by David Peace
Sā-sā, rei-rei…
Return to you again: waiting in the chair, the chair at the table, watching the door, the door to the house, looking now and then, every now and every then at your watch, the hands of your watch, luminous in the shadows of the yellow house, this House of the Dead: waiting and watching, the door to the house, the hands of your watch: maybe you’ve got the wrong time: too early, too late, the wrong time again.
* * *
—
He was early, as was his wont, even when he didn’t want. Early ripe, early rotten, that will be you, his mother had used to say. But she was early, too, this Julia Reeve he had never met before, sat at an angle to the window with its view of the pond, turned toward the entrance, shade across her face, a pale hand raised in a wave. You can never say no, that’s your trouble, his mother and many others had also said, occasionally with kindness, more often with anger, frustrated by his moaning and regrets. But, then, when was he ever not filled with regret?
You’re a friend of Anthony then, he said, after the handshake, the pleasantries, the easy bits had passed.
She smiled, she said, He suggested I should write when I told him I was coming. It was very kind of you to agree to meet, to spare the time. Thank you.
Spare the time, he repeated, then smiled. Well, one always tries to be welcoming.
She nodded, she said, You must have welcomed hundreds of people. After all these years.
And then waved them goodbye again, he said, then smiled again. Yes, I suppose I must have. After all these years.
She smiled, she said, Perhaps it suits you, saying hello, but then waving goodbye, always able to bid them adieu.
One just gets used to it, I suppose, he said, then smiled. But I don’t know, you may be right. Perhaps I have acquired something of a sweet tooth after all these years.
She smiled again and said, I’m sorry, a sweet tooth?
Partings being such sweet sorrows, he said triumphantly, and then pointedly, Or so one always hopes.
She nodded, she said, You know, if I didn’t know it, I’d never have guessed you were from Pennsylvania. You’ve not a trace of an accent; more English if anything.
More English than the English, he said, trying and failing not to smile, creases at the corners of his lips. That’s what my friends, my chums at Cambridge used to say.
She smiled, she said, And Cambridge has stayed with you, then, even after all these years.
Just another of my many affectations, I fear. Born from – what’s that word people use nowadays? – overcompensation, yes, that’s it: overcompensation.
She nodded, she said, For what?
A Bavarian grandfather and a German name, he said. People were suspicious, you know, could be very unkind.
She smiled, she said, But you still kept your name, your family never changed it. Many families did.
I think my grandfather, and then my father, he said, I think they would have seen that as being rather dishonest.
She nodded, she said, A betrayal.
No, he said, rather too emphatically – for you doth protest too much – so he smiled and said, Much too dramatic.
She smiled, she said, You never felt the need?
My, my, you like to pry, he wanted to say, but smiled instead and said, The need to do what?
To change your name?
No, he said, then smiled again. Just to overcompensate, even “after all these years.”
She smiled again and said, I’m sorry. I can tell I’ve offended you. But you look very well and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, much younger than your years.
Flattery is always forgiven, he laughed, giggled even. Though you wouldn’t say that if you saw me plodding with my shopping up Muen-zaka – it means the Slope of the Dead, and I am sure I must look like one of them, one of the Dead.
She nodded, she said, The slope from Wild Geese? And you live at the top – how wonderful.
And how wonderful you know Ōgai, he said, smiling. I do often fear he’s rather neglected, compared to others.
She smiled, she said, The Unremembered Dead.
Well, he said, if one wishes to be exact, to be precise, Muen-zaka most probably derives from Muen-ji, a temple which used to stand on the slope and which, it is said, was a repository for the souls of those travelers who had died anonymously in old Edo, unbeknownst to their relatives back home, thus unclaimed and unmourned.
She nodded, she said again, How wonderful.
Well, yes, he said, nodding. I suppose I am rather lucky, despite the climb. The Iwasaki Mansion is across the street, even visible from my windows, at least come wintertime, when the leaves don’t interfere. Not many people can look from their windows at an Important Cultural Property.
She smiled, she said, Hongō House.
The devil are you, he wanted to ask as he looked at her, for the first time, properly looked, to see her, see who she was: her mouth and lips a little wide and full for her face, her nose and eyes, too, her eyes looking at him, watching him: the devil do you want with me, he didn’t ask, but instead, just blushed, picked up the menu, and then said, Shall we order?
She smiled, she said, What’s good?
What’s good, what’s good, he repeated, turning through the laminated pages of the Seiyōken menu as he had done so many times before, as he still did every single time he came, yet wondering if this would be the last time, why this felt like it would be the last time, blinking as he said, had said so many times before, The hashed beef rarely disappoints.
She nodded, she said, Sounds good.
The house specialty, he said, smiling as he closed the menu and then signaled to the waitress. And I usually have a beer. I shouldn’t really, but I think will. And you?
She smiled, she said, Why not.
Hayashi rice futatsu, he told the waitress, smiling, to biiru-o nihai, onegai shimasu.
Julia Reeve turned to the waitress, smiled, and said, Sumimasen, yaapari watashi-wa tai no wine mushi-o kudasai.
