100 Years of Vicissitude

by Andrez Bergen

  ‘In the middle of it?’

  ‘Headstrong, I know. Stupid. Selfish. God, I should have listened to her.’

  The girl in white swept straight out through a sliding door, moving surprisingly swiftly for someone restricted by her kimono.

  I glanced at Tomeko. She was frozen to the spot, as if the lights there, just like the ones above, had been turned out.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘We’re going?’

  Kohana grabbed my hand, and tugged me along after the other girl.

  In another blink, we had changed location from a plush, orderly living room to a devastated, fractured street where sheets of wildly swinging fire soared hundreds of metres into the air and encircled us.

  Yes, there was most certainly a wind.

  I couldn’t feel the heat as we picked our way through fallen walls and over the debris of smashed rickshaws and cars and signage. Bursts of blinding light flashed in the distance, as well as nearby. The earth buckled and groaned beneath my feet. A kind of mist started to fall, catching fire as it descended, setting alight every object under its path. Roofs collapsed, glass exploded, paper screens ignited.

  Over all of these, the buzzing sound came in waves.

  The whole world was on fire.

  A huge awning above us made a cracking sound and started to tumble my way, at which point Kohana grabbed my beard and yanked me to relative safety.

  ‘Did you need to do that?’ I muttered, rubbing my chin, grateful all the same. ‘I thought danger didn’t matter—in cheat-mode?’

  ‘We haven’t proved that little theory.’

  She started on again, this time leading me by the arm.

  At one point, we passed an elderly gent seated on a huge chunk of concrete. The man was clad in scorched, smoking clothes, but was otherwise unharmed—he looked sufficiently relaxed to kick back and read a newspaper. I saw him light up a hand-rolled cigarette from the flames of a former house, just to his right. A few metres away, a young woman knelt outside a collapsed building, dressed in a torn cotton kimono, with an empty baby sling on her back, screaming and sobbing as she repeatedly struck her head against the cleaved surfaces of the road.

  A soldier staggered into view, his bloodied face raised to the sky. ‘The enemy is right here before us!’ he railed to nobody, aside from a couple of ghosts. ‘Rise up immediately, and take revenge for this—!’ A falling electrical pole ended the speech.

  All around, blackened, smouldering shapes littered the place, and it took me time to realize they were the remains of people.

  Down a narrow side street, dozens of their neighbours pushed and shoved like cattle, skirting curtains of fire, and threw themselves into a river, most of them already aflame.

  Enter the girl in white, the teenage Kohana as I knew her to be, trudging beneath glowing ash that rained like furious snow. She charged straight past us, through the rubble and carnage, in a pair of borrowed wooden clogs and that restrictive silk kimono.

  Somehow, in the middle of this carnage, I rediscovered my voice.

  ‘Isn’t silk flammable?’

  ‘Not really, not as much as wood.’

  Kohana grasped my arm and guided us in pursuit of the other girl. A religious building stood nearby, untouched and lonely.

  ‘Asakusa Shrine, the same one where we prayed with Oumesan and the others from our okiya,’ said Kohana. ‘It survived somehow.’

  The other Kohana’s mad dash was progressively hypnagogic, as we flitted on her heels from place to place. Somehow, the spotless white kimono remained that—spotless—with nary a scorch mark, soot stain, or blemish.

  She paused for a moment before a cart, shorn horizontally in half, with four horse’s hooves that stood a metre or so apart. There was nothing left of the beast from the ankles up.

  Seconds later, a huge, round red paper lantern bounced down the avenue, afire. Unseen people screamed while the sirens wailed and the bees sang.

  Finally, the girl reached a street in which a huge aircraft had parked itself, its wings sheared off. A propeller was stuck, motionless, in a nearby roof, and the fuselage of the plane was torn in half. There in front of us, near the nose with its shattered windows, we saw a huge painting of a half-naked chorus girl, waving an American flag, the words ‘Miss Jupiter’ inscribed above her glorious, smiling face.

  A boy sat on the ground beneath the picture.

