Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  Suga inspects the new releases rack. “Living on borrowed time, these video stores. Pretty soon people will download all their videos via the net, right? DCDI format. The technology is already here, just waiting for marketing to catch up. I meant to ask: what happened with that Korean babe you were chasing?”

  “Uh, mistaken identity.”

  A kryptonite green Jeep, throbbing with time-travel music, mounts the sidewalk. Lolita, sitting in the passenger seat, eats cherries the same color as her lips, while Dalai Lama darts in, nursing a fluffy white ferret—it sports a pink-and-lime bow tie—in one arm and three videos in the other. “Jason and the Argonauts thrilled us, Sinbad chilled us, Titanic killed us. Myths are no longer what they used to be.” I check the return-by dates and thank him. Dalai Lama moonwalks out and waves the ferret’s paw at us. The ferret yawns. The Jeep jets off, redshifting drum-and-bass music into a thudding hiss. Suga watches through the door. “I wish I had a friend like that. I could phone him up every time I feel like a misfit, right, just to remind myself how normal I actually am.” Suga yawns, cleans his glasses on his T-shirt, and steps outside to consult the sky. “So. Another day.”

  “Audition hall waiting rooms are nurseries for lunatics,” says Ai, the noise of the wind a hazy crackle of static, “or psychological warfare students. Musicians are worse than those chess grandmasters who kick each other under the table. One boy from Toho music school is eating garlic yogurt and reading French slang from a phrase book. Aloud. Another is chanting Buddhist scriptures with his mother. Two girls are discussing best-loved music-academy suicides who couldn’t take the pressure.”

  “If your music sounds half as good to the judges as it did to me last night, you should breeze through it.”

  “I think you may be biased, Miyake. No points are awarded for neck contours. Anyway, nobody breezes into a Paris Conservatoire scholarship. You drag yourself there by your fingernails, over the corpses of slaughtered hopefuls. Like the Roman gladiators, except when you lose you have to simper politely and congratulate your nemesis. Playing over the phone to you is not the same as performing for a panel of dug-up A-class war criminal look-alikes who control my future and my meaning as a human being. If I blow this audition, it will be private lessons to Hello Kitty daughters until the day I die.”

  “There will be other auditions in the future,” I point out.

  “Nice try, but that is the wrong thing to say.”

  “When are the results announced?”

  “Five o’clock today, after the final candidate has performed—the judges fly back to France tomorrow. Hang on—someone’s coming”— I get an earful of static swish and covered mumble—“that was my on-in-two-minutes call.”

  Say something powerful, encouraging, and witty, Miyake. “Uh, good luck.”

  Her breathing changes as she walks. “I was thinking earlier . . .”

  “About?”

  “I changed my mind about the meaning of life again.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You look for your meaning. You find it, and at that moment, your meaning changes, and you have to start all over again.”

  “But that means that you never actually—Ai?”

  Her footsteps echo and static blows, then the line is broken.

  Customers come, customers go. A steady stream of movies about the end of the world is rented—must be something in the air. I wonder how Ai is doing in her audition. She sounds like a fine musician to me. I thought my guitar playing was okay, but compared to her I am a nofingered amateur. A hassled mother comes in and asks me to recommend a video that will shut her kids up for an hour. I resist the temptation to slip her Pam the Clam from Amsterdam—“Well, madam, it did shut them up, didn’t it?”—and suggest Sky Castle Laputa. I go to the door—the sky is one of those refracted marmalade sunsets. A Harley-Davidson growls by, a strolling lion. Its chromework is cometary, and its driver is a kid with leather pants, a designer-gashed T-shirt saying DAMN I’M GOOD, and an army outrider helmet with a cartoon duck stenciled on. The girlfriend, her perfect arms disappearing into the T-shirt, blond hair catching amber sunlight, is none other than Velvet. Love Hotel Velvet! Same pout, same time-zone straddling legs. I half-hide behind a Ken Takakura poster and watch the motorbike weave through the clogged traffic. Definitely Velvet—or her clone. Now I am not so certain. Velvet has millions of clones in Tokyo. I sit down and open my grandfather’s journal. What would Subaru Tsukiyama say about Japan today? Was it worth dying for? Maybe he would reply that this Japan is not the Japan he did die for. The Japan he died for never came into being. It was a possible future, auditioned by the present but rejected with other dreams. Maybe it is a mercy he cannot see the Japan that was chosen. I wonder what angle to take when I meet my grandfather next Monday. I wish I could do angles as skillfully as Daimon. I wish Admiral Raizo had given me a clue. Should I applaud the samurai spirit stuff? Does it matter? All I want is for my grandfather to introduce me to my father. Nothing more. I wonder how I would have fared in the war. Could I have calmly stayed in an iron whale cruising toward my death? I am the same age as my great-uncle when he died. I guess I would not have been “I.” I would have been another “I.” A weird thought, that—I am not made by me, or my parents, but by the Japan that did come into being. Subaru Tsukiyama was made by a Japan that died with surrender. It must be tough being made by both, like Takara Tsukiyama.

