by Ruth Ozeki
My, how grandiose one can become in the face of death! But I have no interest in being a Hero. In Sein und Zeit, Martin Heidegger raises this notion of the Hero within the context of a discussion of authentic temporality, historicality, and Being-in-the-World, and while I once would have applied myself diligently to an analysis of my current predicament in Heideggerian terms, now I am finding greater satisfaction in Dōgen’s Zen and my own Japanese traditions, which perhaps only proves MH right. “Language is the house of being,” he once wrote, and Dōgen (a wordy man himself!) would no doubt have agreed. But MH’s labyrinthine Teutonic chambers I find exhausting in my present fevered state of mind, and what draws me instead are the quiet, empty rooms of Dōgen. In between the words, Dōgen knew the silences.
❖
The cherry blossoms on the base have bloomed and fallen, and still I am waiting to share their fate.
❖
“Tomorrow I will die in battle,” said Captain Crow.
Montaigne wrote that death itself is nothing. It is only the fear of death that makes death seem important. Am I afraid? Certainly, and yet . . .
“Que sais-je?” Montaigne asked. The answer is nothing. In reality, I know nothing.
And yet, at night I lie on my bed, counting my beads, one for every thing on earth I love, on and on, in a circle without end.
10.
We arrived yesterday in Kyushu. Two veteran soldiers from the China Offensive, who’d been discharged and then called up for a second tour of duty, have been assigned to our squadron. They are hard men, coarse and lean, with glittering eyes that know evil, and even F— seems nervous in their presence. The mood in the barracks changed the moment they entered. Last night after dinner they sat in our midst, surrounded by the fresh young faces of our newest student soldiers, picking their teeth and boasting about the time they’d served in Shandong province.
It sickens me to recall their stories now, how they laughed when they spoke of the old Chinese grandmothers they’d found cowering in a hut with their grandchildren. One by one they pulled the old women into the center of the room and raped them, and then they used their bayonets to mutilate their genitals when they were done. Still laughing, they imitated the comical way the old women begged for mercy for their grandchildren. One by one, they tossed the babies into the air and skewered them on the ends of their bayonets.
How their eyes glittered when they described the Chinese men they hung upside down like meat over open fires, and then watched as their burning flesh peeled from their living bodies and their arms danced like grilled squid legs. When the men died, they cut their charred corpses down and fed them to the dogs.
How they leered at us as they regaled us with stories of young Japanese recruits, callow boys like me and K, ordered to do bayonet practice on living Chinese prisoners to build their fighting spirit. They tied the prisoners to posts and drew targets over their hearts. “Stab anywhere but here,” their officers commanded, pointing to the circles. The point was to keep the prisoners alive for as long as possible, and the boy soldiers trembled so hard their bayonets shook and they defecated in their pants. Our two fine soldiers laughed, recounting their terror. By end of the exercise, they assured us, when the prisoners had died and their bodies were shredded and running with blood, those Japanese boys had become men.
These deeds they described as they’d performed them, with no shame. They were carrying out orders, they said, to teach the Chinese a lesson, performing these massacres in front of entire villages, while the victims’ children and parents, neighbors and friends, looked on. And in their retelling, they were teaching us a lesson, too, to toughen us up and inure us for what was to come.
“Chacun appelle barbarie ce qui n’est pas de son usage,” Montaigne wrote. “Everyone calls barbarity that to which he is not accustomed.”
Thankfully, I will not live long enough to grow accustomed, and in one way I am grateful to these two devils: their monstrous barbarity shines a new light on my own small suffering. I am deeply ashamed to have wasted so much ink complaining. The time has come for me to close the book on my life. Maman, I am scheduled to sortie tomorrow, so this is goodbye. Tetsu no Ame147 has commenced, and tonight, my fellow student officers and I will have a party. We will drink saké and write our wills and our official letters of farewell. These empty words the naval authorities will send to you, along with my personal effects—the juzu you gave me, my watch, and K’s copy of the Shōbōgenzō. This diary, however, will not be among my possessions. I must confess, I’ve had a change of heart, and now I wish there were some way of getting it to you, but I do not dare. Its contents undermine this fine pageant of patriotism we are so grimly playing out, and I’m afraid it would jeopardize the compensation you are due to receive in return for the sacrifice of your only son’s life. I do not know what I will do with it. Perhaps I will burn it tonight when I’m drunk, or take it with me to the bottom of the sea. It has been my consolation, and without being overly fanciful, I truly believe that although you have not laid eyes on these pages, still you have read every word I have written. You, dear Mother, know my true heart.
