Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  While we drank our tea, Shozo-san stood facing us with his back to his bronze double, and began a harangue on the history and numerous successes of Skip. He huffed and puffed and explained at length, in what soon developed into an overweening manner, the story of his success. While I forgot most of it (years of hardship and travail), what he essentially said, or at least what I remembered, was that his success lay in his being a common man who never lost sight of his common roots and so went out and asked the common people for their opinions through extensive market research. Artists, he pointed out, were nothing but trouble and hadn’t the foggiest idea what the common comic-book buyer wanted. Instead, he maintained, he backed his own judgment with market research. ‘Listen to the voice of the people is my motto!’ he exclaimed, then added, ‘Artists are prima donnas, not under any circumstances to be trusted! We do not employ these arrogant impostors, only those who do as they are told by the surveys!’ His voice was growing more and more strident and I glanced at Fuchida-san who was clearly losing patience. ‘Now you will want to know about the colour pink . . .’

  Fuchida-san suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘I too am a common man and if you want my opinion, with the greatest respect, you are talking shit! No, I don’t want to know about pink – it is a colour I detest, the colour of a neo-communist! We have come to see Gekko Mura. Will you fetch him now please.’

  Shozo-san’s mouth fell open giving him the appearance of a fat toad. ‘Certainly, at once, Fuchida-san,’ he stammered, then turned and peeping around the statue towards the door yelled, ‘Come!’

  We all expected Gojo Mura to appear, but instead a clerk, wearing a pink shirt and tie, appeared and hurried to Shozo-san’s side, handing him a note. The fat founder glanced quickly at the note then, looking at Fuchida-san, declared, ‘We have eight employees with the name Gekko, honourable Fuchida-san.’ Whereupon he nodded at the clerk who hurried to the door and reappeared moments later with eight men of various ages who were made to stand with heads bowed in front of us. All wore pink shirts, though only two sported pink ties as well. The ties I surmised must be those of executive staff.

  ‘What is this?’ Fuchida-san exclaimed angrily. ‘He is not here!’

  Fat Shozo turned to his clerk, red-faced. ‘He is not here!’ he repeated.

  The clerk, evidently accustomed to being yelled at, answered, ‘There is one other of this name, but it is not possible. He has no presence and is a filler artist. He is not even entitled to wear a pink shirt!’

  ‘Bring him!’ Fuchida-san shouted. ‘You who say you are a common man should be ashamed! We are all equal in the new Japan, except for the emperor, and even he is no longer a living god.’

  ‘Yes, but this Gekko is officially dead, he is konpaku [a ghost].’

  ‘Enough of that old bullshit!’ Fuchida-san thundered. ‘Bring him here at once!’

  The clerk left at a veritable trot and returned some minutes later with an emaciated little man whom I immediately recognised, if only for the fact that he had also been emaciated the first time I saw him in the jungle when he had been painting a Clipper butterfly. His hair had turned almost white and constant malnourishment had made him even bandier and more wizened. He was dressed in a shabby and ill-fitting suit and his tie resembled an enlarged rat’s tail; the collar of his shirt was frayed, but his shoes were polished and his clothes were clean. Even in the jungle, living alone in a cliff-top cave, he had been neatly turned out. But now I could see him shaking, his trembling knees agitating the thin material of his oversized trousers so that I thought at any moment he might collapse. Abandoning any formalities I rose and strode over to him, grabbing him in a bear hug. He felt like a small child in my arms. ‘Gojo-san, it has been too long!’ I cried. ‘But the gods have been merciful and we are together again!’ I was very close to tears. I held him away from me, beaming down at the withered little man. ‘It is so good to see you!’ I cried, overcome, unaware that I must appear a complete hypocrite for, in my anxiety to leave Japan, I had almost decided not to take the trouble to meet him again.

  Behind Gojo Mura the fat founder stood, mouth agape once more. ‘Leave us at once!’ Fuchida-san said, then in case he didn’t get the message, he indicated the door with a wave of his hand and added, ‘Scram! Piss off!’

