by David Peace
‘Such a long time ago now, it seems,’ said Mokichi. ‘Yet it’s not even been two years. I fear I have been too long in this place.’
And now there was silence again, another silence, a silence, long and strained, until Kikuchi said, ‘We were all so very shocked by the news of Dr Ishida, the incident, the murder, a tragedy …’
‘Yes,’ said Mokichi. ‘Indeed.’
‘It almost defies belief …’
‘Yes,’ said Mokichi again.
‘Is there any news from America,’ asked Nagami. ‘Any further developments?’
Mokichi sighed, shook his head, then said, ‘As you may already know, the Japanese Psychiatric Association are seeking to have Ishida extradited, so that he can be cared for and treated here. However, even if we are successful, I fear it will be a long, drawn-out affair. And so, for now, Ishida remains in a prison in Baltimore.’
Akutagawa now sighed, too, then said, ‘Perhaps it is something about the place, something about Baltimore. After all, it is the place where Edgar Poe lost his mind and went insane.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mokichi.
‘Strangely, I was already reminded of the last hours of Poe,’ continued Akutagawa, ‘when I first read the textbook by Ishida-sensei, in which he writes of how the diseases of the mind reduce a man to but a lump of flesh, plagued by delusions, and the doctor concludes it is surely better to die than to stay alive in such a state of madness and insanity. It is reported that when Mr Poe was taken into the Washington University Hospital in Baltimore and asked about his friends, he replied, My best friend would be the man who gave me a pistol that I might blow my brains out …’
Again, Mokichi looked across his desk at this gaunt, intense and haunted man, and asked, ‘So you are a student of psychiatry then, Mr Akutagawa?’
‘Not a student,’ said Akutagawa, with a smile and a shake of his head. ‘But I am interested and do try to read the latest papers …’
‘Is there a particular reason for your interest?’
‘My mother,’ said Akutagawa. ‘She went insane.’
‘I see,’ said Mokichi. ‘I am sorry.’
‘And so, of course, I am interested in the hereditary nature of insanity, and naturally fearful. But,’ said Akutagawa now, and with a smile again, but a different smile, lonesome and resigned, ‘whether one is the child of a madwoman or not, as Sōseki-sensei wrote in Kōjin, how can any one of us escape this world of ours, except through faith, madness or death …?’
‘Indeed,’ said Mokichi, abruptly arising from his chair and desk, turning to the window, staring through the glass, the big crane of the Mitsubishi shipyard visible through the trees, the steam horn of the Shanghai liner sounding in the port. And then, his back to his visitors still, Mokichi sighed and said, ‘It seems no matter where one goes, no matter where one hides, whether in the West or East, America or Japan, Nagasaki or Tokyo, it seems that trinity of choices remain our only exits …’
In the Nagasaki Prefectural Hospital, in the heavy silence of this office, within this last and final silence, almost in a whisper now, Akutagawa said, ‘In the end, as Poe said, at the very end, Lord, help my soul.’
*
In nineteen hundred and nineteen, in the eighth year of Taishō, I am waiting; waiting at the station in Nagasaki, for the train back to Tokyo, waiting on the train back to Tokyo, at the station back in Tokyo, waiting in the taxi back to Tabata, in the genkan of my house, waiting in the hallway, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, in the study, waiting at my desk, among my books, among my papers, I’m waiting, I am waiting; waiting to hear the wind through the reeds, waiting for the tide and waiting for the waves, waiting, just waiting, still waiting, always waiting, I’m waiting, I am waiting; waiting and longing, longing to feel the breath of God Himself …
After the War, Before the War
‘Master Peachling,’ called a pheasant, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to the Land of the Demons,’ said Momotarō,
‘to carry off all their treasures …’
Momotarō, the Peach Boy, a Japanese folk tale
1
The tide was high, the time was now, and with long strides, up the gangway, Ryūnosuke boarded the Chikugo-maru at Mojikō …
‘I have no courage to go to China,’ Kume had declared at the Ueno Seiyoken to their gathered friends, at the farewell party, the big send-off –
The Chikugo-maru began moving, her engines turning, as Ryūnosuke marched out onto the upper deck and sat down in a wicker chair …
‘But Mr Akutagawa here, he has the courage. And he will be resolute and he will be strong. For he is great; he is the best of us!’
