Return to Hiroshima

by Bob Van Laerhoven

  Crow, a sixteen-year-old boy, did see that woman. He drew her out of herself with his lopsided smile, his gangling, funny gait, the way he always seemed to be conducting an unseen orchestra with his constantly moving hands.

  I soon started to treasure the stolen hours we spent together, twice or three times a week. Without him, I felt like I was walking in a void. He was very frank. He told me he was a runner for my father’s gambling joints in Nagasaki, and mentioned names of American Mafiosi that I later looked up. The kings of the American underworld were a recent fascination of his. He talked about Capone, but also told me stories about less famous men like Joseph Pistone, Lucky Luciano and Vincent Gigante. Crow talked about their sense of honour, and about the corrupt politicians and police, who he believed were much worse than the criminals. The men in his stories had only one goal, one resolution: to work their way up, and overcome their fears whenever they had to. Crow was determined to do the same. He didn’t say so, but I could tell: I want to reach an important position in your father’s organisation, then you and I can… I trembled at the thought, a shudder ran through my body from tip to toe, or was it a tingle?

  Sometimes I would spy on the crew of his boat, watching him and the other men unload the goods. He was pale, almost as white as a doll, his limbs long and bony, and a film of sweat made his skin look translucent in the sun. Gradually, as the months went by, I felt myself blossoming. We talked about things I hadn’t even known were on my mind, such as love and death. Eventually, I talked about sex. He told me without hesitation that he’d hired a baita with his first wages as a gambling runner. He was only fifteen at the time. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be,” he concluded with a shrug.

  “What had you hoped for?”

  We were sitting close to the observation post that we’d started calling “our spot”. From here, the highest point of the island, we could easily see anyone approaching. Though my father must have seen me with Crow when he came to find me after the Yuzonsha meeting, he hadn’t said anything about it. Nor about the incident with the camera.

  Crow turned his face to the sun. His skin looked translucent again. “I’m not sure. Perhaps that she’d like me. But she seemed... wary.” He looked at me. “I forgot to caress her. That’s what I’d meant to do. But maybe she wouldn’t have liked it.”

  He sat in silence. “At least you’re not a virgin anymore,” I said. Sitting next to me, he pulled up his right knee, rested his arms on it and peered at me over his shoulder. “And you?”

  I felt a lump in my throat and couldn’t do anything but nod. I realised at that moment I was hoping he would ask if I would allow him to caress me. Instead, he put his arm around my shoulders and said: “Someone will come, I’m sure of it – a sweet woman like you.”

  I clenched my teeth.

  My thigh muscles tensed.

  28

  Hiroshima – inspector Takeda’s apartment –

  Kanayamacho – Takeda and his wife –

  Night, March 13th/14th 1995

  Surprise. A childless woman reading late at night, in a chair, by lamplight. She’s reading one or another rag, doesn’t lay a finger on inspector Takeda’s books. Or perhaps? He actually knows little about her. She can be a bitch at times. Mostly she’s respectful. Takeda looks at her bowed head. She’s greying, like him; with her it’s much more visible. Her body is wrapped in a nightgown. He knows her body, although it’s been a long time since they shared a bed. Wiry in recent years, a little withered at the edges, creases behind the knees, between the breasts (small, once pert), her broad pelvis now bony, her legs too short. It wasn’t so obvious before, when her proportions were pleasantly rounded, agreeable, a little flirtatious. Does Takeda still love her? He wouldn’t know. He values her coldblooded obstinacy and her stubborn attitude to fate. She treats him with respect, as a man should be treated. What’s he doing with his hand? He’s holding it over her head, to caress her hair, in a sudden surge of... of what? She looks up, her eyes calm and placid in the lamplight, a tad reserved, verging on distant. Takeda withdraws his hand.

  “What are you reading?”

  She smiles almost imperceptibly: “The usual news.”

