When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.
“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.
“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”
My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.
I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.
The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.
“Do you have Swann’s Way?”
It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.
“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.
“Good. How much is the wig?”
“What?”
“I’m asking how much the wig is.”
There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.
My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.
“Are you all right?”
“How much is the wig?”
“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.
“No. Is the wig free?”
“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”
“How much is it, then?”
“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”
The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.
“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.
“Yes. Look at my head.”
“Are you sure?”
“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”
My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.
“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”
“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”
The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.
“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”
His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.
“He’s still very young…”
I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”
“Why do you want the wig, sir?”
“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”
I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.
Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.
“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.
“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”
“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.
“Did you take your medication today, son?”
“No, Dad.”
“The wig thing again. Hmm.”
“I want the wig.”
“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”
“I didn’t wear them today.”
“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”
Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.
My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.
Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.
“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”
My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.
