by Peter Albano
“I know. It was dragging like a sea anchor. But that was not important.”
“Not important?”
“Yes, Brent-san. The only thing that was important was Taku’s belief that I deserted him.”
“Nonsense! He was wounded, feverish. And, anyway, he doesn’t like you” He tapped the steering wheel. “It goes a long way back, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. To Nineteen-thirty-nine. I despise him and owe him a debt, but it can never be paid at the price of honor — in the skies when our lives are tied together.” He sank back, knuckled his chin reflectively, “Commander Okuma was not feverish or wounded.”
“The man’s jealous — wants your job. Everyone knows that.”
Matsuhara spoke softly, almost to himself, “He actually counted my ammunition. Pulled off inspection plates. I can’t believe it. Someday he and I will settle this thing.”
“When?”
“After I take care of the ‘checkerboard.’”
“Oberst Johannes Friessner — not much chance. The whole squadron’s leaving Manchuria. You know that.”
“He is a butcher — murdered my wingman, killed two of my pilots in their parachute harnesses and I hate him and I will kill him. I know that.”
Both men fell silent as Brent turned left and entered the Gaien-Higashi Dori expressway, the great sterile steel and glass towers of downtown Tokyo visible through the haze and gloom to the northwest. The highest buildings were crowned with miles of tubing, glowing Hitachi, Sanyo, Mazda, Coca-Cola, Kenwood Stereo, Nippon Ham, Pirelli Tyres, Honda, and many more in brilliantly lighted colors.
“Whores, whores,” Yoshi muttered to himself. Then he moved his eyes to the west and his face clouded. “The Shimbashi,” he said, the timbre of his voice low and rumbling. “My family lived in that district — died there in the great fire raid of Forty-five. My wife Sumiko, my sons Masahei and Hisaya.”
Brent bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Yoshi-san…”
The Japanese came suddenly erect, turned to the American. “No. I wasn’t looking for that and I’m sorry. I should not dwell on that. You have risked your life for me — fought in the best tradition of bushido.” He slapped the dashboard with an open palm as if he were bringing down a curtain on an unpleasant scene. Then he spoke with a forced light tone, waving to the northwest, “Kimio lives in the Shibuya-Ku district on Sakurada-Dori, just south of Yoyogi Park.”
“I know. I drove you there once.” Brent turned the Mitsubishi off the expressway. Immediately, they were engulfed in a parade that blocked Sakurada-Dori from curb to curb.
Yoshi chuckled as Brent turned off the ignition and the Mitsubishi sat in a covey of other stalled vehicles, waiting for the parade to pass by. “The old Japan still lives,” he said with new animation.
The two officers sat quietly as the revelers trooped past to the lively beat of drums, the music of flutes and three stringed samisens, the tinkling of bells, the harsh crash of cymbals. At least two dozen separate groups of young men dressed in yellow flowing summer with straws sandals on their feet and white hachimachi headbands tied around their heads paraded, carrying huge models of wooden pagodas that were brightly lit with electric bulbs and entwined with paper and cloth flowers. Bands of drummers, flutists, cymbalists and bell ringers were everywhere and groups of muscular young men carried poles crowned by heavy ornaments that were revolved so that pendants flew out in glittering swirls of shiny metal and bright tassels.
“It’s the feast of Saint Nichiren — the Oeshiki,” Yoshi explained, gesturing. “He was a rebel Buddhist monk who lived in the thirteenth century. Look carefully into those pagodas and you will see paintings of scenes from his life. It is said when he died it was winter, yet the cherry trees blossomed in the snow and cold.” He waved at a cluster of lanterns and paper flowers on poles that were shaped like umbrellas. “Those are mandos. They are supposed to remind us of this great miracle of the cherry blossoms.”
More worshippers passed including women and children waving incense sticks and the festival spirit grew stronger as some groups seemed to be working themselves into a frenzy. They were shouting in unison but unintelligibly.
They’re chanting, “Glory to the Book of Lotus of the Marvelous Law,” Yoshi commented.
Brent saw several stagger, one fall. “They’re drunk.”
“No, Brent. This is a strict Buddhist ceremony. They’re only drunk on religion.”
“I’ll be damned.” Brent turned to his companion. “This must please you. The old Japan still lives — your traditions are still alive.”
