Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the blasts of air, but his body was being buffeted back and forth. And the contours of the faces of everyone and everything in the room appeared with particular clarity. His uncle used to say that “when drinking, others appear smaller”; maybe this is what he meant. It was at that moment that suddenly there came a roar, a gust of the wind much stronger than any previous, pushing in harder and louder, that picked up all the stuff on the table, all the napkins and the paper wrappers and the smoke and the cigarette butts, in a twister. The empty glasses and beer pitchers were all toppled by the blast. Engulfed in the vortex, Shōji now found himself staring at a huge gaping hole that had opened in front of him. It seemed bottomless, a cavern that stretched into infinity. It was the source of the howling wind. The gale kept coming, without end.
At first, Shōji thought he was seeing the abyss that Uncle Isa had embraced. Maybe all that violence had come pouring from this negative space, this cavern. He quickly realized that was not it at all. There was no denying it: the cavity was opening from within himself. He had been trying to plug up the cavern by throwing all the episodes related to his uncle in there, that and everything else, up to and including the things related to the recent earthquake and tsunami disasters in his hometown.
“Uncle Isa, where are you now? Where are you? What are you doing?”
Shōji turned to the abyss to ask his questions. He felt that his voice would be able to travel through the opening within him to reach his uncle Isa.
“Are you no longer such a rough character? …”
It came to him vaguely, but he could see in the shabby public room of a group home, among all the other lonely old people silently watching television, he could see his uncle. He wore an old sweat suit, dirty with the stains of spilled food, holding in his left hand his useless right arm, the proof of a stroke. Gone were the tough-guy looks. He could see an expression that suggested resignation, staring blankly at the television screen.… And he couldn’t accept it: this was not the image of his uncle that Shōji had created for himself.
The gale’s power and violence were increasing. It was turning into a tornado, sucking up every last dish that had been placed on the table and sending them flying. It was a sharp wind that seemed to be cutting away something from the core of his body. He feared that he was going to scream. He closed his eyes hoping to fight it back. At that moment a thought crystallized within him:
“It’s me. I am Isa!”
“Hey, hey there Shōji, what happened, you fall asleep or somethin’?”
His shoulders were being shaken. A voice he didn’t recognize whispered in his ear. He slowly opened his eyes. All the glasses and ashtrays and plates and everything else, all the stuff that should have been blown around by the twister was right where it should have been. He was about halfway back to the present and conscious, yet he had not yet completely forgotten the thoughts of a moment ago. “Me? I’m Isa?”
He turned toward the voice. Why was Toki-Kan sitting next to him, his gelled hair brushed back, laughing?
“Hey, they been tellin’ me you’re in Tokyo these days. Is that right? Look, get in touch with me. Let’s get together there sometime.”
Sitting next to each other on the floor, at the low table, he had his hand on Shōji’s shoulder, like an old friend. They had hardly exchanged two words, so what was this about? Given that Shōji wasn’t responding, Toki-Kan looked around as though, “Okay, looks like I sat down at the wrong place” and started surveying the room to decide where he would alight next. Shōji looked straight ahead and found that where Toki-Kan had been sitting before, Sayoko was now sitting by herself. Something seemed to have happened; her face was completely covered by both hands. In front of her the bottles of Milky Way Magic Water had toppled over and the lids had come off, spilling the liquid onto the table. He could see her shoulders shaking. She looked to be crying.
He was still watching Sayoko when out of somewhere came Toki-Kan’s laughter, followed by his face, which drew near: “Soo, I hear you had a crush on Sayoko.…”
“Who told you that?”
“She did. A long time ago.”
“…”
“And look at her now, what she’s turned into. It’s disgusting.” He seemed to be sighing as he said it. “You’re talking to someone you haven’t seen in forever, then they pull out this weird cosmic water shit, and then start drinking like a funnel—makes you wanna run away, right? So I says, ‘I’ve got something to talk to Shōji about’ and took off to find you.” He smiled as though he were telling a funny story. Then he turned and continued in a conspiratorial tone, “Ya know, I bet you could have her right now if you wanted. Just tell her you’ll buy some of that stuff. It’d work I’m sure.”
