Fireflies (5 page)

“What's your big idea, then?” I asked.

He jerked his thumb toward Tomoko.

“There's another way a girl like that could make us some money, you know.”

I leaped to my feet and stared him down with white eyes, furious that I'd ever felt sorry for such a bastard. I held my fist under his chin until he shrank backward.

“What does it matter?” he whined. “We wouldn't be the only ones!”

“Don't you touch a hair on her head,” I whispered. “Don't you even dare.”

“What?” he said. “Want to save her for yourself, monster?”

My clenched fist stopped a hair's breadth away from his eye socket. Finally he shrugged and rolled away.

“Suit yourself.”

~ ~ ~

Tomoko didn't say much, at first. In fact, I sometimes wondered whether she'd actually forgotten how to talk on her long journey across the Kansai plain. But then, one afternoon, she came over to us through the ticket hall, holding up a tattered magazine.

“I've found something,” she said in a faint voice.

She was holding a torn copy of
Women's Club,
a magazine that my mother used to read. I wrinkled up my nose, but she opened it anyway to show us an article. I squinted at the title: “Let's Eat Grasshoppers!” it said.

“Well. Let's hear it then,” I said, nodding in encouragement.

Tomoko blew her hair out of her eyes. Shyly, she began to read.

“Not only is the countryside full of grasshoppers, but despite what some might think, they are in fact quite delicious to eat and are very nutritious, being packed full of vitamins.”

Koji made a sour face and Shin, not to be outdone, retched loudly.

But the idea didn't seem like such a bad one to me. We were all just skin and bones, after all. Even if we didn't eat the grasshoppers ourselves, we could always try selling them back here at the market. I'd seen people selling buckets of frogs before; some even sold snakes.

“Well. Maybe we'll go on a grasshopper hunt tomorrow then,” I said. “First thing.”

The other children started to make excited noises, but I quickly dashed their hopes.

“Just us older ones, of course. Me — and Tomoko. Shin, you can stay here and look after the little ones. You're in charge.”

My heart was in my mouth as the children grumbled away. I snatched a glance up at Tomoko. Her cheeks were glowing. She was smiling at me.

~ ~ ~

It was a cold morning, beautifully clear and bright, as we jumped down from the Tobu Main Line train, just past Shiraoka up in Saitama prefecture. The fields were all crunchy with frost and mottled leaves were floating down from the trees, slowly, as if they couldn't bear to land. We'd borrowed some little bamboo cages from an old man at the market to make homes for our grasshoppers, but though we hunted about in the fields for hours on end, as the magazine suggested, it finally became clear that we wouldn't be needing them. There were no grasshoppers to be found.

“I wonder where they all could have gone,” Tomoko sniffed.

“Perhaps it's because it's autumn now,” I said. “Or perhaps other people have already taken them.”

We wandered along a winding path that led through the fields, as the dew melted and a warbler called out from the trees. It must have its nest nearby, I thought, and I wondered if I should try to search for its eggs. I looked up. Tomoko was standing by a little shrine set with offerings just off the path, her eyes closed as if she were saying a prayer.

The stories I'd heard about her city swirled through my head. As we carried on walking, I finally plucked up the courage to ask her the question that had been puzzling me.

“Tomoko,” I said. “I was wondering. Why was it that your mother sent you to Tokyo in the first place? Do you really have relatives here?”

She stopped suddenly, and gave me a strange look.

“She was sick,” she murmured.

“Sick?”

She nodded. A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. “Not straight away,” she said. “After.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?” I asked. “What was wrong with her?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shook her head. “I don't know,” she said. “Something to do with her blood.”

“Couldn't your father help?” I asked. “What did he do?”

“He was a doctor,” she said. “At the naval hospital.”

“So why couldn't he help, then?”

She stared blankly at the ground.

“What was it like?” I blurted. “Is it true what they say? That it all went up with just one blast?”

Tomoko held her hands tightly against her sides. She suddenly looked as if she was about to cry.
Idiot!
I thought, cursing myself. This kind of talk was against the rules.

I strode on down the path, squirming with embarrassment. After a while, I heard Tomoko's footsteps. I hardly dared look at her as she fell into step beside me.

“So what about you, Hiroshi-kun?” she asked. “What about Asakusa? Was it really as exciting as all the songs used to say?”

I glanced at her in relief, thankful to be changing the subject. “Haven't you ever heard of the Sanja Matsuri?” I asked. “It used to be the best festival of them all!”

A smile appeared on her face. “Is that so?”

“What?” I said. “You country bumpkin. Everyone knows that!”

