9

The End of the Line

Summer 1949, Winter 1988

The Man Who Loves Trains leaves his British-style house in Kami-ikegami, Ōta Ward, between quarter past and half past eight every morning. Every morning, he gets into the black 1941 Buick Sedan, License Number 41173, provided for him by the National Railways, driven by his regular driver, Ōnishi. Most mornings, he will ask Ōnishi to take him directly to his office at the headquarters of Japan National Railways in Marunouchi, central Tokyo. He has recently been appointed the very first President of the newly created Japan National Railways; for the Man Who Loves Trains, who has always loved trains, you might think this job is the fulfillment of all his dreams, his childhood dreams as the Boy Who Loved Trains –

His nickname at school had been Tetsudō-sensei, “Professor Railroad,” in recognition of his ability to recite – from memory, by heart – the name of every station in Japan, from Wakkanai in Hokkaidō to Kagoshima in Kyushu; not only the names of the stations, but huge chunks of the timetable, the individual names and numbers of each locomotive, and how many passenger cars formed each train. Later, after he had graduated from the Engineering Department of Tokyo Imperial University and started working in the Transportation Bureau of the Ministry of Railways, he became known as “the Owl,” in part due to the Harold Lloyd spectacles he wore but also from his habit of slowly turning his face to look at someone when they addressed him. Throughout his career, he has always been popular among his colleagues; he refrains from alcohol due to a persistent stomach condition, but learned to compensate for this social handicap with a repertoire of magic tricks. He is also known as a devoted son to his mother; during his interview for the Ministry of Railways, when asked who he most respected in the world, he had replied, My mother, sir. He is an equally devoted father to his four sons and husband to his wife; when he had been sent abroad on a two-year tour of the railways of the world, from February 1936 to December 1937, he wrote almost six hundred and fifty letters and postcards to his wife and children back home in Japan. Back home in Japan, the National Service Draft Ordinance and the Mobilization Law had placed the nation in a state of Total War; in 1939, he was seconded to the Ministry of the Army, attached to the Third (Transportation and Communications) Bureau of the Imperial General Headquarters; he was sent on “missions” to Karafuto, Manshūkoku, China, Korea, and French Indochina, then later to Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore, and twice to Malaysia and the East Indies. By July 1941, he was working as a technical officer for the Planning Board of the Prime Minister’s Office; he was responsible for transportation and he had a vision: for war to become victory, transportation had to be efficient; to be efficient, transportation had to be modernized and standardized; modernization and standardization required rapid advances in science and technology; such rapid advances could only be achieved through the founding and funding of a separate new Agency of Technology. Following his successful lobbying of bureaucrats, politicians, and the military, the Agency of Technology was founded in January 1942, and he was appointed as head of the first department of its first section, in charge of General Affairs, with overall control of the Agency. His superiors, subordinates, and colleagues all noted that he had the rare ability to combine being both an engineer and a bureaucrat, of being able to explain complicated scientific and technological matters in a simple way to non-scientific and technological minds, particularly in the military. He was known to research thoroughly the backgrounds of every person he met – where they were born, which high schools and universities they had graduated from – and it was said he had inherited this political talent from his father, who had been a judge. But his family knew all the political and military machinations and maneuverings were taking their toll: he was hospitalized on a number of occasions for exhaustion and stomach ulcers. His family knew he just wanted the war to end and then to be able to return to the Ministry of Railways; he missed and pined for the railways and the trains, their absence only deepening, strengthening his enthusiasm and love. In late 1944, he got his wish, transferred back to the Ministry of Railways, promoted to Director of the Service Department, but it was only part of his wish: though defeat seemed inevitable, the war had yet to end; night after night, the destruction raining down from the skies grew only fiercer and fiercer, and, day by day, the difficulties in keeping the trains running only got harder and harder; the trains had to keep running, the railways being the lifeline of the country, but, he wrote, If I am to die, and I am certain I shall die, then I would rather die, and wish to die, in the service of that which I love most: the railways.

But he did not die and nor, in large part thanks to him, did his railways. After the defeat and the surrender, during the immediate Confusion and then Occupation, when repairing and maintaining the railways was a matter of life and death, this was perhaps his finest hour, the hour of his greatest achievement: the damage to the infrastructure of the railways, to both the railroads and the rolling stock, was tremendous, nigh on catastrophic, but he created and then implemented his “parallel diagram timetable,” which allowed both passenger and freight trains to run on the same, single lines, at the same speeds, at alternating intervals. It was a simple idea, but only he had thought of it, and only he would have been able to persuade the Minister to accept and then implement it. His “parallel diagram timetable” proved the only way the country could maintain a reliable transportation system while repairing infrastructure and improving capacity. He had saved the railways, and thus allowed the people and the country to survive. In recognition, he became Director of the Tokyo Railway Bureau in March 1946, then Vice Minister at the Ministry of Transportation in April 1948, and, finally, the very first President of the new Japan National Railways in June 1949, with his own chauffeur-driven car.

But the Man Who Loves Trains does not particularly care for cars. So some mornings, between quarter past and half past eight, when he gets into the back of the black 1941 Buick Sedan, License Number 41173, he asks Ōnishi to drop him at Shinagawa station. He would like to take the train every day; he believes all employees of the National Railways, even executives, should always travel to work by train. But he worries if he always uses the train, then his driver will be laid off; a lot of people are being laid off, or are about to be laid off, by order of GHQ SCAP. As he walks into Shinagawa station, as he climbs the stairs, stands on the platform, and then, in the passenger car, on his way to work, he cannot miss the daily headlines on the front of every paper –

TIME HAS COME FOR JAPAN TO DECREASE DEPENDENCE ON U.S. AID, DODGE WARNS / DODGE SAYS JAPAN HAS BEEN LIVING BEYOND ITS MEANS FOR TOO LONG – Government Must Slash Expenditure at Any Cost, He Declares / LABOR UNIONS CONFIRM STRUGGLE POLICY – Stiff Fight is Planned / GOV’T IS EXPECTED TO CUT PERSONNEL BY HALF A MILLION – Administrative Reform Bills Slated to Go Before Diet Next Week / OCCUPATION PERSONNEL WARNED TO STAY INDOORS – Japan’s Communists and Labor set to Celebrate Fourth Postwar May Day / PERSONNEL SLASH OF 267,000 IS SET – TPO Bill Puts Limit of Gov’t Workers at 871,000 / MASS DISMISSALS SEEN AS BILL OK’D – 419,000 Gov’t Workers Slated for Discharge / NEW RAILWAY BODY BEGINS WORK – the New Japan National Railway Corporation Began Functioning Yesterday with Former-Transportation Vice-Minister Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama as First President …

He is no longer known as Tetsudō-sensei, no longer known as “the Owl”; now he is known as “Lucky Boy.” But standing in the passenger car, on his way to work, reading the newspaper headlines, knowing what he has to do, knowing he has to dismiss one hundred thousand fellow employees, knowing the price the one hundred thousand fellow employees and their families will have to pay, he and his own family will have to pay, by order of the government, by order of GHQ SCAP, he does not feel a “lucky boy” at all; he feels cursed, he feels doomed, has done for months. I’m not sure, he told one friend in May, but maybe I’ll be appointed President. And if I am, the dismissal job will be a tough one. I may even be killed. After he had been appointed President, when he was congratulated by the Chairman of the National Railway Workers Union, he said, It’s embarrassing. I’ve been carrying around a letter of resignation in my pocket. Just waiting for the right timing. Large-scale dismissals are inevitable, he told his younger sister, in front of his wife, but it’s not fair if the one who fires so many people then keeps his job, and so I will resign in June. I will leave the world of bureaucracy, he told another friend. Return to my hometown and rest for two years. But he could not resign, he could not rest, could not sleep: I’m unable to sleep, to eat, or even think straight, he told the doctor at Tokyo Tetsudō Byōin, the Railway’s own hospital, due to the “strike issue.” The doctor diagnosed a “mild nervous breakdown and gastritis,” prescribed a course of vitamin injections, a glucose solution, and Brobalin to help him sleep. But still he could not sleep, could not rest or resign. They would not let him; they needed a scapegoat. I’ve been put on the chopping block, he told an old friend. Like a sacrifice …

