“My son. He in Japan.”
“Oh, you sent him to Japan? That surprises me.”
“My son. In Japan. If I die, you tell him, please.”
“Tell him that you died? Sorry, can’t do that. Because you’re not going to die. Not yet anyway.”
“You tell him. I die for country. Tell him, be good to mother. Protect. And build good world.” He was now almost whispering, struggling to find his words in English, struggling not to weep. “Build good world,” he said again, moving his hand through the air like a plasterer smoothing a wall. His gaze followed the hand as though in wonder. “Yes. Build good world.”
“When we were boys,” I said, “we lived in a good world. These children, these children we’ve been coming across, what a terrible thing for them to learn so early how ghastly things really are.”
“My son,” Akira said. “Five years old. In Japan. He know nothing, nothing. He think world is good place. Kind people. His toys. His mother, father.”
“I suppose we were like that too. But it’s not all downhill, I suppose.” I was trying hard now to combat the dangerous despondency settling over my friend. “After all, when we were children, when things went wrong, there wasn’t much we could do to help put it right. But now we’re adults, now we can. That’s the thing, you see? Look at us, Akira. After all this time, we can finally put things right. Remember, old chap, how we used to play those games? Over and over? How we used to pretend we were detectives searching for my father? Now we’re grown, we can at last put things right.”
Akira did not speak for a long time. Then he said: “When my boy. He discover world is not good. I wish . . .” He stopped, either in pain or because he could not find the English. He said something in Japanese, then went on: “I wish I with him. To help him. When he discover.”
“Listen, you great ape,” I said, “this is all far too morose. You’ll see your son again, I’ll see to that. And all this about how good the world looked when we were boys. Well, it’s a lot of nonsense in a way. It’s just that the adults led us on. One mustn’t get too nostalgic for childhood.”
“Nos-tal-gic,” Akira said, as though it were a word he had been struggling to find. Then he said a word in Japanese, perhaps the Japanese for “nostalgic.” “Nos-tal-gic. It is good to be nos-tal-gic. Very important.”
“Really, old fellow?”
“Important. Very important. Nostalgic. When we nostalgic, we remember. A world better than this world we discover when we grow. We remember and wish good world come back again. So very important. Just now, I had dream. I was boy. Mother, Father, close to me. In our house.”
He fell silent and continued to gaze across the rubble.
“Akira,” I said, sensing that the longer this talk went on, the greater was some danger I did not wish fully to articulate. “We should move on. We have much to do.”
As though in reply, there came a burst of machine-gun fire. It was further away than the night before, but we both started.
“Akira,” I said. “Is it far now to the house? We must try and reach it before the fighting starts again in earnest. How far is it now?”
“Not far. But we go carefully. Chinese soldier very near.”
OUR SLEEP, far from refreshing us, appeared to have made us even more depleted. When we stood up and Akira put his weight on me, the pain which went across my neck and shoulders obliged me to let out a moan. For some time, until our bodies grew accustomed again, walking together proved a torturous ordeal.
Our physical conditions aside, the terrain we traversed that morning was by far the most difficult yet. The damage was so extensive, we would frequently have to halt, unable to find a way through the debris. And while it was undeniably a help to see where we were setting down our feet, all the ghastliness that had been hidden by the darkness was now visible to us, taking a profound toll on our spirits. Amidst the wreckage, we could see blood—sometimes fresh, sometimes weeks old—on the ground, on the walls, splashed across broken furniture. Worse still—and our noses would warn us of their presence long before our eyes—we would come across, with disconcerting regularity, piles of human intestines in various stages of decay. Once when we stopped, I remarked to Akira about this, and he said simply:
“Bayonet. Soldier always put bayonet in stomach. If you put here”—he indicated his ribs—“bayonet not come out again. So soldier learn. Always stomach.”
“At least the bodies are gone. At least they do that much.”
We continued to hear occasional gunfire, and each time we did so, I had the feeling we had come a little closer to it. This concerned me, but Akira now seemed surer than ever of our route, and whenever I questioned his decisions, he shook his head impatiently.
