Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  Mathilde tried to tell me she didn’t mind giving up her winter coat. That I was not to worry about it. She said there was an old coat of Ma’s that she could use instead, out of fashion and slightly moth-eaten but it didn’t matter, she insisted. However it does matter, and I’ve bought her a new one.

  The signs outside the railway station were in Japanese, which Alex had never learned to read, but the message on the station’s tannoy system was unmistakable. He realised he should have been forewarned by the size of the crowds milling on the concourse, but had thought it was merely the crush of holiday travellers. Then he heard the announcement on the public address system.

  Due to a bombing raid the railway bridge at Kawaguchi and sections of the line were seriously damaged. All trains to Takasaki and beyond had been cancelled. The announcement then proceeded to list the names of the major stations, including Karuizawa, to which there could be no access by train until extensive repairs were made.

  People were shouting at each other, upset and in a state of disbelief that this could ruin their holiday, many trying to find station staff to ask about alternative arrangements. It became difficult to hear the voice on the speakers giving further information.

  “How long did they say?” Alex saw it was an Argentinean businessman, whose wife sometimes played cards with his mother. He was burdened with luggage and brightly wrapped presents.

  “I couldn’t hear,” he replied.

  “Goddamn Americans, ruining our Christmas,” the man said, and Alex recalled from his accent the Argentinean had spent time in the United States. “My kids are up there expecting Santa Claus. How the fucking hell is Santa going to get there?”

  Alex almost suggested he’d use his sleigh and reindeer, but sensed it might not be well received. He promised to see what he could find out, and went to the information desk where there was a queue.

  “We can’t tell you how long,” the harassed girl at the desk said when he reached her. “They keep shouting at me, but I can’t give them an answer.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Alex said. It seemed to be the first kind word she’d received, for she looked at him gratefully.

  “They’re all determined to wait here, expecting a train to be ready to leave by morning,” she said quietly, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t bother.”

  “No train?”

  “Not a chance.” She hesitated, then said very softly so only he could hear, “They might be able to repair the line in a day or so, but if the bridge is down it’ll be a week or more.”

  Alex went looking for the Argentinean to suggest it was pointless to spend the night on the station waiting for a train, but the man refused to believe there would be no transport of some kind. A bus, trucks, anything. There simply had to be something arranged; this was Goddamn Christmas, for Christ’s sake, and he had a whole sack of presents for his kids.

  That afternoon Alex tried to call someone in Karuizawa from his office in the empty bank. The family cottage had no phone since the place had always been just for holidays. Since his mother and sister had gone there he’d applied to have one installed, but there was a delay. An indefinite delay. When he inquired how indefinite, an employee of the phone company asked if he’d forgotten there was a war on.

  He tried to call Odette at her parent’s house, but the operator said the line was out of order. He then tried the French Ambassador’s residence, as it was next door. Out of order, another operator said. It was obvious the bombing had hit the main phone exchange, but the telephonists had been told not to spread this news.

  So he went upstairs to the penthouse. There were two air raid alarms during the night, and he ignored them both, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep until he was abruptly woken by the wail of an all clear. He pulled open the blackout curtains. There was no trace of bomb damage and the sun was just rising. Perhaps, he thought, the siren was to let residents of central Tokyo know it was Christmas Day!

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 25th, 1944

  I had a festive brunch of omelette and toast, then went for a walk. Downtown Tokyo was deserted. It felt eerie in the streets. No crowds of people, no trucks unloading, no bicycles or any traffic. All the buildings were shuttered. I’d never imagined it like this. Activity of one kind of another rarely ceased in Tokyo, but this was a strange and empty city. My family would be sure to realise something untoward had happened, but there was no way of telling them I might be stranded here until New Year. Odette’s father had chosen Christmas time to extend the hand of friendship (I think), with an invitation to cocktails. I imagined he’d be bound to know about the bombing of the bridge; after all, he is the Head of French Chancellery, so he should be able to find out such things. But would he try, or just assume I hadn’t bothered to turn up for his cocktail party. I’m sure he’d much rather believe that. I might be misjudging him, but doubt it.

  It was an awful day. It seemed endless. There was no-one I could call, for none of my friends were in Tokyo. I seemed alone in the world, with the Frankenstein family the only sign of life in the neighbourhood. But not quite, I was to find out. Late that afternoon I had a visitor. What the hell was Constable Suzuki doing, paying me a visit on a day when not another soul in Tokyo was working? Why was he here?

  19

  HIBIYA PARK

  He knocked diffidently on the door, and shrugged his shy smile when Alex regarded him with astonishment. The eyes blinked apologetically.

  “I interrupt, yes?”

  Alex shook his head and tried to appear welcoming.

  “Of course not, Suzuki-san.” He tried not to look worried at the policeman’s sudden appearance, today of all days.

  Suzuki bowed. “Merry Christmas.”

  Alex bowed in reply. “A Happy Birthday to the Emperor.”

  “Ah so,” Suzuki said, “Arigato.” He handed Alex a gift wrapped bottle. “With my compliments.”

