Tokyo Year Zero (42 page)

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
.

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.’

I write forty yen on the withdrawal slip. Then I copy down the
number of his savings account and the address –

Now I fill in the name –

A woman’s name
.

I hand the withdrawal slip and the savings book back to the old man and he thanks me.

The queue moves forward again. I pick my daughter and my son up from the bench. We follow the old man inside the post office. The old man presents his withdrawal slip to one of the post office clerks as I do the same at the next window along –

Now we all sit back down to wait.

The old man winks at my daughter and smiles at my son again.

Now the clerk at the payments desk calls out the name –

‘Are you Yamada Hanako?’ asks the clerk.

No one is who they say they are
…

‘No,’ says the old man. ‘But she’s my youngest daughter.’

The clerk shrugs his shoulders. He counts out the forty yen. He hands over the cash and says, ‘Better if she comes in person…’

The old man nods, thanks the clerk and now walks past us –

The old man winks at my daughter, he smiles at my son –

‘She can’t come in person,’ he whispers. ‘She’s dead.’

The clerk at the payments desk calls out my name –

The clerk hands over our cash and I thank him.

No one is who they seem to be
…

I put my daughter on my back. I take my son by the hand. In the half-light, I lead them up the street, up the garden path, to stand them in the
genkan
of our house, to watch me as I say goodbye –

I say goodbye, as I turn their shoes to face the door –

‘Please don’t go, Daddy,’ says my daughter –

‘I have to go back to work,’ I tell her –

‘But not tonight,’ says my son –

Now my wife comes out of the kitchen, her face is hot from cooking, her hands brushing water from her trousers –

‘Let your father go to work,’ she says –

I pat their heads. I say, ‘Goodbye…’

‘Please remember us,’ my daughter and my son call after me. ‘Please don’t forget us, Daddy…’

Daddy, Banzai!
…

Now I walk down the path, through the gate, up the street –

I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember
…

I do not turn around. I cannot turn around –

But in the half-light, I can’t forget
…

I am not going back to work –

No one is who they seem
…

Tonight I am going to her.

*

Night is day again.
There have been others
. In the ruins, in the rain.
There have been others
. The children watch me, the dogs watch me.
There have been others
. I smoke a cigarette, I read a newspaper –

I finish the newspaper.
There have been others
. I finish the cigarette.
No mention of Miyazaki Mitsuko
. The dogs wait for me.
There have
been others
. The children wait for me.
No mention of the second Shiba body
. In the rain.
There have been others
. In the ruins.

*

In the half-light, I can hear the wind against the door, rattling around the roof and under the eaves of her house. But there is no rain, there is no thunder tonight, just the clatter of sandals and the calls of children in the streets outside.
I shouldn’t have come here, not tonight
. Tonight I should have stayed at home with my wife and children. My wife serving up their dinner of
zōsui
, my children’s bowls in their outstretched hands, asking their mother for more –

‘
Okawari… Okawari… Okawari…’

Yuki stands hands on hips, barefoot on the earthen floor of the hallway, and looks out between the ribbons –

I should not be here, not tonight
…

‘But you’ll stay awhile longer?’

I nod and I thank her.

Yuki opens a cupboard. She takes out a saucer of pickled radish and a small aluminum saucepan. She sniffs at the contents of the pan and shrugs. She places it on the charcoal embers –

‘And you’ll eat with me, won’t you?’

I nod again and I thank her again.

She lifts up the lid of the pan –

‘Are you married?’ she asks.

*

Night is still day here. The queues through the gates, the queues to the doors, the queues in the corridors.
I have spent too long here
. I run through the gates, through the doors and down the corridors. Past the queues, past the patients and past the gurneys to the elevator.
Hours, days and weeks
. I push the button, I step inside, and I press another button. The doors close and I ride the elevator down in the dark.
Weeks, months and years
. The doors open –

Here in the half-light, the half-things
…

I run past the tiled walls of sinks, of drains, the written warnings of cuts, of punctures, to the mortuary –

She is here. She is here. She is here
…

I read the names of the dead –

She is here. She is here
…

I pull open the casket –

She is here
…

No name –

Here
…

I take out her clothes and now I take out her bones –

Half-things in the half-light, the half-things
…

I put her clothes in my army knapsack –

Here, here in the half-light
…

I put her bones in my bag –

Debts to the dead
…

Down the corridor of tiled walls and written warnings, I push the button and I wait for the elevator. I glance into a mirror above a sink. I glance away. Now I glance back into the glass –

‘I almost didn’t recognize you…’

Her bones on my back, I stare into the glass –

No one is who they seem
…

I vomit in the sink.
Black bile
. I vomit again.
Brown bile
. Four times I vomit.
Black bile, brown bile, yellow bile and grey
…

I stare into the mirror above the sink –

I scream, ‘I know who I am!’

Now I smash the glass, breaking the mirror into one thousand pieces, one thousand pieces falling, falling to the ground –

Broken and splintered
…

‘I know who I am!’

*

I shouldn’t still be here. Not tonight. I should have gone home to my wife and children. But in the half-light, I watch Yuki at dinner. There is still no rain tonight, no sound of thunder, only the wind, louder than the radio now. She finishes her second bowl of rice. She rinses her chopsticks and then her bowl. She puts the utensils back into the cupboard. She puts a hand to her mouth, stifles a belch and laughs –

‘I suppose your wife is much more polite than me?’

My heart aches and my body stinks –

I itch and I scratch.
Gari-gari
…

Behind the six-panel screen, two pillows placed side by side, she is dressed in a yellow kimono with a dark-blue stripe; the collar is
off her shoulder, her hand upon my knee –

I think about her all the time
…

I run my hand up her back –

She haunts me
…

Her hairbrush in one hand, she leans forward to stare at herself in the three panels of her vanity mirror –

She turns to look at me and smiles –