The Garden of Evening Mists

by Tan Twan Eng

  ‘“Trouble with my airplane, sir,” I replied, flustered by his unexpected appearance.

  ‘He glanced at the aircraft behind me, his eyes clouding over. “You’ve been assigned to the tokko unit?”

  ‘“I – all of us in my class – volunteered,” I said. “What are you doing here? I heard you were in Tokyo.”

  ‘“I am touring our air-bases in the South China Sea,” he said, “reporting to Admiral Onishi on the efficacy of sending all you young pilots to your deaths.” The anger in his voice was clear – he had trained so many of us. “A million hearts beating as one,” he quoted the suicide pilots’ slogan, by now repeated throughout all of Japan. “A waste. A terrible, terrible waste.”

  ‘I was tired, and my uniform was already wet and sour from the humidity. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  ‘“The last pilots left yesterday. A convoy of American warships were spotted in the Sulu Sea,” Colonel Teruzen said. “We are awaiting the next batch. Perhaps they will be sending children soon. Come,” he said. “We will get you some breakfast. You can report to the CO later.

  He is usually drunk by this time.”

  ‘I followed him to a room in a low building two hundred yards from the hangar, bare except for a desk and a faded map of the Philippines pinned on a wall. I bowed to a photograph of the Emperor. Colonel Teruzen leaned against the doorframe and watched, his arms folded across his chest. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  ‘“The south-east coast of Malaya,” I said.

  ‘“Kampong Penyu?” He frowned. “I thought we had abandoned that base.”

  ‘“I do not know, Teruzen-san. I merely follow orders.”

  ‘He came closer to me, and I remembered our last day together in Tokyo. I had made the decision to fulfil my duty, to put aside my own needs. I did not wish to be reminded of those days, gone the way of all tokko pilots now. “How is Noriko?”

  ‘“There was an air raid,” he said, his face rigid. “She was in the house preparing our dinner. The whole neighbourhood was destroyed. The fires burned for days.”

  ‘For a long moment we stood apart, and then I stepped forward and embraced him.

  ‘The mechanic took five days to repair my engine, and another three days to fine-tune it. I was torn between the need to rush him and the urge to prolong my stay. Teruzen took me hiking in the nearby hills. There was no need to talk much now – we understood each other’s shades of silences. A new intensity came into everything we did. And for the first time since we met, so many years ago, I was rid of all futile guilt. At night I would lie awake and feel his presence next to me. He slept fitfully. His hair had turned a light ash, and there were more lines around his eyes.

  ‘We had met at my father’s house in Tokyo. Teruzen had been the Naval Advisor sent to oversee the manufacture of the airplanes being built by my father. Japan had just taken Singapore and the war across Asia was going extremely well. There was an immediate understanding between us that night when I looked into his eyes after I bowed to him. I lingered around as my father introduced him to the other industrialists.

  ‘He came regularly to discuss the production and engineering details of the airplanes with my father, often staying the night. I was eighteen years old. All around me were exhortations to join the forces to protect our homeland. It was easy to get caught up in the hysteria, to be willingly seduced by the newspapers’ stories of the heroic fighter pilots. Every high school student in Japan wanted to be a Navy pilot.

  ‘I completed my preparatory aviation training and applied to the Imperial Naval Academy where he taught. Sometimes he would invite a few of us from class back to his home.

  It was there that he first showed me some of Aritomo’s ukiyo-e. He had a large collection of them. “They were made by the Emperor’s niwashi,” he told me once when I was visiting him by myself.

  ‘“The same man who gave you the tattoo?” I said. I had already seen the pair of herons chasing each other in a circle on the upper left corner of his back. Repelled by it at first, I changed my mind the more often I saw it. It had struck me as odd that a man of Teruzen’s class would have himself tattooed. I took the opportunity to ask him about it now, and Teruzen replied, “We were close friends.”

  ‘Something in his voice made me ask, “What happened?”

  ‘“The Emperor sacked him. Aritomo left the country a few years ago. No one knows where he went.”

