A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  On his second evening with his Kobe hosts, while sharing sake inside a cramped drinking establishment, Mr. Umezaki translated the saying: “‘The Divine Wind didn't blow'—that's basically what it means.” He had said this after a drunken patron—dressed shabbily in former military attire, staggering wildly from table to table—was escorted outside, yelling as he went, “Kamikaze mo fuki sokone! Kamikaze mo fuki sokone! Kamikaze mo fuki sokone!”

  As it happened, just prior to the drunk's outburst, they had been discussing postsurrender Japan. Or rather, Mr. Umezaki, straying abruptly from a conversation regarding their travel itinerary, asked Holmes if he, too, found the Allied occupation rhetoric of freedom and democracy at odds with the continual suppression of Japanese poets, writers, and artists. “Don't you find it somewhat baffling that many are starving, yet we aren't allowed to criticize the occupation forces openly? For that matter, we can't grieve as a whole for our losses and mourn together as a nation, or even create public eulogies for our dead, in case such an evocation is perceived as a promotion of militaristic spirit.”

  “Frankly,” Holmes admitted, bringing his cup to his lips, “I know little about it. I am sorry.”

  “No, please, I'm sorry for mentioning it.” Mr. Umezaki's already-flushed face burned brighter, then slackened with fatigue and a presentiment of intoxication. “Anyway, where were we?”

  “Hiroshima, I believe.”

  “That's right, you were interested in visiting Hiroshima—”

  “Kamikaze mo fuki sokone!” the drunk began yelling, startling everyone except Mr. Umezaki. “Kamikaze mo fuki sokone!”

  Unfazed, Mr. Umezaki poured himself another drink, and one for Hensuiro, who had repeatedly downed his sake in one swallow. Following the drunk's shouting and prompt removal, Holmes found himself studying Mr. Umezaki, and Mr. Umezaki—his demeanor becoming increasingly somber with each drink—stared thoughtfully at the tabletop, the downcast glower on his face protruding like the pout of a scolded child (an expression appropriated by Hensuiro, whose normally cheerful appearance took on a grim, withdrawn look). At last, Mr. Umezaki glanced toward him. “So, where were we again? Ah, yes, our journey west—and you wanted to know if Hiroshima might be on our way. Well, I can tell you it is.”

  “I very much wish to see the place, if you are agreeable.”

  “Certainly, I'd like to see it, too. To be honest, I haven't been there since before the war—other than passing through by train.”

  But Holmes detected apprehension in Mr. Umezaki's voice, or possibly, he second-guessed, it was simply weariness saturating his host's tone. After all, the Mr. Umezaki who had greeted him that afternoon appeared run-down from his business dealings elsewhere, as opposed to the attentive and affable fellow who had met him at the railroad station the day before. Now, having taken a satisfying nap after exploring the city alongside Hensuiro, it was his turn to be wide-awake during the evening, whereas Mr. Umezaki conveyed a heavy and deep-rooted exhaustion (a lassitude made less burdensome with a steady intake of alcohol and nicotine).

  Holmes had recognized the signs earlier that day, when opening the door to Mr. Umezaki's study, finding him standing there beside his desk, lost in thought, a thumb and index finger pressing against his eyelids, an unbound manuscript held loosely at his side. Because Mr. Umezaki still wore his hat and jacket, it was evident he had just come home.

  “Pardon me,” Holmes said, feeling suddenly intrusive. However, he had stirred within a silent house, where the doors were shut and no one else was seen or heard. Still, without intending to, he had violated his own code: Throughout his life, he had believed a man's study was hallowed ground, a sanctuary for reflection and a retreat from the outside world, meant for important work, or, at least, the private communion with the written texts of others. Therefore, the attic study of his Sussex home was the room he cherished the most, and while he never made it explicitly known, both Mrs. Munro and Roger understood they wouldn't be welcomed inside if the door was closed. “I didn't mean to interrupt you. It appears my advancing years usher me into rooms for no obvious reason.”

  Mr. Umezaki glanced up, showing little surprise, and said, “On the contrary, I'm glad you're here. Come in, please.”