“It’s nonsense.”
“Nonsense!” Brent said, shocked.
“Yes. These Nichiren people hate Zen and samurai and find bushido disgusting.”
“You mean like Catholic and Protestants, conservative and liberal?”
“Good analogy. But in the old days this,” he waved at the parade, “could have led to bloodshed.”
“Same with the Catholics and Protestants.” They both chuckled.
Both men sighed with relief as the last Nichiren — a muscular young man dressed only in a fundoshi (loincloth) and balancing a huge mando on his head — paraded past, prancing in an acrobatic dance like a trained circus performer. Then, with the street finally clear, Brent gunned the engine of the little car to life, rammed the gear shift into first gear and charged out onto the thoroughfare. “We’re late,” he said.
“Kimio will understand, my friend.”
Chapter Four
To Brent the Shibuya-Ku area of Tokyo was like a microcosm of old Japan. Indeed, even in the gathering twilight, Kimio’s home appeared to be an anachronism from centuries past. Approaching the front door which was centered behind the veranda which ran the width of the house, Brent and Yoshi entered a small garden of ferns, miniature maples and Japanese pines, all carefully crafted into artistic forms and surrounded by a low bamboo fence. Typically, the house was built of weathered pine, roofed with gray tile and rested on a foundation of three-foot piles.
The heavy tread of the officers’ shoes on the pine planking of the veranda was enough to bring Kimio to the door. She was even lovelier than Brent had remembered. Although she had two grown children, a son who was attending the university at Fukuoko and a married daughter who had made her a grandmother, Kimio had the fresh beauty of a young woman. Brent knew she liked to dress in traditional style to please Yoshi. Tonight was no exception. Her hair, which was coiffed upward in a bun glistening like a black halo, was held in place with willow sprigs, silver hair pins and tiny jeweled combs. Brocaded with gold iris, her purple kimono was of fine silk, a red and silver obi tied tightly in a bow behind her tiny waist which flared into hips like a Venetian vase. Her alert and intelligent features were sculpted delicately and were truly beautiful.
“Welcome, Yoshi-san,” she said, offering her hand to Matsuhara.
“You are lovelier than ever tonight, Kimio-san — your kimono is exquisite.”
“Thank you, Yoshi-san. You are kind.” She extended her hand to Brent. It was like warm velvet. “Welcome, Brent-san — welcome to my humble home.”
“Thank you, Kimio-san.”
The officers removed their shoes, accepted slippers from their hostess and stepped into the main room of the house. It was as Brent remembered from his one visit long ago. A large “fifteen mat” room, it was built of cypress posts and cedar planks which had obviously been selected with care, fitted with precision without nails and polished with devotion for decades. It was furnished sparsely with a low table, four zabutons and tatami mats made of shiny, regularly laid straw covering the floor. Centered in an alcove was a tokonoma containing a small cherry wood table with an rare vase from the Momoyama Period holding artfully arranged jasmines and chrysanthemums, scrolled calligraphy from the Ashikaga Period hung from the wall and next to it, a black ink on white paper landscape by the ancient master, Sesshu. Brent looked around the room anxiously, but there was no sign of a fourth person.
“Mayumi is in t
he garden picking some flowers,” Kimio said, smiling at the apprehension on Brent’s face and gesturing to a shoji at the back of the room.
Sliding the paper door aside, Kimio, Brent and Yoshi stepped into the garden. Brent had not seen it on his previous visit. It was a fairy land. With a dark twilight sky and not a breath of wind, the light came in weakly and left no shadows making the colors unusually vivid. It was like coming on an enchanted valley in a deep forest in which rocks, stones and trees had been gathered together by a whimsical kami who scattered moss and pine needles in non-Euclidian patterns, magically infusing the whole with life. A small pond was in the middle, cut up into bays and recesses between shrub-covered rocks. A graceful stone bridge bookended with stone lanterns arched gracefully over the small body of water.
