The Typhoon Lover (11 page)

The 8:02 train out of Tokyo Station was still scheduled to run, although the government was urging people to stay inside. Only a few people boarded the train along with me in Tokyo, and it was easy to figure out who they were: workers who couldn’t afford to upset their bosses. In short, people like myself.

I’d chosen Japan Railway’s Yokosuka line, which was a slightly slower trip, because the JR rails were older and farther inland than its competitor, Keihin-Kyuko Railways. The only risky part of the trip was at the very end, the port of Yokosuka, but I’d be out six stops before that point. I was going to disembark at Kannon-sama’s home—Kamakura—and take a taxi into Hayama, which didn’t have its own station.

Japan Railway had upgraded the cars, which now had long inward-facing bench seats, rather than the cozy booth-style seating I remembered from my last time in Japan. You could pack more people into a train this way, but I hated sitting sideways on a train; not being able to look at the horizon made me nauseated. Sideways seats were another reason I had avoided the Keihin-Kyuko line. Now, I pulled out a little package of
sembei
crackers I had in my backpack and, despite the disapproving glances of people around me, began to munch. I couldn’t afford to have an empty stomach in this situation. I also turned my head sharply to the left, intent on seeing what I could of the horizon. It was impossible to see buildings or trees—just vague, hazy lights were visible. The route passed apartment buildings I remembered, an amusement park, a string of love hotels and small businesses. Everything looked so strange without the usual bright lights.

I checked my watch. The trip from Tokyo to Kamakura was usually fifty-four minutes, but we’d already traveled ninety minutes and were only at the halfway mark, Yokohama. I was feeling predictably queasy, so I took some deep breaths.

A new group of travelers had boarded in Yokohama: people who were leaving work, unusually for nine-thirty in the morning. Usually, a commuter train was silent, but today, people were talking about the storm. Someone said that large sections of Shizuoka prefecture were flooded. Shizuoka was a little more than an hour’s drive away. And at the pace at which the train was moving, it seemed possible that the storm’s brunt would arrive in Kamakura before we did.

The train seemed to be moving more slowly, and it kept pausing, inexplicably, for varying lengths of time—sometimes two minutes, sometimes ten. I imagined that the conductor was getting information about flooded tracks ahead, and was waiting for the trains on those tracks to be diverted to other tracks.

The train lurched on, and finally we were approaching Kita-Kamakura: north Kamakura, the last station before Kamakura, where I would get out. But as we approached, there was a sliding sensation, as if the train were no longer connected to the track. Then the train jerked hard and stopped.

I’d shut my eyes when I’d thought the train was hydroplaning, but now I opened them and looked out the window. I could see nothing but rain.

A disembodied voice spoke from the public address system. “We have received word that there is flooding ahead at Kita-Kamakura Station, which makes it unsafe for the train to proceed. After we are granted permission, this train will return to Ofuna station, where our honored passengers may kindly disembark. Alternative transportation to points north and south will be provided for you as it becomes available. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

I looked out the window again; through the rain I could see what looked like the Kita-Kamakura train station a short distance ahead. North Kamakura was almost within my reach, but the train wouldn’t go there.

I stood up and turned to look at the bedraggled bunch of travelers in the car. I debated the danger of calling attention to myself, deciding it was a must in this situation, and waved a hand to get everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me, but I was going to leave at this station…. Does anyone else live nearby and want to disembark as well? I think that perhaps we could…ask the conductor to open the door.”

Nobody said yes. However, someone said, “But it’s dangerous!” and another person, the man who’d given the weather report before, advised, “It’s better to stay onboard for the return trip to Ofuna. There will surely be buses after a while.”

After a while? That could be hours, maybe even the next day. I shook my head, gathered up my umbrella and backpack, and pushed on the door that opened down to the tracks.

As I’d anticipated, it didn’t budge. I was going to have to get a conductor to let me out. I hurried out of the compartment and into the next one. I was in about the middle of the train, so I had quite a distance to travel to reach the engineer. As I ran through each compartment, heads turned in surprise at the sight of me. I tried more doors without luck. Two compartments later, I was met by a blue-uniformed conductor.