  ‘Duncan-san, it is you?’ Gojo Mura said startled. ‘Are you a ghost from the jungle?’

  Anna laughed and rising from her large armchair came over. Bowing she said, ‘I am Anna. I have heard a great deal about you, Gojo-san.’

  Gojo-san glanced quickly up at her then immediately dropped his eyes, too shy to meet her gaze. He bowed. ‘I am honoured,’ he said, barely above a whisper.

  ‘This is Anna-san, my partner. She knows of you as a great naturalist, a painter of insects and butterflies,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, I am nothing, not a painter, just a filler,’ Gojo said, embarrassed at receiving such unfamiliar praise.

  Fuchida-san stepped up and bowed. ‘How are you, my childhood friend?’

  Gojo bowed deeply. ‘All Japan knows of your stature and fame, honourable Oyabun Fuchida-san,’ he said humbly.

  ‘Nonsense! We are village brothers. There is no ceremony possible between us. Remember when we would catch tadpoles in the gutter behind the village? We have come to take you away from this shit hole and its fat, pink arsehole who, I have no doubt, pays you a pittance. I have a great need for a painter of butterflies.’ He clapped his hands, causing Gojo Mura to jump, startled. ‘We will make a book, yes, that is a good idea! We will call it The Oyabun’s Butterflies of Japan. He glanced over at me. ‘Then another, Nicholas Duncan’s Butterflies of the South Pacific. What say you, Nick-san?’

  ‘Leave off the Nicholas Duncan. Just The Butterflies of the South Pacific,’ I said. ‘Great idea!’

  ‘See, already there is five years’ work,’ Fuchida-san laughed.

  ‘I am not worthy. I have forgotten. I will let you down. It is impossible. I am a humble filler of shameful images,’ Gojo Mura insisted.

  ‘A little practice is all you’ll need,’ I said encouragingly, unaware of the depth of his despair.

  Gojo Mura shook his head, at once forlorn. ‘It is a kindness I cannot accept, because I will surely fail you, Lieutenant Nick-san,’ he said, remembering how he had addressed me all those years ago.

  ‘Enough depressing talk!’ Fuchida-san interrupted in a jocular voice. ‘There is a wonderful restaurant next to this building. I have caused it to be closed to the public for the afternoon and the staff sent home so that we can have it to ourselves for a resurrection ceremony.’

  At that precise moment a whirring filled the room, whereupon the fifty giant clocks started to chime.

  Anna was the first to recover. Cupping her hands around her mouth she shouted above the astonishing din, ‘See, Gojo-san, they chime for you! Now there is no turning back!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Why? Why do you mock me? I have done nothing to harm you!’

  Gojo Mura, Tokyo

  THERE WAS NO SIGN of the fat founder as we left the conference room, passed the vases in the passage and gained the foyer, where this time a lone receptionist stood holding open the plate-glass door. Anna stopped as we reached her. ‘Go ahead, I won’t be more than a moment or two,’ she said.

  Approaching the receptionist she said, ‘Excuse me, why does everyone wear pink?’

  ‘It is compulsory, madam,’ the receptionist replied.

  ‘But why?’ Anna knew there must be a reason because the fat founder had been about to explain when Fuchida-san had cut him off.

  ‘There was a market survey done three years ago among the readers of Man Alive magazine. The young men were asked: “What colour does your mother like best?”’

  ‘Let me guess, pink?’ Anna grinned.

  The receptionist nodded, still serious. ‘Ever since then sales of Man Alive magazine have increased. Pink is our lucky colour, madam. It is called “market synergy”. Our honourable founder says our re
aders feel that we respect their mothers.’

  ‘I see. But isn’t Man Alive a sexually explicit magazine?’

  The receptionist looked alarmed. ‘It is only a manga, madam! It is for young men. Mothers don’t read them.’

  ‘If the mothers who prefer pink don’t read them, then what is the point?’

  ‘It is called “mind compatibility analysis”, madam,’ the receptionist said in a serious tone. ‘The readers love their mothers and they know we feel the same. It has been tested and completely proven.’

  ‘Oh? How was it tested?’

