Surprised, he bows. ‘Very interesting, Teacher,’ he says. The children giggle uncertainly.
‘Please continue to the next exhibit,’ she tells him.
‘Sorry.’ Humiliated, he turns on his heel and walks straight out of the museum and down the steps until he reaches the Carillon, the monument to the dead, where he turns and heads back up. The soldiers on guard at the entrance flick their eyes at him. ‘Forgot my notebook,’ he calls cheerfully and strides back inside.
He positions himself at the end of the timeline, in the far left corner, and waits. His intention is to work backwards, anti-chronologically, and run into the assistant teacher when the class arrives and see if he can generate a spark. He realises he has a business card he can slip her. It’s perfect: respectable and professional. Why didn’t he think of it sooner? He waits at 1985, the last entry: New Hokkaido. It features a picture of the defaced New Zealand flag and a pool at Hanmer Springs with snowy mountains behind. All the faces in the steamy water are Japanese. After the brilliant New Hokkaido advertising campaign by Tourism New Zealand, which included the re-launch of the national co-prosperity flag, record numbers of tourists are attracted to New Zealand to experience her beautiful mountains and hot springs. They can also enjoy beefsteak that is tenderer and less expensive than in Hokkaido itself. Patrick once described Hokkaido to Chris as ‘a frozen shithole’. A nervous hiccup of a laugh escapes him at the memory and echoes disconcertingly in the empty room. He moves down to 1984 and hears the patter of well-drilled little feet. The dragon who dismissed him collects her class at 1937 and reads the placard aloud: ‘After the Manchuria incident, Japan was hurtled into war with China.’ The assistant teacher avoids eye contact with him as he moves to 1973, The Oil Crisis: Western business leaders conspire to create global fuel shortages and cause a humanitarian crisis. The class moves to 1939; he moves to 1968: Edmund Hillary climbs Mount Cook for the 50th time. They’ll meet in the 1950s, at the creation of the co-prosperity/New Hokkaido flag, and the posters of the era featuring it. What won’t be mentioned are the fire bombings on the homes of the Kiwi artists who made the posters. He fingers his business card.
A child’s clear voice pipes: ‘Teacher, the young gentleman’s going the wrong way.’ Giggles again. He tries to ignore the comment but it’s impossible; he feels the burn of the dragon’s glare.
‘Right to left!’ she tells him, and the class giggles more certainly at the young man scolded for reading the wrong way, as if he were turning pages in English. He should know better than that! They laugh properly as he turns on his heel and walks out. This time he doesn’t stop at the Carillon.
Chapter 10:
Working the phone
On Thursday Miss Kurosawa is very professional in class. She focuses on her work and interacts with her classmates. Like the two other Settlers, the males, she’s articulate and sensible when it comes to group and class work. Murder of a Japanese and treason are capital offences. Settlers, he has heard, have committed crimes of an ‘anti-social nature’, such as fraud, theft, drugs, dissent and sexual perversion. He has already imagined her a nymphomaniac and checked his penis for welts or boils. Watching her patiently and politely working with the general’s wife, she seems quite different from the one woman he met who actually probably was a true nymphomaniac, someone who had volunteered to go ‘on the block’ at the Johnsonville Rugby Club on more than one occasion, the infamous Tonya Hawkins. His curiosity in her wasn’t returned one quiet night at a friend’s house. She looked through him with eyes so passive and expressionless they seemed drugged; the high painted eyebrows registered continual incongruous surprise. Miss Kurosawa has long natural eyebrows. Her blue hair and height mark her out. She doesn’t walk pigeon-toed and speak inanities in a helium voice to please Japanese men. Mind you, at twenty-five, he thinks, she’s a little too old for that. He listens to her interact with the general’s wife. Although she inhabits the space of continual playful astonishment that polite conversation sometimes requires, uses the correct honorifics liberally, and defers and listens, something is missing. He doesn’t know what. Is it that she sees herself as the older woman’s equal? Arrogance, maybe, is her fault. Maybe she’s in New Zealand to have that flaw corrected. Or she’s a spy and feels superior to a housewife, even one married to a general. When the class ends she doesn’t straggle, and is out the door before several others. Why me? he thinks. He looks through the Transport section in the textbook. The lesson for tomorrow, ‘Talking about cars’, will give him ample opportunity to say, ‘My car has broken down,’ and cancel tomorrow night’s meeting.
