Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  We are legion, giggled the voices in the megaphones, then laughing loudly, For we are many.

  Very funny, said the doctor.

  Funny, laughed the voices. You think we are trying to be funny? We’ll show you FUNNY –

  Instantly, the table rose up, then jerked in the direction of Madame Hop, Professor Peck, and Doctor Morgan, hitting all three in their chests, knocking them over, backwards in their chairs, sending all their cards and pens and charts falling from the tabletop, yet not the candle, which remained fixed to its spot in the center, though one moment lit, then not, then lit again, as the table came plunging back down to the ground.

  Quietly, the doctor and the professor helped the medium back to her feet, then back into her chair, all three now seated back at the table as again the room turned hot, then cold, now hot again, then cold again, in waves, on tides and on currents, of electricity, black electricity, hum, humming again, louder, coming again –

  We are here because of you, mumbled and muttered the voices, still from the megaphones, but different, quite different, sad, so sad, stifling, swallowing sobs. Because of you…

  Thank you, said Doctor Morgan. We are –

  Shut up, screamed the voice from the biggest, blackest megaphone. One or more among you is an enemy…

  Somewhere near, or was it far, in another room, another world, where the year is zero, always, already zero, a gramophone began to play again, to sing –

  Oh so bravely, off to Victory…

  Insofar as we have vowed and left our land behind, boomed the gramophone. Who can die without first having shown his true mettle? / Each time I hear the bugles of our advancing army / I close my eyes and see wave upon wave of flags marching into battle…

  The earth and its flora burn in flames, as we endlessly part the plains / Helmets emblazoned with the Rising Sun, the Rising Sun, Sun, Sun…

  The needle stuck, the air became hotter again, much, much hotter than before, and filled with the strong scent of garlic, so strong it stung the eyes and tongues of the room, the hand of the man called Minami gripping, squeezing the hand of Murota Hideki tighter, still tighter, crushing the fingers of his left hand, but then, just as suddenly, the noise of the needle stopped as the temperature fell, the stench and taste of garlic dissipated, the air colder, freezing, the sound of teeth chattering, of women wailing, weeping –

  Postwar, après-guerre, you say – he says, they say, all men say – but it’s always been postwar, already après-guerre.

  Conquered from birth, colonized for life, I have always, already been defeated. Always, already been occupied –

  Occupied by you, by you, by you –

  Born of me, the death of me. Blood of me, the death of me. Come in me, the death of me. Rob my name, the death of me. Born of you, the death of me –

  In the snow. In the mud. Beneath the branches. Before the shrine. In the genkan. In the bank. On a street in China. In a wardrobe in Tokyo. With your poison. With your pen.

  In sorrow, whispered Kuroda Roman.

  Nothing else remains, wept the man called Hirasawa. Only sorrow. Nothing else remains…

  It is you, cried the voices of the women, still wailing, still weeping. And only you…

  Anata, darling…

  But now the temperature began to rise again as the voices of the women, their wailing, their weeping, began to fade and, in their place, the sound, the feel of hissing, then roaring – sara-sara, sara-sara – a shower of static, in the air, their blood – sara-sara, sara-sara – damp and clinging, holding the inside out –

  We are cold, we are wet, the voices, the voices of children said, then asked, Can’t you see us? We are standing on the bridge, our little head between the narrow gaps in the metal railings, the marshaling yard of the station stretched out before us, we are spellbound by its sights and sounds, transfixed by its trains. Shu-shu pop-po, they go, shu-shu pop-po. We love to watch the shunting and the switching operations, the small trains pushing the goods wagons around the yard, connecting this wagon to that wagon, that wagon to this locomotive, marshaling the wagons, creating the train, the long, long trains, then waiting for the engines to be heated, for the coals to burn and the steam to rise, for the whistle to sound, and the wheels begin to move, to move and to turn, the train heading toward the bridge now, toward us now, passing under the bridge now, under us now, enveloping us in its thick black smoke as we turn to run to the other side of the bridge, through the clouds of smoke and steam, pressing our blackened face between the metal railings, watching the train steaming away, far, far away, on the tracks to some unknown place, so very, very far away. Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po. We are three years old. We never tire of standing on this bridge, never tire of watching these scenes, of watching these trains. Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po. We would stand here all day, every day, if they’d let us, just let us. But they won’t let us – shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po – for they are murdering us…