  ‘On a few occasions, Teruzen took me to the gardens Aritomo had designed and he told me stories about the gardener. Now when I look back on them, those were the happiest days of my life. But that was also the period when I met his wife Noriko. She was then in her thirties, her soft beauty in stark contrast to her robust-looking husband. I knew that I would have to end our relationship.

  ‘Japan was losing the war by then. We began to hear of Vice-Admiral Onishi’s plans to defend our country. Pilots were being asked to launch suicide attacks on American warships.

  These pilots were called “Cherry Blossoms”, blooming for just a brief moment of time before they fell.

  ‘I received my assignment after my graduation. I did not tell Teruzen when he brought me to Yasukuni to worship the spirits of our fallen warriors. There, in the holy silence of the shrine’s courtyard, I told him that I would not see him again.

  ‘Even now I can still see it so clearly in my mind – the sorrow in his face. He closed his eyes, as though saying a prayer to the dead all around us. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “Promise me we will meet again here after the war.” I agreed, but I knew it would not happen. The war had brought us together but, once it ended, everything would change again. He would have Noriko to return to. I bowed to him and walked out of the shrine.

  ‘Ten days after I made the emergency landing on Bacolod, my plane was once again ready for me to fly onwards to Malaya. When I thanked the mechanic, he looked at me, and then at Teruzen walking towards us from the other side of the runway. “If I had had the courage, I would have damaged the engine beyond repair,” he said. “There have been too many wasteful deaths.”

  ‘“If I had had the courage, Naga-san,” I said, “I would have asked you to do it.” We bowed to each other. Then, as he was leaving, he stopped and turned back to me. “I’ll say a prayer for you at Yasukuni Shrine when this war is over.”

  ‘Teruzen came up to me and knocked on the plane’s fuselage. The metal sounded thin and hollow. “Your father consulted me on their construction,” he said. “But these are not what we wanted to build. They dishonour your family’s name. They shame our nation.”

  ‘“My father built some of the best airplanes before the war,” I said. “But we ran out of materials. We ran out of spirit.”

  ‘Teruzen gripped my shoulders. “We never ran out of spirit.”

  ‘I pulled out a sheet of paper from my battered flying suit and said, “You gave this to me, not long after we met.”

  ‘He glanced at it and pushed my hand away. ‘I don’t need it. I know it by heart.’

  ‘“I would like to hear it in your voice again,” I said. “Please... ”

  ‘“I know that I shall meet my fate, somewhere among the clouds above… ” he began, speaking in English. It was the first line from Yeats’s poem, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death. I closed my eyes and listened to him, hearing the resigned anger in his voice as he came to the last line. I knew then that, unlike our last parting, I would not try to forget him again. I opened my eyes slowly. “I was a fool, wasn’t I, that day at Yasukuni?” I said. “All this wasted time.”

  ‘“But so was I, to agree to your request.”

  ‘“And yet we did the right thing, of that I am certain,” I said.

  ‘The morning was overcast, the windsock limp. A pair of herons rose from the trees on the edge of the jungle. We watched them fly higher and higher, disappearing into a screen of soft rain between the valleys, heading for a haven that would never be revealed to me. In Teruzen’s eyes I saw the same yearning I had
felt when I watched those birds. I knew what he wanted of me, but would never voice out loud. I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  ‘He lowered his eyes. “I understand.”

  ‘I climbed into the cockpit and strapped myself in.

  ‘“I’ll let your father know I met you here,” he said.

  ‘“He’ll be happy to hear that,” I said. I closed the canopy before he could say anything else.

  ‘The engine misfired a few times before catching, its uneven rumbling throwing out black smoke into the wind. Opening the throttle, I murmured a prayer that the plane would take me over the South China Sea and all the way to the shores of Malaya. The plane began to move, held back by the bomb hanging underneath, a bird carrying a cancerous growth. I was nearly out of runway when it grudgingly tipped up its nose and rose off the asphalt. I circled the airfield once, watching Teruzen standing on the runway. As I lifted higher and higher into the sky, the heat from the tears I had been holding back fogged up my goggles.

