The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  Anna bowed formally. ‘I am deeply grateful to you, Konoe-san.’

  To her surprise he didn’t turn in his usual abrupt manner and limp off, but seemed to hesitate and then with his expression unchanged, pronounced the Javanese words ‘Mugi-mugi diberkati [My blessings upon you]’. Such was her surprise that Anna’s eyebrows shot up and she looked at him open-mouthed. He smiled, almost mischievously, changing back to speaking Japanese. ‘When we have taken lunch tomorrow you will stay a further part of the afternoon. I wish to walk in the garden one last time and I have a small gift for you.’ He looked directly at Anna. ‘Do you remember the second vase I had arranged for the second lunch we had together?’

  ‘Yes, Konoe-san, the one with lots of different-coloured dahlias. I am named for it.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct. Do you recall what you said when I asked your opinion of my arrangement?’

  ‘No, Konoe-san, it happened three years ago,’ Anna confessed.

  ‘You said: “The arrangement is too formal, too perfect. These flowers, they want to dance and you are making them stand to attention. They are not an orchestra, they are a jazz group.”’ He cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow I would like you to come to lunch in a sarong and sandals. I want to see you as I did the first day you came to me — afraid, but still wild and courageous and… wonderful. You were and still are the second vase brought to perfection. At the time, I was too arrogant to understand.’ He drew breath. ‘Now I think I do.’ Then he turned in his usual abrupt manner and limped away.

  Anna bowed, as she always did, to his stiffly held departing back. ‘Thank you, Konoe-san,’ she said, smiling.

  The following day, Anna arrived a little later as she had no need to change into a kimono. Til, sensing that she was preoccupied, pedalled in silence. He had become accustomed to Anna sharing her concerns with him and when they arrived at the brewer’s mansion he asked, ‘Anna, is there something wrong?’

  ‘No, Til, something has ended in my life. I am very afraid of the new beginning, that is all.’

  Til was sensitive enough not to invent an Allah quote on the spot. ‘That is sad, Anna,’ he said caringly. Anna informed him that he might have to wait well into the afternoon for her return. Til smiled, and in an attempt to lighten her mood, said, ‘I am growing fat and lazy in this job, Anna. There was a time when waiting around cost me money; now I am paid for sleeping in the shade of a poinciana tree.’ He shrugged. ‘How can I complain? I would wait my whole life for you. Allah akbar! [God is good!]’

  Anna realised that while she cared deeply for Konoe Akira, she cared just as deeply for the little barefooted becak owner. One man possessed power, the other decency. One was consumed by his personal demons, the other was confident that he was held in the outstretched hand of a benign God. One had a stiff knee above polished jackboots, the other a big toe on a bare foot that turned out at right angles.

  Anna wore her prettiest sarong, a deep-blue blouse and in her hair an exotic orchid that she had purchased that morning in the markets. It lacked the simplicity of the frangipani but she saw its several extravagant colours as a metaphor for the second vase.

  The lunch session proceeded as usual. Konoe Akira made no mention of Anna’s sarong and blouse and simple sandals, except for a gruff ‘Humph!’ that followed immediately after his initial ‘Ho!’ Anna took this as a sign, in this particular instance, of his approval. He seated himself and took out his silver cigarette case for his pre-lunch cigarette, but when he opened it Anna noticed that it contained only two cigarettes. This was highly unusual as the case was always meticulously organised, like everything else in his life, with the slim white, tobacco-filled tubes lined up in perfect formation, without a gap in their ranks. It was, she concluded, a small sign that his imminent departure was affecting him.

  However, after lunch, when he’d smoked his mandatory second cigarette which was the last in the slim, silver case, he pushed the case across the table towards Anna. ‘You will please accept this humble token of my esteem, Second Vase,’ he said gruffly.