  The sound, the scream of wheels and whistles, along with thick black clouds of smoke and steam enveloped the underground chamber, deafening the ears and blackening the faces of all who were sitting at the table, but then, just as suddenly again, the sound and the screams, the smoke and the steam retreated into the shadows, the corners, and now, in their place, the sound, the feel of rain, a summer rain, in the air, an insect air, and their blood, in their blood again, clinging, holding again, the inside out, turning the inside out –

  Behold, a summer landscape, whispered a voice from a megaphone, softly-softly, rising gently-gently. After the long border tunnel, again the defeated, occupied city appears, in the depths of the white night, again the landscape of a summer night, nineteen hundred and forty-nine. River. Embankment. Bridge. Crossing. Rails. Tracks. Road. Path. Fields and ponds. Prison walls and a rope hut. Here. They. Come. In the summer, in the night, beside the river, down the tracks, before the rain and before the train. Here they come: three, four men coming down the tracks, in blacks, in browns, in boots, in boots that once trampled Chinese dirt down, Manchurian earth, American dirt, and Indian earth, across the plains of history, from Wounded Knee to Nanking, all points before, between, and since, and yet to come, to come; here they come, beside the river, down the tracks, leading a child by its hand, they are leading him on, a Boy Who Loves Trains…

  So easily led, echoed voices from other megaphones, first deceived, then tethered and led…

  Down the line, along the tracks, looking for you, searching for you, calling for you…

  But again the signals have changed, already the train has left the station, announced a grating metallic voice from the biggest, blackest megaphone, repeating, The signals have changed, the train has left…

  As the table began to shudder, to shake again, but then to rock, gradually increasing in speed as professionals and patients alike let go of each other’s hands and tried to grip, to hold onto the tabletop –

  Again the coal has turned to fire, again the water turns to steam, again the wheels have begun to turn, again and again they turn and turn…

  And again the sound, the scream of wheels and whistles, again with thick black clouds of smoke and steam enveloping the underground chamber, again deafening the ears and blackening the faces of all who were trying to hold onto the table, the table violently rocking, faster and faster, rocking now racing, racing –

  The wheels of the locomotive, across the river, under the bridge, as the ground shakes, as the rails hum, hum…

  Deceived, tethered, and led, sobbed again a different voice, sad, so sad. They have laid him down upon the tracks, across the rails, where he shivers, where he trembles but does not rise, he does not rise, for he is waiting, waiting…

  WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU, screamed a terrible, harrowing voice from the biggest, blackest megaphone above the rocking, racing table –

  For you, for you…

  Wh
o among you, pleaded that different voice, so sad, so very sad, who among you will take off your armor, your uniform, then climb aboard the locomotive of history – not to ride that train, but to halt that train – who among you will apply the brake, the emergency brake?

  Too late, too late, wailed the voices of the departed, as the table jumped up and out from the hands of the living, then came spinning straight back down, crashing round and into the circle of sitters, sending them flying into heaps of broken table and chair, piles of pulped skin and bone, all coated in ash and oil, rain and blood, wreathed in smoke and silence, apathy and stagnation, as somewhere near, yet far, a close but distant clock chimed midnight on the Fourth of July, Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-Four, and the fifteen-year statute of limitations expired, officially closing, sealing all investigations into the death of Shimoyama Sadanori, and from the wreck of the wood, the ruin of his flesh, Murota Hideki blinked and blinked again, choking, suffocating – struggling, now failing to breathe, he watched a tear fall from the button eye of a teddy bear, then heard a voice, a foreign voice to his right –

  Too late, whispered Harry Sweeney.