  November 18

  Weather: tropical heat, blinding sunshine. This morning I spent thirty minutes on the lookout platform fore of the periscopes. The lookout lent me his binoculars. Our position is 60 kilometers west of Ulithi atoll. A high-altitude reconnaissance plane from Truk reported 200 enemy vessels, including four carriers. Enemy radio transmissions grow ever busier. Cpt. Yokota made the decision not to wait for I-37, as five days have passed since our last contact. Hailing her on VLF radio would be hazardous so close to an enemy strong-hold. I hope she has only been delayed. Being sunk so close to the target area would be a cruel irony for the kaiten pilots. We wished I-36 and I-47 good hunting and turned west toward the Palau Islands. I-333 approached Peleliu around 1800 hours. The archipelago is as beautiful as places from old stories, but as outlandish as the landscapes I used to doodle on my copybook. I saw coral islets, twisted outcrops, gorges, peaks, swamps, and sandbars. Recent battle damage was much in evidence. The 14th Division of the Kwantung Army will have made the enemy pay dearly for the invasion of these islands. The bases and airfields were among the most battle-ready in the war, because the Palaus had been Japanese territory since the League of Nations mandate. But the enemy cannot guess the true price of anchoring in the Kossol Passage. The lookout spotted an enemy scout plane and we dived. As tonight’s meal will, in all probability, be our final one, Cpt. Yokota produced his wind-up gramophone and two records. I instantly recognized a tune that Father used to play, before jazz was banned because of its corrupting influence. The musician’s name is Jyu Keringuton. How strange to be listening to American jazz before setting out to kill Americans.

  November 19

  Weather: fine, calm conditions prevailing. A quiet last night. I-333 conducting submerged periscope watch. Slick has promised to visit Nagasaki and hand this journal to you personally, Takara. My co-Kikusui pilots are composing their final letters. Kusakabe asked Abe’s advice regarding an obscure kanji for a haiku he was composing. Abe answered without rancor. I have little talent for poetry. Slick is presently servicing our kaitens for the final time, and the kaiten release mechanisms are being tested. Cpt. Yokota is approaching the mouth of Kossol Passage in a slow curve. We prayed at the special shrine and left incense as gifts to the god of the shrine. Goto burned his cardboard aircraft carrier and offered the ashes. We studied a cartographical chart of the target zone, with depth soundings. At our final supper we thanked the crew for bringing us here safely. We drank banzai toasts to the success of our mission and to the Emperor. I went up to the bridge one final time to see the moon and stars, and shared a cigarette with t
he ensign on duty. The moon was full and bright. It reminded me of the mirror Yaeko and Mother use to apply cosmetics. This moon will allow me to choose my target in under three hours from now. Three hours. This is all my lifeline has to run, if all goes well. My thoughts are now occupied with how I can best utilize my training to be sure of making a lethal hit. I will now entrust this journal to Slick.

  Live my life for me, Takara, and I will die your death for you.

  Live long, little brother.

  I had never heard Ai sound miserable. I hadn’t thought misery was in her repertoire. I stroke the fluffy part below Cat’s throat. “Your father knows how much the Conservatoire means to you?”

  “That man knows exactly how much it means.”

  “And he knows how few scholarships get awarded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why has he forbidden you to go? Why isn’t he brimming over with pride?”

  “Niigata was good enough for him, so Niigata will be good enough for me. He refuses to use the word music. He says ‘tinkling’ instead.”

  “What does your mother think?”

  “My mother? ‘Think’? Not since her honeymoon. What she says is ‘Obey your father!’ Over and over. She let him finish her sentences for her for so long that now he starts them too. She actually apologizes to my father for making him yell at her. My sister and I used to be close, but she married the owner of the biggest concrete works on the Japan Sea coast because our father told her to. It was a dynastic alliance. Now she is turning into my mother. It’s creepy. My mother heard they have big ozone holes over Austria, so—”

  “Austria? Doesn’t she mean Australia?”

  “See what I’m up against? Their knowledge of the world outside Japan extends only as far as they can swim offshore. Sorry if I sound bitter. Then my brother was called over. He runs That Man’s branch office, so you can imagine how sympathetic he was. I am wrecking the family harmony, he said. French food will make my diabetes worse—as if he ever cared about my diabetes—and the sheer worry will cause my mother’s blood pressure to rise, and she may actually explode. Then I will be guilty of blowing up Mother as well as disobeying That Man. What’s making that noise? Not Suga again?”

  “Cat, this time. She feels sorry for you, but doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound feeble. She hopes it will all work out okay.”

  “Thank her. At times like this I wish I smoked.”

  “Hold your mouth to the receiver—I’ll blow smoke down the line.”

  “Don’t. Diabetics have enough to worry about. My flatmate’s magazine says that over 90 percent of teenagers fantasize that their parents are not their real parents. After this evening I can see the appeal. Truth is, That Man hates the idea of me not needing him. He wants to hire and fire the world as he sees fit. He is afraid of his employees finding out he can’t control his daughter. What . . . a family of sand fleas I come from! I swear, sometimes I think I would be better off as an orphan. Oh. Oh . . . sorry, that was a stupid thing to say . . .”

  “Hey, don’t worry.”

  “Today has blown my tact chip. I should switch myself off and leave you in peace. I’ve done nothing but whine for thirty minutes.”

  “You can whine all night. Isn’t that right, Cat?”

  Cat, bless her, meooows right on cue.

  “See? So whine.”

  “You look five years younger,” I tell Buntaro when he gets back from Okinawa on Sunday evening, and he really does. “So if I go on four vacations in a row do I get to look like you?” He presents me with a keyring of Zizzi Hikaru—like most idols, Zizzi is Okinawan—who sheds her clothes when you breathe on the plastic casing. “Hey, thanks,” I say, “this will be a family heirloom. Good to be back?”

  “Ye-es.” Buntaro looks around Shooting Star. “No. Yes. Don’t know.”

  “Right. Did Machiko-san enjoy herself?”

  “Way too much. She wants to move there. Tomorrow afternoon.” Buntaro scratches his head. “Kodai being born soon . . . it changes the way you see things. Would you want to be brought up in Tokyo?”

  I remember my mother’s first letter, the balcony one. “Maybe not.”

  Buntaro checks his watch. “You must have a thousand things you want to do, kid.” I don’t, but I can see he wants to catch up on paperwork, so I climb up to my capsule and round up dirty laundry. I try calling Ai, but nobody answers. Netherworld noises vibrate down the apartment building tonight. Husband bawling, baby screaming, washing machine spinning. Tomorrow is Monday—grandfather day. I lie on my futon and begin decoding the final three pages of the journal. These are written on different paper, in cramped letters that get harder and harder to read. Across the top of the paper is stamped in red ink, in English: “SCAP”—which is not in my dictionary—and “Military Censor.” These half-obscure a pencil inscription in Japanese: “. . . these words. . . . moral property . . . Takara Tsukiyama. . . .” An address in Nagasaki is illegible to me.

  November 20

  Weather—unknown. Dead but still alive. Alone in kaiten. Last 6 hours. At 0245 Cpt. Yokota came to cabin— announced the kaiten attack to commence in 15 mins. Stood in a circle and tied hachimaki of brother before us. Goto: “Just another training run, boys.” Abe to Kusakabe: “You are a demon chess player, Ensign.” Kusakabe: “Your right hook is the demon, Lieutenant.” Toured I-333—thanked crew for bringing us here safely. Saluted, man by man. Shook hands before entering kaitens via chutes. Slick sealed the hatches behind us. His face last I saw. I-333 dived for final approach. Radioman First Class Hosokawa maintained telephone link until release, providing last-minute orientation. Abe released 0315. Heard clamps fall loose. Goto released 0320. Kusakabe floated free 0335. Next 5 mins I thought many things, focus difficult. Hosokawa in Nagasaki dialect: “I’ll be thinking of you. Glory is yours.” Final human words. Foreclasps released. Started engine. Rears released. Floated free. Thrust sharp left avoid conning tower/periscope shears. Proceeded ESE heading, holding depth 5 meters. Surfaced 0342 confirm position with visual fix. Enemy fleet clearly silhouetted harbor lights. Troop carriers, transport ships, fuel tankers, at least 3 battleships, 3 destroyers, 2 heavy cruisers. No carriers, many fat targets. Eating, asleep, shitting, smoking, drinking, talking Americans. I, their executioner. Strange sensation. At strategy meeting on I-333 agreed first kaitens should target distant vessels—guesswork required. Used children’s choosing chant: Do-re-ni-shi-ma-sho-ka? Ka-mi-sa-ma-no-iu-to-explosion. Shock waves rocked kaiten. Steadied periscope, saw fuel tanker, plum-blossom fire, smoke already obscuring stars. Secondary explosion. Orange. Beautiful, terrible, could not tear eyes away. Flares climbed, lit Passage brighter than day. Hunted, I dived. Waking dream. Being, not doing. Chose nearest large naval ship and maneuvered to appropriate angle. Klaxons, engines, chaos. Another major explosion—kaiten, nearby depth charge, no knowing. Patrol boat? Vibrations nearer, nearer, nearer—dived to 8 meters—passed over. Sizeable explosion to starboard. Loneliness—afraid brothers leave me here among hostile strangers not my race. Slowed to 2 kph, surfaced for position check. Fires/smoke/afterexplosions 2 locations. Chose large outline due west—light cruiser? 150 meters. Eyes dazzled by searchlight, but cloaked by chaos onshore. Dived to 6–7 meters. Throttled to 18 kph. Flying, strange air. Cut to dead halt. Surfaced, final check. Cruiser filled the night. 80 meters. Saw figures streaming. Ants. Fireflies. Dived 5 meters. Primed warhead. One thought: “This is my final thought.” Opened throttle lever to maximum velocity. Acceleration shoved me back, hard . . . 70 meters closing, 60, 50, 40, 30, 20, impact next moment, impact now.

  Clang like temple bell. Wild spinning—up = down, down = up, drilling, flung left right up down, loose objects flying, me too. Lungs empty. So this death, I think, then I think, Can dead think? Pain rings from head erased further thought. Lurching crunch > hung downward > judder halt. Engines howling, rudder control dead and free in hand, scream noise from engines, heat climbing, burning-oil smell—same moment I realize not dead and must cut en
gines, engines die.

  Failure. Warhead did not detonate. Kaiten glanced off hull = bamboo spear off metal helmet. Periscope sights slashed face, broke nose. Sat, listened to noises from surface. Tried to ignite TNT manually, strike casing with wrench. Tore off fingernail in attempt. Impact broke chronometer. Minutes or hours, cannot tell. Periscope blackness > blueness now. Flask of whiskey. Will drink, put these pages into flask. Takara. Message in bottle in dead shark. Learn this song, Takara?

  Corpses adrift and corpses swollen,

  Corpses abed in the swollen sea,

  Corpses adream in the mountain grasslands,

  We shall die, we shall die, we shall die for the Emperor,

  and we shall never look back.

  Abed in the swollen sea. Air thinner. Or imagine air thinner. Now? Divers may discover me—typhoon shakes me loose, beaches me—remain here end of time. Kaiten was not way to glorious death. Kaiten is urn. Sea is tomb. Do not blame us who die so long before noon.

  “No hope,” answers the woman who is not Ai. It is after midnight but she sounds more amused than angry. She has a brick-thick Osaka accent. “Sorry.”

  “Oh. Can I ask when, uh, Miss Imajo is expected back?”

  “Feel free to ask, but whether I answer is another Q.”

  “When is Miss Imajo due back? Please?”

  “And tonight’s top news story: the rebel chieftainess Ai Imajo is summoned to the ancestral seat in Niigata in a last-ditch attempt to break the diplomatic deadlock. When reporters asked the defiant music student guerrilla how long the summit would last, we were told: ‘As long as it takes.’ Stay tuned!”

  “Days, then?”

  “My turn. Are you the karate kid?”

  “No. The headbutt kid.”

  “Same kid. Nice to meet your disembodied voice at last, karate kid. Ai calls you headbutt kid, but I think karate kid sounds much wittier.”