by Peter Albano
“I cannot see her tonight.
I have lost her to another
So I will eat fugu.”
Again, laughter. Still chuckling, the flyer said, “I will be ready in a moment,” Quickly, he reached into his small closet, removed a holstered Otsu and strapped the vicious little automatic around his chest, adjusting it in his left armpit. Expertly, and with the meticulous care of a fighter pilot, he pulled the piece from the holster, pushed a nine round magazine into the stock with the palm of his hand until it locked in place, worked the action once, held the bolt open to assure himself a cartridge was chambered and then allowed the spring to return the bolt with a loud metallic click. After carefully setting the safety, he holstered the weapon and shrugged into his blue coat. Dropping three extra clips into his pocket, he turned to Brent. “Brent-san,” he said with a self-conscious edge in his voice. “Perhaps, soon, Kimio Urshazawa and I will marry.”
“I’m happy for you, Yoshi-san. She is beautiful, talented and intelligent. You would be a very lucky man, indeed.”
The flyer fretted uncomfortably. He spoke with his eyes averted. “Brent-san, you Americans do not believe in omens.”
“True,” Brent said, wondering about his friend’s strange mood.
“I know you will think me superstitious, but something happened Sunday night — something strange.”
“Yes?” the American said, encouraging his friend.
“You know I like to read.”
Brent smiled. Since Yonaga’s breakout from Sano Wan, the crew had read voraciously. But none had the appetites of Admiral Fujita and Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. While Admiral Fujita read incessantly of the Greater East Asia War, Yoshi — with his youthful exposure to American tastes — loved to read American novelists as well; Herman Melville, Stephen Crane, Richard Henry Dana, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemmingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald counted as his favorites. Brent gestured to the bookcases occupying every available inch of bulkhead space. “Of course.”
The aviator sat opposite the American. “Have you read A Farewell to Arms?”
“Yes. Ernest Hemmingway. A love story set in World War I — in Italy. Correct?”
Yoshi smiled and his demeanor began to show a slackening tension. “Yes. An American volunteer ambulance driver is wounded and he falls in love with his nurse.”
“I remember. That’s right. Frederic Henry and…” He paused, mulling.
“Frederic Henry and the English nurse, Catherine Barkley.”
“I remember, Yoshi-san. A beautiful, tragic love story.”
Yoshi hunched forward, and anxiety pushed his words out in a hurried flow. “I finished it Sunday night — during the storm.” He pointed at the overhead. “On the bridge. At the end, when Catherine dies and Frederic kisses her and finds her like a statue, a lightning bolt struck the water tower like a five hundred-kilogram bomb. A giant bolt — I have never seen anything like it.”
Yoshi drummed his knee with a clenched fist and for a long moment only the ship sounds of generators and blowers could be heard. Finally, Brent said, “An omen? I don’t understand.”
“Kimio and I. The thunderbolt hurled by a kami, perhaps O-Kuni-Nushi, himself, the ruler of the dead as a warning to me.”
Under most circumstances, Brent would have laughed at the absurd statement. But his friend was distraught and the only thought entering the young American’s mind was that Yoshi was upset and needed help. But how could he help? Certainly, as a westerner, he was helpless to pierce the veil of Oriented mysticism and superstition. Every Japanese on the ship dealt with personal and impersonal gods daily — a part of their makeup totally incomprehensible to monotheistic westerners raised in the Christian-Judaic tradition. Nevertheless, Brent knew he had to try. “But you can’t be sure, Yoshi-san,” he managed. “An omen is an indefinite thing. Its interpretation depends on the observer — his mood, his disposition, his background.”
“Of course, Brent-san. But the bolt left me with strange, undefinable, empty feelings. It was ominous, like a warning. And a Japanese is taught to heed these things from birth.”
Brent drummed the desk. “You know, Yoshi, lightning can rend asunder, true. But, it can weld, too. Fuse metal better than any welder’s torch.”
“You mean I could have witnessed an augury of joy? Of happiness?”
“Why not?”
Yoshi smiled for the first time. “You are very young, yet very wise, Brent-san. Something of the ages has rubbed off on you.”
Brent laughed. “Well, the admiral gave me the Hagakure.”