  He takes a quick look at the article. Photos of a scorched facade. A smouldering corpse being carried out by rescue workers. Fifteen people dead in a “video box” in Osaka. Video boxes are porn shops where customers can rent tiny coffin-like rooms, relax in an armchair and watch porn undisturbed. It was three in the morning when the place burned down, but it was almost full at the time. Labourers who’ve missed their train or don’t want to go home often spend the night in a video box. It’s cheaper than a capsule hotel. Takeda knows all about them, has used them more than once.

  “Men are strange creatures, don’t you think?” says his wife. “They’ll do anything for a woman’s body.” Is he mistaken, or is there a hint of meaning in her eyes? He takes the magazine from her. Shukan Gendai. The crumpled face of the “atom baby with the blind stare of silent suffering,” as the headline had tagged the discovery, gapes at him from the front page.

  He holds the photo out to his wife. “Do you think a man did this?”

  Her expression remains calm and her voice is steady when she replies: “No. When a man kills or mutilates his child, he leaves it behind at the side of the road, in a gutter, on a rubbish tip. You don’t expect paper cranes, let alone symbols like the Peace Memorial.”

  Is this a concealed insult? Takeda reproaches himself for harbouring feelings of guilt. Suspicion has become second nature to him.

  * * *

  She bows to him, wishes him goodnight and withdraws to the bedroom. The apartment is small, but Takeda had a bed installed two years earlier in the room where he keeps his desk and computer. The computer is one of his passions. Takeda would like to wire the apartment for internet, but it’s still too expensive. In Newsweek, which he buys on a regular basis to keep up his English, he read predictions about the future potential of the net: buying books online, airline reservations, you name it. If the weekly was to be believed, the internet was set to take over the world in a decade. In a decade he would be closing in on sixty-one. Would he still be able to walk the streets, calm, conscious of his experience and inner strength, surrounded by hordes of young people who seem to be losing more and more control by the day? He was a law-abiding young man in his day, he’s sure of it. It had to do with a sense of inadequacy, of not coming up to the mark. He has clear memories of a house surrounded by trees, damp and humid – Indonesia? – and his mother pulling down his short trousers (he figures himself to be about four at the time), her hands feverishly warm, and snarling: “I should have drowned you in the shit too!” Takeda doesn’t trust the memory, although it forms the basis of the vague fear that constantly haunts him. When he was fifteen he started to blame his mother for it, albeit guardedly, and before long the distance between them was complete. Now he’s stuck with a suppressed authority problem. He not only thinks his boss is a pompous asshole, he also has uncomfortable daydreams in which he sees himself with his hands closing around commissioner Takamatsu’s windpipe. He often wonders what the buried anger towards everyone, especially his mother, is all about. When he was a teenager he saw her as closed, obstinate, but she didn’t really get in his way. In Japan she worked at first for the Dutch consulate and later for Philips Electronics. There was money enough for whatever he wanted and she was usually away most of the day, allowing him to indulge his freedom. Takeda’s Japanese friends had mothers who adored them, but tried to keep an eye on them every minute of the day. They were mummy’s boys as far as Takeda was concerned. He strutted his self-assurance for all to see, but in reality he was jealous: my son’s going to be a professor, mine an engineer.

  Takeda forces himself to concentrate. Don’t lose sight of the goal. Think logically. Follow the clues. He’s expecting chief commissioner Takamatsu to hound him and his team until t
hey produce results. The commissioner wants arrests, now not later. The identity of the suspects involved in the bank holdup isn’t his priority. The press release is what counts. Takeda gets to his feet, explores the cheap bookshelves against the wall. He would like to have more books, more space. Why has he never managed to sort them into alphabetical order? It takes a while before he finds what he looking for: Unit 731 Testimony, subtitled: Japan’s Wartime Human Experimentation Program. The book caught his attention in the American Bookshop a couple of months earlier. The English wasn’t too difficult. He’s looking for something near the front: the incident at the Teikoku Bank in 1948. Takeda reads the account carefully. The expression on his face changes from concentration to concern.

