Tokyo Year Zero

by David Peace

  Kita-Senju. Soka. Kasukabe…

  Until the train finally pulls into the Tōbu Sugito station and we fight our way out of the carriage and onto the platform. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Then we cross the bridge to the other platform to wait for the Tōbu Nikkō Line train –

  To Kodaira country…

  It is a two-hour wait on another platform crammed from end to end with men and women, their children and their belongings. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Many with screaming babies strapped to their backs, others with the silent bones of the dead in boxes around their necks, returnees from Manchuria, refugees in their own country. I itch and I scratch –

  Gari-gari…

  Ishida and I find a small space at one end of the platform in which to crouch down with our knapsacks to wait, to wait and to wait, to itch and to scratch, gari-gari. Ishida still doesn’t speak and I still don’t talk, so again we both close our eyes, we both close our eyes until I sense the people on the platform moving, rising and picking up their children and their belongings, their babies and their bones at the approach of a train, the sound of a whistle and the sight of steam –

  Every station. Every train. Every station. Every train…

  The people on the platform trying to board the train before it has stopped, before its passengers can get off, pushing and shoving, shouting and arguing, onto the steps, through the windows –

  Every station. Every train. Every station…

  There are no reserved seats on this train. Every man, woman and child for themselves. Ishida and I get onto the footplate at the end of one of the carriages and we push our way inside –

  Every train in the land…

  Ishida and I stand crushed in the passageway outside the toilet, the toilet itself filled with an entire family and their possessions, as the train jolts forward, this train that once carried only tourists and day-trippers to such sights as the Shinkyō Bridge and the Tōshōgū Shrine, Lake Chūzenji and the Kegon Falls, this train that now carries only the starving and the lost –

  The lucky ones.

  I stand wedged between Ishida and a young girl. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I try to turn my head to see out of the window, to find some air and to watch for the stations, but all I can see are lice crawling over the scalp of the young girl in front of me, in and out of her hair they crawl, burrowing and then surfacing, surfacing and then burrowing again, in and out of her hair. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari.

  Maybe thirty minutes later, the train jolts over joints and begins to slow down once again. But there is no announcement –

  I turn to Ishida. I ask him, ‘Where are we now?’

  Ishida strains to see. He says, ‘Fujioka.’

  In the small of Ishida’s back…

  The train shudders to a stop in the station. People push and shove again, shouting and arguing as they struggle to get on and off –

  In the small of his back, something cold and metallic…

  I move away from Ishida. I itch and I itch. I move away from the young girl and her lice. I stand by a window, finally able to breathe, to scratch myself, gari-gari, gari-gari, gari-gari…

  The locomotive begins to pull out of the station. Ishida moves closer to me. Now Ishida stands beside me again –

  The sun is setting. It is getting dark…

  Detective Ishida tells me we should get off the train at Shin-Kanuma station, that we should be there in another hour or so, that he knows the way to the Kanuma police station, that he has already looked it up on a map, that they will be expecting us, that they will have reserved an inn for us for tonight –

  They will be waiting for us…

  But I have also looked at maps. I have looked at maps of my own. I tell him we’re not getting off the train at Shin-Kanuma station, that we are not going to Kanuma police station –

  Not to their inn. Not tonight –

  Where they’ll be waiting…

  ‘Ienaka,’ I tell him. ‘That’s where we’ll get off.’