  ‘For one week last year our honourable founder, Shozo-san, decreed that nobody should wear pink. Also, it was forbidden to think pink. We were told if we think a colour it must only be white. Can you believe it! The sales went down for that week’s issue.’

  ‘No!’ Anna exclaimed in mock horror.

  ‘Yes, madam, it is true!’

  ‘Did the sales go down significantly? I mean, did they plunge?’

  ‘I don’t know, madam, we were not told. But Shozo-san said it proved that mothers are always right and our future success is tied to thinking and wearing pink. So we are instructed to always wear our smocks in the future. Some girls wear pink underwear so it will bring them extra luck.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Yes, of course! Our company motto is “Kaizen” – it means continuous improvement. I used to be the second receptionist. Now in only three years I am the first.’

  Anna then said in a kindly voice, ‘Well done, but take my advice – keep your pink panties on. Taking them off is another way to improve your lot in life, but a great deal of market research indicates that it usually ends badly, in particular for secretaries and receptionists.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, madam,’ the receptionist said, still serious. ‘Thank you for visiting Skip. I hope you have a pink day.’

  Anna met us in the car park a minute or so later, shaking her head in bemusement. I guess Japan will always be an enigma. On the one hand the Japanese are an extremely clever and ambitious people, on the other – well, what can you say – naïve, stubborn, rigid, conditioned, obedient, institutionalised, unquestioning, subordinated, superstitious . . . perhaps all of these things, but still uniquely enterprising and innovative. Japan is a country that has risen from the ashes of war more effectively perhaps than any other in history.

  The restaurant was literally next door to Skip. In a back room, a small banquet had been prepared on Fuchida-san’s instructions, the dishes ranging from traditional Japanese fare to modern cuisine, rice cakes to thinly sliced beef sashimi. The alcoholic drinks available – sake, beer and Suntory whisky – spanned both eras, and a lone soft drink, Pepsi-Cola, represented the new Japan now eagerly borrowing the bad habits of the West. Japanese teenagers were embracing junk food almost faster than American fast-food companies could build their distinctive outlets. Whereas the national diet of old Japan was possibly the healthiest in the world, the new Japan seemed to be hell bent on swapping it for the worst the West had to offer.

  Gojo had never before tasted beef or soft drink and shyly refused both while accepting a cup of sake, though only for the sake of the inevitable introductory toast, afterwards claiming it made him feel quite light-headed and that he hadn’t had alcohol for over twenty years. Later I discovered that he was accustomed to eating one small helping of rice and vegetables at night, all he could afford after paying the rent on a room so tiny it resembled a medium-sized wardrobe.

  As he was plainly overwhelmed by the sudden and unexpected attention, we all tried our best to put him at ease. He had spent the last twenty-five years of his life making every effort to be invisible and now reacted with a start every time his name was mentioned. He also found it almost impossible to meet our eyes. His replies to our questions always came, like those of a shy child, with lids downcast.

  For my part I was ashamed that I had virtually decided to return to Australia without seeing him. Had Anna not asked Miss Sparkle to set up another appointment I daresay I would have left Japan never to see him again. The capture of Gojo Mura while he was painting butterflies in the jungle would have become one of those wartime stories old men tell after a glass of wine too many at a dinner party that has gone on too long.

  As it turned out he was to play a not insignificant part in our future lives. But now, overcompensating perhaps for my own intransigence, I was determined to help this dear, gentle and tormented soul who had been so cruelly punished, forced to lead a life he wasn’t able to alter in the smallest respect by any effort of his own. It was to his credit that he had survived, if only as a shadow. Suicide among these walking ghosts was so common that it was met with a casual shrug. Again, many of those who didn’t take their own lives spent them as alcoholics in the gutter or as beggars outside shrines. Gojo Mura had shown enough character to lead a blameless existence, eking out an impecunious living filling in the outlines of pornographic images rendered by artists probably far less talented than he was. My most ardent hope was that we would be able to restore his confidence sufficiently for him to resume painting the butterflies and other insects he had previously so loved to depict.

