by Meira Chand
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘She found some newborn kittens under the verandah, and wanted to keep them. It is her bedtime, she is tired,’ the woman laughed.
Through the half-open shutter he saw Naomi, clinging to the hand of a maid, practising her first steps along the verandah. Her hair was wet from her evening bath and she wore a brightly-patterned yukata. Sometimes he took his daughter to the zoo, a beach or a shrine. The occasions were rare and, much as he wished, he could not enjoy them. When he looked at Naomi he saw Jacqueline. In the delicate bones and grey eyes, in skin like the lining of a shell, his wife appeared seamlessly within the child. It was over a year since Jacqueline’s death. Memory still gripped him unbearably.
The garden of the house was fading into darkness. Usually he enjoyed this hour, on the cusp of day and night, but this evening a restlessness filled him. He looked again at the paper before him and edited a word here or there. He knew he was writing to empty himself, pressured not only by grief but by the months of stress in Japan. After Jacqueline’s death the anger in him mounted; everything exacerbated his loss. His life seemed manipulated to confine him.
Kenjiro watched as Naomi was restrained by the maid from climbing off the balcony into the garden. She struggled, flailing against the woman. Although she was installed with a maid in the furthest wing, her cries crossed the garden to Kenjiro. The child cried, said his mother, no more than all children, no more than Kenjiro himself as an infant. But at night in his dreams her sorrow mixed with his own.
Jacqueline had decided before the birth that, if the child was a girl, they would call her Naomi. Although a common Japanese name, its biblical connotation beyond Japan made it appear bicultural. Jacqueline felt this an appropriate way to set about the naming of their child. After the birth she lived only long enough to hold Naomi and whisper her name.
If he had not insisted they return from France, perhaps Jacqueline would still be alive. French doctors might have handled the birth differently, in a hospital instead of at home, with the right equipment at hand. Kenjiro blamed himself. His father had not agreed to the match. They had married in Paris without his consent. Within a few months Jacqueline became pregnant and Kenjiro decided to return to Japan. He had grown weary of exile in France. In Japan a diplomatic career awaited him, he had already passed the Foreign Service exams. Kenjiro had secretly hoped for a son, and wanted him born in Japan, to deepen the hybrid rooting. And anxious by now for the restoration of his only son, Yuzuru Nozaki encouraged the idea. His letters were brushed with compromise. If Jacqueline was still alive Naomi might not be crying. Probably, Jacqueline would have kept one of the kittens Naomi had found. The old weight in his body returned at the thought of his wife.
In a remaining illuminated window Kenjiro glimpsed his father on his way to the bath. The light in the corridor shone on his bald head. Virility powered his stance, his walk, the directness of his stare. A maid scuttled behind him, to scrub his back. He was a handsome man, barrel-chested and of unusual height; perennially attractive to women. His face was heavy with thrusting features and deeply-hooded eyes. Kenjiro had inherited his height but was slim, with his mother’s sensitive boning. At last Kenjiro undressed, tying the thin blue yukata about himself and followed his father to the bath. Eventually, he walked to the room where his father waited, a porcelain flask of sake already before him.
Kenjiro bowed, then sat at the low table opposite his father. A maid hurried in with more hot sake for Kenjiro. Yuzuru began to talk about the Coronation in Kyoto. There had been many Shinto rites of purification. These esoteric ceremonies were hidden from the mass of guests, in the innermost chambers of court buildings. Many banquets supplemented the formality of ritual, and these Yuzuru had enjoyed. Kenjiro listened patiently. His father’s face was inflamed by drink and pride at his own eminence. Not many bureaucrats had received invitations from the Imperial Household.
Kenjiro knew his father had taken Oyasu with him to Kyoto. For many years she had been Yuzuru’s chief mistress, set up in a house of her own. He had watched his mother pack a suitcase for the visit to Kyoto. In it she included a medicinal soap his father used after an amorous hour, and an aphrodisiac to be drunk twenty minutes before intercourse. She did these things unemotionally; her duties lay elsewhere. Had a son resulted from the liaison he might have come to live in the main house, to be reared by Kenjiro’s mother. They were spared this trauma as Oyasu had never carried a child full term. If there were offspring from other liaisons, Kenjiro knew nothing of them.