Cursed and doomed, he feels marked and watched, and he’s right; he has been marked, he is being watched: in his car to the office or on the train to his office, at his office and in his meetings, his meetings with his colleagues and with the unions, with politicians and with GHQ, whomever he meets and wherever he goes, he is always being watched; watched by people from the unions, watched by people against the unions, watched by people from GHQ, and watched by people who have been hired by Mary and you, and by other people, too, watched by people you didn’t hire, people you don’t know. In the summer of 1949, everybody is watching the Man Who Loves Trains, watching Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama.

 

You’re actually very lucky, Donald, said Doctor Morgan.

Well, I don’t feel lucky, doc, not lucky at all.

Well, you should, said Doctor Morgan, what with all your smoking and drinking, the way you’ve carried on. Because there’s really nothing wrong with you, Donald, least not physically, not seriously. It’s all in your head, dear.

But you will give me more pills?

Yes, dear, sighed Doctor Morgan, turning back to his narrow desk and picking up his pen.

Donald Reichenbach swallowed, then said, Could you give me quite a lot, doc, save me keep coming back?

With pleasure, laughed Doctor Morgan. He stopped writing, tore off a sheet of paper, then turned back round from the desk and the prescription pad. As long as you do promise you’re not going to do anything silly, anything dramatic, dear?

Donald Reichenbach took the prescription, shook his head, smiled, and said, Of course not, doc. Thank you.

Not planning to do a General Nogi on us, are you, dear, laughed Doctor Morgan again. Re-enact Kokoro in Yushima when old Hirohito finally shuffles off stage left?

Donald Reichenbach smiled again, then said, Only a matter of time now, I suppose, doc.

It’s only ever a matter of time, said Doctor Morgan, standing up, walking over to open the door.

Donald Reichenbach swallowed again, then said, I saw her, you know? That woman I was telling you about.

That’s nice, dear, said Doctor Morgan, the door open now. Good to get out, meet new people. Helps keep us young.

Donald Reichenbach said, Not in this case.

Oh, said Doctor Morgan, pointedly glancing at his watch, then the hallway. A disappointment, was she, dear?

She’s the daughter of Gloria Wilson – you remember her, doc? She was asking about Harry Sweeney, wanting to know what happened to him. She knows what I used to do, doc, who I used to be. Even mentioned Mary …

Doctor Morgan closed the door again. He walked over to Donald Reichenbach still sat on the edge of the bed. He said, Donald, Gloria Wilson died childless of cancer fifteen, maybe twenty years ago now. What’s her name, this woman?

Julia Reeve, she says, said Donald Reichenbach, taking out his handkerchief. How do you know she’s dead?

Doctor Morgan shook his head, sighed, and said, Don’t start blubbering, Donald, you hardly knew the woman.

Not crying for her, said Donald Reichenbach, taking off his glasses, dabbing his eyes. But how do you know?

If you must know, Mary told me.

You kept in touch?

Doctor Morgan laughed: Don’t tell me you’re jealous?

I’m not jealous, I just want to know …

Doctor Morgan shook his head again and said, Christmas cards, the odd letter, that kind of thing –

Dear Miles, Gloria Wilson’s dead. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year, love Mary – that kind of thing?

Look, I don’t remember, said Doctor Morgan. Mary just said she’d heard that Gloria had died, that’s all. It must’ve been one of her last letters, if not her last, in fact.

Donald Reichenbach put on his glasses again, put his handkerchief away, and said, But you never said.

Really, Donald, sighed Doctor Morgan. Please do try and grow up, dear. There’s still time, you know?

Donald Reichenbach stared at Doctor Morgan: Is there, doc? I hope you’re right. But what about Harry?

Sweeney? What about him, Donald?

Did Mary mention him as well?

No, said Doctor Morgan. Why would she?

You know what happened to him, doc.

And so did she, and so do you.

Donald Reichenbach, still staring at Doctor Morgan, said, No, I know what you told me happened to him …

Donald, said Doctor Morgan, his voice low. What I told you happened to him is what happened to him: as soon as he was well enough, he was shipped back stateside.

And then, doc, then what?

I don’t know, Donald.

Is he still alive?

I don’t know, Donald, honestly, I don’t.

And you don’t care.

And nor should you, Donald, okay?

Donald Reichenbach nodded, then got up from the edge of the bed as he said, But she cares.

Who?

Donald Reichenbach looked up at Doctor Morgan, smiled, and said, This Julia Reeve woman. But don’t worry, doc, that’s what I’ll tell her.

Tell her what, said Doctor Morgan, barring his way.

Just what you’ve told me, doc.

If I was you, Donald, said Doctor Morgan, his voice still low, I wouldn’t tell her anything, or see her again.

She keeps calling. She knows where I live.

Then if I was you, Donald, said Doctor Morgan again, I’d tell her that if she calls or bothers you again, then you’ll contact the embassy and the Japanese police.

Why would I tell her that?

Because this sounds to me like blackmail, Donald.

Donald Reichenbach stared up at Doctor Morgan again and said, How can it be blackmail, doc? If what you say happened is what happened, then I’ve got nothing to hide.

Oh, don’t act so damn stupid, Donald, said Doctor Morgan. If it’s not blackmail, then she’s probably some kind of journalist or writer or something. Either way, you know as well as I do that the whole thing is still classified.

Donald Reichenbach smiled and said, In the interest of national security, right, doc?

The internal telephone on the narrow desk buzzed once and flashed red –

Exactly, said Doctor Morgan, glancing at the phone, then opening the door again. And so if you must see or speak to her again, Donald, then call her bluff. Tell her to save her damn questions for Washington and the State Department.

Donald Reichenbach looked down at the prescription in his hand, then back up at Doctor Morgan, and said, You know what Reeve means in Old English, Miles?

No, Donald, I don’t.

Donald Reichenbach smiled again, then blinked, blinked again, and said, A steward or a bailiff.

 

This is the list of the men we want rid of, the names he’s to make sure are included in the next round of dismissals, you say as you hand the envelope across the coffee-shop table, over the two cups and the ashtray to Kōji Terauchi –

Kōji Terauchi was employed on the railways prior to the draft and enlistment. He was captured in Manchuria and interned in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp. Upon repatriation, like thousands of other former railway employees he was reinstated and re-employed on the railways. And like thousands of others, he joined the National Railway Workers Union, and he joined Nihon Kyōsan-tō, the Japanese Communist Party, or at least that’s his story, so he says –

Kōji Terauchi is another of the men Mary found and hired, another of the eighteen native hires allowed under the finances provided by Frank, the ceiling dictated to the Rat Palace by Washington –

Kōji Terauchi takes the envelope, nods, then smiles and asks, Is it the same as the list I gave you?

With a few additions, you say.

Am I still on it?

Yes, you say. But don’t worry, you’ve done a good job so far. And your work’s not done yet. You’ll be okay.