  ‘I was ninety miles off the coastline of Malaya when the monsoon clouds met me, stacked high and dark. Raindrops, hard as bullets, splattered onto my windscreen. I had an uncomfortable sensation that I was being followed. I twisted around in my seat to search the skies behind, wondering if an American fighter had seen me and was toying with me. The skies were empty, but the feeling refused to leave. Visibility dropped to zero a moment later; if I could not see anything, then neither could I be seen.

  ‘The plane rocked from the cross-currents of wind and water. I did not have enough fuel to climb above the storm. I could only keep to my present course and hope I would not fly into a mountain. I checked the charts every few minutes, and the demands on my concentration kept me from thinking about Teruzen and my father.

  ‘Soon I glimpsed faint lights below me. Examining my charts again, I shouted with relief.

  I had reached Kampong Penyu. I dropped from the sky towards the runway, but the configuration of lights below signalled to me that the conditions for landing were impossible. I had no other option but to land there, but first I had to make sure I survived the landing. I flew on and found a clearing about a mile away. I skimmed low over it and released the unarmed bomb, hoping that in the darkness and rain it would land on something soft. Freed of that awful weight, the plane reared up into the air. I swung around back to the airfield, trying not to lose sight of it in the storm. I landed, the wheels jarring on the runway, kicking up a rush of water. A moment later I hit a series of potholes. I spun across the runway. I heard the undercarriage snap. My head slammed into the glass, and I lost consciousness.

  ‘I woke up in a sparsely-furnished room. A man was looking out through the windows to the beach, his back turned to me. I recognised him, and for a moment I thought I was dreaming. The sound of waves came to me. The man turned around. I tried to sit up but recoiled from the pain.

  ‘You have fractured two of your ribs,’ Colonel Teruzen said, moving to my bedside. ‘The medical officer has done whatever he could, which is not much at all. They are desperately short of supplies.’

  ‘“My airplane?” I asked.

  ‘“The ground crew is trying to see if they can salvage it.”

  ‘“You were behind me, all the way from Bacolod,” I said, recalling the sensation I had had of being followed. He brought a glass of tepid water to my lips. I finished it and he wiped my mouth with his handkerchief. “You managed to land in one piece, unlike me,” I said. A renewed sense of failure came over me.

  ‘“Ah, but that is to be expected. I was your teacher, after all.’

  ‘“Is there anyone from my group still here?”

  ‘A fond smile buoyed to his face. “Lieutenant Kenji. His engine developed a fault on the morning he was supposed to fly – three days ago. He was quite speechless when he saw me.”

  The smile disappeared. “The fault has been fixed and he has received his orders. He will fly tomorrow.”

  ‘“He is younger than I am,” I said. “He is a child. I should go first.”

  ‘“You are in no shape to pilot a plane, Tatsuji!” he snapped.

  ‘“You should not have followed me here, Teruzen-san,” I said. “You have disobeyed your orders.”

  ‘“What happened to your father?” His question caught me before I could evade it. But what was the point of avoiding his question now? It was, as the Irish poet had written, a waste of breath, the years that had gone past, the years to come. There was only this present moment to live and die in. So then, slowly, I began to tell Teruzen about the last time I had seen my father.

  * * *

  ‘Once my assignment to the tokko units had been approved, I travelled to our family’s country retreat near the foothills of Gunma-ken. My father had moved back there when the air raids began. Tokyo had been badly bombed by the Americans, and I was glad to see the old maple-lined avenues of my youth untouched. The leaves were preparing to surrender themselves to winter; they were redder than I remembered ever seeing them; perhaps they were stained by the sadness of war. I pulled the cord hanging by the gate. I imagined I could hear the bell tinkling deep inside the house. A few minutes later the bolt was drawn back. I hid my shock when my father appeared. He had never been a strong person, but now he looked angular and bony, his eyes haunted. He was dressed in his old grey yukata; it was too large for him now.

  ‘“You did not tell me you were coming,” he said.

  ‘For a long moment we merely looked at one another, feeling like strangers. Then, I did something I had never done before: I embraced him. He stroked my head, whispering my name over and over again. Finally he pulled away, smiling at me. Despite the undisguised joy in our meeting, I sensed a tension in the air.