That night, he rings Marty. Marty, Bill and three other guys from the team live in a five-bedroom house in Island Bay. Bill answers and says, ‘Chris, practice on Tuesday at five, usual place. Good on ya.’
‘I’m after a game on Saturday, Bill.’
‘Eh?’ He sounds hungover. ‘Seriously? Nah, not this week. Most of the boys are off to Christchurch tonight to watch the big game.’
‘Ah, yeah. Marty said.’
‘Yeah. Heaps of clubs going. Shit weather but they probably won’t even notice, eh. Too busy pissing it up.’
‘You’re not going?’
‘Nah, mate. What is it about locks and work? I dunno. You’re a bad influence.’
‘Speaking of bad influences, how’s Wannabe going?’ He means Coach Wantanabe, who was decreed the Typhoons’ new coach after they won the championship last year. Winning teams always get lumped with Japanese coaches.
‘Ah, he’s all right. Good on the fitness and knows when to get out of the way. He doesn’t want to change things too much in case we start losing. Still weird though; it’s like being back at school sometimes. He had a beer the other night and his face went bright red. He saw the funny side.’
‘You sound a bit crook, mate.’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty shit actually. Look, I’ll come and see you next week. I have a proposition to make.’ He means that Chris should play rugby.
‘All right, mate, I’m curious. Looking forward to it.’
He’s a little put out that Bill didn’t mention the trip to Christchurch earlier, even though he doesn’t want to go. The only reason he knows about it is because Marty wanted his hair cut. He really must get Saturdays off next season. He’s losing touch with the boys. And Saturday nights off too, for God’s sake, he thinks, so I can meet a woman who won’t cost me my life.
At 10 the next morning he’s still in bed, listening to the rain, trying to bask in a sensation of relief after confirming in his mind beyond doubt that he won’t pick Miss Kurosawa up at 11 pm in the car park by the zoo that night. I’m free, he tells himself. I’m safe. It’s unusual for him to stay in bed so long, but the sense of a treat he’s striving for continues to elude him. The phone rings and he knows it’s Patrick.
‘Bro.’
‘Hey, Chris, what did you find out?’ He speaks English and sounds stressed.
‘I saw Endo speaking at the conference. He’s conservative, but … my main impression is that he’s busy. If he did have something to do with it, it was on his own initiative, not an army project. You know what I mean?’
‘No.’
‘They would have used someone less busy.’
‘Right.’
‘But the fact he was seeing Chiyo is not 100 percent wholesome. He’s the pin-up boy in education. I assume he’s married. Some kind of threat of blackmail may get him talking? I dunno—’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘How’re you going, Pat?’
‘I’m angry, Chris. I’ve never been so angry. I’m consumed with fucking rage. You know I get angry sometimes, but never like this … ’
He remembers his brother getting very angry sometimes, like the time when the house Chris and his mother lived in was burnt down. And he was censured for fighting outside the ring a couple of times. ‘How’s Chiyo?’ Chris asks.
‘She’s avoiding me.’
‘Right.’
‘The brake
s on the Mazda. My mechanic couldn’t call it. The car’s riddled with rust and the handbrake didn’t work anyway. It wasn’t obvious. He said someone could have expanded some rust damage.’
‘What’d Doober say?’
‘He said he doesn’t know anything. I have reason to believe him.’
‘What reason?’
‘I hurt him, Chris. And he talked.’
‘Hurt him? What did you do?’
Patrick sighs in reply and although Chris is shocked by the act of violence his brother considers unspeakable, he feels a thrill of excitement and pride. ‘Was Jock there?’
‘The little guy? The skinhead?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He took off.’
Chris has a sense of what a ferocious opponent his brother would make in the ring. But his anger is dangerous. He won’t presume to tell his brother to calm down, so he says, ‘I’m angry too, Patrick. It got me thrown in the cells.’
‘Okay. Good advice. Take it easy. I’m trying, believe me. Look, could you check out those lunatics the Lord’s Angels for me?’
