The ship turned into the bay, revealing a curve of rich red sand that bled into the azure sea. The strange clash of colours was like nothing I’d ever seen, beautiful and unsettling in equal measures. As we neared the shore, I could make out the township. It looked tiny: a couple of dozen buildings, many as dilapidated as some of the shacks we’d seen in the provincial villages in Java. The jetty snaked half a mile out from the shore, the tops of its wooden stilts exposed to the sun. A two-carriage train sat at the end. I heard the clang of the anchor being lowered when we were still more than a hundred yards from the jetty.
‘Are we stopping here?’ I asked the crewman.
‘Low tide soon. Captain thinks it’s too dangerous to get any closer. Passengers getting off here will be sent over in a lifeboat.’
I bade farewell to the people I’d befriended on the trip—two brothers from Singapore and a gentleman from Ceylon—and joined the eight others disembarking in Broome. We squeezed onto one boat, our luggage stacked next to our feet between the benches. One of the crewmen started the motor and we puttered towards the jetty.
As we navigated the rolling sea, my trepidation grew. What would the hospital be like? Who would my friends be? Soon, we were close enough to see the crowd standing at the end of the jetty. Many were dressed all in white, evidently the colour of choice in the tropics. The Asiatics wore white collarless shirts and darker slacks, while the Britisher men were dressed in ivory linen suits, and the women wore pale dresses that skimmed their ankles. I spied two men among the crowd who were distinctly Asiatic in their colouring and stature yet dressed well enough to blend in with the Britishers. I decided one of them must be Kanemori, the president of the Japanese Association, with whom I’d been corresponding in previous months. He had offered me the position at the Japanese hospital, arranged my transport, and would pay my salary. As we drew closer, the people’s heads loomed and receded from view as the boat surged and dipped on the waves.
We reached the end of the jetty. After lashing the boat to a pylon, two of the crew climbed the ladder, then helped the women up. Our luggage followed, passed from man to man up the ladder, until there was nothing left at our feet. When I finally stepped onto the wooden planks, most of the crowd had dispersed—only the two Asiatic men and a handful of others were left.
‘Ibaraki-sensei?’ The thinner man approached me. He was wearing a neat white suit and a white hat. His outfit, coupled with his moustache, gave him the air of a movie star. He appeared to be in his mid-forties. ‘I’m Kanemori. It’s an honour to meet you.’
He bowed deeply and introduced me to his deputy. Harada was a decade or so older than Kanemori, darker and more heavy-set, like many from the southern prefectures of Japan. He had a broad, tanned face and an easy smile, and after our introduction he immediately picked up some of my bags and loaded them onto the waiting steam train.
‘Before we go into town, you have to register at the Customs Office,’ Harada said. ‘Come, we’ll take you.’
As we walked along the jetty, the pleasant vista forced me to revise my initial hesitation over arriving in Broome. The blue water sparkled all around us and the land ahead swelled with lush greenery.
‘What’s over there?’ I pointed to a huddle of tents and rickety sheds at the top of the beach.
‘Crew camp,’ Harada said. ‘That’s where the lugger crews live during the pearling season. It just started for the year.’
The pink mud of the bay was dotted with the wooden skeletons of boats—pearling luggers still under repair, Harada explained. At the end of the jetty we turned onto the dirt road, passing several stately houses. They were built on foot-high cinder blocks, with sloping galvanised-iron roofs and pretty latticed verandahs.
‘These are the European quarters,’ Kanemori told me. ‘We live further down the road in Japtown, where there’s much more to see.’
The Customs Office was a low building a short stroll away. Inside, two Asiatic men who’d been on the boat with me were occupying the two available counters. A third man who’d been waiting on the jetty was running between them, trying to translate for both men at the same time. I thought they were speaking Malay, but I couldn’t be sure.
After a few minutes, a counter became free and Kanemori stepped forward. ‘This is the new doctor for the Japanese hospital,’ he said, pointing at me. ‘Name is Ibaraki.’