  A crew-member of some kind, not out of his teens, with an unruly head of blonde hair peppered with red. More of that red was splashed on his face and neck, but he was still alive. He was playing fetch, with a dog and a rubber ball.

  After a feeble toss and the hound’s return, the boy’s arm dropped. ‘I’m sorry, fella, I don’t think I can throw it any more.’

  The dog, some kind of Spitz, sat down next to him and panted.

  Blood began to trickle down onto the boy’s shoulder as his head fell forward—just as Kohana, in her white kimono, entered the picture.

  She stood over the airman for a few seconds, likely indecisive, and then knelt, lifted his head, and felt his forehead. The boy stirred, and he took in this sight before him, wrapped in white silk, with that overly made-up face shining like an apricot moon in the light from the fires surrounding us.

  ‘Are you an angel…?’ he asked.

  She smiled, and then he died.

  ‘I never understood what he asked me, until just now,’ said the older Kohana beside me. ‘Funny. An angel.’

  19 | 十九

  We were strolling together, along a wooden verandah that appeared to stretch on forever—well, at least the end of it was somewhere beyond my short-sighted range of view.

  Kohana, promenading on my arm, had switched clothes.

  She was again dressed as a geisha, with all the makeup that entailed. Her kimono was a deep burgundy colour, decorated with white flowers and mint-green leaves. The wide obi sash boasted a mix of light green and gold, and the paraphernalia in her hair matched all these hues.

  Although together, we couldn’t have been further apart.

  Both of us remained silent and barely exchanged eye contact. It was not awkward, but it was necessary. I don’t pretend to know what she was thinking. For my part, I believed I required time to digest and escape the things just witnessed—then I realized it was far easier to just plain waffle.

  ‘Do you mind talking?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Out of curiosity, back when you were doing the kimono-and-greasepaint profession, how long did it take you to get ready to go out?’

  I looked at Kohana’s face and was surprised to see a smirk. Even the false front could not hide it.

  ‘A lot depended on whom I was going to see,’ she admitted. ‘When I was a geisha, the process was quicker. While I was still hangyoku, it took more time because the presentation is doubly elaborate. The apprentice always looks showier than the master.’

  ‘Which one are you now?’

  ‘Can’t you tell?’

  ‘My dear, I’m rough around the cultural edges and learning the ropes.’

  ‘Excuses. By this time, I was a geisha. The hairstyle isn’t so elaborate, as you can see, and did you notice I’ve lost my crimson collar?’

  ‘I did. Which year is this?’

  ‘It’s 1946. November 27, in late autumn, to be exact. Hence the colours of my wardrobe.’

  ‘Thank Heaven for the minor details. Weren’t you a little young to graduate?’

  ‘Thanks to the war, there weren’t many of us left. Concessions were made—call it fast tracking. I slipped through the system before the Americans introduced an age limit to the profession.’

  ‘I thought you lost your okiya.’

  ‘I did. I joined another one.’

  ‘And Tomeko?’

  ‘Her too. Our new mama-san, Otsuta, was a lot stricter, a frequent alcoholic and a bit of a bully, but she had some wonderful kimono stored away, as you can see. We lost all ours in the bombing.’

  I stoppe
d and looked around at a leafy, beautiful parkland view. Behind me was the dark wood of the huge old building.

  ‘This isn’t Asakusa.’

  ‘No. Kyoto.’

  ‘Ahh, Kyoto, again.’

  The place was beginning to feel just like a second home.

  ‘You might remember that Y died two years ago?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘This was my second visit to the old capital. I’d been invited down to view the changing colours of the leaves—Kyoto was famous for the transition. This afternoon, the rest of my party were indoors, gazing at row upon row of religious statues. I’d stepped out for some fresh air, and to appreciate the trees we came here to see. I had just turned seventeen. Now, you can get excited—this, Wolram, is where I met your grandfather.’

  I snapped to attention, in as much as I lifted my head up straight. It’s difficult, at my age, to execute much more snapping than that.

  The area around us was empty.

