On that afternoon, once we had sat down, we tried for a while to forget our worries. I remember Akira starting to ask me, as he often did when we came to our spot, if in an emergency I would manage to swim to this or that vessel visible further up the water. But he could not keep it up, and suddenly, to my astonishment, he began to cry.
I had hardly ever seen my friend cry. In fact, today, this is the only recollection I have of him crying. Even when a large piece of mortar fell on to his leg when we were playing behind the American Mission, for all his turning a ghastly white, he did not cry. But that afternoon by the canal, Akira had clearly reached his wits’ end.
I remember he had in his hands some piece of damp flaking wood from which, as he sobbed, he broke off bits to hurl into the water. I wanted very much to comfort him, but being at a loss for anything to say, I recall getting up to find more such pieces of wood to break off into pieces and hand to him, as though this were some urgent remedy. Then there was no more wood left for him to throw, and Akira brought his tears under control.
“When parents find out,” he said eventually, “they be so angry. Then they not let me stay here. Then we all go to Japan.”
I still did not know what to say. Then, staring at a boat going by, he murmured: “I don’t ever want to live in Japan.”
And because this was what I always said when he made this statement, I echoed: “And I don’t ever want to go to England.”
With that, we both fell silent for a few more moments. But as we continued to stare at the water, the one obvious course of action to prevent all these awful repercussions loomed ever larger in my mind, and in the end I simply put it to him that all we had to do was to replace the bottle in time, then all would be well.
Akira did not appear to hear me, so I repeated the point. He continued to ignore me, and it was then I realised how very real his fear of Ling Tien had grown since our adventure the previous day; indeed, I could see it was as great now as it had ever been in our younger days, except of course that Akira was now unable to admit to it. I could see his difficulty and tried hard to think of a way out. In the end, I said quietly:
“Akira-chan. We’ll do it again together. Just like last time. We’ll join arms again, go in, put the bottle where we found it. If we do it together like that, then we’ll be safe, nothing bad can happen to us. Nothing at all. Then no one will ever find out anything about what we did.”
Akira thought about this. Then he turned and looked at me and I could see deep and solemn gratitude in his face.
“Tomorrow, in afternoon, three o’clock,” he said. “Mother will go out to park. If maid fall asleep again, then we have chance.”
I assured him the maid was bound to fall asleep again, and repeated that if we went into the room together, there was nothing at all to fear.
“We do together, old chap!” he said with a sudden smile and got to his feet.
On the walk back, we finalised our plans. I promised to come to Akira’s house the next day well before his mother’s departure, and as soon as she left, we would go upstairs and wait together, Ling Tien’s bottle ready, for the maid to fall asleep. Akira’s mood lightened considerably, but I remember, as we parted that afternoon, my friend turning to me with an unconvincing nonchalance and warning me not to be late the next day.
THE FOLLOWING DAY was again hot and humid. I have down the years gone over many times everything I can remember of that day, trying to put the various details in some coherent order. I cannot remember a great deal about the first part of the morning. I have a picture of how I said goodbye to my father as he went off to work. I was already outside, loitering around the carriage track waiting for him to emerge. He eventually did so, in a white suit and hat, holding a briefcase and a stick. He squinted and glanced out towards our gateway. Then, as I waited for him to come further towards me, my mother appeared on the doorstep behind him and said something. My father walked back a few steps, exchanged some words with her, smiled, kissed her lightly on the cheek, then came striding out to where I was waiting. That is all I remember of how he left that day. I do not remember now if we shook hands, if he patted my shoulder, if he turned back at the gate for a last wave. My overall recollection is that there was nothing in the manner of his parting that morning to set it apart from the way he had left for work on every other day.
All I remember of the rest of the morning is that I played with my toy soldiers on the rug in my bedroom, my mind forever drifting to the daunting task awaiting us later in the day. I remember my mother going out at some point and that I ate lunch with Mei Li in the kitchen. After lunch, needing to kill time until three o’clock, I walked the short distance along our road to the spot where two large oak trees stood, set back from the road, yet well in front of the nearest garden wall.
Perhaps it was because I was already stoking up my courage, but I succeeded that day in climbing one of the oaks to a new height. Perched triumphantly in its branches, I found I had a view across the hedges and grounds of all the neighbouring houses. I remember I sat up there for some time, the wind on my face, growing ever more anxious about the task ahead. It occurred to me that, apprehensive as I was, Akira’s fear of Ling Tien’s room was now much the greater, and I would this time have to be the “leader.” I saw the responsibility this entailed, and resolved to appear as confident as possible when I presented myself at his house. But as I continued to sit there in the tree, there kept occurring to me any number of eventualities that could thwart us: the maid would fail to fall asleep; she might even choose this of all days to clean the corridor outside Ling Tien’s room; or else Akira’s mother would change her mind and not go out as expected. And then of course, there were the older, less rational fears which, try as I might, I could not quite dispel from my mind.