  29

  Hiroshima – Suicide Club squat –

  Kabe-cho – Mitsuko’s sleepless night –

  March 13th/14th 1995

  I got into the habit of talking to Crow at night as if he was lying beside me. I convinced myself that his reserve had to do with his fear of my father, not because he found me ugly. When we were together, I searched obsessively for traces of aversion. I didn’t find them. Sometimes I thought I saw admiration in his eyes, and one time he said that my height impressed him. I teased him: “Does it offend your masculinity?” His smile had nothing to hide: “I’m too young to be worried about my masculinity.” He was so smart, so mature for his age. I can’t remember how often I promised myself I would ask: “Do you find me beautiful?” I didn’t dare. I started to hate my father as a result. The place in my chest that used to be filled with fear made way for rage. I dreamt of escape, with Crow, hand in hand into the big wide world, the first kiss, his fingers running through my hair. I was already familiar with his smell: leather, tobacco, a splash of the sea, and a hint of musk in the background. Fired by love and passion, that sinewy body of his would make me feel like a lady who entertains, basking in the glow of his youthful manhood.

  I started to tease him more and make naughty remarks. He joined in with enthusiasm. One time we wrestled. I made sure I lost and ended up beneath him. His arms had brushed against my breasts and thighs as we wrestled. It was bliss. But he didn’t fall for it. He lay on top of me and then jumped to his feet like a puppy: “You did it on purpose! You can do a lot better, I’m sure of it! An ohimesama like you, invincible and proud.” He found it really funny and I laughed along. But in my heart I cried because he hadn’t said invincible and beautiful. I convinced myself that he wanted to say it but couldn’t, didn’t dare. When the laughter subsided he gallantly offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. At that moment I thought he was going to take me in his arms. Instead he turned around and looked at the sea. I saw the tension in his shoulders and held out my hand, but I couldn’t either. I didn’t dare.

  It didn’t take long for me to convince myself that Crow didn’t take the plunge because he couldn’t set aside the class difference. The ominous shadow of my father hung between us. I didn’t blame Crow. He was still so young. The man he was going to be appeared every now and then but quickly vanished again. Our time would come.

  30

  Hiroshima – Aioi canal behind the Genbaku Dome –

  Beate Becht, Yori and Xavier Douterloigne –

  night, March 13th/14th 1995

  When she’s having her period, Beate often feels as if she’s wearing a layer of hypersensitivity that makes the world chaotic. She now recognises precisely the same feeling, but this time it’s because of the young man with his backside against the bus, his hands on his knees, his head hanging forward as if he could throw up again at any moment. Stung by a poisonous jellyfish? Someone getting their own back because of a girl? She had trouble understanding his Dutch. He’s from Flanders, maybe that explains it. She asked him to speak English. She’s not quite sure what’s going on. The vinegary smell from the vomit on the ground between them only fortifies her confusion. He’s still young. Narcotics? Magic mushrooms? Possible. But tiny, poisonous jellyfish? She automatically lines up her camera and snaps a couple of shots. The boy seems groggy, clears his throat. By the time Beate hears the footsteps it’s too late. Beate is dumbstruck. The newcomer is a young woman, black tights and a short batwing coat, glossy thigh-length boots and stiletto heels. She has a mask on her chest with antennas sticking out. Her heavy breathing makes the antennas wiggle. When she catches sight of Beate she holds up both palms, clearly afraid. She’s wearing gloves made of shiny synthetic cloth. She mutters something in Japanese, realises that Beate doesn’t understand, and switches to rudimentary English: “Have Xavier Irukandji in body?” Beate says she doesn’t understand.

  The young man opens his eyes. He still looks in a bad way, but he speaks to the young woman in Japanese. Their conversation is agitated. The Japanese girl lifts her hand to her mouth. Beate reacts: flash, flash, flash.

  The boy shakes his head, apparently incredulous. The girl races to the driver’s side of the bus, yanks open the door and climbs in.

  Beate asks the young man what the hell is going on. He stares at her, runs his fingers mechanically through his blonde hair.

  “Come!” the girl shouts. She beckons Beate “To hospital!”

