Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  Nagumo grinned, delighted that she had got the pun. Juliette lay sprawled, her legs slightly spread with one knee raised. He was staring between her thighs.

  She met his gaze coquettishly, letting her knee fall open. ‘You like what you see, I think, my little Japanese bastard?’

  Nagumo grunted. ‘Jubun ni odotta.’—That’s enough dancing, he announced brusquely, dropping the fan.

  When Ota awoke there was a pillow under his head. He sat up and looked at his watch. He had dozed for ten minutes. Kate was standing at a cabinet pouring two glasses of iced water. She had changed into a cream silk robe.

  She caught his movement in an ornate oval wall mirror and turned. There was no trace of her tears. ‘I’m sorry I cried for so long,’ she said softly.

  ‘The time doesn’t matter,’ he said casually. Without thinking he added, ‘I bought you for the night.’

  She blushed. He tried to apologise. ‘Sorry, I wanted—I meant to say that you can relax.’

  Her shoulders shrugged and she pursed her lips. ‘I am relaxed now. Thanks to you.’

  He looked at her carefully. It was still not the right time to ask but he desperately needed to know. ‘Will you go back?’ He deliberately avoided mentioning the camp.

  She nodded quickly. ‘Yes. But I will owe Kiriko-san.’

  ‘No, I won’t ask for my money back. She won’t complain.’

  Kate walked towards him and leant with one knee on the bed to hand him the glass of water. Her robe was clinging and his gaze dropped to the outline of her breasts under the thin cloth. She saw his look and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘You bought me,’ she said deliberately. It was a statement not an accusation.

  ‘Yes.’ He was embarrassed again. ‘I just wanted to speak with you, to convince you to go back.’

  ‘How much did you pay?’

  He laughed dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does to me!’ There was an edge to her voice and he knew that she was serious.

  ‘One thousand yen.’

  Her surprise was genuine. ‘That’s a small fortune!’

  ‘I thought so too,’ he replied quietly, dropping his guard.

  She knew then that the sum had stretched him. A sudden, mischievous thought struck her. ‘How much was the Frenchwoman standing next to me? She has short, dark hair.’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. Perhaps five hundred.’

  ‘Oh, but why so much more for me?’

  ‘Virgins are always expensive,’ he said casually. ‘Tomorrow you would have been much cheaper.’

  For a moment Kate sat nonplussed, her lips parted but soundless. A tide of crimson surged over her face and on to her neck and chest. She rose hurriedly, trying to cover her embarrassment by refilling her glass.

  He watched her colour deepen in the mirror and could not help laughing. ‘I’m sorry. You did ask me,’ he said making no attempt to hide the amusement in his voice.

  She turned around, her face still crimson. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I! I wasn’t expecting you to be so—so well informed!’ Sheepishly she went back to the bed and sat much closer. ‘Kenichi, what else do you know about me?’

  ‘Only that you are nineteen.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  She looked at the tiredness and the lines on his face. If he had said thirty-four she would have believed him. War does that, she thought to herself. Suddenly she needed to know more about him. ‘When is your birthday?’

  ‘February 4th.’

  She clapped her hands in surprise. ‘Oh, an Aquarian!’

  ‘Aq— what?’

  ‘It’s your star sign, in the Zodiac. Aquarius is the Water-Carrier. In the camp we spend hours casting horoscopes.

  ‘Oh, I see. Then you are a ‘tiger’, I mean a ‘tigress’!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said frowning.

  He laughed. ‘In Japan we say your birth-year makes your character. There is a circle—sorry, a cycle—of twelve animals. You were born in 1926, the Year of the Tiger.’

  ‘And what are you?’ Kate asked warmly.

  ‘A rooster.’

  ‘Rooster? Oh, I know, a cock!’

  Suddenly she blushed and began to giggle, remembering Juliette’s lessons in English sexual slang. She was in a brothel with a cock….

  He looked at her in confusion. ‘Uh? I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Gently she patted his hand. ‘Cock, a cockerel, is another name for rooster.’ She did a quick calculation. ‘Oh, so it’s rooster again this year?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s supposed to be an important year for me.’ He shrugged and looked away, his eyes distant.

