We moved into our new home early in the new year and started on repairs straight away. There were doors to be measured and mats to be ordered. We bought new shutters and installed latches that stopped them from banging in the wind. We replaced our fence with new bamboo stalks, binding them together with rope. We scrubbed the soot from the kitchen, the mould from the bathtub, and the grime from the floors. Kayoko took to the work with a vigour I’d previously only seen in her when she played the koto. She insisted we do everything ourselves. ‘It’s our first house—it should be just the two of us. We’ll feel more proud this way.’ She could be sentimental about such things.
We were lucky to enjoy an early start to spring as we set about refurbishing our home. As the ice melted on the eaves, Kayoko and I let our inhibitions fall away. During the first few months of our marriage, when we’d lived in my family home, we’d been too aware of ourselves. Around my mother and my brother, our roles as new husband and new wife came to the fore. Kayoko and my mother prepared meals in the kitchen, although Kayoko always ate last. A pillow of silence surrounded us that took away the words we really wanted to say. But in the new house, with only each other to answer to, we found our more natural state.
When I left for work one morning, she was kneeling in the sitting room, surrounded by rolls of rice paper as white as fresh snow. She trimmed a sheet, cutting it to size to replace the torn and yellowing paper on our sliding doors.
‘I’ll help you put them in place after I come home tonight,’ I said, knowing how difficult it was to do alone.
She looked up. A wisp of hair had escaped from her bun and fallen over one eye. Her lips were pressed together in concentration. She gave a small nod. She was beautiful like that.
It was a long walk to the train station, but I didn’t mind. Green buds were unfurling on trees and early sakura were in bloom, their pale petals shivering in the breeze. I caught the two-carriage train into town, and squeezed in with the other workers in a jumble of elbows and legs. At the laboratory, I spent the day examining blood samples of mice specimens. Although the pathogen being tested was codenamed in the documents I received from Shimada, I recognised the serotype as that of Typhimurium. I thought it was odd we were studying the effects of typhoid fever, as a vaccine was already available, but I was too preoccupied with thinking about what needed to be done at home to give it much thought.
I returned home that night expecting to find the house in disarray, but the door at the end of the hallway glowed white. Even in the dark I could tell that the rice paper on the door had been replaced. I eased it open and stepped into the sitting room. The sliding door that led to the kitchen and the one that opened to the bedroom were also lined with fresh paper. The only sign of the task undertaken that day was a neat pile of paper in the corner of the room. A savoury scent drifted from the kitchen. Miso, konbu and meat—some kind of stew. I brought my face close to where the edge of the paper met the wooden frame. A perfectly straight line of white.
‘You did this by yourself?’ I called out to Kayoko in the kitchen.
A shadow filled the doorframe, the ghostly echo of my wife. Then she appeared before me, face flushed pink from the heat of the kitchen, more beautiful than ever. She held a steaming bowl of pork soup in her hands. Sliced shallots flecked the surface. ‘Of course. Why? Didn’t think I could?’
‘No, I just . . .’ I glanced around the room. The new paper in the doors brightened the entire room, despite the frayed tatami underfoot. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am a little surprised. You’ve done such a good job, I thought someone must have helped you.’
‘Never underestimate your wife,’ she clucked, and started to move past me towards the table. I caught her waist playfully. ‘Don’t—the soup!’ she cried, but when I pulled her close I could see she was smiling.
We purchased a new set of tatami for the sitting room and our bedroom, and it was delivered in two great stacks that crowded our entrance. I wanted to ask my brother or her father to help install them, but Kayoko refused. ‘Just ourselves the first time—remember? For our next home we can get their help.’
