by Mitch Cullin
“Few do,” Holmes said lowly, exhaling smoke.
Soon the tram appeared, rattling toward them from where the neon signs glowed, and, as Hensuiro took up the luggage, Holmes found himself gazing down the street once again. “Do you hear music?” he asked Mr. Umezaki.
“Yes. In fact, I hear it often, throughout the night sometimes. There're not many tourist sights in Kobe, so we make up for it in nightlife.”
“Is that so,” Holmes said, squinting, trying without success for a better glimpse at the bright clubs and bars beyond (the music now becoming lost with the tram's clamorous approach). Eventually, he found himself riding farther from the neon signs, going through a district of closed shops, empty sidewalks, and darkened corners. Seconds later, the tram entered a realm of ruins, of burned-out sites ravaged during the war—a desolate landscape lacking streetlights, the crumbling silhouettes made clear only by the full moon above the city.
Then, as if Kobe's forsaken avenues deepened his own fatigue, Holmes's eyelids shut and his body slumped on the tram seat. The long day had finally consumed him, and, minutes later, what little energy he had left would be used for stirring in his seat and hiking up a hillside street (Hensuiro leading the way, Mr. Umezaki gripping him by the elbow). As his canes tapped along the ground, a warm buffeting wind from the sea pressed over him, carrying with it the essence of salt water. Breathing in the night air, he envisioned Sussex and the farmhouse he'd nicknamed “La Paisible” (My peaceful place, he'd once called it in a letter to his brother Mycroft), and the coastline of chalk cliffs visible through the attic study's window. Wishing for sleep, he saw his tidy bedroom at home, his bed with the sheets pulled back.
“Nearly there,” said Mr. Umezaki. “You see before you my inheritance.”
Ahead, where the street ended, stood an unusual two-story house. Anomalous in a country of traditional minka dwellings, Mr. Umezaki's residence was clearly of the Victorian style—painted red, encircled by a picket fence, the front yard approximating an English garden. Whereas blackness loomed behind and around the property, an ornate cut-glass fixture cast light across the wide porch, presenting the house like a beacon underneath the night sky. But Holmes was far too exhausted to comment on any of it, even when following Hensuiro into a hallway lined with impressive displays of Art Nouveau and Art Deco glass objects.
“We collect Lalique, Tiffany, and Galle, among others,” said Mr. Umezaki, guiding him forward.
“Evidently,” Holmes remarked, feigning interest. Thereafter, he felt ethereal, as if drifting through a tedious dream. In hindsight, he could recall nothing else of that first evening in Kobe—not the meal he ate, or the conversation they shared, or being shown to his room. Nor could he remember meeting the sullen woman known as Maya, though she had served him supper, had poured his drink, had no doubt unpacked his luggage.
Yet there she was the next morning, drawing the curtains, waking him. Her presence wasn't startling, and while having been half-conscious when they'd met previously, he regarded her immediately as a familiar face, albeit a dour one. Is she Mr. Umezaki's wife? Holmes wondered. Maybe a housekeeper? Wearing a kimono, her graying hair done in a more Western fashion, she appeared older than Hensuiro, but not much older than the refined Umezaki. Still, she was an unattractive woman, rather homely, with a round head, flat nose, and eyes slanted into two thin slits, giving her a myopic, molelike quality. Without question, he concluded, she must be the housekeeper.
“Good morning,” he uttered, watching her from his pillow. She didn't acknowledge him. Instead, she opened a window, letting the sea air waft inside. Then she exited the room, promptly entering again with a tray, upon which steamed a cup of breakfast tea beside a note written by Mr. Umezaki. Using one of the few Japanese words he actually knew, he blurted out “Ohayo” as she set the tray on the bedside table. Once again, she ignored him, this time going into the adjacent bathroom and running him a bath. He sat up, chagrined, and drank the tea, doing so while reading the note:
Must do some business.
Hensuiro awaits downstairs.
Back before dusk falls.
Tamiki
“Ohayo,” he said to himself, speaking with disappointment and with the concern that his being there had possibly disrupted the household (perhaps the invitation wasn't meant to be accepted, or perhaps Mr. Umezaki was disappointed by the less than vibrant gentleman he had found waiting at the station). He felt relief when Maya had gone from the room, but it was overshadowed by the thought of Hensuiro and an entire day without proper communication, and by the notion of gesticulating whatever was important—food, drink, lavatory, nap. He couldn't explore Kobe alone, lest insulting his host when it was realized he had sneaked out on his own. As he bathed, the rumbling of unease gained momentum. Though worldly by most standards, he had spent almost half his life sequestered on the Sussex Downs, and now he felt ill-equipped to function within such an alien country, especially without a guide who spoke proper English.
But after dressing and meeting Hensuiro downstairs, his worries vanished. “Good more-knee-eng, sensei,” Hensuiro stammered, smiling.
“Ohayo.”
“Oh, yes, ohayo—good, very good.”
Then, as Hensuiro repeatedly nodded with approval at his chopsticks abilities, Holmes ate a simple breakfast consisting of green tea and a raw egg stirred into rice. Before midday, they were walking together outside, enjoying a beautiful morning canopied by a clear blue sky. Hensuiro, like young Roger, gripped him at the elbow, casually directing him along, and, having slept so well, invigorated, too, from his bath, he felt as if he were experiencing Japan anew. In daylight, Kobe was entirely different from the desolate place he had viewed through the tram window: The ruined buildings were nowhere in sight; the streets teamed with foot traffic. Vendors occupied the central square, where children ran about. Chatter and boiling water erupted inside a multitude of noodle shops. On the northern hills of the city, he spied an entire neighborhood of Victorian and Gothic homes, which, he suspected, must have originally belonged to foreign traders and diplomats.
“What, if I might ask, does your brother do, Hensuiro?”
“Sensei—”
“Your brother—what does he do—his job?”
“This—no—I not understand, just a little understand, not many.”
“Thank you, Hensuiro.”
“Yes, thank you—thank you very much.”
“You are excellent company on this pleasant day, regardless of your deficiencies.”
“I think so.”
However, as the walk progressed, as they turned corners and crossed busy streets, he began recognizing signs of hunger all around. The shirtless children in the parks didn't run like the other children; rather, they stood inert, as if languishing, their pronounced rib cages framed by bone-defined arms. Men begged in front of the noodle shops, and even those who looked fed—the shopkeepers, the patrons, the couples—wore similar expressions of yearning, although less obvious. Then it seemed to him that the flux of their daily lives masked a noiseless despair: Behind the smiles, the nods, the bows, the general politeness, there lurked something else that had grown malnourished.
5
DURING HIS TRAVELS, every now and then, Holmes would again sense an immense want permeating human existence, the true nature of which he couldn't fully comprehend. And while this ineffable longing had skirted his country life, it still saw fit to visit him on occasion, becoming more and more evident among the strangers who continually trespassed upon his property. In earlier years, the trespassers were usually a mixed assortment of drunken undergraduates wishing to laud him, London investigators seeking help with an unsolved crime, the occasional young men from the Gables—a well-known coaching establishment some half a mile away from Holmes's estate—or holidaying families, there in the hope of catching a glimpse of the famous detective.
“I am sorry,” he told them without exception, “but my privacy must be respected. I will ask you to please leave the grounds now.”
“I am sorry—I truly am—”
What was sought by one group—a conversation, a photograph, a signature—was easy to deny; what was desired by the other, however, was illogical but harder to rebuke—just the laying on of his hands, perhaps a few words whispered like some healing incantation (as if the mysteries of their ailments might at last be solved by him and him alone). Even so, he remained firm with his refusals, often admonishing the caretakers who had inconsiderately pushed the wheelchairs past the NO TRESPASSING signs.
“Please go this instant. Otherwise, I will inform Anderson of the Sussex Constabulary!”
