by David Peace
‘Don’t worry,’ says the lady doctor. ‘This will clear up in a –’
‘But when?’ I ask her. ‘It’s been nearly two weeks now…’
‘She smells of smoke,’ says the doctor. ‘She’s been sprayed with DDT. The smoke and DDT have aggravated her eyes…’
‘We had no choice,’ I tell her. ‘We had lice…’
‘Please don’t worry,’ says the doctor. ‘The eyes themselves haven’t actually been infected. By the time you return from your trip, I’m sure your daughter’s eyes will have completely recovered…’
‘Isn’t there anything you can give her to hurry things along?’
‘There’s an injection,’ says the doctor. ‘But it’s expensive.’
‘I have money,’ I tell her and I bow. ‘Please, doctor…’
*
Was it Senju or Adachi? They have found Detective Fujita. Adachi or Senju? Do they weep for him? Or do they laugh at him? Senju or Adachi? Is day night? Or night day? Adachi or Senju? Is black white? Or white black? Senju or Adachi? Are the men the women? Or the women the men? Adachi or Senju? Are the brave the frightened? Or the frightened the brave? Senju or Adachi? Are the strong the weak? Or the weak the strong? Adachi or Senju? Are the good the bad? Or the bad the good? Senju or Adachi? Are strikes legal? Or are strikes illegal? Adachi or Senju? Is democracy good? Or democracy bad? Senju or Adachi? Is the aggressor the victim? Or the victim the aggressor? Adachi or Senju? Are the winners the losers? Or the losers the winners? Senju or Adachi? Did Japan lose the war? Or Japan win the war? Adachi or Senju? Are the living the dead? Or are the dead the living? Senju or Adachi? Am I alive? Or am I dead…?
Was it Adachi or Senju? Senju or Adachi?
Now they have found Detective Fujita –
Adachi or Senju? Senju or Adachi?
Now they will find me –
Adachi or Senju?
But I have to take a chance; I have to take a chance that they won’t catch Ishida before he leaves Atago, that Ishida will have already left Atago and be on his way back home now for his rice; have to take a chance that Ishida will then go straight to Asakusa, that either Headquarters won’t know what time we’re set to leave Tokyo for Tochigi, or that they won’t think to send anyone to stop us –
Senju or Adachi? Adachi or Senju? Senju or Adachi…
These are the chances I take. The chances I take –
Or was it me? Was it me? Was it me?
I take as I cut and run through Tokyo –
Was it me? Was it me?
The City of the Dead –
The Shōwa Dead…
*
Baba Hiroko was found dead on the third of January this year in Tochigi Prefecture in the jurisdiction of the Kanuma police station. But Baba Hiroko was not from Tochigi Prefecture. Baba Hiroko was from Tokyo. Baba Hiroko lived at 1-9 Shin-Tsukuda Nishimachi, in Kyōbashi Ward with her mother and her uncle, Kobayashi Sōkichi.
I run through Kyōbashi Ward, looking for the street and keeping in the shadows of the old office buildings still standing. I find the street and I walk down it, looking for the address and dodging the sunlight in the empty spaces created by the bombsites –
The shadows and the sunlight, the black then the white…
I come to a battered board fence; a huge pile of rusty iron, a cabin with a glass door and a stained tin roof visible through the gaps in the wood; this place must be 1-9 Shin-Tsukuda Nishimachi –
Behind the fence, an old man in overalls stands in front of the cabin, a handkerchief around his head. I call through the fence. I tell him who I am; Inspector Minami of the Tokyo MPD. He tells me who he is; Kobayashi Sōkichi. He tells me he is Hiroko’s uncle –
I tell him why I’m here and where I’m going –
I ask if I can speak with him. He nods –
I think about her all the time…
I step through an opening in the boarding into the scrapyard. He takes off the handkerchief and wipes his neck. He shows me inside the cabin. He points to a small stool, which is the only piece of furniture in the cabin. He sits down on an empty packing case, an old colour postcard of the Itsuku-shima Shrine still tacked to the wall –
‘Me and this shack is all that’s left,’ says Mr. Kobayashi –
I stare up at the boarded ceiling, still black with winter soot, the blackboard by the window, and now I stare across at the butsudan on which a potted sakaki tree sits before three framed photographs; two are of older women, the third of a much younger woman –
‘Hiroko left here early on the morning of the thirtieth of December last year. Her mother had been evacuated to the employee apartments of the Furukawa Denki copper factory in Nikkō…’
The same company Kodaira twice worked for…
‘But because of the situation here in Tokyo and because of the better standard of living out in the country, her mother was still living up there. Hiroko wanted to spend New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day with her and she had some gifts to give her…’
‘Do you remember what these gifts were?’
