December 6 (V5.0)

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “I don’t know anything about this,” Willie said. “I just got here.”

  “The Nazis must have told you to stay away from Harry.”

  “I am a Nazi.”

  “Willie thinks he’s a Nazi,” Harry told DeGeorge. “Anyway, don’t you have a job to do? Didn’t you tell me that the first man who calls the war can pick up a Pulitzer?”

  “There’s no point in staying if I can’t do my job. No one will be interviewed by an American. I can’t even get them on the telephone because the Japs say all calls have to be in Japanese. Who speaks Japanese?”

  Willie told Harry, “My embassy said you were engaged in sharp practices and I should stay away from you.”

  “Good advice,” said Harry.

  “But they don’t want me, either. I told them about my China report.”

  “What report?” DeGeorge asked.

  Harry said, “Willie was factory manager for Deutsche-Fon in China. He saw a lot.”

  DeGeorge lowered his voice. “Jap atrocities? Rape of Nanking?”

  “Exactly,” Willie said.

  “Old news.”

  “Not in Berlin. Germans should know these things.”

  “It was just one of those things…” Michiko hugged herself as if holding someone tight, her face conveying a private reverie that men in the Happy Paris yearned to join. The noise level was high because the Japanese loved to drink and got drunk fast and flirted with the waitresses even as they craved Michiko. Kimi batted her eyes at Willie, who had the golden looks of Gary Cooper and displayed a wounded Cooperish look when people disappointed him.

  “I don’t think the German people are interested in atrocities,” Harry said. “There’s been a lot going on there that you haven’t heard about in the hinterlands of Asia.”

  “But Germany is winning the war.”

  “Maybe. You should probably keep your nose clean and stay away from me.”

  “You’re the only person I know in Tokyo. Also I had to show you something.” Willie pulled a folded newspaper from his jacket, but Harry was distracted by a customer who grabbed Haruko and planted her on his lap while she squirmed like a satin worm. This wasn’t a rare occurrence; she had many admirers.

  Harry joined them. “Haruko, go wait on tables. Matsu, let her go.”

  “He’s just playful,” Haruko said.

  “He’s drunk.”

  “That, too.”

  Matsu released her and let his head roll sloppily. He had an artistic beard and wore a viewfinder around his neck, in case anyone forgot his calling.

  “It was just one of those nights,” Matsu sang along.

  “You’re pissed.”

  Matsu inhaled deeply and broke into a grin. “Yesss, I think so. I hope so. Harry, do you remember Watching Cherry Blossoms Fall?”

  “A sensitive film.”

  “My film, thank you. Do you think, afterward, that people will remember that film when they think of the director Matsu?”

  “After what?”

  Matsu lifted the viewfinder to his eye and scanned the room. “This is beautiful. Not Paris, I’m sorry, but still beautiful. Because the only time you’ll know the soul of another man is when he’s drunk. And a man can tell things to a waitress that he will never tell his wife. This is a happy place.”

  “That’s very profound. How is the new film?”

  “Just starting.”

  “A love story?”

  “No lovers. Many planes.”

  “You’re still with Toho Studios?”

  “No.” Matsu laughed, and somewhere in the laugh was a moan.

  “Not anymore.”

  Harry finally grasped the other man’s despair. “They called you up.”

  “I will serve the emperor.” Matsu tucked in his chin.

  “What are you going to do in the army? You’re a moviemaker.”

  “I’ll still be making films. I’m going in the morning, but I wanted to see Michiko one more time. That is the image I want to carry with me, the unattainable Michiko. Unless you think perhaps I can attain her.”

  “You can’t afford her.”

  “But I’m rich,” Matsu said. “Tonight I’m rich.” From an envelope he pulled a stack of crisp, light green bills that said JAPANESE GOVERNMENT in English. Matsu stuffed the bills back into the envelope. “For my new assignment. There will be many planes, many tanks. No cherry blossoms.”

  “A trip to the moon on gossamer wings…” Michiko mouthed the words as if each rested momentarily on her lips. Not that she understood English.

  Harry returned to his table. “Sorry. A conversation about the arts.”

  “This is what I have to show you.” Willie unfolded a newspaper to a picture of soldiers in winter coats raising their rifles as they walked down the gangway of a transport ship. He passed it to Harry. “I saw it at the German embassy today. I can’t read it, but I know you can.”