On the deck, in his chair, with a cigar in his hand and the wind through his hair, Ryūnosuke stared out across the ocean at the horizon …
‘The Chinese were great in the past,’ Ton Satomi had told him. ‘It is unthinkable that these great people suddenly became so weak now. So when you visit China, don’t look solely at China’s greatness in the past; look for China’s greatness today. Old China exerts itself like an old tree, but new China is striving to come up like young grass, like wild grass …’
‘And forget about the uninformed Japanese guides,’ Jun’ichirō Tanizaki had added. ‘In my experience, the local Chinese are quite gentle, and I never saw any of them behaving badly. Only the soldiers present a threat; in the tumult of the Revolution, there are a great many in the cities, especially in Nanjing. And so find someone reliable and Chinese …’
In his chair, with his cigar, Ryūnosuke watched the white-capped waters off the coast now turn into the waves of the open sea …
How he had envied Tanizaki-sensei all his Chinese adventures; how he had begrudged Haruo Satō his Chinese trip; how he had begged the Osaka Mainichi to let him follow in their footsteps please, beseeching his editor to let him, too, walk on Chinese soil, please; a Japanese man with Chinese dreams, a Japanese child of Chinese books; raised by Saiyūki, schooled by Suikoden. With greedy eyes, in dim light. Nights not sleeping, nights spent reading. At his desk, in the toilet. On a train, in a street. Night after night, day after day. Dreaming and imagining, fierce warrior beauties and brave wild monks. The monstrous tiger of the Jinyang Pass, the battle flag proclaiming: ‘We Act on Heaven’s Behalf’. Battling with this imaginary cast, armed with his wooden sword. From then until now, reading, still reading; over and over, laughing and crying. Over and over, changing him, transforming him. Those Chinese books, his Chinese dreams. Then and still now, changing him, transforming him, then a toy sword, now a trembling pen: his own words, his own stories, inspired by China, in love with China –
His first inspiration, his first true love …
‘Please just be sure to take good care of yourself,’ his wife had said, had pleaded at the station, on the platform, through the steam and through her tears. ‘Be careful what you eat, and what you drink. And be sure to rest, and not to worry about us, please …’
Bubbling now, churning now, the waves of the open sea were now hills of grey, smacking the sides of the ship, spraying the chairs on the deck, the hills of grey now mountains of black, drenching his jacket, dousing his cigar, he turned up his collar and sucked on a mint, churning and tossing, his stomach unstable, his head unhinged, his hands in his pockets, his back against the chair, tables tilting, men slipping, his back rigid, his eyes fixed, on the horizon, the rolling horizon, a little boat, a small tugboat, thin wisps of smoke, a trail of bravery, soon swallowed up, now lost at sea, his sea legs lost, his legs at sea, lurching this way, pitching that way, Ryūnosuke admitted defeat and went below, to his berth, on his bunk, the cabin still rolling, his stomach still turning, he glanced at the porthole, out of the porthole, the horizon now falling, the horizon now rising, rolling and turning, he looked away from the porthole, he looked down at his hands, with another roll, with another turn, books fell from the bunk, papers slid from the desk, a bigger roll and a bigger turn, the crash of porcelain dishes from the kitc
hen, the fall of wicker chairs up on the deck, he got up from his bunk, he clung to the wall, bile in his mouth, bile in the sink, he collapsed back on the bunk, another roll, another turn, he got back up from the bunk, half on his feet, back at the sink, more heaving, more bile, reaching for the wall, struggling to the bunk, with a final roll, with a final turn, all that he had dreamed of, all that he had longed for, falling and rising, the country he had dreamed of, the land he longed for, rolling and turning, falling and rising, mountains into hills, tossing and churning, hills into waves, churning now bubbling …
Out on the fresh deck, back in his damp chair. A crumpled cigarette in his hand, calm waters before his eyes; the sea with no memory, land on the horizon: the country he had dreamed of, this land he had longed for. Ryūnosuke lit the cigarette and Ryūnosuke waved to the land. It was the afternoon of March 30, 1921 –
This is what you want, what you want.