  Anna picked it up and saw that above his name, which was engraved in Japanese on the lid, was a line in Javanese: Nyuwun pamit ratu [Goodbye, Princess]. Anna, close to tears, smiled. ‘Thank you, Konoe-san. I shall cherish it for the remainder of my life.’ Then bringing both hands to her face she wiped her sudden tears away with the tips of her fingers. ‘Honourable Konoe-san, I too have a gift for you.’ With this she reached down to her bag and withdrew a small black box, neatly tied with a narrow blue ribbon. Ribbon was another of the taken-for-granted things that were now no longer available, so Anna had removed a narrow satin ribbon that had been laced through one of the puffed sleeves of a favourite blouse. She removed the orchid from her hair and inserted it under the ribbon tie, then stood and bowed, holding the box in both hands in the Japanese manner. ‘It belonged to my grandfather. I would be honoured if you would accept it as a token of my esteem, Konoe-san,’ Anna said, proffering the gift.

  The Japanese officer’s expression was a mixture of pleased surprise and amusement as he accepted her gift, thinking it was probably some small keepsake purchased at the markets. Removing the orchid he placed it on the table, weighing the unopened box in his hand. ‘It is heavy,’ he remarked, smiling at her. Pulling one end of the satin bow he lifted the lid, whereupon a look of astonishment momentarily crossed his face. He didn’t look up at the still standing Anna, but instead, as he attempted to recover his composure, reached in and removed the gold pocket watch and chain. Finally he looked up. ‘I am not worthy of such a truly valuable gift, Second Vase,’ he said quietly. ‘I will treasure it and keep it always with me, and each time I wind it I will be reminded that perfection is not simply one colour highlighted by white.’ Anna was now seeing an aspect of the colonel she had only glimpsed once or twice before, though at those times she had been unsure that she wasn’t simply imagining a softness that might lie behind the hard military exterior.

  Later, as they walked silently through the immaculately groomed tropical garden — too fastidious for Anna’s liking, although she did not say so — Konoe Akira suddenly remarked, ‘I shall miss this garden, this sense of space, its verdancy. Now I must return to a Japanese garden. I wonder if I will henceforth regard that form as perfect? Often such a garden will contain a single bloom, while in this one they are beyond number.’

  ‘Is it not usually a yellow chrysanthemum in a Japanese garden?’ Anna asked, remembering what I had told her about Japan.

  ‘Not always, but often,’ he replied. ‘It is our national flower and the throne from which the Emperor rules is known as the Chrysanthemum Throne. To grow a yellow chrysanthemum is a sign of devotion to the Emperor.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone will ever rule from a dahlia throne,’ Anna laughed.

  They had reached a shady corner of the garden when Konoe Akira stopped and pointed to a slender sapling, no more than a metre high. ‘This is a persimmon tree, now three years old. With luck it will live to be one hundred years. I have planted one of these wherever I have found myself. I was a small child when instructed to do so by my esteemed and venerable grandmother.’

  ‘The heartwood,’ Anna said, remembering the chopsticks and the colonel’s description of the persimmon tree at the time.

  Konoe Akira looked amused. ‘Yesterday I asked if you remembered what you had said to me about the second vase I arranged on your second day to lunch and you replied that you did not. Now you remember the story of the heartwood from your first day?’

  Anna blushed. ‘It would have been an impertinence to recall my own words, Konoe-san. I was honoured that you did so.’

  ‘Your metaphor of orchestral performers and those who play jazz music was a worthy one. For me, the persimmon tree is just such a metaphor for life. It has many metaphors.’ Anna remained silent as he explained. ‘The outside wood, which is very beautiful, has several characteristics. It is strong, bu
t has the capacity to absorb shock and if it strikes a hard surface it will not splinter. This is the metaphor of resilience. Then, when its trunk is light and smooth it is young, but when it grows older it is veined with purple. This is the metaphor of youth growing into maturity with calm and dignity. In the summer, its leaves are arched and overlap to provide shade for others: animals, birds and humans who labour in the field. This is the metaphor of caring about all creatures and helping others. In the autumn, the leaves drop and the fruit ripens; they are fiery red balls the size of my fist and hang like glorious lanterns from the tree. This is the metaphor of passing on the sweet fruit of life, its joy and tenderness, because, before it is eaten, the fruit must be soft beyond a softness that any other fruit can endure without corruption.’