  “Really, I'll not bother you any further.”

  “Actually, I thought you were asleep. Otherwise, I'd have invited you to join me. So do come in, have a look around. Tell me what you think of my library.”

  “Only if you insist,” Holmes said, advancing toward the teak bookshelves, which covered an entire wall, noticing Mr. Umezaki's activities while going forward: the manuscript being placed at the center of the uncluttered desk, the hat then removed and set carefully over it.

  “I apologize about my business obligations, but I trust my comrade took good care of you.”

  “Oh, yes, we had a pleasant day together—language obstacles aside.”

  Just then, Maya called from down the hallway, her voice sounding somewhat irritated.

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Umezaki said. “I won't be a minute.”

  “Take your time,” Holmes said, now standing before the extensive rows of books.

  Again, Maya called out, and Mr. Umezaki walked hurriedly in her direction, forgetting to close the door as he went. For a few moments after he had gone, Holmes gazed at the books, his eyes roving from shelf to shelf. Most of the books were fine hardbound editions, the majority of which had Japanese characters on the spines. Even so, one shelf held nothing but Western works, organized thoughtfully into separate categories—American literature, English literature, plays, a large portion devoted to poetry (Whitman, Pound, Yeats, various Oxford textbooks regarding the Romantic poets). The shelf below it was devoted almost exclusively to Karl Marx, although several volumes by Sigmund Freud were squeezed in at the end.

  As Holmes turned and looked around, he saw that Mr. Umezaki's study, though small, was arranged efficiently: a reading chair, a floor lamp, a few photographs, and what appeared to be a framed university diploma hung high behind the desk. Then he caught the incomprehensible banter of Mr. Umezaki and Maya, their discussion fluctuating from heated debate to sudden quiet, and he was about to go and peep into the hallway, when Mr. Umezaki returned, saying, “We've had some confusion regarding the supper menu, so I fear we'll be eating later than usual. I hope you don't mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “In the meantime, I believe I would like a drink. There's a bar not too far, rather comfortable, probably as good a place as any to discuss our travel schedule—if that's all right.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  So out they'd gone for a while, walking leisurely to the cramped drinking establishment as the sky darkened, staying at the bar much longer than was intended, then headed back only after the drinking crowd grew too large and too loud. Then it was a simple supper consisting of fish, some vegetables, steamed rice, and miso soup—each dish served unceremoniously in the dining room by Maya, who refused any offer to join them. But the joints of Holmes's fingers ached from working the chopsticks, and no sooner had he lowered them than Mr. Umezaki suggested they retire to his study. “If you will, there's something I wish to show you.” And with that, the two went from the table, going together into the hallway, leaving Hensuiro alone with what remained of their meal.

  His recollection of that night in Mr. Umezaki's study remained quite vivid, even though, at the time, the alcohol and the food had tired him. Yet, as opposed to earlier, Mr. Umezaki was the enlivened one, smiling as he offered Holmes his reading chair, then producing a lit match before a Jamaican could be retrieved. Once comfortable in the chair—the canes across his lap, the cigar burning at his lips—Holmes watched as Mr. Umezaki opened a desk drawer and removed a slender hardbound book from within.

  “What do you make of this?” Mr. Umezaki asked, coming forward, the book held out for him to take.

  “A Russian edition,” Holmes said, accepting the volume, immediately noting the imperial crests adorning the otherwis
e bare cover and spine. With further inspection—his fingers touching the reddish binding and gold inlay around the crests, his eyes momentarily scanning the pages—he concluded it was an extremely unique translation of a very popular novel. “The Hound of the Baskervilles—a one-off printing, I suspect.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Umezaki, sounding pleased. “Fashioned exclusively for the Czar's private collection. I understand he was a great follower of your stories.”

  “Was he?” said Holmes, handing the book back.

  “Very much so, yes,” Mr. Umezaki replied, crossing back over to his desk. Depositing the rare volume inside the drawer, he added, “As you can imagine, this is the most valuable item in my library—though well worth the price I paid for it.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You must own a good many books regarding your adventures—different printings, numerous translations, various editions.”