He nods: Thank you.

You light another cigarette, exhale, then lower your voice and ask, So when and where’s the next meeting?

He’s nervous, almost a wreck – I mean, you’ve seen all those KILL SHIMOYAMA posters all over town? He’s had death threats, too, letters and calls – so he insists on somewhere public, a department store, either Shirokiya or Mitsukoshi.

You nod, you ask, When?

The morning after the first round of dismissals, says Kōji Terauchi. Early, before he starts work.

You nod, put out your cigarette, put the packet back in your pocket, pick up your hat, and stand up: Soon as you know the exact time and place, call the yellow house, okay?

Hey, he says. What about my money?

You lean down toward him, smile, and say, Mary’s the one with the money, not me, you know that.

Please, he whispers. I’m broke, I got nothing.

You take some yen from the pocket of your pants, unfold a few notes, put them down on the table: That’s all I got on me. Pick up the tab, then keep the change.

Gee, thanks, he says, looking down at the notes on the table, then laughs: You guys sure know how to beat the Reds.

You take your packet of cigarettes back out of your pocket, put it down on the notes, and say, Don’t waste ’em, yeah? We’re at war, and I got to get back to the front line –

You put on your hat, turn, and walk out of the Coffee Shop Hong Kong into the basement corridor. But you do not go up the stairs, back up and along the street, back to your cramped, tiny office in the Mitsui building. No, you check your watch, then the corridor, the faces, the eyes and the ears of the passers-by, the customers for the department store, and the passengers for the subway. You walk away from the coffee shop to the ticket gate, buy a ticket, then go through the gate, down the steps, down onto the platform –

You stand on the platform, watch the passengers getting off and on the trains heading east, the trains heading west. But you do not get on either train; you wait for the next trains, wait until every other passenger has boarded the next train heading west to Shibuya, then slip on board just as the doors are closing. You do not sit down; you stay stood up as the train passes through Nihonbashi, Kyōbashi, and Ginza, then get off the train again at Shimbashi. You go up the steps but do not exit the station. You go into the toilets and you take a piss. You come out of the toilets, check the passengers again, their faces, their eyes and their ears, then walk down the other flight of steps, down to the platform, the platform for the trains heading east. You stand on the platform, bend down to tighten your shoelaces, and do not board the first train. You wait until every other passenger has boarded the next train, then slip on board just as the doors are closing. You sit down, take off your hat, take out your handkerchief, and wipe your face, then your neck. You put away your handkerchief, put your hat back on, looking up and down the car, then left and right across the aisle at the women with their empty shopping bags, the men with their newspapers, reading their headlines –

RED-LED RIOTERS STIR DISORDERS IN NORTH JAPAN – Agitators Seize Police Stations in Taira, Koriyama / RAILROAD WORKERS WARNED AGAINST USING FORCE – President Shimoyama Reminds Employees that Union Directive to “Resort to Force” is Illegal / RAILWAY SABOTAGE CASES ON INCREASE – Four Cases in Tokyo: Throwing of Stones Against Passenger Trains Reported on Jōban line / GOV’T HELD READY FOR EMERGENCIES – Situation After Personnel Cut Can Be Handled, Minister says / RED INDOCTRINATION – Repatriates Schooled in Ideas of Communism, Told Nothing About Truth Here / INQUIRY DEMANDED INTO RED ACTIVITIES – JCP Accused of Plotting Revolt in Japan: Revolution by Force Sometime in August or September –

– 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 posted 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 –

Shh, you whisper, sat up straight now, your fingers to her lips, your head, your ear to the window, the street –

hear a car door close again, the garden gate close again, boots up the path, knuckles on the door: first tapping, then knocking, now banging on the door, your door –

Wait here, you say, pushing her off your legs, the books falling to the floor as you get out of bed, grab your robe, put it on, going out of the room, down the stairs –

at the foot of the stairs, you pause, you swallow, tighten the cord of your robe, then walk to the door, your ear, your lips to the wood of the door, you hiss, Who is it?

It’s me, comes a voice. Terauchi.

You open the door, the door she left unlocked, see him standing there, in the wet, black night, pale in the night: both pale with fear, with fright, you say, The hell you think –

I’m sorry, he says. But we need to speak –

Let him in, Don, says Mary behind you, coming down the stairs behind you, at the door now, beside you now, with her coat on now, her left hand in its pocket –

You open the door wider and let him in, show him through into the front room, sit him down, down at the table as Mary opens the cabinet, takes out a bottle and three glasses, puts them down on the table, uncorks the bottle, fills all three glasses, then smiles: Go on, Kōji …

He nods, takes a sip, a gulp from the drink in the glass, then begins to say, to babble, They’re going to kill him, kill Shimoyama, that’s what they say, tomorrow morning, that’s what I heard. We need to warn –

Who, asks Mary.

He looks up, up at you both, from Mary to you, then back to Mary, and says, Shimoyama, President Shimoyama.

Yes, says Mary. But who’s going to kill him?

He sips, gulps again, spills, dribbles his drink, then tries to say, to stammer, I don’t really know who …

You take the glass, the drink from his hands, put it down, down on the table, then grab the tops of his arms, stare into his eyes, hold his arms, his eyes, and say, Slow down, Kōji, slow down, and go back to the start, the beginning, and then tell us everything, and I mean everything –

He nods again, looks again from you to Mary, then back to you; you smile, let his eyes, his arms go, and then you wait, you wait for him to start –

I was in the Tokyo Railway Club tonight, he says, in Yūrakuchō tonight, when I saw this man, this man who was one of my superiors in the Kwantung Army, in Manchuria, but I hadn’t seen him since, though I knew he was back and was about, had heard he was doing well, well for himself, and …

What’s his name, asks Mary.

Kōji Terauchi looks again from Mary to you, then back to Mary, then whispers, Shiozawa. He’s a publisher now.

Go on, says Mary again, nodding, smiling.

Well, you know, so we start to talk, to drink, to swap and share stories, about the war, the people we knew, them who had died, those who’d survived, then about after, and now, who’s doing this, who’s doing that, and everything, what we’re doing, we’re thinking, about China, the Russians, America and Japan, you know, of course, all that’s going on, with Yoshida, the government, the railways, the strikes, the Commies and the Reds, all the shit that’s going on, what should be going on, how it should be done, what could be done, needs to be done, and we’re quite drunk by now, yeah, him more than me, when he says, suddenly leans forward and whispers and says, We could use a man like you, Terauchi, we could, a man who served his Emperor, his country, who still loves his Emperor, his country, who wants to see the Emperor, the country restored …

And what did you say, asks Mary.

I said what you’d told me to say, he says, if anyone asks, drops any hints, invitations, just like you told me to say, I say, I said, Any way I can, I want to serve, still serve, and he nods, but then, very quiet, so I almost can’t hear, he says, Remember back in China, how it was in Manchukuo, how sometimes we had to do bad things, things we didn’t like, didn’t want to do, but we had to do, still had to do, those bad things so good things, good things would come, would happen, good things for the Emperor, for Japan, you remember?

You look down at this man, this man who says his name is Kōji Terauchi, sat at your table, sat in your house, your yellow house, and say, you ask, And do you?

Shh, says Mary. Let him finish.

Kōji Terauchi, this man who says his name is Kōji Terauchi, he looks again from Mary to you, then back to Mary, then nods and says, Yeah, I remember, we all remember, and that’s what I told him, Yes, I remember, and then he nodded, he nods and he says, Good, that’s good, Terauchi, because it’s the same, always the same, he says, Manchukuo then, Tokyo now, the battle’s the same, the war is the same, and so we have to do bad things, things we don’t like, if we want to win the battle, then win the war, for the Emperor and for Japan, you agree, Terauchi, do you agree?

