Still locked safely in the penthouse was his treasured set of Encyclopaedia Britannicas and other favourite books, plus a portable typewriter and family photographs. With some help from Frankenstein, he might be able to pack them, find a taxi to take him to the station, and get everything back to Karuizawa. After all, he was well subsidised with cash expenses. If he stayed the night, he could surely find a restaurant to eat in. It would make a welcome break from the monotonous and rather spartan existence in his mother’s house.
He looked for a taxi, but there were none cruising the street, and it seemed unlikely the trams would be running during the alert. He decided to walk, crossing Hibiya Park which should have been a mass of bright spring colour, but the shrubs were stunted and scorched. There was a tree burnt to its stump and others that leaned at grotesque angles. The flower beds were unkempt, as if the gardeners had all fled to safer soil.
Alex remembered his meeting here with Cecile on New Year’s Eve. The very last day of 1944. Then the trees had been stripped bare by the change of season, but the park had had its own austere winter attraction. Now it looked dishevelled and neglected, like so much else in the city. In the distance he could see the familiar shape of the Imperial Hotel — survivor of the earthquake, survivor also of the bombing; it stood amid the ruins surrounding it, seeming lonely and unsafe. The streets leading to Tokyo station were blocked by gangs of emergency workers. Alex could see the extensive damage; platforms were being hastily repaired, but two upper floors of the building had suffered direct hits by high-explosive bombs, and the ornamental domes that capped the north and south entrances were reduced to rubble. Little in the way of restoration had been attempted to any of this wreckage.
He began to feel dispirited. These places were an intimate part of his recent life. For more than two years he had arrived and departed every day from this huge railway terminus. It was no more than a gateway, but seeing it in such straits seemed to epitomise the havoc of the whole helpless city. Wanting the war to end in victory for France and its allies was one thing, but to revisit such mass destruction was painful and disabling.
In no hurry now, he detoured through the Marunouchi district and walked by the Imperial Palace walls. He passed the Concourse in front of the palace, the great open space where people came to pay homage to their unseen Emperor. Framed by its pine trees, the Concourse was a national shrine where joyful parades had celebrated the war’s early victories, and soldiers bound for overseas came to have their photos taken against the background of the twin Meiji bridges and ancient ramparts. It was also well known — Alex had seen this himself — for people on board the moving trams to stand and bow to the Emperor while trying not to lose face by falling as the tram cars went past his palace. Even now a small crowd was there, some kneeling, all showing a silent reverence, a few watching him curiously as he walked by without an attempt to bow or even a pause to reflect. He increased his stride; it was no place for a gaijin, not in these fretful times.
He passed the Otemon Gate, from where he could glimpse the Eastern Garden of the Palace. It looked tranquil and remote. There had been rumours of incendiaries landing in the imperial gardens but, if true, no destructive fires had blazed in this flawless section. It was cultivated to perfection. Alex admired the sight for a moment, then with a sense of eager familiarity he turned towards Nihonbashi.
The sturdy buildings in the financial district were mostly intact. Built to withstand earthquakes, they were at worst scarred. But the book shops in the streets around Kanda station were gutted. The tiny store that had specialised in English editions — where he had bought his precious encyclopaedias from elderly Mr Sato — was still standing, but it was only a burnt shell. Cremated books lay abandoned on the ground. Alex remembered nostalgically the times he had sat and listened to Mr Sato, a former history teacher, talk knowledgeably of Edo Shigenaga, the legendary original shogun whose family had ruled the city before the 19th century Meiji dynasty renamed it Tokyo. He often wished he had been privileged to have a teacher like Mr Sato, and hoped he had survived the ruin of his shop. But the desolate sight of the charred books still strewn there made him feel this was unlikely.
He headed towards the canal and the Sumida River, and with a feeling of relief saw the massive Bank of Japan building still relatively unmarked. The Mitsukoshi department store now had its shattered windows boarded up, and bomb damage inflicted since then had been haphazardly repaired, like hastily bandaged war wounds. He finally turned towards the French bank, as if seeking an old friend.
The smile froze on his face, and he stood there staring incredulously. The bank had completely disappeared, and in the empty space where it had stood there were just traces of ash and scattered debris.
27
CECILE
At first glance, it was as though it had never existed. When Alex came closer he could see twisted scraps of steel that must have been a part of the strong room. The building itself had literally vanished.
He wanted to be sick, but the bile rose and remained stuck in his throat. He thought of searching for Frankenstein and his wife and children, but knew they must be dead. No-one could have survived a direct hit like this. He stood there thinking about them, particularly F Minor, the little trusting eight-year-old Yoshi who had held his hand, remembering that he had been cold and frightened.
After a while Alex felt able to do what had to be done. He went next door to see the assistant manager in the Bank of Japan. Being unknown to him, he was told to wait; a rather superior member of the staff said the executive had more pressing appointments. Finally, when admitted to his office, Alex found he was a middle-aged Japanese, old enough to avoid military service, and rather brusque. He said it had happened four nights ago, and had fully intended writing to inform the Count, but as the French had documents and deposits in the vault he knew de Champeaux would eventually be in touch. A letter, after all, would achieve nothing apart from conveying the bad news, and in these days who could tell if the mail would even arrive.
