by David Peace
Shimoyama!
Why would he be here, Don?
The hell is he then…?
She walks toward you: takes your shoulders in her hands: leans toward you, kisses your cheek, then whispers, Please, Don, don’t, Don, you’re out of your depth here, Don.
And you’re not, right, you say, pushing her off, back and away. You’re just swimming along, everything swell.
Hey there, lovebirds, booms a voice, laughs the voice of a Texan. We’re all on the same side here, yeah.
Don, says Mary, looking into your eyes, entreaties in her eyes, turning, twisting you round to face –
a tall, broad-shouldered man in uniform, an army uniform, his captain’s hat pushed back on his head, a pistol in a holster slung low round his waist –
Don, she says again, this is Jack, Captain Jack Stetson.
Heard a lot about you, Don, says Stetson, grabbing your shoulder, your hand, kneading your shoulder, shaking your hand. From Mary here, and from Frank, Don.
You know Frank, you say, stepping back, pulling, breaking free from his grip and his shake.
Hey, Boss, interrupts the Korean, in his gangster shirt and shades. What you want us to do now, Boss?
Stetson turns away from you, from Mary, and grins, then says, Go get yourselves some chow, then some shut-eye. Gonna be another long goddamn night, kid.
Yessir, laughs the Korean, half saluting as he swaggers off with the big man in the big winter coat, brushing past, nudging into you as they head off, into the house.
Pair of mean sons-of-bitches, laughs Stetson, watching them go. Tell you, Don, glad they’re on our side, but still gotta watch ’em, keep ’em on a tight leash, yeah?
You nod, then say again, So you know Frank?
Hell, everyone knows Frank, right, Don?
Mary touches, squeezes your arm and says, Jack’s working with us now, Don.
Since when?
Since you guys lost Shanghai, Don, that’s when, grins Stetson. When the goddamn roof fell in on y’all, Don.
Still touching, squeezing, holding your arm, holding you back, Mary says, Everything’s changed now, Don.
In this summer, this twilight, you do not turn to look at her, turn to look at him: in this summer, this twilight, you look, you stare at this big, old, British-style house: hidden here, behind these walls, these trees, hidden and dark, you stare and then swallow, swallow then say, Shimoyama?
Don, she whispers, please, don’t…
Hell, lovebirds, laughs Stetson, slapping his own face, splattering a mosquito. Let’s get us indoors, do our yappin’ in there, ’stead of gettin’ eaten alive out here, yeah, kids?
Sure, Jack, nods Mary, turning away from you, turning toward the house, the columns and its entrance –
Hold up there, cowgirl, says Stetson, corraling you both, herding you off to the left of the house. You guys gotta see this old Billiard Room we got here…
And he guides, pushes you both through an open gate in a side wall, then down, round a short path, between more trees to a detached wooden cottage, a Swiss-style mountain lodge, here in this garden, in the middle of Tokyo: a log cabin, wooden shutters for its windows and doors, a long veranda, running its length, facing the garden, dark in the evening –
Wow, says Mary as she steps up onto the veranda, then in through the doors. Like a fairy tale, from Snow White!
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, sings Stetson. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho – come on, Don, sing along…
You do not sing along, but you smile, hum a different song as you turn from the garden, the dark of the evening, into the light of the lodge: a bare electric bulb dangling, hanging down in the middle of a large wood-paneled room: there are shelves for books, but few books, but there are maps, many maps spread out over two large billiard tables –
Suddenly, a man rises from out of the floor, a hole in the ground, off to the left: a thin man in a dark, well-cut suit coming up steps from under the ground: he smiles at Mary, then sees you and stops, stops smiling, turning to Stetson, looking at Stetson, asking who –
Don Reichenbach, say “guten Abend,” or whatever-the-hell-it-is-you-Krauts-say, to Dick Gutterman, says Stetson, then turns to Mary and laughs, I tell ya, Mary, we must be the only non-Krauts left in the whole of goddamn HQ!
