by David Peace
– as the train carries you back through Ginza, Kyōbashi, and Nihonbashi, back to Mitsukoshi-mae and on to Kanda, where you stand up suddenly, get off the train quickly, just as the doors are closing, then stop on the platform again, bend down and tighten your shoelaces again. You stand up, walk down the platform, through the ticket gate, along the passageway, and climb the steps out of the subway to the street. You stop again, take out your handkerchief again, wipe your face, your neck again, then put away your handkerchief again. You check your watch again, then buy some cigarettes, two packs of cigarettes at a kiosk on the street. You light a cigarette, you start to walk, but feel spots of rain, the first spots of rain, then more spots of rain, now a shower of rain. You put out your cigarette, turn, and walk back to the station, buy another ticket, pass through another gate, and climb the steps up to the Chūō line platform. You stand on the platform, wipe your face, your neck again and watch the trains arrive and depart, the trains heading down to Tokyo station, the trains heading out to Tachikawa. Again you let the first trains leave, again you wait until every other passenger has boarded, then again you slip on board just as the doors are closing. You stand on the train for Tachikawa, but you do not sit down on this train, do not read the headlines on the papers of the passengers. You stare out of the window, watching the rain fall, the summer rain fall, waiting for your stop, the next stop, Ochanomizu.
* * *
—
He was already standing up as the train pulled into Shin-Ochanomizu station, the Japan Times already folded up, discarded on the rack above the seats, waiting for someone else to read in English, if they so wished, of the rally yesterday against the emperor system which had drawn a crowd of seven hundred and fifty to Yūrakuchō, so they said. But the Emperor, oblivious, is nothing if not resilient, he thought again, as he got off the train, walked along the platform, then stood on the steep escalator, gripped its red rubber handle, and tried not to look back down as up he went, up past the adverts for the Hilltop Hotel, its various restaurants. How long has it been now, he wondered, three months now? Hanging on for His Imperial dear life, the Court Physicians were amazed, were awed: just when they must have thought, but dared not say, of course, he’d breathed his last, then back he comes, back from the dead, thirsty for blood, more blood as on and on he hangs for dear life, clings to dear life, dear life. An inspiration to us all, he muttered again as he stepped off the escalator, passed through the ticket gate, then turned left and up the little steps, into the underground shopping center, along its short arcade, past the Cozy Corner café, the pharmacy and out through its automatic doors. Or maybe just afraid of what is to come, he thought now, standing at the foot of a flight of wide steps up to the city, the air and its light, and what he will face? He sighed, then slowly, slowly began to climb the steps to the street, stopping to catch his breath every now and then, every now and every then, slowly, slowly, until he’d made his way to the top of the twenty-two steps. Much more of this and he’ll ruin Christmas and New Year, he thought as he stood again to catch his breath, pretending to look at the display of expensive, foreign-brand frames in the window of an optician, then said aloud, And we can’t have that now, can we, Gre-chan?
He swallowed, he blinked, then swallowed and blinked again, but it was no good, no good. He reached into his coat pocket, yanked out his handkerchief, took off his glasses, then held the cloth to his eyes, to their tears, blubbering, yes, Morgan was right, blubbering, there was no other word for it, but one last Christmas together, is that really too much to ask?
He took a deep breath, then exhaled, wiped his eyes, his glasses, then put his glasses back on, handkerchief away, and said, aloud again, Of course not! Papa promised.
