‘Oh, gold is overrated.’
‘My point exactly.’ He poked his tongue at her, and she laughed.
All of us then heard a coarse voice from a few houses away. ‘Kohana,’ it was shouting. ‘Kohana! Come inside, now!’ Oumesan. I’d know those rough, smoky vocal cords anywhere.
‘I have to go,’ the girl sighed. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Kohana, don’t forget—tonight. As soon as you get back.’
‘As if I could ever forget.’ She granted him that sweeping smile with the disappearing eyes, and then she held his tunic with both hands and pressed her head against his chest. ‘You don’t have to call me Kohana any more. From now on I’m just Tomeko.’ Tomeko? ‘My geisha days are over. Tonight.’
She ran away, and straight after, the boy retreated into the shadows and vanished.
I was alone in the alley, where silence prevailed.
Dusk settled at an exaggerated pace, followed by night.
I don’t know when I first noticed the little fireflies dancing in the night air, slowly growing in number. I was beginning to also hear their hum.
Having never before encountered a firefly in my lifetime, I poked a finger at one of the nearest ones—and was burned.
How—?
The hum was louder, and the wall behind me began to vibrate.
Burning cinders and ash, not fireflies, were everywhere. Above the whir, I made out a new sound, a howl like a wild animal pinioned in a trap. It was coming from just around a dogleg in the alley.
I left my parking space and moved in that direction, carefully avoiding the floating debris that had already seared me. Impossible, I know, but I wasn’t keen to experiment further.
On the ground, there was a dismembered fence and scattered bricks, smouldering woodwork and a fallen, naked tree with all the leaves ripped off. Something was huddling beside the toppled trunk.
As I edged closer I could see a black-and-white chequered silk kimono. The wailing sound was coming from inside the gown—from the person there.
It was petrifying. I’d never, ever heard anything like this.
‘Kohana?’
The girl was hunched over a small thing I couldn’t make out.
There was too much junk bobbing about in the air, and plumes of smoke obscured the view. I was about ten feet away when I recognized what she was holding to her chest.
It was a torso with one arm.
The other arm was mostly missing, and the lower half of the body, from the waist down, was gone. The head was there, and the face—though scorched—recognizable. It was the boy. Kohana was clutching him to her chest and bawling in a long, flat, breathless way.
God. God. I blinked quickly. This was abominable. A nightmare.
‘What are you doing here?’
I swung around.
An older Kohana, about fortyish, was stepping over from the main part of the alley. I realized I was between her and sight of the couple.
‘I told you not to come here,’ my Kohana bristled, at the very same time that she tried to peer around me.
I went straight up, encircled her with an arm, and turned her about.
‘I asked you a question. What are you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
‘Wait. What is that sound?’
I attempted to distract her, by pulling her, really I did.
Perhaps I should have tried harder, because the woman pushed back against me and saw what I’d seen.
She fell away from my arm, and then trudged slowly towards the one-and-a-half people crouched next to the fallen tree.
Kohana stopped moving and stood there, her back to me.
I didn’t know what I ought to do. This was far too much, I felt overwhelmed, and as I rubbed my face I peered around at the destruction of the street, such a familiar sight by now.
The bottom line was, I couldn’t simply hover here any more, playing pedestrian. I had to accomplish something, anything.
I went straight over to Kohana, took in the spectacle of the sobbing, howling child one final time, and grabbed her hand. I pulled her away, off into the darker parts of the alley, and the world folded in on itself.
We were back. In Kohana’s hovel—me on the leather sofa, and she deposited in her Egg chair.
I leaned forward to get a better look. The woman’s face may have been expressionless, but there were tears coursing down hollowed-out cheeks.
‘Are you all right? Kohana?’
Nothing.
She stared straight past me, without any focus at all.
38 | 三十八
Kohana aged quickly.
I slid open all the shōji screens of the bedroom, next to the living area, and propped her up in bed next to a lamp. She was wrapped in a white nightdress, snug, with a book in her lap.
