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.’
12. August 26, 1946
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?’