United States of Japan

by Peter Tieryas

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. I don’t mind that sort of thing. It’s flattering actually,” Tiffany said.

  “How’s it flattering?”

  “A woman tries to steal you from me directly under my nose. It’s bold.”

  “Or stupid.”

  “You know I’m not going home with you tonight, right?”

  “Yeah. My late night business ritual,” he said. “What about afterwards?”

  “Find yourself another date.”

  “You have another date lined up already?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Never.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Then what’s bugging you?”

  “Ghosts,” Ben answered.

  A man allowed himself to drown to death on the stage, gasping for oxygen, dying from lack of breath, only to be resuscitated a few moments later. Ben empathized.

  2:12AM

  As was custom, the officers from the Santa Monica Office of the Censor were having a late night sake ceremony to celebrate the promotions that would officially come after the holidays. It was a restaurant called the Hakodate, known for its savory oysters and abalone. The bottom three floors were open to the public, while the top two were for private ceremonies. The floors were comprised of tatami mats and everyone took off their shoes. The table sat sixty and, as Ben was about to enter and find his seat, one of Lieutenant General Hirota’s aides intercepted him. “Can I have a word?” he asked.

  In an adjacent room, the aide, a lieutenant who had dyed his hair red, said, “Sumimasen,” with a bow. “It was decided that you will remain a captain for this cycle.”

  It took a moment for Ben to register what he’d been told. “What happened? I thought this was a formality.”

  “I don’t know the full details,” he answered. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Did I offend someone? Is there some transgression I’m not aware of?”

  “Again, I’m sorry. I’m only relaying the news.”

  Ben shifted his feet. “I guess… I guess I should go home.”

  “Your presence has been requested for the ceremony.”

  “Why? I’m not getting promoted.”

  “You would lose face if you left after arriving.”

  “I would lose more face by staying,” Ben snapped.

  “You’re raising your voice,” the lieutenant informed him, the walls being paper thin. “It would not be good form for the department if you left on this note.”

  Ben did his best to control his shaking hands. The lieutenant had a blank expression that infuriated him even more. “It sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

  The lieutenant guided him in and escorted him to the end of the long table. All those being promoted were seated next to the lieutenant general’s seat. Ben was on the opposite end since positioning was by rank and he was one of the lowest. Two young warrant officers were seated there, fresh graduates, bowing and greeting all their superior officers. When Ben was seated next to them, they ignored him.

  Ben hated sitting on the mats as it hurt his ass. Lieutenant General Hirota, head of the SM Censor Office, entered. Everyone stood up and bowed. “This is a big day,” he announced, proudly looking at those about to receive their promotion, waving them to sit. “There are only two relationships that are sacred and inviolable. That of a servant to their emperor, and that of a parent with their child. You have done outstanding work in service of the Emperor.”

  They took shots of sake until erythema imbibed their faces red with acetaldehyde.

  The twenty-three promoted were given special ceremonial knives. They made small cuts on their hand, let blood drip into their cup and mix with the special sake, the tokutei meisho-shu. Blood toast, it was called, plasma mixing with fermented rice. A soporific song and dance was performed by both male and female geishas recounting the Japanese victory over America, the great sacrifices made by the Empire in order to protect the world from the tyranny and chaos of the Republic. “Yellow peril, they called us,” a woman sang. “Even though our skin isn’t yellow. They robbed us with the Treaty of Portsmouth, even after we sacrificed our lives to fight off the Russians,” and on and on. The high-pitched tone hurt both Ben’s inebriated state of mind as well as his ego. Even the perfectly prepared oysters could not sate his sense of dissatisfaction.

  The promoted were eventually carted away for another private ceremony full of pomp, debauchery, and Shinto chanting, which would prevent them from sleeping until work the next morning. Even though it was a holiday week, the fatigue would wear on them as they celebrated until the 4th of July, the anniversary of the Imperial Victory for the United States of Japan. Ben knew, because he’d experienced it a decade ago during the last promotion he’d received.

  “These young officers are our future,” Lieutenant General Hirota stated, bombastically going on about how important they were. The grumpy martinet, whose hawkish brows terrorized many a junior officer, was acting like a jovial grandfather tonight. “Let us toast them!”

  “Kanpai!” everyone shouted, as they swallowed their drinks in one gulp.

  Ben’s cup had been empty. He did not want to toast them. His eyes went to his watch.

  “Another!” the lieutenant general commanded, raising up his cup as the waiters and waitresses poured additional drinks. There was no way Ben could avoid the toast this time. “Let us hope they will inspire the younger generations to serve the Emperor with more fervor and courage.”

  “Kanpai!”

  Six kanpais later, the lieutenant general’s stern demeanor was replaced by singing. His aide, with the assistance of a geisha, escorted him out. Everyone got up and bowed, holding their bent backs for the minute or so it took him to leave. The party was over.

