The Harmony Silk Factory

by Tash Aw

  He shrugged and resumed picking his scab. “What do you think of Kunichika?” he said suddenly. The words tumbled out of his mouth, barely articulated, as if they had been held in for a very long time and suddenly let loose.

  “Mamoru?” I said. “He is a fascinating man.”

  “He seems to be extremely knowledgeable on a variety of matters. Things you wouldn’t really expect an academic to know.”

  “Well, he isn’t an ordinary academic. He was made a professor at Kyoto University when he was twenty-five. That’s how old I will be in four years’ time. It’s astonishing.”

  “What is he professor of?”

  “Russian literature. He has a natural facility for languages, and speaks at least a dozen fluently. He mentioned yesterday that he learnt Italian when he was sixteen.

  “Snow,” Peter said, turning to me and looking me in the eye, “do you think he’s really what he says he is? Haven’t you wondered, what with all that’s happening around us?”

  “Nothing’s happening around us, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Everything’s happening, Snow. The Japs are in Siam now. Think about China.”

  “That is not part of our world. Even Siam has nothing to do with us. Mamoru is not part of this.”

  “He’s Japanese, Snow. Maybe you didn’t realise this.”

  I paused. “Peter,” I said, lowering my voice, “I am going to tell you something in confidence, something about Mamoru.” I hesitated for a while but allowed myself to continue. “He was posted to Manchuria at the start of the Incident there, as an interpreter. He was a young, prominent academic and the army used his talent for languages. He had no choice, he had to go. Please, Peter, please do not tell anyone. He is terribly ashamed of this and would not want anyone to know. I told you this so that you would understand he is not a demon. He left Manchuria after nine months. He worked in military headquarters—he never went into the field, never held a bayonet—but even that was too much for him. He fell sick; he became half-blind with the worry. He hated what he saw. The shame of being there was doubled by the shame of giving up, of being weak. I am the only person he has ever told this to. Please, I beg you, do not speak of this to anyone.”

  Peter looked away, peering into the distance at the boat. Mamoru and Honey were beginning to swim ashore.

  “As I was saying,” he said brightly as he stood up, “Johnny’s feeling better.”

  I watched him walk down the beach. “Thank you, Peter,” I said.

  He stopped and turned around, hands in the pockets of his baggy shorts. He smiled. “Be careful.”

  1st November 1941

  RAIN, ALL LAST NIGHT. I fell asleep to the sound of thick raindrops on the tarpaulin Mamoru had stretched over the camp. I was still worried about my diary: twice in the last few days, I imagined that it had been disturbed. Finally, after dinner last night I took it, wrapped in its wax cloth, and buried it in the sand close to my bed, near the base of a tree; then I covered it with twigs and dead leaves.

  I was awakened again by that awful wail. Every night since it started, I have been the only one to wake up. I wondered if it was a joke one of the men was playing, but they were all asleep. Nothing stirred in the camp. All the other beds were silent. I got up, pulling a gown over me. The cry screamed in my ears. I had to see where it was coming from. I put on a pair of boots that belonged to Johnny and stepped out from under the mosquito net.

  Beyond the tarpaulin the rain dripped steadily through the canopy of trees above. The boots were too large for my feet, and I stumbled slowly into the jungle. The source of that high-pitched call seemed always to lie just ahead of me, a few steps out of reach. Every time I thought I would discover it, its call would echo from slightly further away. I kept walking, tripping over small logs and tree roots; the more I walked the less afraid I became. I thought: I want to confront this creature. I did not know if I would destroy it or hold it to my bosom when I found it. I was not frightened of it anymore. In the half-light I saw the monolithic silhouette of the house of antlers. The deformed animals, carved in stone, seemed to freeze in mid-leap on the façade. The wailing seemed to come from within those darkened depths. I started up the huge stone steps, my gown falling open as I climbed to the massive door.