By the time we came across the bodies of the two Chinese soldiers, the morning sun was coming down in strong shafts through the broken roofs. We did not pass close enough to examine them properly, but my guess was that they had not been dead for more than a few hours. One was face-down in the rubble; the other had died on his knees, his forehead resting on the brick wall, as though he had been overcome by melancholy.
At one point, my conviction that we were about to walk right into crossfire grew so strong that I stopped Akira, saying:
“Now look here. What’s your game? Where are you leading us?”
He said nothing, but stood leaning against me, his head bowed, recovering his breath.
“Do you really know where we’re going? Akira, answer me! Do you know where we’re going?”
He raised his head wearily, then indicated over my shoulder.
I turned—I had to do so slowly, for he was still leaning on me—and saw through a broken section of a wall, no more than a dozen steps away, what was undoubtedly the East Furnace.
I said nothing, but led us over to it. Like its twin, the East Furnace had survived the assaults well. It was covered in dust, but looked virtually in working order. Letting go of Akira—he immediately sat down on some rubble—I went right up to the furnace. As on the last occasion, I could see the chimney above me pointing towards the clouds. I went back to where Akira was sitting and gently touched his good shoulder.
“Akira, I’m sorry about my tone just now. I want you to know I’m very grateful to you. I could never have found this by myself. Really, Akira, I’m so grateful.”
“Okay.” His breath was now a little easier. “You help me. I help you. Okay.”
“But Akira, we must be very near the house now. Let me see. Along there”—I indicated—“the alley runs that way. We have to follow the alley.”
Akira appeared reluctant to get to his feet, but I hoisted him up and we set off again. I began by following what was clearly the narrow alley the lieutenant had pointed out from the rooftop, but in almost no time we found our way completely barred by fallen debris. We climbed through a wall into a nearby house, then proceeded on what I imagined was a parallel course, picking our way through rubble-strewn rooms.
These houses we now found ourselves in were less damaged, and had clearly been more salubrious than those we had lately come through. There were chairs, dressing tables, even some mirrors and vases still intact amidst the wreckage. I was eager to keep going, but Akira’s body began to sag badly, and we were obliged to stop again. We sat down on a fallen beam, and it was as we were recovering our breath that my gaze fell upon the hand-painted name-board lying there in the rubble before us.
It had split cleanly along the grain of the wood, but the two pieces were lyin g there side by side; I could see also part of the lattice-work by which it had once been fixed to the front entrance. It was not by any means the first time we had come across such a thing, but some instinct drew my attention to this particular item. I went over to it and, extricating the two pieces of wood from the masonry, brought them back to where we were sitting.
“Akira,” I said, “can you read this?” I held the pieces together before him.
He gazed at the script for a while, then said: “My Chinese,
not good. A name. Someone’s name.”
“Akira, listen carefully. Look at these characters. You must know something about them. Please, try and read them. It’s very important.”
He continued to regard the board, then shook his head.
“Akira, listen,” I said. “Is it possible this says Yeh Chen? Could that be the name written here?”
“Yeh Chen . . .” Akira looked thoughtful. “Yeh Chen. Yes, possible. This character here . . . Yes, possible. This say Yeh Chen.”
“It does? Are you sure?”
“Not sure. But . . . possible. Very possible. Yes”—he gave a nod—“Yeh Chen. I think so.”
I put down the two pieces of the board and made my way carefully over the rubble towards the front of the house we were in. There was a broken gap where the doorway had once been, and looking through it, I could see into the narrow alley running outside. I looked across to the house directly facing me. The frontages to the adjoining properties were badly smashed, but the house I was looking at had survived strangely intact. There were hardly any obvious signs of damage: the shutters on the window, the crude sliding wooden lattice door, even the charm dangling above the doorway, had all remained unscathed. After what we had travelled through, it looked like an apparition from another more civilised world. I stood there staring at it for some time. Then I gestured to Akira.
