Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘And rightwing groups such as your present government?’

  ‘Rightwing? That is just another term for democracy, Duncan-san. I am a patriot. Japan needs continuity, not disruption.’

  I grinned. ‘In the West we would not agree with this definition of democracy.’

  It was the wrong thing to say and I realised it was time to stop asking questions. It is commonplace in life that no matter how bizarre any group in society may be, it will find a way to justify its existence. Clearly my butterfly swap mate believed that his criminal organisation of thugs and standover men played an essential, influential and beneficial role in Japanese society.

  I was also reluctantly forced to admit that, while everything he believed in was in direct opposition to my own political beliefs, nevertheless, a Japan with a regulated labour force and without industrial strikes was beginning to flex its industrial muscle and was already on its way to becoming one of the world’s leading economies. In fact, the early influence of the yakuza, heinous as it was, probably helped post-war Japan to recover and prosper. I was learning that pragmatism was the linchpin in Japan’s industrial success. But then, of course, pragmatism is not unknown in the West either.

  I had one more question to ask. ‘Fuchida-san, if yakuza have such an accepted place in Japanese society, then why is it necessary for you to be so heavily protected . . . er . . . escorted?’

  Again he laughed uproariously. ‘In the West it is called public relations. The people need to see that there is a yakuza presence, a powerful yakuza presence,’ he repeated. ‘It is like your Western politicians who must be seen to be out and about.’ He grinned. ‘Only we do it with a display of power and you do it by kissing babies.’

  I laughed at his clever analogy. ‘But, in the hotel, people seemed to be genuinely fearful.’

  ‘No, no!’ he insisted. ‘Not fear, respect! Respect is very important; it is everything in our society.’

  We had arrived at one of the more impressive high-rise buildings I had seen in Tokyo. Preceded by the two Toyotas, we passed through an electronic gate into the underground parking lot, the big Mercedes driving up to a private lift where the six lieutenants had disembarked. Three had already gone ahead and the others waited for it to return, carrying one of the original three riding shotgun to ensure it contained no surprises. The remaining two escort vehicles blocked the entrance to the underground car park.

  If the extroverted public display in the hotel lobby was a perverted type of public relations, then why the elaborate measures involved in entering this building?

  ‘There is no need for public relations here, so why the precautions?’ I asked.

  ‘The Shield Society,’ he said, just as the lift arrived. ‘They want to bring back the old Japan. I tell you, all Japanese, myself included, are paranoid.’

  While none of this made sense to me he explained no further and we entered the lift and rose in silence.

  Fuchida-san occupied the penthouse and, I was later to learn, the apartment immediately below that as well, converted into two dormitories and used as accommodation for his lieutenants.

  The two yakuza lieutenants who had preceded us to the penthouse met us at the door of the lift. With a nod they immediately re-entered the lift and the doors closed behind them. We’d stepped directly into a large room where a mama-san, an elderly woman in a working day kimono, waited to greet us. She was an elderly, dumpy, flat-faced, crinkle-eyed woman without make-up, who from her general appearance seemed to be of peasant stock, except that hanging from her ears were what appeared to be diamond pendants of considerable worth, assuming they were genuine.

  Fuchida-san seemed to read my thoughts, or otherwise was accustomed to guests commenting, although I hadn’t remarked on the earrings. ‘Yes, diamonds,’ he pronounced. ‘I gave them to her for her seventieth birthday.’ He laughed. ‘At least we guessed it was her seventieth.’ He turned to address her. ‘You weren’t sure, were you, Mama-san?’ The old woman covered her mouth and giggled, shaking her head. ‘She has not taken them off since that day five years ago,’ he laughed. ‘Sometimes in the morning, when she brings me green tea, the shape of one of them is imprinted into her cheek.’

  Turning back to me he said, ‘She has been with me since I was made wakagashira with Yoshio Kodama, when I was twenty-three. He sent her.’ He gave her a hard stare and said, ‘I think she was really a spy on the American payroll!’ She giggled again, this time shaking her head vigorously in protest. This was obviously a routine they often performed. ‘Come, Duncan-san, let me show you,’ my host volunteered. ‘Bring green tea,’ he ordered the mama-san, who it appeared was to go without either a name or a formal introduction to me, yet it was obvious the crime boss was fond of her.