  She forced a smile, trying to lift him. ‘A tigress! Well, I’ll take it as a compliment. But I thought this was 2605? That’s what I have to put on my postcards to my father.’

  It had been meant lightly but she saw his look darken. ‘That’s only for the Japanese,’ he muttered glumly. It’s the 2605th year since the first emperor.’ In seconds the easy mood between them had vanished.

  She became serious again. ‘Kenichi, how can you be so certain I won’t die in the camp?’

  ‘Because you won’t be there for much longer. Soon the Americans will come and then you will be free.’

  Cheered by that thought, she replied automatically. ‘And you?’

  He stared at the floor. ‘It does not matter about me,’ he said quietly.

  His words chilled her and she watched as his thoughts took him away from her yet again.

  ‘You know you can’t beat them,’ she said fumbling for a way to break his silence.

  ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Everyone knows…inside.’

  ‘Then why fight? What’s the point?’ Suddenly she wanted him angry.

  He tried to calm her by placing his hand on her arm. ‘Because the harder I fight the longer it will take them to reach Japan. My family is there. I must help them.’

  ‘By dying uselessly?’ Her voice was becoming shrill.

  ‘Kate-san, please, I’m a soldier. There is no other way with honour. I—’

  ‘What noble rubbish!’ She snapped back. ‘I see people die every day. My friends. It’s awful! I’m dying slowly. And it’s your fault!’

  Ota was taken aback. ‘I have no choice!’

  In a rage Kate rose up on her knees on the bed. ‘You don’t really believe that! No matter what you do, Japan’s going to lose. You don’t care about me. When you see me selling myself for food you just see Haruko doing the same. But you can’t help her and you know it!’

  He grabbed her shoulders hard, bruising her. ‘Stop!’ He shouted. Then he saw her tears and felt her trembling. He pulled her to him.

  She wailed softly into his chest. ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want anyone else to die!’

  They fell back on the bed and he landed half on her, his thigh between hers. She clung to him, her breath coming quick and warm on his neck. He felt himself against her but he did not, could not, pull away.

  Kate lay still, amazed at the heat where their bodies touched. Her heart began to race as she yielded to her desire. This was not the romance she had once dreamed of but it was enough, now, for her to know that with this man—a man who cared for her—she could escape filth, hunger and death for a few hours. It was all she had….

  At first he mistook her stillness for reproach. He stared at her body. Her robe had parted and one of her nipples had slipped from the cup of her brassiere but she made no move to cover herself. Instead, she looked at him softly. Slowly his fingers went to her hair and then to her face. Her hands held his arms tightly. Only when his lips brushed hers did she briefly let go so she could lock her arms round his neck.

  He cradled her gently as they kissed, not wanting to startle her. His hands moved on her and she gasped and tensed as his flattened his palm rubbed her nipple. Impatiently he ran his mouth over her neck and on to her chest, pulling her bra
ssiere aside to kiss her breast. He took the firm, pink tip tightly between his lips. She moaned and pushed against him, her fingers entwined in his hair, holding him to her.

  Reluctantly he broke from her embrace to struggle out of his uniform, throwing his tunic aside and kicking out of his trousers. She sat up to look at his lean body. His chest and thighs glistened with perspiration. Her gaze settled on the bulge under the white loincloth. A second later he was naked, his penis erect and twitching. Kate stared, mesmerised.

  He returned to the bed, quickly freeing her arms from her robe and removing her brassiere. She lay back, waiting, her arms across her breasts, then gulped in surprise as he jerked her knickers down and off over her feet. Instinctively her hands moved to cover her crotch but she stopped herself and, self consciously, dropped them at her sides, letting him look at her. She watched his face intently. For a moment he stared, savouring her body, before he lowered himself back down, hard and hot against her body.

