A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  Even so, the final piece of Roger's handiwork was unfinished; in actuality, with only one image centered on the page, it appeared to have been just begun. Or, Holmes wondered, had the boy intended it to be seen as such—a desolate monochromatic photograph floating in a void of blackness; a stark, puzzling, yet emblematic conclusion to all that had preceded it (the vivid overlapping imagery, the fauna and wilderness, those grim, determined men of war). The photograph itself was no mystery; Holmes knew the place well enough, had glimpsed it with Mr. Umezaki in Hiroshima—that former prefectural government building reduced to skeletal remains by the atomic blast (“the Atom Bomb Dome,” Mr. Umezaki had called it).

  But alone on the page, the building resonated utter annihilation, much more so than when seen in person. The photograph had been taken weeks, possibly days, after the bomb was dropped, revealing an immense city of rubble—no humans, no tramcars or trains, nothing recognizable save the ghostly shell of the prefectural building existing above the flattened, burned landscape. Then what preceded the final piece—unused scrapbook paper, page after page of black—simply underscored the disquieting impact of that sole image. And suddenly, when closing the scrapbook, Holmes was overcome by the weariness he had carried into the cottage. Something has gone amiss with the world, he found himself thinking. Something has changed in the marrow, and I'm at a loss to make sense of it.

  “So what is the truth?” Mr. Umezaki had once asked him. “How do you arrive at it? How do you unravel the meaning of something that doesn't wish to be known?”

  “I don't know,” Holmes uttered aloud, there in Roger's bedroom. “I don't know,” he said again, lowering himself to the boy's pillow and shutting his eyes, the scrapbook held against his chest: “I haven't a clue. . . .”

  Holmes drifted away after that, though not into the sort of sleep that came from total exhaustion, or even a restless slumber in which dreams and reality were interlaced, but rather a torpid state submerging him into a vast stillness. Presently, that expansive, down-reaching sleep delivered him elsewhere, tugging him from the bedroom where his body rested.

  11

  HAVING CARRIED the shared suitcase Holmes and Mr. Umezaki would be taking aboard the morning train (the two men having packed lightly for their sight-seeing journey), Hensuiro saw them off at the railroad station, where, tightly clasping Mr. Umezaki's hands, he whispered fervently in his companion's ear. Then before they entered the coach, he stepped in front of Holmes, bowing deeply, and said, “I see you—again—very again, yes.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said, amused. “Very, very again.”

  And when the train departed the station, Hensuiro remained on the platform, his arms raised and waving amid a crowd of Australian soldiers, his swiftly receding but stationary figure eventually diminishing altogether. Soon the train gathered its westward momentum, and both Holmes and Mr. Umezaki sat rigidly in their adjacent second-class seats, watching with sidewise stares as Kobe's buildings gradually gave way to the lush terrain that moved and shifted and flashed beyond the window.

  “It's a lovely morning,” Mr. Umezaki remarked, a comment he would repeat several times throughout their first day of travel (the lovely morning becoming a lovely afternoon and, finally, a lovely evening).

  “Quite,” was Holmes's consistent reply.

  Yet during the start of the trip, the men spoke hardly a word to each other. They sat quietly, self-contained and remote in their respective seats. For a while, Mr. Umezaki occupied himself by writing inside a small red journal (further haiku, Holmes figured), while Holmes, fuming Jamaican in hand, contemplated the blurs of scenery outside. It was only after departing the station at Akashi—when the jarring start of the train's movement shook the cigar from Holmes's fingers, sending it rolling across the floor—that real conversation ensued (initiated by Mr. Umezaki's general curiosity, and ultimately encompassing a number of subjects preceding their arrival at Hiroshima).

  “Allow me,” said Mr. Umezaki, rising to fetch the cigar for Holmes.

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, who then, having already lifted himself some, eased back down, placing the canes lengthwise over his lap (but at an angle so as to avoid bumping Mr. Umezaki's knees).

