by John Kelly
Travelling on the Shinkasen to Kyoto, Amanda allowed herself the luxury of sleep. It had been an arduous exercise listening to Masako and absorbing all she said. Trying to put the pieces together, making sense of it all, had taken its toll. Resisting the temptation to gaze out the window and enjoy the countryside unfolding before her, she closed her eyes and drifted off. Waking briefly during a short stop at Osaka, she opened her eyes and thought she saw Andrew Patterson, the man who had helped her at Hiroshima station, on the platform. Before she could focus correctly however, he was gone. She quickly dismissed the thought and chuckled as she realized that here in this heavily populated Asian zone, most European men looked the same. Thirty minutes later she was in Kyoto, the city of temples and shrines; this cultural centre once the national capital and home of the Emperor. Having already mastered the Tokyo subway, Amanda felt confident she could do the same in a city of just over one million people and quickly found her way to the Karasuma subway line and the train that would take her to Karasuma Oike. From there, it was a short walk to her hotel. Too late to visit the Bank of Japan, Amanda ventured out sightseeing on Oike Dori, along a wide and spacious footpath, where ordinary Japanese were going about their business. Riding bicycles on the pavement seemed more popular than driving cars and easier to park with locking bays at almost every intersection. At four in the afternoon, school children impeccably dressed in navy blue or black uniforms, and let loose from the classroom, gravitated en masse to the shopping districts to meet with friends. Amanda followed them certain that they would lead her to some kind of shopping centre. Minutes later she was swallowed up in Tagamachi Arcade which snaked its way almost endlessly interconnecting with adjoining arcades all full of galleries, movie theatres, and shops where local merchants offered everything from food, clothing, footwear and the inevitable souvenirs. At various points along the way, commerce gave way to small shrines where the elderly, in most cases, stopped to spend a few moments lighting sticks of incense, joining hands, bowing their heads in prayer and meditation, quite openly, unabashed as if it were a normal part of their outdoor activity. Just meters away, teenagers socialized at a Baskin-Robbins ice-cream parlour. The Buddhist faith was a way of life here, unlike the very private devotional nature of mainstream western religious belief. Despite the initial intimidation she felt in Tokyo, weighed down by the sheer mass of people, Amanda felt comfortable and safe here in this clean, well planned part of Kyoto. She realized too, that comfort and safety also prevailed when in Hiroshima. In fact, everywhere she travelled she felt safe.
Tagamachi offered a huge range of clothing stores, a window-shoppers paradise and Amanda took full advantage moving from store to store draping traditional Japanese kimonos across her front, trying on a variety of shoes, and hats. Rarely could she remember feeling so liberated.
Resting comfortably that evening, she woke the next morning with a feeling of anticipation. Today she would retrieve the Meijji vase and put at least part of this mystery in which she had found herself embroiled, to one side. Whatever significance the vase did represent, today at least, she would touch something tangible, something that if it could talk, would tell the story of that fateful morning in 1945. The visit to the Peace Park memorial museum brought her closer to understanding some of the associated suffering and Masako's graphic account as a first hand experience was chilling. But the vase would go further than that. It was a significant item of history, every bit as noteworthy as a Roman or Greek artefact. Not just because it was from the Meijji dynasty, but also because it had survived the first nuclear attack on mankind. In any exhibition of antiquities, it would be viewed as an important contribution.
Today also, she would travel to Nara, another ancient capital, but not for that reason. Here she would meet Tokuo, Masako's brother although she did not know what information he would give her. She did not know what his role was in her assignment. She was simply following Quentin Avers instructions, albeit feeling slightly uncomfortable about his evasive reaction to some of her questions. Still, whatever the outcome of her day, by evening, she expected to be better equipped to proceed.
What she did not know, was that she was not the only visitor Tokuo would have on this day.
Following a western breakfast of cereal and toast, Amanda took directions from the friendly hotel staff and set out for the address of the Bank of Japan given her by Masako. She arrived shortly before 10am and entered the modern office building. Presenting her authority to bank staff, she was escorted to a lower floor and taken into a long room reminiscent of a morgue save that the hundreds of deposit boxes around three sides were clearly too small to contain anything other than personal belongings. In the centre of the long room, a highly polished oak table and chairs completed the d?cor. Amanda seated herself while her guide wearing his spotless white gloves brought the deposit box to her and then left her alone. She quickly retrieved the key from her handbag and opened the box. To her shock and utter confusion, it was empty.