He looked up, faced the window, saw people – the customers and staff inside the store – now watching him, staring at him: Well, let them stare, enjoy the show. People always stare here, always have and always will; he’d a good mind to stick out his tongue, that would show them. But then, tongue poised and almost out, he caught sight of his reflection – in the glass of the store window, the spectacles on display – his own reflection, his reflections, all his reflections, now watching him, staring back and at and through him: You don’t want to see us, see us, they whispered, but you do, yes, you do, they laughed, and we see you, see you, yes, we do, see you, too –
Quickly, he turned away from the window, the display and its spectacles, the eyes and the stares, these eyes and their stares which watched him, followed him, as he climbed the last five little steps up to street level and the road. He stopped to catch his breath again, watching the traffic – the trucks and the taxis, the cars and the buses, the bicycles and the people – flow over Hijiri-bashi, the Holy Bridge, then, breath caught, he went right, down the short, slight slope to the corner with Kōbai-zaka. Here again he stopped, not to catch his breath but to look up, up at the domes and the bells, the two pale-green domes, the dark, silent bells, their hours, their times, kept now, quiet now. He swallowed, blinked again, a deep breath again, then off he set again, round the corner, across and up Kōbai-zaka to the black gates of the Nikorai-dō, the Holy Resurrection Cathedral. Here again he stopped, paused to catch his breath again, to slow now, still his heart now as he swallowed, blinked again, then walked through the gates, the garden, the largely concrete garden, past its benches and the seminary to the steps of the cathedral, the five stone steps up to its doors, open to worshippers, the public, sightseers and tourists alike: So which are you, he sadly, sadly smiled, which today are you?
He looked up at the white walls of the cathedral, the arch above the doors, its metal Orthodox Cross, its painting of Christ and His Testament, then sighed as he slowly, slowly began to climb, climb the five large stone steps up, up to the doorway. How many steps have I climbed today, he thought, then wondered how many steps there were, how many rungs there were on the Ladder of Divine Ascent? Then remembered, yes, was sure, there were thirty, thirty steps, thirty rungs, as he paused again, at the top of the steps, to catch his breath again, to cross himself now, in the Orthodox way, in memory of the thirty years, the thirty years Christ lived in this world: renunciation of this world being the first, the very hardest step on the Ladder of Divine Ascent, he knew, as he crossed, crossed himself again, then the threshold into the cathedral.
An elderly Japanese lady in a rust-brown kimono was sitting at a long, narrow table where the narthex met the nave. There were books and calendars, postcards and candles on the table before her. She looked up at Donald Reichenbach and smiled, welcomed, then offered him a pamphlet about the cathedral, a candle to light, For one hundred yen, please.
He handed over his coin, but politely refused the pamphlet, the candle, and said, Actually, I was hoping to catch Father Ilya – is he about today, by any chance…?
The lady smiled, nodded, asked him to wait, please, just a moment, please, as she got to her feet, left her post, and tottered off into the shadows of the cavernous nave.
Donald Reichenbach watched her go, get lost in the gloom, then let his eyes wander up, upward to the dome, head back and turning, then back down, down the walls, over the stained glass to the icons, the candle stands, their waxen prayers melted down to cold and varying lengths, their flames, their lights all out, already all out. Perhaps he should light, still light a candle, he thought, a candle for Gre-chan, dear Gre-chan, at least. He turned back to the table, his hand in his pocket, sifting its change, then noticed, beside the piles of books and candles, a small wooden box, read the sign on the box asking for donations for the victims and survivors of the recent earthquake in Armenia: How many dead, did they say? Thirty, forty, fifty thousand, is that what they said? But what did it matter when one old man was dying of natural causes in his gilded palace in the center of Tokyo, eh? He took his hand from the pocket of his pants, reached inside his coat for his wallet. He opened his wallet, took out a ten-thousand-yen note, then another, folded them once, then once again, and p
osted them through the narrow slot in the top of the box –
That’s very kind of you, Donald, said Father Ilya, coming out of the shadows, his pale hands outstretched in the gloom. And very good to see you, too.
And you, too, Father, said Donald Reichenbach, smiling, then taking, kissing the hand of the priest. Thank you.
No, thank you, Sensei, laughed Father Ilya, holding Donald Reichenbach’s hands in his own as he turned to the elderly lady sat back at her post: Satō-san, today we are honored. This is one of my oldest friends, the great Professor Reichenbach, the famous translator and scholar who has taught at Columbia, Stanford, and our very own Tōdai and Keiō.