Only recently had he begun to bend his own rules, sitting for a while with a young mother and her infant. She had first been seen by Roger, crouched beside the herb garden, her baby wrapped in a cream-colored shawl and its head cradled at her exposed left breast. As the boy led him to her, Holmes pounded his canes along the pathway, grumbling so she might hear, saying aloud that entry into his gardens was strictly prohibited. Upon seeing her, his anger dissipated, but he hesitated before going any closer. She gazed up at him with wide, sedated pupils. Her dirty face betrayed loss; her unbuttoned yellow blouse, muddied and torn, hinted at the miles she had walked to find him. Then she held the shawl out toward him, offering her infant with soiled hands.
“Get to the house,” he ordered Roger in a low voice. “Call Anderson. Tell him it is an emergency. Say that I am waiting in the garden.”
“Yes, sir.”
He had observed what the boy had not: the tiny corpse held by its mother's trembling hands, its purple cheeks, its blue-black lips, the numerous flies crawling on and encircling the handwoven shawl. Once Roger was on his way, he put the canes aside and, with some effort, sat down by the woman. Again she thrust the shawl toward him, so he gently accepted the bundle, holding the baby against his chest.
By the time Anderson arrived, Holmes had given the infant back to her. For a while, he stood beside the constable there on the pathway, both men watching as the bundle was held at the woman's breast, her fingers repeatedly pressing a nipple against the baby's rigid lips. Coming from the east, ambulance sirens rang out, drawing nearer, eventually ceasing near the gate of the property.
“Do you think it's a kidnapping?” whispered Anderson, stroking his slightly curled mustache, remaining openmouthed after he spoke, his gaze frozen on the woman's chest.
“No,” answered Holmes, “I believe it is something far less criminal than that.”
“Really,” the constable replied, and Holmes detected displeasure in his tone: For a great mystery wasn't presenting itself after all, nor would the constable be involved in working a case with his childhood hero. “So what are your thoughts, then?”
“Look at her hands,” Holmes told him. “Look at the dirt and mud underneath her fingernails, on her blouse, on her skin and clothing.” She has been in the earth, he figured. She has been digging. “Look at her muddy shoes—fairly new and showing few signs of wear. Still, she has walked a distance, but no further than Seaford. Look at her face and you'll recognize the grief of a mother who has lost her newborn. Contact your associates in Seaford. Ask about a child's grave that was dug up during the night, the body taken—and ask if the child's mother has gone missing. Ask if the infant's name might be Jeffrey.”
Anderson looked swiftly at Holmes, reacting as if he'd been slapped. “How do you know this?”
Holmes shrugged ruefully. “I don't—at least not for certain.”
Mrs. Munro's voice carried from the farmhouse yard, instructing the ambulance men where to go.
Appearing forlorn in his uniform, Anderson cocked an eyebrow while tugging his mustache. He said, “Why'd she come here? Why'd she come to you?”
A cloud passed over the sun, casting a long shadow across the gardens.
“Hope, I suspect,” said Holmes. “It seems I am known for discovering answers when events appear desperate. Beyond that, I wouldn't care to speculate.”
“And what about it being called Jeffrey?”
Holmes explained: He had asked the infant's name while holding the shawl. “Jeffrey,” he thought he'd heard her say. He asked how old. She stared miserably at the ground, saying nothing. He asked where the child had been born. She said nothing. Had she traveled far?
“Seaford,” she had muttered, brushing a fly off her forehead.
“Are you hungry?”
Nothing.
“Would you like something to eat, dear?”
Nothing.
“I believe you must be quite famished. I believe you need water.”
“I believe it's a stupid world,” she finally said, reaching for the shawl.
And if he had then addressed her forthrightly, he would have been inclined to agree.
6
IN KOBE AND, subsequently, on their travels westward, Mr. Umezaki sometimes inquired about England, asking—among other things—if Holmes had seen the Bard's birthplace in Stratford-upon-Avon, or strolled within the mysterious Stonehenge circle, or visited Cornwall's scenic coastline, which had inspired so many artists over the centuries.
“Indeed,” he usually answered before elaborating.
And had the great Anglican cities survived the devastation of the war? Had the spirit of the English people remained intact throughout the Luftwaffe's aerial bombings?