‘There was a red scarf she’d knitted herself, I do remember that. Then I think there were some bits of food and what-have-you. I mean, her mother was probably eating better than us, but Hiroko saved up her rice ration for the whole month…
‘But Hiroko never arrived and then, four days later, her body was found in that field near that mountain in Nishi Katamura, Kami Tsuga-gun. In that lonely field…’
She haunts me…
‘Hiroko had been dragged across the field, her face had been beaten, she had been throttled, she had been raped and then she had been strangled with her own scarf. The murderer had then stolen all her belongings, the two hundred yen she had had with her, as well as her coat and her scarf and all the presents she had for her mother…
‘Hiroko’s mother blamed herself. Her mother felt she shouldn’t have stayed in Tochigi, that if she had returned to Tokyo then Hiroko would never have gone up to Tochigi that day, that she’d never have met the beast that did those things to her…’
‘Where is her mother now?’ I ask. ‘Not still in Tochigi… ?’
‘Hiroko’s mother died of the shame and a broken heart…’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I tell him. ‘I’m very sorry…’
‘Whoever killed Hiroko, killed her mother too.’
I nod and I tell him he is right. I ask if I may pay my respects and then, for the second time today, I kneel before a butsudan –
But this time I do not ask for forgiveness –
This time I ask only for guidance –
The guidance for justice –
Justice & vengeance…
I stand back up and he thanks me for my time and he thanks me for my trouble and then he shows me back out of the cabin –
Back out into the sunlight and the scrapyard –
‘My own son is still in Mulchi,’ he says. ‘Least, that’s what they tell me. I’ve heard nothing. But, until I do hear otherwise, while he’s chopping wood on the Amur River, I’ll keep this business going so there’s something for him to come back to…’
But now Hiroko’s uncle stares across the street at the buildings going back up, and he says, ‘Then again, perhaps he’s already just another ghost…’
*
The Ginza Subway Line terminates at Asakusa station in the basement of the Matsuya Department Store. The Tōbu Line starts and finishes on the second floor of Matsuya; Ishida will be there at three o’clock. I look at my watch. Chiku-taku. I am early. I need to keep my distance for now. I come up for air out of the subway –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
But there is no air in Asakusa; just markets to the left, looking north, and ruins to the right, across on the other bank of the Sumida River. There is no air; the same burnt field, flat but for the black scorched concrete and the new yellow wood. No air; this place is death, always death, death before and death again now –
Ton-to
n. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
I came here the day after the Great Kantō Earthquake; that day the whole city stank, stank of rotten apricots, and the closer I walked to Asakusa and to the winds that blew across from east of the river, the stronger the stink of apricots became –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
The stink of rotten apricots that was the stench of the dead, the mountains of dead lain out under a burning sky among the charred ruins on both banks of the Sumida –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
I stood among those corpses piled up high along the riverbanks and the body of one young boy it caught my eye, his body caked black in rags and filth, his face and hands covered in blisters and boils, I wondered where his father was, I wondered where his mother was, his brothers and his sisters, and I prayed that they were dead, better everyone was dead –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
Everyone dead –
Ton-ton…
Hammering then and hammering now. Better everyone was dead. Hammering then and hammering now. Better everyone was dead. Hammering then, hammering now –
Better everyone was dead…
Dead then, dead now –
Everyone dead…
Then, twenty-two years after that first fire rose up with the earth, I watched as a second fire rained down from the skies onto Asakusa and Tokyo, borne on a loud wind that swept the fire over the low half of the city, that swept half the people away in its wake –
A century of change in one night of fire…
Fires unfolding like fans, burning buildings, boiling rivers, bodies suffocated by smoke, scorched by flames –
I smelt them then. I smell them now –
That stench of rotten apricots…
Now I walk away from the Matsuya Department Store, towards the Niten Shinto Gate, onto the empty black square where the great Kannon Temple once stood, past hundreds of tiny stalls, trumpets and saxophones wailing from amplified loudspeakers –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
I make my way through the old clothes market, I push my way through the crowds, and I come to a row of food stalls wedged together by the side of the Asakusa Pond, the air here thick with the smell of burning oil. I stop to drink among the old soldiers –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
I stare out at the billboard advertisements –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
For the restaurants and revues –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
Movies and musicals –
Ton-ton…
The sun falling in black and white lines through the bamboo roof, I stare out into the face of a young boy, caked black in rags and filth, his face and hands covered in blisters and boils, he weeps pus and tears, now he raises his hand and he points his finger –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
Hammering then, hammering now –
Masaki, Banzai! Daddy, Banzai!
The hammering never stops –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…
*
I put my daughter on my back again and I carry her home through the mulberry fields, back towards our house but then, when we get to an old well, I put her down. I take out my handkerchief. I wash and soak it in the well. I wring it out. Then I put it over my daughter’s eyes –
‘Just until the smoke has gone,’ I tell her.
I put my daughter on my back again and I carry her home, through the gate and up the path to the door and the genkan –
‘We’re home,’ my daughter and I shout together.
I fetch some water and I go back out into the garden. I pour the water onto the flames and I put out the bonfire of bedding –
‘The smoke irritates her eyes,’ I tell my wife.
My wife bows down. My wife apologizes –
‘Don’t,’ I tell her. ‘You had no choice.’