2
Off the sea, up the river. Past the warehouses, the endless warehouses. The piles of lumber, the piles of metal. The docks and the foundries. The cotton mills and the shipyards. On stilts, the billboards. Promising curatives, touting cigarettes. Round the bend, towards the harbour. A line of warships, in grey and white. Cruisers and destroyers. Watchdogs at anchor, horses in their stalls. All the coloured flags, all the great powers. Their freighters and their mail steamers. Floating by, swimming along. Local lorchas, native junks. With bat-winged sails, with bright-painted eyes. Watching and waiting, waiting and waving; Ryūnosuke waving again, waving at the wharf, at his two old friends: Murata of the Osaka Mainichi Shinbun and Jones of United Press International, waving to Ryūnosuke, waiting for Ryūnosuke –
His first steps on Chinese soil. Engulfed by rickshaw pullers, overwhelmed by their stench as they screamed in the frightened faces of the disembarking passengers, grabbing onto Ryūnosuke by the sleeves of his coat. Now Jones barged between the pullers and their prey, and shouted over their din, ‘Stay close to us, Ryūnosuke, and walk quickly …’
Through the crowds and coolies, to a waiting line of horse-drawn carriages. But aboard their carriage, at the first crossroads, their horse careered into a brick wall, sending its cargo out of their seats and onto their knees. The driver beating and whipping the horse, its stubborn nose smack against the brick wall, its hind legs spastically dancing and violently kicking, rocking the carriage this way and that, worse than any waves at sea. But Jones simply smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Shanghai, Ryūnosuke.’
Beaten into submission, or simply exhausted, the horse now backed away from the wall, and soon they were trotting along beside a river. So many barges, so many sampans, side by side, bow to bow and stern to stern, Ryūnosuke could not see the water. To their left, a railroad bridge carried luminous green trains. To their right, red brick buildings, three or four storeys tall. Beneath these buildings, Chinese and Westerners were walking briskly along the large, wide asphalt street, but yielding to their carriage at the signal from an Indian policeman in a red turban. First appalled by the ferocity of the rickshaw pullers and the violence of the horse-drawn carriage, now Ryūnosuke marvelled at this sudden order in a sea of chaos.
The carriage pulled up in front of a hotel. The driver already had his hand outstretched. Murata dropped a few cents into the open palm. However, the driver did not withdraw his hand. Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth as he yelled something over and over into all of their faces. Murata and Jones ignored the man, marching briskly through the hotel doors. Ryūnosuke glanced back, only to see the driver already back in his seat, coins in pocket and whip in hand. Ryūnosuke felt somehow cheated by the man’s performance: If he had not really cared, why make such a fuss?
Inside the Dong-Ya Yangxing Hotel, Ryūnosuke had fresh worries. The deserted reception room was gloomy, yet gaudy.
Jones smiled again and said, ‘You know this was the very place where Kim Ok-kyun was assassinated? Shot through the window of his room …’
‘I do not doubt it,’ began Ryūnosuke, but was interrupted by the sound of slippers loudly slapping on the floor and the sight of the Japanese proprietor, grandly dressed in Western clothes, exclaiming, ‘Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome, welcome …’
‘I believe my colleague Sawamura has made a reservation for Mr Akutagawa here,’ said Murata.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the proprietor, bowing deeply. ‘It is a great honour to welcome the esteemed author, Akutagawa-sensei. Our very best room, reserved only for our most important guests, awaits you, sir. This way, please …’
Quickly, the proprietor ushered Ryūnosuke into a room just off the entranceway. A room of two beds and no chairs, the walls covered in soot, the drapes eaten by moths; Ryūnosuke knew this was the very room in which Kim Ok-kyun had opened a window for the very last time –
‘I don’t suppose you have any other rooms?’
The proprietor shook his head. ‘No, sir. We do not. This is our best room, and our only available one.’