Shōji took his right elbow, which had been resting on the table, and with all the force he could muster, turned and drove it into Toki-Kan’s nose. Toki-Kan let out a dull umphh and hit the floor between the tables. Blood was seeping between the fingers with which he was holding his nose. Shōji gave him a sideways glance, drained the drink from someone’s half-empty glass, and spat out, “You come over here with ‘hey’ and ‘look here’ like we’re some kind of friends. You talk too much you little prick.”
Toki-Kan was lying on his back, holding his bloodied nose. Shōji put all his weight behind his right arm and drove his elbow into Toki-Kan’s stomach. Toki-Kan reacted violently, the force of Shōji’s elbow driving deep into the hollow of his stomach, resulting in the violent expulsion of forced-out air, and he trembled violently. His legs drew up in reaction to the force; Toki-Kan turned and fell into the hole below the kotatsu table.
“Well, we sure raised the roof tonight, didn’t we? We should get together again, this class reunion, and do it again sometime.…” With a bright face and broad smile, Sawada stood up and made this pronouncement. His suit coat was now unbuttoned and the protrusion of his stomach was on full display. “So, three cheers to mark the halfway point of the festivities! Whaddya say? Up, up, everybody up!”
At Sawada’s urging, everyone stood up, still in midconversation. Toki-Kan was still curled at Shōji’s feet. Sayoko seemed to have disappeared. Shōji stood up. No one seemed to notice him as he stumbled his way toward the exit.
Sawada leaned slightly forward to begin the cheer: “Well, I think we all have many tough times ahead of us still, but I am confident that come what may we can all get through it … three cheers!”
“Ganbare Nippon; together we can beat this, Japan!”
He could hear the reverberations of the handclaps and whistles and shouts of “Hooray!” “Ganbare Japan” “Be tough, Tohoku!” Shōji felt light-headed as he flailed his way out of the room. He ran down the steps, shoes only half on, and charged into the street.
On the street out front he found more taxis than people and no sign of Sayoko. He squared his shoulders and headed right, breathing roughly, toward the edge of the district. Like the calm before the storm, the breather before the violence, he felt a breeze full of calm and quiet against his cheeks. The small road met the larger street, full to capacity with rushing cars. Even this ‘larger road’ had only a few shops, and the entire place was enveloped in a dark and lonely atmosphere. He then turned left, and as soon as he did, he broke into a run, feeling increasingly unable to keep a lid on his tumultuous, violent emotions. He seemed to be pursued from behind, chased by the rising voices of Sawada and his other classmates.
—Ganbare Nippon!
—Ganbare Tōhoku!
—Be tough, Japan!
—Hang in there, Tohoku!
Over and over again.
Enough already! Stop this. Why is it that you have to go on and on like this, this chorus repeating empty phrases? And what is it with this “Japan” you keep screaming about? This thing with no concrete existence, why are you trying so hard to become one with it? Why is everyone willing to fall into line behind this? Are people just too good? Or just some sort of insult?
Sawada
and the others were probably not motivated by ill will. They are probably filled with a true desire to give encouragement. And that just makes it all the worse. It’s just sad, and angry, and pitiful, and lonely. All these feelings now jumbled together and none of them separable, tumbling and jumbled within him, howling from within him—he broke into a run again.
Ganbare Nippon! Ganbare Tōhoku! Be tough, Japan! Hang in there, Tohoku! Knock ’em dead! Be tough! Hang in there! Hang in there, let’s be tough! Hangintherelet’sbetoughHangintherelet’s betoughHangintherelet’sbetoughHangintherelet’sbetough
His voice was now pouring through his clenched teeth. He was running. He ran as though the “Hang in there, let’s be tough! Hang in there, let’s be tough!” was trying to run him down. His lungs and his heart and the muscles of his legs were all crying out and still he ran. The gale lashing the area was punctuated by rough bursts of wind. It gradually grew into one big angry howl then stood up like a snake and turned into a whirlwind. Projecting through his vigorously shaking field of vision he caught the shadows of people jumping out of his way as he flew past and the white lights of the streetlights and the smears of red from car taillights, all of it being sucked up off the ground by the huge whirlwind. All the old dilapidated buildings from another age, the traffic lights, the traffic signs marking one-way traffic, the surprised and braying stray dogs that looked like the Japanese breed, bicycles with brakes applied in a panic, the dust-covered trees along the sides of the roads, the old lady bent nearly double as she pushed her little cart, the convenience store dispersing too much artificial light, men in their work clothes catching a cigarette in the parking lot—all of them had been uprooted and thrown into the air and were flying away to disappear into the far distance.
