by H. K. Bush
Sirens began coming through the cracked window early, just at dawn, and I woke up in a start. I was sweaty and my heart was pumping hard. I panicked, and looked from one side to the other. Everything seemed stable, but I had to get out of my claustrophobic apartment. I showered quickly—in cold water—and threw on some clean clothes and headed out.
That pretty much characterized my last forty-eight hours in Kobe—a kind of mindless mania softened by a haze of forgetfulness and the fug of alcohol. After coffee, I walked over to the university. The offices were empty; I was way too early. Several campus buildings had been damaged and were off limits. The main administration offices appeared to be functional, as did the building where my department was housed. I remember sitting on the concrete, holding my legs in my arms, leaning up against a wall, and gently rocking back and forth, until finally some administrators began filing in. They seemed to stare at me suspiciously—or maybe it was just my imagination. It took a while, but I got everything figured out. I could leave the keys with them on Wednesday morning, February 1, when my last payment would be available in the same office—in cash. My flight would be late in the afternoon of the same day.
Over at the English department, I found Professor Aoyama in his office. Strangely, and as I typically saw him, he was taking care of some of the mindless duties of academic administrators, amidst all the rubble. Evidently the earthquake had only temporarily halted the deluge of Japan’s bureaucratic obsessiveness. But Aoyama’s amiable ways, typically inextinguishable, were subdued that day. I knocked on his door, smiling as best I could. He turned, saw me, and stood quickly. “Springs-sensei, Ah! Please come in! Sit down! Yes, we have been so worried about you!”
He continued speaking in exclamation marks. I avoided his questions, and told him only vaguely of my own experience during the temblor—the version that would become my standard account. The shaking building, being woken up abruptly, falling out of bed, running down to the car, and heading out a back road into the mountains, to a friend’s place out in the country. Nagano-city, to be precise.
“Did your friends in Nagano feel the jishin?”
I had no idea, of course. “Not really,” I ventured.
He nodded, then told me how happy he was to see that I was doing well. “And you, sensei? How are you?” I asked.
He looked down at his papers. “My family is safe. We live far out in the countryside. But this has been a terrible tragedy for the university. Many professors were injured and their homes damaged or even destroyed, as I’m sure you’ve heard. At least fifteen students and possibly up to twenty professors were either killed directly, or are still in critical condition, at death’s door.” He frowned, stroking his neck. Then he looked up at me directly. “One was Professor Goto. I am sorry to tell you of this. I know that you spent some time with him. He was truly one of the great men that I have known in my life. And Professor Miyamoto has also died. It is a terrible loss for our community here.” He stared back down at the floor as waves of sudden terror washed over me. “I am so sorry to bring you this very sad news; it must be a huge blow.”
A long, awkward silence stretched out between us. I am sure he was waiting for me to say something, but I was tongue tied and tearing up. The sadness, the guilt, the remorse, and the fear were all there, written plainly across my face. I couldn’t choke out a single word.
“Frankly, I do not blame you for leaving early like this, sensei. Kobe will be grieving for a very long time, I think.” I scanned his bookshelves, trying to avoid eye contact. What else would I need to endure to get out of his office? He asked me a question, which brought me back to the moment.
“Excuse me?”
“What I mean is, what are your fondest memories of Kobe?”
“Well … I guess it would have to be the students. And also … my friendships with some of the other professors here, like you.” And Sensei, I did not add.
“Yes. Well. Thank you.” He stood up. I stood up also, maybe a little too fast.
“You have been a great addition to our work here at Kobe University. It has been a very sad ending, though, and I regret that this is how our time together must come to a close.” He hesitated once more. “I wonder how our university, and our city, can get through this.”
He walked me to the door, and we said our goodbyes. And that was it. High noon on a cold and cloudy Monday, I cleared out my office, emptied my bank account, went to my favorite Indian restaurant, and ate like a Marine, realizing as I sat down to order that I’d eaten almost nothing since Saturday. That night I walked through Sannomiya and other parts of downtown Kobe. The damage was everywhere, and I could only take so much before I began to feel I was still walking on shaky, unstable ground. So I headed back up the hill, found a seat at the bar in a dark tavern near my condo filled with chain-smoking businessmen in navy blue suits, and drank beer for a very long time.
I spent most of Tuesday walking around up in the forest on the mountainside, avoiding Kobe’s forlorn streets, but still peering down at them. The waves of horror kept washing back over me, and I was in a sort of constant sweat. I could not think of anyone to call, or whom I wished to call. My final night in Kobe, I was alone and in a foul mood. I had often imagined a big going-away party, lots of fine speeches, perhaps a few mementoes. My students getting teary-eyed, clamoring for an American-style embrace (so un-Japanese). Maybe some late night karaoke, or a final fling with one of those lovely, slender young girls.
But at nine o’clock, I was eating take-out sushi in my darkened apartment, with “Kind of Blue” by Miles Davis playing softly in the background. A cold Asahi Dry was on the table next to me, the windows were wide open, despite temperatures in the low twenties. A frigid sea-wind rushed into the room, and outside, the twinkling lights of Kobe— or at least what remained of them. Ghostly dark cavities sat like blind spots, between other, lighted buildings. These voids in the skyline signified buildings that had been destroyed in the quake, or which had been pulled down in the days following it due to structural weaknesses. And beyond all that was the inky darkness of the harbor, and then the Pacific Ocean. And then, America.