There was a flash of color behind the bridge and, then, Brent saw her. As Mayumi walked toward him holding a half-dozen golden chrysanthemums in her hand, Brent caught his breath. She was stunning. Dressed in an elegant blue kimono embroidered with sea birds, her shoulder-length hair was so glossy and luxuriant it formed a silk sheet gleaming with the blackness of polished ebony. There was grace in her carriage and as she moved her hair flickered with stars and highlights from the twilight sky. Her skin shone with golden hues, tinted by her Oriental blood to the color of old ivory, the chrysanthemums she held paling in comparison. Her neck was long and slender, her doll-like features fragile, yet hinting at latent strength in full brows over wide, timid eyes. Brent had never seen lips like Mayumi’s. Slightly parted, they reminded him of the petals of an orchid before the first spring rain. He knew he saw a girl still wrapped in the girlish innocence of youth and totally unaware of the impact of her own beauty. A nestling, he said to himself. A nestling getting ready to fly.
“Brent-san, this is my niece, Mayumi Hachiya, from Kanazawa,” Kimio said. “She is the daughter of my sister, Chieko, and brother-in-law, Icharo. She attends the University in Tokyo.”
The pedestrian words were blocked out by Mayumi’s eyes that sparked like chips of black diamonds. She bowed in the graceful manner peculiar to Japanese women, signifying assent and affection, yet not the usual submission. When she came erect and took his hand and said, “I am so happy to meet you, Lieutenant,” her voice was soft yet resilient, eyes holding his steadily instead of finding the ground in the wonted timorous fashion of young Japanese women in the presence of men. Shy, vulnerable, perhaps, but not intimidated — not the frightened pigeon Brent thought, holding the warm, soft hand a trifle too long.
Kimio’s words, “Tea, gentlemen,” broke the spell and in a moment Yoshi and Brent sat on their zabutons facing the low table. As the senior guest, Yoshi sat in the place of honor with his back to the tokonoma.
As the women prepared the tea service in the kitchen, Yoshi said, “You know, Brent, to us the tea ceremony has great religious significance.”
“Yes, Zen, isn’t it?”
“Correct. And to samurai…” he smiled at his young friend, “to us samurai, it is especially important.”
“Our Nichiren friends wouldn’t enjoy this.”
Yoshi laughed. “Right, my astute friend.” And then seriously, “You know followers of Zen seek satori, or enlightenment, by looking into our own true nature — to grasp what we are by uniting body and mind.”
“Tea can do all this?”
Yoshi laughed heartily. “No. I don’t know if anything really can, outside of a lifetime of meditation. But the old — earliest Zen monks — found that tea helped their concentration; made them more aware, sharpened their senses during long hours of meditation.”
“There was the patter of tiny feet on the oak planking and Kimio spoke, “Don’t forget, Brent, Zen teaches the path toward enlightenment is made up of an infinite successions of ‘nows’ and each point along the way, each separate ‘now’ is as important as our destination.”
“And it is time for tea ‘now’,” Yoshi quipped. There was polite laughter.
“The Hagakure teaches this, too,” Brent said seriously as Kimio and Mayumi placed four decorated pottery tea bowls and a black lacquered box on the table.
“You are wise for one so young,” Kimio said.
“And well taught by Admiral Fujita,” Yoshi added, laughing.
With slow, devoted movements Kimio removed the cover from the lacquered box and measured portions of green tea into each cup with a small bamboo scoop. Then, Mayumi ladled out hot water from a bubbling kettle and stirred each cup with a bamboo whisk. “The froth of liquid jade,” she said softly to Brent as she handed him the cup. Brent nodded and politely turned the cup’s design toward his hostess. The women seated themselves.
Kimio spoke boldly, “You know, the two crashing planes killed many people in the Ginza.”
“We know,” Yoshi said. “I shot one down.”
“And there have been protests — demonstrators have been marching.”
“We know that, too.” Yoshi gestured at Brent, “Brent-san just broke one’s jaw.”
“How awful,” Mayumi said.
Trying to conceal the sudden irritation he felt but failing, Brent spoke to Mayumi, “I had no choice. He put his hands on me. I’m not in the habit of running around breaking people’s jaws.”
All eyes moved to Mayumi. “I did not mean to offend you, Lieutenant,” she said, exposing her vulnerability.
Brent searched for her eyes, but they were covered by her clenched hands. He felt a sudden contrition, an impulse to reach out and console, like nursing an injured bird. He could only manage, “Of course, Mayumi. I understand.”
Yoshi said, “It was the Japanese Red Army.”
“Scoundrels. Troublemakers,” Kimio noted. “And they can be killers.”
