The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

  Clifford filled a bucket with water and washed Andrew’s fatigues with soap and a scrub brush. Once Andrew and his clothes were clean, Clifford rinsed them both with rainwater.

  Andrew slipped into the tub. The cool sensation felt erotic.

  Clifford carried Andrew’s clothes out to the veranda and hung them on the railing to dry. Returning, he stripped off his white smock, silk sarong, and cream-colored panties. Naked except for a thin silver necklace, he soaped down and rinsed before joining Andrew in the tub.

  Andrew couldn’t believe the alabaster whiteness of Clifford’s body. The silver chain around his neck highlighted his pure skin tones.

  There was no embarrassment about being naked together. They had bathed together many times while growing up. The war, the camp, the hunger all faded as the refreshing water reminded Andrew of his joyful youth. They splashed each other and kissed while pressing together. Not sexually—rather, kisses from boys who had discovered that they still loved each other in a way that they could never love anyone else. They were two halves of the same being: yin and yang.

  Clifford reached over the edge of the tub, grabbed a nail file, and gave Andrew a manicure. He filed each nail. When it was time to dry and dress, he covered his slim hips with his silk sarong, but did not put on his sleeveless smock. He pulled a sarong of mandarin red cotton from a shelf and wrapped it around Andrew’s waist.

  Clifford stepped back to inspect him, tilting his head to the left while admiring Andrew’s black hair, sculpted chest, and mandarin red hips. He draped his silver chain around Andrew’s neck and nodded his approval.

  Andrew watched with fascination as Clifford opened his purse and removed a bottle of Crème Tokalon, which he applied to his cheeks. Over that he patted skin-colored powder—Houbigant. He reapplied his lipstick and dabbed a drop of eau de cologne behind each ear. His face done, he took the Houbigant puff and patted around Andrew’s head wound, hiding it as best he could. They didn’t bother to put the bandage back on.

  “T-t-t-there, now everything is perfect. Let’s go.”

  Tottori knelt before a Shinto shrine in the corner. He wore a sober gray kimono made from fine Chinese silk that was tied at the waist by a black cord. Andrew and Clifford waited at the door of Tottori’s living quarters for ten minutes while Tottori remained perfectly still. Finally, he rose to greet them. They bowed into the room. Tottori bowed too, but not nearly so low. He waved them in and smiled broadly.

  Andrew scanned the spacious room. The well-used furnishings looked as if they had been hastily thrown together. Light filtered through the open shutters, highlighting the sheen of dark, polished wood. The room had a traditional Japanese tokonoma alcove—the focal point in any Japanese house, where a classic scroll hangs or a flower arrangement sits, enhanced by the play of light and shadows. A wooden chest of drawers occupied the alcove, and on the chest lay several polished stones surrounding a simple flower arrangement: birds of paradise in a natural salt-glazed ceramic vase. In one corner rested a Shinto shrine—a stone statue sat beside a red porcelain bowl full of sand, which had smoking incense sticks poking out like porcupine quills. The spicy scent of the incense mixed with the aroma of broth simmering in a nearby kitchen, giving the room a rich fragrance.

  Tottori addressed Andrew. “I didn’t choose the furnishings.”

  Andrew dropped his gaze, saying nothing. He paid careful attention to externals—the dim light filtering through the shuttered windows, the density of silence engulfing the room broken only by a porcelain wind chime catching the evening breeze, Tottori’s stiffness as he waited for a response, and the fact that Clifford’s hands were trembling. He wondered why Clifford was fearful.

  His focus moved inward. He felt no hate, no repugnance, and no longer any dread of Tottori, only a tinge of fear that Tottori would fail to deliver the serum.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  “Seaman First Class Andrew Waters, Kakka-dono.” Andrew used the formal Japanese term for “Your Excellency, sir.”

  “Seaman? Your uniform suggests that you are a marine. What job did you perform aboard ship that required you to dress in fatigues?”

  “I was the officer’s mess cook, Kakka-dono.”