And of course you agreed, you say, you said yes?

He looks at you, then at Mary, and he nods and says, Of course I agreed, I said yes, like you told me to say …

Just let him finish, Don, says Mary. Please –

Thank you, he says, thank you, because this is the part, the part you need to hear, because now he said, he says, The only way to beat the Reds, to crush the Commies, and to win that battle and then this war, is to turn the people of Japan, the people of the world, against the Reds and the Commies, and the way to do that is to shock the people, leave them appalled and horrified, and the only way, the only way to do that is to do a bad thing to a good man, to sacrifice a good man …

Sadanori Shimoyama, you whisper –

Yeah, he says. He said, I know President Shimoyama, met him in Manchukuo, a long time ago now, but he remembered me, took my call, listened to what I had to say, about information I had, about Commies and Reds in the union, the railway union, and so he wants to meet me, because he trusts me, asked me to meet him tomorrow, tomorrow morning at Mitsukoshi, the Nihonbashi Mitsukoshi …

You grab Kōji Terauchi, this man who says his name is Kōji Terauchi, and shout, This is a crock of shit. Either he’s playing you or you’re playing us –

Then why did I come here, he shouts back. Why’m I telling you all this, telling you to warn Shimoyama?

Let go of him, Don, says Mary, taking your arm, pulling your arm off this man –

Hell knows, you say, but this is bullshit, goddamn bullshit. He just happens to run into this guy he says he ain’t seen since the end of the war, this guy who just happens to know Shimoyama and be –

Shut up, Don, shouts Mary, and then, softly now, she says, Please, Don, let him finish, let him tell us what the man wanted, why he’s obviously sought him out …

Because he knows I’m back working for the railways, says Kōji Terauchi. Knows I’m in the union, so he wants me to go with him to the meeting, put Shimoyama at his ease, then help persuade Shimoyama to go with us –

Go where, you ask. Where?

He didn’t say.

Kōji, says Mary, softly again, gently now. You think this man knows you’re working for us?

No, says Kōji Terauchi.

Are you sure?

Yes, he says. He would have said, I know he would.

Mary nods, nods again, then asks, And tomorrow morning, what time is the meeting, and where?

Nine forty-five, he says. At the foot of the central staircase on the first floor of the store.

Mary looks at you, then back at Kōji Terauchi, and asks, What time and where had you arranged to meet Shimoyama?

He looks at you, then back at Mary, and says, Around half past nine, but at Shirokiya, not Mitsukoshi.

Good, says Mary. That’s good; it means Shimoyama is still planning to keep his meeting with you, then to go on to Mitsukoshi to meet this guy Shiozawa.

Hold on, you say, turning again to this man, this man who calls himself Kōji Terauchi. What did you tell him? Did you agree, tell him you were in?

Yes, he said, then again, What else could I say?

Good, says Mary again. Very good, Kōji, you did the right thing, well done. So we stick to our plan –

What, you say, then, We have to –

We have to warn him, nods Kōji Terauchi.

Look, she says, says to you both. We need to give the list to Shimoyama, then Kōji can warn him.

But what about Shiozawa, you say, both say.

In the black, wet night, in the damp, yellow house, her coat still on, hand back in its pocket, Mary looks at you, looks at you both, then smiles at you, smiles at you both, and says, she says, I’ll deal with Shiozawa, boys, trust me –

After all, she laughs now, turning to you, staring at you, we’re all on the same side here – right, Don?

 

No, he said, shaking his head sadly, sadly smiling. No jam today, no jam to-morrow, as he put the jar back on the shelf and blinked, blinked again then turned away, wandering off down, down the aisle, then up, up another aisle. Even Meidi-ya, this store, his favorite store, seemed subdued, restrained, even in mourning, already in mourning. No Christmas decorations, piped carols this year, no, not this year. The same everywhere, all across town, the whole nation bowed, prostrate under this “Chrysanthemum Depression”: sales of end-of-year gifts and New Year’s cards were all down, people confused, uncertain whether it was appropriate or not to send cards which usually, traditionally carried celebratory messages, not when the Emperor was sick. Not sick, he’s dying, he said, though no one else ever dared, ever did, then whispered, whispered again to himself, May already even be dead. No wonder a record number of people – mainly young people, according to the Japan Travel Bureau man in the paper – had booked flights out of here. Who could possibly blame them? And at least, he thought, looking down at the basket in his hand, Meidi-ya had not canceled their orders for Stollen bread: as his mother had often said, though rarely ever been, One must always be grateful for small mercies, dear Donald. And at the counter, the register, the two kindly staff who carefully wrapped, then packed his wine, his sausages, red cabbage, and Stollen, they seemed most relieved, even delighted to take his money, not appalled at his lack of self-restraint, not appalled in the least. They even smiled, kindly smiled as they thanked and handed him his bag, warning him it was heavy, asking him to take care, please take care. And he did, did take care as he walked, slowly walked out of the store, said goodbye to this store, his favorite store, and turned, slowly turned to the stairs down, down to the subway, stopping first to catch his breath at the top, the top of the stairs, then carefully, paying attention, holding onto the handrail, he made his way down, slowly down the stairs, then along the corridor, the underground corridor to the ticket machines. He bought a ticket, then walked slowly through the gate and down, carefully down the next flight of stairs, holding the handrail, down onto the platform of Kyōbashi station.

On the platform, under the ground, he put down the bag, the heavy bag, caught his breath as he waited for the train, the Ginza line train, back to Ueno, to Grete and home. He blinked, blinked again, then felt the wind come down the platform, out of the tunnel, blowing the skirts of his coat, his thin strands of hair. He turned, bending down, picked up the bag, the heavy bag, and watched the train pull in, the doors open, the people get off, quickly off, then he shuffled, slowly shuffled through the doors, onto the train, the busy train, looking right then left for a space, for somewhere to sit, to rest. A young woman rose, offered him her seat, and he blushed, bowed, and thanked her, but did not refuse her, just sat down with his face still red, he knew, bright red: tomato-ojiisan, no, always gaijin-tomato-ojiisan, he knew. No wonder people glanced, then stared his way, questioning, asking why he was here, this strange, old, foreign man with his bright, shiny, red face and strange, foreign food in his bag at his feet, why the fuck was he here, still here? All these eyes, their stares, all said, they said, Can’t you see, don’t you know, you’ve outstayed your welcome, it’s time you went home, left and were gone? The doors were open again now, the train in Nihonbashi now, the kind young woman getting off now. He nodded, bowed his head, his thanks again, and though she didn’t see, would never know, it made him feel better, a little better. But not for long, no, not for long, more people getting on, so many getting, pushing on, glancing again, staring again, he felt breathless again, chest tight again, struggling to breathe, the air in the carriage humid and sweet, so humid and sweet. He stood up to get off, had to get off, but the doors were closing, already closed now, the train moving, already leaving. He edged through the people, gently through the people, though some still scowled, he knew, they scowled, but did not care, he did not care, his head against the door now, the window of the door now, the darkness of the tunnel, the underground tunnel, waiting for the light, the air, he was waiting for the light, the air of the platform, the platform of the next station, praying for the next station and the doors, for the doors to open, open again –

Bumped, jostled as he stepped through the doors, people pushed and passed around him, he almost slipped, almost fell, but did not slip, did not fall, on the platform, stood on the platform, now he turned, suddenly he turned, back to the doors, the doors closing, already closed now, the train leaving, already leaving now, pulling away, carrying away his wine, his sausages, red cabbage, and Stollen, all carried, all taken away.