She laughed as I told her about the rowdy celebrations that took place in our neighbourhood every year in honour of the founders of Senso Temple: the swollen crowds; the bulging-eyed men who carried the three enormous portable shrines up to the temple, swaying and crashing into the narrow buildings on each side of the alley as they passed.

“Did you ever carry a shrine, Hiroshi?” Tomoko asked.

I hesitated. “Well, yes, of course I did. One of the smaller ones, a little
mikoshi
. But you should have seen it! It was covered with real gold . . . ”

I blustered on, hoping to thrill Tomoko with tales of Asakusa. But the truth was, I couldn't really remember much about the time before the Pacific War, the days that my parents had always talked about — the golden wooden horses in Hanayashiki Park and the jugglers at Asakusa Pond.

“It all sounds wonderful,” Tomoko said.

I noticed her small white hand by her side. For some reason, I had a mysterious urge to pick it up and hold it.

“Maybe we could go there one day,” I said. “They're showing American films again now. I could show you Senso Temple if you like.”

Tomoko stopped walking. She looked at me quizzically.

“Hiroshi-kun, would you really?” she asked.

“Well,” I stuttered. “Not that there's much left of it, of course.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly. Her cheeks were glowing.

The shadows were stretched in the copses by the time we got back to the tracks and sat down to wait for a train to come along. After a while, Tomoko murmured that she was hungry. As I looked at her pale face, I realized that in fact, she was starving, and was trying to hide the fact by sheer willpower.

I cursed myself, thinking that I should have brought some food with us. I wondered whether I should try rummaging about in the nearest farmer's field. But just then, a blue-green four-car train came creaking toward us along the track, and I jumped up.

“Come on,” I said, “Hurry!”

“Hiroshi —” Tomoko was struggling to stand. “I'm so dizzy.”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as the train shuttled closer. A coupling came alongside us, and I leaped up, gripping onto the rail. But Tomoko stumbled, and for a second, I was dragging her along the ground, my arm being wrenched out of its socket. With a great heave, I hoisted her up and she fell into my arms. Her body was a dead weight. She had fainted.

I struggled to pull her up, grasping her under the armpits to stop her from falling from the accelerating train. Somehow I managed to shove her between me and the carriage, steadying her with an arm around her waist as the train rattled on. She let out a moan and buried her head against my chest. A scent came from her hair, and her breath fell in hot, delicate waves against my neck.

She made a small sound. As she looked up, the colour slowly came back into her cheeks. I realized my hand was sitting on the bump of her chest and I quickly wriggled around so that I was standing behind her.

“Thank you, Hiroshi-kun,” she mumbled. She turned to face the locomotive, clutching onto the carriage for balance. She looked into the distance as the engine gave a long bellow and the train sped up, its wheels clattering faster and faster along the track. The last light of sunset was bleeding over the trees and bright gold glinted from the windows and the rails. As we raced back toward Tokyo, I felt a quiver in my belly, as the smoke from the locomotive puffed around us, and the wind whipped her hair back into my face.

~ ~ ~

It was dark by the time we clambered down from the train at Ueno Station, and the children were bitterly disappointed that our bamboo cages were empty. Tomoko took the kids off to try to scrounge something to eat while I wandered away on my own, filled with the urge to lose myself in the uneasy magic of my sensations.

Not far from the railway arches was a wide bomb crater with tumbledown houses leaning over it. It was flooded with dark water, and the bubbles that rose to the surface every now and then burst with such a revolting smell that I normally steered clear of the place. But that evening, as I passed, a glint caught my eye and I froze. Over on the far bank, there was a tiny pulse in the air, a bright, thrilling glow, like a green star. I clambered around the rim of the crater to the far side and squatted down to get a closer look. It was just as I'd thought, though I could hardly believe it was possible so late in the year. Fireflies were floating up and down by the muddy bank, like ghostly little lanterns.

I took a matchbox from my pocket and shook it empty of tobacco strands. I held it open, and caught one of the creatures at the top of its ascent. Then I slid the drawer shut with my thumb, slipped the matchbox into my pocket, and hurried back to the station.

~ ~ ~

Koji gave a whimper when he saw me coming through the slumped crowds of the ticket hall. He rushed over and grabbed my arm.

“Big brother, you've come back!”

“Of course I have.”

“Shin said you were gone!”

Beneath the concrete stairwell, Shin was sitting cross-legged on the floor. The children looked tearful. When Aiko saw me, she gave a squeal of relief.

“What's been going on here?” I said.

Shin gave a moon faced grin and stared up at the ceiling.

