by Yu Miri
“How about now?”
“Can’t today, I’m afraid. He hates it when I eat out for dinner.”
“Oh, mine doesn’t mind eating alone. I just have to give him a call.”
“That doesn’t swing at my house. Even when I was working, I had to make him lunch every day.”
“What a bother. Well, then, I guess you’d better be off to get the shopping.”
“I’ve already got everything I need at home, but you’re right, I’d better be going.”
“Right, then, let’s go.”
—
The two women, around the same age as Setsuko was when she died, walked toward the exit.
*
The sky looked menacing again. Or was it just that the sun was obscured—the sunlight that remained was weakening, and when the two women turned a corner and disappeared, the landscape suddenly spread aimlessly, without beginning or end.
Today was still today, not yet opening toward tomorrow. Hidden within today was a past longer than the present… I felt as if I were listening to signs of that past and equally, I felt as if I were closing my ears off to it…
Suddenly I heard someone sigh.
It was a sigh I’d heard before.
It was a man in his fifties, sobbing as he told his life story, something out of the ordinary for the homeless.
“After university I went to work at a real estate company. I got contract after contract for resort condos worth nearly a 100,000,000 yen, and I was on salary plus commission, so sometimes I was taking home 800,000 yen a month. But that took a turn. The bubble burst and within three years, the company folded; my severance pay was set at only 20 per cent of my annual pay, and I couldn’t pay my loans back. If I’d known this kinda thing could happen, I’d have taken what I could get in the first round of redundancies and found a new job quick. But I was loyal to my company, I kept saying it’s just a recession, it can’t last that long, and that naïveté is what did me in. I hit the bottom. Splat. With my wife’s support, maybe I could’ve gotten back on my feet again, but then, like a bolt from the blue, she hit me with divorce papers. Like biting the hand that feeds you. I didn’t know what to say, all I could do was silently give my seal of consent, but I guess our relationship was falling apart long before the bubble burst. On weeknights I’d be out in Ginza and Roppongi, and Saturdays and Sundays I was golfing with clients, so this was my punishment for neglecting her. My wife was a former stewardess, a very beautiful woman. And because of that she had a lot of pride. When we got married everyone said they couldn’t believe what a good-looking pair of newlyweds we were. We had our reception in the Orchard Room at the Hotel Okura, a hundred and eighty guests, but I guess that was the peak for me…
“To be more specific, I look hard at the point when I lost control, but I still can’t believe I became homeless… Having passersby look at me like I’m something dirty… I guess my life’s hit rock-bottom… Am I gonna die on the streets?” on and on he went, sighing and weeping.
This man had been in Ueno for about six months, but then he packed up his hut and said he was moving over toward Toyama in Shinjuku. Rumor was that not long after, he’d been killed by some middle schoolers.
In Tokyo, Yokohama and Osaka, groups of youths were attacking homeless people for sport. Every time I heard another story the terror ran rampant.
They’d been attacked with timber and metal bats, their huts set fire to…
Firecrackers had been thrown into huts, and then, when the occupant ran out, they had been set upon and stoned…
The perpetrators had sprayed huts with a fire extinguisher, then ganged up on the occupants with air guns, signboards and crowbars…
And once you were exhausted from the violence of being kicked and punched, they would set off fireworks at your face from a short distance until you went blind and then, stab you repeatedly…
—
Reference number: NAT 2 Ueno Park Management Office
Improvement works ending: Aug 2012
Belongings of the homeless from the tent village must be bundled in tarps and secured with string, and each bundle must have attached a tag bearing their reference number, an identifying abbreviation and number designating its owner’s usual ‘turf,’ like a license plate on a car. NAT is for the National Science Museum, SAI is for Saigō, LAN is for the lanterns at Ueno Toshogu Shrine, SUR is Mount Suribachi. Shige and I had lived in SUR, in the shelter of the trees at the base of Mount Suribachi.
Attach (put on) to a visible (can be seen) part of the exterior (outside) of your baggage (belongings)
This number (tag) cannot be borrowed or transferred (given) to someone else
Do not look after (watch) other people’s belongings (bags)
Put only necessary (needed) items in your bag, do not overfill (make it too heavy)
You will be informed (told) in Aug 2012 of the next improvement (making things better) works
The attempts to make the sign easier to read actually made it more difficult. I guess they must have thought that most homeless people barely had an elementary school education.
The birds were calling to each other in the trees over the tent city. The occasional sound of wings flapping suggested that they were fighting, perhaps over food, or because one’s nest was nearby.
One little tent’s blue tarp had become slack and a few days’ worth of yellowish rainwater and fallen leaves had collected on top. If the roof was flat the tarp would get damaged and the cardboard that formed the hut itself would get sodden and disintegrate from the rain, so the golden rule was to create a sloped roof, but—
Next to the hut there was a bicycle with hangers and an umbrella and hose and a bucket and all sorts of household essentials hanging off the front basket, handlebars and rack. A child’s yellow beach sandal with fingerprint-like traces of wear was caught up in a rope holding the tarp up, and the clothes hanging on the bamboo broomstick protruding from the hut were women’s underwear.