  Konoe Akira paused. ‘I have already spoken of the metaphor of the centre, of the heartwood, more resilient than steel, the core that cannot be defeated. These are the metaphors: the core, beyond strength of will; the resilience of the outer wood that will not splinter but always keeps to its resolve; the leaves that, in providing shelter, consider the convenience of others beside themselves; finally, the ripened fulfilment, when the autumn of life comes and with it the soft fruitfulness of wisdom and love to be passed on.’ He reached into the pocket of his military tunic and withdrew a tiny envelope. ‘In here are eighty seeds of the persimmon tree, Second Vase. Plant one seed every year of your life. May you live to plant the last seed when you reach one hundred. In all things, may your heart be as soft and sweet and generous as the fruit of the sacred persimmon tree, your body as resilient as the outer wood, and your mind as strong as its heartwood.’ He turned and bowed. ‘Ho! I shall see you tonight at eight o’clock.’

  It was the 5th of July 1945 when Anna was the one who was now left, waving a tearful farewell at the dockside as Major General Konoe Akira stood at the rail of a Japanese destroyer and waved. The battalion band started to play, and on a platform in front of the battalion on the docks Captain Takahashi, now Colonel, formerly of the kempeitai, called the battalion to attention and then gave the final salute to the departing commander.

  Konoe Akira stood rigidly to attention to take the salute, but as the destroyer weighed anchor she watched him lift his left hand above his shoulders. The last thing Anna saw as the Japanese navy ship pulled away from the shore and turned its nose into the river was a string of late-afternoon sunlight as it caught the lid of the gold watch he held up by its chain. Anna knew then that the salute was not only to his former battalion, but was intended for her as well.

  She knew also that she had helped to assuage his demons. On the previous night, when she had worn the yellow kimono for the last time, he had instructed her to put away the kinbaku ropes. ‘It is over, Second Vase, the guilt has lessened, perhaps even gone,’ he said quietly. ‘Let us drink tea and talk.’ It was the first time after nightfall that he had referred to her as Second Vase.

  Anna was arrested by the kempeitai at dawn the following morning when a detachment of a sergeant and five kempeitai soldiers carrying rifles broke down the front door. She was still in bed when she heard the shouts and then the door being smashed. Jumping from her bed she rushed from the bedroom, then screamed as the door, torn from its hinges, crashed to the floor and the kempeitai burst in.

  The stocky sergeant grinned at the sight of Anna standing in her flimsy nightdress, his smile displaying that one of his front teeth was capped in gold. Then, assuming Anna didn’t speak Japanese, he held up both hands to indicate the number ten, then tapped his wristwatch and with a sweep of the arm indicated that she had ten minutes before they would leave with her as their prisoner.

  Sobbing softly, she dressed, then took the box that contained the Clipper butterfly, wrapped the six pieces of the butterfly ashtray in a soft cloth and placed them in a large cotton bag along with several sarongs, blouses, undies and a spare pair of sandals. As an afterthought she also packed the three remaining ampoules of morphine and the syringe the Japanese doctor had given her, then finally her few toiletries. She placed the silver hairbrush and cigarette case Konoe Akira had given her in the shoulder bag, then quickly inserted the cartridge case containing the diamonds in the predestined place and hid the two-hundred guilders she had nearby in her bra, leaving the twenty or so and some loose change in her purse.

  The kempeitai soldiers and the sergeant, apart from his initial lewd gold-toothed leer, had been respectful and had allowed her to pack her things without supervision, but after ten minutes he reappeared at the bedroom door and tapped his watch and, with a jerk of his head toward the verandah, indicated her time was up.

  Anna, carrying the cotton bag and with her dishtowel bag slung over her shoulder, walked out of the bedroom onto the stoep, where the soldiers waited. Unaware that Anna spoke Japanese, the sergeant instructed them: ‘Move the bitch out! Do not harm her or there will be trouble from higher up. Hurry! We must be gone from here before the town wakes!’