What I have to tell you now, I cannot write in any official document that may be read or intercepted. I have made my decision. Tomorrow morning I will wrap my head tightly in a band that bears the insignia of the Rising Sun and fly south to Okinawa, where I will give my life for my country. I have always believed that this war is wrong. I have always despised the capitalist greed and imperialist hubris that have motivated it. And now, knowing what I do about the depravity with which this war has been waged, I am determined to do my utmost to steer my plane away from my target and into the sea.
Better to do battle with the waves, who may yet forgive me.
I do not feel like a person who is going to die tomorrow. I feel like a person who is already dead.
Ruth
1.
She read the last of Benoit’s translated pages and placed it on top of the pile on the sofa next to her. She stared out the window at the horizon. Storm clouds darkened the sky with such heavy striation that, were it not for the tiny flecks of whitecaps kicked up by the wind and adding texture to the water, she would have been unable to trace the line between dark sky and dark sea. The waves looked so small from where she sat on the couch. Hard to imagine. From up close, they would look much bigger. Hard to miss.
He flew into a wave, she thought.
The gusty wind battered the house, making the old wood beams creak. Outside, the trees groaned and swayed. Living wood.
Nao doesn’t know this yet. She still thinks her great-uncle flew his plane into the enemy’s battleship. She thinks he died a war hero, carrying out his mission. She doesn’t know he scuttled it. How can this be?
The electricity was on, but already the lights had flickered several times. Somewhere a tree had come down across a power line. The generator was still at the shop in Campbell River. They were hanging by a thread.
She’s read his Japanese letters—the official one she found in the picture frame and the others that Jiko gave her—but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a secret French diary. Does she even know about it? Where is it? If Haruki #1 had gotten drunk and burned the diary, or taken it with him on his mission, then it would long ago have turned to ashes scattered in the wind, or cellulose dissolving in the sea.
She picked up the waxy packet containing the composition booklet that Benoit had returned with the translated pages. She turned it over and studied it carefully.
It’s real, but how did it get here? How did it end up in the freezer bag and here in my hands?
She wanted to discuss this with Oliver, to ask these questions out loud, but he was out in the rain looking for Pesto. She unwrapped the waxy paper and unfolded the booklet. She ran her fingers across the page. The paper was cheap. The ink was faded, but she could tell it had once been a dark shade of indigo blue. He’d hidden it in his lunchbox, under his rice. He’d hidden it inside his coat, next to his chest.
She closed her eyes and held the booklet to her face, inhaling deeply, but the only smell was from the wax and the sea.
Nao must read this, and her father, too. They have to know the truth.
She opened her eyes and folded up the diary again, packing it away. It was growing dark outside. She looked at the sky soldier watch to check the time. The watch was still ticking. Where was Oliver?
Haruki #1 was struggling with the most profound moral and existential issues of genocide and war and the consequences of his imminent death, and we’re upset about a missing cat? How is this even possible?
But it was possible and true. They’d been distracted ever since the cat had run away, and even more so after they’d learned about Benoit’s dog being eaten by wolves. Every time Oliver heard a noise outside he would stop what he was doing and go to the door, open it, and listen. He listened to the screech of the owls, the howling of the wolves, and even the cawing of the ravens with equal trepidation.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, trying to make himself feel better. “He’s such a little guy. Just a scrawny morsel. Who would bother to eat him?” But they both knew that the forest was full of predators who would love to eat a little cat for dinner. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer, and when the wind picked up he went out to search for him.
Ruth felt bad. It was her fault for getting angry and scaring Pesto out of bed and into the night. She wished she’d been able to contain her anger. She wished Oliver hadn’t made her mad in the first place.