  The endless verandah, the gravel-covered space beyond, and the trees lining it—with plumage that was indeed a multitude of colours—seemed to me deserted.

  ‘Like Y, he was a soldier,’ Kohana was saying. ‘Otherwise, they could not have been more dissimilar. The war was over. Whatever had transpired over the past six years, Les was not likely to stoop to any overblown heroics or silly self-sacrifice. He was simply a member of the Occupying Forces, based in Saijō—near Hiroshima—with the Australian 34th Brigade. As with Y, he was also on leave, when I first met him.’

  ‘Here?’ I think it’s fair to say I was stupefied. The place was like an antique warehouse in the middle of an orderly estate.

  ‘You must know your grandfather loved history?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Ah. Surprise. Turns out he that was also smitten with traditional Japanese culture, so Kyoto appeased both curiosities.’

  The woman stopped, her trademark, all-encompassing smile bloomed, and she nodded.

  ‘There he is now.’

  A robust part of me did not want to look.

  That side beat my conscience with a stick. ‘This is aberrant,’ it wailed. ‘This is obscene.’ It took me some effort to smother the ridiculous complaint, and in that time Kohana had equally quelled all unnecessary emotion on her face.

  Finally, I checked in the direction she gazed.

  Where, before, there had not been a single soul, standing there on the verandah was a tall, slender man. He was wearing army khakis and polished-up boots, and had a slouch hat at a jaunty angle on his head, with its brim turned up on the left side—the archetypal Australian World War Two soldier.

  A big door spellbound this particular archetype.

  Kohana went ahead of me—my feet were pinned to the floor-boards—and as she moved, I heard only a vague swish of silk, and the light tapping of her wooden clogs making small, rapid steps.

  The man was so intrigued by said door that he didn’t notice the pearl approaching him, until she was essentially on his lap. Finally, he registered her presence, turned, grinned, and inclined his head in awkward fashion.

  ‘Konnichiwa.’

  God, how I remembered that voice—and yet, here was a much younger man than the Pop I’d known for too brief a time.

  Kohana was right about the high, straight forehead and the intense green eyes. He was freshly shaved, and his face and arms were tanned and healthy looking. All up, this was a handsome man. I could never have pictured it.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ Kohana returned in a lovely tone.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’

  This was I, interrupting the picturesque moment. Having managed to lever my feet and my jaw off the ground, I’d caught up with my companion.

  ‘Is he speaking Japanese or are you speaking English? Linguistic details like that aren’t so clear to me in this ethereal state of ours.’

  I got the impression Kohana reluctantly withdrew her gaze from my grandfather to look at me. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Well, all right, we had a stab at both languages. I thought it a good idea to learn the language of our conquerors, but his Japanese was initially superior to my English—we ended up teaching one another the in-betweens.’

  ‘So. I can conclude you got to know him well.’

  ‘Decidedly well. Les was not what I’d been indoctrinated to expect from a member of the Allied forces. Most of my life, I’d grown up surrounded by a propaganda machine that painted foreign soldiers as devils or ogres, hungry to rape and pillage the fertile soil and women of Japan. To the contrary, Les was an incredibly kind man, with a grounded sense of humour.’

  There was a sparkle in Kohana’s demeanour that I couldn’t account for. I had a feeling high jinks were involved.

  My grandfather was oblivious to our ancillary conversation.

  ‘I don’t mean to be a pest,’ he was saying, ‘but could you tell me something about this terrific building?’

  ‘Oh, not more architectural banter,’ I muttered.

  ‘That is not being a pest in any way.’ Kohana pushed me aside, annoyed. ‘Your interest in our culture flatters me.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m overwhelmed by the strength and age, as much as its beauty. And the size of the place is staggering.’

  ‘This is the longest wooden building in all of Japan,’ Kohana breezed, ‘a Buddhist temple we call Sanjūsangen-dō. It was established in the twelfth century, and the temple houses one thousand life-size statues of the Thousand Armed Kannon. It’s also said that the celebrated swordsman Miyamoto Musashi fought a duel or two, right nearby. Perhaps over there.’ She pointed at some trees.

