Tokyo Year Zero (36 page)

‘Does this become me?’

*

Ishida looks up startled and embarrassed when I come back from the bath. He is sat cross-legged on the floor of the room by the table. He has already changed into the same
yukata
provided by the inn that I am now wearing. He quickly stuffs something back into his knapsack and shoves it under the table. Now he picks up a towel from the mat –

‘Excuse me,’ he mumbles, telling me he’ll take his bath now.

I listen to his feet trail off down the corridor. I wait a moment before I look out the door to make sure he has gone. Now I pull his bag out from under the table to see what he’d been so quick to hide –

And here it is, lying on the top inside his knapsack; his underwear and a needle. Detective Ishida had been hunting fleas in his underwear with a needle, piercing and spearing flea after flea on the end of the needle. But the old army pistol is still here too –

The old army pistol at the bottom of his knapsack –

I fight back the visions. I fight back the tears
…

Here waiting for something, there waiting for someone.

*

It is dark and it is silent outside when Tachibana joins us for dinner. Tachibana has changed out of his uniform and into an evening kimono. Tachibana summons two maids who serve the food in our room on three small lacquered butterfly-legged tables, the food as good as he promised; bonito, smoked eggs,
soba
, and a bowl of fishcake in a cold soup of grated arrowroot. Ishida and I eat it up like a pair of hungry dogs. The sake is equally fine and we lap that up until Ishida begins to worry about the expense of all this food and all this drink, but Police Chief Tachibana just claps his big hands –

‘It’s my inn,’ he laughs. ‘And you’re my guests…’

And after the dinner, after the two maids have cleared away the tables but left us with three fresh bottles of sake, Tachibana suddenly gets to his feet and begins to dance, this small, fat, youngish man whose eyes are now old and hard as he performs the violent, jerky dance of a warrior, lungeing at Ishida with an invisible sword –

This dance from the shadows, this dance from the past
…

Then, just as suddenly, his violent, jerky dance is over and Tachibana is sat back down, his face still red and angry –

In the half-light, no one is who they seem
…

Filling our cups and offering up a toast –

From the past and from the shadows
…

‘To Japan and to the Emperor…’

*

We have pissed and we have washed our faces. I switch off the electric bulb and now, in the dark of the room, before I say goodnight, I ask him, ‘What was the message they gave you back at the station?’

Ishida is silent for a time before he says, ‘What message…?’

‘The one you got when we arrived at Kanuma police station.’

Ishida says, ‘It was just from Inspector Hattori. That’s all.’

‘And what did
Inspector
Hattori have to tell you?’ I ask –

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘He just wants any leads we find…’

‘What do you mean, he wants any leads we find?’

‘He wants me to telephone or telegram him…’

‘Telephone him about what?’ I ask again –

‘Just if we find any new leads, that’s all.’

‘There was no other request or news?’

‘That was all the message said.’

‘Goodnight, then,’ I tell him –

But now, in the dark and in the silence of this room, Detective Ishida asks me, ‘Do you think we are the only guests in this inn?’

‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I’m just tired…’

‘No, tell me,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I just don’t like it here,’ he says. ‘I wish we’d never come.’

Tochigi, 87°, fine

In the night, he shrieks. In the night, he howls. In the night, he wails. In the night, the grinding of teeth. In the night, the weeping of tears –

Not sleeping, not waking.
I can hear him crying
. In his sleep. Not waking, not sleeping.
I can hear him weeping
. In my dreams. Not sleeping, not waking.
I can hear him crying
. In his sleep. Not waking, not sleeping.
I can hear him weeping
. In my dreams. Not sleeping, not waking.
I can hear him crying
. In his sleep. Not waking, not sleeping.
I can hear him weeping
. In my dreams. Not sleeping, not waking.
I can hear him crying
. In his sleep. Not waking, not sleeping.
I can hear him weeping
. In my dreams. Not sleeping, not waking –

Ton
.                

Before the dawn, before the light, the dull thud upon the mat –

Ton
.                        

The only sound as it hits the floor, just beyond my pillow –

Nothing before, nothing after, the dull thud on the mat –

Ton
.                                

I lie on the futon and I do not, dare not move –

What was that noise? What was that sound?

Ton
.                                        

Ishida is awake now. I can feel him –

He asks, ‘What was that noise?’