The lady, on her feet again, bowed and gushed first with apologies, then wonder and compliments, now protestations as Donald Reichenbach bowed and blushed as he mumbled how his achievements were nothing special at all, his former positions of no importance, now he was retired…
How long has it been, said Father Ilya, leading Donald Reichenbach away from the lady, her table, back out through the doors of the cathedral. Five years? More…
I don’t know, said Donald Reichenbach under the arch, its metal cross, shaking his head. I lose track…
Father Ilya smiled: Don’t we all – but you’ve time for tea, or something stronger? I still keep a bottle in my room.
Thank you, Father, I’d like nothing more, said Donald Reichenbach. But first, would you mind if we sat outside? These days, I spend so much of my time indoors, inside.
Father Ilya nodded, smiled again, and said, Of course, Donald, whichever you prefer. Please, after you…
And the two men – these two old men, one Japanese, one American – began to slowly, slowly make their way down the stone steps and across the concrete garden, past the seminary building, to sit side by side, almost touching, knee to knee, arm by arm, on a cold concrete bench, under a sparse, crooked palm, close to the black iron gates.
Excuse me, Donald, said Father Ilya, looking at his watch, then standing straight back up again. If you don’t mind, it’s almost closing time. I’ll just quickly shut the gates, save Satō-san the bother and us from unwanted interruptions.
In the fading, December-afternoon light, Donald Reichenbach shook his head, then watched his old friend – at least, the person he’d known longest in Japan – walk over to close the gates: his hair and beard were as long and full as ever, but now gray, almost white, snow white; he was stooping, too, his cassock trailing on the ground. Still, he moves well enough, much better than you, than me, he thought as he watched him close the gates, then come back toward the bench –
You know, Donald, if you’d called and let me know, said Father Ilya, smiling as he sat back down, we could’ve met at Rogovski, even the Kamiya, like the old days…
Donald Reichenbach nodded and said, I know, Father, I’m sorry. It’s silly, I know, but I just don’t really like to leave Grete too long, not these days, especially in the evenings.
Of course, said Father Ilya. Is she okay?
Donald Reichenbach nodded again, then laughed: Yes, she’s fine, thank you. It’s just me being a silly old fool.
Father Ilya turned to Donald Reichenbach, watched him reach into his coat pocket for his handkerchief, then take off his glasses, wipe and dry his eyes, then his glasses, then waited for him to fold up his handkerchief again, put it back inside his pocket again, so then he could ask, gently, softly ask, What is it, Donald? What’s happened, what’s wrong…?
Donald Reichenbach shook his head: I don’t know.
I think you do, said Father Ilya, nodding. And I think you want to tell me – that’s why you came, isn’t it?
Donald Reichenbach shook his head again, then said, I’m sorry, Father, I don’t know why I came, I don’t, I’m sorry.
I think you do, said Father Ilya again, reaching for the hand of Donald Reichenbach, then holding, squeezing his hand, gently, softly. You do know, Donald, you do. Just as you know why it’s been so long, so long since you last came, Donald.
Donald Reichenbach sighed, nodded: Yes.
The past, said Father Ilya. Our past.
Donald Reichenbach swallowed, blinked, staring down at his hand, his hands in the hands, the hands of the priest, then swallowing again, blinking again, he nodded again, then said, It just keeps coming back, over and over, again and again.
I know, Donald, but it’ll pass, it will pass…
I hope it’s just the damn Emperor, all this time he lies there dying – why can’t he just hurry up and die!
Quite, said Father Ilya. He should’ve gone years ago, the day he surrendered. But it’ll soon be over, Donald.
Will it, though? Will it really?
Yes, Donald. Believe me.
But then what…?
Then time can move on, said Father Ilya. And we can move on, Donald. Things will change, not only here…
What do you mean, Father? Where?
You know where, Donald: there.
Donald Reichenbach shook his head, turned to the priest, their hands still entwined, shook his head again, and said, No, don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.
They’re already changing, you know that, Donald, but faster than they want, faster than you think, Donald.
But not all of it, surely not everything?