  Alex took the present, mortified he had nothing to offer in return. Unsure how to respond, he put out his hand. Suzuki smiled as they solemnly exchanged handshakes. Alex then unwrapped the present, a bottle of sake.

  “Thank you, Suzuki-san. We’ll drink to your Emperor’s birthday.”

  “And also,” Suzuki said, “a toast to Santa Claus.” He chuckled, and that was the moment when Alex began to like him.

  As the daylight faded they left the blackout curtains open and sat without turning on the apartment lights, so they could see the moonlit city while demolishing the last of the bottle.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” Alex asked.

  “At the police office we hear news about the bombing of the bridge. That means Alex-san can’t go home to his family, I think, so I feel a bottle of sake might be a good idea.”

  “A wonderful idea,” Alex said. He felt a strange moment of kinship with the policeman. Who else would think to bring a consoling gift of sake like this — and very good sake, too? He picked up the bottle intending to fill their glasses, but realised it was empty. He felt concerned. Suzuki-san had brought him a gift. He felt it incumbent upon him to respond in kind.

  “Please wait a moment. Stay here,” he said, and went downstairs to where the Count kept his private cellar. He selected a bottle of well-aged Glenfiddich, and brought it back.

  “I hope you don’t have a prejudice against Scotland,” he said, as he found clean glasses and poured them each a drink. Suzuki took a deep gulp, considered it, then gave a wide smile.

  “No prejudice,” he said. “Good taste.”

  They toasted the Emperor again, and then Santa Claus as well.

  “It was really thoughtful of you,” Alex said, feeling by now that Masao Suzuki was one of his best friends. “To call like this, just because I’m on your list of resident foreigners. Do you treat all the others with this much consideration?”

  There was a short silence. Suzuki’s eyes blinked furiously behind his round glasses.

  “No others,” he said finally.

  “You don’t like the others you
have to supervise?”

  “No others,” Suzuki repeated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are no others. Only you.”

  “Wait on,” Alex said, wondering if it was the mix of sake and Glenfiddich causing this confusion. “Did you say only me? I’m the only foreigner?”

  “Only one now living in the Nihonbashi district,” Suzuki replied.

  “And you’re in charge of all foreigners who live here?”

  “Hai. Yes.”

  “But I’m your only one?”

  “Hai.” Suzuki started to laugh.

  “You mean you’re my personal cop?”

  Suzuki was convulsed with laughing so much that he could only nod an answer. Alex started to laugh with him. They laughed so long and loudly — hysteria threatening to overcome them — that Frankenstein came hurrying up the stairs.

  What was the matter, he wanted to know? The sound was echoing all through the bank, and his wife wondered if there were burglars.

  No burglars, Alex assured him. It’s only Constable Suzuki doing his duty, making his rounds and checking on all the foreigners in this district.

  “I keep very close watch on them,” Suzuki announced to the giant caretaker gravely. “Every single one of them.”

  “That’s right, he does,” Alex confirmed.

  Frankenstein went back and told his wife he thought they were both drunk, but with the policeman there it was best not to say or do anything. These days it was dangerous to be noticed or to attract police attention.

  “So how did it happen?” It was an hour later and they had drawn the blackout curtains. Suzuki proved adept at cooking a meal of fried rice, and Alex poured them each another large malt whisky from a new bottle, as they ate and Suzuki proceeded to explain.

  “I used to be a traffic policeman.” He described about breaking his glasses and causing such chaos that he had been ordered to “volunteer” to keep lists of foreigners. And how he had been shifted to the Nihonbashi district when nobody else wanted the job. Everyone realised it was a dead end post that would never lead to promotion, so they handed it to Suzuki.

  At first, he had many residents to account for. It was surprising in downtown Tokyo, known as a strictly business region, how many people actually lived there. In penthouses, apartments above offices, others with tiny dwellings who went home to their families at the weekend. Some nested in rented rooms for amorous adventures; even they were recorded in his notebook as residents. The more names on his register, the more useful he was, and the more chance of keeping this cosy job.

  But gradually they had moved away. He was concerned, he told Alex, that his superiors might start to calculate this and realise how few gaijin he now had to monitor, so he kept all their names on his list. It was wrong, of course, very foolish and, if it became known, very dangerous. He would be sent to prison and lose his pension. If they were lenient they might transfer him to a bad station, an area of non-stop crime. Put him on night patrol, or traffic duty again. Or, heaven forbid, draft him into the army. Never mind his age or eyesight, the military were no respecters of such matters. The fact that he was old and unfit would not stop them sending him to some Pacific island, where the war was raging. He had a feeling that prison would be far better than a Pacific island.

  The exodus had become worse once the air raids began. All of a sudden, within weeks, his remaining foreigners were gone. Moved to safer places like Karuizawa and Shimoda. Not most of them, which would have been bad enough; they had all gone.

  He had debated what to do. It was a bad situation. So bad it gave him stress pains, and sleepless nights. If he announced the truth, he would have to supply dates and details of everyone’s departure, which would unravel him. So the best thing to do, the only possible thing in the difficult circumstances, was leave the names where they had been contentedly listed for years in his reports. It was his good fortune that nobody ever read these, so no-one noticed.