  They kissed deeply in a tangle of restless arms and legs. His mouth went to her belly and she closed her eyes in anticipation as his mouth slid over her pubis then found the wet heat. She moaned. Their bodies were sticky with perspiration as he slid smoothly back over her and settled between her thighs. He kissed her softly as he eased himself into her. Her eyes were closed and he saw she was biting her lip. He willed himself to go slowly, desperate not to hurt her, yet feeling an overwhelming desire to bury himself within her.

  Kate was aware only of an intense, building tension. She braced involuntarily beneath him, but the burning, tearing pressure was unrelenting. Her breath was hot and rasping on his neck. Short, tiny moans escaped her.

  Suddenly her flesh ceased to resist and he was enveloped in a luxurious softness. She was arching against him, matching his frenzied rhythm until the wave that swept them along finally released them, leaving them spent and basking in a velvet heat.

  They passed the night either loving or recovering. Ota dozed but Kate was determined to stay awake. She snuggled against him, not wanting to miss a moment of the night. Though her body was bruised and ached, she felt wonderfully charged and used. She was amazed at the pleasure he had given or taken. He stirred in his sleep and she stroked then kissed his forehead.

  All too soon the sky began to lighten and a pang of sadness gripped her. When the first birdsong woke him, she watched him stretch and yawn, fascinated by the lines of his body. He reached for her again and they made love urgently again for a last time.

  Afterwards she slipped into her robe and cut them some fruit for breakfast while he bathed. He ate and then dressed in silence, steeling himself for the parting. She stood staring out of the window while he lay back on the bed and lit a cigarette. Over the lush mountains the golden-red sunrise was spectacular. She felt herself acutely aware of the light, almost within it as the first warm beams touched her.

  He came to stand behind her, his hands lightly on her shoulders. When he spoke it was in a whisper. ‘I can get food to you from the day after tomorrow and then every few days until we deploy to face the Americans. When we leave, go to them as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Kate-san, I will never forget you,’ he said huskily.

  She closed her eyes, fighting the tears as he turned her to face him. He was smiling, doing his best, his eyes bright. ‘Soon you will be safe. I promise.’ His arms went around her and they kissed. She pressed against him, her lips rising to meet his. Suddenly he broke away and left her, closing the door behind him without looking back.

  Kate sank down on the edge of the bed noticing the bloodied sheets for the first time. She reached for his pillow and hugged it to her face, her tears obliterating the last traces of his warmth.

  Nagumo was waiting for Ota on a sofa along the landing. He was drinking green tea. He jumped up. ‘About time!’ he said exasperatedly. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come here last night. Four hundred and fifty yen even with a discount! I must have been mad. But she was French!’

  As usual, Nagumo’s good humour did the trick. Ota was smiling even before he started down the flight of stairs.

  Nagumo turned to him expectantly. ‘So tell me. Was she worth a thousand yen?’

  Ota grinned happily. ‘She’s going back to the camp today.’

  ‘Eh? Well I hope you at least had a shower together!’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  As they walked down the staircase, a door opened on the landing above and they glimpsed a striking Eurasian girl in a sheer, white-silk nightdress. She had dark, waist-length hair and was bowing Japanese style, bidding farewell to her unseen customer.

  When they were out of earshot, Nagumo let out a groan. ‘How did I miss her?’

  Ota laughed. ‘Have you forgotten so soon? Last night you were in Paris!’

  ‘Hmm,’ Nagumo grunted. ‘I think I’ll have to take out a loan!’

  ‘Let’s get some breakfast,’ said Ota happily.

  Chapter Eight

  Kalisari Village, Central Java

  Lamban made the most of the chance to rest and relax. Sarel was often absent from the village for days at a time, usually attending youth conferences or anti-white-imperialism rallies organised by the Japanese. On each trip he took with him a different member of the group but never Lamban. Though the Black Buffalos were friendly he sensed they were still wary of him. It seemed that they had been ordered not to talk freely about their plans. He was not really surprised or even concerned about Sarel’s caution. Spies and informers were everywhere. Those barriers, he knew, would break down in time. Instead, he devoted himself to the politics of revolution.