The tarp serving as a door curtain peeled back and a white head emerged, belonging to the old woman who had talked about Shige being found dead in his tent.
She smacked her lips together, pa pa pa pa, as if speaking in baby talk, then started walking. On her right foot she wore a sandal; on her left, a white Adidas running shoe with the laces done up properly.
A man wearing a blue cook’s hat jogged through the red torii of Hanazono Inari Shrine. He must’ve been a cook at one of the nearby restaurants, but which one, I wondered.
The old lady, without giving a glance to the cook or the shrine, went down the gentle slope toward Shinobazu Pond, arms swinging as she went. Her upper half was bundled up in a grey down jacket with a pink vest layered over it, but on her lower half she wore only light purple trousers, perhaps having left her skirt in her tent. The left leg was torn from the hem, laying bare the oversized socks she was wearing.
She stopped in front of the vending machine in the middle of the hill and pulled two 50 yen coins and three 10 yen coins from her pocket, counting them in her palm then grasping them tightly as she looked up at the machine, muttering, “Hmm, hmm, hmm.” She pressed one of the buttons underneath a little sign that read “cool,” then grunting as she bent over, pulled a plastic bottle of Amino Suppli from the slot.
Dangling it from one hand as if it were heavy, the old women went back up the slope, her expression unreadable.
At the bottom of the hill was the path to the zoo.
A tall, thin homeless man walked toward the main road, pulling a handcart after him. It was loaded with six semi-opaque, 90-liter rubbish sacks full of aluminum cans, probably 3,000 yen’s worth.
His long hair, mostly white, was tied back with a rubber band, his t-shirt was yellow-green, and his trousers might have once been gray but had nearly lost their color from being washed too many times. His brand-new black socks looked as if
they were floating.
At the entrance to Shinobazu Pond, there was a taxi rank with about ten cars waiting in a queue. About five or six meters from the taxi at the end of the queue, a blue tarp had been spread out with about four or five hundred aluminum cans on top of it.
In the twenty or so plastic checkout bags tied to the railing separating the road and the pavement were someone’s daily necessities, hung there for storage. The handle of a damp umbrella was hooked over the top of the rail, and a bamboo broom was stuck through as well. A blue tarp covered a trolley laden with blankets, clothes, pots and more, and on the handhold of the cart, plastic carrier bags full of rope and work gloves and pastries were attached with laundry pegs.
A homeless man, head resting against the rail and legs stretched out between the rows of cans, looked vacantly out at the cars passing before him; then, apparently having fallen asleep, his head slipped from the railing.
When I had lived here, I had never been driven this far out.
Two large, new signs had been put up at the edge of the park.
“Future World Heritage Site: the main building of the National Museum of Western Art has been recommended as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”
“Japan needs the power of dreams now more than ever. Bring the 2020 Olympics and Paralympics to Japan!”
Would we be targeted for reduction once the foreign commissioners in charge of world heritage listings and Olympics selection committees caught sight of the homeless’ tents?
Shinobazu Pond connected to the cormorant pond inside Ueno Zoo, but the concrete block wall around the Benten Gate exit had barbed wire strung on top.
Sometimes, I could hear the sound of bird calls from the zoo. One would start calling, and then the rest, unable to hold back any longer, would join in.
There’d be a splash, the sound of water, and I’d look at the surface, but the turtles and carp would be sticking their heads out, and I wouldn’t be able to tell what had made the sound.
There was a group of white and brown ducks, some weaving their way through the lotuses, some resting with their bills on their backs, others floating upside down with their heads submerged, or beating their wings, scattering drops of water. The ones I thought were white ducks had hook-like curves at the end of their yellow bills. If they were some kind of seagulls, what sea might they have come from? Maybe Tokyo Bay...
Under a willow tree with branches extending into the pond, ladies in their early sixties leaned against the fence and conversed.
—
“Don’t you think are fewer sparrows about these days?”
“Some people catch them, as a job, I heard.”
“What? Really?”
—
It was without doubt the two ladies who had been in the Roses exhibition, talking about Takeo. Both had black leather bags on their shoulders, tightly permed colored hair, and they wore neutral shades of white, black and beige. In their height and style of dress they were almost too similar; perhaps they were sisters or cousins.
At their feet, a pigeon puffed out its neck, cooing as it paced round and round trying to obstruct a male or female’s path, but the two women looked out at the opposite shore of the pond.
—
“Someone told me they saw grilled sparrow at a restaurant.”
“Oh, look, aren’t those sparrows there? They’ve come back. Above you!”
A flock of sparrows descended from the sky as if they’d been scattered by someone, splitting in two directions in the trees, settling in a willow and the cherry tree next to it.
—
“Oh no, one of them got me. It looks like it’s going to rain anyway, shall we head off?”