“Is there some trouble?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry to bother you, but the thing is that I must get off this train now, rather than return to Ofuna. I noticed we’re just a few feet from the Kita-Kamakura platform—”

The conductor pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry, but we can’t go farther. We’re waiting for another train to pass, and then we’ll go backward.”

“Would it be possible for you to release the control on the door and I’ll just hop down?” It couldn’t be more than four feet’s distance to the ground.

“But there is no platform.”

“I’ll watch out.”

The conductor looked distracted. “That is against rail policy—”

“This is an emergency!” I struggled to keep my voice controlled. “If the train were in danger, people would go out the windows to safety. Look, there are stickers demonstrating how to do it.” I gestured to the window next to an elderly gentleman. “If I open a window, I’ll get everyone wet. Please, if you just release the catch on the door for me, I’ll be able to leave without causing anyone trouble.”

The volume of my voice, and my growing histrionics, must have convinced him that I was more trouble onboard than off. Keeping his face grim, he lifted a handheld radio to his lips and spoke a jumble of quick commands and codes that I didn’t understand, but that I gathered had something to do with alerting all other trains that a passenger was on the tracks. After he was finished, the conductor pressed a button that released the lock on the door.

Wetness rushed toward me as I carefully sat down on the edge of the train, letting my legs drop down into space. There were about three feet to the wooden railway ties below. The easiest thing to do was to slide down

“Please watch for danger!” he cried as I stepped carefully across the tracks, which were under six inches of water. When I reached the grassy bank on the western side, I turned and bowed my thanks. But the train had already started its backward course. Nobody was watching me anymore.

It was truly just a few minutes’ slog to Kita-Kamakura station, which I found was in the process of closing when I walked in.

“No more trains,” the ticket taker said. The usual courtesies—honorable customer and the like—seemed to be slipping away as the weather had worsened.

“I’m just going out to get a taxi,” I said.

“Taxi? There are no taxis! No customer, no taxi!”

“Well, maybe I can call from the pay phone—” already I’d spotted a trusty lime-green NTT phone on the platform.

“Telephones don’t work.” The ticket taker seemed almost gleeful about the bad news. Maybe he had heard the “passenger on the tracks” signal my train’s conductor had issued and was annoyed to have that passenger in his station. Or maybe things were just so bad outside that he was starting to crack.

“Are any buses running?” I ventured.

“Service suspended! Just as this station is closing, the bus system is closed, too.”

I cleared my throat and attempted the girlish falsetto that Japanese women used to powerful effect. “I very badly need to go in the direction of Hayama. Is there any chance you will be driving home?”

“Not that way. And the beach road is already flooded in that section by the marina, I must warn you. The station manager is the one with a car here, and he’s just about to drive to Zushi to gather some other employees who need transportation—”

“Please, could he let me out there, at Zushi station?” I asked quickly.

“But you are going to Hayama. Even from the turnoff, it’s a four-kilometer walk. You cannot make it in this rain.”

“I’m sure I can. I know it very well. I’m so close by,” I said, running through the route in my mind. I’d taken it by bus before, past marine supply stores, antique shops, and restaurants. I was sure I would recognize these landmarks and know the turns.

He hesitated. “I can’t let you stay in this station, because it’s closing. Maybe I can ask.”

“I’m willing to pay!” I cried again.

But it wasn’t necessary. The station manager, a frazzled-looking man in his sixties, would not accept payment, even though he took me slightly past the station, to the main road that led into Hayama.

The roads didn’t even look like roads anymore, I thought as we inched along. The rain lashed at a sideways angle because of the wind, a force so strong that it was making trees wave about. At some street corners, backed-up storm drains had created pools so deep that water stretched all the way up to the shop entrances. After we’d seen the second intersection like this, the station manager stopped his car.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no point in going on,” he said. “I will call the employees and tell them I can’t continue on. I’m turning back. Perhaps you can take shelter at the nearest police box—”

The police were the last people I wanted to see. “Thanks, but I think I can get through on foot. I can get out here.”