So over one weekend the two of us pulled out the old tatami mats, stirring up clouds of dust. Kayoko’s strength almost matched mine as we hauled them outside and deposited them in a pile at the back of our house to dry out in the sun. We hoped to sell them to the tatami supplier for a small amount. We swept the floor and opened the windows, allowing the breeze to fill the room. After a few hours, we closed the windows and swept again, then carried the new mats one by one into the room. I was surprised by Kayoko’s deftness as we guided them into place, she taking charge and slotting them tightly into the corners. She used a metal length to flatten the edges, just as I had seen the tatami supplier do at my family’s house when I was a boy. I wondered where Kayoko had learned to do that. After we had installed the very last mat, she trod barefoot across the edges of each one, arms out, like a maiko learning to dance. My talented wife, who never ceased to amaze me, tipped her head back and laughed, then continued her nimble dance.
During the first two weeks of spring, Professor Shimada was scarcely in the laboratory to supervise us. It didn’t bother us, as we’d all been at the lab long enough to be able to work independently, and it was a relief to carry out our tasks at a more leisurely pace. When Shimada did come down, his eyes would dart about the room, seemingly without taking anything in. His hands worried the sides of his coat.
One time he entered the lab moments after Yamamoto had broken a beaker. Yamamoto was stooped over, sweeping up the shards of glass.
‘You broke another beaker? Idiot! Do you know how hard it is for me to get these supplies? Stupid, stupid boy! You’re paying for this out of your own salary.’ Shimada looked at the rest of us, his face dark with rage. ‘That goes for all of you. From now on, anything you break you have to pay for. I keep an inventory, so anything you break—’ He caught his breath. His eyes shifted from face to face. Then he turned and left the room.
I went to Yamamoto, took the dustpan and brush out of his hands and swept up the remaining mess. ‘Don’t worry about him. He must have something on his mind.’
‘Have you noticed how often he’s up on the top floor these days?’ Nomura said, staring at the closed steel door. ‘Something big’s happening.’
‘A restructure?’ I suggested.
‘Maybe. I just hope we’re not going to lose our jobs.’
Later that week, we were called to a meeting in the training room on the top floor. Poor Yamamoto was convinced it had something to do with him breaking the beaker. Although I did my best to persuade him otherwise, considering Shimada’s strange behaviour of late, I wasn’t sure.
A dark wooden desk stood at the front of the room. Its heavy base and bevelled edges were distinctly European in style. We gathered in a rough arc around it, with Kimura and Shimada facing us on the other side. The room’s empty space yawned behind us, yards of untouched carpet and rows of folding chairs stacked neatly along the walls. Through the windows I saw a thick bank of clouds. The overcast day threw sombre light on the left side of Kimura’s face. He stood before us, the span of his uniform echoing the broad planes of his face. Shimada appeared smaller beside him, even though he was actually the taller of the two. He looked down, the skin of his jaw drawn tight.
This wasn’t just a restructure, I realised, it was something bigger than that—Shimada couldn’t even look at us. I glanced at Nomura, who held my gaze as if he, too, realised the gravity of the situation.
‘You must be wondering why we called you here today,’ Kimura said, placing a folder on the desk. He drew his hands behind his back. ‘We have exciting news that affects everyone in this unit. From next week, our primary research focus will change. Instead of solely engaging in bacteriological development, our attention will shift to specimen analysis. We’re entering a new stage, led by our chief, Lieutenant Colonel Ishii himself. He personally chose our unit to undertake this new area of research due to the outstan
ding diligence of our personnel.’
I sighed with relief. So it was a restructure of sorts, that was all.
‘But with our new responsibilities comes a new set of concerns. Issues of duty, loyalty and prudence—or what I call discretion.’ Kimura’s eyes met mine. I wondered if I had done something wrong. ‘Confidentiality is our number-one priority. The work we are about to undertake has worldwide significance, as we are the first country to do this kind of research—I want you to keep that in mind at all times.