  “Actually, I possess none—not even the flimsy paperbacks. Truthfully, I've only read a handful of the stories—and that was many years ago. I couldn't instill in John the basic difference between an induction and a deduction, so I stopped trying, and I also stopped reading his fabricated versions of the truth, because the inaccuracies drove me mad. You know, I never did call him Watson—he was John, simply John. But he really was a skilled writer, mind you—very imaginative, better with fiction than fact, I daresay.”

  Mr. Umezaki's gaze was on him, and there was a touch of bewilderment in his eyes. “How can that be?” he asked, lowering himself to his desk seat.

  Holmes shrugged, exhaling smoke, saying, “Simply the truth, I am afraid.”

  But it was what occurred thereafter that remained clear in his mind. For Mr. Umezaki—still flushed from drinking, drawing a long breath, as though he, too, were smoking—paused thoughtfully before asserting himself. Then grinning, he confessed he wasn't too surprised to learn the stories weren't entirely accurate. “Your ability—or perhaps I should say the character's ability—to draw definitive conclusions from often tenuous observations always struck me as fanciful, don't you think? I mean, you don't seem anything like the person I've read so much about. How do I say it? You seem less extravagant, less colorful.”

  Holmes sighed reproachfully, briefly waving a hand, as if clearing the smoke. “Well, you are referring to the arrogance of my youth. I am an old man now, and I have been retired since you were but a child. It is rather shameful in hindsight, all the vain presumption of my younger self. It really is. You know, we bungled a number of important cases—regrettably. Of course, who wants to read about the failures? I certainly don't. But I can tell you this with a fair degree of certainty: The successes may have been exaggerated; however, those fanciful conclusions you mention were not.”

  “Really?” Mr. Umezaki paused again, taking another long breath. Then he said, “I wonder what you know of me. Or is your talent retired, as well?”

  It was possible, Holmes considered upon reflection, that Mr. Umezaki did not use those exact words. Nevertheless, he remembered tilting his head back, bringing his stare to the ceiling. With the cigar fuming in one hand, he began slowly at first: “What do I know of you? Well, your command of English suggests a formal education abroad—from the old Oxford editions on the bookshelves, I would say you studied in England, and the diploma on the wall there should prove me correct. I submit that your father was a diplomat with strong preferences for all things Western. Why else would he favor such a nontraditional dwelling as this—your inheritance, if memory serves—or, for that matter, send his son to study in England, a country where he no doubt had dealings?” He closed his eyes. “As for you specifically, my dear Tamiki, I can easily gather that you are a man of letters and well read. Actually, it is amazing how much can be learned about people from the books they own. In your case, there is an interest in poetry—especially Whitman and Yeats—which tells me you have an affinity for verse. However, not only are you a reader of poetry but you often write it, too—so frequently, in fact, that you probably didn't realize that the note you left me this morning was actually in haiku form—the five-seven-five variety, I believe. And while I have no way of knowing unless I look, I imagine the manuscript sitting on your desk contains your unpublished work. I say unpublished because you were careful to conceal it beneath your hat earlier. Which brings me to your business trip. If you came home with your own manuscript—somewhat dispirited, I should add—then I suspect you took it with you this morning. But what sort of business requires a writer to take along an unpublished text? And why would he come home in such a mood, the text still in hand? Likely a meeting involving a publisher—which didn't go favorably, I gather. So while one could assume it was the quality of your writing preventing publication, I believe otherwise. I submit that it is the content of your writing that is in question, not the quality. Why else would you express indignation over the continual suppression of Japanese poets, writers, and artists by Allied censors? But a poet who devotes a large portion of his library to Marx is hardly a champion of the emperor's militaristic spirit—in all likelihood, sir, you are something of an armchair Communist—which, of course, means you are deemed worthy of censorship by both the occupying forces and those who still hold the emperor in high regard. The very fact that you referred to Hensuiro as your comrade this evening—a strange word for one's own brother, I think—hints at your ideological leanings, as well as your idealism. Of course, Hensuiro isn't your brother, is he? If he were, your father would undoubtedly have sent him in your footsteps to England, giving him and me the luxury of better communication. Curious, then, that the two of you share this home, and dress so alike, and that you continually substitute we for I—in much the same manner as married couples do. Naturally, this is none of my concern, although I'm convinced you were raised as an only child.” A mantelpiece clock began chiming, and Holmes opened his eyes, fixing his stare on the ceiling. “Lastly—and I pray you won't take offense—I have wondered how you manage to survive so comfortably during these troubled days. You show no signs of poverty, you maintain a housekeeper, and you are quite proud of your expensive collection of Art Deco glassware—all of this being a notch or two above the bourgeoisie, wouldn't you agree? On the other hand, a Communist dealing goods in the black market is slightly less hypocritical—especially if he is offering his bounty at a fair price and at the expense of the capitalist hordes occupying his country.” Sighing deeply, Holmes fell silent. Finally, he said, “There are other particulars, I am sure, but they escape me at the moment. You see, I am not as retentive as I once was.” At this point, he lowered his head, brought the cigar to his mouth, and gave Mr. Umezaki a weary glance.