  I shot the woman a glance, straight after her words sank into my resistant skull. ‘This sounds suspiciously like information you gleaned from Y, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t you feel ashamed, using one man’s romantic banter to butter up another?’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

  ‘If the geta fits. You’re the one who intimated a cosy relationship with my grandfather.’

  ‘I was a geisha. My modus operandi was to beguile and sweet-talk the males I met, thereby gaining their favour—and, hopefully, their custom.’ Kohana pouted. ‘I thought you’d appreciate the effort. I was being courteous to a foreigner and trying to make him feel welcome. I wasn’t some kind of exotic vulture.’

  ‘Now I worry about what kind of welcome you’re implying. He was married. He was too old for you. This is the father of my mother, for Heaven’s sake!’

  ‘He was only twenty-eight.’

  Pop took that moment to kneel on one knee, for the entire world as if he were going to propose.

  I think I swallowed my stomach.

  Instead, the man ran his fingers along a worn floorboard. ‘I reckon I can almost feel the history,’ he murmured.

  ‘The famous Tōshiya archery exhibition contests were held right here, from the late sixteenth century,’ Kohana said. ‘Have you heard tell of the Tōshiya?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘People shot several arrows in rapid succession down the length of this verandah. Three hundred and ninety-three feet.’

  Les peered along the decking. ‘That long, eh?’

  In spite of her restrictive wardrobe, Kohana somehow managed to squat beside the man, and did it with aplomb. She placed her palm on the floorboard beside his.

  ‘You won’t find very much proof of the competition here on the floor,’ she said, with mischief, ‘but if you look hard enough, you’ll see some of the arrows’ impressions in the wall.’

  Les grinned. ‘There’s nothing like this in Australia. Back in Melbourne, I doubt we have a building any older than a hundred years.’

  ‘Youth too has its attractions.’

  He looked up at my guide with an above-board expression, nothing wolfish about it. ‘I reckon there is that to be said.
’

  I don’t know why, but I felt strangely annoyed. I paced around the two of them. ‘Just how well did you know Pop?’

  ‘I suppose you could say I was in love with him.’

  ‘Good Lord—another one?’ The growl I made was monumental.

  20 | 二十

  Surrounding us, on all sides, was a large tract of war-torn disarray, pockmarked with lagoons of dark, odorous water. I could make out methane gas in the air.

  Someone, sight unseen, plucked at a guitar, and I heard mosquitoes buzzing about. At my feet was an abandoned, half-buried doll. Enclosing the open space were the shells of dozens of broken and shattered houses—in which life was starting to return.

  I lifted the doll and shook it down. ‘I wonder if the owner is still alive? Hopefully, she more simply grew out of it. All this reminds me of some Akira Kurosawa films I saw, from his gritty urban phase, post-World War Two.’

  ‘Over fifty percent of Tokyo looked the same,’ I heard Kohana pipe up, ‘in 1946—levelled. All Kurosawa-san had to do was lug his camera crew outside the studio, and take some footage.’

  In the middle of this eyesore, my grandfather was playing cricket.

  Kohana had propped herself up on a broken wooden fruit crate, reclining back in the weak winter sun.

  She had her hair tied back loosely, a single pink flower tucked behind the left ear, very little makeup, and she was wearing a short-sleeve white shirt tucked into beige, boyish shorts.

  I thought she showed too much leg.

  Her feet were tucked into brown American-style open-toe platform high heels, with ankle straps, that looked more dangerous than the geta wooden clogs she wore as a geisha.

  Every now and then, she leaned forward to cheer and applaud some on-debris shenanigans.

  Out there in the rubble, Pop ran about with a group of happily shouting children, dressed in rags. He had a prodigious smile plastered across his face.

  He had donned an oversized white v-neck cricket jumper, turned grey from the dust and mud, as well as long khaki shorts, and shoes without socks. His army slouch hat was stuck on the back of his head.