  III

  THE GATE OF FLESH

  8

  The Last Season of Shōwa

  Autumn und Verfall, 1988

  The Emperor was dying. Day by day, hour by hour, the hands of his Mickey Mouse watch were slowing to a stop. On the television and the radio, in the newspapers and the extras, the thrice-daily bulletins from the Court Physicians detailed his vital signs – temperature, pulse, blood pressure, and respiration – even his imperial stool, its temperament and consistency, all was revealed, shared, and retold. All told, all known, nothing private, nothing secret. Lying there, in the center of the city, the heart of Japan, behind his moats and his walls, his gates and courtyards, in his palace within a palace, in a second-floor bedroom, an eighty-seven-year-old man, frail yet stubborn still, reluctant to leave, fighting to stay, hour by hour, day by day, hanging on to dear life, the longest reign in history –

  Frightened and scared of what is to come, came a voice in the dark, before the light, his voice in the night, before the dawn, woken by bells, fire-engine bells, kept awake by the rain, long, heavy rain, long before the light, before the dawn, already awake, still awake. He was always, already still awake, still awake. In these black hours, his eyes to the ceiling or the watch by his bed, its luminous hands, at first too slow and then too fast, the night-thieves and sleep-stealers, tripping alarms, then looting the golden kiss of slumber from his eyes. To the ceiling, to the watch, in these black, resentful hours, he tried to douse, to souse himself in half-remembered, almost-remembered quotes and lines: The loud notes swell and scatter abroad / sā, sā, like wind blowing the rain / the soft notes dying almost to nothing / rei, rei, like the voice of ghosts talking – sā, sā, rei, rei, the voices of ghosts in the rain –

  See, they return, one, and by one, with fear, as half awakened; the curtain cracks, edges gray, whiten, then, at last, transparent light, scratched, stretched thin, then strained, he drifted then, now day, its light was here, dozed then, now dreamed, too late he dreamed: a shabby street, back street, half here, half there, a plaited fence, a shuttered house, the lady of this house, lost in exile and in thought, she writes a letter in the smoked, dimmed light, as the women weep around her, in the shadows weep around her, Rei, rei…

  In fright, with a start, his body clawed and face wet, Donald Reichenbach woke, awoke, awake again. Grete had pushed open the door, jumped up on the bed, licking his face, asking to be fed. Yes, yes, I know, I’m sorry, he said. Your lazy Papa should be up and out of bed, I know, I know.

  He gently turned to one side so the cat slipped from his chest onto the bed, one claw caught in his pajama top. He carefully unhooked her claw from the cloth. He reluctantly pulled back the covers from his legs and slowly got up and out of bed. He picked up his glasses from the table by his bed and put them on, then picked up his watch from the top of the book on the table, looked at its face and its hands, then fastened it to his wrist as he said again, Lazy Papa should be long out of bed, we know, hungry mouths waiting to be fed.

  Grete danced and sang ahead of him as he padded in his slippers over the tatami mats of the bedroom onto the polished wood of the living-dining-kitchen room. He picked up her empty saucer and water bowl from the floor and walked over to the sink. He ran hot water over the saucer and bowl, then washed and dried them. He ran the water until it was cold, filled the bowl, then reached up to open the cupboard above the sink. The tins of cat food were ordered and stacked so he could rotate them through the only three flavors deemed acceptable by Grete. This morning he took down, opened, and then served tuna as la canette du jour, placing the saucer and water back down on the floor to only the very briefest meow-ci from the lady of the house. You’re angry, ne, he said, but lazy Papa said he’s sorry. What more can he say?