  “It's remarkable.” Mr. Umezaki shook his head with a gesture of disbelief. “Absolutely incredible.”

  “No need, really.”

  Mr. Umezaki attempted to appear unfazed. He fished a cigarette from a pocket, holding it between his fingers without bothering to light it. “Aside from one or two errors, you've completely undressed me. Still, I've had minor involvement in the black market, but only as an infrequent buyer. In truth, my father was a very wealthy man and made sure his family was taken care of, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate Marxist theory. Also, it isn't exactly accurate to say I maintain a housekeeper.”

  “Mine is hardly an exact science, you know.”

  “It's impressive nonetheless. I will say your observations about me and Hensuiro aren't terribly surprising. Without being too blunt—you are a bachelor who lived with another bachelor for many years.”

  “Purely platonic, I assure you.”

  “If you say so.” Mr. Umezaki continued looking at him, momentarily awestricken. “It really is remarkable.”

  Holmes's expression became puzzled: “Am I mistaken—the woman who cooks your meals and tends your house—Maya—she is your housekeeper, correct?” For clearly Mr. Umezaki was a bachelor by choice, yet it struck him odd just then that Maya behaved more like a put-upon spouse than hired help.

  “
It's semantical, if that's what you mean—but I don't like to think of my mother as such.”

  “Naturally.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together, puffing blue fumes, hoping to mask what was, in reality, a bothersome oversight on his part: the forgetting of Mr. Umezaki's relation to Maya, something he had surely learned when introductions were made. Or perhaps, he entertained, the oversight was his host's—perhaps he was never told to begin with. Regardless, it wasn't worth fretting over (an understandable mistake, as the woman appeared too young to be Mr. Umezaki's mother anyway).

  “Now if you will excuse me,” Holmes said, holding the cigar a few inches from his mouth. “I have become rather tired—and we are starting early tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I'll be turning in shortly myself. May I say first that I'm truly grateful for your visit here.”

  “Nonsense,” Holmes said, standing with his canes, the cigar at one side of his mouth, “it is I who is grateful. Sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  “Thank you, I will. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  With that, Holmes made his way into the dim corridor, stepping where the hall lights were extinguished and everything ahead of him was steeped in shadow. Yet some illumination prevailed amid the darkness, spilling past an ajar door up ahead. Toward the light he ambled, bringing himself to stand before that brightened doorway. And peeking inside the room, he observed Hensuiro at work: shirtless within a sparsely furnished parlor, stooping in front of a painted canvas that—from Holmes's vantage point—depicted something like a bloodred landscape littered with a multitude of geometric shapes (straight black lines, blue circles, yellow squares). Peering closer, he saw finished paintings of various sizes stacked along the barren walls—primed in red, and, of those he could see plainly, bleak (crumbling buildings, pale white bodies surfacing lengthwise through the crimson, twisted arms, bent legs, grasping hands, and faceless heads presented as a visceral pile). Dotting the wooden flooring, sprinkled haphazardly around the easel, were countless drops and splashes of paint, appearing like the spattering of blood loss.