  They waited through a long silence before Tottori said, “In addressing officers up to a colonel’s rank, it is proper to use the title ‘dono,’ but since my rank is that of colonel, you should address me as ‘Your Excellency, Tottori.’ But for tonight, let us forget about rank and formalities. Please call me Hikaru.”

  Andrew nodded. It was extraordinary how, by simply offering his first name, Tottori had transformed the entire situation into an intimate affair. With a single word he had created a personal relationship between them. Was that by design? Andrew saw a smile in Tottori’s eyes and realized the answer was assuredly yes. It was a small yet important victory for Tottori.

  “Will you join me in a whiskey?” Tottori asked.

  Clifford shuffled to a low chest against the wall and opened the lid. He removed a bottle of Haig & Haig Scotch Whiskey and three crystal glasses, placing them on a silver tray.

  “Thank you, but I don’t drink spirits.”

  Tottori nodded. “The French believe that strong liquor before dinner dulls the palate, but I will have some now. It is a habit that I picked up while studying in America. During my four years at Amherst, I acquired several such habits.”

  No doubt that’s where you perfected your English, Andrew thought. My compliments.

  Tottori stalked to a low table surrounded by thick pillows. Andrew followed and sat at the same time as Tottori, facing the commandant. Clifford glided up, carrying the drink tray. He stood at the edge of the table, waiting.

  Andrew realized that he had not been invited to sit. Panic. He didn’t know if he should jump up and apologize, or remain seated. He silently cursed his stupidity. Glancing at Tottori, he saw the officer perversely smiling at his obvious discomfort. Another small victory.

  Tottori waved his hand in the direction of a pillow.

  “Clifford, will you join us?”

  Clifford lowered himself onto a pillow while placing the tray on the table. He poured one glass half full of Scotch, and in another he trickled a few drops, enough to be social. The officer took the half-full glass and sipped. He lifted a pack of English cigarettes off the table and offered one to Andrew.

  Andrew said he didn’t smoke, no thank you. As he said it, he noticed a slight trembling in Tottori’s outstretched hand.

  Tottori removed a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a silver lighter, then blew smoke toward the ceiling. He took another sip of whiskey and didn’t say another word for the time it took him to smoke the entire cigarette.

  Andrew studied the officer while he smoked. His thin lips were colorless. They kissed the white paper, his cheeks compressed as he inhaled, and smoke lingered in front of the man’s face.

  Andrew glanced at Clifford, only to realize that his friend was trying to become invisible.

  Andrew’s discomfort grew razor-sharp in that silence. This man is clever, he thought, as his eyes brushed the table, searching for something to say. Something must be said, but Andrew understood that he couldn’t be the one to initiate the conversation. He had that same agonizing feeling as he did on the twelve-to-four watches, waiting for Mitchell to start what they both desperately wanted. It felt like ten years had elapsed since standing watch with Mitchell. Thoughts of his love reminded him of the purpose of his mission—to get the serum—and he became anxious to negotiate an agreement.

  Tottori crushed his cigarette butt in a clay bowl, audibly exhaling. He sipped his drink.

  Andrew waited, embarrassed by the awkwardness of being ignored. He wondered if he would be dismissed or whether Tottori’s interest grew within the silence. A drop of sweat slid down the edge of his face, dripping onto his chest. Another drop began the same journey. The silence continued long after Tottori finished his drink and Clifford poured him another.

&n
bsp; It dawned on Andrew that this reticence was too deliberate. Something shrewd was being played out within this living silence—another Tottori victory in the making? Andrew quieted his mind and felt his emotions. This situation was not at all awkward, he realized. On the contrary, it deepened the intimacy that was already established. Without a single word, a bond was being molded, strengthened, and fired into something palpable. Realizing the ploy, Andrew felt a twinge of admiration for the man across the table. He found this superior intelligence seductive, and he smiled at the thought.

  Tottori nodded as understanding blossomed cross Andrew’s face.

  The sunlight faded beyond the bamboo shutters, painting the sky lavender. A breeze jingled the porcelain wind chime as it drifted through the window, spreading warmth over everything. Andrew shifted his position and the floor creaked under him. As if that were a signal, Clifford rose and shuffled to the chest against the wall. He lit three oil lamps, placing one in the bedroom, one in Tottori’s office, and the third on the dinner table before sitting once again.

