by Unknown
‘Audition hall waiting rooms are nurseries for lunatics,’ says Ai, the noise of the wind a hazy crackle of static, ‘or psychological warfare students. Musicians are worse than those world-class chess players who kick each other under the table. One boy from Toho music school is eating garlic yoghurt and reading French slang from a phrase book. Aloud. Another is chanting Buddhist scriptures with his mother. Two girls are discussing best-loved music academy suicides who couldn’t take the pressure.’
‘If your music sounds half as good to the judges as it did to me last night, you should walk it.’
‘I think you may be biased, Miyake. They don’t give points for necks. Anyway, nobody walks it to a Paris Conservatoire scholarship. You drag yourself there by your fingernails, over the corpses of slaughtered co-hopefuls. Like the Roman gladiators, except when you lose you have to simper politely and congratulate your nemesis. Playing over the phone to you is not the same as performing for a panel of dug-up A-class war criminal look-alikes who control my future, my dream, and my meaning as a human being. If I blow this audition, it will be private lessons to cutey-cutey Hello Kitty daughters until the day I die.’
‘There will be other auditions in the future,’ I point out.
‘Wrong thing to say.’
‘When are the results announced?’
‘Five o’clock today, after the final candidate has performed – the judges fly back to France tomorrow. Hang on – someone’s coming—’ I get an earful of static swish and covered mumble. ‘That was my on-in-two-minutes call.’
Say something powerful, encouraging and clever. ‘Uh, good luck.’
Her breathing changes as she walks. ‘I was thinking earlier . . .’
‘About?’
‘The meaning of life, of course. I changed my mind again.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You find your own meaning by passing or failing a series of tests.’
‘Who passes or fails you in these tests?’
Her footsteps echo and static breezes. ‘You do.’
Customers come, customers go. A steady stream of movies about the end of the world get rented – must be something in the air. I wonder how Ai is doing in her audition. I thought my guitar-playing was okay, but compared to her I am a no-fingered amateur. A hassled mother comes in and asks me to recommend a video that will shut her kids up for an hour. I resist the temptation to slip her Pam the Clam from Amsterdam – ‘Well, madam, it did shut them up, didn’t it?’ – and suggest Sky Castle Laputa. I go to the door – the sky is one of those opal marmalade sunsets. A Harley Davidson growls by, a strolling lion. Its chromework is cometary, and its driver is a kid with leather trousers, a designer-gashed T-shirt saying DAMN I’M GOOD and an army outrider helmet with a cartoon duck stencilled on. The girlfriend, her perfect arms disappearing into the T-shirt, blond hair catching amber sunlight, is none other than Coffee. Love hotel Coffee! Same pout, same time-zone-straddling legs. I hide behind a Ken Takakura poster, and watch the motorbike weave through the clogged traffic. Definitely Coffee – or her clone. Now I am not so certain. Coffee has millions of clones in Tokyo. I sit down and open my grandfather’s journal. What would Subaru Tsukiyama say about Japan today? Was it worth dying for? Maybe he would reply that this Japan is not the Japan he did die for. The Japan he died for never came into being. It was a possible future, auditioned by the present but rejected with other dreams. Maybe it is a mercy he cannot see the Japan that was chosen. I wonder what angle to take when I meet my grandfather next Monday. I wish I could do angles like Daimon. I wish Admiral Raizo had given me a pointer. Should I applaud the samurai spirit stuff? Does it matter? All I want is for my grandfather to introduce me to my father. Nothing more. I wonder how I would have fared in the war. Could I have calmly stayed in an iron whale cruising towards my death? I am the same age as my great-uncle was when he died. I guess I would not have been ‘I’. I would have been another ‘I’. A weird thought, that – I am not made by me, or my parents, but by the Japan that did come into being. Subaru Tsukiyama was made by a Japan that died with surrender. It must be tough being a product of both, like Takara Tsukiyama.