—
They crossed at a light which had just turned green and walked up the slope past the vending machine.
A young man with a shaved head wearing a white running top and black leggings with bright red running shoes.
He crossed Tenryu Bridge, then stopped in front of the water basin at the entrance to the shrine. Taking the dipper in his right hand, he scooped water from the engraved stone basin and cleansed his left hand, then changed hands to cleanse his right, finally washing his mouth. In front of the offering box at Bentendo, he clapped his hands together in prayer for a moment, then ran at speed past the group of stone monuments for objects that have no further use, his back heaving with every breath, as he passed the monument for eyeglasses, for the remains of eaten blowfish and softshell turtles, for folding fans, for bicycles, calendars, kitchen knives—
The young man took a 1,000 yen note out of his waist pouch and bought an enma at the shrine office, then wrote a wish on the wooden tablet in black marker ink and hung it up with the others.
“Thank you, god. I finished the marathon. Please continue to look after me.”
He wiped the sweat pouring from his face away with a towel slung around his neck and read some of the wishes written on other people’s enma.
When I was young I had no interest in other people’s hopes or setbacks, but in his dark eyes, under those determined, straight eyebrows, I saw a clear sense of concern.
“Please give me guidance on how to get lots of students in my English classes.”
“May we grow closer and be happy together. Let us always be there for each other!”
“Praying for success at my audition on July 6th.”
“In thanks for my lottery win.”
“Praying for a safe move.”
“May my family be healthy and safe.”
“Praying for certain success in the Japanese language teacher examination this year. I’ll study hard.”
“Praying for my daughter to wake up.”
“To change stress into a form of energy! To become a real man with leadership! To follow through on my intentions!”
“Let the Yakult Swallows win this year, at least.”
“Praying for mom and dad to get better.”
Once he had read most of the enma, the young man put his hands on top of his head and stretched up toward the sky. Then, his red running shoes kicking up the gravel of the path, he ran off past the oden stall at the foot of Tenryu Bridge.
“Fishing prohibited – City of Tokyo”
“Please don’t feed the birds, cats, or fish. – Shinobazu Pond Bentendo.”
On the south side of Tenryu Bridge, along the metal fence around Shinobazu Pond, there stood some huts which were little more than cardboard enclosing a small space lined with more cardboard and blankets. Tents were not allowed to be put up around Shinobazu Pond. Previously, when the management had been a little more relaxed, people had fished and caught ducks and cooked together around an open fire here, but now the police and park officials made rounds, and the residents of the blocks of flats nearby would call to make complaints to the council.
To be homeless is to be ignored when people walk past, while still being in full view of everyone.
As I approached the huts, the acrid smell of cat piss hit my nose. A striped cat in a red collar emerged from a cardboard hut, glued to the feet of a homeless man wearing a black raincoat with the hood up. The cat looked a lot like Emile, Shige’s cat. The man stuck out a gnarled hand and said, “Hey, Tiger,” and the cat meowed in response. “You’re a good cat, Tiger,” he said, patting the cat’s head, and the cat arched its back.
The wind was blowing, rippling across the surface of the pond and rustling the branches of the willows, and along the path around the pond, multicolored umbrella flowers burst into bloom.
Tiger’s owner looked up at the sky and shrugged.
“Looks like rain,” he said, opening a green umbrella and holding it over the cardboard. “Don’t want to get wet and catch a cold, now do we? Come inside.” He picked up the cat and brought him under the umbrella, and the cat licked him roughly in the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. His owner’s
bearded face cracked a smile, exposing his crumbling teeth.
Rain—
It rained all night long that day.
At dawn, it intermittently started to fall harder, and I was awoken by the sound of it hitting the tarp over my hut.
The cold had gotten in to my socks, and both my feet felt paralyzed.
I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that my face was swollen and that my eyes were bloodshot.
I was exhausted after spending several days looking for somewhere in the park to die, and I’d already been here nearly five years.
The winter was always hard.
Unable to sleep at night because of the bitter cold, I would leave my hut in the afternoon in search of a sunny spot where I could curl up like a cat, and nap. Those days were so miserable I’d almost forget that I’d ever been part of a family.
And that day, it was a particularly rough morning, one that made me think living itself was a misery.
A notice had been posted on the door of my hut.
“Pursuant to the following, please move your tent and belongings.
Date: November 20, 2006, rain or shine
Tent to be moved from this location by 8:30am
(No access to the park between 8:30am and 1pm.)
All belongings behind the Cultural Hall, alongside the temporary railings and Cherry Blossom Road, and all belongings and tents behind Mt. Suribachi must be moved in front of the fence behind the management office.
All tents and belongings near the statue of Bauduin, Sogakudo Concert Hall, the former main entrance of the Zoo, the rubbish collection point, and the monument to General Ulysses S. Grant must be moved in front of the ‘ghost lantern’ near Seiyoken.
All tents located near Shinobazu Pond and the boat house must be moved to the Shinobazu central path.