Damn you, damn you, damn you, he said, his hands, his fingers under his glasses, over his eyes, his tears, aloud he said, he cried, Baka, baka, baka, you stupid, stupid fool!

He wiped, he dried his eyes with his fingers, his hands, then swallowed, sighed, then turned away, away from the space where the train, his bag had been and walked, slowly walked down the platform to the stairs, then began to climb up, slowly up the stairs, one by one, one by one, stopping every now and then, every now and every then to catch his breath, his breath again and curse, curse himself again, until he came to the top, the top of the stairs and went through, slowly through the gates, looking for the office, the lost property office – Don’t worry, Gre-chan, don’t worry: silly old Papa will get them to call up the line, every station on the line; they’ll find the bag, our bag, and keep it for us, dear Gre-chan, don’t worry; this is Japan – but where is the damn office, the lost property office, he thought, still looking this way and that, that way and –

This is Mitsukoshimae, he realized now, suddenly now as he stared down the corridor, the low-ceilinged corridor that led to the store, the Mitsukoshi department store, with its marble columns, its tiled floor. In fright, shock, he turned, looked away, away from the corridor, into a corner, the shadows, he looked, saw and knew, knew where he was, this place was, in this corner, its shadows, this place that was not here, but still there, in the corner, the shadows, which whispered and said, You don’t see us, they said, but we see you, see you, yes, we do, see you, in this place not here, not here but there, still there, see you, yes, we do, see you –

Sā-sā, rei, rei …

No, no, he said, but felt, now felt the ground tremble, then shake, beneath his feet, felt the plates move, then shift, under his feet, plates of time, plates of space, they trembled, then shook, they moved, then shifted, under his feet, from under his feet, knocking him back, pulling him down, but then, and now, back in the here, back in the now, he felt a hand, a hand on his back, his arm, holding him up, keeping him up, and he turned, slowly turned, saw her smile, heard her say, Is this a private apocalypse, or can anyone join?

You are following me –

She nodded, she said, Not me, no. I was just passing, saw you here, in this corner, smiling then sobbing, whispering to yourself, then shouting at yourself. I’m here to help.

I’ve lost something, left it behind, that’s all.

She nodded again and said, Not something. Someone.

 

Hell is he, you hiss, walking out of the shade, the shadows of the Shirokiya department store, coming up to Terauchi.

He looks at his watch, shakes his head, and says, I don’t know. It’s not like him. He’s never usually late.

Fuck, you say. Fuck. Come on –

And you start to walk, then run, the two of you run: through the morning, down Ginza Street, over the river, the Nihonbashi Bridge, then across the road, over to the store, the Mitsukoshi department store, the south entrance to the store: the cars down a side street, all parked up in a line: you walk down the line, pass a black Buick Sedan, Number 41173, its driver dozing, its back seat empty –

Fuck, you whisper.

In the shade, the shadows of this side street, this store, Terauchi wipes his face, his neck, looks again at his watch, shakes his head, and says, Hell we going to do now?

Come on, you say again, already crossing the road, walking toward the doors to the store –

He says, But Mary said –

Fuck Mary, you say, and walk through the doors, into the store, your hat pulled down low, but looking this way and that, that way and this, whispering, Where the hell is he?

At the foot of the central pillar on the first floor of the store, Terauchi wipes his face, his neck again, looks at his watch again, and says, Maybe he’s stood us all up?

The fuck is his driver doing out there then, you say, looking at your own watch. We’re too late …

Or maybe Mary warned him?

Then where the fuck are they, you say, and reach inside your jacket pocket, take out your notebook and pen, tear off a sheet of paper, scrawl a name, a number, then hand the sheet of paper, its scrawl to Terauchi: Go down to the basement, that Coffee Shop Hong Kong, the place we usually meet, there’s a phone in there. Dial this number, then ask for this man –

Sweeney, asks Terauchi, reading your scrawl.

Yeah, you nod. A police investigator, Public Safety. Man’s famous, broke up the markets and gangs.

But what the hell should I say?

Tell him President Shimoyama has been abducted, kidnapped at Nihonbashi Mitsukoshi.

We don’t know that …

Yes, we do, you say. I fucking do, so just make the goddamn call, then wait for me there, you hiss, turning to start looking again, around the store, the first floor of the store, your hat still low, but still looking, looking this way and that, that way and this, walking through the Cosmetics section, Miscellaneous Goods, then the section selling shoes: past display cases, glass counters, the endless reflections, the tricks of the light: twice, twice you think you see him, spot him walking up ahead: sure, so sure it’s him as you quicken your pace, pass and overtake, then turn to find, to see you’re wrong, twice you’re wrong: whispering over and over, It’s gone wrong, gone wrong, then again and again, Where’s he gone, he gone, as you check the toilets, the empty toilets, then take the stairs down, Staircase H down, down to the basement, still looking this way and that, then that way and this: past the customer service desk, then out through the doors, the underground doors, into the corridor, the underground passage, knowing he’s here, somewhere he’s here, still goddamn here –

I’ve found him, I’ve found him, says Terauchi, walking down the corridor, coming toward you –

You grab him, say, Where?

In the coffee shop …

Who’s he with?

Shiozawa …

Fuck, you say, then, They see you?

He shakes his head, says, No, I don’t think so. I was on the phone when they came in …

You spoke to Sweeney then?

He shakes his head again, says, No, I was waiting to, just about to, when in they come, Shimoyama and Shiozawa, so I hung up. Didn’t know what else I should do, just didn’t want them to see me, did I, so I just hung up …

But they’re still in there?

He nods, says, I guess so – they’ve just ordered something to drink, look pretty deep in conversation, not like they’re going anywhere …

You see anyone else, you say, looking around you, up and down the corridor, the passage. Recognize anyone else?

He shakes his head, says, No. Just them two.

Okay, you say, looking around you again, up and down the corridor, the passage again, thinking, wondering –

What we going to do, says Terauchi.

We wait and we watch.

What about Mary?

You see Mary?

He shakes his head again, says, No.

Right then, you say. Then you do what I say: you stand over there, by that column over there, and you watch the door of the Hong Kong and you wait, while I watch from here.

And when they come out, then what?

You do what I say, you tell him again. Okay?

Fuck, he mutters as he walks off, still shaking his head, off behind the column, to stand behind the column, to watch the door to the coffee shop and wait, and watch, and wait –

And watch, and wait, and watch: you keep checking your watch, watching the door, waiting and watching: thinking and wondering, The fuck you will do, do when –

The door to the coffee shop opens: Shimoyama and this man who must be Shiozawa step out, they shake hands, then part ways: Shimoyama heads for the gate to the subway, Shiozawa toward the stairs to the street –

Fuck, you say, running over to Terauchi, grabbing Terauchi, hissing, Quick, gimme the list!

He takes an envelope from inside his jacket, hands it to you, and says, What we going to do?

Just follow Shiozawa!