  Something darted into the darkness. A figure. I could not tell if it was man or beast; it fell from the high wall next to the house and disappeared into the jungle. I stopped and looked around me. The wailing had broken into a coughing bark. More movement, I sensed. Another figure—this one of human definition—moved swiftly amongst the trees. I caught a flash of naked skin. It was pale and shining in the broken moonlight, smooth white against the patchy darkness of the jungle.

  “Mamoru?” I called.

  Again I saw it, gliding silkily, naked, amongst the trees.

  “Mamoru?” I shouted. There was no answer. “Peter? Frederick?”

  I ran to where I had last seen it, but there was nothing there. I searched amongst the trees for some time, but I was alone. The wailing, too, had stopped. I began to walk home; the rain had made my clothes heavy and cold. I realised that my face was wet not only with raindrops but with tears too.

  When I arrived back at the camp I picked my way silently past each of the beds. All the men slept soundly. I undressed and went to bed with my skin still damp. I slept badly, even though the wailing had stopped.

  This morning, after breakfast, I waited for the men to disperse from camp on their various activities—fishing (Johnny), exploring the house of antlers (Peter), mapmaking (Mamoru and, I think, Honey)—before I went to collect my diary. The leaves were still piled thickly over the hole I had dug. I felt gently relieved. It was only when I knelt down to dig out the diary that I saw the marks in the sand. Two sets of deep, broad scratches, a foot long, next to the mound which marked where the diary was. They had faded in the rain but I could still see them, clawed heavily into the earth.

  3rd November 1941

  TELL ME ABOUT MANCHURIA,” I said to Mamoru. “I want to know everything.” It was in the middle of the afternoon and we were alone.

  “I’ve told you everything,” he said. “I’ve told you about my shame.”

  “I know. I want to know more. I want to know what you saw.”

  “Terrible things,” he said. He laughed softly. “Too terrible for words. Really, I do not wish to speak of those things. They belong to my past.”

  He began to look away but I said, “Mamoru, please. I want you to share your pain with me.”

  “Why?”

  I did not answer.

  “Fine,” he said, his voice dropping. “Let me tell you about some of the things I have seen, some of the things that have happened to me.” He looked into the distance, and when he spoke he sounded as if he was speaking to himself. After a few seconds it felt as if he had forgotten I was there. He seemed to vanish into himself. I no longer knew who was telling the story.

  “One day I was sent out with another officer, a geologist from Osaka. He was a good friend and made my time there easier. Kondo was his name; the finest man I ever met. In the evenings we would talk about art and books. Basho was his favourite. ‘We have travelled the narrow road to the far north, my friend,’ he said when I returned to Japan. He was the one who was with me on that day. I remember everything clearly, even though I have tried to forget it. We were sent to investigate an incident that had happened near Mudanjiang. A few men had been patrolling an area of rocky, mountainous terrain. They had reported an explosion and a few resulting casualties. Nothing out of the ordinary—this sort of thing happened several times a day. As usual, I was sent to gather information and write reports; Kondo came with me to look at the rock formations. We had to leave our vehicle and walk some distance on foot. We dropped down into a valley and followed an old railway track. This was the most direct route to take. It was difficult ground to cover—loose rocks fell around us all the time. After a while we saw ahead of us a group of soldiers squatting around a campfir
e. Neither Kondo nor I recognised them. Their uniforms were of the standard variety, but we did not know which regiment they belonged to. As we approached, we saw that they were eating a meal; fresh meat was roasting over their fire in large blackened chunks. This was very unusual. Conditions in Manchuria are harsher than you can imagine, and food—particularly meat—is very scarce. These soldiers seemed to be planning something. They spoke quietly to one another, looking at us suspiciously. As we approached, one of them smiled at me. I can still see his yellow teeth set in his cracked brown face. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘why don’t you join us for some food?’

  “‘That’s kind,’ I said, trying to hide my discomfort. ‘You are lucky to have meat.’

  “ ‘Yes, we caught a big snake,’ he said. ‘A very big python.’

  “Next to me I could feel Kondo stiffen. He too knew something was not quite right in the way these soldiers were behaving. The smell of the meat made us even more uncomfortable. It was sweet and inviting, and neither of us had eaten much meat since coming to China.

