I stand back up. I take the old colour postcard of the Itsuku-shima Shrine down from the wall. I turn it over. It’s from Hiroko –
A school trip in a happier time …
I put the postcard in the pocket of my jacket. I walk back out of the cabin, into the sunlight and the scrapyard, the two men still talking, the taller man saying, ‘You live through all that he lived through, you survive all that he survived, the war, the bombs, the fires, you survive all that just to die in a stupid traffic accident…’
‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ says the short one –
‘Except when your time comes, it comes…’
I thank them again and then I step back through the boarding and out into the street. I look at the buildings going up, the offices and the businesses, and I think about Kobayashi’s son, still chopping wood on the Amur River, not knowing his father died in a traffic accident at eight o’clock last night, not knowing his aunt died of a broken heart, not knowing his cousin was raped and murdered, not knowing he is better off dead, he’s better off dead, better off dead –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
*
I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I am hungry and I am starving. I need a drink and a cigarette. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I walk through another makeshift market, through its stalls and its stands. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I stop before a stall where a young woman is selling sweet potatoes. I stare at the potatoes and now at the woman –
Her sunburnt skin and her short skirt …
The frayed hem of her skirt hiked up, the woman sits on a crate with one leg crossed over the other –
‘Are you just going to stare up my skirt, old man?’ she asks. ‘Or are you going to buy a potato…?’
I blush now and I look away.
The woman uncrosses her legs and stands up. She wipes her face and she wipes her neck. She looks at me and she laughs –
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘They’re just two yen.’
I take out the money and I hand it to her –
‘Help yourself,’ she laughs now.
I pick up a sweet potato and I begin to walk away. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I glance round at the woman but she has already sat back down on her crate, one leg crossed over the other –
Her sunburnt skin and her short skirt …
And now I see him; I see him among the crowds, among the stalls; caked black in rags and filth, his face and his hands covered in blisters and boils, the boy is weeping pus and tears. I keep walking through the crowds, through the stalls. I glance back again. I see him again, among the crowds, among the stalls, caked black in rags and filth, covered in blisters and boils –
He walks behind me …
I keep walking. I am hungry and I am starving. I need a drink and a cigarette. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I turn a corner and I turn another. I glance back over my shoulder but I cannot see him. Now I stop walking. I sit down in another ruin, among another pile of rubble. I bite into the potato –
It is cold, it is old …
But it still tastes hot, it still tastes fresh to me. Now a shadow falls across my face and hands and I look up. The boy is stood before me, caked black in rags and filth, covered in blisters and boils, just centimetres before me –
He points …
His belly distended, his bones protruding, he smells of rotten apricots. Now he raises his hand and he points his finger at me –
His yellow eyes, stained a deep, dark and bloody red …
I start to break the sweet potato in half, to give him one half, but the boy snatches the whole potato out of my fingers and now, with his other hand, he throws dirt and dust into my face –
Dust into my eyes as he turns and he runs –
Runs away weeping and laughing –
Tears and pus, Ha, ha, ha, ha …
Daddy, Banzai!
*
I knock on the door of the old wooden row house in Kitazawa, not far from the Shimo-Kitazawa station. There is no answer. I knock again. There is still no answer. I try the door. It is not locked. I open it. There is silence. I step inside the genkan. The kitchen is deserted –
I call out, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Murota? Excuse me…?’
But there is still no answer, still only silence –
I take off my boots. I step inside the house. I walk across the old tatami mats. I go through the shabby curtain that partitions the downstairs. Nothing but stale air and shadows –
Nothing but shadows here …
I go up the steep, narrow wooden stairs. There are two rooms, one at the back and one at the front of the house. The room at the front is the larger one. There is a chest of drawers stood in one corner on the dirty mats. I open the drawers. They are empty. The window in the back room has been left open. There are mosquitoes here. There is also a closet but, again, it is empty –
Nothing but shadows now …
I go back down the wooden stairs. Back through the shabby curtain. I stand in the kitchen. There are mosquitoes here too. The smell of old meals. Murota Hideki and the woman who called herself Tominaga Noriko are long gone –
No one who they seem …
I sit down at the low wooden table on the old worn tatami. I take out one of the two wristwatches from my pocket. I turn it over in my hand. I hold it up to the light. I read its inscription –
Tominaga Noriko …
I place the watch on the low wooden table –
I take out my notebook of rough paper –
I lick the tip of my pencil stub –
In the half-light …
I write, over and over –
I write my name –
Over and over –
My name.
*
The sky has turned a darker shade of grey now. Not you. The air is heavy with dread and heat. Not you. The branches and their leaves hang low. Not you. The street stalls have all been covered over with straw mats. Not you. Men and women squat among the rubble, watching the sky and fanning themselves. Not you. Jeeps and trucks roll past with their huge white stars on their doors, their canvas canopies rolled up. Not you. Men with white faces and men with black faces sat in the backs of the jeeps and the trucks. Not you. They have guns in their hands or guns on their knees. It was not you. They are smiling and they are laughing. It was not you …
It was not you we were waiting for …
*
They are searching for me, on the trains and at the stations, but I have found them first, back here where they least expect me, back here at the Atago police station. I stand across the road and I watch and I wait, I watch and I wait. I watch them come and I watch them go and I wait. I wait until I see Detective Nishi and now I move –
Nishi on his own coming down the road –
Ten quick steps and I’m behind him –
The pistol pressed into his ribs –
Eyes in the back of my head –
‘This way,’ I tell him and force him to turn around, to turn back and walk across the road, to stand him up against the trees, here among the weeds and the garbage, the black metal drums full of ashes and remains, an army-issue pistol pressed into his belly –