“He said you were leaving us!” Aiko said. “That you don't like us anymore.”

“It was a joke,” said Shin. “You damned cry babies!”

I put my hand in my pocket. There was a tiny flicker inside the matchbox.

“Shut up. I'll deal with this in the morning. Let's all just get some sleep.”

The children curled up on their mats under the stairs. An old woman with a black shawl around her neck lay beside us, rasping. The station lights were extinguished, and the hall grew heavy with sleep.

I lay there in the darkness, wide awake, listening to the snores and night murmurs around me. I held the matchbox in my palm, imagining the creature trapped there in its miniature chamber of darkness, its body welling with light.

The children were dead to the world now, breathing quietly with their mouths open. Koji frowned and snorted in his sleep. Beside him, Tomoko lay very still, her lips slightly parted, the thin blanket over her shallow ribcage gently rising and falling. I reached over and tugged her leg. She moaned in her sleep, then shifted. I pulled her leg again, and this time she jerked awake with a gasp and sat bolt upright. When she saw me, she rubbed her eyes. I beckoned to her. Frowning, she edged forward. I held out the matchbox in my palm, and then pushed the drawer open. She gasped as the light pulsed in the box, and a faint green glow lit up her eyes.

She took the box from my palm and pushed the drawer open all the way. Suddenly, the creature flew up and out of the box, and hung, suspended in the air between us. We looked at each other in silent delight. She gestured to the ground beside her. I carefully clambered over Koji's body, and we both lay down and watched the firefly spiral slowly up and down. I could feel the warmth of her cheek next to mine as she fumbled for my hand. She picked it up and placed it upon her chest. She held it there beneath her fingers, and I could feel her delicate heart beat, as we lay there together on the cold, hard floor of the station, gazing up at the light as it pulsed softly in and out of existence.

8

THE COMFORT STATION

(SATSUKO TAKARA)

The comfort station was called the International Palace, and it was housed in an old watch factory, just off the highway out toward Chiba. The name might have been grand, but the building walls were crumbling and the partition rooms had no doors of their own, just sheets of cloth hanging from nails. The Americans had found their way there somehow. There was a long line of them waiting outside. They all clapped and cheered as our buses pulled up.

There'd been a celebration ceremony that morning in the Imperial Plaza. Lines of us modern-day Okichis throwing up our hands and cheering
Banzai!
as if we'd been schoolgirls off on a pleasant outing to the countryside.

The president of the Recreation and Amusement Association — the fat pig from my interview — was already inside the building, dressed like a cheap stage comic. There was an older lady too, named Mrs. Abe, who was to be our “manager.” She led me to a cubicle at the end of the corridor and gave me a crayon and a piece of card and told me to think of an English name for myself. I didn't know any, and so she stared at me for a moment, then wrote “Primrose” in jagged orange letters and tacked the card up above the entrance to the room. She told me it was the name of a flower.

“Get yourself ready now, Primrose,” she instructed. “The foreign gentlemen will be arriving soon.”

The cubicle was tiny, hardly big enough for the straw-filled futon that lay on the floor. There was a grubby window high up in the wall and a bare electric bulb hung from the ceiling. I sat down on the edge of the mattress and drew my arms around my legs.

There was a sound from down the corridor, the heavy thud of boots and the jangling of uniforms. My stomach quivered. The Americans were shouting and laughing as they came in, bursting with excitement.

My eyes focused on a patch of bubbly mould on the partition in front of me. My heart started to pound. I remembered Osamu on the night before he'd gone away: his pale, thin body; his spectacles lying on the table.

I could hear the sounds of the girls in the other cubicles, moaning as the men grunted and hollered. Then the curtain of my room was tugged away, and the first one was standing in the doorway.

~ ~ ~

I sat on the floor of our cramped, silent house, staring at the teakettle. I told myself that I should try to sleep, but the thought of lying down on a bed made me retch. I could still smell the reek of tobacco and sweat and almond hair oil. They'd kept on arriving all day, in their uniforms and boots. Most hadn't even bothered to undress. They just pulled down their pants and turned me around, and then buttoned themselves up as they left.

After the first one finished, I was stunned. I couldn't quite believe what had happened. But then, the curtain twitched and there was another one standing there, again, and again, and again. After a while, I just lay dumbly on the mattress and let them pull my kimono aside.

Most of them were no older than boys and only a few had any idea what they were doing. They only lasted a moment, which was a relief. One was rough. He pulled my hair and twisted me around, but when I screamed, he leaped up, clutching his trousers as he ran out of the room.

