Paprika by Yasutaka Tsutsui

in Paprika’s apartment. It had been bound to happen sooner or later, but he’d inadvertently used Namba to curry favor. It was now certain that he would ask him to step down as Manager of the Development Office. He didn’t feel even slightly guilty about that, as he could happily explain that Namba’s downfall was his own doing. After all, Noda had frequently made far more cold-hearted decisions during his time.
    Namba was a proud man, not the kind to start yelling and screaming when transferred to another post. Nor should he become too despondent, if his ego really was that strong. Noda turned his thoughts to Sukenobu. Naturally, his take on things was that he’d been robbed of a trophy, the kudos of being first to recommend the President’s nephew as Manager of the Development Office. So what would he do next? Noda remembered the meaningful look Sukenobu had given him at the end. Perhaps he was already planning something. He probably was, knowing him.
    But what was this? Noda had just acknowledged that he felt no guilt toward Namba. So why the sudden feeling of anxiety? He’d been thinking about Sukenobu, admittedly, but he wouldn’t normally feel anything like anxiety about his machinations. He’d never attached much significance to them before. As if to prove the point, Noda had never once felt the slightest concern about suffering an attack while he was talking to Sukenobu. So why this attack, now?
    Noda started to perspire. His heartbeat quickened. He desperately tried to allay his fears, persuade, convince himself that it was just another panic attack. It would surely pass, in time. But reasoning had no effect. Above all, he felt a searing pain that made him think he was dying. That was enough to destroy all reason. He didn’t exactly feel confident about the state of his heart. He might even suffer a stroke. He might die here in the company’s hired limousine. The very thought struck Noda with intense fear. The scenery along the route home and the lights in the office buildings had become such a familiar sight that they normally filled him with ennui. But now they suddenly seemed like an old friend, dear and irreplaceable; after all, he might be seeing them for the last time. At the same time, it galled him to think that those sights would continue to exist as if nothing had happened, even after his death. He started to wax philosophical about the unfairness, the senselessness of death. It was then that he really began to panic. He couldn’t breathe. It was too late to go to Paprika’s apartment. The limousine was pulling up in front of his house.
    With the greatest difficulty, Noda summoned up the energy to speak to the driver. “I don’t … feel … so well,” he managed to say. “Would you … call … one of … my family?”
    “Certainly sir,” the driver replied, tensing as he noted the tone of panic in Noda’s voice.
    “You must … tell … no one …” Noda felt that if he kept talking, he might be able to distract his mind from his anxiety. “Please … tell no one …”
    “Yes, sir. I understand.”
    Until about ten years earlier, the part of Tokyo where Noda lived had been a high-class residential area. Now, his house was hemmed in by apartment buildings; now, ironically, a detached house of only modest proportions was seen as a sign of great social prestige in this area. The chauffeur got out and alerted Noda’s family via the front-door intercom. Noda’s wife, Ito, and his son Torao immediately came rushing out, ashen-faced.
    “What on earth’s the matter?” shrieked his wife. Slinging a shoulder under each of Noda’s arms, Torao and the chauffeur helped him into the reception room next to the front hallway. Noda was unable to speak; the most he could manage was to keep breathing. Still his wife continued to question him.
    “Can’t you speak? What is it? Can’t you breathe? You can’t breathe, is that it?”
    Torao loosened Noda’s necktie as he lay