Eventually I climbed down the oak, wishing to go home for a glass of water and to check the time. As I came in through our gate, I saw two motor cars in the drive. I was mildly curious about these, but by this stage was far too preoccupied to give them much attention. Then as I was crossing the hallway I glanced through the open doors of the drawing room and saw the three men, standing with their hats in their hands, talking with my mother. There was nothing so untoward about this—it was perfectly possible they had come to discuss my mother’s campaign—but something in the atmosphere made me pause a moment there in the hall. As I did so, the voices broke off and I saw their faces turn to me. I recognised one of the men to be Mr. Simpson, my father’s colleague at Byatt’s; the other two were strangers. Then my mother came into view as she too leant forward and looked at me. I suppose I might have sensed then that something out of the ordinary was unfolding. In any case, the next moment, I was hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen.
No sooner had I reached the kitchen than I heard footsteps, and my mother came in. I have often tried to recall her face—the exact expression she was wearing—at that moment, but with no success. Perhaps some instinct told me not to look at it. What I do remember is her presence, which seemed looming and large, as though suddenly I were very young again, and the texture of the pale summer frock she was wearing. She said to me in a lowered, but perfectly composed voice:
“Christopher, the gentlemen with Mr. Simpson are from the police. I must finish talking with them. Then I want to talk to you straight afterwards. Will you wait for me in the library?”
I was about to protest, but my mother fixed me with a stare that silenced me.
“In the library then,” she said, turning away. “I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished with the gentlemen.”
“Has something happened to Father?” I asked.
My mother turned back to me. “Your father never arrived at the office this morning. But I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation. Wait for me in the library. I won’t be long.”
I followed her out of the kitchen and made my way to the library. There I sat down at my homework table and waited, thinking not about my father, but of Akira and how I was already goi
ng to be late for him. I wondered if he would have the courage to return the bottle on his own; even if he did, he would still be very angry with me. I felt at that moment such an urgency about Akira’s situation, I actually contemplated disobeying my mother and simply going off. Meanwhile the discussion in the drawing room seemed to go on interminably. There was a clock on the library wall and I stared at its hands. At one point, I went out into the hall, hoping to catch my mother’s attention and ask her permission to leave, but I found the doors to the drawing room had now been closed. Then, as I was hovering there in the hall, once more thinking about sneaking off, Mei Li appeared and pointed sternly towards the library. Once I had gone back in, she closed the door on me and I could hear her pacing about outside. I seated myself again and went on watching the clock. As the hands passed half past three, I fell into a gloom, full of anger at both my mother and Mei Li.
Then at last I heard the men being shown out. I heard one of them say:
“We’ll do everything we can, Mrs. Banks. We must hope for the best and trust in God.”
I could not hear my mother’s reply.
As soon as the men had gone, I rushed out and asked for permission to go to Akira’s. But my mother, to my fury, completely ignored my request, saying: “Let’s go back into the library.”
Frustrated though I was, I did as bidden, and it was there in the library that she sat me down, crouched before me and told me, very calmly, that my father had been missing since the morning. The police, alerted by his office, were carrying out a search, so far to no avail.
“But he may well turn up by supper time,” she said with a smile.
“Of course he will,” I said in a voice I hoped would convey my annoyance at this great fuss. Then I got off the chair and asked again for permission to leave. But this time I did so with less fervour, for I could see from the clock there was no longer any point in going to Akira’s. His mother would have returned; his evening meal would be served before long. I felt a huge resentment that my mother should have kept me in simply to tell me something I had more or less gleaned in the kitchen an hour and a half earlier. When at last she told me I could go, I simply went up to my room, laid my soldiers out on my rug and did my best not to think about Akira or his feelings towards me at that moment. But I kept remembering all that had been said beside the canal, and the look of gratitude he had given me. Moreover, I did not wish Akira to return to Japan any more than he did.
My sullenness stayed with me well into the night, but of course this was interpreted as my reaction to the situation regarding my father. Throughout the evening my mother would say to me things like: “Let’s not get gloomy. There’s sure to be a very simple explanation.” And Mei Li was uncharacteristically gentle with me when helping with my bath. But I remember too, as the evening went on, my mother having a number of those “distant” moments I was to come to know well over the weeks that followed. In fact I believe it was that same night, as I lay in my bed still preoccupied about what to say to Akira when I next saw him, that my mother murmured, looking blankly across the room:
“Whatever happens, you can be proud of him, Puffin. You can always be proud of what he’s done.”
CHAPTER 8
I DO NOT REMEMBER MUCH about the days immediately following my father’s disappearance, other than that I was often so concerned about Akira—in particular, what I would say when I next saw him—that I could not settle to anything. Nevertheless I found myself continually putting off a visit next door, even contemplating for a while the notion that I might never need face him at all—that his parents, so angered by our misdemeanour, were even at that moment packing their bags for Japan. During these days any sort of loud noise outside would send me rushing upstairs to the front windows, from where I could scrutinise the next-door courtyard for signs of piling luggage.