In the late afternoon, I started to get raw and jittery. The room was filthy and stinking and hot and I felt as if I was suffocating. The curtain opened again, and I let out a sob and rolled up into a tight ball.

But it wasn't an American this time. It was Mrs. Abe, who told me that my shift was over, that I should go home. I fumbled into my clothes, but when I got outside into the hallway, I very nearly started crying because I saw that most of the rooms didn't even have curtains anymore — the Americans had taken them all away for souvenirs.

I ran down the corridor. Buses were waiting outside to take us to the train station. I remembered staring at the tracks from the platform edge, glittery and endless in the darkness.

The door slid open and Michiko came in.

“Satsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko-chan!” She rushed over and put her arms around me. “Was it really that bad?”

I stifled a sob. She had been working in a different part of the building and I hadn't seen her since she'd squeezed my hand goodbye that morning.

“Did you have to go with an awful many?” she asked, stroking my arm as my lip trembled. “Poor Satsuko!”

She unrolled my futon and made up the bed, then gently helped me put on my night clothes, tucking me in beneath the covers. I rolled over to face the wall.

I heard her yawn as she bustled about in the kitchen. I realized that she was actually humming to herself as she rummaged through the cupboards. It was amazing, I thought. She didn't seem the slightest bit concerned.

“Satsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko! Look what I've got.”

I couldn't bear to look.

“Satsuko!”

With a great effort, I twisted round and saw that she was waggling a small square bottle full of dark liquid.

“American whisky. One of the yankiis gave it to me.”

She unscrewed the cap.

“Yankiis,” she confided. “That's what all the other girls call them.”

She sniffed the bottle, and wrinkled up her face. “Mmm!” she murmured. “Not bad.”

She put the bottle to her lips and took a long swallow. Her throat moved once, and she sat there, eyes wide, waving her hand over her mouth.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”

She recovered her breath and poured out some more of the drink into two teacups. She handed one to me, and I sat up and gave it a cautious sniff.

“Who would have thought it?” Michiko said. “An American, giving me whisky.”

I took a tiny sip, and then retched. The taste was disgusting and it stung my throat.

“And cigarettes,” she said, taking out a packet from her purse and waving it at me. “Have a cigarette!”

She slid one out and lit it carefully, frowning at the glowing end and sucking in the smoke as if she had been doing it her whole life. I took another little sip of the whisky. It was very strong, but also quite sweet. When it reached my belly, I felt a warm, relaxing sensation that was really quite pleasant. My eyes grew heavy and I wondered if I was already drunk. I quickly tipped the rest of the liquid down my throat.

Then I really did feel dizzy. I rolled over on the bed, staring up at Michiko's swaying shape in front of me.

“He was the nicest one, anyway,” she said, puffing away on her cigarette. “The one who gave me the whisky. Even if he was a black one.”

I sat bolt upright.

“Michiko!” I shrieked. “You didn't go with a black one?”

“So what?” she demanded. “What do I care?”

She poured more whisky into our cups and I forced myself to drink it. I closed my eyes and lay back, hoping I would fall asleep straight away. The thought of the next day loomed in my mind. A throbbing pain began to pulse in my forehead and I felt a tightness in my chest. Finally, Michiko blew out the lamp and slid into bed beside me.

My mind was thick, but sleep wouldn't come. Shapes were moving about in the darkness in front of me; I could see the faces of men flickering and blurring into each other. The floor was moving back and forth, men heaving up and down on top of me; I was suffocating, and there was a filthy, cold wetness inside me . . .

I woke with a shriek and seized hold of Michiko.

“Michiko!” I cried. “Michiko, help me!”

She raised herself onto one arm. “Satsuko?” she murmured. “What is it?”

I didn't know what to say. Didn't she understand? She was looking at me in the darkness and I could smell the whisky on her breath.

“Is there nothing we can do, Michiko?” I whispered. “Nothing at all?”

Her answer came sharply. “No Satsuko. There's nothing we can do. So the sooner you get used to it the better. Now go to sleep.”

With that, she rolled over, pulling the covers across herself. I drew my arms around my body, shivering. A few moments later, I heard a rasping sound. She was snoring.

~ ~ ~

Every time I looked up, there was another American standing in the doorway. The building was hot and airless, and my room was like a wretched, stinking cave. I spent as long as I could in the murky bathroom where we were told to wash and disinfect ourselves after each visitor, but the smell in there was sickening too, and no matter how much I scrubbed myself I couldn't get rid of the stink of chlorine and men. On the train home at night, I was sure that the other people in the carriage could smell it too, and that they were looking at me in disgust, as if they knew exactly the kind of woman I had become.