“Look, come here,” I said in a near-whisper. “This has to be the house. It can’t be any other.”
Akira did not move, but gave a deep sigh. “Christopher. You friend. I like very much.”
“Keep your voice down. Akira, we’ve arrived. It’s this house. I can feel it now in my bones.”
“Christopher . . .” With an effort he rose to his feet and came slowly over the ground. When he was beside me, I pointed out the house. The morning sun shining down into the alley was causing bright streaks to fall across its front.
“There, Akira. There it is.”
He sat down by my feet and gave another sigh. “Christopher. My friend. You must think very carefully. It is many years. Many, many years now . . .”
“Isn’t it odd,” I remarked, “how the fighting’s hardly touched that house? The house with my parents inside.”
Uttering these words, I suddenly felt almost overwhelmed. But I collected myself and said: “Now, Akira, we have to go in. We’ll do it together, arm in arm. Just like that other time, going into Ling Tien’s room. You remember, Akira?”
“Christopher. My dear friend. You must think very carefully. It is many, many years. My friend, please, you listen. Perhaps mother and father. It is now so many years . . .”
“We’ll go in now together. Then as soon as we’ve done what we have to do, we’ll get you to proper medical help, I promise. In fact, it’s possible there’ll be something, some first aid, in that house. At least some clean water, perhaps bandages. My mother will be able to look at your injury, perhaps put on a fresh dressing for you. Don’t you worry, you’ll be fine in no time.”
“Christopher. You must think very carefully. So many years go by . . .”
He fell silent as the door across the alley slid open with a rattle. I had hardly started to fumble for the revolver when the small Chinese girl emerged.
She was perhaps six years old. Her face had a still expression, and was rather pretty. Her hair had been tied carefully into little bunches. Her simple jacket and wide trousers were slightly too large for her.
She looked about her, blinking in the sunlight, then looked our way. Spotting us easily—neither of us had moved—she came towards us with surprising fearlessness. She stopped in the alley just a few yards away, and said something in Mandarin, gesturing back to the house.
“Akira, what’s she saying?”
“Not understand. Perhaps she invite us inside.”
“But how can she be involved? Do you suppose she has something to do with the kidnappers? What’s she saying?”
“I think she ask us to help her.”
“We’ll have to tell her to stand away,” I said, drawing my revolver. “We have to anticipate resistance.”
“Yes, she ask us to help. She say dog is injured. I think she say dog. My Chinese not good.”
Then as we watched, from somewhere near where her carefully tied hair began, a thin line of blood ran down, over her forehead and down her cheek. The little girl appeared to notice nothing and spoke to us again, gesturing once more back to her house.
“Yes,” Akira said. “She say dog. Dog is hurt.”
“Her dog? She’s hurt. Perhaps seriously.”
I took a step towards her, intending to examine her wound. But she interpreted my movement as compliance, and turning, skipped back across the alley towards her door. She slid it open again, looked towards us appealingly, then disappeared inside.
I stood there for a moment hesitating. Then I reached a hand down to my friend.
“Akira, this is it,” I said. “We must go in. Let’s go in now together.”
CHAPTER 21
I TRIED TO KEEP the revolver poised as we crossed the alley. But Akira’s arm was around my neck, and I was having to support so much of his weight, that I imagine our gait as we staggered together into the house was far from authoritative. I was vaguely aware of an ornamental vase standing in the entrance way, and I believe the decoration I had seen dangling from the door frame gave a little chiming sound as we brushed past it. Then I heard the girl’s voice speaking and looked about us.
Although the front of the house had remained virtually untouched, the whole of the back half of the room we were in lay in ruin. Thinking about it today, I would suppose a shell had come through the roof, bringing down the upper storey, and destroying the rear of the house, together with the property adjoining it behind. But at that moment I was looking first and foremost for my parents, and I am not sure what exactly I registered. My first giddy thought was that the kidnappers had fled. Then, when I saw the bodies, my terrible fear was that they were those of my mother and father—that the kidnappers had slaughtered them on account of our approach. I have to confess that my next emotion was one of great relief when I saw that the three corpses thrown about the room were all Chinese.