  Ben rubbed his hips, hating the soreness in both his muscles and bones. He was too drunk to pay attention to the restaurant, or his surroundings for that matter, as he stumbled out. He needed a taxi and was waiting on the street for one until he somehow found himself sitting in a bar again. There were radioactive fish swimming in a tank with an uncanny glow.

  “They’re special breeds, harvested off the oceans of what used to be Oregon and Northern California,” a woman said. She had purple hair, was gaunt, and had jewelry all over her face.

  “Who are you?”

  “I was one of the performers at the ceremony,” she answered.

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m not wearing my wig or makeup. I played Kanji Ishiwara.”

  “Nice to have a drink with the liberator of Manchuria. What am I doing here?”

  “You passed out on the street.”

  He couldn’t remember.

  “I’m usually better at handling my drinks.” He ordered a cup of water. “Thanks for your help. If you could help me grab a taxi, I’d be doubly grateful.”

  She held his hand. “How old are you?”

  “Almost forty.”

  “You’re cute for a forty year-old man.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Guess.”

  “I’m too drunk to guess and I don’t want to offend you,” Ben said.

  “Offend me?”

  “Today is a strange day and my social graces are at their worst.”

  “Every day is a strange one for me. Don’t worry. You’re too old to offend me,” she said, which stung and sobered him at the same time.

  “I’m not that old.”

  “I’ll help you grab a taxi.”

  She assisted him outside. There were no taxis in sight, just the sinews of indigo from neon signs and a flood of cars drifting in masochistic yearning, engines silent from the electricity that quietly fueled them. They all drove on the right side, even though that was usually an island custom.

  “Do those rings on your nose hurt?” Ben asked.

  “They’re very comfortable. I feel naked without them.”

  “You take them off when you’re performing, righ
t?”

  “I wear a different mask then. Do you always talk so much?”

  “Only to strangers,” Ben replied.

  “I don’t like men who talk too much.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “You sound irritated.”

  She shook her head. “I was hoping you were the quiet type.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “Most older men I’ve met are boring.”

  “Guilty. Especially tonight,” he said, remembering the ceremony, then Claire. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Sure. See you around.” She took out her portical and started playing a game as she walked away. He recognized the music.

  “You’re playing Honor of Death?” Ben called out.

  She turned around. “You know it?”

  “I play every game for my job.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Not bad.”

  “No one has ever beaten me in combat.”

  “If I wasn’t so drunk, I could change that,” Ben said. “I know all the cheats, could show you a bunch of them.”

  “Nice try.”

  She walked away, absorbed in her game.

  Ben called Tiffany, but her portical was turned off. He sent her a message: “Hope you’re having more fun than I am.” He checked the time. It was already 4:22am. Just a few hours until work. The alcohol made him feel like the stump of a person, cauterized, then stitched together, a mannequin held by flimsy bandages. He relinquished himself to a motel, treading his way towards collapse. A taxi happened to pass by, which he waved down.

  He thought of Claire again. She’d been like a sister to him, nobler, more honorable, resisting the weaker, easier path of disillusionment. The flaring conflagration of her idealism had been so pure, even the sun would have been burnt by it. He gave his address to the cab driver who asked, “Long night?”

  He would have answered if he wasn’t already asleep.

  8:39AM

  The alarm wouldn’t stop ringing, even though he tried to shut it off four times. What’s the point of getting up early? he thought to himself. It annoyed him to remember the toasts for the newly promoted. He threw his blanket off and got up from bed.

  Ben lived in a spacious townhouse full of old American paintings. The white walls were covered with portraits of cowboys, dead soldiers, and dinosaurs – all USJ officers got their pick of American art. His wood floors were pristine and he walked down a flight of stairs to his kitchen where breakfast was prepared by his maid, an old Chinese woman. He sipped on his miso soup, took a bite of his bacon, and ate two rolls of cucumbers. He switched into the standard blues of all foreign services in the United States of Japan. His maid said, “You need to eat more.”

  “The weight scale disagrees,” he replied, patting his belly and steadying himself against the counter. His head was spinning. “Can you get me a cup of water?”

  He drank the water and took his coat off a suit of samurai armor next to the door, deceptively antiquated even though it was coated in titanium – a gift for everyone who’d graduated from the Berkeley Military Academy. He exited his room, which was on the fiftieth floor, and descended down the high-speed elevator. Across the street was a beautiful garden park that was teeming with kids. He entered the subway entrance on Broadway. The station was sparkling clean, with portical displays along the walls broadcasting the California Nippon News. Most of them recounted the monumental sacrifices made during the Great Pacific War for its fortieth anniversary. The news changed to highlights of the huge victories the Japanese forces were having in Vietnam. “Soon, the rebels will be destroyed!” a general assured them.