At the end of the first week, one of the girls killed herself. I remembered her from the bus on the first day. She'd worn a yellow dress with a bow in her hair. Mrs. Abe had forgotten to tell her to go home and the Americans had kept on coming for hours on end. She was only seventeen. Later on that night she threw herself under a train at Omori.

Michiko was already home when I got back that evening. She had an excited look on her face as she knelt down and took my hands in hers.

“Satsuko,” she said. “You'll never guess, but I've fixed it.”

“What do you mean?” I stammered.

She clutched my hands. “I've fixed it so that we don't ever have to go back to the Palace.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Please say it's true, Michiko,” I moaned. “Please don't say it's one of your jokes.”

“Listen,” she said. “I spoke with that fat pig of a boss and he's agreed to transfer us to another comfort station. A high-class place, up on the Ginza. It's reserved for American officers.”

My heart sank.
Another comfort station.

“Will that really make such a difference, Michiko?”

She stared at me. “Are you mad? Of course it will. We won't have to go with those common types any more. We'll be just like real consorts now, Satsuko,” she said. She squeezed my hand, and I saw the old star-struck look in her eyes.

“Modern-day Okichis!” she whispered.

~ ~ ~

Jeeps were driving up and down the Ginza and taxis went past with acrid smoke pouring out from their charcoal-run engines. American soldiers and sailors strode along the street in groups, and I flinched as one raised his cap to me. He said something to his friends, and they all guffawed.

We hunted about for the address near the tall, sooty shopfront of the Matsuzakaya department store. As I looked at its shuttered windows and barred doors, I felt a stab of guilt. My mother had brought me there four years ago, on my sixteenth birthday, to buy my first real kimono. It was woven from beautiful green silk and embroidered with golden peonies. I'd had to sell it to buy rice back in June.

Next door to the Matsuzakaya was a low, white building that had clearly been used a communal bomb shelter. A large sign in English hung outside, freshly painted in pink and white.

“There it is, Satsuko!” Michiko said, tracing the letters in the air with her finger. “
Oasis — of — Ginza
,” she pronounced. “We're here!”

We walked down a flight of dingy steps. The underground shelter had been transformed into a cheap cabaret, with a small dance floor and a little wooden stage with chairs and tables set up. Red streamers and paper lanterns decorated the cracked earthen walls, and American and British flags were tacked up at jaunty angles.

“Very nice,” said Michiko, nodding approvingly. A scratchy jazz record was playing on the gramophone, and a very tall and solemn-looking American man was turning slowly around in the middle of the room. A tiny girl appeared, clinging onto him — she could barely clasp her arms around his back.

Mr. Shiga's office was in an old storage cupboard piled high with buckets for water relays. He looked at us haughtily over the rims of his spectacles, and told us how lucky we both were.

“Only the best kind of girls get to work here,” he said. “This place has got class.” He coughed heavily and spat into his handkerchief. “So you'd better keep our guests happy. And you're not just here to spread your legs either.”

He explained that, aside from the usual services, we were to encourage the Americans to spend their dollars on drinks and dances and snacks.

“And don't let them palm you off with yen!” he said.

Dabbing at his lips, he quickly went through the financial arrangements, which didn't seem very fair to me. The Oasis would take practically half of everything we earned, though we were still expected to pay for our own makeup and clothing and any medical treatment that might be necessary. But it was a sign of how desperate I had become that I just knelt meekly before him. Anything seemed better than the International Palace.

We took great care making ourselves up that night, in the cramped dressing room filled with perfume and perspiring flesh. The girls were fanning each other, slumped on the floor in their underclothes. Michiko sprinkled powder on the back of my neck and brushed it until my skin was as smooth and white as china.

“Why, Satsuko,” she said, pulling my obi tight around my waist, “you look just like a real geisha!”

I laughed at the thought. But when we looked at ourselves in the mirror, I saw that I really did look quite pretty, even next to Michiko, who was so stunning.

Years before, I recalled, my mother and I had dressed up together before going to watch the summer fireworks over the river. We'd painted our faces and glued silk petals to our combs. After things had started to go badly for Japan, though, there'd been no makeup or jewellery anymore. Skirts had been banned, and the busybodies from the National Defence Women's Association went around spying, scolding you in public for any hint of rouge.
Abolish desire until victory!

I remembered how, soon after I'd reported for war work, Mr. Ogura had ordered all the girls out into the yard one morning. He told us we were to unpick every colourful thread from our clothes, one by one. After that, it was nothing but shapeless khaki trousers for us.
No colour but National Defence Colour!