Ton
.                                                

I turn over on the futon. I raise my head up. I look beyond my pillow. I can see it now. In front of the alcove –

It lies on the matting. It lies neck up –

Like an inverted, severed head –

The red camellia –

Ton
.                                                        

*

It is dawn now and it is light. I get up from my futon but I do not wake Ishida. I take off my
yukata
. I pull on my undershorts. I put on my undershirt. I pull on my trousers. I put on my shirt. I gather up my jacket, my knapsack, my hat. I leave the room. I walk down the corridor to the reception area. There is no one here.
In this place of shadows
. The hearth deserted.
This place from the past
. I pick up my boots from the
genkan
. I squat down beneath the eaves of the inn.
In this other century
. I pull on my old army boots and I leave this inn –

This other country, so far from home
…

I walk back towards the town, back towards the station; the first train must have already arrived as there are Scavengers walking past me out of town, mumbling and muttering and moaning –

Their clothes are almost rags, half of them have no shoes
…

‘This is a bad place to buy anything, a terrible place…’

They are weighted down and they are sweating
…

‘These farmers have us where they want us…’

The weight of the bundles on their backs
…

‘They won’t take money, only goods…’

Dirty towels tied around their faces
…

‘They’re getting choosier by the day…’

Or old yellow caps on their heads
…

‘Used to be just fabrics or cloth…’

The weaker ones slowing down
…

‘Now only jewellery will do…’

Falling behind the others
…

‘Kimonos or shoes…’

Resting already
…

‘It’ll be much better in autumn,’ they convince themselves –

But it’s not autumn yet, the tips of the branches still green –

The persimmons on the trees still to fatten and brighten –

To ripen, to fall and to splatter
…

There is an old man still dressed in his civil-defence uniform sat down at a curve in the road. His trousers tied with a rope and his jacket already soaked through with sweat, he has propped his backpack up under a nettle tree and sits rolling a cigarette from old dog-ends, staring vacantly ahead at a clump of flaming daisies –

He looks up as my shadow falls on his face –

I ask him if we might share a match –

He nods and we share the light as he tells me, ‘The shoddier
these matches get, the more expensive their price becomes…’

I nod and I agree. Then I start to walk away –

But the old man asks, ‘What time is it?’ I stop now and I turn back to him –

I ask, ‘Is your watch broken, sir?’

Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku
…

The man has taken out his pocket watch and is winding it up. The man shakes his head. The man shows me his watch –

The old man says, ‘It keeps stopping dead…’

This watch. This watch. This watch
…

His watch says twelve o’clock –

Now I show him my watch –

I say, ‘It’s eight o’clock.’

‘I’m already late, then,’ he sighs. ‘Missed all the good stuff.’

I nod and I agree. I start to walk away again but again he calls after me and again I stop and I turn back to him as he asks me –

‘Do you know the roads around here, do you?’

I shake my head and I apologize. ‘I’ve not been here before.’

‘I think I came here once before,’ he says. ‘But that was with someone from the neighbourhood and so it must have been quite a time ago now. I think it was here. The war had started, I know that. But not the air raids. I’m sure it was before the air raids…’

I nod again but I don’t know what to say –

‘I lose track of the time,’ he sighs. ‘Because there’s no end, is there? They tell us that it’s over, that we’re at peace, but it doesn’t feel like peace, doesn’t feel like it’s ended to me. What about you?’

I shake my head. I say something like, ‘You’re right.’

‘I’m sixty-nine years old,’ he tells me. ‘What good am I to anyone any more? I might as well be dead and be done with it. But I remember when I could carry sixty or seventy pounds, no trouble…’

‘But you look like you’re doing all right to me,’ I say –

He thanks me and asks me where I am from –

‘Mitaka,’ I tell him. ‘What about you?’

‘Kinshi-chō originally,’ he says. ‘But not any more, of course. I tell you, I was lucky to get away with the clothes on my back. I’m staying with my daughter-in-law in Hakozaki now. But you can’t depend on anyone these days, can you? And now they say my son is dead, she’ll be looking to remarry and then what will I do …?’

I nod and I watch him untie the towel from around his face
and wipe the sweat from his forehead and then from his neck –

Now the old man gets to his feet and he looks at me –

‘Forgive me,’ the old man says. ‘But are you ill?’

I shake my head. I say, ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You’re just very pale.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine…’

I pick up his bundle for him –

I hoist it onto his back –

It is a heavy load
…

‘Thank you,’ he says as he walks off. ‘And good luck…’

I raise my cigarette to wave and I watch him go –

‘Don’t give up,’ he shouts back. ‘Never!’

*

I walk up the clean little steps into Kanuma police station where the two officers behind the front desk bow, salute and welcome me back.

‘I have a message from Tokyo for a Detective Ishida,’ announces one of the two men behind the desk –

‘Thank you,’ I say as he hands me the piece of paper and I put it in my pocket and thank him again –

‘Is Chief Tachibana here yet?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Maybe he’s gone to the inn…’

‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll go for a walk…’

‘Where will you go?’ he asks me.

‘To the river,’ I say. ‘The…’

‘The Black River?’ he asks.

‘The Black River,’ I nod.

I walk out of the police station. I do not run.
My pocket on fire
. I walk down the clean little steps. I do not run.
My pocket on fire
. I walk across the road. I do not run.
My pocket on fire
. I turn down another road. I do not run.
My pocket on fire
. I see the Black River –

And now I run.
My pocket on fire
. Now I run.
My pocket on fire
. Now I run.
My pocket on fire
. Down the banking –

My pocket on fire
. And then I stop –

I take out the piece of paper:

‘Leave Minami in Tochigi. Return to HQ. Inspector Adachi.’

Then, suddenly, a shout, ‘There you are, Inspector Minami!’

‘I look up. Tachibana and Ishida coming down the banking –

Ishida; I no longer know who this Detective Ishida is
…

‘Thought you’d run back to Tokyo,’ shouts Tachibana –

‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘I just needed to go for a walk…’

‘Don’t apologize,’ says Tachibana. ‘I bet you’re not used to so much sake and good food these days, are you now, inspector?’

‘You were very generous,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘We’re all policemen…’

I look at Ishida as I nod, ‘All policemen…’

‘Where to first, then?’ asks Tachibana, clapping his hands.

*

The same ancient small truck. The same old policeman in the driving seat. Tachibana gestures for me to sit up in the front while he and Ishida climb into the back again. The corrugated iron and the carpenter’s tools gone today. The driver puts out his cigarette, straightens his cap and he starts up the truck as I hold on tight again –

I hate the countryside and I hate the people who live here –

This Land of the Grasping. This Land of the Greedy
…

My eyes squinting in pain as the sunlight blinds me –

Everything black today. Everything black here
…

The mountains black. The trees black –

No grey, no green and no purple
…

No leaves and no flowers here –

There are no colours here
…

Here, here, here, here –

In Kodaira country
…

Here in Ōaza-Hosō, in Nikkō-chō, where our small truck now pulls up outside the family home of Kodaira Yoshio, the ramshackle, broken-down family home where the uncle, the aunt and the cousin of Kodaira Yoshio still live, still working for Furukawa –

The uncle, the aunt and the cousin of Kodaira Yoshio who know why we are here, who know why we will keep knocking –

Until the cousin finally opens the door to invite us in, in through their rotting door and filthy
genkan
, through their stinking, fetid kitchen and into their dark and humid hearth and home –

Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home
…

The aunt scuttling off on her hands and her knees down another dark corridor. The uncle cross-legged in the hearth with a
pipe. The uncle is an old man. The uncle does not speak –

‘He hates the police,’ says his son, the cousin. ‘He thinks the police have got it in for him, got it in for our family…’

‘Shut up, idiot!’ shouts the uncle as he picks up his pipe and gets to his feet. He walks off into the other half of the room, closing the screen doors behind him, still shouting, ‘Idiot!’

‘What do you want?’ asks the cousin –

‘I want to know how often your cousin Yoshio comes back here,’ I tell him. ‘I particularly want to know how often he came back here in the last two years, the dates he came and the things he might have brought back with him. It’s important you remember…’

‘Well, that’s easy to remember,’ laughs the cousin now. ‘Easy because we never saw him. He never came back here…’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t believe you because I have already met six or seven other families near here who do remember that he came back, who do remember the dates and the things he brought back. So, I’ll ask you again, to remember…’

‘And I’ll tell you again,’ says the cousin. ‘He was never here. We heard he’d been back to Tochigi, but we never saw him.’

‘You never saw him?’ I ask. ‘He never came here?’

‘Why would he come here?’ asks the cousin. ‘We’ve nothing to sell him, nothing to buy from him. Why come?’

‘Because you’re his family.’ I say. ‘That’s why.’

‘He never came back here,’ repeats the cousin –

In the dark, humid hearth and family home –

‘That’s all I know, so that’s all I’ll say,’ the cousin says now. ‘If you want to hear more, just knock on any door in the village.’

*

His father was the eldest of the brothers, the neighbours tell us. He was a drinker, a gambler and a womanizer. He’d had a farm, he’d had an inn, the Hashimoto-Ya, the best in the village. But he lost them all through his gambling, his drinking and his womanizing. Even his horse. He ended his days at Furukawa Denki with the rest of them –

The father’s first younger brother worked there all his life, the neighbours tell us. He was a slow worker but he was never absent. He worked only nights and he handed over all his pay to his mother. He was a stutterer and an idiot and he was the best of them –

The second younger brother is the uncle you met, the neighbours tell us. He was once the most dangerous man in the village; drank heavily and carried a knife. He has been in prison. He is still a short-tempered and aggressive man, but now he rarely speaks.

The eldest brother of Kodaira Yoshio is not long dead, the neighbours tell us. He worked at Furukawa with the rest of them but he was fired because he stole from the other workers and he slept on the job. He went to Tokyo but soon came back, wandering from job to job, living off odd jobs and handouts. He was another one who rarely spoke. Even made his own wife and children eat their meals outside so he could eat in peace. In April last year he was arrested for stealing potatoes but he died before the case ever came to court –

His elder sister was much the same, the neighbours tell us. She worked at Furukawa Denki too, just like the rest of them. She married a man who was working there, but it didn’t last more than a year. Then she married a Korean, again for less than a year. She was often hysterical and always a liar and died in January this year –