And that was it. The next morning, I was showered and ready to leave hours before I needed to be. I dropped the keys at the designated office, and picked up my last cash payment. I loaded up my car, still unsold, and drove it to KIX, the brand new, shiny Kansai International Airport, out on a massive man-made island in the middle of Osaka Bay. I parked in one of the garages, unloaded, and walked away from it, just like that. I wasn’t parking it so much as abandoning it, and for all I know the car’s still sitting there, awaiting my return, covered in fifteen years of dust. I checked two heavily packed roll-arounds and boarded the flight, carrying on one bulging backpack and one small, locked, dark leather 1920s-style valise. I managed to save a couple of sleeping pills for the flight. Those, along with a few highballs, got me back to Indiana, via Detroit. My dad picked me up at the Indy airport, smiling and ready to hear about my adventures. But I was in no mood for conversation. Mom had a big meal prepared, but I wasn’t hungry. After nibbling at it just enough to satisfy her motherly instincts, I excused myself and headed straight to bed.
I never made it back to Japan. Honestly, I’ve regretted that sorry vacuum for the rest of my life. Yes, I did have the best intentions. And at times I even wanted to go back. That was a few years later, when it became possible for me to remember Kobe without suffering panic attacks, or feeling nauseous. But the bottom line is that those six boxes have been sitting underneath the flooring of Ryoanji, high up in the mountains of Japan, going on these fifteen years—or at least, I hope they have.
Jim kept in touch. He sent a postcard to my parents’ house in August 1998, telling me he was off to Thailand. He only wrote a few sentences, but one of them was this: “Your secret is still safe, and the brothers await a message from Ernest.” That was enough, and just like old Jim. That was over a decade ago, and by now those boxes have probably all been forgotten about, l
ike old Christmas decorations up in some grandmother’s dark, cobwebby attic. Covered in dust, like my old Nissan at the airport. Or perhaps they’ve been discovered and sold off, by some enterprising monk. So you see, there is some risk involved, in taking the next step.
Then, in 2001, the jets hit the Twin Towers in Manhattan, and we all watched in horror as papers went flying through the air, bodies plummeted down into the streets, and finally the buildings themselves imploded, tumbling down in heaps of steel, glass, cement, and pulverized human tissue. I thankfully missed watching that horror live—it was still early in the morning out in eastern Washington, and my mornings are for reading in silence, with no electronic devices allowed till noon—but the scenes were replayed over and over and over in the subsequent hours, days, and weeks. So I did see them, eventually, many, many times, like everyone else. And those unpleasant knots arose once more in my stomach, and the shakes, and the bad dreams started up again as well. If I had been thinking about going back to Japan before 9/11, the attacks put a final and decisive end to that fantasy.
Now, nine years after that disaster, my health is also imploding. I feel seriously bad most of the time, and even worse the rest. I understand now about wanting to die, at least on those days when the headaches or the abdominal pains make it hard to read, or even to lie on the couch and watch the tube. Booze only helps for an hour, then leaves me depleted and nauseous. I rarely drink anymore. I should look into medical marijuana; if only I had the energy. Then maybe I would feel like listening to some of my old records again, which would be nice. But loud sounds jar unpleasant memories. I do miss the words of the great songwriters, but in general not enough to try listening. Plus, I’m just too tired.
In short, these last pages have been terrifically challenging to complete. I hope you’ve made it this far and are still with me. I do have many other things I wish I could write to you, Marty. But I’m very tired tonight. Knowing that you always would read my stuff with the greatest interest and attention, has been one of the great inspirations of my life. All the editing, the advice—all just “part of the job,” as you would humbly put it—all of those favors were the seeds of hope that have grown up into my life and my career, such as it is. I won’t call you my muse, but you get the point. You have been my mentor, my sempai—you and Sensei. I know you’ll do a worthy job, presenting my story to the world.
And so now, Marty, it’s time to open the other packages. Brace yourself, and if you do have a bottle of Uncle Jack Daniels sour mash sitting around somewhere, maybe have a finger or two. Given the fact that you’ll receive all this after my own demise, make a toast to me, your old student.
Do you remember the letter I sent a few years back, with the quote from the old minister in Gilead? About his thousands of sermons, stored in boxes up in his own dusty attic? The Reverend John Ames admits, “I wrote almost all of it in the deepest hope and conviction.” I think that’s what the teaching life is all about. Now I’m near the end, and I’m able to say it soberly, I think. It struck me today that I’m just about the same age you were, in our days together back in Bloomington—I’m a forty-something English teacher of minor professional accomplishment, whose legacy consists almost entirely of the words, words, words, all sown like seeds into the hearts and minds of students. And almost all of it sown with the deepest hope and conviction.