  Once settled again in their seats, with the countryside sweeping past, Mr. Umezaki touched the stained wood of one cane. “They're finely crafted, are they not?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “I have had them at least twenty years, quite possibly longer. They are my durable companions, you know.”

  “Have you always walked with both?”

  “Not until recently—recently for me, that is—actually, about the last five years, if memory serves.”

  Then Holmes, feeling the desire to elaborate, explained: In fact, he really required only the support of the right cane while walking; the left cane, however, had an invaluable dual purpose—to give him support should he lose hold of the right cane and find himself stooping to retrieve it, or to stand in as a quick replacement should the right cane ever become irretrievable. Of course, he went on, lacking the sustained nourishment of royal jelly, the canes would serve him no useful function whatsoever, as he was convinced he'd surely be confined to a wheelchair.

  “Is that so?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  With that, their mutual exchange began in earnest, for both were eager to discuss the benefits of royal jelly, especially its effects in halting or controlling the aging process. Mr. Umezaki had, as it turned out, interviewed a Chinese herbalist before the war regarding the beneficial qualities of that viscous milky white secretion: “The man was clearly of the opinion that royal jelly could cure menopause and male climacteric, as well as liver disease, rheumatoid arthritis, and anemia.”

  “Phlebitis, gastric ulcer, various degenerative conditions,” Holmes interjected, “and general mental or physical weakness. It also nourishes the skin, erases facial blemishes, wrinkles, while also preventing the signs of normal aging or even premature senility.” How amazing it was, Holmes mentioned, that such a powerful substance, the chemistry of which was still not completely known, could be produced by the pharyngeal glands of the worker bee—creating queens from ordinary bee larvae, healing a multitude of mankind's ills.

  “Though try as I may,” said Mr. Umezaki, “I've found little or no evidence to support the claims of its therapeutic usefulness.”

  “Ah, but there is,” replied Holmes, smiling. “We have studied royal jelly a long, long while, haven't we? We know it is full of protein and lipids, fatty acids and carbohydrates. That said, neither of us has come close to discovering all it contains, so I rely on the only evidence I truly possess, which is my own good health. But I take it you are not a regular user.”

  “No. Aside from writing one or two magazine articles, my interest is purely casual. I'm afraid, however, that I lean toward the skeptic's side on the matter.”

  “What a shame,” said Holmes. “I was quite hoping you might spare a jar for my journey back to England—I have gone awhile without, you know. Nothing that can't be remedied upon my arrival home, although I do wish I had remembered to pack a jar or two—at least enough for a daily dose. Fortunately, I have brought more than enough Jamaicans, so I am not completely lacking in what I require.”

  “We might still find you a jar along our way.”

  “Such bother, don't you think?”

  “It's hardly a bother.”

  “That is quite all right, really. Let us just consider it the price I must pay for forgetting. It seems even royal jelly cannot prevent the inevitable loss of retention.”

  And here, too, was another springboard in their conversation, because now Mr. Umezaki, scooting closer to Holmes, speaking lowly, as if his question was of the utmost importance, could ask him about his renowned faculties; more specifically, he wanted to know how Holmes had mastered the ability to perceive so easily what others often missed. “I'm aware of your belief in pure observation as a tool for achieving definitive answers—except I'm puzzled by th
e way in which you actually observe a given situation. From what I've read, as well as experienced firsthand, it appears that you don't merely observe, but you also use recall effortlessly, almost photographically—and somehow this is how you arrive at the truth.”

  “‘What is truth? asked Pilate,'” Holmes said, sighing. “Frankly, my friend, I've lost my appetite for any notion of truth. For me, there simply is what is—call that truth, if you must. Better put—and I am understanding this with a fair amount of hindsight, mind you—I am drawn toward that which is clearly seen, gathering as much as I can from the external, and then synthesizing whatever is gathered into something of immediate value. The universal, mystical, or long-term implications—those places where truth, perhaps, resides—are of no interest.”

  Yet what of recall? Mr. Umezaki wondered. How was it used?

