And what if he refuses it? What if he is the nail that cannot be hammered in? How, in this world he has been given but never asked for, does one make plans to survive?
For a week he manages to avoid paying his visit to the Kitamura house, and might, had he not sat so unguardedly on the verandah for half an hour flicking through his latest find at the Kanda bookstalls (a tattered but serviceable copy of Ciné-Journal, Sarah Bernhardt on the cover), have put off the meeting a few days more. He is reading a review of Pathé’s Le Coupable when he hears a whistle — short, low, and of such shocking familiarity he immediately feels a violent contraction of his heart that for two seconds dims the daylight around him. He closes the magazine, rolls it, and goes to the gap in the fence. Saburo — a face-wide strip of him — is waiting there, one hand holding a young black cat against his chest. The other hand, though not in view, is presumably clenched round the cross-strut of a crutch.
‘Welcome home,’ says Yuji. ‘I am sorry you have suffered a misfortune.’
‘Misfortune? I’ve lost half my foot, but now I can lie back and watch the others sweat. I’m going to enjoy it.’ He is smiling, an eager, open smile, but the face is no longer the one in the picture the old woman sighed over. Something has happened to Saburo, something that cannot be explained by the mutilation of a foot.
‘I was coming to see you,’ says Yuji.
‘Everybody else has already been.’
‘I was at Grandfather’s, and then . .’
‘Granny says your father’s friends are keeping you out of the army.’
‘My chest . .’
‘Ah! The famous chest!’
‘It’s probably only a matter of time.’
‘Probably? I’d say definitely.’
‘You made it to corporal, then?’
‘You know, I’ve only been back a week and already I’m sick of the prattling of women. Though sometimes Granny has interesting things to say. Surprising things, in fact.’
‘You heard about Ozono?’
‘No one to take over the brush business now.’
‘No.’
‘I bet the box they got back was empty. They usually are.’
‘The box?’
‘Of ashes. Most of them are empty.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘What were you reading? Show me.’
Yuji, unrolling the magazine, holds it up. Saburo frowns at it. ‘You could get into trouble with something like that,’ he says.
‘It’s just about films.’
‘It’s not Japanese, though, is it?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got your father’s disease.’
‘Father doesn’t have a disease.’
‘I don’t mean a real disease.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘How touchy you are!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Would it surprise you to know I often thought of you over there?’
‘You did?’
‘We could have had some fun, you and me. I could have shown you things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh, I’d have to whisper them to you. You’d have to push your head through the fence.’
‘It was kind of you to think of me.’
‘I can’t really talk to the women in there. But I can’t escape from them either. Not with this.’ He tilts his head to indicate the crutch, the cut limb. Yuji nods. Despite what he sees in the other’s eyes, he pities him. ‘I’m going to have a special boot made. The front half will be filled with wood. There’s a place in Sendagi. A workshop that makes wooden parts for soldiers.’
‘A special boot would be good, I suppose.’
‘Lucky I got married before, eh? What kind of a wife do you think I’d get like this? Women don’t want a man with a piece missing. Not unless he’s rich.’
‘Is that cat one of the litter?’
‘The only one to survive. I had to give Kyoko a bit of a dressing-down, army style, when I found that out.’
‘It might have been difficult to have helped the others.’
‘You’re sticking up for her?’
‘The cat could have gone somewhere secret to have the kittens.’
‘What do you know about cats?’
‘I’m not an expert.’
‘That’s right. You’re not an expert.’
‘It’s good that one survived.’
‘It needs a name though, don’t you think?’
‘Doesn’t it have one already?’
‘It’s my cat. I’m the only one who can give it a name.’
‘Have you chosen one?’
‘Mmm, I’m not sure. I thought’ — he furrows his brow in a clumsy mime of consideration — ‘I thought “Foreign Girl” might be good.’
‘A strange name for a cat.’
‘I told you Granny had been telling me interesting things.’
‘Some of them might not be quite accurate.’
‘Then why are you blushing?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re red as a cherry.’
‘Let’s forget about it.’
‘And what if I don’t want to forget about it?’
‘I’m only saying we could talk about something else.’
‘Then let’s talk about how grateful you are for my sacrifice. About how you’re going to show your gratitude.’
‘We’re all grateful.’
‘Look at you with your stupid magazine! You talk like you’re somebody and I’m nobody.’
‘No,’ says Yuji, quietly. ‘I’m nobody. You’re a war hero.’
‘That’s right. A returning hero.’
‘Yes. A returning hero.’
‘A veteran.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tried and tested.’
‘Yes.’
‘Think you can tell me what to do?’
‘No.’
‘So who gives the orders?’
‘You. Of course.’
‘I’m just pleased to see you again, Takano.’
‘I’m pleased to see you.’
‘You were my right-hand man when we were kids. You could be that again if you wanted.’
‘I remember it,’ says Yuji.
‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be kids again? Even for a day?’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘We were free then. Not a care in the world. And now . .’ He lifts the cat, nuzzling its head with the point of his chin. The animal mews, drowsily. ‘Time for Foreign Girl to have some milk,’ he says. ‘Though not any cream. Cream’s bad for their livers. You can kill a cat with cream.’
‘Yes?’
They look at each other, intimate as criminals, as lovers.
‘It’s you and me against the rest,’ says Saburo, starting, with little precarious movements, little grunts of effort, to turn himself round. ‘You and me against the women . .’
11
On Father’s birthday, Yuji presents him with an envelope containing a dozen steel needles for the gramophone.
‘If you were concerned about disturbing anyone, you could listen in the garden study.’
‘Listen to jazz?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to hear King Oliver again?’
‘Hmm. The New Orleans sound. You played it for the child, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. She was quite a good dancer.’
‘A child’s spirit is light. Jazz needs a light spirit. Dancing too, of course.’
‘You told me once that Mother was a good dancer.’
‘It’s true. We used to go to clubs in the Low City, even after Ryuichi was born. Dancing was one thing that did not seem to fatigue her.’ He smiles. ‘And we too had light spirits then.’
In the evening, Kushida comes for supper. He is wearing a field cap and a civil defence jacket, though the jacket, unlike most of the others Yuji has seen, has a neat and tailored appearance, more staff officer than front-line soldier. He apologises for it, feigns embarrassment, and explains that he had to attend a meeting of his local neighbourhood association — new directives on fire-fighting. As one of the senior people, he was, unfortunately, required to stay until the end. It had gone on so long he had not had time to return home and change.