Emerson once wrote, “To my friend I write a letter, and from him I receive a letter. That seems to you a little. It suffices me. It is a spiritual gift worthy of him to give, and of me to receive. It profanes nobody. In these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it will not to the tongue, and pour out the prophecy of a godlier existence than all the annals of heroism have yet made good.” I don’t know how much prophecy is in here, Marty, but please know that these lines have all been written so as to be warm, and that I pour out myself to you, in sending them.
At the risk of sounding corny: receive all this as a spiritual gift. Above all: cherish and remember the words!
For now, that’s all. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed. Enjoy the next part of the journey, Herr Professor.
—E. Jack Springs, Sept. 2010, Spokane, WA
MY TRIP TO THE ORIENT
By the time I finished reading Jack’s manuscript, twelve hours after first opening the package, I was overcome by the grief and sadness captured and conveyed in Jack’s words. I was at home seated in my favorite chair, an overstuffed, worn-out recliner. It had been dark for several hours and my once-roaring fire had diminished into an orange glow. I reached for a box of tissues, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. Then, I sat back and stared at the fire.
Within the confines of my campus office, I had read well over half of Jack’s luminous tale, my feet often up on my desk—I had devoured it between a few trips for refills of coffee and a few for relieving my aging bladder into the enamel urinals that are one of the staples of any scholastic setting. But the remaining sunlight slowly began to slant almost horizontally through the shades of my office window, reminding me of the brevity of midwinter days in Indiana. “There’s a Certain Slant of Light—,”wrote Emily Dickinson, and so, with the early dusk approaching, and my imagination completely captured by the exotic tales of my former student, I decided to bundle myself up, withdraw from the office, and carefully wend my way homeward. My prim, highly reliable Camry was the only car in the lot as the wan sun dipped below the tree line.
Once back in my chilly manse, I brewed some strong English tea, built a fire, fried yet another egg for a sandwich, and sat down in front of my fireplace to finish Jack’s story. All told, it took a total of two long sittings to complete the first reading of the manuscript. Like most experienced editors, I’m a fast reader, and moreover, I had settled down enough to read it without the constant necessity of a pen in my hand for marking errors or moments of confusion in the text. In other words, I had managed to bridle my habitual need to proof a written text. I simply wanted to read the story through to the end. That level of editorial attentiveness and nitpicking would come later. One can always go back and reread, which I have done numerous times over the past year—twice straight through, both times with pen in hand, like the lifelong editor I am.
Before I began the second half of the manuscript, I perched the small gift-wrapped box, dressed up in its red, white, and blue decorations, on the table next to my chair, where it superintended the remainder of my reading task. Yes, I held steady and true to the admonition of my departed friend: the box remained unopened until I had completed the manuscript. In fact, its smiling presence, like some close friend’s special gift beneath a Christmas tree, added to the urgency, not that I needed much encouragement.
In all honesty, I’ve often wondered about what I immediately perceived to be Jack’s palpable remorselessness, his lack of guilt. But over the years I’ve known other victims of trauma, including classmates who were drafted and spent time in Vietnam, and so I know firsthand that the symptoms of trauma vary from person to person, and that, in this case, it would seem foolish to draw any conclusions. As St. Paul reminds us, there is always the matter of the “mystery of iniquity,” a vast, unsolvable puzzle resisting our petty attempts to solve it.
Having completed the narrative, I picked up the multi-colored box. I held it up to the light and studied it, turning it this way and that. Then, suddenly, I unwrapped it. Inside I found two objects: a small key and hand-written directions to the Chase Tower in downtown Indianapolis, with information enough to admit me to the savings deposit box area and into the private holdings of Dr. E. J. Springs.
It pains me to admit this, but almost four weeks passed before I was able to make it to Indianapolis, though I did wish to discover what might be up there. But duty calls, old habits die hard, and as a well-trained workaholic/pack-rat with classes or meetings scheduled throughout the week, I found it convenient to procrastinate, and inconvenient indeed to find a four-hour window to make the trip. In fact, and based on the few clues already given, I must admit that there may
have been more than a little fearfulness in my heart, regarding what secrets I might find hidden up there in the box.
Finally, the first week of February, I was sitting in my office late on a Friday morning, with nothing else scheduled for the rest of the day, the weather decent, the sky shiny and blue, and that small box with the key, which I’d placed high on the bookshelf next to my campus desk, glowering down at me. Suddenly, I reached up and took it in my hands, inspecting it closely. Without further thought, I grabbed my car keys, my coat, scarf, and hat, my brown paper bag containing a sandwich, a banana, and some bottled water, headed briskly for my car, and soon enough was motoring down the highway confidently toward my destination. In a little over an hour, I was tooling slowly up Ohio Street in downtown Indianapolis, maneuvering my car into a parking space, and scooping up small change from the bottom of the drink holder to feed the meter.
Inside the skyscraper, I spied the various tellers and other personnel whose job it is to evaluate the various souls entering the lobby of the Chase Bank. One older lady caught my eye. She resembled an ancient librarian, sort of a latter-day version of Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life. She semi-scowled at me through a winsome smile; and as she walked up to me, I noted that the name tag on her sweater said, “Edna.”
“May I help you?”
I fumbled for the key, and showed it to her. “Yes. I’m here about a box.” Brilliant, I thought.
She studied the key momentarily. “A safety deposit box, you mean?”