18th November
Weather: tropical heat, blinding sunshine. This morning I spent thirty minutes on the lookout platform fore of the periscopes. The lookout lent me his binoculars. Our position is 60 kilometres west of Ulithi atoll. A high-altitude reconnaissance plane from Truk reported 200 enemy vessels including 4 carriers. Enemy radio transmissions grow ever busier. Cpt Yokota made the decision not to wait for I-37, as 5 days have elapsed since last contact. Hailing her on VLF radio would be hazardous so close to an enemy stronghold. I hope she has only been delayed. Being sunk so close to the target area would be a cruel irony for the kaiten pilots. We wished I-36 and I-47 good hunting and turned east towards the Palau Islands. I-333 approached Peleliu around 1800. The archipelago is as beautiful as places from old stories, but as outlandish as the landscapes I used to doodle on my copybook. I saw coral islets, twisted outcrops, gorges, peaks, swamps, and sandbars. Recent battle damage was much in evidence. The 14th Division of the Kwantung Army will have made the enemy pay dearly for the invasion of these islands. The bases and airfields were among the most battle-ready in the war, because the Palaus were Japanese territory since the League of Nations mandate of 1919. But the enemy cannot guess the true price of anchoring in the Kossol Passage. The lookout spotted an enemy scout plane and we dived. As tonight’s meal will, in all probability, be our final one, Captain Yokota produced his wind-up gramophone and two records. I instantly recognized a tune which father used to play, before jazz was banned because of its corrupting influence. The musician’s name is Jyu Keringuton. How strange to be listening to American jazz before setting out to kill Americans.
19th November
Weather: fine, calm conditions prevailing. A quiet last night. I-333 conducting submerged periscope watch. Slick has promised to visit Nagasaki and hand this journal to you personally, Takara. My co-Kikusui pilots are composing their final letters. Kusakabe asked Abe’s advice regarding an obscure kanji for a haiku he was composing. Abe answered without rancour. I have little talent for poetry. Slick is presently servicing our kaitens for the final time, and the kaiten release mechanisms are being tested. Captain Yokota is approaching the mouth of Kossol Passage in a slow curve. We prayed at the special shrine and left incense as gifts to the god of the shrine. Goto burned his card aircraft carrier and offered the ashes. We studied a cartographical chart of the target zone, with depth soundings. At our final supper we thanked the crew for bringing us here safely. We drank banzai toasts to the success of our mission and to the emperor. I went up to the bridge one final time to see the moon and stars, and shared a cigarette with the ensign on duty. The moon was full and bright. It reminded me of the mirror Yaeko and Mother use to apply cosmetics. This moon will allow me to choose my target in under three hours from now. Three hours. This is all my lifeline has to run, if all goes well. My thoughts are now occupied with how I can best utilize my training to be sure of making a lethal hit. I will now entrust this journal to Slick.
Live my life for me, Takara, and I will die your death for you.
Live long, little brother.
I never heard Ai sound miserable. I never thought it was in her repertoire. I stroke Cat. ‘Your father knows how much the Conservatoire means to you?’
‘That Man knows exactly how much it means.’
‘And he knows how few scholarships get awarded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why has he forbidden you to go? Why isn’t he brimming over with pride?’
‘Niigata was good enough for him, so Niigata will be good enough for me. He refuses to use the word music. He says “tinkling” instead.’
‘What does your mother think?’
‘My mother? “Think”? Not since her honeymoon. What she says is “Obey your father!” Over and over. She let him finish her sentences for her for so long that now he starts them too. She actua
lly apologizes to my father for making him yell at her. My sister married the owner of the biggest concrete works on the Japan Sea coast because our father told her to, and now she is turning into my mother. It’s creepy. She heard they have big ozone holes over Austria so—’
‘Austria? Doesn’t she mean Australia?’
‘Their knowledge of the world outside Japan only extends as far as they can swim offshore. Sorry if I sound bitter. Then my brother was drafted. He runs That Man’s branch office, so you can imagine how sympathetic he was. I am wrecking the family harmony, he said. French food will play havoc with my diabetes – as if he ever cared about my diabetes – and the sheer worry will cause my mother’s blood pressure to rise, and she may actually explode. Then I will be guilty of blowing up Mother as well as disobeying That Man. What’s making that noise? Not Suga again?’
‘Cat, this time. She feels sorry for you, but doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound feeble. She hopes it will all work out okay.’
‘Thank her. At times like this I wish I smoked.’
‘Hold your mouth to the receiver – I’ll blow smoke down the line.’