  To help him, Sarel had selected some booklets and pamphlets. Generally, Lamban found them heavy going but he persevered. During the long, after-dinner discussions about capitalism, imperialism and communism, land ownership or the role of Islam in a future Indonesian state, he rarely had the confidence to speak. Though he did not admit it, Marxism-Leninism, the proceedings and resolutions of the First and Second International all left him cold, as did assessments of Gandhi’s non-violent campaigns against British rule in India. Lamban much preferred the simple, uncomplicated calls for independence in the flyers produced by the youth organisations. It was only when he discovered in Sarel’s library a cheaply duplicated translation of On Guerrilla Warfare by the Chinese revolutionary Mao that Lamban recognised his calling. If he could not be a revolutionary politician he could serve the revolution on the battlefield, or as Mao described it, as one of the million fleas that would drive the large, powerful, imperial dog mad enough to leap into a raging torrent and certain death.

  Lamban also began instructing the group in pentjak silat. It had been Sarel’s suggestion and proved a popular diversion in the lull before the back-breaking work of the harvest. His classes were popular and his fighting skills soon accorded him considerable respect.

  Yet as time went on Lamban became frustrated. Upon each return from a trip, Sarel seemed more vibrant and charged. He would report enthusiastically and then quote his favourite extracts from the latest nationalist pamphlets, boxes of which arrived from Djakarta and Bandung at the local station each week for distribution at soccer matches and festivals, as well as at mosques and schools.

  One afternoon at the end of the first week in August, Sarel gathered them round. His expression was grave. ‘Reports about the Atomic bomb are true,’ he told them. ‘With this weapon the Americans are unstoppable. The Soviet Union is expected to attack Japan at any moment. It means it’s only a matter of time for the Japanese now.’ He paused, letting the news sink in.

  Yarek, the most studious of them, raised his hand. ‘Now that Churchill has lost the British election, both Britain and The Netherlands have socialist governments. This should help our cause.’

  Sarel looked sceptical. ‘It’s true socialism and colonialism are not compatible but it does not really seem to trouble the British or the Dutch. The ‘Holland Calling’ broadcasts still promise d
eath for Sukarno, Hatta and others!’

  ‘Yes, perhaps we are too idealistic,’ Yarek sighed. ‘Ideals do not win independence, people do.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lamban added, ‘and strategy.’

  ‘Don’t forget guns and ammunition,’ said another.

  ‘Good strategy includes obtaining guns and ammunition,’ Lamban added casually.

  Sarel, impressed, looked carefully at Lamban.

  ‘What happened at the National Youth Congress?’ Yarek asked eagerly.

  Sarel grinned. ‘Ah! There were two hundred delegates from all over Java! Everyone spoke with a single heart and a single voice! Isa from Bandung made a brilliant speech savaging the Fatherland Party. He called it repressive and full of timid collaborators! He’s absolutely right!’ Sarel became serious. ‘Also, we’ve just heard that Sukarno and Hatta have been in Saigon to see Field-Marshal Terauchi, the Japanese Southern Area Commander. Terauchi’s scrapped the People’s Movement and has officially announced a new Indonesian Independence Committee!’

  ‘That’s wonderful news!’ Yarek exclaimed, his face alight.

  ‘It will be,’ Sarel agreed with a nod, ‘but only if it delivers independence. More delay is the last thing we need. It’s still just another committee. Also this one is Japanese-controlled. I’ve seen the list of members. All of them are older and mainstream. Only a handful come from the Islamic organisations and,’ he paused eyeing them, ‘there are no pemuda at all!’

  They were indignant. ‘No!’—‘They dare not ignore us now!’—‘We are the future of Indonesia!’

  Sarel watched, savouring their fury. As it subsided, Lamban spoke. ‘But Sukarno has said time and again that the younger generation must have a voice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarel shot back. ‘But only as long as the voice says what he wants to hear! There’s been open argument and distrust between the leadership and the pemuda. Remember Isa’s speech? There’s something else…all those nominated for the Independence Committee have reputations from before the war. Isa said it looks more like a committee designed for negotiation not revolution. This is very worrying. Tomorrow I am going to Djakarta to consult.’