  *

  Ienaka is about fifteen kilometres before Kanuma. Ienaka is the closest station to the house where the mother and daughter of the Widow Okayama live. Ienaka is also near to the field in which the body of Baba Hiroko was found on the third of January –

  But it is night now. It is dark here…

  Ishida and I pass through the ticket gates and walk out of the station into the deserted town. No markets here –

  No one waiting for us here…

  Nothing here but the silhouettes of dark mountains and the hints of hidden trees looming up over the town and leering down at us as I squat down to open my knapsack and take out my notebook, Ishida beginning to mumble about the lateness of the hour, about it being too late to call on the mother and daughter of the Widow Okayama, too late to visit the field in which Baba Hiroko was found, too late to find an inn for the night –

  Everything too late…

  ‘Here it is,’ I tell him and show him the address of an inn in my notebook and its location on my map. Now I lead Ishida up the slope out of town towards the address. We find it easily –

  The Beautiful Mountain Inn…

  The detached hotel faces the road and there is still a light on in the porch, moths smashing into the glass which covers the bulb, mosquitoes biting into our foreheads and our necks as we open the door to the inn and apologize to the maid for the late and abrupt nature of our unannounced visit, offering her some of the rice Detective Ishida has brought from his home –

  Dark outside, dark inside…

  The maid scurries off with the rice and our papers and returns with an older woman who thanks us for the rice and copies down our details. The woman tells us that we are too late for an evening meal, that these days they need a day’s notice to buy and prepare meals, that we are also too late to use the bath, that they heat the bath water only when they have a day’s notice and then only once a day –

  No bath. No late night snacks. No sake. No beer…

  ‘But there will be breakfast,’ she tells us.

  The older woman then instructs the younger maid to show us to our room, our room which the woman assures us is the best room that they have, and so we follow the young maid down a dim and humid corridor of unlit alcoves and shuttered windows –

  Now the maid unlocks and slides open a door –

  Now the maid switches on the light –

  And I wish she had not…

  The screens have been shredded to strips and the tatami are crawling with bugs, the mosquitoes eating us raw as Ishida and I sit down at a low table beneath a small electric bulb to count the cockroaches, the maid putting out our futons and our bedding, apologizing for the smell and the temperature but assuring us it is better, much better, to keep the windows closed at this time of year –

  ‘Thank you,’ we say as she bows to wish us goodnight.

  *

  In insect silence, they gather in the genkan of our house to watch me leave. This is defeat. They watch me put on my boots. This is defeat. They follow me out of the door of our house. This is defeat. They follow me down the garden path of our house. This is defeat. They stand at the gate to our house. This is defeat. They watch me walk away from our house and they wave. This is defeat. They watch me walk down our street and they wave. This is defeat. Every time I turn around. This is defeat. Every time I turn around. This is defeat…

  ‘Please remember us. Please don’t forget us, Daddy…’

  For my wife, for my daughter and for my son –

  Defeat. Defeat. Defeat. Defeat…

  For my father and for my mother –

  Defeat. Defeat. Defeat…

  For my elder brother –

  Defeat. Defeat…

  This defeat that lasts for every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year –

  I am one of the survivors…

  This is surrender. This is occupation –

  One of the lucky ones…

  This
is defeat.

  *

  We have washed our faces and we have pissed. We have taken off our trousers and taken off our shirts. We have said goodnight and switched off the electric bulb. Now I lie awake and wait for Ishida to fall asleep. Until I hear his breathing begin to slow –

  Until I hear him sleeping deeply now –

  It is oven hot and pitch black…

  I turn slowly and quietly onto my chest. I move off my futon and onto the tatami mats. I crawl with the bugs and the cockroaches across the floor, across the room towards his knapsack. Now I ease open the bag and I search around inside –

  Something cold, metallic…

  I take out the gun. It is a 1939 army-issue pistol. It is loaded. Now I raise the pistol in the dark. I aim and I point it at Ishida –

  I could kill him here. I could kill him now…

  But I lower the pistol. I put the gun back inside his knapsack. I close the bag. I crawl back across the floor, back across the tatami to my own futon and my own knapsack. Now I open the bag –

  I have to sleep. I have to sleep…

  I take out the pills that Senju gave me. Not Calmotin tonight. Senju had no Calmotin. But Senju has a hoard –

  Veronal. Muronal. Numal…

  Senju always has a stock –

  I do not count.