‘There was much talk in Kyoto of Chang Tso-lin. They say his death was the work of Manchurian bandits,’ Yuzuru announced, refilling his glass.
‘It is the official explanation, what else could they say?’ Kenjiro replied, watching his father throw back a small cup of sake. The controversy raging throughout Japan about the death in China of the Manchurian warlord, Chang Tso-lin, had quieted during the Coronation when the newspapers had other matters to report.
‘It was a plot by our Imperial Army. He was not assassinated by his own people,’ Kenjiro told his father. In spite of the difficulties of their relationship, in the area of political argument they found a meeting place, like two boxers in a ring.
Yuzuru sipped his sake. ‘Chang Tso-lin fought with us against Russia in the 1905 war. He was our best insurance against Russian encroachment in Manchuria. He should not have been killed.’
‘Chang Tso-lin was the main obstacle to our own encroachment in Manchuria,’ Kenjiro replied. ‘The problem of Manchuria may be the new Emperor’s greatest test. Already there are people in Japan who dream of one day conquering China. Why must we want what is not ours?’
‘Because Japan needs land and raw products to survive. Because the Chinese are weak and the Manchurians so disunited they allow themselves to be governed by whoever wants the job. If Russia gets into China they’ll soon flood over the water and attempt to conquer Japan. That’s what Russia has in mind. We have no choice but to see that day never comes. We must advance instead before Russia takes a step.’
Yuzuru finished his sake and then continued. ‘The money of the big business conglomerates is needed if we are to take over Manchuria.’ Yuzuru refilled the sake cups. He flexed the muscles of his jaw, anger flushed through him.
‘In Kyoto I was confronted by that weasel, Tajima. He was sent to warn me you are in great trouble. You have gone too far with these stupid writings. Who gave you these ideas? There is a limit to how much my name will protect you. I have been told that if you leave the country immediately, these articles will be overlooked. If not, the risk of arrest is great. Have you ever considered my feelings or those of your mother? She has not slept for nights.’
Kenjiro started in shock. ‘Have you seen the article?’ It had not occurred to him that his father would know about his writing.
‘I do not need to read it. I can imagine what is written only too well.’
Yuzuru Nozaki looked at Kenjiro over his cup of sake. He was not pleased with his son’s drawn expression, nor by the outrageous articles he had taken to writing. More than this he was worried. Kenjiro faced danger from the growing reactionary elements in the country. There were escalating arrests of young men with dangerous ideas. Ideas. It was easy to do no more than talk. The boy took after his mother. He suspected his wife might even now encourage the growth of her son’s ideas. She herself had once had intellectual leanings, but marriage and its duties soon eradicated this.
He gazed in irritation at his son, and saw only weakness. He observed the naked rise of emotion that could spread like a blush through his face. The smooth boning and unobtrusive jaw did not appear manly enough. The deep-set eyes, elongated lids drawn taut, were better made for a woman. He wore his hair too long and did not drink enough. There was too much restraint where there should have been none, and too little where discretion was needed. Only in the sensuous mouth could Yuzuru see himself in his son. He gulped back his sake in irritation.
In
his youth Yuzuru Nozaki had made a Grand Tour of Europe. He found Japanese compatriots in Paris of all ranks. The taste of their rumbustious life and the seductiveness of the women, made him loath to return to Japan. Those Paris friends were now men of power in the military and Civil Service, and Yuzuru himself was a bureaucrat of some standing. He had entered the Ministry of Commerce and Industry, realising the importance of the stock exchange in the financial world. In this ministry he also saw quick promotion and had risen speedily.
