Standing on a pebbled path within the Parque de la Exposición one August evening, Katzuo Nakamatsu looked on on the sakuras blossoms. The branches of the small trees, which were scattered across the park and laden with rosy flowers, glowed within the leaden light, filling him with a personal joy and, he believed, a secret spirituality. Children played on the green lawn, couples chatted on picket benches, pedestrians and families walked amongst the traditional fig trees and ceibos. He took a deep contented breath, yes, the flowers were graceful and beautiful; then he walked toward the carp pond, shifting the angle of his gaze, and still, the opaque light stayed the identical, and the sakura branches continued gleaming exquisitely. He smoked a cigarette, contemplating his perspective on the composite, the pond with green water there, the perfumed sage here, surrounded by grass, creepers, and the flushed sakuras, there was nothing to probe, no brow wrinkles, no gesture of enjoyment. Indeed, nothing foretold anything, not the lowery sky, not the people walking within the gardens, not the humdrum cooing of the pigeons, not the frogs moaning within the cisterns, until the strange moment when Nakamatsu began to feel burdened, the burden of consciousness, unseeing affliction. Within the eternity of the quick, in a way of speaking, the green of the afternoon flickered out, the park’s babbling was erased, as if the world had taken flight, the pebbled paths disappeared, no serene gardens, or laughing families, or murmuring young couples, or ponds filled with fish: the one thing within the air now was the sakura tree, its branches and its luminous flowers. And in that fragment of afternoon, from that imperturbable beauty, Nakamatsu noticed, sprang a death drive, a vicious feeling, just like the sakura were transmitting extinction, a shattering, destruction. Facing this unusual, abnormal reflex, Katzuo managed to shut his eyes, as if invaded by exhaustion, all of it appeared like a dreadful illusion, abhorrent, and without knowing why he began to tremble, sweating, pallid, shaken to the core, unable to dislodge that feeling of death. He stood paralyzed on that pebbled path, face drained of color, eyes clouded over, respiration slowly, he focused inward, his hands wavered, and nevertheless, the horrendous feeling remained in his consciousness. He waited a moment, a smart length of time, before opening his eyes, and this time he could make out, real and tangible, a crew of ekeko faces, marching through the grass under the sakuras, colourful chullos on their heads and leather pouches at their backs. Their hunchbacked figures bundled into suits and ties, they set free grunts and babbled in Quechua, their little mustaches accentuating their wax faces, they were like rag dolls, cartwheeling, tripping over one another, while the festive onlookers applauded, and cheered, and tossed coins. Uncouth, brutish, crude. He couldn’t stand it. Aghast, Katzuo Nakamatsu fled, making his way on a paved path toward the gate that opened onto Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega, nobody, face forward, his head trembling, eyes wet with tears, alien to the road vendors selling ham sandwiches and ladling emollient as he plunged in among the many vehicles and buildings on that central artery. He got here to a stop on Paseo Colón, faltering, bewildered, unsure whether to cross the road filled with minibuses and blaring horns, his body was dazed, in any case, the feeling of death had stayed in his consciousness, and an animal fear was hollowing out his belly, which was beset by a violent churning, his throat was parched, he felt faint. Now, aimlessly, he moved through the dissolute streets, unrecognizable roads, past suffocating houses, impregnable stairways and doors, closed-up offices, and dark corridors, he had enough restraint left to maintain himself from breaking right into a run, and howling on all fours like a dog. His heart lashed. It was hard to breathe. There was a prickling in his legs. A blazing anguish, a brutal sun gave the impression to be burning his face, poaching his intestines, boiling on his back, sweat flooding, and the whole lot of the road laid out before him, restaurants, vehicles, glass-paned doors, mere meters from him, looked iridescent and yellow, radiated a blinding light, despite the raw Lima winter sky. That is the solitude of hell, he said to himself, still on pins and needles, his skin burning, absorbing the warmth, utterly lost, walking in no particular direction, guided by instinct. Only when he made landfall on Alfonso Ugarte did he recognize the wide avenue with its three arteries, he could see the silhouette of the roofs, just a few balconies, the partitions of the police station, the stony old houses, the hoarse puffing of the trucks, the provincials walking by, and for the umpteenth time he checked and confirmed the abyss of feeling alive, stricken, devastated. That is insanity, he noted with terror, and he couldn’t fling himself down onto the avenue, couldn’t screech, or bang against the wall, weeping over his misery, he told himself to calm down, continuing on his halting way through Breña’s dense streets. With no tears or consolation, inhaling the unwholesome air, eyes wild, the frames of his glasses slipping down his nose, Katzuo, in that quick, felt a dreary cold, his feet were freezing, goosebumps lined his skin, and the coat he was in wasn’t enough to maintain him from trembling, it was as if he had shifted onto ice. It wasn’t just in his head, the temperature had dropped, the dampness warping his bones, and the very streets were not visible, the pale light looking clotted, unreal, and beyond it no street corners existed, no businesses, residences, panels, lights, curbs: just emptiness. Katzuo idled outside of reality, body rigid, looking like a pale corpse, he was scarcely respiration, not groaning, he could feel his own dreadfulness, his stupidity, his fatigue. He told himself a second time, that is the solitude of cold, perhaps to substantiate his own fate, but nothing mattered anymore, just death, his own irrefutable death. A glimmer of consciousness, and he found himself sitting on a bench, in Parque Manco Cápac across from the church on Avenida Iquitos, and there he saw the dark night, the deserted grass, parishioners and prostitutes circling the monument to Manco Cápac, the municipal hall on the corner, the uncertain partitions of a faculty. He adjusted his coat, noted the dim light within the park, perhaps three or 4 hours had passed, diminishing his torment; he decided to return via Bausate y Meza, cross the boundary of Avenida Manco Cápac, and advance into the center of La Victoria, via Luna Pizarro, Abtao, and Huamanga, Nakamatsu knew, these were the old hideaways he normally took one or the opposite of, since he recognized their colourful street corners, the furrowed concrete of the back patios, the drab liquor stores, uneven sidewalks, the streets with their posts and windows, the uproarious watering holes, the packed rooms, the scrunched-tight residences, the teenagers gathered in any old doorway. He inhaled the irreparable poor-neighborhood air, abandoning the little windows in the homes, litter within the doors, the mechanics stationed there, the gaudy partitions and fences, posters in drugstores, barbed-wire roofs, a newspaper stand, and the parked cars. This was the world he ought to go away behind, these streets so often trod, smelled, observed, bemoaned, that were being inexorably pulverized and erased before his eyes. No, never, he had never been capable of join this reality, he had simply lived it indifferently, distantly, not getting involved, impassive, strange, marginal, he was in any case the son of Japanese people, a nisei, almost a foreigner, and all those places, their people, were alien to him, they constituted those in his vicinity, the neutral zone where he deposited his gaze, and he was forbidden from joining, and being like them with their legs, their eyes, their arms. In fact, he often saw his friends, he could even hold a conversation, exchange opinions, gossip, questionable jokes, but never secrets, nor could he express his private feelings, because his Asiatic temperament prevented it, and his equanimity born of mistrust, frigidity, even disdain.

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