Near the back, over by a wall, was the body of a woman who might have been the young girl’s mother. Possibly the blast had thrown her there and she was lying where she had landed. There was a shocked expression on her face. One arm had been torn off at the elbow, and she was now pointing the stump up to the sky, perhaps to indicate the direction from which the shell had come. A few yards away in the debris, an old lady was also gaping up at the hole in the ceiling. One side of her face was charred, but I could see no blood or any obvious mutilation. Finally, closest to where we were standing—he had been obscured at first by a fallen shelf—lay a boy slightly older than the little girl we had followed in. One of his legs had been blown off at the hip, from where surprisingly long entrails, like the decorative tails of a kite, had unfurled over the matting.
“Dog,” Akira said beside me.
I stared at him, then followed his gaze. In the centre of the wreckage, not far from the dead boy, the little girl had knelt down beside an injured dog lying on its side and was gently caressing its fur. The dog’s tail moved weakly in response. As we stood watching her, she glanced up and said something, her voice remaining quite calm and steady.
“What’s she saying, Akira?”
“I think she say we help dog,” said Akira. “Yes, she say we help dog.” Then suddenly, he began to giggle helplessly.
The young girl spoke again, this time addressing only me, perhaps having dismissed Akira as a lunatic. Then she brought her face down close to the dog’s and continued to pass her hand gently over its fur.
I took a step towards her, untangling myself from my friend’s arm, and as I did so, Akira crashed over into some broken furniture. I looked back at him in alarm, but he had continued to giggle, and besides, the girl’s pleading had gone on unbroken. Laying my revolver d
own on something, I went over to her and touched her shoulder.
“Look here . . . All of this”—I gestured at the carnage, of which she seemed completely oblivious—“it’s awfully bad luck. But look, you’ve survived, and really, you’ll see, you’ll make a pretty decent show of it if you just . . . if you just keep up your courage . . .” I turned to Akira in irritation and shouted: “Akira! Stop that noise! For God’s sake, there’s nothing to laugh about! This poor girl . . .”
But the girl had now grasped my sleeve. She spoke again, carefully and slowly, looking into my eyes.
“Look, really,” I said, “you’re being awfully brave. I swear to you, whoever did all this, whoever did this ghastly thing, they won’t escape justice. You may not know who I am, but as it happens, I’m . . . well, I’m just the person you want. I’ll see to it they don’t get away. Don’t you worry, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” I had been fumbling about in my jacket, but I now found my magnifying glass and showed it to her. “Look, you see?”
I kicked aside a bird-cage in my path and went over to the mother. Then, perhaps out of habit as much as anything else, I bent down and began to examine her through the glass. Her stump looked peculiarly clean; the bone protruding out of the flesh was a shiny white, almost as though someone had been polishing it.
My memory of these moments is no longer very clear. But I have a feeling it was at this point, just after I stared through the glass at the woman’s stump, that I suddenly straightened and began to search for my parents. I can only say, by way of partial explanation for what ensued, that Akira was still giggling where he had fallen, and that the girl was continuing to make her pleas in the same even, persistent tones. In other words, the atmosphere had become fairly overwrought, and this might account to some extent for the manner in which I went about turning what was left of that little house upside down.
There was a tiny room at the back, completely destroyed by the shelling, and it was here I began my search, pulling up broken floorboards, smashing open with a table leg the doors of an upturned cupboard. I then returned to the main room and began to heave aside the piles of wreckage, smashing with my table leg at anything that failed readily to yield to my kicks and manoeuvres. Eventually, I became aware that Akira had stopped his giggling and was following me about, pulling at my shoulder and saying something in my ear. I ignored him and carried on with my search, not pausing even when I accidentally threw over one of the bodies. Akira continued to pull at my shoulder, and after a time, unable to comprehend why the very person I had counted on to assist me was instead bent on hindering me, I turned to him, shouting something like:
When We Were Orphans Page 27