The Old Man on the Hill
by Richard Holmes

I could see him through the pillars that looked down over the charred remains. Smoke rose up languidly from debris scattered everywhere, interrupted by the occasional flame that would shoot out unexpectedly. He stood there in his pajamas and hospital slippers, staring vacantly through gaunt, sunken eyes at what was left of his home. His face was blank, his mind visibly elsewhere. He was there, but not all there.

I live at the bottom of a cul-de-sac on Yoshida-yama Mountain, an exaggeration of a name for a bump on the landscape. This hillock affords me something precious, something you can’t easily get in a big city – silence. I swear the noisiest thing in the neighborhood is the chirping of the ‘uguisu’ bush warbler that comes back every year in early spring to nest in the same tree and find a mate. I just love this bird. He sounds so ecstatic when he finds a mate, this year’s true love. I’m very aware of sudden outbursts of noise in these parts. Anything out of the ordinary will grab my attention, especially, the sound of courtship on this graying hill.

Late in the afternoon I heard the sound of crackling and the agitated shouting of a few concerned locals. They should be concerned. Almost all of the houses in Kyōto are packed dangerously close together and are potential fire traps. My neighborhood is no exception.

The flames curled and licked up high along the walls of the Morinos’ house on the corner and gained a threatening hold on the eaves. Fortunately, they were quickly put out by gallant men with hard hats and hoses who arrived in what seemed like a jiffy. The fire services move very fast in emergencies like these in Kyōto. As soon as they arrived they turned off all the water in the neighborhood to divert it to their firefighting efforts. This, however, severed the lifeline to mine as I had been using the garden hose to help put out the flames. We could do nothing. We were thankful for their timely arrival but helpless as the flames spread unchecked towards the Nakamuras. We were next in line.

A crowd soon gathered from outlying areas of the neighborhood. “For crying out loud, put out those damn cigarettes!” I begged them as they feasted on the flames. Most grudgingly agreed to do so but they left behind ash and cigarette stubs everywhere on the ground in front of my house. They could see I was upset with their indifference to the tragedy that was unfolding before their very eyes. After all, their homes were not about to become unwilling casualties. When everything had died down at the end of evening, they dispersed. I could sense they’d had their fill. Enough excitement for one day, I suppose. They would shortly be back in the warmth of their homes in time for a hot supper and a cold beer to quench their thirst.

From what I’d heard, the old man and his elderly sister had lived there for quite a while before we moved to the hill sixteen years ago. (Or, was it seventeen? The longer you live here, the more it seems that time stands still.) Come to think of it, I couldn’t ever recall having seen the two of them outside, not even once. Their presence was an enigma for the locals, too. I vaguely recollect someone talking about them in tones so hushed that you could barely make out what was being said. Maybe they just didn’t know who the old folks were and were too embarrassed to admit it.

The tell-tale signs were out of sight to all except me. The window from my office offered a clear view of the second floor where the old man spent his days. I could see piles of plastic bags stacked up high. Then, there was the kerosene stove with that large kettle sputtering away on top almost all year round. And he would often lean back and stretch out his scrawny arms to empty ashtrays filled to the brim and the rancid contents of his urine bottle onto the tiled roof of the verandah outside. Piles of cigarette butts clogged the rain gutter and sometimes overflowed into the garden below during late afternoon squalls. Even from the comfort of my desk, I could make out faint clouds of mosquitoes hovering above this gutter, most likely checking out the nice moist and juicy breeding ground.

I remember him standing there one day in front of the wide-open window in just his long johns and undershirt. He brought both of his hands up to his mouth and let out a loud “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” I smiled. “This heat’s obviously gone to his head. Definitely cuckoo,” I thought. The comedy of his delivery from that elevated fleapit somehow softened the urgency of the inevitable ticking away slowly but menacingly in the wings. Sometimes you can’t see a red light even if it is flashing right in front of you.

I ought to have reported all that I’d accidentally seen to the police or the local ward office. In our neighborhood, we all pitch in at community events; but, at the same time, we cherish our privacy. We prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves as we lead our peaceful lives in the quiet of our own little yama. We don’t like being disturbed. We also don’t appreciate a nosy so-and-so who pries into other people’s business. But, what if I’d done the right thing and told someone? Things might have turned out quite differently. What if…? Such is the agonizing luxury of hindsight.

The sound of cracking timber filled the air as beams ignited, split and burst open. Tiles exploded everywhere and fell to the ground in random thumps. Most landed inside the burning house and within the safe confines of the garden; but one large piece flew over and landed with an abrupt thud on the balcony of my home, just a stone’s throw away. Smoke spiraled up in wisps from its bright red jagged edges. The old man’s reclusive life had rudely invaded the sanity of mine.

All that remained were black stumps of timber rising up into a cloudless sky. It was so peaceful after all the commotion of the day before. Suddenly the quiet was shattered by a thundering crash as firemen unceremoniously knocked down a wall that was about to keel over.

His spindly old legs had carried him back there along an invisible but well-traveled path. As he watched the plumes of white dust rising up from the ground and the last dying flames, a policeman and a nurse arrived on the scene. “Are you alright?” the nurse asked caringly. “How long have you been here?” the policeman asked hastily, as if he had better things to do. Routine questions uttered out of habit. The old man was oblivious to all the attention he was getting. “Be careful.” “Don’t slip.” They gingerly escorted him down the slope. It was still wet from water seeping from the remains of the house, the home that he had just seen for the very last time.

Epilogue

I have been meaning to write this piece for a long time. To me, this event sums up the dilemma of dementia and old age, and the fact that we are all involuntary creatures of habit. I want this to be a lesson or a warning to myself – and, possibly to the reader, too – on many levels; especially, if we stop caring and let ourselves go to seed. There eventually will come a time for all of us when we won’t be able to manage without the help of others.

I’m happy that my wife and I have brought up our family to look after each other. Coming as I did from a post-war dysfunctional household, I have made a point of eating out with my wife and children at least once a month, and taking them abroad or up to the ski slopes whenever I could – things I never had the chance to enjoy, even once, growing up in London. Thankfully, we all get together frequently and enjoy the warmth of each others’ company. As I write, I’m looking forward to Christmas dinner with our daughter and her wonderful husband at our favorite restaurant on the 25th, everyone getting together and playing with my adorable grandchildren over the New Year, taking little Lynn-chan skiing, and hearing lots of “Jījī, arigatōs!” (thank you, granddad!).

I take comfort in the thought that my children’s upbringing will stand us in good stead in later years.

Penned on December 20th, 2019