by Unknown
Ai Imajo finds this funny.
We both begin talking at the same moment.
‘After you,’ I say.
‘No, after you,’ she says.
‘I, uh’ – the electric chair must be more pleasant than this – ‘am wondering if, I mean, it’s perfectly all right if not, you know’ – never commit your army without a clear path of retreat – ‘but if, uh, it’s okay for me to, uh, call you.’
A pause.
‘So, Miyake, you are calling me to ask me if it is okay to call me, right?’
I really should have planned this better.
Walking was pleasant since Goatwriter sloughed off his arthritic body in the sacred pool. The bamboo swayed sideways to let him pass, and whippoorwills wavered quarter quavers. Up ahead, he saw a house. It was a strange building to encounter in the Lapsang Souchang plateau. It would not have seemed out of place in a sleepy suburb, with its pond of duckweed and dragonflies. A stone lantern glowed on an island. A piebald rabbit disappeared amid a rhomboid rhubarb riot. Beneath the gable was an open triangular window. Whisperings filled the air. Goatwriter took the path to the front door. Its lockless knob twizzled uselessly, the door swung open, and Goatwriter climbed the lightening stairs to the attic. ‘Good afternoon,’ said the writing bureau. ‘Greetings,’ said the pen of Sei Shonagon.
‘But I left you in the venerable coach!’ exclaimed Goatwriter.
‘We travel anywhere you go,’ explained the bureau.
‘And since when did you learn to speak?’
‘Since you learned to unblock your ears,’ answered Sei Shonagon’s pen, who had sharpened her nib on the whetstone of her original mistress’s wit. ‘Shall we make a start?’ suggested the writing bureau. ‘Mrs Comb and Pithecanthropus will be along, in a little while.’ Goatwriter took out a fresh sheet of paper. Outside, over the highlands, lowlands, rainforests, slums, estates, islands, plains, the nine corners of the compass, peace dropped slowly from the mist-melded sky. Reality is the page. Life is the word.
Six
KAI TEN
Amadeus Tea Room is a wedding-cake world. Icing-pastelled, fluted and twirly. Aunt Money would award it her highest decoration: ‘Rapturous’. Me, I want to spray-paint its creamy carpets, milky walls and buttery upholstery. I found the Righa Royal Hotel immediately, which left over an hour to kill walking around Harajuku. Dreamy shop-girls cleaned boutique windows in the morning cool, and florists hosed down pavements. I poke the ice in my water. My grandfather is due here in fifteen minutes. ‘Grandfather’, as a word, will acquire a new meaning. Weird, how words slip meanings on and off. Until last week, ‘grandfather’ meant the man in the grainy photo on my grandmother’s family altar. ‘The sea took him off,’ was all she ever told us about her long-dead husband. Yakushima folklore remembers him as a thief and a boozer who disappeared off the end of the harbour quay one windy night.
Amadeus Tea Room is posh enough to support a butler. He stands behind a sort of pedestal at the pearly gates, examines the reservations book, orders the waitresses, and pedals his fingers. Do butlers go to butler school? How much are they paid? I practise pedalling my fingers, and at that very moment the butler looks straight at me. I drop my hands and look out of the window, acutely embarrassed. On neighbouring tables wealthy wives discuss the secrets of their trade. Businessmen peruse spreadsheets and tap sparrow-sized laptop keyboards. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart looks down from his ceiling fresco, surrounded by margarine cherubs blasting trumpets. He looks puffy and pasty – little wonder he died young. I badly want to smoke one of my Clarks. Mozart certainly has a great view through the panoramic window. Tokyo Tower, PanOpticon, Yoyogi park – where the dirty old men hang out with telephoto lenses. On a soaring chrome block a giant crane builds a scale model of itself. Water tanks, aerials, rooftops. The weather is stained khaki today. A silver teaspoon is struck rhythmically against a bone-china teacup – no, it is the carriage clock on the mantelpiece announcing the arrival of ten o’clock. Butler bows, and guides an elderly man this way.
Him!
My grandfather looks at me – I stand up, flustered, suddenly under-rehearsed – and he gives me that ‘Yes, it is me’ look you put on when you turn up for an appointment with a stranger. I cannot say he looks like me, but I cannot say he doesn’t. My grandfather walks with an cane, wears a navy cotton suit and a bootlace tie with a clasp. Butler zips ahead and prepares a chair. My grandfather purses his lips. His skin is sickly grey and mottled, and he fails to hide how much effort walking costs him. ‘Eiji Miyake, one presumes?’ I give an eight-eighths bow, searching for the right thing to say. My grandfather gives an amused one-eighth. ‘Mr Miyake, I must inform you at the outset that I am not your grandfather.’