When a foreign tour was arranged for his son, he warned him from experience of the dangers that might allure. Of the sermon one morning Kenjiro remembered little but excitement at the very things his father suggested avoiding. The women, Kenjiro was advised, were for use and not attachment. From France he might bring curios, silks, fine porcelain, sophistication and sexual experience. He was not to return with a wife. Such liaisons were lower-class and exposed men who could not control their emotions. All advice was forgotten before Jacqueline.
‘What will be the state of this country if all free thought is suppressed? What future will there be under a military regime . . .’ Kenjiro began to protest.
‘I also met Watanabe,’ Yuzuru interrupted, his face red with fury. ‘I spoke with him about you. As you know he is in the Gaimusho. He holds a high post in the European and American Affairs Bureau. He will do what he can; he owes me a favour. Before you went to France you were ready to enter the Foreign Service. I suggest you waste no further time but take up your career immediately. You are already twenty-five. Leave off this radical nonsense. It is the stuff of students, not grown men. Watanabe will see you get a good posting. Perhaps you will find yourself back in Europe. I expect that would please you.’
Kenjiro let his father’s rage explode before replying.‘We must fight the ideas of Fascism . . .’
‘I have had enough of your ideas.’ Yuzuru struck his fist upon the table. ‘The Western-style democracy you preach has no place in Japan. Our traditional patterns of obligation will never change.’
‘Which means the influence of the men like Okawa and corrupt political and financial cliques will continue to supersede the will of the people. This frame of mind will bring us disaster,’ Kenjiro insisted.
‘Bah!’ Yuzuru raged. ‘At the moment it is you who is facing disaster.’
Kenjiro could not sleep. Only through his father’s contacts would he now be taken into the Foreign Service and given a posting abroad. Even then he would be watched by the Military Police wherever he went in the world. He would have to be circumspect. He was to leave Japan because he could not agree with the trend in the country. Yet, to escape, he must enter the very bastion of those mores he disagreed with; the representation abroad of the Government and country. How would he cope, he suddenly wondered, with the crucial choices of this conflict?
In the dark Kenjiro listened to the creaks of contracting wood in the old house. He thought he heard Naomi cry but when he listened it was only a cat. Whatever the future he felt impatient to get on with it. The stress of the past two years had calcified about him. He could not wait now to get away.
The cat wailed again. Kenjiro raised himself on an elbow. He had opened the shutters after Chieko closed them, as he did each night. It confused her to have her routine disturbed, but he liked to see the first light break. After Jacqueline’s death he moved from the Western-style room they had shared. Now, he slept Japanese style again. His room opened onto the verandah and the garden. He often woke early and from his quilts watched the old lantern come into focus and the camellia gather light. The garden was part of his childhood. The lantern was old and weathered green with lichen. It stood like a sentinel amongst the rocks and small pruned shrubs, impervious to time. The Great Kanto Earthquake had toppled but not broken it. Each morning, from his bed, he watched it re-form with the light.
The sound came again; the creak of wood on the verandah. He wondered if a maid was moving around, but the footstep was heavy. There was a full moon and it showed a man, trying the shutters of each window. The shape of another intruder appeared, the moonlight gleamed on a gun in his hand. Kenjiro drew back inside the room. The men were not common thieves. No pilferer carried a gun. To arrest him, even at midnight, police would come straight to the door. These men must have been sent by some vindictive right-wing organisation.
There was the creak again of wood. The men slipped through a door to the servants’ quarters. Kenjiro made his way silently to the phone in the main room and dialled the police. His father kept several swords wrapped in silk in a chest in his study, family possessions of another era when men of standing all wore swords. There was also a revolver, he remembered. He walked quickly towards the study.
Before he could reach the room, screaming began. The servants had woken. There was the vibration of running feet, falling screens and voices. Gunshot spat out. For a moment in the darkness all movement stopped. Kenjiro slipped into his father’s study, opening the chest where the swords were kept. He found the revolver and drew it from its case. It was old and there were no bullets. He heard another shot.
The corridor was dark. At the top of the stairs light shone from his parents’ room. His mother screamed and Kenjiro ran forward. Above him two men backed onto the landing. He flattened himself against the wall as they came down the stairs. If he was quick he could take them by surprise. He stepped out of the shadow, gripping the gun, hoping the bluff would work. The men turned, wild-eyed. Scarves were wrapped around their faces.
