Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  The sergeant comes out of the cockpit, walks down the center of the aircraft: he shouts things to the passengers as he passes them, raises his thumb to them as he passes them, and they raise their thumbs back as he passes them: he shouts something to you as he passes you, something you cannot hear as he passes you, raises his thumb to you as he passes you, and you raise your thumb back as he passes you.

  Now the frame of the Douglas C-54 Skymaster begins to shudder, harder, now the C-54 Skymaster begins to rattle, louder, now the Skymaster begins to move, faster, faster, down the runway, faster and faster, now the Douglas C-54 Skymaster begins to lift, higher, higher, into the night, higher and higher, into the sky, up, up, up and away, away from the land, away from America, the land below, behind you now, America below and behind you now, back down on the ground, prostrate in the dark, a hole in the ground, an open grave.

  You loosen your grip on your briefcase and hat, lean back further into the hull, rest your head against the metal, feel the vibrations, the pulse of the plane, hear the hum, the drone of her engines: head back and eyes closed, you let yourself be carried now, carried by the hum and the drone, over the water, over the sea, from Los Angeles to Honolulu, the hum, the drone, over dark water and silent sea, the hum, the drone that rises and falls, with the currents, the tides, the hum and the drone, over the water, across the sea, from Honolulu to Midway, the hum, the drone, over bloated water and swollen sea, its currents, its tides, that hum, that drone, from Midway to Wake Island, over the dead, the sunken dead, that hum, that drone, that rise, that fall, in the deep, in its swell, ripped and torn, their bones picked clean, they hum, they drone, with the current, the tide, in their ships, their planes, from coast to coast, in the wrecks of their ships, the wrecks of their planes, the American dead, the Japanese dead, under the water, under the sea, they hum and they drone –

  Sā-sā, rei-rei…

  Eyes open, head forward: the plane jolts: the smell of grease, the smell of oil: the plane shudders: your palms damp with sweat, chin wet with spittle: the plane dips: the taste of leather on your lips, salt in your mouth: the plane drops: you wipe your chin, your palms.

  The sergeant comes out of the cockpit again, tilts from left to right and back again as he walks down the center of the aircraft again, says things to the passengers again, thumb raised to the passengers again: he picks up your hat from the floor and shouts in your ear, You might want to hold on tight to that now, buddy. Captain’s bringing us down into Guam.

  You raise your thumb, he raises his: you tighten your grip on your case, your hat, sit up straight in your seat and close your eyes, keep them closed until you feel the wheels of the Douglas C-54 Skymaster hit the ground and bounce hard down the airstrip of the North Guam Air Force Base.

  There’s still the odd crazy gook out there don’t know the war is over, don’t know they lost, says the captain. So you bastards best stick to the base, your billet, and not be wandering off into the jungle. Because we ain’t gonna come look for you, ain’t gonna wait for you, either. This bird, she leaves at midnight, with or without you bastards…

  You and your fellow travelers trudge along a muddy path in the sticky rain to your billet: the roof and walls of the building still pitted with bullet holes, large chunks missing from the stone steps that lead to your room on a second-floor corridor: a sentry in full battle costume, a carbine over his shoulder, paces slowly up and down the corridor: each time he comes to the end of the corridor, he takes a puff on a lighted cigar, then places it back on the window ledge: he tells you, You try sneak into them women’s quarters, I’ll shoot you dead, so help me God I will.

  You close the door to your billet, set your briefcase down on the floor beside the low camp bed, take off your jacket, hang your jacket on the peg on the back of the door, hang your hat on top of your jacket, then sit down on the side of the low, hard camp bed and open your briefcase, take out two files, then the copy of Waley’s Genji from the briefcase: you set the book to one side on the bed, then open the first file and you read: read through the file on the Hanged Man, his reports and his contacts, then you close the first file and open the second file: the file written in numbers, page numbers, line numbers, word numbers: you turn to the book on the bed, open the book on the bed, find the page, the lines, and the words, turning back to the file, then back to the book, from the file to Genji, then back to the file, decoding the file and translating the text until you’ve had enough, done enough for now, and you close the file, you close the book, put both files and the book back into your briefcase, close the case and lay it on the floor beside the camp bed: you take off your boots, stand them beside the briefcase and get up off the bed, unbutton your shirt and loosen your pants, then lie down on the low, hard camp bed and wait: you wait in the close, gray afternoon light, reciting your lines, rehearsing your part, learning your lines, learning those lies, your story, all lies: on the low, hard camp bed, not sleeping, just waiting, in the close, gray evening light, waiting for the flight to Tokyo, opening night and the show to begin –

