Japan Sinks

by Sakyo Komatsu

  “The end? Yes, it’s the end, all right.” Yukinaga held out a pack of cigarettes.

  Nakata took one, put it in his mouth, and then, instead of lighting it, he stared down at the water rushing by below.

  “You know,” said Yukinaga absently, “last night I dreamed about Onodera. I can’t help but think he’s still alive.”

  There was no response from Nakata. After a few moments Yukinaga turned to look at him. Nakata’s huge body was slumped over the rail. The cigarette had fallen from his lips.

  “Nakata!” said the startled Yukinaga, reaching out to put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

  Before he could catch him, however, Nakata fell heavily to the deck and rolled over upon his back. His arms flung out to either side of him, he began to snore loudly, as the sunshine poured down into his wide-open mouth.

  It’s hot! Onodera felt himself wanting to yell out. He wanted something cold to drink. A cold beer . . . that would do it. He opened his eyes. The round face of a little girl appeared in the semi-darkness. Her eyes were big, and there was a worried look on her face.

  “Does it hurt?” she said.

  “No . . . it’s just hot.” He could only move his mouth, since his face seemed to be swathed in bandages. “I’ll bet we’re in the tropics by now. ...”

  “Yes . . . that’s it,” said the little girl, her eyes sad.

  “Have you heard from Nakata and Yukinaga?”

  “Not yet.”

  “No? Well, we’ll be hearing from them soon.”

  The girl’s face disappeared, and a moment later Onodera felt something cold pressed to his head.

  “Ah . . . that feels good.”

  The girl’s face came back. Her eyes were filled with tears. With the coolness, memories seemed to be coming back to Onodera. A volcano ... an eruption ... a helicopter . . . Reiko —was it Reiko? There was an earthquake in the midst of the snow ... more eruptions ... a wave of glowing lava rolling down toward him . . . Yes, he remembered now.

  “Japan . . . did it sink?” he asked the girl.

  “I ... I don’t know. ...”

  “It’s sunk ... it has to have sunk. ...”

  “I think it did.”

  He shut his eyes. Tears gathered behind the lids and rolled down his cheeks.

  “You must go to sleep,” said the girl, wiping away his tears.

  “I’ll go to sleep. . . . Who are you?”

  “You don’t remember?” asked the girl, smiling sadly. “I’m your wife.”

  Wife? Onodera tried to think, but his head was burning up. How strange. There must be some mistake. Hadn’t his wife died beneath a rain of volcanic ash? But what difference did it make anyway?

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  “Maybe I could if you told me a story,” said Onodera like a child coaxing his mother.

  “A story?” said the girl, taken aback.

  “Yes . . . any at all. I don’t care.”

  “I do know one story,” said the girl hesitantly. “My grandmother told it to me. She was born on Hachijo Island, and she came to Tokyo when she got married. When she died, they took her remains back there. I visited her grave every year when I was a little girl.” She stopped. “I don’t think you’d like this story. . . .”

  “No, no ... go on,” said Onodera.

  “It’s the story of Tanaba. It’s a terrible story. And it’s sad, too. Long, long ago there was an earthquake, and a tidal wave swept over Hachijo Island, killing everybody except this woman called Tanaba, who clung to an oar. She was pregnant, and so after the wave was gone, she gave birth to a son there on the island. It was long ago, so no boats ever came there. The son grew up into a strong, handsome man, and one day Tanaba told him what had happened. She said to him: ’All of them are dead. Only the two of us are left. If there is to be an island race after this, then it must come from us. Lie down with me, then, and let me conceive your sister. Afterward, lie with her and have children by her.’ Her son did as she told him, and, according to the story, this is where the people of Hachijo Island came from.”

  As he listened, Onodera focused upon a clear image in his fevered head: Tanaba . . . Hachijo Island. . . . Then another: the cold darkness of the ocean floor beneath Ogasawara.

  “It’s a dark and frightful story Tanaba’s grave, even today . . . up to just a while ago, I mean... was there on Hachijo Island. Just some stones beside the road. There was nothing written there. I used to look at that little grave and feel sad and a little frightened, thinking about what it stood for.” The girl drew in her breath and bowed her head. “I forgot that story for a long time, but then, after this happened, it came back to me all at once. Tanaba was a terrible woman. It’s a dark and terrible story, but somehow that story has been my support all during this. I’m a girl who has island blood, and I would do just what she did.”

  Onodera began to breathe a slight noise as though he had fallen asleep. But when the girl moved quietly away from his berth, he spoke.

  “It’s shaking.”

  “Yes,” said the girl in surprise, turning back to him. “Do you feel pain?”

  “Ah, I know what it is. We’re probably running into the Black Current south of Cape Nojima. Hawaii’s still a long way off,” said Onodera groggily.

  “Yes,” said the girl. “Try to sleep.”

  He became quiet for a moment. But then he spoke out, his tone urgent and insistent: “Has Japan sunk?”

  “I . . .”

  “Look out the porthole there. Can’t you see?”

  The girl looked hesitantly out the window.

  “Can you see Japan?”

  “No.”

  “It must have sunk. . . . You can’t see any smoke either?”

  “I can’t see anything at all.”

  After a while Onodera began to snore. His breathing was painful.

  Mako raised her right arm instinctively, and with the bandage-wrapped stump of her wrist she wiped away her tears. Outside the window there was not a single star to light the black Siberian night. The train sped westward, plunging ever deeper into the chill darkness of an early winter.

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