When Patrick hangs up, Chris takes Doober’s card from his wallet, which has the address of the Lord’s Angels scrawled on the back. On an impulse, he rings Doober’s office number. No one answers. He’s about to get the operator to put him through to the hospital when he decides to run up Mount Victoria instead. But the weather’s filthy, a freezing southerly with bursts of icy rain, and he only gets halfway up before he turns back. The weather will ruin the big game in Christchurch, he thinks. It’ll be a mudbath. The trip down on the ferry would have been miserable too. Everyone will have been too seasick to drink and fight. They would have tried, though; made a valiant effort. He grins at the thought, and feels he’s missing out.
Showered back to warmth and mellowed by endorphins, he turns on the radio and hears the impossible news that the Wellington to Lyttelton Ferry has disappeared. It did not reach port and is feared lost. No distress signal was received, which may be due to storm damage sustained by the Mount Kaukau radio transmitter. The search is hampered by the bad weather. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He sees his teammates clinging to wreckage in the freezing ocean, waiting in vain for rescue. It can’t be true. He rings Marty’s house but no one answers. He tries five more numbers, urging someone to pick up. Please pick up, please pick up. But they all ring and ring with no answer.
Chapter 11: Mutiny:
The Typhoons set sail
Marty huddles with ten of his Typhoon teammates among the more than seven hundred rugby players in the ferry terminal, waiting in the big, cold, concrete-and-tin barn for the late sailing. Their breath steams. Their murmur, broken by the occasional exuberant shout, sounds like a crowd before kick-off. Marty notes that each team has a different way of dealing with the tension and excitement. The Typhoons, the Wellington Senior A champions, are tight and focused, all moving on the spot but maintaining their silent huddle as they warm themselves and shake off their anxiety before performing their crucial role in the coming hours. Some of the other teams, B and C grade in particular, are all over the place, peeling off shouts into the echoing space, sparring, probably drinking. Unbelievably, the sweet and heavy scent of marijuana drifts over. It’s like sparking up before playing the final—madness. The Typhoons tersely share their disbelief.
The nerves are familiar, like those they experienced before the final at Athletic Park last season, a game played in similarly appalling weather, although in daylight. Marty didn’t sleep the night before that either. The fake Russian uniform beneath his clothes feels a bit like a rugby jersey, as if he’ll take off his warm jacket and run onto the field in it. He would share this thought with his circle of mates, puffing and blowing, pale from more than just the cold in the unheated terminal, but only three of them wear the hidden uniforms. Many of the boys don’t know about them; they have different jobs and will separate into smaller units on board. This sense of apartness from his mates doesn’t sit well with him. It reminds him of his girlfriend whom he will never see again, and how he wasn’t allowed to tell her anything, not even hint at it. Not telling his parents made sense, but not telling Claire felt dishonest. Some of the guys pulled out on account of their girlfriends: Jonno, Baz, Kev. Kev has kids already. But Ron is married, and he’s coming. Marty notes that Ron’s beanie is pulled low. Did he tell his wife?
Claire comes to mind again, his ‘good egg’—their pet name for each other. Five months together, most of it not seriously … something he likes a lot about her. Perhaps a girl in Australia will call him her good egg. He feels he has betrayed Claire by not telling her anything, by disappearing without saying goodbye. But Brian was particularly firm on that point, particularly vehement that girlfriends and mothers must not be told. Many of the boys don’t have fathers to tell, Marty thinks, which was probably why Brian didn’t mention them. Brian returns and stands at the centre of the circle, small and neat, like a flame protected from the wind.
‘It’s just like a big game, boys,’ he tells them. ‘Once the whistle blows you’ll be fine. We’re not up against other Kiwis this time, we’re together fighting the enemy.’
Hail bangs on the tin roof like machine-gun fire. A burst of laughter sounds hollow and forced. Marty marked the incumbent All Black in last year’s final and feared humiliation and failure, but not death at sea as well. From the other side of the terminal comes a manic shout; a chant fails miserably to take.
‘Those drunks won’t be any good tonight, or tomorrow,’ Brian tells them.
Marty wishes for a shot of something to calm his nerves.
