‘I’m still only in Kyoto. Every time I think I’m going to wake up, back in the okiya in Asakusa. The first time I went through these flashbacks, it was worse—I’d wake up, and there’d be nothing.’
‘You mean, you were wading through these memories before you deigned to drag me along?’
‘For a while, yes.’
‘The same ones?’
‘Some of them. Others too that you’d likely find more boring.’
‘You look older.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Older, but far more beautiful.’
‘Can I trust you or are you on the prowl in the afterlife?’
‘A smidgeon of both perchance.’
‘Peachy. This was my fourth trip to Kyoto, in January 1975. I’d recently celebrated my forty-fifth birthday. The city was under a blanket of snow, and I’d never previously seen it so splendid. Go on, Wolram—take a peek.’
I put my face to the nearby window. Whiteness was everywhere, like someone had spread out a pristine sheet across the scene. ‘It’s pretty, I will give you that.’
‘What an earth-shattering visit this one was. You’re about to meet the father of my child.’
‘Didn’t you mention marrying that nondescript salaryman? I’ve already met the fellow—in passing, of course.’
‘Toshiro? No, he’s not the father. And we had no plans to get married, at this point in time.’
Kohana was wearing a dark blue kimono that had a steel-grey sheen. It was decorated with plum blossoms that rubbed shoulders with either hyenas or jackals—I was not strong with my mammalogy. She had her hair tied back and braided, and wore very little greasepaint. Just a bit of mascara and lipstick.
The look was lovely.
‘I met Yukinojo Nakamura VIII at a function in Tokyo the week before. I’d been star-struck—his interpretation of the dance of the Fuji Musume, the Wisteria Maiden, was sublime. Everyone who saw the show hailed his performance. I would have sworn he was a real woman.’
Kohana’s eyes went straight to mine.
‘Don’t look surprised, Wolram. Often the feminine side is superior to the masculine—remember the saké?’
‘I am not arguing.’
‘Yukinojo Nakamura VIII, or Hachi-sama as he preferred to be called by those close to him, was the greatest living kabuki actor of our generation. He was also an onnagata : the male actors who portray women in kabuki. In the flesh, off stage, he was manlier. Hachi-sama had a bearing that dominated those around him. Including me. One thing led to another at this party, he swept me off my feet, and two hours later I was in his bed.’
I walked away from the window and wandered around a large, Japanese-style hotel living space.
‘I miss carpets,’ I decided. ‘Especially with bare feet.’
‘Actually, I’m not the biggest fan of tatami mats or carpets. You know they have mites? We call them dani. That’s why I always vacuum mine.’
‘I did wonder. Kohana, can I ask you something?’
‘Have I stopped you before?’
‘No. But this is, I would say, rather personal. Why all the men?’
‘I was wondering when you’d get around to that.’
‘I wasn’t so direct, but I’ve hinted at the matter a few times—sometimes without subtlety.’
‘I noticed.’
I went to the kitchenette, located some green tea bags, and put on the kettle. ‘I’m not judging you, not really. I’m the last person who should be allowed to do so. As you noted once before, my romantic history is a skewed mess. But you—you’re an incredible woman.’
‘Thank you. Really.’
‘Then why?’
‘I don’t know. Can you tell me why?’
‘No.’ I laughed as I poured hot water into two cups. ‘Perhaps it’s all James Bond’s fault? He’s a ruffian’s role model.’
‘In your case or mine?’
‘Both?’ I brought her one of the cups. ‘Service, m’dear, with a smile.’
‘That’s the first cup of tea you’ve made for me, did you know that?’
‘I’m becoming domesticated in my dotage.’ I sat on the cane chair next to hers. ‘Now, where were we with this Hacky chap?’
‘Hachi.’
‘Exactly.’ I sipped my tea. Not bad.
‘This visit to Kyoto was the first chance I had to see him, since that heady night I mentioned. After settling in at this hotel, I joined his new manager, and two of his associates, at a famous Kyoto fugu restaurant. I presume you know blowfish?’
‘I do.’