  Banzai! Ninety Calmotin, ninety-one. Four in the morning, the eastern sky is whitening. The road wet with dew, we march towards the hospital. The streets are deserted, the Sun in the Blue Sky flag already fallen. Lieutenant Shigefuji leads the charge inside the hospital. The Chinks robbed the Japanese. Nurses in white cower before us, patients still lain in their beds. The Chinks raped the Japanese. Muddy boots now jump upon the beds, upon the white uniforms. The Chinks murdered the Japanese. A child stabbed against a wall, blood gushing from his chest, crouches on the floor. Masaki, Banzai! A pale woman sleeping in her bed, mouth open, never to awaken. Daddy, Banzai! We kick the corpses of the Chinese dead as they would kick the corpses of our dead. Banzai! Tomorrow the main units will move out but we shall remain. Acacia leaves fly down the streets. To keep the peace. In the dust and the dirt. To maintain law and order. On the yellow wind. Among the corpses. One hundred Calmotin, one hundred and one. Kasahara and I transport the three bandits by rickshaw down the T’ai-ma-lu Road. The old mother grows weary. The first bandit groans. A cigarette! Give me a cigarette! Their arms are twisted behind them, their legs locked with large shackles. Beggars and coolies, Germans and Japanese swarm around the rickshaw. Waiting for the return of her beloved child. The second bandit cries. Give me a P’ao-t’ai-pai! No cheap shit! The crowd pour wine into the mouths of the bandits. The rickshaws enter the square in front of the station. The young wife adorned in red. The third bandit screams. The rickshaw pullers lower their staffs. Soldiers push back the black crowds. Kasahara and I order the three men to be dragged out of the carriages. Keeps a lonely watch over the empty bed. The eldest bandit begins to sing a song of war. Sons of bitches! Did I murder anyone, you sons of bitches? These Chinks robbed Japanese settlers. Kneel! I shout. Go ahead and do it! I’m not scared! These Chinks raped Japanese settlers. Turn to the west! I shout. Bring me pork dumplings! Give me pork dumplings! These Chinks murdered Japanese settlers. The crowd surges forward again. That fat bastard cries like a little baby. The smell of garlic, the metallic whispers. Do it! Do it! I give the order. Two soldiers are covered in steaming blood as the headless corpse pitches forward. Hurrah! Hurrah! My mouth full of bile. The crowd applaud. I swallow the bile. Hurrah! Hurrah! Three women, their feet bound in black, totter out of the crowd. Hurrah! Hurrah! The women carry peeled buns impaled on the ends of three long chopsticks. Don’t let her see! My mouth full of bile again. The three women press the three buns into the wounds of the three dead bandits. Don’t let her see! I swallow the bile. The white buns soak up the blood and turn red. Don’t let her see! My mouth fills again. The three women eat the three blood-soaked buns. Don’t let her see! I vomit behind a rickshaw. Yuan-na! A woman has fought her way through the crowds. Yuan-na! An older man checks her in his embrace. Yuan-na! He was innocent, she cries. It was the Japanese! It was the Japanese! One hundred and ten Calmotin, one hundred and eleven. Fields of pampas grass, mountains of pine woods. Down with Japanese Imperialism! Every wall of every house of every town

  11

  August 25, 1946

  Tochigi Prefecture, 89°, very fine

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

  The sound of hammering, the hammering on a door –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

  I open my eyes. I don’t recognize this ceiling –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

  Now I recognize this room, and this door –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

  I get up. No Ishida. I go to the door –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

  I don’t open it. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The Kanuma police…’

  I curse and I curse again …

  I slide open the door –

  ‘I am Tachibana, the chief of police for Kanuma,’ says the small, fat, youngish man who now bows. ‘Pleased to meet you –’

  His uniform too tight. His buttons polished too bright …

  ‘Detective Minami,’ I tell him. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Has he spoken to Tokyo? Has he heard about Fujita?