It seemed possible in all this confusion that he might lose consciousness from a lack of oxygen. His field of vision was quickly growing dark and closing in on him. He thought hard, trying to turn back the chorus of voices pursuing him. The next phrases came of their own volition, words he chanted:
—Meee, I AM ISAaaaa!
The lights went out. In a moment all was covered in gloom. Eventually he began to hear the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the earth. When he came to he found himself in the middle of the woods at night. He was astride a horse, a member of the group of what had been called the Emishi. A rag tied around his head, a pelt over his shoulder, bow and arrows strapped across his back, bird feathers covered his neck, thrust into one side of his belt was a makiri knife and into the other a hand sword with a hilt elaborately woven with what looked to be the leaves of ferns. Emishi—what do they wear besides these pelts? Do they even wear pelts? He had no idea. He didn’t really know so he outfitted them with skintight compression pants and shirts. Didn’t quite make sense but it looked like that fancy heat-tech gear from one of those major clothing manufacturers. And there were others not with pelts but wrapped in blue vinyl tarps and empty cans and empty plastic bottles. And so, since he didn’t know if the Emishi outfitted their horses with saddles or if they steered with reins and stirrups or whatever, they had all turned into the kind of mounted warriors and horses he knew from historical dramas on television. But, whatever the form of all those guys that had fallen into formation behind him, he could not have cared less. Taken together, the full mishmash of familiar images had come together and with the form and force of anger relentlessly advanced forward.
Clearing his way out of the forest, even though it was still the predawn dark, he made it to what he could tell was an open grassy field. When he, and all these comrades now in a line behind him, burst out into the plain, he saw that almost simultaneously a number of other bands of soldiers who were mounted and apparently ready for battle came flying out from the woods on both the left and right sides in a thunder of beating hooves. It was like there was some beforehand agreed-to plan as they all fell into a large formation behind him.
The sun began to rise from across the ocean on his left. Isa / Shōji was leading the charge at the front of the horses. He called out a “Hoh …” to the clansmen thundering to his left and right. They responded in a clamor of voices: from one side “Hoh-ee,” to be answered from the other by a “Ho-hoh-ee.” That’s when he realized that all the clansmen around him, and him included, were all Isa. Different in face and in body, perhaps, but every warrior charging across the grassy plain had become Isa. Never motivated to act for a great moral cause in his life, Isa had now, for this one time only, gathered for a single goal. As they crossed out of Aomori Prefecture and into Iwate their numbers steadily increased. When they reached Miyagi the numbers swelled even further. One could now see warriors draped with numerous pelts and warriors with not-yet-dried seaweed glistening as it streamed behind them. As they charged across Fukushima large numbers of riders clothed in white jumpsuits appeared from all sides. The surgical masks covering their faces made it impossible to read their expressions, but it was clear from the way they held themselves on horseback that they were seething with a murderous lust. They had come from all areas of Tohoku, indeed from every corner of the country, all these Isas rising up, already having filled the area on a scale beyond any single person’s possible reckoning. For some reason there were ostriches running in their midst as well. Chickens flew in with a flurry of wings. Then the cows, pigs, dogs, and even cats, all thin with protruding rib cages, were now running with the group. Close to the ground groups of fish and insects were slithering forward with them. But they too were also Isa. This advancing army covered the ground like a carpet and their cries rose like a great rumbling deep in the earth and reverberated across the area with a fearsome roar.
Isa / Shōji brandished his sword in his right hand, raising it higher and higher, and bellowed, “Now is the time to come together all you Isas!” and continued, “All of you who think of yourself as Isa, all of you who can’t stand it anymore, join us here and now!”