‘I was the only woman there. The four men proceeded to get very drunk on rounds of saké. I can imagine this is one memory you’re keen to sit in on.’
Just like that, I was invited to a fugu banquet.
When I say ‘invited’, however, I feel I may mislead you. In actual fact, I was the in absentia plus one, the nobody who doesn’t warrant a chair.
I got stuck on a cushion, with no drink, while the other five people wined, dined, and caroused. Then again, they were sitting on thin cushions too, so perhaps I was not so badly off.
The lack of liquid refreshment was punishment enough.
‘You certainly know how to torment your guests,’ I voiced above the rowdy dialogue of the party, the only one in the restaurant.
Kohana, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table, in full view from my vantage point, angled her head to one side. ‘Can you guess which one is Hachi-sama?’ she asked, in a tone colder than the dreamy abandonment of someone who’d been swept off her feet.
On cue, I studied the quartet of men.
They had red, sweaty faces, thanks in all likelihood to the alcohol, and in my book were far too old—aged between sixty and senior to me. I do find it difficult to accurately gauge people’s ages, yet I was repulsed to think a member of these hoary, perspiring men had bedded the far younger woman.
As quickly became clear, one of the old-timers dictated proceedings, lording it over the others. I presumed this had to be Hachi, or whatever his real name was—I’d forgotten it already.
The fellow wore a kimono, casually opened at the chest to reveal a few stray silver hairs, while his chums were dressed in business suits. Not a particularly handsome man, he had jowls spilling over the collar. He was also losing his hair up on top, and vain enough to apply a comb-over to shelter the fact—a none-too-successful ruse.
Still, there was something striking about him, a kind of powerful magnetism.
‘Good work, Sherlock. That’s our man.’
Hachi had his head back and was roaring a laugh, or laughing a roar—I am unaware which description best applies. Then he took out his wallet and placed it on the dinner table.
‘I’m now going to show you all something I keep for very special occasions—such as this,’ he growled.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Pictures of his grandchildren.’
‘And I was beginning to have faith in you as a detective.’
Having unfastened the catch on his wallet, Hachi-sama opened it with a show of great ceremony.
He removed a strip of photographs, perhaps a dozen in all. Just when I thought I’d reclaimed Holmes’ deerstalker, I leaned forward to see what the others were looking at, and understood why they had collectively gone quiet.
Instead of showing cute kids, with baby teeth missing and a little league trophy or two, they displayed children without hands, without feet—trophies of the soldiers that stood grinning at their corpses.
I stared, and then averted my eyes. I felt numb. Some fool had surely shot me with a stray anaesthetic.
‘His Nanjing keepsakes. Hachi-sama was one of the soldiers that seized the city in 1937. Our troops massacred hundreds of thousands of people in six weeks.’
Kohana leaned forward to me, ignoring the party.
‘I don’t want to listen to this again. I hate this. I can’t stand any of it. What this evil man said tonight changed everything for me
, especially my skewed opinion of history and race. I would never again drop thoughtless asides about the Chinese, or wallow so much over my personal losses in World War Two. One evening spent in the company of this man and his wartime reminisces was akin to having bamboo splints gradually hammered beneath one’s nails.’
Kohana stared at her fingertips.
‘The splints remain. I’d never, ever met such a depraved, unrepentant soul.’
I shook my head. ‘Kohana, I can’t comment—not in all honesty. Someone will toss the blackened kettle-cum-pot in my direction. And it was war. People did grotesque things. Remember what Pop said to you.’
‘I do remember, but don’t sell yourself short. You aren’t a completely lost cause. This man, however,’ she nodded at our balding host, ‘was malevolence, pure and simple. Hachi-sama flashed those pictures to us, recounting the story of the massacre behind them, and he laughed. He laughed. This was his handiwork. All these children.’
My gaze fell.
‘Perhaps he has his own Kohana right now,’ I mulled, ‘sharing her memories, forgiving him his sins?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t think it likely. In any case, her name would need to be Xiao Hua—Little Flower in Chinese.’