  The photo caption read, “WELCOME HOME. Hero Returns from China to Well-Deserved Honors.” Although the page was smudged —newspapers hadn’t had decent paper stock for years— Harry saw that the man on the ramp was a colonel with the deep-set eyes of a fasting monk. A long sword in a utilitarian sheath hung from his belt.

  “Ishigami. How about that?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Willie said.

  “Who is it?” DeGeorge asked.

  “A long-lost friend,” Harry said. “I ought to read the newspapers more thoroughly.”

  DeGeorge asked Harry, “What day is left in the pool for Willie?”

  “The eighth. That’s Monday. War in three days is cutting it a little close.”

  “I don’t bet,” Willie said.

  “A social bet,” said DeGeorge. “Could happen.”

  Harry shook his head. “Ninety new American films have just arrived. Too Hot to Handle, Tarzan Escapes, One Hundred Men and a Girl. Who on earth would go to war when there’s entertainment like that?”

  “What do you do here, Harry?” Willie asked.

  DeGeorge said, “Ostensibly, he’s a movie rep. He does something else, I’ve just never been able to figure out what the fuck it is. Is it true, Harry, you’re actually giving a speech at the Chrysanthemum Club tomorrow? You, at the Chrysanthemum Club?”

  “I’m virtually respectable.”

  Willie returned to the picture in the newspaper. “Can Ishigami find you?”

  “You did,” Harry said. He didn’t want to look at the picture, as if the image might sense his attention and look up from the page.

  “If we’d thought a bit, of the end of it…” Michiko whispered with the song. Sometimes she seemed to know every nuance of the lyrics, Harry thought, sometimes she might have been repeating nonsense. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  “So, really and truly, Harry, is it going up?” DeGeorge asked.

  “What?”

  “The big balloon. War. Everyone’s reading about last-minute negotiations in Washington. What do I tell the readers of The Christian Science Monitor and Reader’s Digest and The Saturday Evening Post while they drink their warm Postum and listen to Amos ’n Andy and Fibber McGee, what do I tell Mr. and Mrs. America about the glorious Japanese Empire?”

  “Tell them that the Japanese have only the purest of intentions. As exemplified by their actions in China, right, Willie?”

  Willie kept his mouth shut.

  “Weren’t you in China?” DeGeorge asked Harry.

  “Not for long.”

  “What are you going to do?” Willie asked Harry.

  “I don’t know. No good deed goes unpunished, right?”

  “You must leave Japan.”

  “How? Americans can’t even leave town. Maybe Ishigami just wants to say hello.” Harry tried to hoist a smile for Willie’s sake. “Maybe this whole war scare will just blow over.”

  “You think so?” asked Willie.

  Not a chance, Harry thought. He had performed one decent act in his life, and something so out of character was bound to catch up. Mi
chiko followed Artie Shaw with Benny Goodman, clarinets for the ages. Goodman was the complete musician: he could cover registers high and low. In comparison, Shaw was all flash, living at the higher register, poised for a crash. Harry figured he was more like Shaw. When he looked at the picture of Ishigami, he was back in Nanking all over again. Ten Chinese prisoners knelt in the light of torches, hands tied behind their backs. A corporal ladled water from a bucket over Ishigami’s sword. Ishigami took a practice swing and left a shining fan of water in the air.

  Kimi shook Harry’s shoulder to get his attention. “There’s a soldier at the door.”

  The blood left Harry’s face as he rose from his chair, expecting the worst, but it was only a sergeant with a gun, shouting, “Come out, Lord Kira, wherever you are!”

  3

  HARRY MOTIONED MICHIKO to play a new record while he steered the drunk out onto the street and took the gun away. It was a Baby Nambu, Luger-styled like a full-size Nambu pistol but easier to hide. The sergeant’s balance was none too steady. He had fallen or walked into a lamppost; his nose was bloody, and when he sneezed, he sprayed blood off his mustache. Harry was to some degree relieved to get away from DeGeorge’s constant probing and step into the jostling of the street outside, a weekend crowd out for entertainment and prurient interest, off to cafés or after women. A geisha with a face as white as porcelain slipped into an elegant willow house across the street. A stilt walker advertised Ebisu beer. Men in kimonos wore squashed fedoras; nothing in Japan was so disregarded as a hat brim. University students paraded in filthy uniforms and caps. Pickpockets warmed their hands at carts selling sweet potatoes. Harry tucked the gun into his belt.

  “I’ll find you a taxi, Sergeant,” Harry said. “No charge.”