Nomimono wa, asked the waitress.
She smiled again and said, Daijōbu, arigatō.
Shōshō omachi kudasai, said the waitress, collecting up their menus with a sympathetic smile at Donald Reichenbach.
Julia Reeve leaned forward, her hands on the table, then smiled and said, Don’t look so hurt. It’s Friday.
At least you’re not a vegetarian, he said.
She nodded, she said, God, no. I used to live in Texas.
Did you now, he said. But you’re not from Texas?
She nodded again and said, No.
And so where are you from, he said, his turn now.
She smiled, she said, Here and there.
And where might I find your here and there on a map, he said, smiling, with the bit between his teeth.
She nodded, she said, My father was in the military.
Was he now, he said. Ever in Japan?
She smiled, she said, Briefly, on R & R.
He served in Vietnam, he said.
She smiled again and said, MIA.
I’m sorry, he said, then again, I’m very sorry.
She nodded, she said, You served, of course.
Yes, he said. But in a very different war.
The waitress reappeared with their plates and two small bowls of salad, the glass of beer for him.
Julia Reeve picked up her knife and fork, then smiled at Donald Reichenbach and said, Itadakimasu.
Cheers, he said, holding up his glass of beer.
She put down her knife and fork, picked up her water, touched it to his glass, nodded, and said, Cheers.
That’s bad luck, you know, he said.
She smiled, she said, I know.
You don’t believe in luck then, he said.
She nodded, she said, No. Do you
?
Not these days, no, he said, then took a sip of his beer, then put down the glass and picked up his spoon.
They ate in silence and occasional smiles, until she had almost finished, and he already had, so he could ask, before she could, And so what brings you to Japan?
She finished the last of her fish in its wine sauce, put down her knife and fork, then dabbed her lips with the napkin. She took a sip of water, then nodded, then said, My mother.
Oh, he said, and tried not to sigh in relief, even jump for joy. You should have said. She might have joined us?
She smiled, she said, I’m afraid she wouldn’t be much company. She’s got cancer, she’s dying.
Oh, he said again, and then again, I’m sorry.
She nodded, she said, She hasn’t long.
Here, he asked. But she’s here?
She nodded again, then said, No. Indiana.
But you’re here, he wanted to ask, as the waitress came to take away their plates, to ask if they’d like to order dessert, as he shook his head and said, I’d better not, no.
Julia Reeve nodded, then said, But you’ll have another beer, won’t you? Keep me and my coffee company?
Well, if you insist, he said, smiling.
She smiled back, then said, I do insist.
He ordered the beer and the coffee, this time without any contradiction, then turned back to Julia Reeve and smiled, then said again, I really am sorry about your mother.
She nodded, she said, She was here.
In Japan, he said pointlessly, his voice rising pointedly.
She smiled, she said, With the Occupation.
I see, he said – and you do, you do now – as the waitress brought over her coffee and his beer, as he almost took the glass from her hand, before it had hardly touched the table.
She nodded, she said, She knew you.
Your mother, he said, not putting down his beer.
She smiled, she said, Gloria Wilson.
I’m afraid, he said, bells tolling in his ears, in his heart, I’m afraid it’s such a long time ago. I’m sorry.
She nodded, she said, She knew your wife, too.
My wife, he said, his voice rising again.
She smiled, she said, Yes.
Mary, he said.
She smiled again, then said, Yes, Mary.
My wife, he said again, then put the glass to his lips again, the beer already gone.
She nodded, she said, Would you like another?
Another what, he said, putting down the glass.
She smiled, she said, Another beer?
No, thank you, he said, glancing at his watch, his watch hidden up his sleeve. I shouldn’t. Doctor’s orders.
She nodded, she said, Go on, I insist, be a devil.
Well, then, if you insist, he whispered, blinking, then taking out his handkerchief, taking off his spectacles, dabbing his eyes as she ordered him another beer. Thank you.
She watched him put away his handkerchief, his glasses back upon his nose, waited for the beer to arrive, to let him take a sip, then she smiled and said, They kept in touch.
You know her then, he said. My wife?
She nodded, she said, No.
I see, he said again, and then again, I’m sorry. It’s all so long ago. I’m old and I’m afraid I’m rather lost.
She smiled, she said, Don’t be.
But I am, he whispered, holding his beer in both hands. I’m afraid I’m very lost. You’ll have to help me.
She smiled again and said, That’s why I’m here.
Then please do, he said. Please help me.
She nodded, she said, My mother said you’d know.
Know what, he said – but you know, you already know – as she reached across the table, took his hands from the glass, held his damp hands in her own, tight in her own.
She smiled, she said, What happened to Harry.
Harry who, he mumbled.
Don’t be silly, dear. Harry Sweeney.
He pulled back his hands from hers, but she’d already let them go, and his hands, his arms flew back, knocking the beer from the table, the glass breaking on the floor.
She needs to know, I need to tell her.
Heads turned, people stared. The waitress came running over as he got to his feet, apologizing to the room and to the waitress, taking out and opening his wallet –
She knows you know…
Throwing a ten-thousand-yen note down onto the table, pushing back his chair, waving away the waitress as he stumbled toward the door, the exit, and out –
You were the goddamn Chief of Station.