Then after three or four days had passed, on an overcast morning, I was playing by myself out on the circle of lawn in front of our house when I became conscious of the sounds coming from Akira’s side of the fence. I quickly realised that Akira was moving about on his sister’s bicycle around his carriage track; I had often enough watched him trying to ride this bicycle, which was far too large for him, and recognised the scraping noises the wheels made as he struggled for balance. At one stage I heard a crash and a yell as he fell off altogether. The possibility occurred to me that Akira had spotted me out playing from his upstairs window and had come out with the bicycle expressly to attract my attention. After several further moments of hesitation—during which Akira continued to crash about on his side—I finally strode out of our gateway, turned and stared into his front garden.
Akira was indeed astride Etsuko’s bicycle, absorbed in attempts to execute some circus-like manoeuvre that required taking his hands from the handlebar just as he turned a tight circle. He appeared too absorbed to notice me, and even when I walked up to him, gave no sign of having seen me. Finally I said simply:
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come the other day.”
Akira gave me a sulky glance, then went back to his manoeuvres. I was about to give him my explanation for having let him down, but for some reason, found I could say nothing more. I stood there watching him for a little longer. Then taking a further step towards him, I said, lowering my voice to a whisper:
“What happened? Did you put it back?”
My friend gave me a glare that rejected the intimacy implied by my tone, then spun his bicycle round. I felt tears coming, but remembering in time our long-standing feud about whether the English or Japanese cried easiest, I managed to stifle them. I thought again of telling him about my father’s disappearance, and suddenly it seemed a hugely substantial reason not only for my having let him down, but for great self-pity on my part. I pictured the shock and shame that would transform Akira’s face once I uttered the words: “I couldn’t come the other day because . . . because my father’s been kidnapped!”—but somehow I could not say it. Instead, I believe I simply turned and ran back to my house.
I DID NOT SEE AKIRA for the next few days. Then one afternoon he came to our back door, asking Mei Li for me as usual. I was in the middle of something, but dropped it all and went out to my friend. He greeted me smilingly, and as he led me away to his garden, patted me affectionately on the back. I was of course anxious to discover just what had transpired over the Ling Tien matter, but being even more keen not to re-open wounds, resisted the urge to ask anything about it.
We went to the back of his garden—to the thick shrubs we called our “jungle”—and soon became immersed in one of our dramatic narratives. I have a feeling we acted out scenes from Ivanhoe, which I was reading at that time—or perhaps it was one of Akira’s Japanese samurai adventures. In any case, after an hour or so, my friend suddenly stopped and looked oddly at me. Then he said:
“If you like, we play new game.”
“A new game?”
“New game. About Christopher father. If you like.”
I was taken aback and I do not recall what I said next. He came a few steps closer in the long grass and I saw he was looking at me almost tenderly.
“Yes,” he said. “If you like, we play detective. We search for father. We rescue father.”
I then realised that it was hearing the news about my father—which no doubt had started to do the rounds of the neighbourhood—that had brought Akira back to my door. I understood too that this present proposal was his way of showing his concern and wish to help, and I felt my affection for him welling up. But in the end, I said quite nonchalantly:
“All right. If you want to play that, we can.”
And that was how it began, what today in my memory feels like an entire era—though in truth it could only have been a period of two months or less—when day after day we invented and played out endless variations on the theme of my father’s rescue.
Meanwhile the real investigations into my father’s disappearance were continuing. I knew this from the visits we received from the men w
ho held their hats in their hands and talked solemnly to my mother; from the hushed exchanges between my mother and Mei Li when my mother came in, tight-lipped, at the end of an afternoon; and in particular, there was that conversation I had with her at the foot of the staircase.
I have no real memory of what either of us had been doing prior to that moment. I had started to run up the stairs, eager to fetch something from the playroom, when I realised my mother had appeared at the top and was making her way down. She must have been about to go out, for she had on her special beige dress, the one that gave off a peculiar smell like mouldering leaves. I suppose I must have sensed something in her manner, for I stopped where I was on the third or fourth step and waited for her. As she came towards me, she smiled and reached out a hand. She did this while still a number of steps above me, so that I thought for a moment she was wishing me to assist her down the rest of the stairs, the way my father sometimes did when he waited for her at the foot of the staircase. But as it turned out, she simply put her arm around my shoulder and we descended the last steps together. Then she let go of me and walked over towards the hat-stand on the other side of the hall. It was as she did so that she said:
“Puffin, I know how difficult these last few days have been for you. It must seem as though the whole world’s caving in. Well, it’s been difficult for me too. But you must do as I have. You must keep praying to God and remain hopeful. I hope you are remembering your prayers, aren’t you, Puffin?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied, rather off-handedly.
“It’s a sad fact,” she went on, “that in a city like this, from time to time, people do get kidnapped. In fact it happens rather often, and a lot of the time, I’d go so far as to say most of the time, the people come back perfectly safely. So we have to be patient. Puffin, are you listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening.” I had by this time turned my back to her and was dangling by my arms from the banister post.
When We Were Orphans Page 11