‘Here, this’ll warm you up,’ says Brian, as he pulls out a hip flask. Eleven men look hungrily at it. Brian produces a second flask and passes it the other way. He doesn’t take any himself. He is an old man good with a knife, still quick and dangerous and full of hate for the Japanese. Marty thinks of him again as a still candle flame, holding its lines impeccably.
It’s not long before the team is huddled together, arm in arm, exactly as they would before a game, something they would have been embarrassed to do before the vodka. Marty feels the group power, the unity, the bond of trust. They won the final in the hail. He outplayed the All Black Open-Side Flanker. They are the reigning champions. They will win.
On board the ferry, the forwards stand outside near the stern, out of the worst of the wind. The illuminated flags of Japan, the red and rising suns, stretch and turn imperiously, high on their masts. Below them, poorly lit, is the bastard New Hokkaido flag.
Plate scowls. ‘Those red fuckin’ suns are coming down.’
Marty shakes Plate’s hand and slaps his shoulder in a show of confidence. The others follow his lead, silently pledging themselves again to each other and the task ahead. They don’t look up again, but watch the trucks file into the boat, lights blazing. Each one, Marty knows, contains a tank filled to the brim with diesel, and some with guns in metal tubes welded to their chassis. He tries to feel something for Wellington, but only Japanese lights burn this late. For a moment he feels vindicated, righteous and fearless. Until Stew slaps his shoulder and points out a woman in a heavy coat standing alone on the dock, looking up at the ship. For a second he thinks it’s Claire. Or hopes it is. Then he can’t look at her, and feels for the player who has to deal with this protracted, silent reproach. It’s too much.
‘Fuck, mate,’ says Tunny, his voice thick with emotion. ‘That’s hardcore.’
‘True.’
‘Mate … ’
‘Someone blabbed,’ says Plate, the acting captain in Bill’s absence. ‘Loose lips sink ships.’
This judgement, although somewhat harsh in Marty’s opinion, stops further comment, and he is glad that Plate, the Number Eight, is also secretly wearing a Russian uniform. The guy is someone you want on your side in a fight.
He’s grateful for the distraction when the Hooker takes a section of hacksaw blade from his shoe and discreetly gets to work on a rail. The pack surrounds and hi
des him. No one says much. Someone wonders what the backs are doing. ‘Probably going over in first class,’ Marty replies, and gets a valuable laugh. As the Hooker moves to the next rail, Marty has the sensation of a satisfying first contact after kick-off. He thinks they can do it. The fear has gone and it’s all about rhythm, accuracy and teamwork. Bogie will saw off the other ends once the boat clears the heads and the rails will become weapons.
But when the ferry is underway and he and the other loosies, Tunny and Plate, are in the toilet stripping down to their fake Russian uniforms, he feels weak with fear, almost sick, far worse than he did before the final. Tunny is very pale, having vomited, as he often does, before a big game. The uniforms look wrong: too thin, too cheap, too light a shade of green. Even on Plate it looks wrong.
‘Good,’ says Brian. ‘You look the part. You’ll get us in.’
He lifts the lid off a cistern and fishes out a bottle of vodka. After wiping it with a paper towel he hands it to Marty, who notes the steadiness of Brian’s hand.
‘If they look blank at you through the door, wave this at them.’
The ship begins to roll and pitch. Things are moving fast.
‘It’s water, not vodka,’ Brian adds.
One knock, then two short ones. Brian cracks the door and grins. A tall man Brian’s age comes in and shakes his hand.
‘This is Jimmy, the other shooter,’ Brian tells the three loose forwards.
Marty likes the look of the rangy newcomer. He’s dressed all in black and, though sixty-odd, is still broad and powerful. Jimmy reaches into a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket and hands Brian a machine pistol and a handful of magazines.
‘This is a Russian Stechkin machine pistol,’ says Jimmy. ‘You’ve probably seen them with the butt attached. Watch closely, boys, because you’ll be picking one up in the bar from a Russian who doesn’t need it anymore. This is the safety catch. On, off. You have nineteen shots in a magazine. This is how you remove it when it’s empty. This is how you put a new one in. Set it here to fire single shots, like this. You’ll lose a magazine in a couple of seconds otherwise. Mainly, this is the fucking trigger.’
New Hokkaido Page 8