  In a well-drilled and accustomed manner, four kempeitai took positions around Anna. One stood on either side of her, another was in front and yet another directly behind her. The fifth reached out and took the cotton bag, whereupon the sergeant instructed him to go ahead and stow the bag and open the back door of the American car. He pointed to the kempeitai soldiers standing on either side of her. ‘Sit the She-devil in the back seat in the centre; one of you sit on either side of her and restrain her if she struggles, but do not harm her or mark her or there will be the sort of trouble you wouldn’t wish on a money lender.’

  ‘Should she not have handcuffs, Sergeant?’ one of the soldiers asked.

  ‘No, they may bruise her wrists! She must be perfect. Those are our orders.’

  The soldiers, who were standing at ease with their rifle butts on the floor, were called to attention by the sergeant and made ready to march her off.

  Apart from the scream when witnessing the soldiers bursting through the front door and sobbing for the first few minutes as she frantically packed, Anna had remained silent throughout the ordeal. Now the sergeant ordered his men to march and she was effectively taken prisoner in a routine the kempeitai detachment was obviously accustomed to performing.

  They marched down the brick-edged front path to the gate, and that was when Anna saw it. Spiked to a bamboo pole by the side of the front gate was Til’s severed head, his eyes still open and seeming to be looking at her.

  Anna screamed and collapsed to her knees so that the kempeitai soldier who was marching behind her knocked into her, causing her to sprawl forward onto her face and graze her chin on the gravel, her bag falling from her shoulders. ‘You idiot!’ she heard the sergeant shout at the soldier a moment before her head filled with a terrible roaring sound that she was unaware came from her own chest and throat. She sprang to her feet and then turning, bodily lifted the kempeitai soldier who had inadvertently bumped into her, and threw him into the gate, his rifle clattering on the path at Anna’s feet. Anna bent down, picked it up by the barrel and swung it up from the ground to catch the sergeant with the rifle butt on the side of the jaw, knocking him backwards where he crashed to the path unconscious.

  The two soldiers on either side of her, taken completely by surprise and with orders not to harm her, hesitated. Anna swung wildly at the soldier on her right so that the rifle butt caught him across the ribs, knocking him from his feet and severely winding him, his rifle flying from his hands. He lay on his back clutching his side and trying to regain his breath.

  The second soldier at her side finally came to his wits, dropped his rifle and tackled her to the ground, his body pressing her down, his breath hot against her face. Anna screamed, and raising her head, bit through his earlobe. He jumped to his feet in alarm, clutching at his ear. The fourth soldier now fell upon her, but Anna managed to get her knee up hard into his groin and he howled in sudden pain, clutching his manhood and rolling away.

  Then the soldier whom she’d hurled in
to the gate came running and flung himself upon her, blood streaming down the side of his head and into his eye from the deep gash on his forehead where he’d crashed into the wrought-iron gate. The blood pouring from his eye began to soak Anna’s white blouse as he grimly hung on to her struggling form.

  The fifth kempeitai, the one who’d carried her cotton bag, came running from the car and kicked out at her, his boot planted squarely into her right upper thigh. The soldier she’d kicked in the groin had partly recovered and while two of them held her down the kempeitai who had kicked her managed to put her wrists in handcuffs and the two soldiers moved away from her.

  Snarling and spitting, Anna refused to stand up and so the soldier with the groin injury and the unhurt kicker took her by the shoulder and dragged her along the path, scraping her knees on the gravel. They finally reached the big American Chevrolet and threw her into the back seat, where she commenced to howl. At last, this was something the kempeitai understood — a victim crying. The two soldiers looked relieved as one sat on either side of her in the back seat. One of them, cupping both hands over his groin, groaned, ‘The bitch kneed me in the balls!’

  The soldier who’d kicked her, still panting from the effort of dragging Anna and the only one among them without an injury, snorted. ‘You’ll be lucky if that’s all that happens to you, brother! We are all in deep shit. Colonel Takahashi-san wanted the woman delivered to the Nest of the Swallows without a mark on her. The sergeant told me that the colonel-san left express orders that if she possessed even a scratch after being apprehended we would all pay dearly.’