I unbow. ‘Oh.’
Butler withdraws, and the stranger sits down, leaving me marooned on my feet. ‘But I am here at your grandfather’s behest to discuss matters pertinent to the Tsukiyama family. Be seated, boy.’ He watches my every motion – his eyebrows are sunken, but the eyes inside are laser sharp. ‘The name is Raizo. Your grandfather and I go back many decades. I know about you, Miyake. In fact, it was I who brought your personal column advertisement to my friend’s attention. Now. As you are aware, your grandfather has been convalescent, in the wake of major heart surgery. His doctor’s original forecasts were overly optimistic, and he is obliged to remain in hospital for another three days. Hence I am here, in his stead. Questions.’
‘Can I visit him?’
Mr Raizo shakes his head. ‘Your stepmother is helping to nurse him in the ward, and . . . how can I express this?’
‘She thinks I am a leech who wants to suck money from the Tsukiyamas.’
‘Precisely. Just for the record: is that your intention?’
‘No, Mr Raizo. All I want is to meet my father.’ How many times must I say this?
‘Your grandfather believes that secrecy is the wisest strategy to belay your stepmother’s misgivings, at this point. Young lady!’ Mr Raizo crooks his finger at a passing waitress. ‘One of my gigantic cognacs, if you please. Your poison, Miyake?’
‘Uh, green tea, please.’
The waitress gives me a well-trained smile. ‘We have eighteen varieties—’
‘Oh, just bring the boy a pot of tea, dammit!’
The waitress bows, her smile undented. ‘Yes, Admiral.’
Admiral? How many of those are there? ‘Admiral Raizo?’
‘That was all many years ago. “Mr” is fine.’
‘Mr Raizo. Do you actually know my father?’
‘Blunt questions earn blunt answers. I make no secret of the fact I despise the man. I have avoided his company for years. Since the day I learned he sold the Tsukiyama sword. It had been in his – your – family for five centuries, Miyake. Five Hundred Years! The snub that your father dealt five centuries of Tsukiyamas – not to mention the Tsukiyamas yet to be born – is immeasurable. Immeasurable! Your grandfather, Takara Tsukiyama, is a man who believes in blood-lines. Your father is a man who believes in joint stock ventures in Formosa. Do you know where the Tsukiyama sword presently resides?’ The admiral rasps. ‘It resides in the boardroom of a pesticide factory in Nebraska! What do you think of that, Miyake?’
‘It seems a shame, Mr Raizo, but—’
‘It is a crime, Miyake! Your father is a man devoid of honour! When he separated from your mother he would happily have cut her adrift without a thought for her future! It was your grandfather who ensured her financial survival.’ This is news to me. ‘There are codes of honour, even when dealing with concubines. Flesh and blood matter, Miyake! Blood-lines are the stuff of life. Of identity! Knowing who you are from is a requisite of self knowledge.’ The waitress arrives with a silver tray, and places our drinks on lace place mats.
‘I agree that blood-lines are important, Mr Raizo. This is why I am here.’
The admiral sniffs his brandy moodily. I sip my soapy tea. ‘Y’know, Miyake, my doctors told me to lay off this stuff. But I meet more geri
atric sailors than I do geriatric doctors.’ He drinks half the glass in one gulp, tips his head back, and savours every molecule. ‘Your stepsisters are dead losses. A pair of screeching vulgarities, at some half-wit college. They rise at eleven o’clock in the morning. They wear white lipstick, astronaut boots, cowboy hats, Ukrainian peasant scarfs. They dye their hair the colour of effluence. It is your grandfather’s hope that his grandson – you – have principles loftier than those espoused in the latest pop hit.’
‘Mr Raizo, forgive me if . . . I mean, I hope my grandfather doesn’t see me as any kind of, uh, future heir. When I say I have no intention of muscling my way into the Tsukiyama family tree, I mean it.’
Mr Raizo makes rumbles impatiently. ‘Who – meant – what – where – when – why – whose . . . Look, your grandfather wants you to read this.’ He places a package on the table, wrapped in black cloth. ‘A loan, not a gift. This journal is his most treasured possession. Guard it with your life, and bring it when you rendezvous with your grandfather seven days from now. Here. Same time – ten hundred hours – same table. Questions?’
‘We never met – is it wise to trust me with something so—’
‘Brazen folly, I say. Make a copy, I told the stubborn fool. Don’t entrust some boy with the original. But he insisted. A copy would dilute its soul, its uniqueness. His words, not mine.’
‘I, uh . . .’ I look at the black package. ‘I am honoured.’
‘Indeed you are. Your father has never read these pages. He would probably auction them to highest bidder, on his “Inter Net”.’