2.
The rain was starting to fall in earnest, so she went downstairs to throw some wood on the fire and found that the stack was getting low. She put on her raincoat and gum boots, grabbed a headlamp and the firewood sling, and headed out to the woodpile. The wind had really picked up and the cedar limbs were thrashing. Where was he? It wasn’t safe to be out in the woods in high winds like this. The trees were groaning and creaking under the gale’s assault. For such tall trees, their roots were surprisingly shallow, and the forest floor was soggy from rain. She thought for a moment she should go out and look for him, but then realized that was foolish. She started pulling the split logs from the pile and stacking them up in the leather sling. Just then she heard a harsh cry from overhead. She looked up. It was the Jungle Crow, perched on its usual spot on the branch of the cedar. The crow looked down at her, fixed her with a beady eye. “Caw!” it cried, with an urgency that sounded like a warning. She looked behind her at the house. The windows had gone black. The power was out. Suddenly, she felt afraid.
“What should I do?” The rain beat against her face as she turned back to the crow. “Go,” she said. “Please, go and find him.”
The crow just continued to watch her.
Stupid, she thought. Talking to a bird, but there was no one else nearby, and somehow just hearing her own voice helped to calm her.
The crow stretched its neck and shook its feathers. She heaved the heavy sling filled with firewood onto her shoulder and headed toward the darkened house. “Caw!” cried the crow again, and when she turned back, she saw Oliver emerging from the wind-lashed trees, dripping with rain. Seeing her standing there with the wood, he spread out his arms. His wet hands were empty. No cat.
Nao
1.
Making the decision to end my life really helped me lighten up, and suddenly all the stuff my old Jiko had told me about the time being really kicked into focus. There’s nothing like realizing that you don’t have much time left to stimulate your appreciation for the moments of your life. I mean it sounds corny, but I started to really experience stuff for the first time, like the beauty of the plum and cherry blossoms along the avenues in Ueno Park, when the trees are in bloom. I spent whole days there, wandering up and down these long, soft tunnels of pink clouds and gazing overhead at the fluffy blossoms, all puffy and pink with little sparkles of sunlight and blue sky glinting between the bright green leaves. Time disappeared and it was like being born into the world all over again. Everything was perfect. When a breeze blew, petals rained down on my upturned face, and I stopped and gasped, stunned by the beauty and sadness.
For the first time in my life, I had a project and a goal to focus on. I had to figure out everything I wanted to accomplish in my remaining time on earth, and that’s how I came to realize that I wanted to write down old Jiko’s life story. Jiko was so wise and interesting, and now, when I think about how I’ve failed in my goal to tell her story, I want to cry.
2.
The reason I was spending my days in Ueno Park, getting lost in the blossoms, was because Babette was still pissed off at me, and of course I still wasn’t going to school. I hadn’t been back since I shaved my head and found my superpower, and mostly I just felt a huge sense of relief, but now that the school year was almost over, I also felt some regret. I’d taken my high school entrance exams like I’d promised my mom, and I really blew it. The minute I sat down at my seat, I knew I was in trouble. The examination room was incredibly hot and crammed with rows of jittery kids in uniforms, stinking of teenage sweat and polyester. You could almost see the smog of pheromones in the air, turning my juicy, interesting brain into lead. Dense, heavy, inert. All I wanted to do was to put my head down on the desktop and sleep.
It turned out I knew a lot of the material, after all, especially in the English section, but I didn’t even bother to answer most of the questions. My scores were so low it was a joke, like I was mentally handicapped or something, but I was like, whatever. It didn’t bother me a lot, but it bothered me a little, knowing that I would never go to high school and learn all the things that my great-uncle Haruki #1 had learned before he died. I mean, you could say what’s the point in learning stuff if you’re only going to kill yourself, and that’s true, but there is something noble about the effort some people put into trying. Like old Jiko’s superhero, Kanno Sugako, who continued to study English and write in her diary, right up until the day they hanged her. I think she is a good role model, even if she did try to assassinate the emperor with a bomb.