After initial apologies and excuses, then un-pleasantries and threats, the party of three found themselves back out on the street –
Jones smiled and said, ‘To the Banzaikan …’
… An hour later, Jones was waiting for Ryūnosuke in the lobby of the Banzaikan. ‘Chop-chop! The Shanghai night awaits …’
In Shepherd’s restaurant, the waiters were Chinese, the patrons all foreign, Ryūnosuke the only customer with a yellow face. But the curry was much better than he had expected, the room most pleasant, and Jones as talkative as ever, if still as melancholic as he always was. ‘China is my hobby, but Japan is my passion.’
‘You must miss Japan then,’ said Ryūnosuke.
‘Soon after I arrived,’ said Jones, ‘I was sitting in a café where one of the waitresses was Japanese. She was alone, in a chair, staring into space. I asked her, in Japanese, When did you come to Shanghai? She said, I just arrived yesterday. I said, You must miss Japan then? And I thought she was going to break down in tears as she said, Of course. I want to go home. I knew how she felt then, and that is still how I feel now. Awfully sentimental, I know …’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ryūnosuke.
Jones laughed. ‘Come on, sa-ikō …’
Along a busy four-lane road, on the northern border of the French Concession, to the Café Parisien. Its dance hall was large and Western, blue and red lights flickering on and off in time to the music from the orchestra, just like in the dance halls of Asakusa. However, the music and the orchestra were far superior to Tokyo.
In a corner, at a table, Jones and Ryūnosuke ordered two cups of anisette. A Filipino girl dressed in bright red danced with a group of young Americans in fashionable suits. All happy, all laughing. An old British couple, both rather stout, came dancing their way. Ryūnosuke smiled. ‘I believe it was Whitman who said the young are beautiful, but the beauty of the old is much more precious …’
‘What utter rot,’ shouted Jones. ‘The old should not dance. And the lines by Whitman you should be quoting are: “Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people / Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’ d and trimm’ d faces / Behold a secret silent loathing and despair …”’
‘Ah yes, “Song of the Open Road”?’
‘Indeed,’ said Jones, and now he laughed again. ‘Sa-ikō …’
Outside the Café Parisien, the wide avenue was deserted now except for the rickshaw pullers. Ryūnosuke looked at his watch and asked, ‘Isn’t there anywhere else we could get a drink round here?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Jones. ‘Just up here …’
Only the sound of their shoes echoing in the street of three- and four-storey buildings, looking up at the stars in the sky, then down at the occasional lights of the shops – a pawnshop with white walls, a placard for a doctor, a worn stucco wall covered with advertisements for Nanyang cigarettes – as Ryūnosuke said, ‘I’m awfully thirsty …’
‘Patience,’ said Jones. ‘It’s just up here …’
The c
afé was far more low-class than the Parisien. Near the glass doorway, an old Chinese woman sold roses. In the middle of the room, three or four British sailors danced suggestively with heavily made-up women of the world. At the back, before a pink wall, a Chinese boy with his hair parted down the middle was banging away on a huge piano. In another corner, at another table, Jones and Ryūnosuke ordered two cold sodas –
‘I feel as though I am looking at a newspaper with illustrations,’ declared Ryūnosuke. ‘And there is no doubt “Shanghai” could be the only possible title for that illustration …’
Drunkenly, a group of six more sailors fell through the door, knocking the basket of roses out of the arms of the old Chinese woman and onto the floor, rushing into the middle of the room, frantically dancing with their shipmates and their women, crushing the flowers under their feet, stepping on the fingers of the old Chinese woman –
Jones stood up. ‘Let’s go …’
‘Yes,’ said Ryūnosuke.
Jones threw a coin in the old woman’s basket as he said, ‘Let me tell you about life, Ryūnosuke …’
‘Go on then,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘What is life?’
Jones held open the door for Ryūnosuke, declaring, ‘Life … life is but an open road strewn with roses …’
Outside, rickshaw pullers descended on them from all four directions. Ryūnosuke felt a hand on his sleeve, pulling him back towards the café. The old flower woman was gripping his arm, her other hand stuck out like a beggar, spittle on her lips, shouting something over and over into his face.
‘Madam, I feel truly sorry for your beautiful roses,’ Ryūnosuke told her. ‘Being trampled on by those drunken sailors, yes, but also being sold by such a greedy person as yourself …’