The white-haired customs official ignored Kanemori and waved me over. ‘Speak English, do you?’
‘A little.’
‘Well, there’s a start. Passport and letter of employment.’
The skin of his neck pleated as he looked down at the documents I handed to him. ‘Says here you’re married. Why didn’t you bring your wife?’
Perspiration prickled my forehead. I could tell the truth—why not? Separation was common among westerners, or so I’d heard.
‘She did not want to travel to Australia,’ I said. Not the complete truth, but also not a lie.
‘So you won’t see her for two years?’
‘No. I think not.’
He looked at me evenly. ‘Got any children?’
I shook my head.
He turned back to the documents and made some notes, then asked me about my plans when my contract ended.
‘I hope to return to Japan to practise.’
‘At the same place you were before?’
‘No, not there.’ My voice must have been sharp, for the official’s head snapped up. I hurried to explain myself. ‘I plan to work at the hospital where I interned. My father worked there also. I eventually want to specialise in surgery.’
The official’s brows bunched low over his eyes as he fixed me with a stare. My heart hammered in my chest as I waited, but he asked no further questions. He picked up a stamp and brought it down onto my passport with a resolute thump. I felt a brief rush of air.
The little train chugged through the streets of Broome barely faster than walking pace. But I was glad for the view from the open carriage and the cool air on my face. The trees shivered in our wake, glistening in the sun. As Kanemori and Harada pointed out places of interest such as the courthouse and the post office, I began to relax. Broome was a civilised place, after all.
The train lurched around a bend. The wide streets and well-maintained buildings of the European quarter gave way to cramped lanes and ramshackle structures made from a patchwork of iron sheets. In this part of town, people were everywhere—men chatting on the dusty verandahs, children playing on the street, a lone woman sweeping the entrance to her shop.
‘This is Japtown,’ Harada said, a smile on his face.
I nodded, trying to hide my dismay. It was certainly a poor cousin to the vibrant Japtown of Singapore.
‘The hospital’s that way.’ Kanemori indicated a wide street that forked from the one we were on, seeming to lead nowhere. ‘But we’ll go through Japtown first.’
We turned another corner, and Kanemori pointed out the headquarters of the Japanese Association, set back from the street on a small hill. Although the two-storey structure had seen better days, it was one of Japtown’s more handsome buildings, with white galvanised-iron walls and a wide verandah, skirted by a neat green hedge.
We looped around the block and I glimpsed a sign for Sun Pictures cinema and the long shady verandah of a hotel. Just before we rejoined the original track, the train jolted to a stop. As we disembarked, I peered down a tiny lane that burrowed between buildings. Clouds of steam issued from an opening in a wall. I heard the clang of metal pots and pans, the hiss of frying food and, beneath the clamour, the swooning melody of a Chinese love song playing on a gramophone. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a figure leaning against the wall—a broad-shouldered young man with a dark crown of hair. He appeared to be watching me.
‘This way, sensei,’ Kanemori called. I turned and followed him.
The Japanese hospital was a short walk from Japtown, past a row of houses and a large vacant lot. Away from the coast, the ai
r was still and thick with humidity; sweat beaded my forehead and chest. The hospital was the last building on the street, next to the dusty expanse of the aerodrome and the racing track. It resembled the houses I’d seen in the European quarter, with a sloping iron roof that was tinted orange from the dirt and a white lattice screen enclosing a wraparound verandah.
Outside, the sun bathed the building in pristine light, but once we were inside I saw that dampness clung to everything. Paint flaked off the ceilings and walls, and dark spots of mould clung to crevices.
Kanemori scratched his head in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry about the state of the hospital,’ he said. ‘The last physician, Dr Abe, left five months ago, and the place has been empty since then. We decided to close it down during the wet, when most of the divers leave town.’ He paused and brought his face close to a wall, extending a finger to touch a dark spot. ‘The rain just ended, which is why everything here is so damp. We had a particularly bad wet season this year.’