‘Neither I nor Shimada has ever doubted your loyalty up till this point, but the new responsibilities may place certain, shall we say, strains on some of you.’ Kimura reached out and flipped the folder on the desk open. ‘That’s why it’s necessary for you to sign a new confidentiality agreement that replaces the existing contract. You can’t talk about your work to anybody—not your spouse, your parents, your friends, your children, not even to each other. To do so would put the entire unit at risk, indeed the entire army. Your actions could affect those who serve the Emperor now and in years to come. Do you understand the importance of this?’ He leaned forward and stared at each of us, as if searching for the smallest glimmer of dissent.
‘Yes, sir!’ we said. I thought of my brother, Nobuhiro, who had just turned eighteen and wanted nothing more than to serve the Emperor in battle. My discretion would be for his sake.
‘Good. Any breach of this agreement will have serious ramifications. Not only will it result in your immediate dismissal, but your medical licence may also be revoked. Professor Shimada, do you have anything to add?’
Shimada drew a deep breath. He unclasped his hands and lifted his eyes. His voice was soft. ‘As Major Kimura said, it’s a groundbreaking area of research. Although the work will be challenging, the overall benefit to medical science is undeniable. We’re asking for your full involvement in this matter. So I urge you all to sign the new agreement. Are there any questions?’
‘Could you tell us more about the project?’ Ota asked.
‘At this stage, no. But if you do not wish to sign the agreement, we may be able to find a role for you elsewhere in the department.’
The room was silent. I don’t think any of us wanted to move to another unit; it would surely result in our demotion. Despite the strange situation, I did not even consider not signing the contract. I had been waiting for an opportunity such as this and was delighted we had been chosen for the project. Shimada glanced at us but seemed unable to hold our gaze. I wondered why he still appeared so troubled.
‘If there are no further questions,’ he went on, ‘please take a contract and either return it to me before you leave today or speak to me if you have other plans. I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day.’
Broome
1939
Soon after the start of the second pearling season since I’d arrived in Broome, I received an envelope in the mail. In elegant cursive script written on smooth rice paper, I was invited to attend an afternoon garden party at President Kanemori’s house to ‘celebrate the birthday of His Majesty the Emperor of Japan’. The fluid lines of ink slipped down the page.
‘Tenchosetsu is celebrated here, too?’ I asked Harada when he visited me at the hospital the next day.
‘Oh yes, it’s a big deal,’ he said. ‘We host a ceremony at the Japanese Association, and there are parties all over town. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it yet. The Japanese businesses close for the day—even the divers at sea get the day off.’
Over the following two weeks, I heard about tenchosetsu almost every day. Some of my patients talked about the parties they were going to attend. Dr Wallace wanted to know if I intended to close the Japanese hospital for the day. Umeda, the shop assistant at Tonan Shokai, urged me to display the Japanese flag at the hospital for the occasion. I agreed to help Harada and Kanemori set up the association headquarters and greet guests.
The holiday took place on a mild late-April day, with a southerly that brought cool relief for the first time that year. As I walked through Japtown that morning, I witnessed the early stirrings of life. Ah Wong emptying a pan of dirty water in an alley. Mrs Tan sweeping the front verandah of her store, her youngest child crouched in the doorway watching her. All the Japanese businesses were shut, their verandah railings or front doors proudly displaying the Japanese flag alongside the Union Jack.
The Japanese Association’s headquarters had been rejuvenated since my last visit, with a new coat of paint on the latticed verandah and the hedge at the entrance trimmed. Inside, the assortment of tables and chairs that usually filled the meeting room were gone, save for one long cloth-covered table against a wall and a clutch of seats in one corner. A rug I’d never seen before graced the centre of the floor. Bird-of-paradise stems in white vases flanked the portrait of the Emperor on the mantelpiece. I joined Kanemori, Harada and several others in setting out glassware, jugs of lemonade and chilled tea.