  He shrugged, walked back over to the sink, washed out the empty tin, then put it in the plastic bag beside the plastic trash box, the plastic bag he kept just for tins and cans, tins of cat food and cans of beer. It was a big bag, always full. He walked back over to the small square worktop between the sink and the stove, opened the jar of already-ground coffee beans, and began to prepare the morning coffee. The coffee on, he looked at his watch, went back into the bedroom, pulled back the curtains, and opened the balcony window slightly. It was a dull, gray day, a light drizzle falling on the trees across the road. He went from the bedroom into his study next door and opened the balcony window slightly here, too. He cast a brief-but-disappointed glance at the unfinished work on his desk, the unread books in their piles, then turned and went back into the living-dining-kitchen room, over to the silver radio-cassette player on the dining table, and switched on the radio. The Morning Music Promenade on NHK for today was Mozart’s First String Quintet, and it had already reached the ending allegro. He looked at his watch again, then hurried to the refrigerator, took out a croissant, and placed it in the oven–toaster perched atop the refrigerator. He took out a plate from the cupboard under the worktop and a knife and spoon from the drawer. He turned back to the refrigerator, opened it again, and took out a jar of Staud’s Viennese apricot jam, two of which he bought from Meidi-ya in Kyōbashi every month without fail: jam tomorrow, jam yesterday, and jam to-day, he liked to say, though not today. The oven–toaster pinged. He put the jar of jam down on the worktop, picked up the plate, opened the oven–toaster, and quickly dropped the piping-hot croissant onto the plate. He set down the plate again, opened the jar, and spooned out a generous helping of jam to keep the croissant company. He returned the jam to the refrigerator, lamenting momentarily, as he always did at this point, that butter had become a forbidden-though-never-forgotten pleasure. He carried the knife and the plate to the dining table and set them down, then walked back over to the kitchen to switch off and serve the coffee. He walked back to the dining table with the first-but-not-last mug of coffee and sat down just as the String Quintet ended, and smiled and said, Perfect timing, even if I do say so myself.

  He glanced round to look for Grete, but, her own breakfast eaten, she had gone back to the bedroom and bed.

  You always complain when I go out, sulk when I come back, he said as the seven o’clock news began and he started to break the croissant into three pieces. But you can’t really blame me if I choose to eat out when you neglect me like this.

  He took a tissue from the box beside the radio-cassette player and wiped his fingers. He picked up the knife and began to spread the jam on the pieces of croissant as he listened to the morning update from the Court Physicians: the Emperor had received a 200cc transfusion free of white cells, prompted by signs of further internal bleeding. However, the transfusion was carried out chiefly to treat the Emperor’s anemia, said the Chief of the Imperial Household Agency’s General Affairs Division, rather than to compensate for blood loss.

  He swallowed the firs
t piece of croissant and jam, took a first sip of coffee, then said, It’ll be me next, you know, and then what will you do? They don’t allow pets where Mister Kanehara lives, you know?

  He picked up the second piece of croissant and jam, put it in his mouth, then reached for another tissue. The transfusion seemed to have been successful, as the Emperor’s temperature had dipped below thirty-seven degrees for the first time since Tuesday. The Emperor had also been well enough to watch the last thirty minutes of the Olympic marathon race on television and then the closing ceremony. Lucky him, he said, somewhat bitterly; he had planned to watch the closing ceremony with Kanehara, but they had had a silly, drunken argument about the conduct of US athletes and news organizations at the Seoul Olympics and had parted on bad terms on Saturday night. He sighed, took another sip of coffee, then ate the last piece of croissant. He took a third tissue from the box and finished his coffee as the NHK announcer moved on to the news that talks between North and South Korea would resume on October 31, the hopes for improved relations despite the Olympic boycott by the North.

  Not a cat in hell’s chance, he said loudly, glancing at the bedroom door, then feeling his eyes begin to water. He took another tissue from the box, wiped his eyes, then put all the screwed-up pieces of tissue paper onto the plate, got up from the table, and carried the plate, the tissues, the knife, and the mug over to the sink. He tipped the tissues and flakes of croissant into the plastic trash box, then began to wash the plate, the knife, and mug, tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped his wet cheeks with already-wet hands, then dried his hands, then the plate, the knife, and the mug. He sniffed, he sighed, then put the plate back under the sink, the knife back into the drawer, but left the mug on the worktop beside the coffee-maker.

  I’m sorry, he said as he came into the bedroom, looking at Grete, oblivious, asleep on the unmade bed. Papa’s in a very bad mood and he doesn’t know why. He opened the closet, took a shirt and a pair of pants from their hangers, then underwear and socks from their drawers. Not that you seem to care, but I’ve a terrible feeling. I just wish I knew why.