  “In terms of forming a theory, or reaching a conclusion?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  As a younger man, Holmes would then tell him, visual recall was fundamental to his capacity for solving certain problems. For when he examined an object or investigated a crime scene, everything was instantaneously converted into precise words or numbers corresponding with the things he observed. Once the conversions formed a pattern in his mind (a series of particularly vivid sentences or equations that he could both utter and visualize), they locked themselves into his memory, and while they might stay dormant during those times when he was caught up with other considerations, they would immediately emerge whenever he turned his attention to the situations that had generated them.

  “Over time, I have realized my mind no longer operates in such a fluid manner,” Holmes continued. “The change has been by degrees, but I sense it fully now. My means for recall—those various groupings of words and numbers—aren't as easily accessible as they were. Traveling through India, for example, I stepped from the train somewhere in the middle of the country—a brief stop, a place I had never seen before—and was promptly accosted by a dancing, half-naked beggar, a most joyous fellow. Previously, I would have observed everything around me in perfect detail—the architecture of the station building, the faces of people walking by, the vendors who were selling their goods—but that rarely happens anymore. I don't remember the station building and I cannot tell you if there were vendors or people nearby. All I recall is a toothless brown-skinned beggar dancing before me, an arm outstretched for a few pence. What matters to me now is that I possess that delightful vision of him; where the event took place is of no account. Had this occurred sixty years ago, I would have been quite distraught for being unable to summon the location and its minutiae. But now I retain only what is necessary. The minor details aren't essential—what appears in my mind these days are rudimentary impressions, not all the frivolous surroundings. And for that I'm grateful.”

  For a moment, Mr. Umezaki said nothing, his face taking on the distracted, thoughtful look of someone processing information. Then he nodded and his expression softened. When he spoke again, his voice sounded almost tentative. “It's fascinating—how you describe it.”

  But Holmes was no longer listening. Down the aisle, the passenger car door had opened and a slender young woman with sunglasses on had entered the carriage. She wore a gray kimono and held an umbrella at her side. She headed waveringly in their direction, pausing every few steps as if to steady herself; then, still standing in the aisle, she gazed at a nearby window, drawn for a while by the fast-moving landscape—her profile suddenly displaying a broad, disfiguring keloid scar, which slithered like tentacles from underneath her collar (up her neck, over her jawline, across the right side of her face, vanishing into her immaculate black hair). When at last she came forward, passing them without notice, Holmes found himself thinking, You were once an enticing girl. Not so long ago, you were the most beautiful vision someone had ever seen.

  12

  THEY ARRIVED at Hiroshima Station in the early afternoon, and found themselves departing the train and entering a crowded, boisterous area of black-market stalls—the banter of haggling, the passing of illicit goods, the occasional tantrum thrown by a weary child—but after the monotonous rumble and steady vibrations inherent to railway travel, such human clamor was a welcome relief. They were, as Mr. Umezaki pointed out, entering a city newly reborn on the principles of democracy—where, just that month, a mayor had been chosen by popular vote during the first postwar election.

  But when glimpsing Hiroshima's outskirts from within the passenger car, Holmes had seen very little that indicated a bustling city was nearby; instead, he had noticed clusters of temporary wooden shacks, like impoverished villages existing at close proximity to one another, separated only by wide fields strewn with tall horseweeds. When the train slowed on its approach to the dilapidated station, he realized that the horseweeds—sprouting thickly over a dark, uneven terrain of charred earth and concrete slabs and debris—were, in fact, thriving upon the burned-out land in which office buildings, entire neighborhoods, and business districts had stood.

  The normally detested horseweed, Holmes then learned from Mr. Umezaki, was an unexpected blessing following the war. In Hiroshima, the plants' sudden emergence—offering a sense of hope and rebirth with its budding—had dispelled the widely accepted theory that the city would remain an infertile place for at least seventy years. There and elsewhere, its abundant growth had prevented mass death through starvation: “The leaves and flowers became a main ingredient in dumplings,” Mr. Umezaki said. “Not too appetizing—believe me, I know—but those who couldn't continue on an empty stomach ate them to relieve the hunger.”