  “Harry! Harry, it’s me!” The soldier tried to pull his tunic straight. “It’s me, Hajime!”

  “Hajime?”

  “S’me. Harry, such a long time. Old friends, yes?” Hajime said, although Harry didn’t remember him as a friend. More the schoolmate most likely to be reborn as vermin. The eyeglasses and mustache were new, but behind them was the same round face. Harry remembered how, as a boy, Hajime had been the most relentless of tormentors, the first to set on Harry, the last to leave off. “Buy me a drink?”

  “I’ll find you a ride.” Harry peeled Hajime’s hand off his sleeve.

  “Wait, wait.” Hajime backpedaled, undid the buttons of his pants and pissed in a gutter as passersby jumped aside. The Japanese were the cleanest people on earth, but they made extraordinary allowances for drunks. A man could kiss his boss or piss in the street as long he was deemed under the influence. The nosebleed started again.

  Harry gave him a handkerchief. “Keep it and button yourself up.”

  Head back, handkerchief pressed against his nose, Hajime staggered under the neon sign. The EiffelTower sizzled like a rocket; everyone near it wore a red glow.

  “This is your own club, I hear. ‘Happy Palace.’”

  “Paris.”

  “Something like that. Just one drink, Harry. Meet your new friends.”

  “Would you like to piss on their shoes or bleed on them?”

  “I need to have a good time, Harry. I’m shipping out tomorrow. That’s why I was celebrating.”

  “By yourself?”

  Hajime leaned on him. “There’s no one, Harry. No wife, no family. Friends are worthless shits. But we had great times, Harry. ‘Forty-seven Ronin,’ that was us. A little rough, but no harm meant, Harry. How long has it been? Lord Kira, that was you.”

  “I remember.” Harry directed Hajime toward the corner. There would be taxis at the theaters.

  “China. I’ve been to China, Harry. I could tell you stories.”

  “I bet you could.” Harry knew that a real friend would inquire into Hajime’s military career, but war stories didn’t appeal to Harry. With the Japanese spy mania, it was unwise for a Westerner to ask a soldier anything: where he’d been stationed, where he was going, doing what.

  “Americans don’t go to war, do they? So you’re safe.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I want to see your famous club, celebrate there.”

  “I’m going to do you a bigger favor. I’m going to put you in a taxi.”

  Hajime tried to wrestle free. “Now you’re rich, you’re too good for your old friends. Let’s see your club.”

  “No.”

  “Then promise me something.” Hajime stopped struggling and lowered his voice. “Promise to see me off tomorrow, Harry? Sixteen hundred, Tokyo Station.”

  “You can find someone else.”

  “You, Harry. Just to have someone there. Promise?”

  Hajime wore a smirk, but maybe that was his sole expression, Harry thought. Like one size fits all. “You’ll get in a taxi if I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Tokyo Station, four o’clock.” There were other things to do on a Sunday afternoon. Bidding Hajime a fond adieu wasn’t high on Harry’s list.

  “You’ll be there?” Hajime asked.

  “Scout’s honor.”

  Harry stopped a taxi, stuffed Hajime into the backseat and gave the driver two yen, which would cover the meter to anywhere in the city and clean a bloody seat. As the car moved off, Hajime stuck his head out the window. His eyeglasses were bright with theater lights, but there was something hidden behind Hajime’s expression, some nasty surprise tucked under his mustache or kept up his sleeve.

  “Tokyo Station, Harry.”

  Harry gave the taxi a halfhearted wave. The car had disappeared in the crowd when Harry remembered the gun still in his belt. He kicked himself. A gun might be useful if Ishigami caught up with him, but Harry didn’t want to shoot anyone. It was against the law to possess a handgun, and his first instinct was to ditch it. The trouble was that a soldier who lost a weapon entrusted to him by the emperor could face a firing squad, which was a little stiff even for someone as unpleasant as Hajime. Now Harry really would have to see him again just to return it.