Anyway, now that I knew my time on earth was limited, I didn’t want to waste my precious moments with any more stupid dates, and this really pissed Babette off. She said that I was taking up valuable table space at Fifi’s, and that my scribbling was bringing the mood down. I tried to convince her that having a writer there made the place feel more authentic, like a real French café, but she disagreed, and then finally she gave me an ultimatum. Either go on a date or get out.
Fine. Whatever.
That was yesterday.
She flounced away and I kept on writing, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She started talking to a customer at one of the nearby tables, and the guy turned around to look at me, and I couldn’t believe it, but it was that creepy hentai I mentioned at the beginning. The one with the greasy hair and the bad complexion who liked to watch me pull up my socks? He’s a regular, but he seemed like just a peeper, and not like the type who would actually have enough cash to pay for a date. Babette was doing a real sales job on him now, which actually I found kind of insulting if you want to know the truth. I mean, I’m a fairly adorable sixteen-year-old girl in a school uniform. You’d think he would be happy to be given the chance to date me, right? Finally he took out his wallet and handed Babette some money. Babette folded up the bills and tucked the roll between her tits and then glanced over at me.
“Date,” she mouthed.
Sighing, I closed my diary and followed her out into the coatroom, where she fished out the thin wad of cash, peeled off a few bills, and handed them to me.
I looked at her, surprised.
She shrugged. “Ryu spoiled you,” she said. “It’s time you got realistic.”
“I’m not doing it for this!” I said, handing back the bills. “I have some self-respect, you know.”
Her smile spread, slow and dangerous, across her cute doll face. She backed me up against the wall of coats and grabbed me by the chin, digging her knuckle deep int
o the soft part where the jawbone makes a vee, just above the throat. I gagged on the pain, which was sick-making.
“That’s amusing,” she said. “People like you don’t deserve to have self-respect. So you better get over it.”
She took my cheeks in both hands and pinched so hard that my eyes filled with tears. She pulled me toward her until my forehead was almost touching hers, and her two eyes became one, a single hideous eye, dark and glittering, surrounded by ruffles and lace.
“You’re lucky I’m generous and sharing with you at all,” she said. “The trouble with you is that you’re too American. You’re lazy and selfish. You should learn to be loyal and work hard.” She gave my face one last hard shake and released me.
I fell back against the coats and slumped down the wall. She cocked her head and looked me over, and then she reached down and stroked my burning cheek.
“So pink,” she said. “So pretty.” And then she slapped me. She located my date’s coat and threw it at me. “Have fun,” she said, pivoting so neatly that her petticoats lifted, and from where I was sitting on the floor I could see the frill of her panties as she flounced out the door.
I don’t remember the hentai’s name. Maybe I never knew it. He was waiting for me in the reception area by the nude lady in the fountain. I handed him his coat. He took it and didn’t even look me in the eye. He mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch and walked out, expecting me to follow. The tiny elevator was empty, and we stood there awkwardly, watching the doors close, not knowing what to say or how to make conversation. A few floors down, the doors opened again and a big, happy party pushed in, laughing and drunk, and suddenly I was jammed up against him. I could feel his sour breath on the back of my neck as he groped underneath my skirt, pushing against me from behind. I wanted to scream, CHIKAN!148 like you’re supposed to do on the subway when some perv starts fondling you, but I stopped myself. He’d paid, after all, and if he wanted to get a head start, what could I say? When the elevator doors opened and everyone got out, he held his overcoat in front of his pants and stumbled down the street, glancing back every couple of steps to make sure I was still following. I could have slipped away, but I didn’t. I just followed because he’d paid, and that was the honorable thing to do. I couldn’t believe how pathetic he was, but I had no self-respect, so it didn’t matter. He had no social skills to speak of. He didn’t offer to buy me a cute sweater or a keitai. He didn’t offer me a drink, and the kind of hotel he took me to didn’t even have a minibar. There was no champagne, no brandy, just a vending machine in the hall with cans of beer and One Cup Saké. One Cup Saké reminded me of my dad because that’s what he’d been drinking the night he fell onto the tracks in front of the Chuo Rapid Express. It was totally depressing, but my so-called date was too cheap to buy me one, anyway.