It was two days since the white man felt almost dead in front of June’s boat. Two days we were together, taking care of that half-dead man, from wiping his blood that soaked his whole body under the wrap of his oversized denim jacket, to calling one of our folks who knew a little bit of medicine to plug his bleeding hole, to changing the bed sheets constantly drenched with his blood and sweat and urine, to pouring water on his face and chest sunburnt and drained by dehydration. In his complete unconsciousness throughout. Two days I could even have sex with June that I usually can’t. Even I always wanted to have sex with her. June, who usually did nothing except sleeping after coming home from her boat. “I am not even sure if you won’t dip in your folks’ stuff. But you can just come in when I sleep if you really want it." She usually told her joke every time I needed sex so bad. A wry joke. Those two days the caring job got her out of her boat, that we could do it.
June. Always that mysterious girl whom no one knew where she came from and why she was here. All we knew was that, one day, a boat, without anyone driving it, appeared on top of the mangrove on the western side at one solar eclipse. Folks found on board no one but a girl an eight years old, 9 years old we guessed and never know. Because she could not speak a word then. That was the month of June and we found her. Our leaders’ committee on the Islet decided her eponym, and let one of the leaders’ families take her home, there she grew up to a mature, captivatingly handsome woman every man here wanted to fuck, and did fuck. She learned to speak fast. But she did not seem to have any memory of her parents, her home and what happened before she came here. She was as if she was born an eight or nine year-old on that boat as the womb. Also, she did not seem to have any interest in talking. What we called fate that came her way, which should have triggered her emotion, like her family raped her, dumped her out as boat girl, she didn’t seem to be able to show it. She didn’t yell; didn’t laugh; didn’t rant; didn’t crave or groan or moan or howl for anything. Always smile. That wry and dry smile. I love her. And she loved me the time we stayed together. I guess but never be sure, because she didn’t speak or showed her emotion on anything.
The first word that came out of the white man waking up after his two-day coma was not “where am I", but “my black box".
“Black box?" asked I, not a clue of what he meant.
“My black box" repeated he. Perhaps he finally sensed the futility of his repeat from the fogginess mine and June’s faces showed, he ordered, “my coat". In an inside pocket of that blood stained denim jacket did he fetch,
A black box, and a string with a needle or latch at one end and a pair of bud-like devices at the other. He told me later that was a old device called earphone. The while man plugged the needle into one hole of the black box, and then plugged the pair of buds into his ears. He didn’t speak anything, just closing his eyes once again for a long while, but we knew it was an expression of relief.
“Sony Linear PCM," said the white man, indecipherable that we thought he told us his name. So I replied, “Mr. Sony." “No" shunned he me blunt, an expression of impatience because of my interruption. “Sony Linear PCM – M10. The best recorder and player in year 2000."
Year 2000. That was 50 years ago.
He continued, “it was made in Japan."
Japan. A country that didn’t exist at the time. Nor a country anyone here heard of. Heard from those very old folks, it was now called New Liuchiu, which was under Yian prefecture of our country.
The Blackbox, he kept on, human never needed it so bad as now, a time he said we could not even trust the air we breathe. Even the air was connected with the surveillance system he said. This box, the only thing that was in complete oblivion he said, the only freedom in its purity he said.
June and I could not make any sense of what he said at the time. I didn’t challenge the prowess of his Blackbox. But it was definitely not the only thing in complete oblivion. At least, where we lived then at the time, was as forgotten and ignored as that Blackbox. So I thought at the time. Later he told me I was wrong. Much later after his death I inherited his everything, even his name Mr. Sony, his Sony Linear PCM, his earphone, his career as evidence hunter, and his fate –taken to the IFC and die with a hint of evidence to be hunted by another evidence hunter.
Mr. Sony showed us the beauty of what was in Sony Linear PCM. He plugged out his earphone and plugged each of those into one of our ears. Now June and I was linked by string that converged into that Blackbox. Sound came to us so strange and so delicate that we never heard of. Mr. Sony told us later it was called music. Like Japan, a thing that disappeared already with not a sign to human beings now.