  The sentry knocks on all the doors of the second-floor corridor: Rise and shine, you lazy bastards…

  You and your fellow travelers trudge back along the muddy path in the sticky night to a small and stuffy hut: you watch a short film of a Douglas C-54 Skymaster making a forced landing in the sea: the captain switches on the light, and says, Never gonna happen, but all you bastards need to know is everything yellow will float…

  Strapped back inside the Skymaster, you stare at a spare yellow drum of aircraft motor oil strapped to the floor in front of the emergency exit: the sergeant taps you on your shoulder, shouts in your ear, You with us today, buddy?

  You nod, thumb up, he nods, thumb up, in your face, then walks away: you tighten your hold on your briefcase, your hat, lean back in your seat on the bench and feel again the shudder, harder, hear again the rattle, louder, the vibrations and the pulse, faster and faster, the hum and the drone, higher and higher: you loosen your grip on your case, your hat, rest your head against the side of the small window to your left, and close your eyes, you close your eyes, the singing in your ears, hear them singing in your ears, they hum, they drone –

  The dead, the dead –

  Sā-sā, rei-rei…

  Eyes open again: the inside of the aircraft is flooded bright with morning light: head forward again: the plane jolts: palms damp with sweat again, chin wet with spittle again: the plane shudders: you wipe your chin again, your palms again: the plane dips, the plane drops: you twist to look out of the small window by your left shoulder: the plane turns: you catch a glimpse of Mount Fuji: the plane circles: you lose sight of Mount Fuji: the sergeant taps you on your other shoulder, and you turn: the sergeant hands you your hat again and shouts, You want to get a leash for that, buddy!

  You raise your thumb to him, he shakes his head at you, walks back down the plane to the cockpit again: the light inside the plane begins to dim: you tighten your grip on your case, your hat again, sit up straight in your seat again: the clouds outside begin to thicken, the plane begins to tremble, to shake, to shudder again: you close your eyes again, keep them closed again until you feel the wheels of the Douglas C-54 Skymaster hit the ground again, bounce hard down the airstrip of the Haneda Air Force Base, Tokyo –

  Welcome to Japan, Mister Reichenbach, says the young American officer on the entry desk at Haneda Air Force Base as he hands you back your passport, your entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip.

  Thank you, you say.

  You’re welcome, says the officer. Now you need to take the Northwest Airlines bus into the center of Tokyo. The bus is just to your left when you exit this building. The bus is direct, straight to the Ginza. So you get off the bus in the center at the Ginza, then here’s what you do: you go straight across the street from the stop to the Provost Marshal’s Office. Because you need to report directly to the Provost Marshal’s Offi
ce. That’s the first thing you need to do. You’re not legal here until you’ve done that. So make sure you do it now, straight away, before you do anything else here, Mister Reichenbach. Are we clear about that? You got that, sir?

  Yes, you say. We’re clear, thank you.

  You’re welcome, says the officer.

  You put your passport, your entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip back into your briefcase, close the briefcase, put the briefcase under your arm, your raincoat over your arm, pick up your hat from the desk, put it on, then pick up your suitcase and walk out of the Haneda Air Force Base: you turn to your left, see the Northwest Airlines bus: you put down your suitcase, your briefcase again, take off your hat again and take out your handkerchief, wipe your face and then your neck, put away your handkerchief again, pick up your briefcase, your suitcase again and walk to the Northwest Airlines bus: you give the bus boy your suitcase, then take off your jacket, your hat and take out your handkerchief again: you climb on board the bus, walk down the aisle to the rear of the bus, put your briefcase on the rack above your head, fold and put the raincoat on top of the case, then sit down, lean your head against the window of the bus and close your eyes: you hear the engine of the bus start, feel the window of the bus quiver: you open your eyes again, stare out of the window, up at the nets of black cables overhead: you close your eyes, feel the bus go over a pothole: you open your eyes again, see a sea of rusted red roofs, and close your eyes again, then feel the bus swerve: you open your eyes again, out of the window again, see gangs of young boys on every corner, and close your eyes again: the bus stops, eyes open again: the bus boy shouts, Ginza!