“For the most part, yes. We have an indomitable character, you know.”
“Victory tends to underscore that, wouldn't you say?”
“I suppose so.”
Then returning home, it was Roger posing questions about Japan (although asking in a less specific manner than Mr. Umezaki had). Following an afternoon of removing overgrown grass from around the hives, of pulling weeds so that the bees could come and go without obstruction, the boy escorted him to the nearby cliffs, where, minding every step, they proceeded down a long, steep path that eventually ended at the beach below. There, in either direction, stretched miles of scree and shingles, interrupted only by shallow inlets and tide pools (filled afresh with each flow, existing as ideal watering places). In the distance, on a clear day, the little cove that held the village of Cuckmere Haven was seen.
Presently, their clothing lay neatly on the rocks, and both he and the boy eased into a favored tide pool, reclining while the water rose to their chests. Once settled—their shoulders just above the currents, the afternoon sunlight shimmering off the sea beyond—Roger glanced toward him and, shadowing his eyes with a hand, said, “Sir, does the Japanese ocean look anything like the Channel?”
“Somewhat. At least what I saw of it—salt water is salt water, is it not?”
“Were there lots of ships?”
Shielding his own eyes, Holmes realized that the boy was now staring at him inquisitively. “I believe so,” he said, unsure if the numerous tankers, tugboats, and barges drifting through his memory had been seen in a Japanese or an Australian port. “It is an island nation, after all,” he reasoned. “They, like us, are never far from the sea.”
The boy let his feet float up, absently wiggling his toes in the surface foam.
“Is it true? Are they a little people?”
“It's quite true, I'm afraid.”
“Like dwarves?”
“Taller than that. On average about your height, my boy.”
Roger's feet sank, the wiggling toes disappearing.
“Are they yellow?”
“What do you mean exactly? Skin or co
nstitution?”
“Their skin—is it yellow? Do they have big teeth, like rabbits?”
“Darker than yellow.” He pressed a fingertip into Roger's tanned shoulder. “Closer to this color, you see?”
“What about their teeth?”
He laughed and said, “I cannot say with certainty. On the other hand, I surely would recall a predominance of lagomorph incisors, so I suspect it is safe to say they have teeth much like yours and mine.”
“Oh,” Roger muttered, but he said no more for the moment.
The gift of the honeybees, Holmes figured, had sparked the boy's curiosity: those two creatures in the vial, similar to yet different from the English honeybees, suggesting a parallel world, where everything was comparable but not quite the same.
Only later, when they began climbing the steep path, did the questioning resume. Now the boy wanted to know if the Japanese cities still bore traces of Allied bombing. “In places,” Holmes answered, aware of Roger's preoccupation with airplanes and attack and fiery death—as if some resolution regarding the father's untimely fate might be found in the sordid details of war.
“Did you see where the bomb got dropped?”
They had stopped to rest, sitting for a while on a bench that marked the path's middle point. Stretching his long legs toward the cliff edge, Holmes gazed out at the Channel, thinking, the Bomb. Not the incendiary variety, nor the antipersonnel model, but the atomic kind.
“They call it pika-don,” he told Roger. “It means ‘flash-bang'—and yes, I saw where one was dropped.”
“Did everyone look ill?”
Holmes continued to stare at the sea, observing the gray water now reddened by the sun's descent. He said, “No, most didn't look visibly ill. However, quite a few seemed so—it is a difficult thing to describe, Roger.”
“Oh,” the boy replied, looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression, but he said nothing more.
Holmes found himself considering that most unfortunate event in the life of a hive: the sudden loss of the queen, when no resources were available from which to raise a new one. Yet how could he explain the deeper illness of unexpressed desolation, that imprecise pall harbored en masse by ordinary Japanese? It was hardly perceptible upon such reticent people, but it was always there—roaming the Tokyo and Kobe streets, visible somehow on the solemn young faces of repatriated men, within the vacant stares of malnourished mothers and children, and hinted at by a popular saying from the previous year. “Kamikaze mo fuki sokone.”