After my first inspection, I was not keen to further peruse the pictures. ‘What did these other men do when he flung about the wealth of wartime atrocities? Surely somebody voiced a contrary opinion?’
‘You can’t be bothered watching the action, right here in front of you?’
‘I’d prefer to skimp on the details. “Traumatized” comes to mind.’
‘Well, they were in awe of him. You cannot dispute the opinion of someone you consider your superior.’
‘What? That’s utter nonsense.’
‘In your culture, perhaps it is different—there was no one here, with a pistol in his pocket, to hammer home the moral point.’
Floyd jumped to mind. I hadn’t thought of him in an age. ‘Now, we are getting personal.’ I looked at her again. ‘How about you? What did you say? Anything in defence of these victims?’
‘No.’
I squeezed between two of the men and laid the Webley-Fosbery on the table, right next to a plate of pickles.
‘There’s someone here, now, with a pistol in his pocket, to hammer home the moral point.’
That was when Hachi picked up the gun by the barrel and started to bang on the wood in an irritated fashion, using the grip to create a ruckus. ‘Fugu! I want fugu!’ he shouted at a worriedly bowing staff member.
I was flabbergasted. ‘That is not quite the outcome I was looking for.’
Kohana casually removed the gun from her older boyfriend’s fingers and passed it back to me.
‘We don’t need that now; put it away,’ she said softly. In a louder voice, after waving over the apoplectic staff member, she ordered fugu sashimi, milt, deep-fried karaage, and stewed fuguchiri, to be served with hire-zake—saké, with dried and baked fugu fin.
‘Now I remember why we invited you along,’ Hachi-sama announced in an abrasive, self-satisfied voice. ‘As we know, very few people die from eating fugu.’ The man gathered his photos together and placed them inside the wallet. His captive audience listened with baited breath. ‘The trouble is that when anyone does get poisoned, the media swarms all over the news and makes it a national drama of truly epic proportions.’
‘Come with me,’ Kohana whispered.
‘Why? I’m riveted by the man’s hyperbole.’
‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘And you need my help with that…?’
‘No—I just need to show you something else. Don’t argue.’
‘Yes, memsahib.’
With that, we got up and vacated the party.
Kohana took the lead, past shōji screens and up over a raised platform until we reached the door to the kitchen and lingered there. I spied the chef, a fine-looking man, perhaps in his forties, with an intense look as he sliced and diced blowfish. He was singing, something about an Osaka sparrow.
Kohana whipped out a compact, powdered her nose, added scent and a little lipstick, and appraised the result in a tiny mirror.
‘How do I look? Not too shabby for a woman of forty-five?’
‘Ravishing—why?’
‘This is where you and I need to part company, just for a short time. Another man. I hope you don’t mind, Wolram. The chef and I have an appointment in one of the stalls—and I was not mistaken about his virility.’
I drew back from her, admittedly aghast. ‘By God, that is far too much information.’
‘Knew you’d understand.’ Kohana leaned so close, I could smell the perfume she wore, a floral, green-citrus fragrance. ‘I need to get Hachi-sama out of my skin. I need to expunge all trace of his bodily fluids.’
So I stood there in the passageway next to a rubbish bin, whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as I gazed at a sequence of ukiyo-e woodblock prints on the wall. These looked like they told Kohana’s story of the eight-headed dragon and his suicidal saké binge.
At least the woman didn’t take long, given circumstances.
When she returned, Kohana adjusted her makeup. She looked flushed, but satisfied and in better spirits.
‘Diverting enough entertainment?’
‘I forgot just how much,’ she muttered.
It was a full half hour before we rejoined the kabuki tyrant and his cronies—who, sad to say, had apparently not missed our absence at all. They were in the midst of trying to order more fugu and saké, but were drunk and confused.
Kohana had settled herself on her cushion next to Hachi-sama. ‘What about the liver?’ she piped up, in a charming way, as if it were nothing at all.
Hachi-sama stared at her, his smirk sagging. ‘Of course not. Are you mad? I’m not interested in playing dice with death.’