  I was aware that people like him who are barely surviving don’t always respond well to being rescued. This was evidenced on the Burma–Thailand Railway and at Changi, as well as at other Japanese prisoner-of-war camps, where cruelty, disease and starvation were endemic. When the Australian prisoners of war were finally rescued, some of these hollow-eyed skeletons were dismayed and even furious at the sudden disruption to the pattern of their daily lives. They had worked so hard and honed their survival instincts to such an extent that they became terrified that any sudden change in their routines would sever the tenuous thread which kept them from certain death.

  However, Fuchida-san was possessed of no such sensibility. This was to be his day as much as Gojo Mura’s, and he was determined to perform the resurrection ceremony with the degree of formality he considered necessary to convert the old Japan into the new and paradoxically the new Gojo Mura back into the old one.

  I had learned that the oyabun was a man with two separate personas. When he was in total control, as he had been during the raid on Konoe Akira’s home or during Anna’s rescue, he was quiet and measured in his response, but when unsure of the social situation in which he found himself, he became rambunctious, loud and arrogant, flaunting his power as he had on the first day we met in the Imperial Hotel and again in the presence of the fat founder where he had plainly been nervous about meeting Gojo Mura. Perhaps this was another reason why I had become an essential part of the reunion.

  Moreover, like myself, I have no doubt he felt some guilt at having neglected his boyhood mate all these years. But now in the restaurant he was entirely self-possessed, and if he seemed insensitive to Gojo Mura’s disquiet, this may well have been deliberate. Despite his claim to have embraced the culture and ways of the West, Fuchida-san was still essentially Japanese and in his mind the ceremony had to be performed as he’d envisioned it; he wasn’t going to allow for any errant behaviour, even from Gojo Mura himself.

  ‘Sit, please,’ he commanded, remaining standing himself. ‘Hai! A toast!’ he cried, shortly after we’d all lowered ourselves to the cushions on the tatami matting. Two of his wakagashira were deputising as waiters and served us the means of drinking a toast: a Pepsi for Anna, a beer to chase away the last of my hangover for me and sake for our honourable host and major guest. ‘Kampai!’ we all shouted, and the formalities began.

  The oyabun opened proceedings in the time-honoured way. ‘This is a most auspicious occasion,’ he said. ‘Today, in this restaurant, the old Japan gives way to the new Japan. Feudalism is replaced by democracy, bondage by freedom, dogma by enlightenment, mass obedience by the right to protest, autocratic authority by public debate, government propaganda by freedom of the press.’ It was pretty grand stuff, even if it was largely wishful thinking, and had plainly been carefully rehearsed by our host.
But it nevertheless demonstrated to anyone listening that the old ways were over and that the new Japan was the only future.

  ‘All of this was brought about by three factors,’ the oyabun continued, ‘our defeat in the war, our willingness to embrace Western democracy, and our ability to suspend group judgment and find a new way to forgive the past and to live in peaceful coexistence with our neighbours.’ Fuchida-san smiled, obviously pleased with his grandiloquence. ‘We are three brothers: two have gone the new way and the third, Gojo-san, through no fault of his own, has been trapped in the old way. Now the two brothers blessed by freedom have searched and found the third brother cursed by the dogma of old Japan. Today the three brothers are reunited at last. Welcome, brother Gojo, to your resurrection and your new life!’

  Anna and I, together with the two wakagashira, clapped madly, while little Gojo Mura looked utterly confused, glancing quickly in the direction of the doorway as if he were about to make a run for it. Fuchida-san gestured to one of the wakagashira who handed him a scroll. Holding it above his head he let it unroll. ‘To the resurrection of Gojo Mura!’ he shouted.

  ‘To the resurrection!’ we all chorused, whereupon Anna leaned over and hugged the little artist. Years later Gojo-san would tell us that it was the first time he had felt a woman’s touch since his mother had embraced him before he marched off to war in 1943.

  The head of the scroll was decorated with a watercolour scene of the sun rising over the words ‘Fukkatsu no hi’, meaning ‘The Day of Resurrection’. Hand-lettered under it in large kanji were words that I now translate as best I can from the original Japanese into English: