Perspiration ran into his eyes. He took his hand off his sword and rubbed more sweat onto his trouser leg before returning it to the reassuring steel. Crafted by a master sword-maker, the weapon had been in his family for generations. He wondered what his ancestors would think if they knew his intention should Yamamuchi turn into the beast he knew him to be and kill her. Perhaps not yet. Yamamuchi liked to play with his prey before killing them.
He heard another sound from above – just a rushing of breath, no more, but enough to tell him what was going on. He thought he heard her voice. Jeez, but he wished he’d never left America. And for what? Loyalty to a land he’d never known first-hand, traditions passed from one generation to another like an antique clock.
He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think of what Yamamuchi was doing to the beautiful dancer. The times he spent watching her and playing for her were the closest he had come to happiness for a long time. When talking to her he could almost forget they were on opposing sides of a hellish war, so entranced was he by the subtle steps of the dance and even the way she walked. Her eyes were filled with fire and for some inexplicable reason he felt empathy with her.
If Yamamuchi’s mood changed, he would kill her. Shamida tried not to visualize what he was doing to her at that moment.
Eventually, the floor above his head vibrated with the sound of Yamamuchi’s departing boots.
He listened for weeping but heard none. There was only silence, and then there was one long wail of anguish – an odd sound that slowly turned into hysterical laughter.
The overhang at the back of the room jutted over dry land. He found a foothold, swore at his scabbard for getting in the way, but managed to clamber up the wooden stilt and onto the platform. He found the naked Nadine on the other side of the sliding screen, her head buried in her hands.
‘Did he hurt you?’
She started. Her eyes were very round, her cheeks pink and there was a red mark around her neck.
‘Are you all right?’ He dropped to his knees, his disgust for Yamamuchi burning a hole in his guts.
The dancer’s skin looked luminescent in the amber light. He offered the discarded kimono to cover her nakedness; she accepted it, and as she did so his eyes took in the fact that her thighs were smeared with blood. The bloodstained cloth that would prove Yamamuchi had taken her virginity was gone.
She shivered when he touched her shoulder. ‘You feel so cold.’
Her jaw trembled, but she held her head high and defiant. ‘I survived.’
He winced when she looked into his eyes. He’d expected terror, but saw only triumph. What had happened to cause that look?
‘Did he hurt you?’ he asked again.
She rubbed at the redness around her neck and spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Do you want to know the details?’
Her voice was defiant and made him ashamed.
‘No! No, of course not. I was merely enquiring… because I…’
He couldn’t go on. He felt as tongue-tied as a high-school kid on his first date. He tried again. ‘Look. I’m only trying to help.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
What was it about that look in her eyes? If he wasn’t mistaken she was almost smiling.
‘I can’t believe how calm you are. Most women are nervous wrecks by the time he’s finished with them.’
‘I’m not most women! And stop staring. I wish to wash myself and get dressed. Do you mind turning your back, please?’
He looked out over the ledge he’d climbed up. His eyes skimmed the trees of the jungle, a border of blackness against an ink-black sky.
Wincing, Nadine reached up inside herself and found the knotted end of the balloon. It slid out easily enough; now for the disposal. She pushed it between the woven fronds of the reed walls. It went straight through, falling out the other side into some dense vegetation where it could not be easily discovered.
‘I’m dressed now.’
Genda turned. He couldn’t help the flush that spread up from his neck when he looked at her. No girl or woman had ever intrigued him the way she did.
‘You look very nice,’ he said.
The kimono was folded neatly ready for madam to collect it. Apparently she had a buyer waiting, an officer with a fiancé back in Japan.
She now wore a short blouse and a silky sarong tied in a knot at the side. The edge of one did not meet the other; her midriff remained bare.
‘Nice?’ She looked surprised at first, and then angry. ‘Oh, I see! The colonel’s at the head of the queue and you’ve got permission to be second!’
Taken aback, Genda shook his head vehemently. ‘No! Not at all. I really do think… from the time I first saw you dancing…’
The sound of soldiers laughing and women shrieking from the communal room interrupted his concentration.
‘Damn them all,’ he muttered, his eyes darkening as he sought the right words.
She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I need to get out of here. A little fresh air – just for a moment.’
A crashing sounded in his ears; the rules he’d made for himself about not getting too close to internees smashed to pieces.
‘I know a place,’ he said, hardly believing that he could be so foolish, but unable to stop himself. ‘Just trust me. OK?’
She nodded silently and swayed as though the colonel had left her weak and helpless. On the contrary, the vision of the beautiful moth squashed to nothingness was still in her mind. In time the colonel would tire of her; she would earn her money, perhaps finally escape. Escape! The word would haunt her dreams.
* * *
The Bamboo Bridge House was very busy. Rather than be seen by those in the outer room, Shamida helped Nadine climb down the same way as he’d climbed in.
Ducking down, they traversed the area beneath the hut, totally hidden by darkness.
Genda zigzagged around clumps of rock and bushes. At one point he froze. She could see nothing herself, not until the light from a vehicle pulling up outside the guardhouse fell over a passing snake. The major swore a heartfelt oath. She sensed that snakes were not his favourite animals.
The moon was hidden behind ragged clouds. He led her through a small opening to the rear of the guardhouse, not visible from the front of the building. The sound of loud voices came out through the open windows.
Nadine studied the route they took and also noted the position of the secret gate. Nothing, no opportunity or knowledge of this camp and its occupants, must be wasted.
A narrow path through an apron of jungle led to a small beach.
The salt smell of the sea! She took great gulps of night air as though it were a new and unforgettable experience. Like freedom. Freedom! Of a kind. She had survived her encounter with the most feared man at the camp. Despite her shaking legs she was elated by the thought that her ill-conceived plan had worked.
They sat with their backs leaning against a rock, their feet digging into the soft sand, both gazing at a moon-speckled sea.
‘Did he hurt you?’ he asked again.
She took deep gulps of air. Her lips curved in a flickering smile. ‘Not as much as he would have liked to. I’m a widow, not a virgin, remember?’
His expression was grave. ‘I remember. Did he… notice this?’
She laughed in a nervous, brittle way and told him about the balloon and the chicken blood.
‘If he ever finds out he will kill you.’
‘I’ve realized just how dangerous he is,’ she said, thinking of the way he crushed the particularly beautiful moth. ‘He enjoyed hurting me.’
‘I’ve seen what he can do. Somehow you must keep away from him.’
‘The only way I can do that is to escape – and that’s difficult.’
She waited for him to respond and could almost hear his thoughts ticking over, accompanied only by the surf rolling onto the sand.
The bay became flooded with moonlight. For a while they both studied it. No words could express its beauty – or th
e fear she was feeling.
‘Are you in danger from him, Genda Shamida?’
He shrugged. ‘I think he would have me killed as a spy if he could. The only thing that stops him is the fact that he’d like a command – a proper command with a proper army. He doesn’t consider being commandant of a brothel and a women’s prison camp an honourable position. In China it didn’t matter to him so much. He didn’t regard the Chinese as a worthy enemy. His attitude has changed since Pearl Harbor. He wishes for glory, both for himself and his family. I could recommend him to my grandfather, the general, if I’d a mind to.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘I most certainly will not!’ He said it with great conviction. She sensed he took great delight in standing in the way of the colonel’s ambition.
‘Wouldn’t it be best if he left? Perhaps he’d even get killed.’
‘But that would bring honour on his family. Oh, no!’ He shook his head. ‘I will not allow him the satisfaction of bringing honour on his family, even by his death.’ He saw the look of horror on her face. ‘Yes, I mean it. His death would honour them. Japanese do not think like Europeans or Americans. This is bushido. Tradition.’
‘So you wish you’d never returned to Japan.’
‘Most of the time. I feel so guilty.’
‘About Pearl Harbor?’
‘About a lot of things. About not getting out of Japan fast enough. I saw the way things were going when my uncle burned his collection of Western literature. Classic stories and poetry.’ He curved his head towards his bended knees, hugging them closer to him at the same time as his eyes skimmed the moonlight shining on water.
The softness of his voice made her want to touch the nape of his neck. It seemed so exposed, almost as though he were inviting attention.
‘So,’ she said, gathering her words as diligently as she might the pebbles on the beach, ‘why did he burn his books?’
He lifted a finger from one of his clasped hands and traced the path of moonlight as though it were daubed in oil on cardboard.
‘America and other powers had chastised Japan for their behaviour in China. There was a lot of anti-Western feeling. He was worried that he might be singled out and punished. So he did what he thought was a patriotic thing; he burned his most precious possessions.’ He hung his head. ‘I was saddened. I loved those books, especially the poetry. I tried to save one, but he tore it from my hand so all I saved was one single page, one single poem.’
His earlier anger and concern for her was replaced by what sounded like melancholy.
Her curiosity was aroused. ‘What poem was it?’
He raised his head and looked at her. She knew immediately that he was about to share a treasured secret. Without a word he delved into his uniform and brought out a single piece of paper.
His face lit up with boyish enthusiasm. ‘Call me stupid and sentimental if you like, but I kept it. I felt it signified something at the time. I still do, though for the life of me I can’t put it into words myself. I suppose that’s what makes a good poet so great.’
She felt herself relaxing and desperate to know what poem he had saved. What would a man like him, a hybrid man who was both East and West and also a soldier, what would he keep?
The paper was singed at the edges and crackled as he unfolded it. For a moment he seemed about to read it out loud, but he changed his mind.
‘You read it.’ He passed her the piece of paper.
There was just enough moonlight. She saw the title, saw the familiar words. It was totally unexpected. She began to read it out loud.
‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old friends and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – And, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.’
Reading a love poem in the midst of starvation, deprivation and brutality, seemed so out of place, so surreal. But there was something else.
She looked at the sea, the emptiness of it all, the dark sky, the moon wreathed in scrap of cloud, as thin and fibrous as lace. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘Trying to survive.’
All the anguish, the fear and self-loathing welled up inside her. She pounded her knees with her fists. ‘When will it end?’
‘When the great powers make it so.’
‘Until then?’
‘We are just pawns caught up in bigger things. We survive as best we can.’
She looked back at the sea. ‘We are alike. You know that, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Our feelings are alike.’
‘A bit of British, a bit of Indian; I was always aware that I was different.’
‘You have a British name.’
She threw back her head so that her hair tickled the hollow of her back. Moonlight silvered her features. ‘I wanted to be more British. I wanted to be the Honourable Miss Nadine Burton.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘The Honourable…’
‘No one would notice anything else if I was called that.’
Genda continued to laugh and shake his head.
She slapped his shoulder. ‘Stop it. ’
He didn’t stop so she repeated the action, but at that moment he turned and her hand landed on his face. Suddenly, she remembered he was a Japanese officer and froze.
Her fear vanished when he caught her hand and showed no anger. ‘I wasn’t being rude. I was just remembering. At college in the States I wished my name were Joseph Smith Junior the Third. Now is that stupid, or is that stupid?’
‘Joe Smith?’
‘Not just Joe Smith,’ he said indignantly. ‘Joseph Smith Junior the Third. The Americans set a lot of store about being a junior and a “the Third”.’
Relieved and genuinely amused, Nadine fell back against the rock and began to laugh. ‘What a silly pair we are. I want to be an “Honourable” and you want to be a “Junior, the Third”.’
The amusement persisted until it struck Nadine that here they were, supposed enemies, laughing and sharing childhood secrets.
The uniform and the circumstances suddenly became unimportant. They really were two people with a great deal in common.
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘We’re supposed to be enemies.’
‘But we’re not. We can’t be when we understand each other so well.’
For a moment she stared down at her clasped hands and attempted to confront her mixed emotions. ‘I am afraid of the colonel. I am afraid of what he might do.’ The brittle exterior behind which she’d hidden her fear fell away. She shivered.
‘I’ll try to protect you,’ Genda said.
He looked so determined, so sincere. She knew he meant what he said.
Closing her eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Comfort me.’ She closed her eyes.
Genda’s voice trembled. ‘I heard everything. I wanted to kill him.’
Nadine rolled out of his arms and stared up at the trees fringing the sandy beach. ‘You were listening?’
‘Underneath the house. I was afraid for you.’
Her thoughts were complex and disturbing. She needed to get them into some order. The secret gate leading to this beach loomed large in her mind.
Genda stared thoughtfully at the sea, his chin resting on her shoulder.
Nadine sat as though her head was empty of th
oughts but it was not. She was thinking that Genda Shamida might prove a useful ally and might aid her survival. He might even help her get out of here. She would use him, but that was all. I feel nothing, absolutely nothing, she thought, but deep down she was unnerved that she felt more than she should; they had touched in so many ways.
‘Do you care for me?’ he asked.
The suddenness of his question coming at this particular moment when her head was full of intrigue surprised her. ‘Yes. Very much.’ She told herself she was exaggerating only to win his protection, but knew that there was more to her complex feelings.
He stroked her back. Much as she tried, she couldn’t find any hatred in her heart for Genda Shamida. Despite everything she could not deny that he was different, and that she wanted him near.
A sudden feeling of desolation threatened to destroy her.
‘Hold me,’ she said to him.
Slowly and gently he slid his arms around her and held her close.
‘I need someone to care.’
‘I care,’ he said in a choking voice. ‘Please, I do not wish to offend…’
‘I need this to happen. I need to believe in something good and normal. I need to be loved.’
That night was the first time she lay with him, though not in a sexual way. He held her as though she were a china doll that might shatter at any moment. He caressed her gently holding her close, her hot face against the coolness of his shoulder. She felt herself melting into him, her hot tears on his shoulder and all the time she felt loved, cared for in a way she had never felt before.
And so it began. Illicit meetings snatched at opportune moments; mutual support between two people trapped in a situation neither of them had any control over, though if discovered the consequences were terminal.
* * *
Genda Shamida gave her hope. She carried him in her thoughts as she might a shield against the horror that was happening around her.
East of India Page 21