But what are –

You run toward the ticket gate, push through the gate, and fly down the stairs, almost tripping, almost falling, onto the platform: a train heading east to Asakusa and a train heading west to Shibuya, both pulling in, in at the same time, the platform already busy, already crowded: you push your way up the platform, through the crowd, bumping, jostling the people, the people getting off, the people getting on, scanning the crowd, searching their faces, their hair, and their clothes: you see a pale summer suit, a hatless head, the side of a face, the temple of a spectacle frame, a Harold Lloyd-style frame: you see the back of this man boarding the train, the train heading east, east to Asakusa: you jump on this train, this same train, two cars down, down from this man, the doors almost catching, trapping your arm: you pull your jacket loose from the door and walk down the car, your car, into the next car, to the end of that car: you stand by the door which connects the two cars, your car and his, and you watch the man: the Man Who Loves Trains, Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama, standing in the car, holding onto a handle, swaying, rocking, back and forward, with the motion of the train, his head down, face in shadow, lost in thought, in shadow: you put the envelope, the list inside your jacket pocket for now, then take out your handkerchief, wipe your face, then your neck: you put your handkerchief back in the pocket of your pants, then glance again through the door, into the next car, at the man in the next car, this Man Who Loves Trains, as the train goes on through Kanda, Suehirochō, Hirokōji, then Ueno, this train stopping at each station, but this man staying on: on through Inarichō, Tawaramachi to Asakusa and the end of the line: you wipe your face, your neck again, quickly, quickly, put away your handkerchief again, take out the envelope, the list and follow this man, this man Shimoyama as he gets off the train, onto the platform, along the platform and up the stairs: at the top of the stairs, as he passes through the gate, you give a coin, an apology to the staff on the gate, then follow this man, this man Shimoyama, up the sloping passageway: your eyes on his head, the back of his head, his suit, his pale suit, glancing behind you, back behind you, every now and then, every now and every then, to check and check again, no one is watching you, no eyes on the back of your head, the back of your suit as you follow this man, this man Shimoyama, past the basement entrance to Matsuya, another department store, with the envelope, the list in your hand: you are waiting for the moment, the right moment, to tap this man, this man Shimoyama on his shoulder, then to hand him the list: but he sticks to the crowds, the crowds of people, as he walks up the steps to the Tōbu line station, then buys a ticket, another ticket, then heads up more stairs, a second flight of stairs, up to the platforms, the Tōbu line platforms: Fuck, you think, fuck again, the fuck is he going, as you buy a ticket, then follow him up, quickly, quickly, up the stairs, two at time, then pass through the gates, onto the platform: see this man among the crowds, the crowds of people, see him waiting to board, then boarding a train: Fuck, you think, fuck again, as you glance behind you, behind you again, looking for eyes, eyes watching you as you board the train, another train again, two cars down again as the doors close again: again you walk down the car, your car, into the next car, to the end of that car: again you stand by the door which connects the two cars, your car and his, and again you watch the man on the train, this Man Who Loves Trains, Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama, this time sitting down in the car, but again his head’s turned away, staring out of the window, as the doors close, the train pulls away, out of the station, away from Asakusa, lost in thought, in shadow: again you put the envelope, the list back inside your jacket pocket, for now: But when, you think, then when, as again you take out your handkerchief, again wipe your face, then your neck: again you put your handkerchief back in the pocket of your pants, then glance again through the door, into the next car, the man in the next car, this Man Who Loves Trains, still turned to the window, staring out of the window as the train crosses the river, the Sumida River, and goes on, on and on, through Narihirabashi, Hikifune, Tamanoi, Kanegafuchi, Horikiri, Ushida, then Kita-Senju, again this train stops at each station, but again this man, this Man Who Loves Trains he stays on, on as the train, this train crosses another bridge, another river, the Arakawa River, on and on it goes as he stays, on through Kosuge, on past the prison, over the Jōban line, the Jōban line tracks, on to Gotanno: suddenly, quickly he gets up and off –

Fuck, you think, fuck, as you follow him off, off the train, onto the platform, down the platform: Fuck is he doing here, why here, you wonder as you watch him wander: with the people, through the gates, where he stops, briefly stops to say something to the staff on the gate: you hang back, glancing back, back behind you, to check, check again, no one is watching you: watching you watching him as you follow him now, now through the gates, out of the station, Gotanno station: he turns left and begins to walk, walk south down a street, a wide, main street, past closed-up bars, closed-up restaurants, then a sweetshop, a hardware store, a tobacconist, and grocer’s, until he comes to a crossroads, a crossroads and stops –

Fuck, you think, think again, as you stop, turn, and glance back: see the street almost empty, no one around, about, not a soul about: Now, you think, now is your chance, turning back round, taking out the envelope, the list: you quicken your pace, catch up with this man, this man Shimoyama as he starts to turn left, to walk east: you reach out, touch his sleeve, the sleeve of his suit, his pale summer suit, and you say, breathless you say, President Shimoyama …?

What, he says, in Japanese, looking at you, staring at you through his Harold Lloyd frames, then again, What?

Excuse me, you say, in Japanese, too, looking at him, staring at him, this man in his Harold Lloyd frames, his pale summer suit, then say, I thought you were someone else.

He sneers, says, We all look the same, right?

If you want to, you say, if you try.

Still looking, staring at you through his Harold Lloyd frames, now he smiles, then he says, Of course, when we try. But remember: we’re all on the same side now – right?

Who the hell are you, you say.

Just someone you thought you knew, he says, then turns, walks away, away to the east, crossing the road, then over a narrow ditch, and disappears through the wooden gate of a gloomy, shabby, two-storied inn –

Fuck, you say, aloud you say, Fuck, fuck, fuck, at this crossroads, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, under the sun, this burning afternoon sun: you put the envelope, the list back inside your jacket, then take off your jacket, take out your handkerchief, wipe your face, your neck, then look at your watch: Fuck, fuck, again you say as you turn back, to walk back, back from the crossroads, the middle of nowhere, under the sun, the burning sun, back toward the station, all the fucking stations, and the trains, the fucking trains, back down the line, both fucking lines: first to Asakusa, then on down the line, the Ginza line, back to Mitsukoshimae and where you came in: thinking, wondering, What the fuck’s going on, hoping, praying something’s being done, praying and pleading it’s not gone wrong, not all gone wrong, as you go up the stairs and through the gates, walk past the coffee shop, the Coffee Shop Hong Kong, then along the corridor, the underground passage, back to the stairs, up to the street, onto the street, Ginza Street: again you look at your watch, again you think, Fuck, fuck, and turn left, along the street, Ginza Street: back toward the Mitsui building, your cramped, tiny office, thinking, wondering if you should’ve gone to Ochanomizu, should still go to see Kaz, glancing, looking again at your watch, thinking, knowing there might still be time, just enough time, deciding yes, yes, you should go, keep walking on, walking on: past your building, your office, you are walking away, when you feel a hand grab, grip your arm, and you turn, spin round: What –

You Don Reichenbach, says a hard, rough-looking young Korean man, in his gangster shirt and shades.

What you want?

Mary wants you to come with us, he says.

And what if I don’t want to?

His grip still tight on your arm, he raises his shirt with his other hand, shows you the pistol tucked in his pants, his military pants, and says, That’d be dumb, Don, Mary says, even for you, Don, very dumb, Don.

You nod, you smile, then say, Please, after you …

No, he says. After you, Don, I insist, we insist –

And he turns you to the curb, the big, black car parked at the curb, its back door already open, open and waiting, and he moves, bundles you into the back, the back of the car, then climbs in after you, on the back seat beside you, closing, slamming the door behind him, and on you –

Step on it, he tells the big man up front, a big man in a big winter coat. We’re already late …

May I ask where we’re going, you say, turning to the window, watching the Mitsui building, your office, and Nihonbashi disappear as the car speeds down Ginza Street.

Not far enough, he says.

I see, you say, and blink, then blink again as you stare out of the window as the car speeds on: on through Kanda, on into Ueno, then left at Hirokōji, up Avenue N, then right down a side street, up a back road, a slight slope, the car slowing down now, before a set of gates, the gates opening now, the car passing through the gates, past a sign, the sign which reads: OFF LIMITS: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.