  “‘Here, brothers,’ the soldier said, holding up two pieces of meat. The entire group of them stopped eating and looked at us. It felt as if it was a test. I feared what would happen if we refused, so I accepted the meat. I put it into my mouth slowly, biting into it hesitantly; I could hardly bring myself to do so. The flesh was firm and warm from the fire; once I began eating I could not stop. I finished it quickly and was immediately hungry for more. Kondo had more problems consuming his piece of meat. He gnawed at it weakly and he looked very ill. When I saw this I began to march ahead; I feigned impatience and urged him to hurry.

  “ ‘Won’t you stay for more?’ the soldiers cried, but I said no, we were late in performing our duties and would be punished if we were any later. Kondo was still holding the meat as we walked away. I told him to eat it. If they saw him throw it away, I feared, we would be shot in the back. He put it in his mouth. When we were certain that we were out of sight, we began to run. We ran until Kondo stopped, doubling over and vomiting hard. He was very sick.

  “ ‘Did you see?’ he gasped.

  “ ‘Yes,’ I said. In the bushes near where the soldiers sat, there was a pile of standard-issue uniforms, similar to the ones the soldiers had been wearing, but streaked with bloodstains.

  “Kondo and I never spoke of that incident again.”

  There was prolonged silence between us. Mamoru remained utterly still.

  “There are more things,” he said. “There were women in the camps. They were brought there for a purpose. For the soldiers—” He stopped. “No, I cannot even speak of them. To get to my quarters I had to walk past the house in my camp, the one where all the women were kept. It was completely silent. I never heard a single sound from it. The silence was terrible. Every night I fall asleep with that silence screaming in my head.”

  I reached across to him and gathered him in my arms. His head lay heavily on me, cradled against my neck.

  4th November 1941

  IT WAS LUNCHTIME when Peter asked us to accompany him on a walk.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m up to it,” I said. I had not slept well—the wailing had disturbed my sleep and I was feeling very tired.

  “Come come,” he said, “a walk will do you a world of good. What about you, Professor? You’re game for a stroll through the woods, aren’t you? It’s not as if there’s anything pressing to do.”

  Mamoru looked at me and shrugged.

  “And why don’t you come too, Honey?” Peter continued. “I know how you don’t like being left out of anything.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Honey grunted, but he stood up nonetheless, tagging reluctantly onto the back of our reluctant group.

  “Where’s Johnny?” I asked as we followed Peter.

  “He’ll come. He knows where we are.”

  I was not surprised to see that Peter was leading us to the house of antlers.

  “You’re up to something, aren’t you, Peter?” I said.

  He laughed. “Of course not.”

  He sang all the way there. I recognised one tune in particular. He has sung it so many times since we started our trip that I have grown fond of its melody.

  We went up the stone steps and into the house. Peter led us through a vast room and out through another doorway to the back of the house. Set in a clearing next to a small muddy brook there lay a table covered with a startlingly white linen tablecloth. Above this floated a canopy of ivory-coloured sheets, fluttering gently in the imperceptible breeze. I looked to see how this umbrella remained suspended in midair, but I could see no strings or ropes; it hovered over us of its own accord. The table was laid with the same enamel plates we used at the camp but there were silver knives and forks and glass tumblers. A bottle of wine stood in the middle of the table. On a smaller table nearby there were more bottles and some dishes of food.

  Johnny stood up when he saw us and smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile for some time.

  “It’s my birthday today,” Peter said, hands in pockets, shifting from one foot to the other. “My first Oriental birthday.”

  “Happy birthday, Peter,” Johnny said.

  I turned to Peter and said, “I didn’t realise. Happy Birthday.”

  “Do you like our tropical baldacchino?” Peter asked, noticing me looking upwards. “Johnny did that.”

  I looked at Johnny, not knowing what to say.

  “How did you manage it?” Mamoru asked. “It looks as if it is floating unsupported. Where is your rope system? Did you use pulleys?”

  Johnny merely shrugged.

  Mamoru smiled and shook his head. “The power of illusion,” he said.

