. I could only think of getting back to Mélodie as quickly as I could. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, I thought of nothing; I walked and walked. I walked so mechanically that in the middle of a pedestrian crossing I trod on the heel of the young woman just in front of me. She tripped, falling on to her knees.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, forgive me.’

  She got up straight away, while I picked up her upturned red shoe and gave it back to her. Embarrassed, she gave me a nice smile, which made me smile in return.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away. You’re OK? Can you walk? Are you going to the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We caught the same overcrowded train. There were two or three people between us: we weren’t brave enough to start up a conversation. In a quarter of an hour we got to Nakano. I broke the silence.

  ‘I’m getting out here.’

  ‘Me too’, she answered softly.

  ‘Oh, so you live in Nakano too!’

  We went down the stairs together. As soon as I’d gone through the ticket gate I said to her, ‘Goodbye, and, again, my apologies.’

  ‘No, don’t apologise. It doesn’t hurt anymore.’ She smiled. She told me that she was going to take the bus. I replied that I was going to pick up my bike. We parted. She made me a little bow, and I bowed too, a little more deeply. She disappeared into a long queue that was waiting for the bus …

  I made my way to the parking lot for bicycles and motorcycles. It started raining again. I didn’t open my umbrella: it was too dangerous to ride with an open umbrella. The dark sky trapped between the highest buildings of the central part of the district whistled as the wind from the north blew through them. It was cold. I turned into the street where the town hall was, where there was never much traffic. I followed it down through the shopping district. I often stop there to buy books at the big bookshop. But that day I wanted to get home as fast as I could. I was driven by a growing sense of anxiety, an indefinable feeling of urgency. I arrived. I took the stairs four at a time. I slid the key into the lock and opened the door. I was soaked through. Michèle ran to me.

  The house was dark. Baroque music was playing. The polyphony of t
he stringed instruments filled the air. Michèle kissed me, in tears.

  ‘Mélodie is gone. She waited for you … But in the end she couldn’t take it any longer.’

  I cross the dimly lit living room. The two sliding doors of the dining room are open. Mélodie’s body is lying on a futon placed against the back wall. Her head is hidden by a big bunch of flowers in a round, brown vase. A little candle in the candle-holder in the shape of an old lamp creates a kind of yellow aura around her mortal remains. Covered over by a slightly faded orange towel, her body lies outstretched, the nerves and muscles peacefully letting go.

  I come close and crouch down. I touch her head. It is warm. Fifteen years ago, when I touched the head of my father, who had been dead for six hours, it was freezing cold. I lift up the towel. An unfamiliar smell wafts up. I stroke Mélodie’s inanimate body, which still looks like the one I took in my arms this morning. I am struck by a vague sensation of warmth. It is a body half alive, already in the realm of shadows, but still quivering with the vestiges of life, ebbing away like the sea at low tide. It is resisting the relentless invasion of the cold.

  The rain gets heavier again. The wind rages more strongly.

  The Baroque music, Albinoni or Tartini, is still playing. Her eyes are not like they were before. They were black, big, tender, overflowing with warmth and affection. Now they are grey, small. They no longer look at me. They are lost in the emptiness. Suddenly, an abyss has been carved out between us. My voice can no longer reach her ears. It is lost in the cold, pronounced grey of her pupils.

  I lie down on the wooden floor next to the futon to be as close to her as possible. With my head against her head, my nose against her nose, I look into her dull eyes, which bear the trace of utter exhaustion. I put my right hand on her neck, on her nose, then on her upper lip, breathing the last vestiges of her breath. My field of vision is entirely filled by her head. I plunge deeper into the well of her eyes. There is a huge grey circle lit by the candle. I am in a cypress forest at nightfall. Or am I at the entrance to a tunnel at sunset, a time tunnel, a corridor opening to take me far into time and space?