  Tachibana says, ‘I am sorry to have woken you…’

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ I tell him. ‘It was difficult to sleep with the heat and all the insects. I should have been awake hours ago…’

  Tachibana says, ‘We were expecting you in Kanuma but…’

  ‘My mistake again. I am sorry. I should have called you…’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughs Tachibana. ‘The telephones are often down; you probably wouldn’t have got through to us.’

  He has not spoken to Tokyo, not heard about Fujita …

  ‘Have you met Detective Ishida yet?’ I ask him –

  Tachibana shakes his head. ‘Your colleague?’

  He hasn’t met Ishida, not spoken to Ishida …

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘He’s here somewhere…’

  ‘He might have gone for his breakfast…’

  Now I ask Tachibana, ‘How did you know we were here?’

  ‘Inns are obliged to report all guests,’ laughs Tachibana again. ‘Even guests from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.’

  Welcome to the countryside! Welcome to Tochigi!

  I smile now and I nod and I say, ‘Of course…’

  ‘I’ll wait for you in the entrance, inspector.’

  I bow again and I excuse myself. I turn back into the room –

  The room dark. The windows and the screens still closed –

  I close the door. No Ishida. I look at his folded-up futon –

  His knapsack gone. I go over to my own bag. I open it –

  I root around inside until I find the boxes and bottles –

  I count all the pills. Enough. They are still there –

  Now I lie back down. I close my eyes again –

  I still itch and so I scratch. Gari-gari … I want to forget these dreams …

  I sit back up again and I open up my bag again. In the half-light. I root around again until I find my notebook, until I find my pen. I cannot forget these dreams. I must write them down. In the half-light. These dreams, these half-things. I cannot forget. These things I dream, these dreams I remember; all these half-things I remember –

  These things that don’t make sense, these things that do …

  Now I put my notebook away and I put my pen away –

  I go into the small toilet. I piss. I wash my face –

  I get dressed. I itch and I scratch again –

  Gari-gari. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari …

  I pick up my bag. I leave the room –

  I walk down the corridor –

  The corr
idor still dark …

  Ishida is here now –

  His knapsack …

  Ishida sat at the low table in the entrance to the inn, talking with Chief Tachibana, nodding and smiling along to his conversation. They both stand up and bow when they see me and Detective Ishida says, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I went looking for breakfast without you…’

  I no longer know who this Detective Ishida is. This man …

  ‘That’s all right,’ I tell him. ‘I must have needed the sleep.’

  Has he spoken to Tokyo? About Fujita? About his orders?

  ‘I tried to wake you,’ nods Ishida. ‘But you were dead.’

  This man I don’t know. This man I don’t recognize …

  Now Tachibana asks me, ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

  ‘They have miso soup,’ says Ishida. ‘You should have it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not very hungry, thank you.’

  Who is this man who calls himself Ishida?

  Tachibana nods. But Tachibana says, ‘You’ve paid for the breakfast. You should eat something while we talk…’

  ‘I am fine, thank you,’ I tell him but this Chief Tachibana is already on his feet, walking over to the reception desk, banging on the wood and shouting for my breakfast to be brought out –

  I don’t look at Ishida. Ishida doesn’t look at me –

  No one is who they say they are …

  Tachibana comes back over. Tachibana sits back down. Tachibana picks up his briefcase. Tachibana opens it up. Tachibana takes out two thin files. Tachibana places the two files on the table –

  One marked Baba Hiroko, the other Numao Shizue –

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting,’ says the young maid, the same maid as last night, as she puts down a bowl of rice-porridge topped with a thin slice of pickle on the low table before me, then a second bowl of green leaves floating in some miso-flavoured water, and now places a pair of chipped chopsticks beside the two bowls of food –

  I suddenly feel very hungry. I apologize to Tachibana and Ishida. I excuse myself as I begin to eat the cold porridge and the pickle, to wash them down with the tepid brown soup and leaves –