We passed through a small anteroom into a larger space with three small windows that opened onto the verandah. It was very dim. Harada unlatched one of the windows, letting light in. The floor and walls were made of a dark wood unfamiliar to me. Two cabinets sat at the entrance, and eight single beds filled the rest of the space, jammed so closely together there was no room to move between them. A counter with a sink lined one wall. It was referred to as ‘the hospital’, but the ward was barely larger than an office and had only basic equipment. I would be the only doctor in attendance.
‘The beds are on the verandah for most of the year,’ Harada said, perhaps noticing my apprehension. ‘Everyone here sleeps on the verandah, if they can—with a mosquito net, of course. Much better than being cooped up inside during summer. You’ll want to sleep out there, too.’
My living quarters were on the other side of the anteroom at the back of the property: a bedroom that was half the size of the ward yet equally dank, and a small kitchen with a sink and an icebox. Harada explained that ice could be delivered each day for a fee. ‘But I usually eat in town,’ he said. ‘Yat Son’s the place to go. You should try their delicious long soup.’
Over the following week, I started to get the hospital in order. As well as cleaning the hospital from floor to ceiling, I had to check all the equipment and buy new supplies. Kanemori brought a young nun from the nearby convent to meet me. She was dressed from head to toe in white, save for her black-stockinged legs. I pitied her her outfit in the unrelenting heat.
‘Sister Bernice will be your nurse at the hospital,’ Kanemori explained. ‘The Sisters of St John of God have helped us a great deal in the past.’
‘Doctor,’ she said, dipping her head towards me. There was a sharp line where the stiff edge of her white habit met her hair. When our eyes met I was struck by her clear gaze.
Kanemori also brought two young Japanese lugger crew to help, and together we scrubbed the walls, sanded back the paint and added another coat where needed, and sponged the mattresses with a peroxide solution and put them outside in the sun to dry. The Japanese hospital was once more as bright and airy as the landscape outside.
Sister Bernice and I reached an understanding from very early on that we would not engage in idle conversation as part of our working relationship. She took to the work quickly, so that after the first few months of her training there was hardly any need for us to talk at length. Aside from our morning greetings, brief discussions about the progress of a patient, and my thanks to her at the end of each day, most days would pass with only minimal verbal exchange. To many this might seem strange, but for me it was a relief to be able to work unencumbered, and also because in those early days I was not as confident speaking English as I later became.
I do not mean to give the impression that Sister Bernice was unapproachable or that her manner was cold, for she in fact displayed warmth and kind-heartedness in so many ways. She brought me a cup of black tea every morning, even though on many occasions I told her it was not necessary. In winter, when I sat in the anteroom and the afternoon sun shone through the window into my eyes, she was quick to draw the curtain. And although she was always quiet around me, she readily conversed with patients in her care, her soft voice putting them at ease, sometimes lifting into laughter.
The more I think it over, the more it seems that whenever it was just the two of us in the hospital, Sister Bernice took great care to modify her behaviour to suit me, and for that I am grateful. Indeed, it is one of the greatest services an assistant can give. Sister Bernice wasn’t reticent by nature—her conversations with the patients were proof of that—but if I didn’t have a patient to attend to, I spent my time consulting books and journals while she busied herself in other ways. In her first month she spent a lot of time cleaning and reordering the files until, one afternoon, I asked, ‘Would you like a book to read? I have several in English in my room.’
She stopped polishing the instruments. A fan whirred behind her and lifted the edge of her habit. ‘A book? I didn’t think it right to read while at work. I didn’t think it was professional.’
‘Professional? Please, do not worry about that. You may read when you are not with patients. Shall I bring some of my novels?’
‘Thank you, Doctor, but that isn’t necessary. I have my own.’