‘Mr Raizo: could you tell me what my grandfather wants?’
‘Another blunt question.’ The admiral downs the rest of his cognac. The jewel in his tie-clasp glimmers ocean-trench blue. ‘I will tell you this. Growing old is an unwinnable campaign. During this war we witness ugly scenes. Truths mutate to whims. Faith becomes cynical transactions between liars. Sacrifices turn out to be needless excesses. Heroes become old farts, and young farts become heroes. Ethics become logos on sports clothing. You ask what your grandfather wants? I shall tell you. He wants what you want. No more, no less.’
A coven of wives blowhole wild laughter.
‘Uh, which is?’
Admiral Raizo stands. Butler is already here with his cane. ‘Meaning.’
1st August, 1944
Morning, cloudy. Afternoon, light rain. I am on the train from Nagasaki. My journey to Tokuyama in Yamaguchi prefecture will take several more hours, and I will not reach Otsushima island, my destination, until tomorrow morning. Over the last weekend, Takara, I was torn between two promises. One promise was to you: to tell you every detail about my training in the Imperial Navy. My second promise was to my country and the emperor: to keep every detail regarding my special attack forces training an absolute secret. The purpose of this journal is to resolve my dilemma. These words are for you. My silence is for the emperor.
By the time you read these words, Mother will have already received a telegram informing you of my death and posthumous promotion. Perhaps you, Mother and Yaeko are in mourning. Perhaps you wonder what my death means. Perhaps you regret you have no ash, no bones, to place in our family tomb. This journal is my solace, my meaning, and my body. The sea is a fine tomb. Do not mourn immoderately.
Let me begin. The war situation is deteriorating rapidly. Our emperor’s forces have suffered severe losses in the Solomon Islands. The Americans are invading the Philippines with the clear aim of possessing the Ryuku chain. To prevent the destruction of the home islands extraordinary measures are called for. This is why the Imperial Navy has authorized the kaiten programme.
A kaiten is a modified mark 93 torpedo: the finest torpedo in the world, with a cockpit for a pilot. A kaiten can be steered, aligned and rammed into an enemy vessel below the waterline. Destruction of the target is a theoretical certainty. I know you are fond of technical data, Takara, so here goes. A kaiten measures 14.75 metres in length. It is propelled by a 550hp engine, and fuelled by liquid oxygen which leaves no wake of air bubbles on the surface, thereby allowing an invisible strike. A kaiten can cruise at 56 kph for 25 minutes, thus outpacing capital target vessels. A kaiten is tipped with a 1.55-ton TNT warhead which detonates on impact. Four kaitens will be mounted on I-class submarines. The submarines will sortie to within strike range of enemy anchorages, where the kaitens will be released. This new, deadly manned torpedo will reverse the recent losses in the Great East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, will dismay and ultimately decimate the American Navy. The Pacific Ocean will become a Japanese lake.
From the naval airbases at Nara and Tsuchiura, 1375 volunteers offered their lives for the kaiten programme. Only 160 passed the stringent selection procedures. You can see, my brother, how the Tsukiyama name shall be honoured and remembered.
2nd August
Hazy morning; a hot, cloudless afternoon. I awoke with other kaiten trainees in cells at the military police barracks in Tokuyama – regular billets were destroyed in bombing raids last month. A bomb struck the fuel depot, and in the ensuing destruction the port and large districts of the town were razed to the ground. From this wreckage a launch took us to Otsushima. The short voyage takes only 30 minutes, but the contrast could not be more complete. Otsushima is a body and head of peaceful wooded hills, terraced with rice-fields. The kaiten base and torpedo works lies on the low-lying ‘neck’ of the island.
Sub-Lt Hiroshi Kuroki and Ens Sekio Nishina, the two coinventors of the kaiten, paid us the inestimable honour of meeting our launch. These men are living legends, Takara. Initially, Naval High Command was reluctant to sanction the use of special attack forces, and rejected the kaiten proposals submitted by Sub-Lt Kuroki and Ens Nishina. To convince High Command of their utmost sincerity, they resubmitted their proposals, written in the ink of their own blood. For all this, they are cheerful, unassuming fellows. They showed us to our quarters, joking about the ‘Otsushima Hotel’. They led the technical debriefings that took up the rest of the day, and postponed the tour of the base until tomorrow.
3rd August
Windy conditions. Sea choppy. The perimeter fence of the kaiten base encloses an area of approximately six baseball grounds, and accommodates between 500 and 600 men. Security is tight – even the islanders are unaware of the true purpose of the base. The base includes a barracks, refectory, three torpedo factories, a machine-shop to convert the mark 93 torpedoes to kaitens, an exercise yard, a ceremony square, administrative buildings, and the harbour. From the machine-shop, a narrow-gauge railway enters a tunnel blasted through 400 metres of rock to the kaiten launch pier, where training began tonight. I jankenned with Takashi Higuchi, a classmate from Nara, for the privilege of the first kaiten run co-piloted with Sub-Lt Kuroki. His stone beat my scissors! Never mind, my turn will come tomorrow.
