Yuji, who has been delivering cigarettes to a beer hall in Shibuya with Mr Fujitomi and the blue Nissan, is the last to arrive. He nods his apologies to his neighbours, takes his place beside Father.
‘You saw him today?’ whispers Father.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Sonoko says his appetite is improving.’
‘And his movement?’
‘Not yet.’
The men are ranged around a long low table at the back of the restaurant. Otaki, Itaki, Ozono, old Mr Kawabata, Mr Kiyama the wedding photographer, Father, Yuji. Saburo is at the top of the table, his crutch angled against the wall behind him. He is, apparently, in full uniform. He has a medal on his chest, the Wound Medal (Second Class). Of the others, three of them — Itaki, Otaki and Mr Kiyama — are in civil defence jackets. Behind the curtain, in the kitchen, Otaki’s wife and sister are preparing refreshments for the end of the meeting. The only other woman present, kneeling in the obscurity by the door, is Grandma Kitamura.
‘I suppose,’ says Otaki, clearing his throat, ‘we should make a start?’ He glances at Father, the disgraced but still august professor of law, a man to whom the procedures of meetings must be almost second nature, but Father keeps his gaze on the tabletop.
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’ says Otaki, and laughs with embarrassment.
Yuji looks over at Saburo. Saburo is staring at him. Yuji looks away.
‘It seems,’ continues Otaki, doubtfully, ‘we have to make some decisions?’
‘An auspicious day for it,’ says the wedding photographer.
‘Indeed,’ says Itaki, reverently inclining his head. ‘The two-thousand-six-hundredth anniversary of the Empire!’
‘Have you seen the pavilion outside the palace?’ asks the photographer.
Yuji has seen it through the window of the Nissan. An immense and lavishly decorated tent, the centrepiece of the week’s celebrations, radiant in the November sunshine. Crowds of police, crowds of soldiers . .
‘All the big ones will be there,’ says the photographer. ‘Prince Konoe, General Tojo, Admiral Nagano . .’
‘Imagine the food,’ says Itaki, sighing. ‘Though they say the Empress will never open her mouth in public.’
‘I’ve heard that myself,’ says the photographer. ‘The thought of such modesty moved me greatly.’ He straightens his back. His face takes on an expression of awed contemplation.
After a respectful interval (briefly disturbed by Mr Kawabata excusing himself and tottering away towards the toilet), Otaki holds up the ministry booklet. ‘There’s quite a lot in it,’ he says. ‘I was quite surprised.’
‘The most important thing,’ says Itaki, whose civil defence jacket is obviously home-dyed, and recently too, for some of the dye, a curious dun colour, has rubbed off on his wrists, ‘is to elect a block captain. No?’
The wedding photographer nods vigorously. Yuji has heard nothing of this. A block captain? He scans his neighbours’ faces, seeing, on at least three of them, the nervous smirks of schoolboy conspirators.
‘When you think about,’ says Otaki, ‘it should be someone with experience.’
‘I agree,’ says Itaki. ‘But someone with the right experience.’ He looks at Saburo and grins.
‘And a cool head,’ says the photographer. ‘Wouldn’t that be important?’
‘Certainly,’ says Otaki, now, like the other two, casting shy glances at the lounging figure at the top of the table.
‘Professor Takano,’ drawls Saburo, watching the smoke of his cigarette flowing in slow blue waves from between his outstretched fingers, ‘is the most educated man here . .’
Father looks up. ‘Quite impossible,’ he says, addressing Otaki in a voice that invites no further discussion.
‘Is it a position for a younger man?’ asks Otaki, flustered.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ says Saburo. ‘In which case, the professor’s son would be a good candidate. Isn’t it true,’ he says, smiling at Yuji, ‘that you’re a few months younger than me?’
‘It’s true,’ says Yuji. ‘But I wonder if my experience is really suitable.’
‘The difficulty,’ answers Saburo, ‘is knowing what your experience really is.’
The photographer giggles.
‘His experience,’ says Father, ‘is more varied than you might imagine. How many of us here, for example, can speak another language, fluently, as Yuji does?’
‘Is it Chinese?’ asks Saburo, jutting his head forwards. ‘Chinese is the language he’ll need soon.’
Mr Kawabata returns from the toilet. ‘Hardly a drop,’ he mutters, knee joints cracking as he takes his place on the mat. ‘And yet I felt I needed it.’
‘But what about you?’ asks Itaki, bowing and addressing Saburo as ‘honourable soldier’.
‘Wouldn’t you consider it?’ adds Otaki.
‘We would really feel we had the right person,’ says the photographer.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ asks Saburo, one finger tapping the Wound Medal.
‘But you move around like a cat,’ says Itaki.
‘Really, it’s remarkable,’ says Kiyama.
‘The truth,’ says Saburo, ‘is that my vote was going to be for Mr Ozono. He has made the greatest sacrifice. Shouldn’t we show our appreciation of it by offering the position to him?’
Ozono blushes. ‘Like the professor,’ he says, ‘it would be quite awkward, at this moment, to accept such a responsibility. If I still had Kenji to help in the shop, but . .’
‘You’re the perfect choice,’ says Itaki to Saburo. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Saburo. ‘There may be some people here who think I’m not up to it.’
‘Eh? Everybody has the greatest confidence in you,’ says Otaki, glancing eagerly around the table.
‘Everybody?’
‘Please,’ says Itaki. ‘You must let us insist.’
‘It’s embarrassing . .’ says Saburo. He waits. Is he counting off the seconds? Then he sighs as though some great burden is being lowered onto his shoulders. ‘But if you are going to insist, what can I say except I will try to serve you and His Sacred Majesty with all my strength. Just as I did in China.’
‘So you’ll do it?’ asks Otaki.
‘Abolish victory until the final desire!’ cries Mr Kawabata, his eyes tightly shut, his cheeks trembling with emotion.
Yuji looks over to the door. The old woman has leaned into the light so that it hangs in a yellow veil across her face. Seeing herself observed, she settles back on her haunches, steals her smile back into the shadows.
By eight thirty, swept along by a wave of satisfaction that the matter of the appointment (this irksome new post no honest tradesman could be expected to waste his time on) has been handled with the necessary deftness, all other business — saving deposits, sanitation, liaison with community councils, comfort bags for the troops — is dealt with easily. Otaki summons his wife. She comes in with a steaming earthenware pot of fat white udon noodles. The sister brings in the sake. They drink to the anniversary of the Empire, to the health of the imperial family, to the army, to the navy, to the homeland. They tilt back their heads and sing the neighbourhood association song (‘A sharp tap, tap from the neighbourhood asso-ci-ation! When I opened the lattice gate, there was a fa-mi-liar face!’) The photographer begins a story about a young couple he photographed the previous week in Shitaya, but no one, it seems, can understand whether the story is intended to be sentimental or lewd.