The next day, I left a few of my English books on the counter anyway—a leather-bound collection of the poems of Blake that I’d studied during university, an unread copy of David Copperfield, and Robinson Crusoe, of which I’d only read the first chapter—and I was pleased to catch sight of Sister Bernice a few days later with her head bent over the latter title. I often saw her reading in a chair near the entrance to the ward, but on the rare day when the temperature was cool she’d sit on the window ledge at the opposite end of the room. If I turned my head while at my desk in the anteroom I could see her there, the sunlight pouring over her. The first time I saw her like that, I gasped and Sister Bernice looked up. In an instant, I knew my mind had played a trick.
The association caused me great anguish at the time, but it doesn’t shame me to admit it now: seeing Sister Bernice on the window ledge, her habit catching the light, made me think of my wife, Kayoko, on our wedding day. The wataboshi plumed over the back of her head in a circle of white. The smooth silk crumpled around her elaborate hairstyle. On the morning of our wedding I had been so nervous I hadn’t stopped to take in the beauty of my bride. It wasn’t until the san-san-kudo ceremony that I finally had my chance. Kayoko took the sake cup from me, sipping the customary three times. A soft shadow from the wataboshi fell across her eyes and nose, framing her lips, and on the final sip she lifted her eyes. Her red lips framed within that triangle of light, her eyes lifting to mine—oh, what a glorious sight!
Tokyo
1934
Kayoko was the daughter of one of my father’s old school friends from Kanagawa. Apparently I had met her several times when I was a child, although I had difficulty recalling her. My mother mentioned her over dinner one night.
‘I visited the Sasakis today,’ she said. ‘We had lunch together. Their daughter plays the koto very well. Her name is Kayoko. Do you remember her?’
We were eating mackerel and vegetables braised in vinegar. I paused, a flake of fish between my chopsticks. Nobuhiro looked at me and smirked. At sixteen, he was the youngest in our family and never missed a thing. I had been his age when our father died, and I moved from my place at the side of the table to the head. Now, Mother faced me at the opposite end, the silver in her black hair gleaming in the light. I shook my head.
‘No? You don’t remember playing with her on the beach? Maybe you were too young,’ she said. ‘She is very talented, in any case.’
She lifted her soup bowl to her mouth and a puff of steam rose up. Despite her casual tone, my mother’s intentions were clear. A knot formed in my chest, but I knew it would be futile to protest. I was twenty-six and no longer a student. Many of my friends had already married, as we
ll as my sister Megumi, younger than me by two years.
I brought the fish to my mouth and chewed. After a few seconds, I forced myself to swallow.
About two weeks later, on a Sunday morning, my mother and I boarded a train bound for Shonandai, a seaside town about an hour away. Mother was wearing a formal kimono of falling yellow and white leaves against an orange background and a red obi accented with gold. I had never seen it before and realised it must be a new purchase, along with the silk chrysanthemum she wore in her hair. The depression was finally over, and silk was widely available again—I recalled my mother mentioning that the kimono shops in Tokyo had new stock for the first time in years. I was surprised she had bought a new one, as we had little money to spare—my intern’s wage amounted to very little, and Nobu was still at home.
My mother and I got off at Yamato to change to a local line. While we waited on the platform I noticed a poster on the wall of the stationmaster’s office. Sun of a New Nation, it read, featuring two smiling farmers: a Chinese holding a sickle and a Japanese with his angled tilling fork. It was typical of the posters one saw in provincial towns. The government was encouraging Japanese to emigrate to Manchukuo, and farmers were given land if they did so. I’d heard reports on the radio about the Imperial Army and the success of the new colony.
Our train came, and we travelled a few stops before alighting and walking the short distance to the Sasakis’ house. My mother stopped to straighten my hair and tie before knocking on their door. Mr Sasaki opened it, and my hazy memory of him sharpened at the sight of his smiling face. He was much greyer and smaller than I remembered, but I recognised him as the kind ‘uncle’ who used to piggyback me when I visited their house. Mrs Sasaki appeared beside him and bowed deeply.
After Darkness Page 5