 

They walked, side by side, in silence, through the gates of the Kyū-Iwasaki-tei Gardens, then up, slowly up the curving gravel slope, which led up, parallel to Muen-zaka, the Slope of the Dead, up and round to the old Iwasaki house, side by side, in silence still, they walked, slowly walked, until at the curve, the bend in the slope, he stopped, caught his breath, then said, At one time, you know, not so long ago, if one wished to visit these gardens, this house, then one had to apply to the Ministry of Justice for permission and an appointment, since it was their property, used to train Supreme Court judges, I believe.

She smiled, she said, Having first been confiscated by us, of course, these high walls and tall trees being perfect protection from prying eyes and awkward questions, hiding, keeping all the secrets, the black secrets of Hongō House.

I do wish you wouldn’t keep using that name, he said with a sigh. No one calls it that now, if they ever did.

She smiled again, then said, But they did, you know they did, and so did you.

He sighed again, stared up the slope, through the gloom, the early-winter, late-afternoon gloom, up toward the weak yellow light of the ticket booth at its top, unfortunately still open, it appeared. He sighed yet again, then swallowed, then said, You asked me to show you the Iwasaki house, and, most reluctantly, I agreed. But if you do want to see it, and see inside it, then we should hurry – it’ll be closing time soon.

She smiled, she said, That’s why we’re here.

Very well, he said as off he set, slowly set again. But we’ll have no more talk of Hongō House then, please. This is now, and almost always was, the Iwasaki house, built for the founders of Mitsubishi, designed by Josiah Conder …

Who also designed your beloved Holy Resurrection Cathedral, the Nikorai-dō, did he not?

He stopped again, caught his breath again, then said, Not entirely, no, but in a manner of speaking, yes; the original plans were actually drawn up by a certain Mikhail Schurupov, a Russian architect and doctor of engineering. However, it is true to say Josiah Conder executed the original plans, yes.

And true to say, too, you do love the Holy Resurrection Cathedral, and spent many hours there, too, have you not?

In my younger days, perhaps, he said, setting off, off again, almost at the top now. But as you will see, if we’re not too late, and there is still time, the Iwasaki house is essentially Jacobean but bears the trace and touch of many other Western, Eastern and Japanese styles, and thus serves as a monument to architectural syncretism, and all things Meiji …

But he was not looking, would not look at the house; no, he was looking, staring up, up through the trees, the bare winter branches of the trees, looking, staring at the white walls of his apartment building, beyond the trees, through their branches, the balcony, the windows of his home. He blinked, he swallowed, and said, It’s getting late. Grete will be fretting, she’ll be worried, she’ll be hungry. I think I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.

She smiled, she said, One of the mysteries to me, the mysteries of you, is why you chose to live where you do, so close to here, overlooking here, the scene of the crime …

What crime, he said, then shouted, There was no crime, no crime here, nothing happened here.

She nodded, she said, I mean, you could have lived anywhere, anywhere in Tokyo, in Japan, in the world. But no; no, you chose to live here, even waited until the right apartment became available, one with a balcony and a view, a view of these gardens, this house, and the scene of the crime …

What crime, he said again. There was no –

She smiled, she said, Yes, I see you, yes, I do, see you: on your little balcony, at your little windows, always looking out, already staring out, watching out, yes, yes: keeping watch, that was you, was it not? The Look-Out, the Watcher, making sure he didn’t come back, they didn’t come back, it all come back, yes, yes: that was you, your penance, your sentence.

No, he said, still not looking at the house, no.

She smiled, she said, But he has, they have, it’s all come back, is back, returns, always, already returned …

Please, he pleaded. Please, not now, not yet.

She nodded, she said, It’s too late, it’s time. Look, listen, it’s closing time –

 

The hell have you been, says Mary, running out from between the columns of the entrance of a big, old, British-style house as you climb out of the back of the big, black car –

Tailing his goddamn doppelgänger into the middle of fucking nowhere, you say, then, Is he here?

Is who here, Don?

Shimoyama!

Why would he be here, Don?

The hell is he then …?

She walks toward you: takes your shoulders in her hands: leans toward you, kisses your cheek, then whispers, Please, Don, don’t, Don, you’re out of your depth here, Don.

And you’re not, right, you say, pushing her off, back and away. You’re just swimming along, everything swell.

Hey there, lovebirds, booms a voice, laughs the voice of a Texan. We’re all on the same side here, yeah.

Don, says Mary, looking into your eyes, entreaties in her eyes, turning, twisting you round to face –

a tall, broad-shouldered man in uniform, an army uniform, his captain’s hat pushed back on his head, a pistol in a holster slung low round his waist –

Don, she says again, this is Jack, Captain Jack Stetson.

Heard a lot about you, Don, says Stetson, grabbing your shoulder, your hand, kneading your shoulder, shaking your hand. From Mary here, and from Frank, Don.

You know Frank, you say, stepping back, pulling, breaking free from his grip and his shake.

Hey, Boss, interrupts the Korean, in his gangster shirt and shades. What you want us to do now, Boss?

Stetson turns away from you, from Mary, and grins, then says, Go get yourselves some chow, then some shut-eye. Gonna be another long goddamn night, kid.

Yessir, laughs the Korean, half saluting as he swaggers off with the big man in the big winter coat, brushing past, nudging into you as they head off, into the house.

Pair of mean sons-of-bitches, laughs Stetson, watching them go. Tell you, Don, glad they’re on our side, but still gotta watch ’em, keep ’em on a tight leash, yeah?

You nod, then say again, So you know Frank?

Hell, everyone knows Frank, right, Don?

Mary touches, squeezes your arm and says, Jack’s working with us now, Don.

Since when?

Since you guys lost Shanghai, Don, that’s when, grins Stetson. When the goddamn roof fell in on y’all, Don.

Still touching, squeezing, holding your arm, holding you back, Mary says, Everything’s changed now, Don.

In this summer, this twilight, you do not turn to look at her, turn to look at him: in this summer, this twilight, you look, you stare at this big, old, British-style house: hidden here, behind these walls, these trees, hidden and dark, you stare and then swallow, swallow then say, Shimoyama?

Don, she whispers, please, don’t …

Hell, lovebirds, laughs Stetson, slapping his own face, splattering a mosquito. Let’s get us indoors, do our yappin’ in there, ’stead of gettin’ eaten alive out here, yeah, kids?

Sure, Jack, nods Mary, turning away from you, turning toward the house, the columns and its entrance –

Hold up there, cowgirl, says Stetson, corraling you both, herding you off to the left of the house. You guys gotta see this old Billiard Room we got here …

And he guides, pushes you both through an open gate in a side wall, then down, round a short path, between more trees to a detached wooden cottage, a Swiss-style mountain lodge, here in this garden, in the middle of Tokyo: a log cabin, wooden shutters for its windows and doors, a long veranda, running its length, facing the garden, dark in the evening –

Wow, says Mary as she steps up onto the veranda, then in through the doors. Like a fairy tale, from Snow White!

