Oldest of them all was probably the man who now lay in a room of his imposing mansion in Fuchu, just outside of Tokyo. The town was covered with a thick layer of reddish-brown ash. Built of reinforced concrete, the house had withstood the successive quakes relatively undamaged, but nothing could keep out the fine stream of ash that worked its way in through every crack, covering not only the sleeping kimono the old man was wearing but even his face, which was like a skull etched with wrinkles. The dust lay on it like the cosmetics that are applied after death.
“So . . .” said the old man, mumbling, “it’s all settled. His Majesty and the Imperial Family are safe in Switzerland. . . . And the government?”
“The Paris arrangement seems to be working out, sir,” answered the huge young man with close-cropped hair who sat, back straight, on the tatami mat beside where the old man lay. “And the headquarters of the Evacuation Committee is now in Honolulu.”
“Yukinaga and Nakata?”
“On board the Haruna, sir, together with the rest of the Plan D staff.”
“Very well. Are you leaving by helicopter?”
“No, sir. There is too much danger of the ashes choking the engine. A large-sized jeep is coming to get us. Then we shall be transferred to an amphibian.”
“All right, Yoshimura . . . you’d better be off. What’s Hanae doing?”
“I believe that she’s all ready to go, sir.”
“Bring her here at once.”
The huge young man named Yoshimura got to his feet and hurried out of the room, the tatami mats squeaking beneath him. As soon as he was gone, a young girl appeared in the doorway, as though she had been hiding in the corridor.
“Hanae!” said the old man, raising his eyes. “You’re going to ride in a jeep dressed like that?”
The girl was wearing an Akashi kimono of deep, glowing purple, fastened by a silk obi of an old-fashioned morning-glory pattern. She stood gazing at the old man, her eyes passionate, and then she suddenly began to walk toward him, her tabi-shod feet moving with exquisite grace. She knelt beside him, her head and shoulders drooping.
“I’m . . . I’m not going,” she said, covering her face with her hands. Her voice shook with emotion. “I want to stay just like this ... at your side.”
“No,” said the old man calmly. “You’re young. You’re not meant to die with an old man like me.”
“No! No! I can’t leave you.”
“Hanae, what a way to carry on!” said the old man wearily. “I never expected to hear such nonsense from a girl of your breeding. You must go. You must live. That’s what’s important.”
The girl threw herself down, the sleeves of her kimono spilling over the floor. Her slender shoulders trembled from her sobbing.
The old man glanced up to see Yoshimura looking hesitantly in through the doorway. He raised his voice: “Bring her some clothes. Something she can wear in the jeep.” He coughed faintly. “What a bother you are, girl.”
A dreadful roar rose up from the earth, rocking the room. Yoshimura staggered as the sliding door tore loose and collapsed. A cloud of powdered ash filled the room. The air echoed with the loud noise of something falling, and the steel reinforcing rods rang ominously. From outside came the rumble of sliding earth.
“Hurry up,” said the old man. “The roads are going to be blocked”
Yoshimura turned and ran down the corridor.
“Hanae ...”
The girl raised her tearful face.
“Would you let me see . . . ?”
She drew in her breath with a quick movement of her white throat. Then the girl stood up and loosened her obi. There was a faint rustle of fabric as the kimono slipped from her shoulders. With this single graceful gesture, her naked body stood revealed in the desolate room. Its firm and rounded flesh shone in the gloom like a secret cache of snow.
The old man looked at her but for a moment before closing his eyes.
“A daughter of Japan,” he whispered to himself. “Hanae . . . have children. ...”
“What, sir?”
“You must have children. You could have good, strong babies. Find a good man. . . . He doesn’t have to be Japanese. Have many children.”
Yoshimura reappeared in the doorway with the girl’s clothes. The old man glanced up at him. “Take her with you.”
The huge young man draped a coat over Hanae’s shoulders and then knelt beside the old man’s bed.
“Farewell... Master,” he said, bending forward and pressing his palms to the ash-covered tatami.
“Hurry up,” said the old man, shutting his eyes once more. “There’s no time to waste.”
The sounds of footsteps and quiet sobbing receded. Then there was the sound of an engine at the front of the house, and soon that, too, grew more distant and faded away. There was no dearth of other noises, however; the air was filled with them. The continuous rumble of the eruptions that were shattering the mountains of the Kanto Region, the convulsive shuddering of the earth that rocked, the creaking house ... Then there was another sound, a rustling in the air that gradually grew stronger until, finally, a strong gust of wind blew in from the ravaged veranda, stirring up the ashes and bringing still more in its wake, which formed new piles.
The old man opened his eyes slightly. The figure of a man had appeared on the veranda.
“Would that be Professor Tadokoro?” the old man asked in a hoarse voice.
“It looks like the typhoon is almost on us.” Tadokoro came in and sat beside where the old man lay. “Miss Hanae is safe by now, I imagine.”
“So you didn’t go, after all? Why not?” The old man closed his eyes, and his expression became somewhat contorted as another fit of coughing took hold of him.
