Tokyo Year Zero (6 page)

No one is who they say they are
…

There is no ‘Apple Song’ playing here as I walk up the stairs towards the open door, just the dice and his voice –

‘You got good news for me, have you, detective?’ calls out Senju before I even reach the top of the stairs –

I stop on the stairs. I look down at his two goons. They are laughing now. I turn back to the door –

The sound of dice being thrown. The calls of odd, even and play, odd, even and play
…

‘Don’t be a coward now,’ he shouts. ‘Answer me, detective.’

I start walking again. I reach the top.
I am a policeman
. I turn into the doorway. Into the light –

‘Well?’ asks Senju –

I kneel down on the tatami mat. I bow. I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

Senju spits his toothpick onto the long low polished table. He turns his new electric fan my way and shakes his head –

‘Just look at you, officer,’ he laughs. ‘Dressed like a tramp and stinking of corpses. Investigating murders when you could be getting rich, arresting Koreans and Formosans and bringing home two salaries for the pleasure. Taking care of your family and your
mistress, fucking the living and not the dead…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘How old are you now, detective?’

‘I am forty-one years old.’

‘So tell me,’ he asks. ‘What do they pay a forty-one-year-old detective these days, officer?’

‘One hundred yen a month.’

‘I pity you,’ he laughs. ‘And your wife, and your children, and your mistress, I really do.’

I lean forward so my face touches the tatami mat and I say, ‘Then please help me…’

And I curse him; I curse him because he has what I need. And I curse Fujita; I curse him because he introduced us. But most of all I curse myself; I curse myself because of my dependence; my dependence on him
…

‘You chase corpses and ghosts,’ he says. ‘What help are you to me? And if you can’t help me, I can’t help you.’

‘Please,’ I say again. ‘Please help me.’

Senju Akira throws down five hundred yen onto the mat in front of my face. Senju says, ‘Then get a transfer to a different room; a room where you can find things out, things that help me…

‘Like who paid Nodera Tomiji to kill my boss Matsuda; like who then killed Nodera; like why this case is now closed …’

‘I will,’ I say, then over and over. ‘Thank you.’

‘And don’t come back here until you have.’

‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

‘Now get out!’ he shouts –

I shuffle backwards across the mats then down the stairs, past the goons and through the alleys, back into the market –

‘Shall we all sing the Apple Song?’

The Shimbashi New Life Market –

This is the New Japan
… This is how we live –

‘Let’s all sing the Apple Song and pass the feeling along.’

*

I haggle.
To eat
. I barter.
To work
. I threaten.
To eat
. I bully.
To work
. I buy three eggs and some vegetables. There was no fish and there
was no meat. Now there is another problem on the Yamate Line and the trains have stopped running in the direction of Shinagawa, so I take the streetcar. It is crowded and I am crushed and the eggs were a mistake. I get off at Tamachi and then I walk or run the rest of the way. The vegetables in my pockets. The eggs in my hands –

To eat. To work. To eat. To work
…

There is only this now.

*

I have waited hours to lie again here upon the old tatami mats of her dim and lamp-lit room.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to stare again at her peeling screens with their ivy-leaf designs.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to watch her draw her figures with their fox-faces upon these screens –

I think about her all the time
…

Yuki is the one splash of colour among the dust, her hair held up by a comb. Now Yuki puts down her pencils and stares into the three-panelled vanity mirror and says, ‘Oh, I wish it would rain…

‘Rain but not thunder,’ she says. ‘I hate the thunder…

‘The thunder and the bombs…’

She haunts me
…

‘Rain like it used to rain,’ she whispers. ‘Rain like before. Rain hard like the rain when it fell on the oiled hood of the rickshaw, drumming louder and faster on the hood, the total darkness within the hood heavy with the smell of the oil and of my mother’s hair, of my mother’s make-up and of her clothes, the faces and the voices of the actors we had seen on the stage that day, in those forbidden plays of loyalty and of duty, those plays of chastity and of fidelity, of murder and of suicide, those faces and those voices that would swim up through the darkness of the hood towards me…’

She has haunted me from the day I first met her, in the thunder and the rain, from that day to this day, through the bombs and the fires, from that day to this
…

Yuki is lying naked on the futon.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her head slightly to the right.
Red! Red! Incendiary bomb!
Her right arm outstretched.
Run! Run! Get a mattress and sand!
Her left arm at her side.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her legs parted, raised and bent at the knee.
Black!
Black! Here come the bombs!
My come drying on her stomach and on her ribs.
Cover your ears! Close your eyes!