'What sought of comedy is this?' she uttered, her voice echoing around the room. 'What on earth is going on here?'
She sat there dumbfounded, trying to think the whole charade through. Who was leading her on here, she wondered. Did Masako know the box was empty? Did Quentin Avers know it was empty? If not, who had been here before her? Question after question invaded her mind until uncertainty graduated to annoyance. 'I can't work like this,' she thought to herself. 'I have to take control here. I have to do this my way.'
She left the bank hurriedly; still smarting from whatever deception she had be lured toward and hailed a passing taxi.
'Train station please,' she said to the driver.
He looked at her and gestured that he did not understand.
'Shinkasen,' she snapped, not meaning to sound impolite but no longer interested in following the gentle tradition of kindness. It was now a time for leading.
'Hai,' the driver responded, understanding her intention.
The driver proceeded toward Kyoto station while Amanda collected her thoughts.
'Nara,' she said to him.
'Hai,' he replied nodding and added, 'Diabutsu.'
'Sumi masen?'(Excuse me?), she asked.
'Nara, Diabutsu,' he replied.
'Yes,' she nodded having no idea what he was talking about.
Five minutes later, the taxi arrived at the station and she decided to try her luck with the driver once more.
'Nara shinkasen,' she said to him.
'No shinkasen Nara,' he answered pointing to the regional platform. 'JR,' he told her.
'JR? You mean it's a local train to Nara?' she guessed.
'No shinkasen, Nara,' he repeated, pointing toward the entrance.
'Arigato,' she replied, paying him the fare. At least he had alerted her to some difference between the bullet train and the train to Nara. The rest she would discover at the ticket office.
The train to Nara was a regional train more in keeping with suburban trains Amanda was familiar with in Melbourne. Having just enough time to buy a sandwich she boarded the train and settled herself for a journey that would take forty-five minutes including several stops along the way; ample time for her to consider her position. She was coming to see Tokuo Yamada and felt uncertain as to how she would be received. If Tokuo was part of a black-market operation during the occupation, that meant he was probably working with Derek Avers at the time. Repatriated Japanese soldiers would struggle to find work; Tokuo would have been an easy recruitment target. Masako said Tokuo brought Shigeko back to Kaitaichi to have her baby. He must have some knowledge of what happened to her. Amanda reasoned that he would most likely be loyal to Quentin but at the very least he might explain what happened to her. These were Amanda's thoughts as the train pulled into Nara station.
On first site Nara appeared strangely untidy; the town square adjacent to the station was surrounded by a gaudy retail centre with an over-supply of neon signage and crass advertising. The bulk of visitors seemed to be heading for the street that climbed s
harply, a street that was plagued with wall to wall souvenir shops. Amanda visited the information bureau a short walk from the station where an English speaking guide gave her directions to Tokuo's house .
'Better to take taxi,' the guide added. 'Too far to walk!'
Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up and the driver pointed to Tokuo's house, a dowdy wooden structure along a narrow street made less inviting for the power lines stretching from one end to the other. Television aerials protruded sideways in some cases seemingly hanging from weatherboards and fences.
'Could you wait for me?' she asked the taxi driver. He did not understand her until she gestured in such a way as to indicate her intention to knock on the front door. The driver nodded.
Amanda knocked nervously on the front door. For the next few moments she felt her life flashing before her eyes, uncertain as she was of her intentions, unsure of how she would be received. When the door finally opened a small man stood in the hallway peering out. He was perhaps eighty and fragile looking, with his white hair an otherwise redeeming feature, given his frail appearance. Amanda smiled at him.
'Are you Tokuo?' she asked. He nodded.
'My name is Amanda Blackburn. Derek Avers son Quentin asked me to visit you,' she said.
'Come in,' he replied in broken English. 'I have been expecting you.'
Amanda relieved and now excited at the prospect of learning more about that part of the journal she had not read, at once turned toward the taxi driver and waved him off.
21.