That stench of rotten apricots …
The all-clear signal now –
I should not be here …
The orders to assemble at various elementary schools, the orders to avoid certain other schools. The smell of apricots. I stagger and I stumble on, Yuki still in my arms. I should not be here. I want to leave her, I want to go home, but I cannot. The stench of rotten apricots. I stagger and I stumble, through the black columns of survivors, their black bedding on their backs, their black bicycles at their sides. I should not be here. I stagger and I stumble on until we reach the Sumida River, the river now black with bodies. The smell of apricots. I carry Yuki across the black bridge. I should not be here. I stagger and I stumble past soldiers clearing the black streets, shifting the black bodies into the backs of their trucks with hooks. The stench of rotten apricots. I stagger and I stumble as the black flesh tears, the black bodies fall apart. I should not be here. Until the air is no longer warm, the dawn no longer pink. Just the smell of apricots …
Until I can look no more, I stagger and I stumble –
I should not be here. I should not be here …
Until hours, maybe days later, I carry her up the stairs of a deserted block of apartments in Shinagawa –
I should not be here …
Until I lay her down on the pale tatami mats of a second-floor room, frayed and well worn, the chrysanthemum wallpaper limp and peeling. Here in the half-light. I take the bottle out of my pocket. I unscrew the cap of the bottle. I take the cotton wool out of the neck of the bottle. I begin to count the pills –
I should not be here …
One Calmotin, two. I count and I count. I take out a second bottle. I count out the pills. Thirty-one Calmotin, thirty-two. I count and I count. I take out the third bottle. Sixty-one Calmotin, sixty-two. I count and I count. The fourth bottle and then the fifth –
One hundred and twenty-one Calmotin …
I should not be here, on my knees –
This is surrender …
I should not be here –
This is defeat …
*
Potsu-potsu, the rain is still falling, the hot fat drops on the kettles and the pans; potsu-potsu it falls in its terrible rhythm on the crockery and the utensils; potsu-potsu on the clothes and the shoes; potsu-potsu on the cooking oil and the soy sauce –
No ‘Apple Song’ here tonight –
Potsu-potsu it falls on the corrugated tin roof which covers the stairs up to Senju Akira’s office –
Potsu-potsu, potsu-potsu …
Heavier and heavier –
Zā-zā, zā-zā…
I clutch my knapsack. I start to shuffle backwards towards the door, on my hands and on my knees –
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Senju laughing at me now as he asks, ‘You didn’t bring me back any souvenirs from Tochigi then? Not very thoughtful…’
‘I am very sorry,’ I tell him and I bow again –
But now Senju has said too much …
On my hands and on my knees –
He has said too much …
I get off my knees. He has said too much. I open my old army knapsack. Get off your knees! I take out the 1939 army-issue pistol. He has said too much. I raise it. Get off your knees! I aim and I point it at Senju Akira. He has said too much. Senju sat cross-legged before the long low polished table. Get off your knees! Bare-chested, with his trousers unbuttoned at the waist. He has said too much. Revolvers and short swords lain out on the table before him –
Get off your knees! Get off your knees!
‘It was you,’ I tell him. You who ordered Ishida to kill me. You who ordered Ishida to steal that file because Fujita told you it would buy Adachi’s silence. Because you knew Adachi would find out. You knew he would find out it was you; you who introduced Fujita to Nodera; you who set them up to kill Matsuda, your own boss, your mentor, the man you called brother; it was you…
‘You who ordered the hit on Matsuda…’
Now Senju looks up at me and smiles –
Senju laughing at me again now –
He, he, he, he! Ho, ho, ho, ho …
‘Suddenly you’re a brave man, are you? With your grey hair and your stench of death, suddenly you’re a hero again, are you? Suddenly, back from the dead. Go on then, corporal…’
The 1939 army-issue pistol pointed at him –
‘Corporal what …? What’s your name…?’
The 1939 army-issue pistol aimed at him –
‘What is it this week, corporal…?’
The army-issue pistol in my hand –
‘Who are you today, cor—’
I pull the trigger. Bang!
His forehead shatters –
I am off my knees …
I can hear feet coming. I pick up the file and the papers, the money and the drugs. Feet up the stairs, through the doors –
Through the doors, and I shoot again –
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The first one falls, the other turns –
I run to the door and I shoot –
Bang! Bang!
The man falls down the stairs as I follow him –
As I step over the bloodstained patterned shirt. Zā-zā, zā-zā. As I stamp on the American sunglasses. Zā-zā, zā-zā…
Now I run. Now I run away again –
Zā-zā, zā-zā. Zā-zā, zā-zā…
Run to the station –
Zā-zā, zā-zā…
The rain coming down in sheets of sheer white water, bouncing back off the train tracks and the umbrellas on the platform. Zā-zā, zā-zā. Now the headlights of the Shinjuku train appear and the pushing begins, the shoving begins. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I push my way forward and I shove my way on board. Zā-zā, zā-zā…
He said too much. He will say no more …
Now the doors close and the train starts. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Pushed and shoved as we crawl along the tracks through the rain. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. But I cannot see this train at all. Zā-zā, zā-zā. Now I do not itch and I do not scratch. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I close my eyes –
Zā-zā, zā-zā. Zā-zā, zā-zā…
I am not here.
*
My hat pulled down and my jacket stretched over, I run down the road to the restaurant, half-way between the station and my house –
The one lantern swinging in the rain and the wind –
Ha, ha, ha, ha! He, he, he, he! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
I pull back the sheet that acts as a door and the jokes, the smiles and the laughter stop dead. Dead. No jokes. No smiles. No laughter. Everyone has gone. There is no one here –