  I must say the penthouse was impressive, although I had expected tatami floors and paper screens, low tables and silk cushions. I was surprised by the immediate impression of smoked glass and chrome. The furniture – chairs, settees and low tables, with their framework of tubular chrome, plus the pristine glass surfaces – looked like a spread from an interior-design magazine. Even the floor appeared to be of polished black glass tiles. The whole effect was as formal as the foyer in a modern New York skyscraper, except for several antique Japanese silk screens, each of which blazed in yellows and reds, peacock blues and browns to warm and humanise the fashionably minimalist decor.

  ‘You like it?’ Fuchida-san asked proudly. ‘It is American. The best interior decorator from Dallas, Texas.’

  ‘Yes, very nice,’ I replied.

  He grinned. ‘It is the new Japan.’

  We walked from the large room into another that was in complete darkness, the light from the open door penetrating no more than a couple of feet. ‘Duncan-san, you must walk twelve steps slowly towards the centre of the room.’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘No, you are too tall; for you only ten steps, then feel for a swivel chair, where you must be seated. Tell me when you are ready.’

  I did as I had been told, not knowing what to expect. At nine steps I bumped into the leather swivel chair and sat down. ‘Do I face the door?’ I called out.

  ‘No, any way but that,’ he replied.

  I swung the chair away from the direction of his voice and called out, whereupon the lights came on and I was dazzled by his astonishing collection of butterflies. Under single sheets of glass, from floor to ceiling on three walls of a large room, were literally thousands set out in family groups and regions. I would someday boast one of the world’s finest collections of the butterflies of the Pacific, and even then I had an impressive collection, but this was something else. There are around eighteen thousand species of butterfly, and on the walls around me there must have been butterflies from at least five thousand species. I grinned then laughed and clapped my hands. ‘Remarkable! Stunning! Impossible!’ I exclaimed. ‘I have never seen so many in a private collection!’

  ‘Ah, it is a beginning, Duncan-san. There are ten thousand or more I do not have!’ He laughed, stepping into the room, obviously delighted by my reaction. ‘The ones you gave me, I told you, I have only three of them.’ He pointed to the centre of the wall on my right where he had the butterflies of the Pacific region. I immediately recognised the Magpie Crow, the rare butterfly found only on the Indonesian islands and the Malayan Peninsula. It had been this butterfly that had taken me to Java where I had first met sixteen-year-old Anna and shortly after escaped the Japanese invasion by sailing away in Madam Butterfly. He was right. Seventeen of the twenty specimens I had brought him were not in his collection. How he could possibly have known this and recited their Latin names, given the tens of thousands of butterflies displayed, was a remarkable feat of memory.

  We spent the next hour discussing his collection, many of which I had never seen, not even in a catalogue or book.

  ‘Do you travel much? This collection is from all over the world,’ I said at one stage in the conversation.

  ‘No, I have been to Manchuria as a soldier, also China, t
he islands of Japan and Korea, but that is all. Most are sent to me, swapped for Japanese butterflies. My network of collectors is vast, but yours also I think, Duncan-san? Your own collection must be very impressive.’

  ‘Not like this one,’ I said, indicating the walls around me. ‘I collect only those from the Pacific region and, since we have been swapping, the butterflies of Japan. But only those specimens you have sent me. I like to catch them myself. I am in shipping,’ I explained, ‘in and out of the various islands. It is a hobby and good exercise. Do you hunt much yourself?’

  ‘Alas, no, it is hard for me to leave Tokyo. I have another system for collecting the Japanese species I use to swap with other collectors.’ He held up his hand to show me the pinkie with two joints missing. I had already noticed this in the hotel. ‘Two joints, two mistakes, it is a yakuza punishment. Mistakes are unavoidable and I have four thousand yakuza under me, so there are many mistakes. Now it is known amongst my people that if you fuck up you have two choices – cut off a finger joint or go hunting for butterflies.’ He laughed. ‘In other parts of Japan the Tokyo Kanto is known as “The Butterfly Mob”!’