The woman had shrunk in size, much smaller than me. Kohana’s hair was white, thick still, and it hung down over her right shoulder in a ponytail that I had made myself.
I’m not going to sit here and paint a picture of a centenarian who miraculously looks like a teenager, let alone a middle-aged woman. This was genuine age before me. I was back to the place I would have been in the real world before we died—much younger than her, even at seventy-one.
When I looked closely, I could see the features I knew and those expressions I revered. They were right there.
‘Age is a different kind of geisha makeup,’ Kohana laughed, in a soft way that sparkled to my ear. ‘I just can’t wash it off.’
I walked across the room, to go make a cup of tea, paused next to the suit of armour, and inspected Pop’s cricket bat. There was an extra dent in it where I had struck Shashin on the noggin, and I chuckled.
The only round of cricket I’d ever played well.
Putting down the bat, I carefully crossed it with the axe, as before. Then I reached up and felt the silk of that splendid, hanging kimono.
At the very least, I had learned the difference between a stork and an ibis.
Kohana looked over at me, mischief dancing on her face despite the frailty. ‘What are you thinking, my sweet?’
As an afterthought, she held up a hand. I walked over to hold it, the tea forgotten. Her fingers felt brittle.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘Impossible.’
I inclined my head away from her, in order that she wouldn’t see the running of feckless tears. I should have known otherwise. Kohana’s other hand pushed up my chin, and a modicum of strength had entered her expression.
‘I mean what I say. It’s not over.’
‘I love you.’ Out gushed the silly comment before I could bar its passage.
‘And here I was, thinking you were enamoured with my good-looks.’
‘They help. But I’m more in love with you, than your looks.’
No gushing this time. Honesty instead. A brand new sensation.
‘You’re an incredible lady, Kohana.’
‘You embarrass me,’ she grouched. ‘You’re overestimating me.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘No, listen here, I’m not a woman with any special skill, but I’ve had plenty of experiences in battles; losing battles, all of them. In short, that’s all I am. Drop such an idea for your own good.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘By the way, that was my gruff samurai tone, gleaned from watching a few too many period dramas on TV. Was I intimidating?’
‘Can I lie?’
‘Hmpf.’
‘Did you ever like magic?’
Kohana clasped her hands together. ‘How did you guess? I loved it.’
‘Allow me to show you some hocus pocus.’
I brought over a small blanket, very carefully unfurled it across the floor, and placed the Godzilla statuette beneath, at the centre of the spread.
‘Deceptively simple,’ Kohana mused.
‘Hang in there. Abracadabra, alakazam—voilà!’
&nb
sp; I yanked off the blanket and the Godzilla statue was gone.
Kohana’s eyes opened wide with wonder for a few seconds, the reaction I was after. She couldn’t see the blighter cleverly hidden behind me.
‘This is what you used to do for your daughter, isn’t it?’
For a while after this comment, I contemplated the smokeless fire.
‘Yes. Well—without Godzilla. I used Corinne’s doll Mimi as my assistant. Corinne loved it too, although she sussed out the method in the end. She turned the tables on me by making my mobile phone disappear. For good.’
‘Oh, before I forget, when I disappear—’
‘Stop that. You’re going nowhere.’
‘Be what may, there’s something hanging up in the bathroom wardrobe that I’d like you to have. You’ll know when you see it, but no peeking till then. Promise?’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘I expect you to do so.’ I packed up my blanket and replaced Godzilla on his shelf. As I did, I thought of Shimada and his monster movies. I looked at Kohana on the bed. ‘Can I ask something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Isn’t life disappointing?’
‘No,’ she smiled, with warmth, ‘it isn’t.’
We fell asleep, not long later. I woke up kneeling on the floor beside the bed, with my arms spread out on the futon. I raised myself to my elbows.
The hovel around me was empty. All the furnishings and bric-à - brac had been looted while we slept.
I knew, the moment I saw Kohana, that she was also gone.