  Andrew wondered why Tottori bothered with this ploy. He held all the cards and he was shrewd enough to know it. He could demand anything, knowing Andrew must pay. Andrew was no longer innocent. He knew what it meant to be taken by force. With no misunderstanding and no need to be explicit, Andrew understood precisely what he was offering; he had only one thing to offer. He had no stratagem or intention to negotiate. His downcast eyes were not an indication of shyness, but rather, a sign of submission. He gazed into Tottori’s eyes and saw that Tottori had accepted his offer. They shared an understanding. Without a word spoken, the die was cast.

  Andrew discreetly glanced about the room. To his left was an open door, leading into an office with two straightback chairs facing a massive, mahogany desk. Behind the desk hung a colorful poster of Mount Fuji, and under the picture were English words: Visit Beautiful Japan.

  To his right, an open doorway led into a bedroom, dim and snug, with Japanese style quilts spread on the floor and a virgin white mosquito net draped from the ceiling, covering the quilts like a bride’s veil. The polished floor planks reflected the lamplight. The walls were pale green, the same color as Mitchell’s eyes. A chest rested snugly against the bedroom wall, and above it hung a sign in Japanese that read: The Emperor’s reign will last for a thousand and then eight thousand more generations, until pebbles become mighty rocks covered with moss.

  “That is taken from my national anthem, the ‘Kimigayo’,” Tottori said with obvious pride. “I keep it there because I love rocks. They are my hobby.”

  Clifford covered his mouth with one hand and giggled. Tottori threw him a questioning glance. Clifford explained, “T-t-t-the head monk of our school, Master Jung-Wei, gave Andrew the nickname Lingtse, which means spirit stone.”

  Tottori stared at Andrew with wide-open eyes while a beguiling smile dimpled his cheeks.

  “You see the large stone on the chest?” Tottori said.

  Andrew’s gaze brushed the several polished stones lying on the chest.

  “The large one is classified as yellow chert. It is essentially microcrystalline quartz. I found it here, in a cave by the ocean. It was formed when bedrock from the Paleozoic era rose above sea level. Notice the exquisite color. It is rare to find chert with that creamy yellow hue.”

  He rattled on for thirty minutes about several other prize rocks as if he were addressing a class of university students. Andrew understood that Tottori seldom talked so freely, and he obviously held a passion for rocks, but Andrew didn’t follow the conversation. He dwelled on Mitchell’s image without giving any thought to it.

  Tottori finally noticed Andrew’s disinterest and switched topics.

  “How did you receive that cut on your head?”

  Andrew lowered his gaze. “I was raped by two Japanese soldiers on the ship that brought me here.”

  Tottori became as utterly still as one of his stones. A minute passed before he said, “You have my sincere apology. War exposes the jackal in men.” Tottori bowed until his forehead touched the table. He straightened up and explained that brutality was a way of life for a Japanese soldier. “He takes thrashings from his superiors as a routine reprimand, and he in turn beats those under him at the least provocation. He is taught that a soldier must fight to the death. Honor is everything to a Japanese soldier. That is why he has no pity for prisoners, who obviously have no honor. It is a pity,” he added, “but it hardens them, and for Japan to be a world power, we must be as hard as tempered steel.”

  “I think war brings out a man’s essence,” Andrew replied. “For some it’s a jackal, for others it’s a tiger, for a few it’s a crane. It depends upon the profundity of a man’s compassion and the quality of his integrity.”

  Tottori stared at Andrew for a full minute before saying, “Quite so.”

  A shiver raced up Andrew’s spine as he wondered how brutal Tottori would become when the jackal surfaced in him. Andrew couldn’t help but ask, “What happens to the Japanese men who are captured?”

  “If for any reason a soldier should be captured alive, his name is removed from his village register and his family will suffer his disgrace. They will never hold their heads up again. That is why we always save the last round for ourselves.”