“Very good, Brent-san. There is much wisdom to be found on its pages and it speaks from the heart and soul of the samurai.”
“You were speaking of wisdom, Yoshi-san. Just this morning I read in the Hagakure that limitless wisdom comes from discussing things with others. And isn’t that precisely what we are doing?”
The pilot sighed. “True, Brent-san. Perhaps you are right, and, on the other hand, perhaps we are both wrong.” He gestured to the door with a warm smile. “Two beautiful ladies await us.”
Brent came to his feet. “That’s the best omen I’ve heard all day.”
They were both laughing as they stepped into the passageway.
They were not laughing when they approached the parking lot. The Red Army pickets were back, waving signs and chanting. There were more of them, perhaps fifty. Brent caught the foul smell of unwashed bodies and filthy clothes. “Jesus, don’t they ever bathe?” he said with disgust.
“Must be against regulations,” Yoshi growled.
As the officers neared the pickets, a big man with a flat nose, disheveled clothes, missing front teeth and long matted hair detached himself from the group and strode toward the officers like a hound leading a pack of wild dogs. He waved a sign reading “Die Yankee Imperialists” at Brent Ross. He was the only Caucasian in the group. It was the same man Brent had fought the last time he and Yoshi had had a liberty together. Despite bandages on his nose and cheek, swollen and cut lips, the man planted himself in Brent’s path and shrieked in a spray of spittle guttural noises that sounded like, “Yankee shit, go home.” The rest of the pickets stopped and watched silently.
“Get out of my way, you terrorist son-of-a-bitch,” Brent said, angrily, not swerving from his path.
Birdlike eyes glittering with madness, the man shrieked, “Fuck you, you murdering bastard!”
Brent balled his fists. “You’re out of your league. Go pick on women and children. You’re experts at that.” He raised a fist. “Now move or I’ll perform some more impromptu dentistry on you.”
The man stepped aside. But as Brent passed, the man spat and Brent felt a slimy spray hit his cheek. The American’s open fist lashed out so fast, the picket did not have time to think, to react or to duck. Avoiding the smashed mouth and flattened nose, Brent caught the man with the back of his huge hand squarely on the ear. Shrieking with pain, he whirled, staggered, dropped his sign and gripped his ear. There were screams of anger from the crowd, but they parted.
“I’ll kill you, someday,” the man screamed. “Remember that, Lieutenant Brent Ross. My name is Eugene Neeb. Remember that, too, Lieutenant Ross. I’m going to kill you!”
“He knows your name. You are a celebrity,” Yoshi said sardonically.
“Yeah. I’m just another lovable Bob Hope,” Brent said, reaching for the car door.
Circled by a monorail, the 208 sylvan acres of Ueno Park lie north of the center of Tokyo in the Yurakucho-Ginza district. Tokyo’s largest park, it contains a zoo, museums of art, science and natural history, temples, pagodas, and shrines. Entering through the Kaminari-mon Gate, Mayumi and Kimio led, chattering and laughing, bubbling with happiness and excitement. Both were dressed in tight summer frocks and both carried mysterious packages under their arms.
The Tuesday crowd was light and only occasional family groups were seen. Brent nudged Yoshi’s arm and nodded at an old couple, a very old man with a cane followed at a precise five-foo
t interval by a bent old woman. Brent said to Yoshi, “The old ways still live. Obasan (grandmother) follows Ojiisan (grandfather).”
Eyeing the old couple ahead of them, Yoshi answered, voice sparkling with good humor, “There is still hope, Brent-san.” They both laughed.
“Come on! Come on!” Kimio said gaily, turning and waving.
Yoshi pointed at an ancient five-tiered wooden pagoda, shouting, “The Toshogu Shrine!”
“Later,” she answered. She held up her mysterious package. “This comes first.” Both women laughed and quickened their steps.
“What are those things?” Brent asked.
“Who knows,” Yoshi answered. “More female foolishness.”
They passed the contemporary buildings of Tokyo’s Aquarium on Shinobazu Pond, a shallow stretch of water thick with blossoming lotus and water lilies. Linked by a gracefully arched stone bridge was a small island with a Shinto Shrine — an ornate, three-tiered building of ancient architecture. Dozens of stone lanterns were scattered on the island and a pair of cast-iron cranes, with their longs necks stretched to the sky, guarded the entrance to the temple.