  Holmes had continued to look out the window, searching for a more definitive sign of the city, but, as the train moved into the rail yard, he could see just the wooden shacks—increasing in number, with some of the vacant lots around them transformed into modest vegetable gardens—and the Enko River, which ran parallel to the tracks. “As my stomach is a bit empty at the moment, I wouldn't mind sampling the dumplings myself—sounds like a most singular concoction.”

  Mr. Umezaki had nodded in agreement. “They are singular, it's true—except hardly in the best sense.”

  “Seems intriguing nonetheless.”

  But while Holmes had hoped for a late lunch of horseweed dumplings, it was another local specialty that eventually appeased him—a Japanese-style pancake covered in a sweet sauce, stuffed inside with whatever the customer chose from the menu list, and sold by any number of street vendors or makeshift noodle shops around Hiroshima Station.

  “It's called okonomi-yaki,” Mr. Umezaki explained later, while he and Holmes sat at a noodle shop counter, watching the cook create their lunch with great skill upon a large iron plate (their appetites further aroused by the sizzling fragrances wafting toward them). He went on to mention that he had first tried the dish when he was a boy, doing so while he vacationed in Hiroshima with his father. Since that childhood trip, he had visited the city a handful of times, usually staying only long enough to exchange trains, but sometimes an okonomi-yaki vendor would be at the station. “It's always impossible for me to resist it—the very smell conjures up that weekend with my father. You see, he had brought us to visit Shukkei-en Garden. Except rarely do I think of him and me being here together—or together at all, for that matter—unless okonomi-yaki is in the air.”

  Then during their meal, Holmes paused between bites, poking the interior pocket of the pancake with a chopstick and eyeing that mixture of meat, noodle, and cabbage, then said, “It is an uncomplicated creation, though rather exquisite, don't you agree?”

  Mr. Umezaki looked up from the pancake piece held by his chopsticks. He appeared preoccupied with chewing and did not reply until he had swallowed. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes—”

  Afterward, having been given hasty, vague directions by the busy cook, they headed for Shukkei-en Garden, a seventeenth-century refuge that Mr. Umezaki knew Holmes would enjoy seeing. Toting their suitcase at his side, leading the way along sidewalks
teeming with foot traffic, ambling by crooked telephone poles and bent pine trees, he painted a vivid portrait, the details being extracted from his boyhood memories of the place. For the garden, he told Holmes, was a landscape in miniature, with a pond based on China's famous Xi Hu lake, and consisted of streams, islets, and bridges that appeared much larger than they actually were. An unimaginable oasis, Holmes realized when trying to envision the garden—impossible to conceive of, it seemed, in a flattened city struggling with reconstruction (the noises of which surrounded them—the beating of hammers, the groan of heavy equipment, the workmen moving down the street with lumber on their shoulders, the patter of horses and cars).

  In any case, Mr. Umezaki readily admitted, the Hiroshima of his youth no longer remained, and he feared the garden had probably been badly damaged by the bomb. All the same, he believed something of its original charm might still remain intact—possibly the small stone bridge crossing a clear pond, maybe the stone lantern built in the image of Yang Kwei Fei.

  “I suppose we will know soon enough,” said Holmes, eager to leave the sun-drenched streets for a serene, relaxing environment, somewhere he could pause awhile amid the shade of trees and wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  But when nearing a bridge that went across the Motoyasu River, at the city's barren center, Mr. Umezaki sensed a wrong turn had been made along the way, or that he had somehow misheard the cook's swiftly spoken instructions. Yet neither stopped, compelled instead to go forward toward what loomed ahead: “The Atom Bomb Dome,” said Mr. Umezaki, pointing at the reinforced-concrete dome that had been stripped bare by the blast. His index finger climbed up past the building, indicating the hard blue sky. And there, he revealed, was where the great flash-bang had occurred, that inexplicable pika-don, engulfing the city in a massive firestorm; its wake then bringing days of black rain—fast-falling radioactivity mixed with the ashes of homes, trees, and bodies that had been obliterated by the blast and were sent swirling into the atmosphere.