Tadokoro’s eyes had sunk deep into his head. His cheeks were hollow. He seemed to have aged at least ten years. Even his broad, heavy shoulders had grown thin and were sagging. The crest of hair that surrounded his bald head had turned pure white.
“If there had been a jeep left that ran, I think that I might have taken a ride up into the mountains,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think you would have gotten very far,” said the old man, opening his eyes from time to time. “How much time do you think is left?”
“About two months, I’d say,” said Tadokoro, rubbing his eyes as though ashes had gotten into them. After he took his hands away, several tears rolled down his cheeks. “But as far as staying alive goes . . . then I think that it’s a matter of only two or three weeks.”
“Professor Tadokoro,” said the old man in a louder voice, as though something had just occurred to him, “how old are you?”
“I’m sixty-five,” Tadokoro answered, smiling slightly, the tears still wet on his cheeks. “I’d be retiring this year. There’d be the ceremonial speech to give, and all that. . . .”
“Sixty-five? You’re a young fellow. Why do you want to die?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sad . . . that’s why,” Tadokoro answered in a low voice, his head drooping. “After all, I’ve lived to a good age.”
“Because you’re sad? Hmmm . . .”
“At first, you know ... I thought that I’d say nothing.” All at once, as though stirred by some strong emotion, Tadokoro spoke out in a loud voice. “When I saw that it was going to happen . . . well, for a long, long time the scientific world had been giving me a wide berth anyway. Remember when we met for the first time at the hotel and you asked me what was the thing most important in a scientist? I told you it was intuition. And the only proof lay with my intuition. It was obvious that no one was ready to see it my way, no matter how I protested. I felt a chill of dread when I put everything together ... and then the thought came to me: Wouldn’t it be better to keep it to yourself anyway?”
The old man said nothing. Tadokoro heard him cough faintly.
“I know it sounds strange, but the truth is that this is what I really wanted to do. I wanted to speak out to my fellow Japanese. I wanted to say: Listen to
me. This country we love, this island country, is going to break apart and sink into the ocean. Since we love it so, let us die with it. . . . And even now I think that might well have been the better thing. Why? Because those who have escaped overseas are going to experience hardships worse than any the Japanese race has ever before encountered.”
Another strong gust of wind blew into the room. Tadokoro felt a stream of ashes brushing his cheek. Was it his imagination, or did the wind carry the scent of the sea? Had it come that close?
“Professor Tadokoro ... I think I understand now. You’re in love with Japan herself, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, I am,” answered Tadokoro, as though he was happy to hear it put into words.
“It’s as though the woman you loved were dying.”
“Exactly.” Tadokoro covered his face and began to sob. “And when I found out that she had to die, I wanted to die with her.”
“A love suicide, eh?” A wheezing sound came from the old man’s throat. It was not a cough. Tadokoro must have said something that had struck him as funny. “Ah, the Japanese . . . a strange race indeed.”
Tadokoro raised his face, still streaked with tears, and gazed up at the somber sky. “It’s not as though we were a race that came from somewhere else to these four islands. We were formed here, and we’ve become one with this land—with these mountains, these rivers, these cities and villages, these monuments left by our ancestors. Once these have all been destroyed, what meaning could there be in being Japanese?”
Suddenly there was the boom of an explosion, and a moment later the sky seemed to shake with an ear-splitting roar. Somewhere nearby, it seemed, the earth had been rent yet again.
“I pride myself in not being an especially provincial or narrow-minded person.” Tadokoro was speaking again. “I’ve seen most of the world. I’ve been almost everywhere. I’ve seen other peoples. I know their customs and their environments. The truth is that I am in love with Japan. And now, when her end is near, I can’t bear to leave her.”
Once more emotion overcame Tadokoro, and he could not speak.
The old man’s coughing fits had become more severe. Nonetheless, he began to speak in his hoarse, quavery voice: “The Japanese are a young race,” he said and then paused for breath. “They’re like infants who have had a happy time of it . . . these two thousand years . . . clinging to their mother’s bosom . . . these four islands, with their warm, gentle climate. If they ventured out into the world and suffered mishap, they could always run back to their mother. Now that mother, whom they loved so much, is dying.”
Tadokoro listened with the intensity of a disciple hearing his master’s words.
“From now on, the Japanese must experience suffering. As long as these four island were here, there was a home to return to, a place to raise children, children who would live exactly as they . . . but there are not many races who have been so fortunate as to have so secure a home of their own for so long a period. Through thousands of years of history there have been countless races that have experienced the bitterness of exile. This, then, will be a test for the Japanese. Their bridges have been burned behind them. They have no choice but to go forward. Whether they wish it or not, the chance to achieve adulthood is being forced upon them. Let them be swallowed up by the world ... so much the better! They can emerge as a mature people, with their language and customs intact, ready to take their place in the world of the future. . . . But if they bewail their fate and cling to past glories, then there is no hope for greatness. This is what’s now at stake . . . Professor Tadokoro
. . . it’s well for you to mourn for the passing of the woman you love, but spare a blessing for the future of your fleeing younger brothers and sisters. They have no idea of what Fve been trying to tell you. Nor will they ever realize that it was you who saved them. But I recognize it... I realize it. Well and good, Professor Tadokoro?”