‘Teenagers often fantasize that their parents are not their real parents. After this evening I can see the appeal. Truth is, That Man hates the idea of me not needing him. He wants to hire and fire the world as he sees fit. He is afraid of his employees finding out he can’t control his daughter. What a family of sand fleas I come from! I swear, sometimes I think I would be better off as an orphan. Oh. Oh . . . sorry, Miyake . . .’
‘Hey, don’t worry.’
‘Today has blown my tact chip. I should switch myself off and leave you in peace. I’ve done nothing but whinge for thirty minutes.’
‘You can whinge all night. Isn’t that right, Cat?’
Cat, bless her, miaows right on cue.
‘See? So whinge.’
‘You look five years younger,’ I tell Buntaro when he gets back from Okinawa on Sunday evening, and he really does. ‘So if I go on four holidays do I get to look like a twenty-year-old?’ He presents me with a key-ring of Zizzi Hikaru – like most idols, Zizzi is Okinawan – who sheds her clothes when you breathe on the plastic casing. ‘Hey, thanks,’ I say, ‘this will be a family heirloom. Good to be back?’
‘Ye-es.’ Buntaro looks around Shooting Star. ‘No. Yes.’
‘Right. Did Machiko-san enjoy herself?’
‘Way too much. She wants to move there. Tomorrow.’
Buntaro scratches his head. ‘Kodai being born soon . . . it changes the way you see things. Would you want to be brought up in Tokyo?’
I remember my mother’s first letter, the balcony one. ‘Maybe not.’
Buntaro nods and checks his watch. ‘You must have a thousand things you want to do, lad.’ I don’t, but I can see he wants to catch up on paperwork, so I climb up to my capsule and round up dirty laundry. I try calling Ai, but nobody answers. Netherworld noises vibrate down the apartment building tonight. Husband bawling, baby screaming, washing machine spinning. Tomorrow is Monday – grandfather day. I lie on my futon and begin decoding the final three pages of the journal. These are written on different paper, in cramped letters that get harder and harder to read. Across the top of the paper is stamped in red ink, in English: ‘SCAP’ – which is not in my dictionary – and ‘Military Censor’. These half obscure a pencil inscription in Japanese: ‘ . . . these words . . . moral property . . . . . . Takara Tsukiyama . . .’ An address in Nagasaki is illegible to me.
20th November
Weather – unknown. Dead but still alive. Alone in kaiten. Last 6 hours. At 0245 Cpt Yokota came to cabin – announced the kaiten attack commence 15 mins. Stood in a circle and tied hachimaki of brother before us. Goto: ‘Just another training run, boys.’ Abe to Kusakabe: ‘You are a demon chess player, Ensign.’ Kusakabe: ‘Your left hook is the demon, Lieutenant.’ Toured I-333 – thanked crew for bringing us here safely. Saluted, man by man. Shook hands before entered kaitens via chutes. Slick sealed the hatches on us. His face last I saw. I-333 dived for final approach. Radioman First Class Hosokawa maintained telephone link until release, providing last-minute orientation. Abe released 0315. Heard clamps fall loose. Goto released 0320. Kusakabe floated free 0335. Next 5 minutes I thought many things, focus difficult. Hosokawa in Nagasaki dialect: ‘I’ll be thinking of you. May glory be yours.’ Final human words. Foreclasps released. Started engine. Rears released. Floated free. Thrust sharp left avoid conning tower/periscope shears. Proceeded ESE heading, holding depth 5 metres. Surfaced 0342 confirm position with visual fix. Enemy fleet clearly silhouetted harbour lights. Troop carriers, transport ships, fuel tankers, at least 3 battleships, 3 destroyers, 2 heavy cruisers. No carriers, many fat targets. Eating, asleep, shitting, smoking, drinking, talking Americans. I, their executioner. Strange sensation. At strategy meeting on I-333 agreed first kaitens should target distant vessels – guesswork required. Used kids choosing-chant: Do – re – ni – shi – ma – sho – ka? Ka – mi – sa – ma – no – iu – to – explosion. Shock waves rocked kaiten. Steadied periscope, saw fuel tanker, plum-blossom fire, smoke already obscuring stars. Secondary explosion. Orange. Beautiful, terrible, could not tear eyes away. Flares climbed, lit Passage brighter than day. Hunted, I dived. Waking dream. Being, not doing. Chose nearest large naval ship and manouevred to appropriate angle. Klaxons, engines, chaos. Another major explosion – kaiten, nearby depth-charge, no knowing. Patrol boat? Vibrations nearer, nearer, nearer – dived to 8 metres – passed over. Sizable explosion to starboard. Loneliness – afraid brothers leave me here among hostile strangers not my race. Slowed to 2 kph, surfaced for position check. Fires/smoke/after-explosions 2 locations. Chose large outline due west – light cruiser? 