“Benten Shrine,” Yoshi said, pointing at the temple. “The goddess of art, music and eloquence.”
“She can talk a lot?”
“Yes,” Yoshi laughed. “She has an abundance of words.”
As they mounted a small rise, Brent could see the steel and concrete towers of Tokyo as a backdrop for a maple-covered hill behind the temple and pond. Brent sighed as with a single glance he caught the two faces of Japan: Benten and her shrine, signs of immutable ancient beliefs, framed by a skyline of towering concrete buildings, garish with neon signs and television antennas. Superstition and Gross National Product can live together here, he said to himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by Yoshi. “That tree, over there.” The flyer was pointing at an old pine, bent with age. “Your Ulysses S. Grant planted it.”
“I’ll be damned.”
The women led them down a steep path cutting through trees and bushes. A small temple appeared on the right. “The Kiyomizu Temple,” Yoshi said. “Seventeenth century.” Then they saw the smoke rising behind the temple.
Breasting a small rock-strewn hill, they found a group of people, mostly girls and women, gathered around a courtyard where a priest and two assistants were burning small objects in a large iron brazier. Mayumi and Kimio hurried down the path, unwrapping their packages while the men waited, Yoshi restraining Brent with a hand to the arm.
“So that’s it,” Yoshi said, smiling.
“I don’t get it.”
“It is a female ceremony. They are burning dolls.”
“I’ll be damned.”
The men watched as the women bowed and handed their dolls to the priest. There was a brief prayer, more bows and the dolls were thrown into the flames. Then laughing and somewhat breathless, the women returned.
Mayumi’s flushed face, flashing eyes and girlish laughter made her even more attractive. Brent found the compulsion to touch her overpowering. Defying Japanese traditions, Brent took her hands and pulled her close, staring deeply into the black velvet warmth that only saw him. For a long, silent moment they held each other with an intimacy reserved for new lovers — a look that could only be shared by a man and a woman who had found release in each other in the rough combustion of animal forces. “Dolls, dolls,” he said, not really thinking about his words but knowing he had to say something.
Slowly, she pulled her hands from his, but never released his eyes. She waved at the fire, “The temple is dedicated to Bodhisattva Kannon, goddess of mercy.”
Mayumi broke through. “Kannon favors women. She is a celestial being who has turned her back on Nirvana to help others reach enlightenment and grace.”
“The dolls?”
“A sterile wife can offer a doll along with her prayers for a successful pregnancy or a girl can offer her doll in the hopes of capturing a lover.”
“I’m ready for imprisonment,” Brent said wryly. Everyone laughed. Brent continued, “Why did you offer your dolls?”
Kimio said, “You must understand, Brent, a doll is not just a plaything to a Japanese girl. Japanese women have a lifetime attachment to their dolls. A doll is treated with respect and affection and we believe it can even have a soul. A doll is never thrown in the trash. It is always destroyed in a rite of purification.”
“Burning.”
“That’s right, Brent. Burning.”
Yoshi interrupted, “The Toshogu Shrine,” he waved back along the path. “You will love it, Brent. It dates to the Tokugawa shogunate. It’s magnificent.”
“Then the museums,” Mayumi said.
With Brent and Mayumi leading, the foursome began to retrace their steps along the path. Nearing the top of the rise, a slight breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and bushes lining the path. Brent caught a familiar odor — the smell of filthy, unwashed bodies. His cheek felt wet and he could feel the slimy gob of yellow mucus tracing a path down to his chin. He looked around. Saw nothing. Cursed himself for being so jittery.
Just as they approached a cluster of boulders at the crest, Mayumi tripped over a loose rock and fell headlong, crying out with pain. Instantly, Brent and Yoshi were at her side.
“Mayumi!” Kimio cried. “Are you…”
She was interrupted by a staccato blast and Brent recognized the ripping canvas sound of a Kalashnikov AK 47. “Down! Down!” he screamed, pulling his Otsu from its holster and dragging Mayumi behind a boulder. A sack full of snakes hissed overhead and there was the unmistakable slapping sound of bullets striking flesh and Kimio screamed — a long, penetrating shriek of horror and pain that struck like a mailed fist, seared the senses and turned muscles to jelly. The cry ended in gurgling, choking gasps and Brent felt a spray of warm blood on his face. Eyes wide and glassy, chest oozing and blood spurting from a half-dozen wounds and from her mouth in gouts, Kimio sank slowly like a deflating balloon.