  Two Malaysian servants entered the room, carrying trays of aromatic food. They knelt beside the table and placed lacquered bowls and bamboo platters in front of each man. There was hot miso soup, steamed shrimp atop rolls of rice, glistening red triangles of raw tuna beside pea-green wasabi, shallow cups of soy sauce, grilled leeks immersed in vinegar, and of course, mounds of steamed rice with a hint of jasmine flavoring.

  Andrew’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. Never had he felt so famished or seen a meal that looked so appetizing. But a twinge of guilt made his heart shudder. He was not here to accept treats for himself, food that many prisoners would kill for. He came to exchange his body for drugs.

  Clifford indulged in the luxury of declining to eat, swishing his head away from the meal. “N-n-n-o, thank you. I’ve had my dinner.”

  Andrew cleared his dry throat and mustered his willpower. “I’ve eaten, also.”

  Tottori’s face shaded a blistering red. “You will both eat. That is an order.” He nodded at Clifford. “You will eat as a show of good manners.” Turning to Andrew, he said, “And you will eat because I require my whore to be supple, and that means having meat on your bones. You must gain weight.”

  There, Andrew thought, his gaze brushing the table again, he has put a name to it. I’m his whore. But something didn’t jell. Andrew had been under the impression that tonight’s fornication was all the payment required. If that was so, why was Tottori concerned about his weight?

  Clifford sipped his soup while Andrew picked up his chopsticks and selected a beautiful sliver of tuna, slid it into his mouth. He chewed, although the fish was so tender he didn’t need to. He swallowed, ate another piece with a smidgen of fragrant rice. He felt strength flow into his limbs. Using his fingers to select one of the shrimp sushi, he then dipped it into the soy sauce, but before he placed it in his mouth, he asked, “Does that mean I must come here again, after tonight?”

  Tottori grunted. “What you require is not trivial. We are talking of saving a man’s life, are we not? This demands a substantial payment. I have the serum.” He pointed to a satchel beside the front door. “In return, you are my whore for as long as I desire your services, be that a night, a month, or ten years.”

  Andrew’s appetite vanished. He reined in his panic enough to slide the sushi into the red cavity of his mouth and chew. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He had no choice, but somewhere inside a voice cried out for him to run, run as fast as he could.

  The silence deepened. Andrew washed down the fish, rice, and leeks with steaming miso soup. The soup was rich, but he no longer tasted, heard, or felt anything except the panic in his heart, which slowly transformed into despair.

  Tottori said,
“Before you agree, please consider the consequences. I will oblige you to eat, bathe, and dress well. The other prisoners will notice, assuredly. They will presume you are my spy and that you do it for your own benefit. They will probably try to kill you. Do not make this decision lightly.”

  “There is no decision. As you have already pointed out, a man’s life is at stake.”

  Silence.

  Tottori bowed his head. “I admire you and envy him.”

  Andrew looked away, could not bear the thought of what he saw in those eyes.

  “I am very happy,” Tottori said, smiling. “Not because you agree to my terms, but because you and I are alike. We don’t waste time with idle chitchat and we don’t lie or hide our thoughts. We go to the heart of each issue and speak the raw truth or say nothing at all. I think that is a good basis for a relationship.”

  First I’m his whore, now he speaks of a relationship. Andrew ate the last of the vinegar-soaked leeks. His confusion grew into impatience because he sat stuffing himself with glorious food while the poison worked its way further up Mitchell’s leg.

  Clifford leaned close to Andrew. “This was normally the time I retired to the bedroom, but it seems I’ve been replaced. I’ll take the treatment and prepare the patient. Come as soon as you can.” He winked as he rose to his feet and turned to Tottori. “Be gentle with this one. He’s worth loving.”

  Clifford bent to pick up the satchel on his way out.

  The servants cleared away the dishes and brought plates topped with golden slices of mango over sticky rice. A rich aroma pervaded the room, tickling Andrew’s nostrils.

  “Coffee?” Andrew asked.

  “A French roast. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “Tea would have been wonderful, but the coffee smells exquisite.”

  “I have a weakness for French coffee. I spent the spring and summer of ’38 in France. Have you been to Paris?”