Her body may have remained, but the essence was missing. I gently removed the hardcover book she had on her tummy, with the title La Tavola Ritonda, which I placed at the foot of the bed.
I pulled her husk to me, and bawled for a long time. Yes, I felt overly sorry for myself. I’m not afraid to admit it. Life, or whatever existence this feigns to be, was unbearable without her here.
I don’t know how long passed.
I lay there on my front, my hands holding hers. Sometimes, I nodded off. Other times, I shook her and begged her to return. I have no idea where all the tears came from, much like the electricity here and the running water. But I refused to move and refused to let her go, though she already had.
After a time, I did move.
I made cups of tea she didn’t drink, told silly stories about anything and everything, forged empty plans for a future we would never have together, lay there for hours simply holding her.
I don’t know when I became aware that the front door was open.
Brilliant, blinding sunshine was streaming in, and a figure, in armour, stood at the end of the bed, carrying white lilacs, rosemary, and a few branches of cherry blossoms.
I squinted, sheltering my eyes with my hand, and sat up between Kohana and this newcomer—trying, I gather, to block the view.
The longer I stared over at this person, behind burnished metal and leather, I could better see the face, beneath a samurai helmet tied with a red string under the chin.
Held fast, by a flexible bamboo pole on her back, was a large white banner. Two kanji symbols were splashed across the material, but I had misplaced my ability to read the language.
By the way, I did say ‘her’.
I assumed this would be the boy from the alley behind Kohana’s okiya—I never did hear his name—but it wasn’t.
Nor Pop, Shimada, O-tee-san, or Y.
I saw Kohana, returned to me, aged about nineteen, and my heart bucked. Then I understood my mistake.
‘Tomeko.’
Of course.
Having placed her foliage on top of the book, she walked closer, touched my shoulder, and smiled.
There were no damned words necessary.
Straight after, this girl leaned over the bed to very gently embrace the unmoving body in the nightshirt that lay there.
I did not object when Tomeko then lifted her up and carried her out through the doorway.
I followed at a discreet distance, watching as they got onto a horse and rode away in the direction of a sun I hadn’t seen for far too long, low on the horizon.
When I couldn’t see them any more, I walked back into the hovel.
I was well and truly fed up with the beard hanging off my jowls.
I went into the bathroom and poked about for a reasonably sharp instrument. I would have used Shashin’s sword, if need be, but luckily I discovered bounty in the hidden cabinet behind the mirror: a complete shaving kit, with my preferred Gillette razors and a tin of foam.
‘You haven’t used these to shave your legs, have you?’
Yes, I asked Kohana aloud. I removed my smoking jacket and slacks, wrapped a towel around myself, and started to work up lather.
I didn’t expect any response.
‘No,’ I decided. ‘I’m sure you’d prefer to use a butter knife, since it’s more of a challenge.’
I laughed. Doing so was something of a coup, and I don’t use the word lightly.
‘Convenient,’ I waffled on. ‘I wish I knew about these razors before—I’ve been stumping about, looking like an unlaundered Moses character. Do you mind if I take a few minutes to freshen up?’
I could imagine her response: ‘Help yourself. Let’s not slip back into yawn-inspiring formality!’
‘I’ll give it my finest shot. Turns out, old habits do indeed die hard.’
I would have winked at the woman, if she were here.
She wasn’t.
I ceased what I was doing, and stared at myself in the looking-glass for the longest time. White foam covered my lower face.
‘You know, I think I’ve figured it out. When I was younger, my daughter said I looked like a fake Santa when I lathered up like this. Now, I resemble the real McCoy.’
‘Profound stuff,’ I could have sworn I heard Kohana deadpan from the other side of the door.
‘No, no, not the Santa Claus thing,’ I continued, sliding the razor across my left cheek. Nice to see I hadn’t forgotten how to shave. ‘Me. Moi. I’m not one for symbolism or religious claptrap, as you well know, but I think I’ve got it.’
This pronouncement was greeted with silence.