  ‘We had tea on the engawa. It was something we used to do often, and I was soothed but also saddened by the memories. I did not know how to broach the subject of my assignment. For a while we spoke only of those days before the war but then, to my surprise, he himself raised the subject of Vice-Admiral Onishi’s tokko program.

  ‘“I have been instructed to build more airplanes for the war,” he said. “It will not matter if they are of inferior quality, as long as they fly. They want them as fast as we can produce them.” He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘“It is the Emperor’s wish,” I said. “The planes will help us defend ourselves against the Americans.” These words, which I had heard so often on the radio, now sounded hollow to me.

  ‘My father had raised me since my mother’s death; he could tell the reason for my visit simply by looking into my eyes. He started crying, soundlessly, his eyes wide open. He was the head of one of the largest zaibatsu in the country, and to see him like this shocked me. I knew then we would lose the war.

  ‘I stayed for five days. We never mentioned the war again. On my last morning I sensed an unusual stillness in the air when I woke. I went through the house and found my father in the garden. He was gazing at the koi pond, now empty of fish. He was dressed completely in white.

  “Where are the servants?” I asked, and he said, “I have sent them away.” His tone, more than his words, frightened me. I understood then why he was dressed in white and what he was about to do.

  ‘“No, oto-san,” I said.

  ‘He held out his hand to me. I took it, feeling the remembered sensation of solidity in him. He squeezed my hand and let it go. Then he walked to the back of the house. I hurried after him, calling out to him, but he did not stop, did not look back. We came to the kore-sansui garden. He had designed it himself. The gravel had been raked and a reed mat placed on the edge of a rectangle of white sand. I recognised our ancestral swords on the mat: the long katana and the shorter wakizashi next to it. On a tray stood a cup and a small saké pot.

  ‘My father stared at the lines in the gravel, soundless ripples expanding outwards from a point in the centre. Or were the ripples returning to silence? It was his habit to create new patterns every evening when he returned from work. It relaxed him. Now he said, “The Bu
ddha has pressed his thumbprint into the earth.”

  ‘“Do not do this.” My voice was shaking, but he was calm and purposeful as a ship entering a safe harbour after sailing through a storm out at sea. He knelt on the mat and poured a cup of saké. I felt as though I was training in my fighter plane again, the oxygen sucked from my lungs, about to black out from going against the invisible forces that bound the sky to the earth.

  ‘“Life is fair, is it not?” he said. “I built the airplanes that sent other people’s sons to their deaths. So it has to be balanced out – my son must die too.” He looked steadily at me.

  “Understand that I am not compelling you to disobey your orders. I accept that you must carry out your duty. In turn, you must accept what I have to do.”

  ‘He sat for a while, so still that I hoped, I prayed, he would never move again. I would rather that he had turned to stone than to go through with this. He picked up the wakizashi and unsheathed it. The morning sun trapped in the blade made me glance away. “So this is how it will end, the great Yoshikawa family,” my father said.

  ‘I restrained him by his arm and he said, so softly, the way always he did when I was a child and he wanted to wake me from sleep, “Tatsu- chan... ” The pain in his voice wounded me more than if he had shouted at me. “It will be good to sleep peacefully again. I am so tired, my son. So tired.”

  ‘“Oto-san... ”

  ‘He took my hand and stroked it. “I had hoped to see you one last time, and now I have.

  What more can I ask for? Do not stay. Go.”

  ‘I shook my head. “I am your son.”

  ‘ Oto-san nodded. He held the blade in his right hand and opened his robe. He breathed slowly, deeply, savouring each breath. The garden was silent, the birds were gone. I picked up the katana, ready to sweep down in case his pain became too great to bear, in case he hesitated.

  ‘But he never wavered.’

  * * *

  ‘Teruzen and I were the first people on the runway. Lieutenant Kenji and the commanding officer joined us a few minutes later. Porcelain cups and a bottle of saké lay on a table in front of us. I thought of the many ceremonies I had attended during the early days of the tokko program.