Alex felt, because of his age, that the assistant manager regarded him as an awkward interruption to his busy day. He was told that if he cared to call back later, the executive would write a brief note to the Count that Alex could deliver. Alex replied that he’d save the man his trouble, as the assistant to Count de Chapeaux he was quite capable of passing on this news in person. He received a sharp look, as if the banker found this disrespectful, though by now Alex had no interest in his opinion. He found the man cold and indifferent, unfeeling about the loss of the building and those who had died in it. About to leave, he asked if anyone might have news of the caretaker and his family.
“What caretaker?” the banker replied, and expressed the view that if anyone had been foolish enough to remain living in the French bank, there was no possibility they could have survived.
The taxi driver complained most of the way to Azabu. The sirens had sounded again soon after Alex had hailed him. It was dangerous to be on the road, he said; those Yankee bastards had been known to pick out moving traffic, and to fly low so they could strafe cars and trucks with machine guns. It was just like a sport to them, he said, a sort of vicious game of hunting foxes, especially when they were on their way home with bomb bays emptied, and more of the city left burning behind them. They were bloody barbarians, the driver grumbled, and he and Alex were both fools to risk their lives by being on the road at a time like this.
Alex was finally sick of the man and his complaints. From his pocket he took out the wad of notes he had agreed to pay, held them long enough to remind the driver this was three times the normal fare — then told him to pull up the cab.
“What, here?” The driver was puzzled, as he began to slow down.
“Right here.”
“But we’re nowhere near Azabu.”
“I know that. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Alex said.
“Walk? Why?”
“Because I’m fed up and tired of listening to you. And that puts an end
to the agreement we made, so I’ll pay you two yen and you can go to hell or to an air raid shelter — whichever you find first.”
“You can’t cheat me like that,” said the driver indignantly.
“Then keep driving, and shut up,” Alex said. “The only conversation we’ll have from now is when I give you directions how to find the house.”
It had been a long, joyless day. In mid-afternoon, as he left the Bank of Japan the all-clear had sounded, and he had combed the streets until finding this taxi. There was just one place in Tokyo he wanted to go before returning to Karuizawa. Cecile was living in the Count’s house at Azabu. The thought of seeing her cheered him immensely. Something pleasant must come out of this dreadful day. But he was barely inside the cab when the sirens wailed to signal another alert. This time there was a squadron of Superfortresses but they flew high overhead, bound for the northern suburbs of the city.
The sight of them was enough for the taxi driver to say it would be too risky on the roads, and to bargain until his passenger agreed to pay double the fare. Then the driver complained that it was dangerous to drive to Azabu. It’s where I want to go, Alex insisted, and when the driver said he’d much rather lock his taxi and find a shelter, the agreed fare became three times the normal price. Which was why both driver and passenger were now riding in hostile silence, until they were in the select neighbourhood and Alex gave him brief directions that brought them to the house. His spirits rose. He could hardly wait to see her again. Perhaps he and Cecile could have a meal together, before he took the late train.
“You want me to wait?” The driver was surly now.
Alex did not bother to reply. The moment he saw the damage he flung open the cab door and ran to inspect it. The Count’s house was intact but the exquisite courtyard was a ruin. The willows and bamboo were blackened and burnt, the flowers shrivelled, the pool full of dead golden carp. Among clusters of broken masonry he found the charred remains of a lifeless bonsai and knew this was the cherished cedar tree. He rang the doorbell and when there was no answer he went around the house looking in all the widows, but there was no sign of her.
In the end he paid the driver, received scant thanks, and watched him drive noisily away trailing charcoal smoke. He settled down to wait, wondering what time she would be back. In the distance the sirens sounded the all clear and he realised the trains would probably be running again by nightfall. It was at least a two-hour walk to Ueno Station, but first he must see Cecile. It had been in his mind ever since being asked to undertake this mission.
After sitting waiting for an hour he decided he should enquire at the adjacent houses, but several were damaged by bombs and the others were all locked and empty. He peered in the window of a large home, and saw the furniture was shrouded with dust covers. It seemed as if affluent Azabu had been abandoned by its residents, most of whom would have alternative safety in their country or seaside homes.
He returned to the Count’s house, where he rang the bell in case she had come back in the meantime, but there was still no answer. He went around the house again, peering in windows, wondering if she was ill. It became essential to wait; having looked forward so eagerly to see her, he now had to assure himself that she was safe, not ill or injured.
In what seemed like too short a time the day began to fade and it was twilight. Soon afterwards, the darkness came down like a thick blanket. He could see nothing. There were no street lamps, not a glimmer of light anywhere because of the blackout. He felt as if he was marooned in the wreckage of the garden. Already aware of dampness from a shower of light rain, he began to realise it had been impetuous and unwise to dispense with the taxi and remain here. But he had been so confident that Cecile would soon return to the house. Which now, in the pitch darkness of the unknown suburb and silent streets, seemed unlikely.
So where in God’s name was she?