I finished shaving, and rinsed my face in water that came from some source unknown, and best to keep it that way.
The bathroom wardrobe was there, to my left. I went over, opened it, and discovered a black suit on a hanger, wrapped in plastic.
After I tore off the protective sheath, I was happier to see the label. It was a London job—Anthony Sinclair—not an offering from some twee Parisian haberdasher.
There was also a British-made white shirt, but the tie was my old favourite from the 1980s, the dark wine and black Christian Dior. So there was one last Frenchie jab. I laughed. The woman was marvellous.
When I returned to the living room, I found emptiness.
‘My God, you do like your drama,’ I sighed. ‘Disappearing on me like this. Goodbye, Kohana.’
39 | 三十九
I walked a clay road, with yellow bricks marching alongside.
There were white stars of Bethlehem blooming all around, and they shimmered in the sudden depth of light.
Images from recent experience flooded through me, and ended with a grainy, slightly out-of-focus memory of Kohana seated at the Wagner concert, six years old, with her pageboy haircut, gazing intently at the mural on the ceiling.
I could almost make out the music too. Instead of any sorrow, or annoyance, I felt oddly uplifted.
Just then, skipping ahead of me, I spotted that familiar miniature person in the red cloak. Another six-year-old.
I hurried my step, and in a couple of minutes kept pace beside her.
The sun, a powerful thing, was now well above the horizon.
My daughter reached out and took my hand. I looked down at her face and I smiled. That face was the most beautiful, serene sight I’ve ever beheld.
Acknowledgments
Simpl
y put, without the influence of two remarkable cities I’ve called home—Tokyo and Melbourne—this story would not exist.
Otherwise, artwork-wise, hefty nods go to designer Damian Stephens, and Julian Hebbrecht for his geisha image. Phil Jourdan also merits a big hand, having asked me to get involved with Perfect Edge Books, along with editors Trevor and Mollie.
Love to friends and family—of particular note, my wife Yoko and my daughter Cocoa, mum Fée and dad Des, and my four grandparents, including Les.
For culture tips and having organized Kyoto last September—when this novel was scribbled notes on bits of paper—bravo and hurrah to my mates Yoshiko, Toshie, Hashimoto-san, Tsukako, Hiroko, Yumiko, and Nonaka-san, from our movie class.
To those media people, and complete strangers, who supported my last novel Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, thereby inspiring me to get on with this one, I cannot (ever) thank you enough. Obviously. You are no longer strangers!
Japanese filmmakers, artists, actors, musicians and writers deserve grandstanding respect here. For starters, Satoshi Kon and Akira Kurosawa, whose respective movies, Millennium Actress and Drunken Angel, were a big influence on the story. Other vital directors include Seijun Suzuki, Kon Ichikawa, Yasujirō Ozu, Shunya Itō, Masayuki Suo, Mamoru Oshii and Masahiro Makino. Thanks also to manga artists Osamu Tezuka, Tōru Shinohara, Fujio Akatsuka, Shotaro Ishinomori, Hiroshi Fujimoto and Motoo Abiko; singers Shizuko Kasagi and Sayuri Ishikawa; writers Seishi Yokomizu, Yukio Mishima and Yasunari Kawabata; and actors Takashi Shimura, Toshiro Mifune, Meiko Kaji, Kazuo Hasegawa, Akiko Wakabayashi, Mie Hama, Mieko Harada, Hideki Takahashi, Setsuko Hara and Ken Takakura.
Yes, I’m Australian—so Western and ‘other’ cultural influences weigh in, referenced openly, or with a hopeful cheeky wink. Think writers like Raymond Chandler, Edgar Allan Poe, Dashiell Hammett, Lewis Carroll, Norman Lindsay, Arthemise Goertz, Roald Dahl, and Dante Alighieri; composer Richard Wagner; movies You Only Live Twice, The Princess Bride, Swing Time, Apocalypse Now, The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Wizard of Oz, and Don’t Look Now.
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