  In the meantime, there was plenty to do. Harry’s part of Tokyo was Asakusa, and its theater row was lit with side-by-side marquees like Broadway. Life-size posters of samurai stood between cardboard cutouts of Clark Gable and Mickey Mouse. A customer could see Gable, go next door to a samurai film and end up at a newsreel theater to follow warplanes in action over China. Tall banners animated by the evening breeze invited the passerby to music halls like the Fuji and the International. The Folies, where Oharu used to dance, had been closed on charges of frivolity, but the Tokiwaza Theater still offered all female swordplay, and Kabuki had special devotees, prostitutes tattooed with the faces of their favorite actors. Fortune-tellers in tents with gnostic symbols read palms, faces, feet, bumps on the head. Food stalls sold sake and shochu, sweet-potato vodka poured into a glass set in a little bowl until both glass and bowl brimmed over. Asakusa brimmed over. It was set between the pleasure quarter’s thousand licensed women and the elegant willow houses of the geishas and was called the Floating World in part for its evanescent, irrepressible quality. It was also called the NightlessCity. Harry watched police with short sabers stroll by. The rest of Tokyo hewed to wartime regulations about brothels closing by ten and willow houses by eleven. But there was always action in Asakusa, which was too bizarre, too full of life to quell.

  Warmed by shochu, Harry found a pay phone and made a call. A woman answered.

  “Are you alone?” Harry asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “How about tomorrow? Matsuya’s roof at two.”

  “I’m sorry, this is a bad connection.”

  A man came on the line. “Beechum here.”

  “The lady of the house?” Harry switched to the querulous voice of an old woman uncertain about her l’s and r’s.

  “What?”

  “The lady of the house, please?”

  “Busy. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “She want to learn geisha dance, to play shamisen, to po
ur tea. I tell her she has to be Japanese to be geisha. Not Japanese, very difficult.”

  “My wife has no interest in being a geisha girl.”

  “Flower arranging is possible. Or prepare sukiyaki. Or maybe squid.”

  “Are you quite mad?”

  The man hung up. Too bad, Harry thought, though the course of adultery ne’er did run smooth. He considered wandering over to the Rheingold, a German version of the Happy. The Rheingold served Berlin pancakes with Holsten beer. The waitresses wore dirndls and were renamed Bertha and Brunhilda, gruesome enough; but worse, their jukebox played only waltz and schmaltz. Harry decided he couldn’t tolerate that. Still, the night was young. There was a hearts game at the Imperial Hotel, expats killing time with pissant pots. Better games were on river barges. Where the river Sumida lazed along Asakusa, boat after boat hosted games of dice. Merchants, brothel madams, famous actors bet serious money, and because the boats were run by yakuza instead of amateurs, the games were honest. Sometimes it was better to join a game midway, when you were fresh and the other players stale, for as the Good Book said, The last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.

  Heading for the river, Harry took a shortcut through a jigsaw puzzle of dark streets without names. Cars could pass through some streets, only bikes through others, and in some alleys the pedestrians squeezed between walls that nearly touched. Harry was at home, though. These were the escape routes he grew up in. From a chestnut cart, Harry bought a bag of nuts that were hot and charred, the skin split open and the meat as sweet as candy. Oharu came to mind. Harry remembered, as a kid, bringing her chestnuts wrapped in a cloth. “My hero,” Oharu would say and kiss his cheek. He saw more sparks down the street and thought that another chestnut cart lay ahead until he heard the singsong Klaxon of a fire engine.

  The fire was down a side street at a tailor’s shop; Harry knew the place, which was near the garage where he kept his car. He had often seen the tailor and his wife, a grandmother, a girl and her younger brother eating dinner in the room behind, the tailor’s eye on the open shop door and any possible trade that might be lured by his window display of the cheapest cotton, rayon and sufu. The house was old, built of wood frame with a bamboo front, the typical tinderbox Japanese lived in. The fire was already in full throat, an oven roar accompanied by exploding glass and the excited whoosh of paper screens. The crowd inched close, in awe of how a hovel’s straw, books, bedding, needles and thread could transcend themselves into such a beautiful tower of flame, the sort of fireworks that spread, rose and blossomed a second time into a glowing maelstrom. The way Eskimos had words for different kinds of snow, the Japanese had words for fire: deliberate, accidental, initial flame, approaching blaze, invading, spreading, overwhelming fire. Harry found himself next to the tailor, who was explaining through his tears and with many apologies how the girl had left her homework on a space heater. The paper had caught fire and fallen and lit a mat, then a screen and scraps of rayon that lit as fast as candlewicks. Sufu was worse. It was a new wartime material, ersatz cloth made of wood fibers, basically cellulose that disintegrated after three or four washings but burned like hell. One minute, the tailor said, one minute the family was out of the room, and then it was too late. Harry saw the wife and children, everyone painted orange and black in the fire’s glow. Two Red Cross workers bore off the grandmother on a litter. Air-raid drills were all the fashion. Well, this was more like the real thing.