Yes, Donald, everything, whispered Father Ilya. Thaws become floods, floods wash things away…
In the concrete garden, the December twilight, Donald Reichenbach swallowed, freed his hands from the hands of the priest, closed his eyes, shook his head again, then sighed and said, What a waste, a pointless fucking waste…
We weren’t to know, Donald.
Donald Reichenbach opened his eyes, turned to the man beside him, this man in his black dress, with his white hair and silver chain around his neck: Would it have made any damn difference to you if you had, if you had known?
I did what I thought was right at the time, said this Japanese man in his Russian clothes. We all did, Donald, did what we thought was right at the time.
But you were wrong, Kaz, we were all wrong.
We didn’t know that, Don, not at the time.
But everything we did was wrong, everything that happened was wrong. We must have been mad…
What was the line from Alice, the line you used to like, Donald, said Father Ilya. “Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers / Pluck’d in a far-off land…”
Donald Reichenbach shook his head again, sighed again, then laughed and said, Is that what you tell yourself? How you live with yourself…?
My ne v izgnan’i, said Father Ilya, clutching the cloth of his cassock, the cross on his chain. My v poslan’i.
Except the mission turned out to be a lie, said Donald Reichenbach, standing up. Only the exile was true, is real.
Father Ilya looked up at Donald Reichenbach, held out his hands, his palms toward Donald Reichenbach, and said, gently, softly said, It doesn’t have to be exile, Donald. Please, stay here, with me, please, with Christ and with God…
Another mission, another lie? Fuck you, said Donald Reichenbach, turning away, walking away…
A flood is coming, Donald, said Father Ilya, watching Donald Reichenbach opening the gates. Please, Donald, I can help you hold on, hold on together…
Donald Reichenbach stepped through the black gates, turned to pull them closed again…
Please, Donald, you’ll be swept away, washed away.
Donald Reichenbach glanced up through the iron bars, back at the man in his dress with his chain, on his concrete bench in his concrete garden, in the shadow of the cathedral, his ark and his cover, and smiled, then he turned and slowly, slowly walked away, down the slope, the hill, back into exile.
* * *
—
In the wet, black night, in the damp, yellow house, it is the Fourth of July,
Independence Day, Nineteen Hundred and Forty-nine, and you are alone, yet not alone, here yet not here: tucked up in bed, in your single bed, with your books, all your books, your Japanese books: reading and studying, practicing translating, with Genji, always Genji: at night, by night, you love to take the retellings by Yosano and Tanizaki, love then to compare them – as best you can – with the original text, love then to return to the Waley translation, and then love, love to get lost, lost in these words, these characters and their world, at night, by night, in love, in love, with a different world, a different you, at night, by night: you look up from your books, your Japanese books, back from that world, back in this world: hear a car pull up outside in the street, then silence, in the silence, the long silence, you wait, you listen: hear a car door close, then the garden gate close, her heels up the path, then her key in the door: the door slammed shut, her heels kicked off, her stocking feet up the stairs now, you watch her fall through your door now, flop down upon your bed, your books, your legs, flat on her back, eyes open and wide, mouth open and wide, Mary giggles, then laughs: Happy Fourth of July, Donny – did you miss me, dear Ducky? Unbearably so?
You close your books, your Japanese books, prop yourself up, up on your pillow: you stroke her hair, her damp hair, and smile and say, Inconsolablement, naturellement.
Merci, she giggles again, mon cher mari.
Her lipstick smudged, dress ridden up, you play with a strand of her hair and ask, Did Mary-chan have a good time?
She sure did, she laughs. A swell time!
She sure smells sure swell…
Now, now, she says, turning onto her side to look up, smile up at you: to reach up to touch, to pinch, to pull your cheek. Don’t be such a puritan Ducky, dear Donny.
You laugh: Go on then, dear, do tell…
Well, she says, rolling onto her stomach, still on your legs, still looking up, smiling up at you. There were parades and there were speeches, fireworks and songs, all the songs: “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “God Bless America,” “America the Beautiful,” “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” – and she starts to hum, and then to sing – Sweet land of liberty, / of thee I sing; / Land where my fathers died, / Land of the pilgrims’ pride, / From ev’ry –