I don’t work for GHQ, you say, shaking the hand of Dick Gutterman. I’m DipSec, Economic Liaison.
Gutterman nods, smiles: I know.
Dick here knows everything ’bout everyone, don’t you, Dick, laughs Stetson, then, Almost…
You got a call, Jack, says Gutterman.
One I need to take now?
Gutterman nods: Yes, Jack, now.
You two lovebirds make yourselves at home, yeah, says Stetson. I’ll be back soon as I can, order up some chow, then we’ll eat, talk some more, right?
Sure, Jack, says Mary.
You nod, watch Stetson follow Gutterman down the hole, disappear under the ground, then you turn, walk out of the room, out onto the veranda, to stare out at the garden, back into the evening, the dark, silent dark, almost, already silent –
Sā-sā, rei-rei…
Don, says Mary, softly, gently, with her hands on your back, touching your back. Frank wants us all to play nice.
You do not turn, turn to look at her: you look into the evening, into the dark, and say, Yeah? Is that what Frank said, said to you? But who are they, who the hell are they?
Zed Unit, she whispers. Off the books, here and back home. Primary mission is China, counter-ops out of Taiwan, but they’re putting together an army, ex-Jap military.
Mac, Willoughby, they know about this?
Sure Mac knows. He wants to retake China, roll the Reds right back to Moscow, then drop the goddamn bomb.
You shake your head, blink, then blink again, still looking, staring out, out into the evening, the dark, and you swallow, then say, The hell are we doing here then?
Her hands, her cheek now, on your back now, she whispers, she says, We’re all on the same side now, Don.
You turn, raise your hands, grip her shoulders, grip them tight, stare at her, and say, And Shimoyama?
Bad news, kids, says Stetson, coming up the steps, from under the ground, out of the hole. That was the doc…
You let go of Mary, turn to Stetson: What doc?
The doc I sent to try help your pal Shimoyama…
The fuck are you talking about, Stetson?
Woah there, cowboy, says Stetson, walking toward you, his hand on his holster, the handle of his pistol: the pistol in his hand now, he smiles: I’m just the hired gun here, yeah.
You turn away from Stetson, look at Mary, but her eyes are on Stetson, staring at Stetson: she is shaking her head, shaking her head at Stetson, mouthing, No, no, no –
You turn back to Stetson, you stare at Stetson and say, you say, you shout, The fuck is going on?
He didn’t make it, Don, says Stetson. Doc said he tried his best, but he’s gone, Don. Your man never woke up.
* * *
—
The Emperor was dead. Day by day, hour by hour, he had received more blood, more and more blood, but his blood pressure had remained low, his breathing slow, until, on Thursday, he had slipped into a coma, become comatose, then at four this morning, Saturday, January 7, 1989, he had fallen into a critical condition, and at six thirty-three, in the sixty-fourth year of Shōwa, the Emperor had died, his time stopped.
Ah, was all Donald Reichenbach said, when the music stopped and the announcement was made. He blinked, blinked again, then looked at his watch, the luminous hands of his watch, but they had stopped, too, stopped at six thirty-three. He sighed, sighed again, then said, said again, Ah.
Oblivious, Grete danced and sang around him as he picked up her empty saucer and water bowl from the floor and walked, slowly
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. He took down, opened, and served the tuna onto the saucer, then put his hand inside the pocket of his dressing gown. He took out the envelope and, crying softly, as softly, as quietly as he could, he mixed its ground contents into the tuna on the saucer. He placed the saucer and water back down on the floor but did not speak to her, could not speak or even look at her. He wiped, tried to dry his eyes but could not, could not stop his tears. He opened the refrigerator, took out the jar of apricot jam, the jar almost finished, almost done. He took a spoon from the drawer, then opened the jar, put the spoon in the jar, then in his mouth. He picked up the envelope, opened it and his mouth, tipped the rest of its ground contents into his mouth, swallowing the last of the powder with the jam. He screwed up the envelope, put it into the plastic trash box, then rinsed out the empty tin of tuna, the empty jar of jam, and put them in the plastic bag beside the trash box.