  You hand your passport, your entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip to the young American officer behind the main desk at the Provost Marshal’s Office: he flicks through the papers, the pages of the documents, stamps the passport, entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip, then says, Now please go to the next desk, sir.

  You walk over to the next desk and the next young American officer: he takes your fingerprints, left hand, right hand: you wipe your black fingers clean, walk over to another desk, another young American officer: he measures you, he weighs you, then hands you a board on which is chalked Reichenbach, Donald / 276522: he tells you to stand in front of a white wall, and you stand in front of the white wall, he tells you to hold up the board, and you hold up the board: he takes his photograph, your photograph, then tells you, You’re done. Please report back to the first desk, sir.

  You walk back over to the first desk: the young American officer hands you back your passport, entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip, then smiles and says, Welcome to Tokyo, Mister Reichenbach.

  Thank you, you say.

  You’re welcome, says the officer. Now I need you to take your billeting slip round the corner to the Billeting Office for me. They’ll confirm that this here address on this here slip is still the correct one. Most times it is, but sometimes it ain’t. So if there’s been a screw-up, then you’re going to need to come straight back round here so we can amend your paperwork. But let’s hope not. This place they’ve got you in, it’s one of the best in town. You could do a lot worse, I can tell you, sir.

  Thank you, you say again.

  You’re very welcome, sir, says the officer: now he watches you put your passport, your entry permit, inoculation records, and billeting slip back into your briefcase: watches you close your briefcase, put the case under your arm, your raincoat over your arm, then pick up your suitcase: he watches you walk out through the double doors of the Provost Marshal’s Office, then looks away, turns back to his desk: doesn’t see you turn, see you watch him pick up the telephone on his desk and dial four numbers, see you watch him wait, then see you hear him, hear him say, He’s here, sir. Yes, sir, the Dai-ichi Hotel, sir…

  Yes, I’m here, you whisper in the summer, the summer of nineteen hundred and forty-eight, and I’ll still be here long after you’re gone, all gone, I’ll still be here.

  * * *

  —

  At Kasumigaseki station, he got off the subway train and slowly climbed the steep stairs back into the drizzle of the day. He liked to walk through Hibiya Park, particularly when it was raining. But today he put up his umbrella, walked past the government buildings, the Tokyo high court, and police headquarters to Sakuradamon and joined the crowds as they crossed the moat, then passed through the gate into Kōkyo-gaien and the outer grounds of the Imperial Palace. Up ahead, he could see the long lines of people under their multicolored umbrellas, all queuing to enter the tent which had been erected beside the Sakashitamon Gate to house the books in which these well-wishers could register their well wishes for the recovery of the Emperor. But he did not join the queues; his black and foreign umbrella seemed somewhat in poor taste amid the sea of bright colors and local hopes. He turned and walked away, toward Nijūbashi, passing the kneeling and the standing, regardless of the puddles and the rain, their umbrellas down, unused and forgotten, their hands together and heads bowed, all faced toward the Imperial Palace, his dying majesty. He crossed back over the moat onto Hibiya-dōri, and then, for the first time since he could not remember when, he made a point – though what point, he was not sure – of walking past the Dai-ichi Mutual Life Insurance building, the former palace of the blue-eyed shōgun himself, the General Headquarters of SCAP. But he did not stop, did not dillydally on Memory Lane, not today. No, he turned sharply left and up a side road to Yūrakuchō and then into the Denki building.

  He took one of the north elevators up to the Foreign Correspondents Club on the twentieth floor, paid a quick visit to the bathroom, then walked down the short corridor to reception. He smiled as he handed his umbrella and raincoat to the new girl, whose name he could not remember, then went into the main bar. He was early, the lunchtime crowd not yet in, and had the pick of the tables, so he took one in the window at the far end of the bar and sat with his back to the room.

  Twenty floors up, he looked out of the window into cloud and mist, the clouds so low and thick they smudged the skyscrapers, erased modernity, brought the city low again, smudged and erased again, just like when –

  He stood up, turned almost straight into Hanif, almost knocked the glass of water and menu from out of his hands. He said, I’m sorry, Hanif, so sorry, but I’d forgotten something.

  No problem, sir, smiled Hanif. No problem. You coming back later, want me to save you this table?

  I’m sorry, he said again. But I don’t think so, no, but thank you, Hanif, thank you.