  ‘No! Really?’ I exclaimed in disbelief.

  He laughed. ‘A guilty man must wait until it is the butterfly season, then he is given a butterfly net, a map and a picture of a particular specimen. He must return within thirty days with six specimens or remove a finger joint. He also takes an oath that he will not pay someone to obtain them. If he does and we discover this, then he loses two entire fingers and is demoted.’

  ‘What a bizarre solution, but obviously effective,’ I exclaimed, chuckling.

  ‘Not always,’ he replied. ‘These guys are mostly from the city slums and know more about cockroaches than butterflies. They don’t know the countryside. The specimens they must catch are always rare and so are difficult to find. The area they are given may be difficult. Sometimes it is rugged mountain terrain or swamp land. Some come back exhausted, three have died – two were lost in the mountains overnight where they froze to death and one drowned in a swamp. Here in the Tokyo Kanto butterfly hunting is regarded as very severe punishment and, if a miscreant still has all his fingers intact, he may even opt to lose a finger joint rather than go on a butterfly expedition into the vast unknown.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I laughed. ‘I have had more than one narrow escape in the New Guinea jungle and on some of the islands. A. S. Meek, the greatest of Australian butterfly collectors, suffered malaria, yellow fever, dysentery and various other tropical diseases. At that time in the early 1900s there were also headhunters and cannibals and so he hunted with a butterfly net in one hand and a revolver in the other. Most of his porters died of fever and pneumonia and he barely survived himself. But it was he who found the Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing. The female’s wingspan can reach 31 centimetres. Hunting butterflies is not a sport for wimps or city boys.’

  Fuchida-san whistled. ‘I would very much like to see that big butterfly, Duncan-san.’

  ‘Then come and visit me and I will show you one,’ I replied.

  ‘In your collection?’

  ‘Yes, when I was fourteen years old. I have never caught another.’

  ‘If you do I will pay you a great deal, Duncan-san. I would treasure it.’

  ‘Fuchida-san, if I find another you shall have it as a gift, a gesture of our friendship.’

  The mama-san had knocked several times to say that tea was ready but had been dismissed with a flick of the wrist, then finally dismissed to prepare lunch. Now she announced that lunch was ready and we repaired to a small room decorated in authentic Japanese style, tatami floor, cushions and a low black lacquered table only large enough for two people. The old woman, who had changed into a formal silk kimono, served us sake on her heels, diamond pendants shining.

  ‘Duncan-san, your gift is of incalculable value to me,’ Fuchida-san began. ‘To know that you have hunted these butterflies yourself adds greatly to their worth. We are now friends who drink sake together and face each other across the table and not across the seas.’ He smiled. ‘If you were yakuza we would exchange blood.’ Then a serious expression crossed his face. ‘If I can do anything to help you while you are in Japan you need only ask.’

  ‘We have been swap mates for twenty years,’ I replied. ‘It is a pleasure just to meet you at last, and a privilege to be permitted to see your remarkable collection.’

  ‘It is so long ago that I have forgotten how our swap friendship began,’ he observed.

  I was immediately alerted. Any person who could remember the Latin names of seventeen Pacific butterflies in his vast collection would remember Gojo Mura, the little Japanese radio operator I had befriended during the war. ‘You will remember that I was given your name and address by your friend Gojo Mura. I hoped to contact him through you,’ I reminded him.

  The yakuza boss feigned a look of surprise. ‘Ah, yes, now I recall it.’

  ‘At the time you wrote to say you had lost contact with him,’ I added.

  Fuchida-san paused. ‘There cannot be lies between good friends, Duncan-san. At that time it was difficult. I wanted to help but it was not possible. Gojo Mura was a traitor to Japan.’

  ‘Traitor? Impossible!’ I exclaimed. ‘He was the worst soldier I have ever known. He had no treachery in him, no interest whatsoever in fighting. When I captured him, his rifle bolt and barrel had rusted up and the cartridges and magazines were green with mildew.’