I stood at the entrance to greet guests as they arrived. Most were Japanese Association members—long-time residents of Broome with standing in the community—and their families. The wives and daughters, who so rarely wore kimonos around town, appeared in their finery—autumnal red and yellow silk panels and gold-stitched obi. Several of Broome’s white population also attended—master pearlers such as Captain Kennedy and Captain McDaniels, Magistrate Reynolds and Sam Male, the acting honorary consul for Japan. Although I’d had the honour of attending parties hosted by the master pearlers before, I realised that for most of our members, tenchosetsu offered one of the few opportunities to mingle with the upper echelons of Broome society.
President Kanemori moved to the front of the room and stood beside the image of the Emperor and the birds of paradise, and it struck me that the spear-shaped orange and blue petals perfectly encapsulated Broome’s hostile beauty. He spoke in Japanese first, then in English, about the Emperor’s wisdom and strength as a leader, illustrated by how far and wide his loyal subjects had spread, including to places such as Broome.
‘His courage and devotion fuel the prosperity of our great nation and Greater East Asia,’ Kanemori said, but he omitted this sentence in English. He concluded by inviting everyone to toast ‘the continued friendship of Japan and Australia’.
Mr Male also gave a short speech, highlighting the contribution of the Japanese community in Broome and the long-standing respect it had commanded.
The gathering lasted a couple of hours, then guests slowly disappeared, returning home to escape the heat of the day before continuing on to other parties. To my surprise, I was one of the last people left, and there was only just enough time for me to walk home, change out of my suit, bathe and put on a white cotton shirt and trousers before departing for the Kanemoris’.
The president lived near the Japanese hospital in a large house similar in style to the master pearlers’ bungalows, with a sloping galvanised-iron roof and timber walls. An open verandah encircled the house, and it was within that shady refuge that at least a dozen people were mingling and lounging in chairs when I arrived. I greeted Mrs Kanemori, who looked smart in her long skirt and silk blouse, a pearl brooch at her throat. Harada, already flushed with alcohol, pushed a drink into my hand; the lime and gin cocktail slipped down my throat easily.
Koepanger waiters weaved between us, bearing trays of crab sandwiches, cold prawns and shucked oysters. A table near the steps to the back garden was laden with plates of chopped mango, pawpaw and stuffed kingfish. I was surprised at the choice of food. I’d eaten at the Kanemoris’ several times before and had always enjoyed Mrs Kanemori’s traditional cooking—she prepared dishes such as glazed eel on rice, and cold noodles with pork, egg and cucumber, the sort of meals I sorely missed from home. I realised the Kanemoris had catered to the western palate on this occasion, yet none of the white men at the ceremony had come to the party. Indeed, the guests on the verandah were almost entirely Japanese, or at least half-Japanese, save for the Chinese wives of a few of the men.
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br /> The crowd on the verandah grew, and I found myself conversing with people I’d only exchanged cursory greetings with before. I talked to the new clerk at the Japanese grocery store, Kato, and his wife, who’d recently arrived from Japan. I discovered that they were expecting their first child.
‘And what about you, Doctor?’ Mrs Kato asked. ‘Do you have any children?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately I don’t.’ And for once I didn’t feel uncomfortable admitting so.
As the sun waned, guests began to spill into the garden at the back of the house, clutching their lukewarm drinks as they gossiped beneath the frangipani tree. Two young girls crouched on the ground inspecting the dirt, their yukata hitched up to their knees. Crisp clouds tumbled across the sky, and I thought how fortunate I was to be in Broome. By that stage, I’d had four or five drinks—more than I’d had in a while. But instead of feeling tired, as I usually did when I drank, the alcohol suffused me with a pleasant warmth. I gazed at the garden for quite some time.
When I turned back to the verandah, I realised that many guests had gone. Only the men who had come without their wives remained: Harada, the old tender Minami who had assisted some of the best divers in Broome, some of the laundry owners, and the young taxi driver, Johnny, whom I’d met the night of the fight between the Japanese and the Malay. Johnny knew enough Japanese to socialise with the remaining men. Even Mrs Kanemori was nowhere to be seen. I took the opportunity to slip away.
After Darkness Page 11