Meow, said Grete, against his shins, his calves, between his legs, pajama legs. He picked her up, into his arms, and held her, stroked her as he carried her toward the bedroom, stopping to turn off the radio, the announcement of the name of the new era: Heisei, the attainment of universal peace.
Le roi est mort, vive le roi, he whispered, holding Grete, stroking her as he carried her into the bedroom, onto the mats and the bed as he stroked her again and again, as he whispered and wept, I’m sorry, sweetheart, so sorry, sweet Gre-chan, I’m sorry, so sorry, le mort saisit le vif…
Sā-sā, rei-rei, sā-sā, rei-rei…
The rain, the wind against the window, its pane, behind the curtains, the curtains still closed, the curtain cracks, their edges gray, he slumped back on the bed, the cat in his arms, on his chest, still tight in his arms, as he stroked her head, her back, felt her warmth ebb away, away through her fur, from her flesh, from her bones, her breathing slow, slow as he waited, waited and wept, tried to hum, to sing, to sing as he wept, a lullaby, Dekker’s lullaby: Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; you are care, and care must keep you…
* * *
—
No one cares, you say. They don’t, we don’t, the Japanese…
In his bed, his room, in the seminary, the shadow of the cathedral, its domes and its crosses, Kaz strokes your hair, wipes your cheek, and says, I care, Don, and you care, Don.
Not enough, you whisper. Not nearly enough.
Kaz wipes your cheek again, then kisses your cheek, then swallows, then says, We did what we could, Don.
Did we, you say, pushing him off and away, siting up in his bed, asking again, Did we? What did we do? Nothing! We just sat on our hands, let a man, an innocent man die.
Kaz sits up, shakes his head, then says, That’s not true, Don, not true. Firstly, he wasn’t innocent, not really innocent; he was dismissing, personally dismissing one hundred thousand workers, throwing them and their families into poverty. Don’t tell me he was innocent –
But letting him die didn’t save their jobs, their families from poverty, did it, you shout, getting up from the bed, reaching for your clothes. It didn’t change a thing.
Kaz sits on the edge of his bed, looking up at you, nodding, Not yet, Don, not yet – but you know the plan, the strategy; this is what needs to be done, Don.
Yeah, you say, pulling on your pants, buttoning up your shirt. Well, I don’t see any barricades, any revolution on the streets, do you? All I see is a man, an innocent man lying dead on a railroad track up in Ayase –
And one hundred thousand workers out of work, thanks to him, says Kaz, standing up. Him and his Yankee bosses. And your Yankee bosses, Don, don’t forget, yours, not mine, Don.
You put on your jacket, stare at him, and say, Hey, I told you, I warned you; you said you’d let the Party know, make sure Moscow fucking knew – and you told me you did?
And I did, he says, I goddamn did, Don.
You pick up your hat, shake your head: So they knew, Kaz, they knew, but they just sat back and watched, waiting for someone else to do “what needs to be done.”
We’re at war, Don, at war –
Not anymore, you say, opening the door of his room. Not me – you tell them from me, it’s over, I’m out.
It’s not that simple, Don, says Kaz, standing there, staring at you. You can’t just walk away –
Yeah? You just watch me, you say, walking out of his room, out down the corridor, the seminary corridor…
Not from them, or from me, Don.