150 metres. Eyes dazzled by searchlight, but cloaked by chaos on-shore. Dived to 6–7 metres. Throttled to 18 kph. Flying, strange air. Cut to dead halt. Surfaced, final check. Cruiser filled the night. 80 metres. Saw figures streaming. Ants. Fireflies. Dived 5 metres. Primed warhead. One thought: ‘This is my final thought.’ Opened throttle lever to maximum velocity. Acceleration shoved me back, hard . . . 70 metres closing, 60, 50, 40, 30, 20, impact next moment, impact now
Clang like temple bell. Wild spinning – up = down, down = up, drilling, flung left right up down, loose objects flying, me too. Lungs empty. So this death, I think, then I think, Can dead think? Pain rings from head erased further thought. Lurching crunch > hung downwards > judder halt. Engines howling, rudder control dead and free in hand, scream noise from engines, heat climbing, burning oil smell – same moment I realize not dead and must cut engines, engines die. Failure. Warhead did not detonate. Kaiten glanced off hull = bamboo spear off metal helmet. Periscope sights slashed face, broke nose. Sat, listened to noises from surface. Tried to ignite TNT manually, strike casing with wrench. Tore off fingernail in attempt. Impact broke chronometer. Minutes or hours, cannot tell. Periscope blackness> blueness now. Flask of whisky. Will drink, put these pages into flask. Takara. Message in bottle in dead shark. Learn this song, Takara?
Corpses adrift and corpses swollen,
Corpses abed in the swollen sea,
Corpses adream in the mountain grasslands,
We shall die, we shall die, we shall die for the emperor, and we shall never look back.
Abed in the swollen sea. Air thinner. Or imagine air thinner. Now? Divers may discover me – typhoon shakes me loose, beaches me – remain here end of time. Kaiten was not way to glorious death. Kaiten is urn. Sea is tomb. Do not blame us who die so long before noon.
‘No hope,’ answers the woman who is not Ai. It is after midnight but she sounds more amused than angry. She has a brick-thick Osaka accent. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh. Can I ask when, uh, Miss Imajo is expected back?’
‘Feel free to ask, but whether I answer is another Q.’
‘When is Miss Imajo due back? Please?’
‘And tonight’s top news story: Ai Imajo is summoned to the ancestral seat in Niigata in a last-d
itch attempt to break the diplomatic deadlock. When reporters asked the defiant Miss Imajo how long the summit would last, we were told: “As long as it takes.” Stay tuned!’
‘Days, then?’
‘My turn. Are you the karate kid?’
‘No. The head-butt kid.’
‘Same kid. Nice to meet your disembodied voice at last, karate kid. Ai calls you head-butt kid, but I think karate kid sounds wittier.’
‘Uh, for sure. When Ai gets back could you—’
‘I inherited my granny’s psychic powers. I knew it was you calling. Don’t you want to know who I am?’
‘Are you Ai’s shy, retiring flatmate, by any chance?’
‘Hole in one! So. Is Ai dating a human being, or are you another psycho gremlin?’
‘Not exactly dating . . .’ I take the bait. ‘“Psycho gremlin”?’
‘Fact. Eighty per cent of Ai’s admirers go on to successful careers in the horror movie industry. The last one was the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Webby, floppy, water-resistant, caught bluebottles with his tongue. Phoned at midnight and croaked until dawn. Drove a Volvo, wore blazers, gave out CDs of himself singing madrigals, and confided unsolicited fantasies when Ai begged me to say she was out. He and Ai would marry at Tokyo Disneyland, tour Athens, Montreal and Paris with their three sons, Delius, Sibelius and Yoyo. One time his mother called – she wanted Ai’s parents’ number in Niigata so she start marriage negotiations directly with the manufacturer. Me and Ai had to concoct an ex-boxer boyfriend in prison who half strangled Ai’s last admirer.’