  There was something odd about the clearing we were in. Its edges seemed sharply defined, as if cut out of the jungle. Then I noticed the machete marks on the tree trunks and the pale imprint of dead logs that had been cleared from the ground. Several flowering plants had been allowed to remain, but otherwise the place was stripped of the jungle.

  “You’ve cut down the plants that grew here,” I said to Peter. “You’ve made this place yourself.”

  “Yes,” he said, looking at his feet. “It’s my little garden. I did it specially.”

  Its ordered calm soothed my senses. Amidst the tangle of the jungle, this little clearing did feel like a garden. “I like it,” I said. “I like it very much.”

  We sat down at the table. “Terribly sorry,” Peter said. He reached underneath for a few pieces of broken crockery, which he held aloft. “The Spode didn’t survive the storm. Nor did the wineglasses, so I’m afraid you’ll all have to put up with this unspeakable barbarity.”

  “Peter,” I said, “do you mean to tell us that you brought all this with you in your luggage?”

  He nodded. “There was hardly space for my shaving brush.”

  Peter poured the wine and passed the food round the table. We began to eat but were all somewhat subdued. I think we were overcome by the sight of this feast. There was a thick stew of vegetables—tapioca and beans and yam—which tasted of meat, such was its rich taste and chewy texture. There was a bowl of little prawns, their pinkish shells suggesting that they had only just been cooked. Not far from the table, Peter had built a small makeshift grill. Its fruit lay before us: an impressive pile of grilled fish, large kembong that Peter said he had netted himself. Their silvery skins bore the hot dark scars of the grill, and they were delicious. Finally, Peter disappeared into the bushes and emerged with a large dish covered with a piece of cloth. With a flourish, he slid the cloth away to reveal a large unidentifiable lump.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Honey said.

  “Bread!” Peter cried. “Bread which I have baked myself!” He cleared some space on the table and explained how he had built an oven from mud and earth. He had brought a bag of flour with him specifically for this purpose, and was amazed that he had succeeded. He stood over the loaf and gripped it with both hands. He began to pull gently but the b
read remained resolute. He set it down on the table and clawed at it awkwardly; his fingers, I noticed, were very slim and fine, his nails long, almost like a woman’s. Finally he broke the bread into two uneven pieces. It was soggy and heavy in its texture. “That can’t be eaten,” he said, looking at the pieces of bread in his hands.

  “Of course it can,” I said. “Try it.”

  He raised a piece of bread to his mouth and took a bite. He spat it out and shook his head sadly.

  “Sit still, everyone,” Honey called out. I turned around and saw that he had taken Peter’s camera and was kneeling a few yards from the table.

  “Wait,” cried Peter as he came round the table and stood beside my chair; Mamoru took up a position next to Johnny. We sat smiling at the camera. My face felt odd, as if it had forgotten how to smile.

  I had never before known the taste of wine. We finished the food and sat under the darkening trees with our tumblers full of that bloodred liquid. I never noticed Peter refilling my glass, yet it was always full, no matter how much I sipped at it. I began to lose track of time. Around me, men’s voices and laughter hung in the air like vines, quivering gently with the wind. I tilted my head and looked at the shadows of the leaves swimming across the canopy above us. Peter was singing.

  “What is that?” I asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages. It’s a beautiful song.”

  Peter repeated the tune, louder this time, the rich timbre of his voice vibrating from within his thin chest.

  “Is it Italian?” I asked, but he kept singing.

  “It is,” said Mamoru. “It’s from the opera Don Giovanni.”

  “Oh come on, Peter,” I said, “do tell me what the words mean.”

  “Ask the professor—he’ll tell you,” Peter said, and he continued singing.

  “What does it mean, Mamoru?” I asked, turning to him and grasping his arm. “I really want to know.”

  He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving Peter’s happy, singing face. Peter sang seven distinct syllables followed by a tangle of many more (I cannot be sure—the wine in my veins, my lack of comprehension, all combined to make the words sound completely mystifying). “It means, ‘There we will take hands.’ ”