  The boy starts to move. “They put a poisonous jellyfish on my chest,” he repeats in English. “It stung me. I could die.”

  “Come!”

  31

  Hiroshima – Suicide Club squat –

  Kabe-cho – Mitsuko’s sleepless night –

  March 13th/14th 1995

  My father had gone to the mainland. I wanted to show Crow the place where he spent most of his time reading and hatching his plans. We had gone up to the eagle’s nest. There was something absent about Crow that day, as if he had forgotten something very important. I talked. He turned his back to me, rested his foot on the stone rampart that encircled Hashima and looked out across the sea. “You look like a pirate heading out into the briny deep,” I said. He wasn’t the same as before. I felt that I was making a fool of myself. He looked back at me and grinned, but I could still see his remoteness. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Mitsuko,” he said, as if he’d made a decision. In the couple of months that we had grown closer to one another the boy had changed. There was strength in his shoulders and the fluff on his upper lip had darkened. A desire to conquer twinkled in his eye, a need to show the world what he was made of.

  “Later, perhaps, the two of us,” I said bluntly. I noticed him pull back his head slightly, but didn’t have the time to think about what it might mean. He was a little flustered, told me he had been selected to get some experience in one of my father’s smuggling organisations. He had to go to China, wasn’t sure for how long. When he came back he would no longer be a novice, fit only for unloading crates. His enthusiasm increased as he spoke. The wind played with my skirts. I felt ridiculous. I hadn’t put on a furisode that day, the classical kimono my father insisted I wore, but a dress. For him. Instead of looking at me he just stared out to sea, longing to leave, to be far from here.

  “What about me?” The words were out before I was aware of it.

  He seemed surprised. “We stay friends. I’m coming back.”

  “When?”

  Now he seemed shy. Or didn’t he understand? Had it taken him this long to realise what he had done to me?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you think about me when...?” The lump in my throat took over. Sadness engulfed me.

  “What do you mean, Mitsuko?” He had the cheek to ask me what I meant. Did he want to push the knife in even deeper? I moved closer. We stood eye to eye. He opened his arms, laughed, and shouted: “How could I stay away? Crow always comes back! And when he does he’ll have a present with him, a present just for you from China, caw, caw!”

  He flapped his arms wildly and laughed, laughed. A shadow flew over him; it was as if a giant crow had crashed down on him. I covered my head with my
arms. A scream, swallowed in an instant by the wind.

  He was already tiny, like a doll, when I leaned over the balustrade and watched him fall to the rocks below, his arms and legs flailing. The caw of a mocking crow filled my ears. I turned, could hardly believe my eyes. The Lord of Lies had tossed my only chance of love into the sea.

  My father stared at me. His eyes absorbed the light.

  32

  Funairi Hospital – Funairisaiwai-cho – Hiroshima –

  Beate Becht – night, March 13th/14th 1995

  “Are you the one who brought the patient in?”

  The senior doctor at Funairi Hospital doesn’t speak the same standard of English as the young doctor who checked Beate in at the reception. He’s standing several meters behind his boss now. Beate nods. She’s cross. She and the girl called Yori brought the young Belgian in over an hour ago. He had been rambling and was unable to stand up without support. They had helped him out of the van and walked him into the hospital. His body was warm and feverish. Yori disappeared at the reception. She had muttered something, but Beate couldn’t remember what. She presumed she had gone to the toilet. Beate was angry because she was having a hard time explaining to the triage nurse that the boy was in a very bad way. She was so frustrated it took a while before she realised that Yori had cleared off. Luckily the triage nurse finally got the message and called a doctor who could speak English. The boy was in a wheelchair by this time and seemed to be only half conscious. The doctor checked his temperature and pulse. He asked Beate if he had taken drugs. She tried to make it clear that she didn’t know him, that she’d found him near the river, that there was a Japanese girl with them who did seem to know him, but that she had disappeared. It dawned on her as she spoke that her story didn’t add up and that she could be accused of having stolen the van with the demon painting: “The Japanese girl said he had been stung by a poisonous jellyfish. Funakondji, or something?”