‘But you’re the great Yukinojo Nakamura VIII —you’re no average mortal!’ Kohana leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, and their faces close. ‘Not like those inferior Chinese pigs at Nanjing. You’re a real Japanese man. Only someone as courageous as you would dare eating the liver of the fugu—and, of course, survive to pass on the story at future dinner parties. Imagine the reverence that would surround the telling of this incredible tale, the people that would swoon and kiss your feet.’ She had her eyes on his, working their magic. ‘Imagine it, Hachisama.’
‘What are you doing?’ I hissed.
‘Appealing to his egoistic sensibilities,’ Kohana said under her breath. ‘A fairly easy thing to accomplish.’
‘But aren’t blowfish livers the dangerous cut?’
‘Are they?’
‘You have a very, very valid point,’ Hachi-sama announced, as he got to his feet and tottered. He summoned the staff and added four fugu livers to the order. The woman looked aghast, and she in turn summoned the chef—who paid more deference to Kohana, until Hachi bailed him out and demanded his fugu liver.
Kohana leaned over to the chef.
‘You can’t refuse any request from such a prestigious artist as Hachi-sama,’ she said.
Both chef and staff headed into the kitchen, and several minutes later they returned with the rest of the banquet.
The four fugu livers had pride of place in the centre, enthroned upon a black and red lacquer dish, adorned simply with a sprinkling of grated white radish and one single black poppy.
Three of the men looked horrified by the sight, but Hachisama swept up the fugu livers, one after the other, and dropped them down his throat. Then he ate the radish and the poppy, and licked the plate clean.
He declared to all that he felt fantastic, like he was floating on air. To my mind the likelier culprit was the vat of saké he had consumed over the course of the evening.
He didn’t up and die—he merely looked drunk.
After the Nanjing slide show, I seriously doubted Kohana wanted more than dinner and drinks in return for her trip to Kyoto.
If she had desired the kabuki
star beforehand—which I surmised—the woman had miscalculated his intentions.
Hachi dropped her off (with me) outside the hotel, and announced that he was going home to his wife. He then said we would rendezvous for tea and sweets the following afternoon.
When the black Mercedes slid away into the traffic, I looked at my companion. Relief was written all over her face.
‘He’s mistaken,’ she said. ‘We won’t meet tomorrow. He’ll die tonight, from paralysis, convulsions, and respiratory arrest.’
‘Jesus,’ I responded. ‘Remind me to steer clear of blowfish the next time we step out for a bite to eat. So, you killed him too.’
‘I prefer to think his vanity was responsible.’
‘I’m sure you do. Are there any other murders I should be aware of in this wayward back catalogue?’
‘Just one.’
‘Which is—?’
‘My own.’
I looked at her. ‘Give me a cigarette, would you? I think I need one.’ She had it lit and in my hand in a blur. ‘By the way, whatever happened to the restaurant chef?’
‘He lost his job and his license, and he hanged himself. Every action has a human cost, even deserved retribution. You should know that.’
‘I’m beginning to appreciate the concept.’
Kohana eyed the hotel before us, as if it housed something reprehensible.
‘I don’t know if the chef was the father of my child, or I have Hachi-sama’s semen to thank.’
32 | 三十二
Beneath a vacant Hills Hoist rotary clothesline, a child of ten lay on his belly, parked in the middle of a browning lawn.
He was perusing a comic book.
On one side of him leaned a shed made of asbestos plaster-board, and on the other rested a tiny, panting Silky Terrier that was asleep.
When we approached, however, the dog peered straight at me.
I eased myself onto my haunches and squatted there to look back at her for a few seconds. ‘Hello, old girl,’ I mumbled, as I stroked her under the chin. ‘It’s been a long, long time.’ If the dog had been a cat, she would have purred.
It was a hot summer day. Little white clouds danced willy-nilly in the azure-blue sky. I shook my head. It seemed I was getting poetic in my old age. I’d expect to read nonsense like that, inscribed on the back of a cheap cornflakes packet.
100 Years of Vicissitude Page 19