“But you can’t! How will you cross the bridge ahead?”

“It’s so short—I’m sure I’ll make it,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. I knew the little half-moon-shaped bridge the station manager had mentioned. It was about twenty feet long. I could make it now, but there was no time to waste, if the flooding continued.

I said good-bye to the uneasy stationmaster and got out. The rain was being pushed hard by the wind, so hard that it seemed to be raining upward, over my rain shoes and onto my jeans, which within a few minutes were plastered to my legs. My breath came in gasps as I sloshed as quickly as I could through the water.

The bridge over the canal lay just past a deserted bus stop. It was a beautiful little upwardly curved bridge with short red handrailings—the kind immortalized in Japanese woodblock prints. I’d walked over this bridge before and taken photographs of the Zushi canal and the pretty antique shops and surf gear shops that lay along it.

I couldn’t see the bridge today, because it was covered with water, but the handrails were still visible. I started across, clinging to the slippery wooden rail. Gusts of wind tore at me, and it felt as if the water was rising.

The water was up to my waist by the time I’d gotten over and was on land. I was shaking, but as I ran on, my pulse leveled out. I’d crossed the worst of Zushi’s water, and now I was headed on the four-kilometer route into Hayama, running toward the mountain tunnels that would keep me dry for a few blessed minutes. I ran past restaurants, antique stores, and a post office and, finally, down to the beach road that led to Takeo’s house.

From the left at the wall surrounding the emperor’s palace, I still had two kilometers to go. I reminded myself about the seawall that would keep the sea from rushing inward, but in fact there was so much rain that the road was marked by deep pockets of water—flash floods like those I’d seen in Zushi.

As I ran, I held my head down because my eyes kept filling with rain. It was like crying in reverse. And the truth was that looking around was frightening. Things were clearly out of order everywhere; no cars drove along the road below me, although I did see some float by.

The back of my raincoat and jeans were as wet as if I’d been soaking in a bathtub. The front of me was a little less wet because I used my new umbrella like a shield, until it blew out about halfway down the hill that sloped down to what used to be the beach road. The road was now a fast-running river.

I stood at the edge of it, water up to my knees, wondering how deep it was in the middle. Merchandise from a beach souvenir shop—an array of life preservers, floating toys, and plastic buckets—bobbed past in the fast-flowing water. As a raft with the head of Doraemon, the magic cat from a popular children’s television program, sailed by, I was hit by inspiration. I could travel the road on the raft.

Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I reached out and grabbed for the rubber cat’s head. I connected with the head, but found it harder than I’d expected to mount the small raft. My body swished through the water like a fish flailing on the end of a line, but I was able to keep hold of the raft with my arms. After a couple of failed lunges, I got my legs and the rest of me on top of the raft.

My weight was more than the child’s raft was designed for, so it sank slightly in the water, but thankfully not all the way. We continued south past my old favorite restaurant, Chaya, then past the Morito Shrine, where I saw that the
tori
gateway was half-submerged. As we approached a big intersection, I realized that the stoplights were out, as in fact were lights everywhere. A power outage. Good thing there was no traffic at all.

Another two kilometers and I was drifting past the high wall of the emperor’s summer palace. I wasn’t sure of the palace’s elevation—the grounds were landscaped in such a way that it was impossible to spy on the palace—but I had to imagine that it had been built, just like Takeo’s family home, as high as possible. The gray police bus that always guarded the palace wall was gone. I imagined that the police had driven it somewhere safe for the duration of the storm. And surely none of the imperial family would be on the coast during this typhoon.

The street that led to Takeo’s house was too small to have a name; it was really just a long, stone-covered driveway that led upward from a small group of cypress trees that marked the intersection. As the raft slowly sailed on, I saw the trees bent over like hunchbacked grandmothers—a situation caused by both the ruthless wind and the heavy wisteria vines on them, which were dragging in the water. Many people would have seen the vines as an overgrown weed, but Takeo had refused to let the city landscapers remove them. Now I was glad for it, because I reached out to the vines to help steer the raft to the trees. I grabbed hold and scrambled onto the bank. The raft sailed on.