Isa / Shōji was now heading south. With arrows fashioned from the steel and bamboo of the mountains north of Fukushima’s Shirakawa, the ancient area known as Hitoyama Hyakumon—one mountain worth a mere dollar—they planned to rain down on Tokyo. Arrows of anger were to rain down on those politicians who held only a minimum of concern for this Tohoku, even in the dire straits it was now in; down on those who come from who knows where, out of some desire to unify, maybe from some shallow political goals, and intone about “All Japan is one!” and on the bastards who have jumped on the bandwagon of “empathy” but show no inclination to actually draw close to the pain of the region. Now was the time to let loose and to throw aside the patience long praised as virtuous, to make clear the long-accumulated grudges of those people who have been despised and made use of.…
They had now already arrived, in the midst of the orderly commuters making their way to and fro among the office buildings of the Marunouchi financial district. The horseback warriors poured into each and every street, trampling both pedestrians and cars with disregard, off toward the imperial palace grounds nearby, off to Nagatachō government offices, to the ministries in Kasumigaseki, and then to overrun Uchisaiwaichō and the Tokyo Electric Company offices. Isa / Shōji let loose the first arrow to mark their goal, an arrow that in flight grew and grew to a monstrous size. It hit its target, pulverizing the main tower of the Diet building. With that as a signal all the Isas now in every corner of Tokyo’s twenty-three wards let loose their arrows. And with that all the buildings around the prime minister’s residence and the central ministerial office buildings, all the way down to the Tokyo Metropolitan Government buildings, all those big beautiful shiny buildings constructed with stealthily amassed riches, all were pulverized, blown up, and collapsed with a powerful roar.
“What the hell?! What am I doin’ allied like this with Tohoku, when I come from someplace else?”
Looking askance at the headquarters office of the Tokyo Electric Company, still crumbling into a pile of rubble and still spitting out dust and smoke, Shōji / Isa, still astride his galloping horse, mumbled
the query. A large-boned, humpbacked man had appeared out of nowhere and simply laughed at his side: “Like it even matters …” His bushy eyebrows were raised at a fearsome angle, the eyes below were fiery and explosive in his fixed gaze. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, his broad face was brazen: a samurai in a woodblock pose. It was Uncle Isa. Shōji / Isa was on the verge of saying this but caught his breath; Isa / Isa snorted angrily, “Live.”
“You, you gotta live. Be alive. Fake, empty, useless: all those feelings? Forget ’em. Pay no mind to the looks of others. Don’ even think about it. Even if it’s selfish, whatever, whatever it is, call it like you see it, shit is shit, say it loud, say it loud.”
Isa / Isa spoke in a deep voice, full of confidence. That voice with weight and substance now seemed alive as it reverberated and poured from Shōji’s head. Paying no heed to the traffic signal that had changed he flew out into the middle of the intersection. “Scream like your life depends on it!” At that moment came sharp sounds of car tires on asphalt. Shōji jumped to avoid the car going in the other direction and crumpled onto the pavement. He avoided being run over, but the drivers of the two cars had stopped within centimeters of his head; they were laying on their horns. Indistinctly from further behind came the sharp sound of cars colliding. Someone had jumped out and began shouting: “What the hell? What’s the asshole thinking?”
Even while it seemed that the strong white light of the headlights was being projected directly onto his retinas, Shōji retained some sense of calm as he raised himself from his knees to a standing position. He vaguely felt that every last one of the shrieking horns and angry shouts were directed at him, but he also felt vaguely that they were the aggregated voices of the band of Isas raised together.
He seemed to have lost his glasses in the fall. Everything was edged in blurred lines and the light bounced too brightly. What had happened, and how, and where he even was right now were beyond his grasp. Shōji had both hands raised as though to stop the angry sounds and voices that were rising from within him, but the voice came bubbling forth at full capacity: “It’s time to scream! It’s tii—ime to—ooo scree—ea—mm—!”
Sacred Cesium Ground and Isa's Deluge Page 16