‘Men were here again,’ says the master. ‘Asking about you.’
‘Who were they?’ I ask him. ‘Good guys or bad?’
‘What do you mean, good guys or bad?’ asks the master. ‘How would I know? You tell me. All I know is that they weren’t friendly and they were asking after you…’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t like to see you frightened…’
‘I’m not frightened,’ says the master. ‘But I don’t want trouble with the Yankees and I don’t want trouble with the gangs and I don’t want trouble with crooked cops either…’
I take out some money. I put it on the counter and I tell him, ‘I know I have run up debts…’
Debts to the dead …
The master picks up the money from the counter. The master puts the money back into my hand. He closes my fingers round it –
‘I don’t want your money and I don’t want your custom either. The slate’s clean but, remember, you’re not welcome here any more.’
‘Idiot!’ I shout and storm out of his little shithole of a bar –
I walk down my own street cursing him, over and over –
‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’
In the rain and in the wind, over and over again –
‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’
Hat on tight and jacket up over my head –
‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’
I scratch and I scratch and I scratch –
Gari-gari. Gari-gari. Gari-gari …
‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’
In the rain and in the wind. Idiot …
On my hands, on my knees –
Idiot. Before the gate –
The idiot …
*
The gate to my house is closed. I open it. The door is locked. I open it. The house is dark. The house is silent. I stand in the genkan —
The rotting mats, shredded doors and fallen walls …
The house still sleeping, always sleeping –
I wipe my face and I wipe my neck –
The house smells of children –
Their shoes face the door …
It smells of pain –
‘I’m home…’
My wife comes out of the kitchen, her face is stained with soot, her hands brushing dust from her worn monpe trousers –
She smiles and she says, ‘Welcome home…’
Home. Home. Home. Home. Home …
I have brought cherries home, cherries for my children, their stems tied in a necklace around my neck –
Home. Home. Home. Home …
I never want to leave again –
Home. Home. Home …
I close my eyes –
Home. Home …
Now I am –
Home.
14. August 28, 1946
Tokyo, 79°, rain
Night is day again. I open my eyes. No sleep. Night is day. I can hear the rain falling. No pills. Night is day. I can see the sun shining –
I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember …
I walk out of the sunlight and into the shadow. Investigation is footwork. I walk back up the hill to the scene of the crime. The good detective visits the crime scene one hundred times …
The scene of the crime. Hide from sight. The white morning light behind the black Shiba trees. The corpses of the dead. The black trees that have seen so much. In the long, long grasses. The black branches that have borne so much. The dead leaves and weeds. The black leaves that have come again. Another country’s young. To grow, to fall, to grow again. Another country’s dead …
I walk away from the scene of the crime. Another country. To stand beneath the Black Gate. Another century …
In the half-light, I can’t forget…
The day is finally here. Oh so bravely, off to Victory. I leave for the front tomorrow. Insofar as we have vowed and left our land behind. My wife and family wake early and head for Shiba Park. Who can die without first having shown his true mettle? In the inner compound of Zōjōji Temple a large crowd has gathered to say goodbye. Each time I hear the bugles of our advancing army. They leave the compound and make their way through the crowds of school excursions to stand before the Black Gate. I close my eyes and see wave upon wave of flags cheering us into battle. My son has a little flag in his hand, my daughter has a little flag in hers. The earth and its flora burn in flames. My parents are here. As we endlessly part the plains. Friends from school, teammates from my high school baseball club, and colleagues with whom I graduated; each holds aloft a big banner, each banner bearing my name, each before the Black Gate. Helmets emblazoned with the Rising Sun. The clock strikes noon, the cries rise as my truck approaches and stops before the Black Gate. And, stroking the mane of our horses. I jump down from the back of the Nissan. Who knows what tomorrow will bring — life? I stare into the crowd, up at the banners and the flags, and I salute. Or death in battle? Now the departure signal sounds –
No one is who they say they are. No one …
Beneath the Black Gate. Another country. Day is night again. Another century. Huge scorched trees, their roots to the sky. A different world. Nothing but the ruin of the old Black Gate. A different time. Branches charred and leaves lost. Another country. In this place, I stand beneath the dark eaves of the gate. A different world. We have seen hell. Another century. We have known heaven. A different time. We have heard the last judgment. In the half-light. We have witnessed the fall of the gods. I can’t forget. Night is day, day is night. In the half-light. Black is white, white is black –
But the good detective knows nothing is random …
Under the Black Gate, the stray dog waits –
The detective knows in chaos lies order …
His house lost and his master gone –
He knows in chaos lie answers …
The stray dog has no feet –
Answers, answers …
The dog is dead.
*
I put my daughter on my back. I take my son by the hand. In the half-light, I lead them down the garden path, down the street to stand in the queue for the post office, in the hope that the government insurance has arrived, in the hope I can cash the last of our bonds.
The queue moves slowly forward. The bench outside becomes free. I sit my daughter and my son down upon the bench next to an old man who stinks of drink. He winks at my daughter and he smiles at my son. Now he turns to me and holds out a withdrawal slip and asks, ‘Will you fill this out for me…?’
I nod. ‘For how much?’
The old man opens his post office savings book and says, ‘Forty yen should do today.’