  Public cleaners were sweeping the station and Ben paid three yen for a can of orange juice. As he passed a holographic image of the Emperor, he, like everyone else, bowed in deference. The Emperor was dressed in his ceremonial clothing, though he had on a crimson dragon mask that prevented commoners from seeing his face. Ben made sure to bow low and hold his stance, as cameras were recording impatience or disrespect to relay it back to the proper authorities. In the same way, multiple civilians bowed to him to show their respect to him as a military officer. The train came exactly on time at 9:15am and, though the station was nowhere near as busy as it would have been at rush hour on a non-holiday, there were still hundreds getting on. Ben sat on one of the special seats adjacent to the door that were designated for pure Japanese and military officers. Independent of ethnicity, many of the riders were sucked into their porticals, playing games alone as talking with friends on the subway was considered rude. An automated female voice spoke in pleasant Japanese and English, informing them that their next stop and final destination was at 3rd Street in Santa Monica.

  The train went above ground. Huge skyscrapers towered in the distance. Mechas – robotic soldiers that were as tall as the skyscrapers – vigilantly guarded the skies against enemies outside and within. His portical was synced with the California Nippon News and a report from Governor Ogasawara gave the annual report on the state of the union. “Crime rates are the lowest in the western hemisphere and pollution is virtually nonexistent,” she stated. This intercut with footage from New Berlin and Hitlerica with their smoggy cities, as their cars still used gasoline, unlike the purely electric vehicles of the USJ. “Our EKS industry,” (Electric Kikkai System), “is booming and, despite attempts by German Minister Goebbels to make New Berlin the portical entertainment capital of the world, Los Angeles still holds the distinction with over a thousand unique depots,” Governor Ogasawara vaunted.

  The train came to a stop. Ben got off on the 3rd Street exit which was the end of the 196th line. Sweepers were cleaning trash. A few civilians bowed to him and he greeted several police on duty with light nods. He went up the escalator into a plaza when a strumming melody started from his pocket. He took out his portical and opened the flaps.

  It was Tiffany Kaneko on the line.

  “Bad night?” she asked.

  He explained in brief about the ceremony.

  “Don’t take it personally,” she said.

  “How can I not?”

  “By not thinking about it. Be more like Saigo.”

  “Who?”

  “The very last samurai during the Meiji Restoration. He didn’t care about rewards, rank, or title.”

  “Isn’t he the one who died rebelling against the government? We shouldn’t mention his name on a portical call.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s a hero.”

  “That I definitely am not. You have a fun night?”

  “Fun is one way of putting it,” Tiffany answered vaguely. “You sound tired.”

  “I can’t believe I got drunk so easily. A few shots don’t usually faze me.”

  “It’s called age.”

  “Age? I’m only thirty-nine,” Ben protested.

  “Only?”

  “Funny.”

  “You want me to hold off on the anti-age and wrinkle cream I got you?” Tiffany teased.

  “You want to go to the races tonight or not?”

  “It’s very effective for the skin.”

  “You don’t sound like you want to go to the races that much.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” she said, laughing. “You got the tickets?”

  “Box seats,” he replied. “You’ll be seeing Sollazzo and Chao kyotei racing tonight.”

  She whistled merrily. “I’ve been wanting to see them for ages.”

  “I read your profile on both.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “You have a gift.”

  “More like I spent three nights in a row rewriting them a thousand times.”

  He smiled. “We’re still playing go afterwards, right?”

  “As long as your friends don’t mind losing money.”

  “The last things my friends worry about is money.”

  “What about you? Are you going to be OK?”

  “I never bet that much money,”
Ben replied.

  “I mean about the promotion.”

  “I know. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” was as strong an answer as Ben could muster.

  “You want me to dig around and ask about it for you?”

  “No,” Ben said. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “I’ll help you forget later.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I have my ways,” she said, with a lascivious wink.

  Ben laughed. “I’m at the office. I’ll call you later.”

  She kissed the screen. Ben entered the huge glass building with the sign of Taiyo Tech in front. The reception area had an elaborate stone garden and a waterfall. People in suits and military uniforms were coming and going. He bowed to a few and others bowed to him. He went through the scanner gate and the barcode on his keycard was automatically checked for ID. Behind the desks, a group of security officers matched identities with photos and cleared entry. Just as Ben was about to head to the elevator, a stocky woman he didn’t recognize approached. She was Eurasian, though he couldn’t determine the specific region. Her hair was cut choppy and short, her lipstick was dark red, and her violet lashes made them resemble bruises against her pale cheeks.

  “Hello, Beniko Ishimura,” she greeted him, in a somber tone.

  “Can I do something for you?”

  “Are you busy at the moment?”

  “I’m always busy, but I can make time if it’s important.”

  “Let’s talk in your office,” she said.

  “My office?”

  The woman took out a badge that caused Ben to flinch. She was Akiko Tsukino of the Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu, or Tokko for short – the secret police of Japan. His throat constricted. They went to the elevator. Only the two of them got on.

  Ben scoured his memory for any faults that could have triggered a visit from the Tokko. Had he forgotten to pay a bribe? Had he said something in his sleep that one of his lovers had reported? They wouldn’t be here about Tiffany’s Saigo comment, would they? Then he wondered if that lieutenant from the night before had reported him for being discontented about not getting promoted.

  “How is your day going?” he asked and immediately felt dumb for saying it.