My wife bows again. My wife thanks me again. My wife says, ‘I am very sorry you had to take her to the hospital. You must be tired now. I have made you some breakfast…’
‘Not now,’ I say. ‘There are some things I must tell you…’
‘Daddy’s going away again,’ sings my daughter.
My wife begins to scold my daughter –
‘Sonoko is right,’ I tell my wife. ‘But I am going away because I have been demoted. I have lost my command and I have lost my rank. I have been ordered to go to Tochigi Prefecture as part of the present investigation. However, it is only for a few days and I would hope to be back by Tuesday or Wednesday. But, when I return, I will then be transferred to a local police station and I don’t know where that will be or for how long –
‘I have been told that the Public Safety Division of GHQ has been asking questions about my previous record and career, about my suitability as a police officer. It is possible that my name will appear on the next Purge Directive. It is certain that this will mean dismissal. It is also possible that this might even mean a trial and imprisonment. Even execution…’
Now I bow low. ‘I am truly sorry to have to tell you this…’
My wife bows deeply too, her shoulders shaking, her tears falling on the tatami, and she sobs, ‘I am sorry. This is all my fault.’
‘The fault is mine,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t reproach yourself…’
‘I am sorry,’ she sobs again. ‘I have been a poor wife…’
‘Please don’t cry,’ I ask her. ‘And please don’t reproach yourself any further. You have looked after our children and you have maintained our house under difficult circumstances. We continue to face a difficult and uncertain future and so we must both be strong for our children. We must both try our very hardest…’
My wife nods her head. My wife bows her head.
‘Did you get the money out of the post office?’
‘We’ve queued every day, but still nothing…’
I take out an envelope from my jacket pocket. I tell her, ‘There’s some food in my backpack, some rice and some vegetables, and this money will be enough until I get back.’
My wife bows. My wife thanks me –
We are both on our knees –
Get off your knees!
I get up from my knees. I walk through to the other room where our butsudan alcove is. I kneel down before our butsudan, before the photographs of her parents and mine, her sister and my brother. I lean forward on my knees to light three sticks of incense. I tap the metal bowl three times. I kneel back down before the altar –
Now I pray to my father, my mother and my brother –
To apologize for my behaviour and for my failings –
To beg for their forgiveness and their guidance –
To ask for their help and for their protection –
I lean forward on my knees again. I place the envelope of money on the butsudan. I place the bag of food before the altar –
The air is heavy with the smell of incense –
The smell of smouldering bedding –
My eyes sting. My eyes smart…
The smell of DDT –
My own tears.
*
I am late now and the Asakusa station is crowded, dark and hot. Every station. Hundreds, maybe thousands of passengers in queues for tickets which take hours, even days to get, tickets for trains which take hours, even days to arrive. Every station, every train. The whole of Japan, the survivors, the lucky ones, on the move, on the move –
I look to the left and to the right. In front then behind me –
No men from Headquarters. No men in uniforms…
I push my way through the crowds. I push my way up the stairs to the second floor, towards the platforms and the trains –
I look to the left and to the right. Behind me then –
I see Ishida up ahead. Ishida at the ticket gate –
Does he know they found Detective Fujita?
Ishida bows. Ishida hands me my ticket –
Does he
know? Does he care… ?
I hurry us along. We show our train tickets and our police notebooks at the gate. Quick! We walk briskly along the platform. We pass the long string of run-down third-class carriages for the unprivileged Losers. Quick! We come to the second-class hard-seat carriage, reserved for the privileged Losers like us, our carriage –
Quick! Quick! Quick! Quick! Quick!
I glance back down the platform –
No one chasing after us…
Ishida and I board the train –
No one here waiting…
The conductor has kept two seats for us opposite each other; Ishida facing back towards the third-class carriages where the passengers are packed in, sitting, standing and hanging off the steps while I am facing forward to the Victors’ carriage, the two reserved carriages for Victors Only which, for once, are full of GIs returning to their Tochigi postings from leave in Tokyo –
The whistle blows…
A conductor in a shabby brown Tōbu uniform stands guard on the connecting door to the first of the Victors’ carriages, a steady stream of Japanese people still trying to steal a seat through there –
Each time the conductor in his shabby suit stops them –
The locomotive starts to move. The wheels start to turn…
‘For Americans only,’ the conductor tells them –
We are pulling out of the Asakusa Tōbu station…
I wait for one of them to argue back with him –
We are crossing the Sumida River now…
But the Japanese all retreat silently –
I am getting away, getting away…
The laws of victory and defeat –
I have escaped. For now…
The wheels that turn and turn again.
*
I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The first part of the journey, to Sugito, is not long but the train is slow and the carriage is hot. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Ishida and I do not speak. We close our eyes –
Please let my daughter’s eyes be open now…
But I do not sleep. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I listen to the railway announcements and the running feet as we stop at stations, then the short, sharp whistle of the locomotive. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. From station to station, whistle to whistle –