Yoshi spoke with unabashed bitterness in his voice, “But they have the democratic right to demonstrate.”
“Peacefully,” Brent added, gesturing with his cup for emphasis.
“Japan is with you, the Emperor is with you, do not let these gorotsuki…” Kimio turned to Brent. “Sorry, Brent-san, I meant ‘bums’, ‘rascals’. Do not allow them to impress you. They are few.” Both men nodded.
“There have been rumors of a killer — a German,” Kimio continued.
“Oberst Johannes Friessner,” Brent said.
“Yes. That is right,” Kimio said. “His name became prominent suddenly. I had never heard of him before last week.”
“We have,” Yoshi said with bitterness. “He is one of Khadafy’s most efficient killers. Two days ago he flew for the first time in the Orient. In the Middle East he has twelve Israeli aircraft to his credit. And…” he stopped, jaw working, “he claims eight kills of my men — two in their parachute harnesses.”
Mayumi gasped. Kimio could only mutter, “Horrible, horrible…”
Yoshi was alone, talking to the paper wall, “I’ll kill him — kill him…”
“Please, Yoshi-san,” Kimio said, obviously distressed by the turn of conversation. “I have not been a good hostess, asking about these things.” She gestured at Mayumi, “We have prepared a meal for you that would please the gods. Let us put these awful — these things from your minds for a short while.”
“I agree to that,” Brent said. Yoshi smiled slowly and nodded his agreement. Mayumi rose, smiled warmly into Brent’s eyes. He smiled back, his eyes holding hers for a fleeting moment. The women moved to the kitchen.
In every respect the meal was fit for the sun goddess, Amaterasu, and would have even pleased her cantankerous brother, Susano, the god of storms. Kimio and Mayumi took turns serving the meal in the usual leisurely fashion. “Good food should be pleasing to the eye as well as the palate,” Kimio said, placing a lacquered tray laden with raw fish artistically garnished with seaweed and bean curd in front of each guest. Hot spiced sake served in ornate sakazukis was served each diner and the cups were never allowed to be empty. A tasty fish-and-mushroom soup followed, then a clever salad of pumpkin, fish, cucumber blossoms and pick-led chestnut leaves. Brent found the
beauty of the food deceptive — to him, misrepresenting its taste. However, he attacked each course with gusto, smacking his lips and working his hashi furiously. Kimio and Mayumi smiled behind their hands.
“We’ve only begun,” Yoshi said, eying the American’s pale face over a well nibbled piece of boiled eel.
Brent grinned enthusiastically despite choking back a sudden churning that rose from the pit of his stomach and sent a sour taste to his lips.
Next came sea bass roasted with onions, walnuts and ginko nuts served with a basket of baby crabs that looked like large spiders. Smacking his lips, Yoshi ate the crabs, basket and all. “The basket is seaweed. It’s tasty and good for you,” the commander said, filling his mouth with more seaweed smothered with cherries, peas and noodles.
Steeling himself with the resolve of a samurai and downing a stiff jolt from his sakazuki, Brent followed
Yoshi’s example. Surprisingly, the crabs were tasty and he found they were small enough to be swallowed almost whole and the seaweed added a sweet edge to the sharp flavor of the crabs. The table was laden with condiments; vinegared carrots, turnips in a sweet sauce, pickled melon rind and pomegranate seeds and bowls of rice sweetened with honey. On top of all this, dessert was a succulent melon from Shikoku.
Finally, Yoshi sighed, leaned back smiling expansively and sipped his sake. “Fit for the Imperial Palace,” he said sincerely.
“Thank you, Yoshi-san,” Kimio said, rising. She turned to Mayumi with a new blush livening her cheeks. “We have some entertainment for our honored guest.” Mayumi giggled and averted her eyes. In a moment, with the exception of a bottle of sake and four sakazukis, the table was cleared and the women had disappeared behind a shoji. There was much movement, whispers, giggles and the shoji slid open.
Carrying a samisen, Mayumi minced in and sat on a zabuton in a corner of the room. She began to strum the three-stringed instrument.
Face painted white as starch which set off the carmine on her lips and eyes, as dark as a cloudy night, Kimio entered, arms extended, gliding in short graceful steps like a wind-blown cloud. “I am your geisha and Mayumi is my tachikata.” She looked at Brent, “My musician.”