“Well and good, sir,” said Tadokoro, nodding. “I understand what you said.”
“Well, well...” whispered the old man, taking a breath. “You understand me, do you? Fm gratified. Come to think of it . . . Tadokoro . . . you’re the last stiff-necked Japanese I’ll have to deal with. The truth is I didn’t want you to die thinking as you did . . . taking the whole Japanese race with you. When I was listening to you just now, I suddenly felt as though for the first time in my life I fully understand the Japanese character. For, you see, there have always been aspects I did not quite grasp. ...”
“How do you mean, sir?” Tadokoro asked, even though he did not expect a significant answer. The old man’s words had suddenly become much more labored. He sighed briefly and then said nothing for a few moments. When he spoke again, his voice was a bare whisper.
“Perhaps . . . because I am only half Japanese.” He paused to take a breath. “My father ... he was a Chinese monk. ...”
Startled, Tadokoro looked down intently at the old man, waiting for him to go on. But no more words would come.
“Mr. Watari ...”
Tadokoro studied the old man’s face for some time. Then he took up the purple Akashi kimono which lay on the mat and placed it gently over the old man’s face. The wind was growing stronger. He got to his feet and stepped down into the garden, where he picked up two small rocks. He returned to the old man’s bedside and placed one upon either sleeve of the fluttering kimono. Then he sat down once again, his back straight, his arms folded.
A thunderous roar of awful force drowned out the noise of the approaching typhoon. The earth began to quake with a terrible frenzy, and from somewhere in the house came the sound of steel reinforcing rods being torn asunder.
The end came in September. Despite the typhoons, the rescue units had pursued their task with a still more frantic zeal, but toward the latter part of September four groups were wiped out in eruptions, and the LST carrying the last few hundred refugees was lost in a typhoon.
Shikoku had moved more than a seventy-five miles to the south and was completely submerged. Kyushu had broken in half, and the southern part of it was overwhelmed. The two great peaks in the central part of the island, Aso and Unzen, barely showed above the surface, though they continued to erupt. In the Northeast Region of Honshu the mountainous area had already slipped beneath the sea. In Hokkaido, reports said, only Mount Daisetsu remained. The final drama was played out in the Central and Kanto regions of Honshu, with no witnesses. The slipping of the earth had generated so much heat that when the waters rolled in, there were explosions of such cataclysmic force that the mountains were blown apart and shattered to fragments. While the Pacific coast slid away into the deep, the Japan Sea coast rose up for a brief moment, like one side of a capsizing vessel. But then the same blind force took hold of it and plunged it, too, down into the sea.
“Are you still working?” said Yukinaga in surprise as he came into the wardroom of the Haruna to find Nakata with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. The strain of the past year had drastically altered the appearance of both men. “Everyone says there are no more plans to be made.”
“Do you have a match?” asked Nakata. “So... Japan has gone under, eh?”
“There was a television relay. A half-hour ago there was a final explosion in the Central Region,” said Yukinaga, holding up his cigarette lighter. “There’s still something left, but the sliding and sinking are continuing. It’ll all go under, it looks like.”
“‘Oh, have we sunk the Teien yet?’” said Nakata his voice harsh as he quoted the dying sailor’s words in the old Navy song. He blew out some smoke. “How many were saved in all?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have the figures tabulated even up to the end of August,” answered Yukinaga, yawning wearily. “The Secretary General of the UN is going to make an appeal to the world on television, and the Prime Minister is going to make a speech, too. Do you want to hear them?”
“To hell with it.” He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and got to his feet, apparently in good spirits. �
��It’s over, it’s over— no more plans to make. Should we go on deck?”
Nakata led the way, walking with long strides and whistling cheerfully. Yukinaga came along behind, a disturbed look on his face. The sun was hot out on the deck. The dark blue water was free of the ashes and pumice stone that had covered it throughout their time on board. The Haruna was speeding along at twenty-eight knots, and a brisk wind was blowing.
“It’s hot,” said Nakata, squinting in the dazzling sunlight. “The sun is high in the sky. Is it morning?”
“We’re not on Japan time any more. We moved fourteen hours ahead. The Haruna’s going to Hawaii.”
“I see. So I suppose we can’t see the smoke over Japan any more. . . .”
Nakata shadowed his eyes as he looked back at the western horizon. Cumulus clouds were towering there. Their trailing edges seemed to be gray, but since he was uncertain as to the position of the Haruna, there was no way of knowing if these clouds were in fact rising over Japan.
“‘Oh, have we sunk the Teien yet?’ “ Nakata’s tone was jocular.
“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get some rest?” asked Yukinaga, frowning at his colleague’s levity. “You seem a bit odd, you know.”
“So this is it?” Nakata leaned upon the rail. His teeth were bared. “The end of the Japan Archipelago . . . it’s goodbye, Japan. . . . Give me a cigarette, will you?”
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