Yoshi was shouting, “No! No!” as he pulled at his automatic with one hand and dragged Mayumi behind a boulder with the other, leaving a long black ribbon of blood on the path.
Screaming, “Kimio! Kimio!” Mayumi tried to rise.
Roughly, Brent pushed her down and at the same time ducked as at least three pistols cracked from the other side and behind them, down the path. Bullets ricocheted off the rock, sending chips and powdered rock flying. “Stay down or I’ll punch you,” he said deep in his throat. “Understand?”
Sobbing, the girl nodded and huddled against the rock. Brent turned to Yoshi. The flyer was hunched over Kimio, stroking her hair, staring into the wide-open sightless eyes. “Yoshi.” No response. “For Christ’s sake, Yoshi!” He grabbed the flyer’s arm. “We’re dead meat without you.”
The commander turned slowly. His eyes were brimming and tears stained his cheeks, but his voice was steady. “I am going to charge them.”
“Try to get up and I’ll break your jaw. No kamikaze charges today! That’s exactly what they want. Understand?” The American gestured at Kimio. “Throwing away your life won’t help her.” He held Yoshi’s eyes. Felt hope as lessons from the Hagakure brought to mind the one thing sacred to all samurai. “I want revenge — the revenge of the forty-seven ronin.”
“Yes. Yes. The forty-seven ronin.” Matsuhara shook his head. “I’m ready, Brent-san.”
Brent knew the shattered Yoshi was looking to him for leadership. He had been frightened many times; terrified when he had heard and — on one occasion — actually seen a salvo of eight-inch shells plunging toward him like a cluster of blue bottles, choked with horror the many times aerial bombs seemed to be plunging down on his head, watched mesmerized as torpedoes raced toward Yonaga like great chalk marks in the sea. But, these attacks were impersonal — more the work of machines than men. Now he faced killers only a few yards away, other men hunting him personally. He felt a familiar emptiness in his stomach and cold fear slithered in his guts like
some loathsome reptile. He blinked, choked it back, set his jaw and spoke with the calm professional voice of a stock broker advising a client on the status of the market. “There are at least four — three automatic pistols and an AK-47.”
“How do you know it is a Kalashnikov?”
“I trained with them in Special Forces school. The sound is unmistakable.” Casually, Brent gestured to the left and then to the right. “They have us flanked. We can’t go forward or retreat.” Yoshi nodded agreement. “Cover the left and rear, I’ll take the front and right. We’ll make our stand here. They can’t get to us without exposing themselves.”
Both men stretched out on their stomachs, pistols held at the ready, gripped in two hands. Brent turned to Mayumi. “Stay down. We’ll make them come to us.” The girl nodded numbly.
From a clump of brush not more than forty yards away and slightly down slope and on Brent’s front, there were shouts and a familiar rush of words through sore jaws. “This is Eugene Neeb, imperialist swine. Eat this!” There was another burst from the Kalashnikov and the air was filled with the crack of 7.62-millimeter slugs whipping overhead. Then the snap and pop of stone being impacted by steel-nosed bullets and a shower of rock fragments. Flat on his stomach with his chin pressed to the ground, Brent saw blue smoke rise from the bush. Then the crack of pistols from the left, ahead and behind. More bullets whipped by kicking up dirt, dust and raining rock fragments, leaving small pockmarks in the boulders. Brent brought the sights of the Otsu to the bushes. Squeezed off three quick rounds.
“Missed, you son-of-a-bitch,” came from the bush. “I’m going to shoot off your prick, Lieutenant Brent Ross. Then that pretty little girl won’t like you anymore.” Laughter all around and more shots ripped by.
The foul insult brought a wave of rage that drowned the last vestige of fear and Brent felt the impulse to rise, to charge wildly and silence the obscene mouth forever. He steeled himself. “That’s what the bastards want,” he growled to himself.
He shouted in a steady voice, “Come and get me, Neeb. Just follow what’s left of your nose — if you have the guts.”