  ‘It was not that, Duncan-san. He returned to Japan having been taken a prisoner of war and put in a concentration camp. At that time it was still old Japan. If a warrior is captured he must commit seppuku – harakiri; this was our way then, collective guilt. When I received your letter I did not know who you were, only that you were in my mind still the enemy, one of Japan’s conquerors. But then I found out you were a warrior of great distinction awarded the Navy Cross, America’s second-highest medal for bravery.’

  My surprise must have been apparent. I obviously hadn’t mentioned my role in the war, other than to say in the original letter that I’d captured Gojo Mura while fighting with the Americans and had subsequently got to know him well while he was interned in Australia, where we had become good friends. ‘How? How did you know of my war record?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘When your letter arrived just after the war I had already been recruited by Yoshio Kodama. I thought it might be a trap to plant someone close to me, so he could spy on my boss. I told him about your letter and he said he would check you out with the FBI. They came back and told us you were a great warrior and worthy of the highest respect.’

  I laughed. ‘The FBI credited me with too much honour, Fuchida-san. At that time the Navy Cross was only the third highest American award for bravery. It is not a big deal; many were much braver than me in battle.’

  ‘Also that you got another medal for bravery, the Distinguished Service Cross, which you received personally from the hands of MacArthur! There can be no higher honour for a warrior on your side!’ he said, his expression close to awestruck. ‘It would be like the Emperor awarding a Japanese soldier a medal. Such a gesture from the Chrysanthemum Throne would not be forgotten in his family for ten thousand lifetimes.’

  ‘Ah, MacArthur gave out a lot of medals. He was the world champion at giving medals. I think I got it mostly for having malaria.’ I glanced up and grinned. ‘The FBI didn’t tell you I was in an intelligence unit?’ I asked. It was clear to see why the young Fuchida-san had been recruited by the notorious Yoshio Kodama. He had been careful and circumspect even as a young man. His apparent respect for my war record also explained his openness and the candid discussion we’d had earlier.

  Fuchida-san looked momentarily horrified, then burst into uproarious laughter. ‘It is my luck then,’ he said finally. ‘If the FBI had told us you were in Intelligence at the time, I would not have become your butterfly swap mate. I would have regarded it as too dangerous to be associated with you. As I said, we Japanese ar
e by nature paranoid.’

  ‘This affirmation from the FBI, it didn’t change your mind about helping me find Gojo Mura?’

  ‘At the time, I still thought it better to do nothing about finding him. To let, as you say, sleeping dogs lie. Although we came from the same village and were childhood friends, I knew he would not return to the village because of his shame. The village people would not have tolerated it. Besides, he was officially dead. Officially there were no Japanese prisoners of war.’

  ‘But many did return to Japan?’

  ‘That was the haji, the disgrace. They had dishonoured the Emperor’s Senjinkun military code, which laid down that no surrender was possible for the individual soldier. They had not only disobeyed the instructions to commit suicide if they were captured, but now they were refusing to be officially dead. Their reappearance in Japan would cause great disgrace to their families who had received a small box supposedly containing their ashes, so they knew their beloved son or father had died an honourable death fighting for the divine cause. Their names were listed at the Yakusuni Shrine as honoured dead and their families received a small government pension. They were also removed from the national family register as, clearly, dead men cannot continue to be Japanese citizens.’

  ‘And that is what would have happened to Gojo Mura?’ I asked. I had, by alluding to the fact that I had captured him, in effect condemned my little Japanese friend to a future of shame. He was a dead man walking. ‘I am to blame for telling you of his capture,’ I lamented.

  Fuchida-san sniffed and then shrugged. ‘No, he would have been on a repatriated prisoner of war list. When he got back he changed his name. He was clever but, like me, came from a very poor but honourable family. He would not want them to lose their pension and, much worse, be forever disgraced in the village for a son who brought them haji, shame and humiliation.’

  ‘Wait a minute, if he gave me your address did he not contact you?’