But you’re not listening anymore, not to him or to them, to anyone, not anymore: you just keep walking, out of the seminary, through the garden and the gates, not looking back, back at the cathedral, its domes and its crosses: down one slope, one hill, then up another, another slope, another hill, and into the station: you stand on the platform and wait for the train, the first train: but you do not bend down to tie your shoelace: no, you just board the first train to Tokyo station: you get off at the station, go down the stairs, through the gates, and walk as fast as you can to the Yaesu Hotel: you go under its canopy, into its lobby, up to the desk, the front desk: you ask the man on the desk for an envelope, and he hands one to you: you reach inside your jacket pocket, take out your notebook and pen, tear off a sheet of paper, and scrawl, It’s Closing Time, but Zed Unit are not to be blamed for nothing: you fold up the single sheet of paper, put it in the envelope, seal the envelope: you turn back to the man on the desk, ask him for the room number of Mister Harold Sweeney of the Public Safety Division: he tells you the number, and you write it under Sweeney’s name on the front of the envelope: you hand the envelope to the man on the desk and say, Onegaishimasu: the man on the desk nods, and you turn, walk away, out of the lobby and the Yaesu Hotel, and keep walking: through the morning, the afternoon, and the city, you keep walking, walking all the way back: back to the house, the yellow house, its gate, its garden and its path, its door and its lock: you take out your key, put your key in the lock –
You open the door, see her heels in the genkan, lying in the genkan: you step out of your own shoes, up into the house, and call out, I’m home, sweetheart, home –
She is sat at the table, a bottle, a glass, and her gun on the table: she looks up at you, smiles up at you, then says, she says, I know, Don, know what you’ve done, all you have done. But why, Don, why? Just please tell me why –
* * *
—
She smiled, she said, Do you despise, detest your own?
No, he said, and took another sip from the can, the last can of beer from the bag at his feet. I have no own.
She smiled again and said, Then why?
Indifference, he said. He took another sip from the can, stared out across the pond of lotuses, shriveled and withered, still dead where they stood. I despise, detest indifference.
She nodded, she said, But not cowardice?
Perhaps before the war, he said. But since then, I would say, and still now, indifference is the greatest sin.
Not state-sanctioned murder…?
Despite what you say, what you think, I was Chief of Station in name only.
She smiled, she said, So then what were you, Don – not in name, Don, but then really?
A false flag, he said, and a goddamn fool.
And a traitor.
I didn’t know, not really know, he whispered. But then, when I did, as soon as I did, I quit. I quit and walked away.
She smiled, she said, And they let you just slink off and away – to teach, to translate, to do what you pleased…
Once I was out, I was of no use to them, neither Washington nor Moscow, as they say.
Footloose and fancy-free.
I wouldn’t say that.
She nodded, she said, What would you say?
I hav
e regrets, of course, bitter regrets. Everything I did wrong, I said wrong, gestured wrong. Every single day, everything wrong – a lifetime lived wrong.
She smiled, she said, There is a memorial to President Shimoyama, you know, close to the scene where he died.
I know, he said. I know.
She stood up, she said, Let’s go.
Next time, he said.
She nodded, she said, It is next time, Donald.
He turned away from the dead lotuses, their stagnant pond, drained the last beer, his last can, put the can in the bag, empty and crushed, and said, said again, I know.
She smiled, she said, After you…
He tied the handles of the bag, tied them in a plastic knot, then stood up from the bench, no longer his bench, and walked away, quickly away from the bench, clockwise this time, away from the pond, away from the park, side by side, in silence now, clockwise they walked, away to the station, the platform, the train, then got on, stood on the train, side by side, in silence still, down the line, on down the line, over the crime, the scene of the crime, to the end, the end of the line.
The train pulled into Ayase station, terminated here, the doors opened, and he said, Please, after you.
She nodded, she said, No, after you.
He smiled, stepped off the train and onto the platform, the platform elevated, high above the shops and pachinko parlors. He looked down the platform to his right, the winter sun setting on the horizon, over the river, the city, then turned to her and said, It’s that way. The West Gate exit…
She smiled, said again, After you.
He smiled again, sadly now, then started to walk, slowly, slowly down the platform, people stepping around him, passing and overtaking him, toward the top of the stairs, the stairs down to the ground, the exit and out –
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked down, down the steep, narrow flight of stairs. He blinked, smiled again, then reached for the handrail, felt a hand on his back, his body topple forward, his feet miss the step, the first step, leave the ground as forward, down he fell –
down the steps, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down each one, each single one of the thirty-six steps to the ground,