It felt like the longest night of his life. Alex had spent too much time trying to find neighbours, and not enough exploring the Count’s grounds to see if there was any shelter from the deteriorating weather. He managed to find his way in the pitch black to what seemed like a porch with a tiny overhang that kept off the worst of it, but by now his clothes were wet and he was shivering. Sometime towards midnight he fell asleep; when he woke the rain was stronger and steadier, the night much colder. He could not tell the time or see the face of his watch in the dark, but had a feeling it was nowhere near morning.
The first trace of daylight took forever to arrive, and while he waited for the dawn he was tormented by anxiety and increasingly fearful thoughts about her strange absence since the raid, which must’ve happened only days ago. The way the garden had been left derelict and ruined. The bonsai tree lying there abandoned was what most disturbed him. Cecile, knowing how precious it was to the Count, would surely not have left it like that. She’d have tried to salvage it. Alex did his best to suppress the uneasy reflections that had worried him ever since it became dark and far too late for her to be walking home in the blackout. He kept trying to believe there was some simple explanation, that his fears were an illusion, a part of being stranded here on this cold wet night, but none of it worked.
He began to think Cecile might be dead.
If not, where was she? The house appeared unharmed, but empty. Had she been in the garden when the bomb fell there? Could she be in hospital? He came to a conclusion that he must find the local police station as soon as it was light enough to go looking — which was finally when he went to sleep. When he next awoke it was dawn. He could see the time on his watch at least: it was 5.30. He found a garden tap and tried to wash. There was an outside toilet beside the locked servant’s quarters. Fortunately they had left a few old sheets of newspaper, which was the only kind of toilet paper most people had had for years, and long ago everyone had stopped being embarrassed about the way the black print came off and stained their arses.
It was too early for anyone to be in the streets. No point, he realised, in searching for the police station, because he had no idea where to look, and there was no-one to ask. The first trace of sunlight made the ruined garden look even sadder and more forlorn. It was then he heard footsteps of someone approaching in the street, and hurried to the gate hoping to intercept whoever it was and ask for directions. Instead there was something familiar about the tempo of the approaching sound, like a beat, a remembered rhythm, and then Alex saw her. At the exact same moment as she saw him.
“Alex,” she said, and then with the strangest sob of relief, “Alex, oh my dear God! Alex..!”
He ran and picked her up in his arms, hugging her with relief, never stopping to think that she had once been Mademoiselle, the fastidious and rather formidable secretary, or that he had been a nervous young 20-year-old applicant in awe of her, arriving too early for their first meeting.
This was Cecile — who, thank God, was alive!
She stared at the ravaged garden with shocked dismay, making Alex realise she was seeing this destruction for the first time. As she lifted the tiny cedar the tears began to stream down her face. He held back the questions he wanted to ask, but he had a feeling even though she was cradling it while she cried, her grief was not for the treasured bonsai but for something else.
Cecile cooked some rice for them both and made coffee. Later she found him a towel, ran him a hot bath, then firmly insisted that he sleep. When he woke there were clothes neatly laid out in the room for him to wear. Alex realised they must belong to the Count. He also realised it was early evening, and he had slept through most of the day.
She was in the elegant living room, lights on and blackout curtains drawn, when he entered. She had also bathed, changed into a house gown, and looked rested.
“They fit,” he said.
Cecile smiled her approval. “I thought they might,” she said. “Very smart, too. The Count has so many clothes, we’ll select one of his summer suits for you to wear tomorrow. You can arrive back there looking très elegant.”
“Tomorrow? Cecile, they’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. I really should try to go back there on tonight’s train.” But he said it without much enthusiasm, and she detected that.
“It’s a long walk to Ueno Station,” she observed. “Taxis will all be off the road by now. It’d take you hours to walk there in the blackout. That’s if you didn’t get lost. And most important of all, after today’s alarms, will there be a train to the mountains?”
“Maybe the midnight express.”
“If it’s running. And if not, you’d spend another uncomfortable night.”
“Yes,” he said. “Not much fun, a platform bench at Ueno.”
“Please,” she said, “at least stay until tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Of course here. Please, Alex.”
“On one condition,” he replied. “That we find somewhere nice, and you allow me to take you out to dinner.”
“My darling boy, I’d like nothing better. But the restaurants in this district have been closed for weeks. The few who tried to stay open were soon shut by American bombs.” She smiled at him. “It was a nice thought of yours, but I’ll cook us something instead. And I’m sure we could both could use a drink,” she said, asking if he would pour her a brandy.
The drinks were in a Georgian cabinet. It was clearly a cherished antique, like the carved bookcases, the button-backed chairs and settees, the delicate mahogany tables, and a sideboard on which stood an ormolu clock. The collected treasures of a rich man with impeccable taste. There was a dazzling display of bottles; varieties of spirits, liqueurs, vintage wine and champagne. Almost every kind of drink imaginable except beer, so he poured them each a Courvoisier in a brandy balloon.
They touched glasses, sipped, then Cecile said that after their meal she wanted to explain why she had been missing, and what had happened in the past few days. It was not something she would ever tell anyone else, but she needed to talk about it, and knew she could talk to him. Would he mind if she told him where she had been?
Dragons in the Forest Page 25