* * *
—
We’re all mad here, she says. I’m mad. You’re mad.
In the yellow house, the House of the Dead, in the shadows of its front room, the chair at the table, you heard the gate to the garden open, the footsteps up the path, then the key turn in the door, the door open and then close again: you saw her step into the front room: tall, taller than you; fair, fairer than you: her left hand in the pocket of her coat, you watched her walk through the shadows, take her chair at the table, then you heard the words, those words pass from her lips: now you smile at her, you say to her, How do you know I’m mad?
You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.
And how do you know that you’re mad?
Because I’ve been waiting for you to come, she says: her left hand under the table still in her pocket, she holds out her right hand across the table: her pale hand in the dark light, now she smiles at you, she says to you, Because I’m Mary.
In the shadows, across the table, you take, you hold, you shake her hand, and say, And I am Donald.
She does not let go of your hand, holds it tighter and says, Frank thinks we should get married.
But we’ve only just met, you say. We’re such a long way from home. What will Mother say?
Tighter still, she holds, she grips your hand: her other hand, still under the table, still in her pocket: she looks into your eyes and says, I already asked her, Donald.
And what did she say, you whisper.
What do you hope she said?
In the yellow house, the House of the Dead, at your chair at the table, your own left hand on the table, flat on the table, you swallow, then say, I hope she agreed.
She did, Donald, she did, and so do I, she says, squeezes your hand once and lets it go, then takes her left hand, the pistol from the pocket of her coat, lays the pistol down upon the table and smiles again, and says, For the job, dear.
Yes, you say, your heart still pounding, the sweat running down your back, not looking at the gun, just smiling at your future wife, For the job, Mary.
She gets up from the table and the pistol, goes over to the cabinet, opens its doors, takes out a bottle and two glasses, walks back over to the table, puts down the bottle, the glasses beside the pistol: she uncorks the bottle, fills both glasses, then hands one to you and raises her own: To a happy marriage!
You stand up from the table and the gun, raise and touch your glass to hers, and say, To a happy marriage!
She puts the glass to her lips, you put the glass to yours, but you do not drink, she does not drink: you wait, you watch: she waits, she watches: now she smiles, a sad smile, then takes a sip, a big sip, then smiles again, a happy smile, and says, Happy marriages are built on trust, dear Donald.
So here’s to trust then, my dear, you say, and down your drink in one, then watch her down her own in one: you reach for the bottle, she puts her hand on your arm –
We need to work, she says, her hand to your head, in your hair now: she pulls your face, your lips to her own: your mouths, your tongues entwined now: in the yellow house, the House of the Dead, now you go to work, you go to work.
* * *
/> —
Im Abendrot, im Abendrot, he was sat on a bench, his bench at the Shinobazu Pond, meiner Heimat, meiner Heimat, drinking cans of beer from a plastic bag: wir trinken dich morgens und mittags, wir trinken dich abends: hand back in the bag, can back to his lips, can after can: wir trinken und trinken: he sipped and he stared at the lotuses in their pond, shriveled and withered, dead where they stood, crumpled and brown and frail in their fall, he stared and he sipped: wir trinken und trinken: the last can drained, back in the bag, empty and crushed, he tied the handles of the bag, tied them in a plastic knot: im Abendrot, im Abendrot, he stood up from the bench, walked anticlockwise, back the way he’d come, back around the pond to the bins, dropped the bag in the trash, then left the pond and the park to stand at the crossing where Shinobazu-dōri meets Route 452, to wait for the lights to change, the light to change.
He crossed the road and turned left into concrete and neon, weaved down the backstreets of restaurants and bars, the smells of grilled meat and fried fish, through the maze of alleyways, the offers to press or suck flesh, then out onto Kasuga-dōri, across Kasuga-dōri and along another side street, into an izakaya, his izakaya, in hope, a last hope.
He greeted the Master, nodded to the regulars, then took a seat at the long L-shaped counter, not too close to the television, but close enough. He ordered the usual appetizers and a plate of deep-fried horse mackerel. The Master put his kept bottle of shōchū down in front of him, then a glass with two cubes of ice. He thanked the Master as he poured himself a measure, a generous measure, then he turned to sip the drink, to stare at the television: the Emperor’s health was slipping, his blood pressure plunging. Because of the high number of transfusions the Emperor had received, his doctors were having difficulty finding suitable veins through which to administer transfusions. But despite the deterioration of his condition, the Emperor had not lost consciousness. Poor him, poor him, he thought but did not say, not here, of course, not here. But he did allow himself a slight smile as he picked at the dishes, as he sipped as he watched and he listened to the rest of the news, the other news: Bush had coasted to victory, and Takeshita had cabled the heartfelt congratulations of the Japanese people, who “felt extremely lucky and encouraged” by the election of the Vice President. And former director of the Central Intelligence Agency, he muttered to himself as he looked at his watch again, and wondered again if he would come, and then if he didn’t, then what would he do, what on earth would he do?