There was a sudden movement above them on the stairs. Old Chieko stood upon the top step, staring fixedly at Kenjiro. The men looked up. The crack of a gun burst in Kenjiro’s ears. Old Chieko swayed, clinging to the banisters, her eyes still fixed upon Kenjiro. The dark stain of blood spread slowly through her kimono. Her knees buckled beneath her and she slid down the steps like a limp sack of grain.
From outside the house came voices and a banging upon the door. The police announced their arrival. The men with guns turned and ran into Kenjiro’s room, dropping down into the garden from the verandah. They swung themselves up through the branches of a pine, jumped over the wall, and ran off into the night.
Kenjiro bent over Chieko. Her limbs were splayed out at odd angles, like the rag doll Naomi played with. He knew she was dead. The parted kimono revealed her legs, thin as a bird’s above split-toed white socks. She had taken the bullet meant for him. He thought suddenly of Naomi and turned towards her room.
‘She’s all right,’ his mother shouted from the top of the stairs. He looked up and saw his father, a towel pressed to his arm, the sleeve of his kimono wet with blood.
‘It’s only a graze, nothing more,’ Yuzuru said.
‘Call the doctor,’ Shizuko Nozaki ordered a servant.
The police were all around now, running after the intruders, examining Chieko. The chief officer was already questioning the servants.
Yuzuru led the way to the room where earlier he and Kenjiro had eaten dinner. A servant brought tea for the police and brandy for Yuzuru and Kenjiro. The doctor arrived and Yuzuru retired with him to another room for the wound on his arm to be dressed. The police officer was a local man, known to the Nozakis. He was apologetic, affronted by the audacity of the event.
‘They are not ordinary thieves,’ he announced. ‘Thieves do not carry guns.’ Kenjiro said nothing but Yuzuru, returning to the room, was direct.
‘There is the possibility of some misunderstanding. The men may be acquaintances under the wrong impression concerning the politics of my son. I do not wish you to pursue the men, nor for you to record the incident. Do me this favour please. It is a matter that we will settle amicably.’
The police officer understood. ‘If that is your wish, if no harm has been done, then of course I respect your feelings.’ He looked through the open door at Chieko’s body, covered by a sheet.
‘She was an old woman,’ Yuzuru said, following his gaze. ‘She has no living relative. Even the shock of such an upset could hav
e given a heart attack to someone of her years. She has been in weak health for some time.’ The officer nodded and with his men soon left the house.
Kenjiro watched him bow low before his father. The next day a gift of delicacies and money would be sent from the house to the police station. The doctor who dressed Yuzuru’s wound had not been informed of Chieko’s death and so was unaware.
Soon they were alone. Shizuko sat in a corner, dabbing her eyes with a folded square of muslin. The bullet had not entered Yuzuru’s flesh, the wound was light. Kenjiro sat silent before his parents. At last Yuzuru spoke.
‘Tomorrow you must go to your Uncle Juichi. You will be safe there. Your mother and Naomi will go with you. I will arrange things at once with Watanabe. As soon as he has secured a posting you can leave the country, and after that your mother and Naomi will return here, to the house. Meanwhile, some country air will do them good.’ Yuzuru’s voice was calm.
Uncle Juichi lived in the remote mountains of Nagano, a cousin of Yuzuru’s whom the family considered a country bumpkin, in spite of his wealth from considerable holdings. Kenjiro bowed before his father, his brow touching the matted floor. He was grateful to be spared any outburst. His father made him feel as he had in childhood, inadequate before his superior talents.
3
Tokyo
1930
The train journey from Kobe to Tokyo took many hours. The train steamed through land textured by paddies, tea bushes, fields of radish and the constant shadow of mountains. Although he had been ten days in the country, it was Tilik Dayal’s first proper glimpse of Japan. So much had happened in the last few weeks. His life had been stood on end.