  No problem, sir, said Hanif again.

  He walked quickly out of the bar, back over to the reception desk. He gave the plastic chit to the new girl. She brought him his raincoat and umbrella. Embarrassed, he mumbled apologies as he put on his raincoat and then said goodbye. He walked back down the short corridor to the elevators and pressed the button, then pressed it again –

  Donald, old boy, boomed an all-too-familiar English public-school voice from over his shoulder. Where’s the fire?

  Jerry, how are you, he sighed as he turned with a reluctant hand out.

  How are you, dear boy, is the question, grinned Jerry Haydon-Jones, not letting go of his hand. Thought you must be dead and buried, old boy. Food for the worms.

  He freed his hand: Not quite, Jerry, not yet.

  Just joshing with you, old boy, laughed Jerry, punching him in the top of his arm. Don’t look so damn glum, man. Fact, only last week, when I dared to raise the mystery of your disappearance with the brothers at the bar, Bernie, I think it was, said, Don’t you worry about old Donald, Jerry, he said, he’ll be off somewhere lining his pockets with lovely lolly. Corporate jollies here, public speeches there, don’t you worry, Jerry, Uncle Sam knows how to take care of his own, not like you beggars from Blighty, he said. Come on, confess to Father Jerry, where’s it been: New York, Washington…Virginia?
/>   The elevator had been and gone, mouth open then closed again, empty and hungry. He pressed the button again and said, Just here, Jerry, neither dead nor rich, sadly.

  Now, now, no long faces, not on my watch, said Jerry Haydon-Jones, gripping his arm tightly, trying to turn and pull him away from the elevators. Come tell your Uncle Jerry all about it over a glass or three of firewater.

  He freed his arm, his elbow knocking Jerry, and said, Nothing I’d like more, Jerry, but I really do have to go.

  Like that, is it, said Jerry, feigning, perhaps, hurt and indignation, then gripping his arm again, pinching it tightly again. But only if you absolutely swear we will see you again, old boy, and see you very soon – you do promise?

  Of course, Jerry.

  You swear?

  Believe me, Jerry, I will waste no time returning.

  Then you are forgiven, said Jerry Haydon-Jones, letting go of his arm again. For now.

  Thank you, he said, almost leaping into the mouth of the elevator, its doors closing –

  But don’t make me come dig you up again…

  Rubbing his arm as the elevator bore him down to safety, he was breathless again, his heart racing. You old fool, damned fool. You don’t like the place. Never have and never will. He stepped out of the elevator, turned right out of the building and back into the rain and Yūrakuchō. He put up his umbrella again, joined the hundreds of others, bustling and jostling their way, left and right, west and east along the sidewalk. So many umbrellas, so many people, almost banging into him, almost knocking him over, almost, but not quite. He made it to the curb, tried to catch his breath. A taxi splashed his trousers as he waited for the lights to change. A puddle filled his shoes as he stepped off the curb. A man almost walked straight into him as he crossed, an umbrella almost took his glasses from his nose, both cursed him as they passed. Don’t these people know the Emperor is dying just up the road, an era coming to its end? He felt his eyes water again as he passed under the railroad tracks, walked up toward the Ginza, the sidewalk wider here, thank God. But he wanted to walk under the leaves and branches of trees, not under umbrellas and curses, see flowers, their petals bejeweled and wet, not these crowds and their faces, this apparition be gone, dear God, please, God, be gone. Increasingly wet with rain and sweat, he reached the Sukiyabashi crossing and the escape routes to the subway. He took down his umbrella, folded, rolled, and tied it up, then went down the stairs, almost slipping as he did, reaching and catching hold of the handrail just in time, the nick of time. He stopped, waited to catch his breath again, for his heart to slow again, then carefully, paying attention, he walked down the rest of the stairs, and still carefully, still paying attention, he made his way to the Hibiya line, bought a ticket, passed through the gates, and went down the escalator, then stood on the platform, waiting under the ground, thinking of all the things he had wanted to do on the Ginza: browse the shelves in Kyōbunkwan and Jena Books; buy sakadane sakura and butter rolls at Kimuraya; treat himself to a bottle of French wine from Mitsukoshi or Matsuya; even lunch and a beer, Bockwurst and Weissbier, at the Lion Beer Hall. Oh well, he said out loud, as the train pulled in, trying not to ask, struggling not to plead. There’ll be other times, another time?