  But he began to fear it could not last. Which was why the arrival of Alex as a resident was such a relief. One genuine foreigner was an enormous benefit to Suzuki.

  “But how? Just one. It hardly makes any difference,” Alex said.

  It made a vast difference to him, Suzuki replied. It was the best piece of luck he had had since breaking his glasses. His monthly report would no longer be false. When he spoke to his Inspector, he could discuss his duties without actually lying. And if he could somehow manage to talk in the singular and omit the plural, he could speak the absolute truth. For he did indeed have a foreigner living in this part of Tokyo.

  Alex-san was his foreigner. And his salvation.

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 26th, DAWN

  A serious hangover from sake followed by too much malt whisky concentrates the mind. First, the realisation that pain does not easily or quietly go away. After that, the question of why a tongue that felt normal yesterday, is now thick and furry? And then another mystery; why a mouth that sipped such pleasant nectar feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage? And are there hammers inside the skull where the brain used to be?

  Other than that, I feel fine!

  I even began to vaguely remember what happened. Or did I? Had Suzuki really told me those things, or was it a dream? While thinking more about this I blinked, at least that’s what I thought I did, and woke up many hours later feeling much better — only fragile, hung over, and suffering a headache. I even had memory back again, or some of it. They say in a binge like that a number of the brain cells die, and are not replaceable.

  But as the day wears on, new brain cells must be born. For I can remember things. Suzuki-san and I share a secret. I’m the only foreign resident in this part of town, and he’s the copper whose sole function is to be in charge of me. I’m the reason why he’s in the police force, and not dodging bullets on a Pacific atoll. Which brings up an interesting point.

  If he’s in charge of me, then in another way I’m in charge of the situation. If I had said something reckless, as I think I did last night, like declaring Emperor Hirohito looks more like an old fart than a divine being, Suzuki-san might be so upset he’d report me. But if he did, he’d have no gaijin. So his future is in my hands, as mine is in his. Which I think means that we’re stuck with each other.

  The next morning Alex heard someone climbing the stairs, and by the rather laboured tread he knew who to expect. He opened the door to meet him. Suzuki gave a wan smile, and managed a slight bow as he regained his breath.

  “Alex-san.”

  “Suzuki-san. You don’t look well.”

  “Today I am slightly better than I felt yesterday. But not much. In about a week I may start to feel normal again.”

  “You should have slept most of yesterday like I did. Half the morning, and all afternoon.”

  “Unfortunately, this was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “My wife was most displeased with me coming home in such condition. Every time I tried to go to sleep, she shook me awake to tell me I was a drunken disgrace; that all the neighbours had heard me singing rude songs at midnight outside our house, and they were shocked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I feel to blame.”

  “No, no,” he insisted, “I brought the sake, so the blame is mine.”

  “But I got about four bottles of malt whisky from the Count’s cellar, so I must share the guilt.”

  “Very well,” Suzuki gave in. “Both guilty.”

  “Both sorry.”

  “Very sorry.”

  “A cup of tea,” Alex suggested.

  “Yes, please. Nothing stronger.”

  “Any news on the bridge at Kawaguchi,” Alex asked, as the water in the jug boiled.

  “That is what I came to tell you. I heard it is not as badly damaged after all. They think perhaps three more days, then you can travel.”

  “Wonderful,” Alex said. “Are you on police duty?”

  “Unhappily, yes.”

  “What you need is a go
od long sleep.”

  “If only it was possible.”

  “It is possible. If you’re here on duty, this means you’re here to check on me. If I’m out, you have to wait. Correct?”

  “Er … yes … correct.”

  “Well, what I need is a long walk and some fresh air. So you lock the door and have a sleep.”

  “Alex-san, do you mean this?”

  “Of course. Say two or three hours? How does that sound?”

  “Like heaven.”

  “And when I get back, I want to ask you a favour.”

  “Don’t worry,” Suzuki said, “I don’t tell anyone the bad names you call Emperor Hirohito.”

  “Did I say something dreadful?”

  “Worse,” the policeman sighed. “I cannot repeat it.”

  “Well, I apologise,” Alex said, “for whatever it was.”

  “And I also apologise,” Suzuki replied, “for saying Santa Claus is stupid Western make-believe. An old goat with false beard.”

  “That’s strong language,” Alex said, straight-faced, “but we’ll both try to forget what we said that night. And my favour is not about that. I need some help to find a lady who lives in an apartment near Hibiya Park.”

  “A romance,” Suzuki said with interest.

  “Not quite,” Alex said. “Catch up on sleep, then we’ll talk about it.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER, 29th

  Suzuki-san is a real asset. The Tokyo police force is wasting his talents. I told him I wanted to send a card to a friend who lived in that precinct, whose name might be Cecile Patou (Mademoiselle) or it might be Cecile Clermont (Madame). He was convinced it was an assignation with a married woman, after I told him that if, by some miracle, he could locate her, not to deliver the card if the husband was at home. Just make up some typical police excuse: ask if they’d reported a burglary, or seen a fugitive who escaped from custody, or whatever came to mind.