4th August
Sultry, humid, hot weather. Tragedy has struck so soon. Last night, Sub-Lt Kuroki and Lt Higuchi failed to return from their run around the northern body of Otsushima. Frogmen spent the night searching for their kaiten. It was finally found shortly after dawn, a mere 300 metres from the launch pier, embedded in the sea-floor silt, 16 hours after launching. Although kaitens have two escape hatches, these may only be opened above water. Underwater, the water pressure clamps them closed. A kaiten contains enough air for about 10 hours – with two pilots, this time was halved. They ensured their sacrifices were not in vain by writing 2000 kana of technical data and observations, pertaining to the fatal malfunction. When their paper was used up, they scratched words on the cockpit wall with a screwdriver. We just returned from their cremation ceremony. Ens Nishina has sworn to carry the ashes of Kuroki aboard his kaiten when he meets his glory. The atmosphere on the base is one of mourning, obviously, but tempered with a determination that the lives of our brothers shall not be lost in vain. My own heart was burdened with guilt. I begged a private audience with Commandant Ujina and told him about how I felt a special responsibility to Higuchi’s soul. Cmdt
Ujina promised to consider my request that I be included in the first sortie of kaiten attacks.
9th August
Weather extremely hot. Forgive the long silence, Takara. Training has swung into full gear, and finding even ten minutes to sit down with my journal during the day has been impossible. At night, I am asleep as my head touches my pillow. I have wonderful news. During the morning roll-call, the names for the first wave of kaiten attacks were announced and ‘Tsukiyama’ was among them! Kikusui is our unit emblem. This is the floating chrysanthemum crest of Masashige Kusunoki, champion of Emperor Godaigo. Kusunoki’s 700 warriors withstood an onslaught of 35,000 Ashikaga traitors at the Battle of Minatogawa, and only after sustaining 11 terrible wounds did he commit seppuku with his brother, Masasue. The symbolism is obvious. We are the 700. Our devotion to our beloved emperor is ultimate.
Four fleet subs will each transport 4 kaitens. I-47, captained by the Lt-Cdr Zenji Orita, will carry Ens Nishina, Sato, Watanabe, and Lt Fukuda. I-36 will carry Lt Yoshimoto and Ens Toyozumi, Imanishi and Kudo. Aboard I-37 will be Lt Kamibeppu and Murakami, and Ens Utsunomiya and Kondo. I-333, captained by Cpt Yokota, will transport Lts Abe and Goto, and Ens Kusakabe and Tsukiyama Subaru. After the announcement we were reallocated dorms, so members of the same sortie can sleep in the same room. I-333 is on the second floor, at the end, overlooking the rice terraces. At night the croaking of frogs drowns out the foundries. I remember our room in Nagasaki.
12th August
Weather cool and calm. Sea as smooth as Nakajima river where we sailed our model yachts. Today I will write about our training. After breakfast we divide into Chrysanthemums and Drys. Because there are only 6 kaitens available for training, we are given priority practice privileges. At 0830 we proceed through the tunnel to the kaiten pier. After boarding, a crane lowers us into the sea. Usually we sail two to a cockpit. Of course, we have no room, but this doubling up helps to save fuel, and ‘a drop of petrol is as precious as a drop of blood’. Our instructor knocks on the hull, and we knock back to show we are ready to embark. First we run through a series of descents. Then we solve a navigation problem, using a stopwatch and gyrocompass. We locate a target ship, and simulate a hit by passing under the bow. One must be careful not to clip the upper hatch on the keel – two kaiten pilots died in Base P this way. We also dread being stuck in silt, like Sub-Lt Kuroki and Lt Higuchi. If this misfortune occurs, one is supposed to blast compressed air into the warhead (filled with seawater rather than TNT) which should, in principle, buoy the kaiten to the surface. None of are eager to be the first to test this flotation theory. What we dread most, however, is surviving the loss of a training kaiten. This occurred to a hapless trainee from Yokohama five days ago. He was dismissed, and his name is never mentioned. After returning to the pier or the base harbour, depending on our course, we attend debriefing sessions to share our observations with the Drys. After the worst of the afternoon heat is over, we practise sumo wrestling, kendo fencing, athletics, rugby. Kaiten pilots must be in prime physical condition. Remember our father’s words, Takara: the body is the outermost layer of the mind.