‘Make it rain again,’ she says –

And then she brings her left hand up to her stomach.
I think about her all the time
. She dips her fingers in my come.
I think about her all the time
. She puts her fingers to her lips.
I think about her all the time
. She licks my come from her fingers and says again, ‘Please make it rain, rain like it rained on the night we first met…’

She haunts me here. She haunts me now
…

I place an egg and two hundred yen on her vanity box and I say, ‘I might not be able to visit you tomorrow.’

Here and now, she haunts me
…

‘I am a woman,’ she whispers. ‘I am made of tears.’

*

The Shinagawa station is in chaos.
Every station
. There are queues but no tickets.
Every train
. I push my way to the front and I show my police notebook at the gate.
Every station
. I shove my way onto a train.
Every train
. I stand, crushed among people and their goods –

Every station. Every train. Every station. Every train
…

This train doesn’t move. It stands and it sweats –

Finally, after thirty minutes, the train starts to move slowly down the track towards Shinjuku station –

Every station. Every train
…

I force my way off the train at Shinjuku. I fight my way along the platform and down one set of stairs and then up another. I have the two eggs in one hand, my notebook out in my other –

‘Police. Police,’ I shout. ‘Police. Police.’

People hide their eyes and people clutch their backpacks. People stand aside as I heave my way onto the Mitaka train. I stand crushed again among more people and more goods –

This is how we live, with our houses lost
…

I jostle my way off the train. I go through the ticket gate at Mitaka. I put the eggs in my jacket pocket. I take off my hat. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I am parched –

Itching and scratching again –

Gari-gari. Gari-gari
…

I follow crooked, impotent telegraph poles down the road
to my usual restaurant, half-way between the station and my home –

The one lantern amidst the darkness where once there had been ten, twenty or thirty others, illuminating the street, advertising their pleasures and their wares. But there is no illumination –

No wares or pleasures to be had here now.

I step inside. I sit down at the counter.

‘A man was here looking for you last night,’ says the master. ‘Asking questions about you. After your new address…’

No one who they say they are. In the half-light
…

I shrug my shoulders. I order some sake –

‘No sake left,’ says the master. ‘Whisky?’

I shrug my shoulders again. ‘Please.’

The master puts the glass of whisky on the counter before me; it is cloudy. I hold it up to the light bulb –

I swirl the mixture around –

‘If you don’t want to drink it,’ says the master. ‘Then go.’

I shake my head. I put the glass to my lips. I knock it back –

It burns my throat. I cough. I tell him, ‘And another!’

I drain glass after glass as the old men at the counter joke with the master, horrible jokes, terrible jokes, but everyone smiles, everyone laughs.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! He, he, he, he!

Then one old man begins to sing, softly at first, then louder and louder, over and over –

‘Red apple to my lips, blue sky silently watching
…’

*

In the half-light, my wife sits sewing at the low table, my children asleep under the mosquito net, and suddenly I feel too drunk, too drunk to stand, to stand and face her with tears in my eyes –

The two eggs broken in my pocket –

But she says, ‘Welcome home.’

Home to where the mats are rotting. Home to where the doors are in shreds. Home to where the walls are falling in –

Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home
…

I sit down in the
genkan
with my back to her. I struggle with my boots and then ask, ‘How are the children?’

‘Masaki’s eyes are much better.’

‘How about Sonoko?’

‘They are still inflamed and swollen.’

‘Haven’t you taken her back to the doctor?’

‘They washed them out at the school yesterday but the nurse told her to stay at home until they have cleared up. They are worried it will spread to the rest of the class…’

Now I turn to face her and ask, ‘So what did you do today?’

‘We queued at the post office most of the morning…’

‘And did you get the money? Did they give it to you?’

‘They told us to come back tomorrow. So then we went to the park in Inokashira but their eyes hurt and they were hungry and it was so hot that we came back here before lunchtime…’

‘Have you eaten anything today?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Some bean-paste buns.’

‘Fresh?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many?’

‘One each.’

‘One each for the children and one for you?’

‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘Liar!’ I shout. ‘Why do you lie?’

My wife stops darning the children’s clothes. She puts away her needle and thread. She closes her sewing box. She bows slightly and says quietly, ‘I am very sorry. I will try harder.’

Now I stand up. I walk across the mats –

These rotting mats
…

‘There was a murder today, maybe two murders,’ I tell her. ‘My room has pulled the case and so you know this means I’ll be away for the next twenty days or…’

My wife bows again. My wife says, ‘I know. I understand.’

I take the three hundred yen from my pocket. I put it on the table and I say, ‘Take this.’

My wife bows a third time. My wife says, ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s not much, not with the way prices rise,’ I say. ‘But if I can get away, I’ll try to come back and bring what I can.’

‘Please don’t think about us,’ she says. ‘We will be fine. Please just think about solving the case.’

I want to upend the table. I want to tear apart the children’s
clothes. I want to slap her face. I want to beat her body –

I want to make her really, really hate me –

I want to make her really leave me –

This time. This time. This time
…

To take the children and go –

‘Don’t try and make me feel sorry for you,’ I tell her and close the doors to the other room. ‘Martyrdom is out of fashion!’

*

Behind the shredded doors, I close my eyes but I cannot sleep –

I think about Yuki all the time, all the time
…

I could never sleep because I thought about her –

Because she haunted me even then
…

From the day I first met her, even here –

She is lying naked on the futon, her head slightly to the right, her right arm outstretched and her left arm at her side. Her legs are parted, raised and bent at the knee
…

I get up from the tatami.
She brings her left hand up to her stomach
. I go into the other room.
She dips her fingers in my come
. I search through the kitchen cupboards and drawers.
She puts her fingers to her lips
. Through all the cupboards and the drawers.
She licks my come from her fingers
. But there is no Calmotin and no alcohol to be found, not one pill, not one drop –

She haunted me even here
…

I gently slide open the doors. I step inside the room in which we sleep. My two children still lain together beneath their net. I lie down beside my wife. Her eyes are closed now. I close mine but I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep –

In the half-light, I can’t forget
…

I remember when the bombs began to fall on Mitaka. I remember their evacuation, out to my wife’s sister’s house in Kōfu. I remember the platform on which we parted. I remember the train on which they left. I remember their tears; that they would live and I would die. Then, when the bombs began to fall on Kofu, when her own sister called her cursed, I remember their return to Mitaka. I remember the platform and I remember my tears –

That they would die and I would live –

In the half-light, the walls falling in
…

‘But we’re already dead,’ they’d said. ‘We’re already dead.’

Tokyo, 89°, fine

I itch from black-headed lice. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I get up from the low table. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I go over to the kitchen sink. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I comb my hair. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. The lice fall out in clumps. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I crush them against the sink. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. The skin lice are harder. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. They are white and so more difficult to hunt. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I turn on the tap. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. The water starts. The water stops. The water starts again –

I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
…

Brown and then clear, clear and then brown again –

I rinse my face. I search for soap to shave –

But there is none to find, again –

I rinse out my mouth and spit –

I am one of the survivors
…

I put on my shirt and my trousers, the same shirt and the same trousers I have worn every day for the last four or five years, the same shirt and the same trousers that my wife has tended and mended, stitched and re-stitched, like the socks and the shoes on my feet, the winter jacket on my back and the summer hat on my head –

I itch. I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I itch and I scratch –

I am one of the lucky ones
…

There is one small dish of
zōsui
on the low table, a porridge of rice and vegetables. I leave it for my wife and my children –

I take out my watch.
Chiku-taku
. And I wind it up –

It is 4 a.m. My wife and children still asleep –

I still itch and I still scratch.
Gari-gari
…

I put on and lace up my old army boots in the
genkan
. I gently open the front door and then close and lock it behind me. I walk down the garden path of our house. I close the gate behind me –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton
…

I walk away from my house, away from my family –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton
…

I walk down our street towards the station –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton
…

Through the sound of the hammers –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton
…

The dawn of a New Japan –

Ton-ton
…

The reconstruction work starts early; the surviving buildings being repaired or demolished, new ones built in their place; the roads being cleared of the rubble and ash, the rubble and ash tipped into the canals, the canals filled up and hidden. But the rivers and roads of Tokyo still stink of piss and shit, of cholera and typhus, of disease and death, death and loss –

Ton-ton
.

This is the New Japan; Mitaka station swarming with hundreds, thousands of people waiting for trains in both directions; to travel out into the countryside to sell their possessions off cheap to buy food; to travel into Tokyo to sell food to buy other people’s possessions cheap: endlessly back and forth, forth and back, endlessly buying and selling, selling and buying; the New Japan –

Every station. Every train. Every station
…

People in two solid lines along both platforms, swaying as newcomers try to push their way to the front, treading and trampling on the bodies of those who have slept out all night upon the platform, a last huge surge as the first Tokyo-bound train approaches –

Every train. Every station. Every train
…

Two empty carriages exclusively reserved for the Victors, one second-class hard-seat carriage for the privileged Losers, and a long string of run-down third-class carriages for the rest of us –

The ones who’ve lost everything
…

The third-class windows already broken, the carriages filled to the last inch at 5 a.m., the people on the platform pushing more bundles through the windows to take into Tokyo as others silently fight for a foothold on the steps or on the couplings –

Every station. Every train
…

I take out my notebook –

I itch and I itch
…

I shout, ‘Police!’

I manage to climb on board the train.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. I force my way inside one of the carriages.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. People continue to push from behind me.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. The train begins to move slowly down the track.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. My arms are pinned to my sides in the crush.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. There are people and there is baggage in every possible place.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. They squat on seat backs and they squat in the luggage racks.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. I can only move my eyes.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. The young boy’s head in front of me covered in ringworm.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. Lice crawl in and out of the hair of the young woman to my left.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. The scalp of the man to my right smells of sour milk.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. The train lurches over another set of points.
I itch but I cannot scratch
. I close my eyes –

I think about her all the time
…

It takes over an hour to reach Yūraku-chō station and then it takes a fight to get off the train and onto the platform –

I scratch.
Gari-gari
. I scratch.
Gari-gari
…

I walk from Yūraku-chō station down to Police HQ. I itch and now I sweat and it is not yet 6 a.m. and Tokyo stinks of shit; shit and dirt and dust, the shit and the dirt and the dust that coats my clothes and coats my skin, that scars my nostrils and burns my throat with every passing jeep, every passing truck –

I stop. I take out my handkerchief. I take off my hat. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I stare up at the bleached-white sky, searching for the invisible sun hiding somewhere up above the clouds of typhus, the clouds of dust, of dirt –

Of shit, of human shit
…

The side of the road is littered with people on mats, men and women, young and old, soldiers and civilian, their eyes blank or closed, exhausted –

My fists ball, my chest constricts, my lungs scream,
What are you waiting for?

It has been one year since people knelt upon the ground across the moat and wept. It has been one whole year, but still the people are on their knees, on their knees, on their knees, on their knees –

Get off your knees! Get off your knees!

*

Ishida is back. Ishida is cleaning Room #2, wiping down the chairs and the tables, sweeping up the floor and the doorway, straightening the telephones that can’t ring and dusting the fans that can’t turn –

Ishida is too young for this room, for this work, this place, but his family have connections, connections that have kept him alive and given him this job in this place and he is grateful and eager to prove himself, his face permanently to the floor, his back slightly bent, he is here to clean and make the tea, to make the tea and take our shit –

‘This is disgusting! The worst tea I’ve ever tasted!’ Fujita is shouting at Ishida; Fujita spitting his tea across the desk –

Fujita is back too. Fujita always comes back –

Late forties. Passed over and bitter
…

Detective Fujita knows he should be the head of this room, knows I am too young for this position, for this work, this place. But Detective Fujita knows my family had connections, connections that have kept me alive and given me this job in this place –

In his place. But Detective Fujita knows –

No one is who they say they are
…

Ishida apologizes. Ishida mops up the tea Fujita has spit out on the desk. Ishida apologizes again –

‘Don’t apologize like that,’ shouts Fujita. ‘Your apologies are always insincere. Your apologies make me feel worse than your silence. Apologize sincerely!’

Ishida has his face to the floor, his back bent. Fujita smacks the top of Ishida’s head. Fujita pushes him through the door, out of the room into the hallway –

‘You stay out there until you learn how to make decent tea!’

Ishida is on his knees in the hallway. Ishida is apologizing –

Fujita turns his back on him. ‘And learn how to apologize with some sincerity!’

I follow Fujita back into the room. I say, ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ he mumbles. ‘You got a cigarette?’

I shake my head. I ask him, ‘How was yesterday?’

‘I hate the countryside,’ he says. ‘And country people.’

I nod. I ask, ‘They fleece you?’

‘They tried,’ he laughs. ‘Until they found out I was a policeman and then I quickly managed to get some bargains.’

I point at the doorway. I ask, ‘Did Ishida turn up?’

‘Unfortunately,’ says Fujita. ‘No use, as usual.’

‘But you got some rice? Some supplies?’

‘Yes,’ he says, and then, ‘Thank you.’

I shrug. I say, ‘For what?’

‘For covering for us.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, but I heard about Shiba Park, about your two bodies. That was bad luck. And I heard they were asking where I was.’

I shrug. I say, ‘Forget it. You’d do the same for me.’

Fujita bows slightly and says, ‘Of course.’

I look at my watch.
Chiku-taku
. I am late, again.

*

I knock on the door to the chief’s office. I open it. I apologize. I bow. I take my seat at the table; Chief Kita at the head, Adachi and Kanehara to his right, Kai and I on the left; the same people, the same place, the same time and the same two conversations every day –

The rumours of purges and SCAP’s so-called reforms –

In October last year, following the issuance of SCAPIN 93, forty-seven out of fifty-one prefectural police chiefs were purged along with fifty-four superintendents, one hundred and sixty-eight inspectors, one thousand assistant inspectors, one thousand, five hundred and eighty-seven sergeants and two thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven patrolmen, each of these assistant inspectors, sergeants and patrolmen being members of the disbanded Tokkō –

In January this year, following a new Purge Directive known as SCAPIN 550, two further police chiefs lost their jobs along with sixty superintendents and twenty-eight inspectors –

This Purge Directive not only removes men from public office, it also disqualifies them from all other positions –

And the Victors have not finished –

‘I was talking with this old friend from Nerima last night,’ says Chief Inspector Kanehara. ‘And he was telling me that SCAP sent the Public Safety Division into the Nerima police station to check the career histories of every single police officer in the building, the dates of all their transfers and appointments…’

‘Why Nerima?’ asks Adachi –

Or Anjo or Ando or
…

‘Because some uniformed patrolman complained directly to
SCAP that last August, just after the surrender, some former high-ranking Tokkō and Kempei officers at Nerima had changed their names to those of dead or retired men and then transferred to other, better positions and ranks under their adopted new names…’

No one is who they say they are
…

‘While men who had served in the Tokkō and Kempei sections for only a few months were now being purged…’

No one who they seem to be
…

‘Snitch!’ spits Adachi –

And everybody nods –

Except me
…

Now the talk around the table turns to an overnight spate of muggings in the Setagaya area, of a three-man gang with handguns, of possible connections to last month’s armed burglaries in the same area of Tokyo, of the continuing rise in violent crime, the use of guns when we have none and back then to SCAP’s so-called reforms –

‘We’ve asked them for guns,’ says Kanehara. ‘More guns. Better guns. Guns that work. Guns with ammunition to match…’

‘And they’ve promised us guns,’ says Adachi –

‘But that’s all they’ve done,’ says Kanehara –

The same people, the same place, the same time and the same two conversations every day, meeting after meeting, until there is a knock on the door, until there is an interruption –

‘Excuse me,’ mumbles the uniform –

‘What is it ?’ barks Chief Kita –

‘The mothers are here, sir.’

*

It is 8:30 a.m. on the day after the bodies were discovered and there are already twenty mothers here. Twenty mothers who have read the morning paper or heard the news from neighbours. Twenty mothers who have taken out their last good kimonos. Twenty mothers who have called upon their other daughters or their sisters. Twenty mothers who begged the streetcar or train fare to Sakuradamon –

Twenty mothers looking for their lost daughters –

‘They’re quick enough to read the papers,’ Kai is telling me. ‘Quick enough to come down here, but where were they when their daughters went missing? They’re too late now…’

Inspector Kai and I are walking down the stairs of Metropolitan Police Headquarters to one of the reception rooms –

‘There used to be just twenty missing persons a month, before the war. Now we’ve got between two and three hundred…’

To the reception rooms to face the twenty mothers –

‘And forty per cent of them are young women aged fifteen to twenty-five, and they’re just the ones who get reported…’

The twenty mothers looking for their daughters –

‘You watch,’ says Kai. ‘Not one of these mothers will have reported their daughters missing before today.’

A uniformed officer opens the door to the reception room for Inspector Kai and me. Kai and I enter the room. Kai and I introduce ourselves to these twenty mothers before us, these twenty mothers in their last good kimonos with their other daughters or their sisters –