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, sings Stetson. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho – come on, Don, sing along …

You do not sing along, but you smile, hum a different song as you turn from the garden, the dark of the evening, into the light of the lodge: a bare electric bulb dangling, hanging down in the middle of a large wood-paneled room: there are shelves for books, but few books, but there are maps, many maps spread out over two large billiard tables –

Suddenly, a man rises from out of the floor, a hole in the ground, off to the left: a thin man in a dark, well-cut suit coming up steps from under the ground: he smiles at Mary, then sees you and stops, stops smiling, turning to Stetson, looking at Stetson, asking who –

Don Reichenbach, say “guten Abend,” or whatever-the-hell-it-is-you-Krauts-say, to Dick Gutterman, says Stetson, then turns to Mary and laughs, I tell ya, Mary, we must be the only non-Krauts left in the whole of goddamn HQ!

I don’t work for GHQ, you say, shaking the hand of Dick Gutterman. I’m DipSec, Economic Liaison.

Gutterman nods, smiles: I know.

Dick here knows everything ’bout everyone, don’t you, Dick, laughs Stetson, then, Almost …

You got a call, Jack, says Gutterman.

One I need to take now?

Gutterman nods: Yes, Jack, now.

You two lovebirds make yourselves at home, yeah, says Stetson. I’ll be back soon as I can, order up some chow, then we’ll eat, talk some more, right?

Sure, Jack, says Mary.

You nod, watch Stetson follow Gutterman down the hole, disappear under the ground, then you turn, walk out of the room, out onto the veranda, to stare out at the garden, back into the evening, the dark, silent dark, almost, already silent –

Sā-sā, rei-rei …

Don, says Mary, softly, gently, with her hands on your back, touching your back. Frank wants us all to play nice.

You do not turn, turn to look at her: you look into the evening, into the dark, and say, Yeah? Is that what Frank said, said to you? But who are they, who the hell are they?

Zed Unit, she whispers. Off the books, here and back home. Primary mission is China, counter-ops out of Taiwan, but they’re putting together an army, ex-Jap military.

Mac, Willoughby, they know about this?

Sure Mac knows. He wants to retake China, roll the Reds right back to Moscow, then drop the goddamn bomb.

You shake your head, blink, then blink again, still looking, staring out, out into the evening, the dark, and you swallow, then say, The hell are we doing here then?

Her hands, her cheek now, on your back now, she whispers, she says, We’re all on the same side now, Don.

You turn, raise your hands, grip her shoulders, grip them tight, stare at her, and say, And Shimoyama?

Bad news, kids, says Stetson, coming up the steps, from under the ground, out of the hole. That was the doc …

You let go of Mary, turn to Stetson: What doc?

The doc I sent to try help your pal Shimoyama …

The fuck are you talking about, Stetson?

Woah there, cowboy, says Stetson, walking toward you, his hand on his holster, the handle of his pistol: the pistol in his hand now, he smiles: I’m just the hired gun here, yeah.

You turn away from Stetson, look at Mary, but her eyes are on Stetson, staring at Stetson: she is shaking her head, shaking her head at Stetson, mouthing, No, no, no –

You turn back to Stetson, you stare at Stetson and say, you say, you shout, The fuck is going on?

He didn’t make it, Don, says Stetson. Doc said he tried his best, but he’s gone, Don. Your man never woke up.

 

The Emperor was dead. Day by day, hour by hour, he had received more blood, more and more blood, but his blood pressure had remained low, his breathing slow, until, on Thursday, he had slipped into a coma, become comatose, then at four this morning, Saturday, January 7, 1989, he had fallen into a critical condition, and at six thirty-three, in the sixty-fourth year of Shōwa, the Emperor had died, his time stopped.

Ah, was all Donald Reichenbach said, when the music stopped and the announcement was made. He blinked, blinked again, then looked at his watch, the luminous hands of his watch, but they had stopped, too, stopped at six thirty-three. He sighed, sighed again, then said, said again, Ah.

Oblivious, Grete danced and sang around him as he picked up her empty saucer and water bowl from the floor and walked, slowly walked over to the sink. He ran hot water over the saucer and bowl, then washed and dried them. He ran the water until it was cold, filled the bowl, then reached up to open the cupboard above the sink. He took down, opened, and served the tuna onto the saucer, then put his hand inside the pocket of his dressing gown. He took out the envelope and, crying softly, as softly, as quietly as he could, he mixed its ground contents into the tuna on the saucer. He placed the saucer and water back down on the floor but did not speak to her, could not speak or even look at her. He wiped, tried to dry his eyes but could not, could not stop his tears. He opened the refrigerator, took out the jar of apricot jam, the jar almost finished, almost done. He took a spoon from the drawer, then opened the jar, put the spoon in the jar, then in his mouth. He picked up the envelope, opened it and his mouth, tipped the rest of its ground contents into his mouth, swallowing the last of the powder with the jam. He screwed up the envelope, put it into the plastic trash box, then rinsed out the empty tin of tuna, the empty jar of jam, and put them in the plastic bag beside the trash box.

Meow, said Grete, against his shins, his calves, between his legs, pajama legs. He picked her up, into his arms, and held her, stroked her as he carried her toward the bedroom, stopping to turn off the radio, the announcement of the name of the new era: Heisei, the attainment of universal peace.

Le roi est mort, vive le roi, he whispered, holding Grete, stroking her as he carried her into the bedroom, onto the mats and the bed as he stroked her again and again, as he whispered and wept, I’m sorry, sweetheart, so sorry, sweet Gre-chan, I’m sorry, so sorry, le mort saisit le vif …

Sā-sā, rei-rei, sā-sā, rei-rei …

The rain, the wind against the window, its pane, behind the curtains, the curtains still closed, the curtain cracks, their edges gray, he slumped back on the bed, the cat in his arms, on his chest, still tight in his arms, as he stroked her head, her back, felt her warmth ebb away, away through her fur, from her flesh, from her bones, her breathing slow, slow as he waited, waited and wept, tried to hum, to sing, to sing as he wept, a lullaby, Dekker’s lullaby: Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; you are care, and care must keep you …

 

No one cares, you say. They don’t, we don’t, the Japanese …

In his bed, his room, in the seminary, the shadow of the cathedral, its domes and its crosses, Kaz strokes your hair, wipes your cheek, and says, I care, Don, and you care, Don.

Not enough, you whisper. Not nearly enough.

Kaz wipes your cheek again, then kisses your cheek, then swallows, then says, We did what we could, Don.

Did we, you say, pushing him off and away, siting up in his bed, asking again, Did we? What did we do? Nothing! We just sat on our hands, let a man, an innocent man die.

Kaz sits up, shakes his head, then says, That’s not true, Don, not true. Firstly, he wasn’t innocent, not really innocent; he was dismissing, personally dismissing one hundred thousand workers, throwing them and their families into poverty. Don’t tell me he was innocent –

But letting him die didn’t save their jobs, their families from poverty, did it, you shout, getting up from the bed, reaching for your clothes. It didn’t change a thing.

Kaz sits on the edge of his bed, looking up at you, nodding, Not yet, Don, not yet – but you know the plan, the strategy; this is what needs to be done, Don.

Yeah, you say, pulling on your pants, buttoning up your shirt. Well, I don’t see any barricades, any revolution on the streets, do you? All I see is a man, an innocent man lying dead on a railroad track up in Ayase –

And one hundred thousand workers out of work, thanks to him, says Kaz, standing up. Him and his Yankee bosses. And your Yankee bosses, Don, don’t forget, yours, not mine, Don.

You put on your jacket, stare at him, and say, Hey, I told you, I warned you; you said you’d let the Party know, make sure Moscow fucking knew – and you told me you did?

And I did, he says, I goddamn did, Don.

You pick up your hat, shake your head: So they knew, Kaz, they knew, but they just sat back and watched, waiting for someone else to do “what needs to be done.”

We’re at war, Don, at war –

Not anymore, you say, opening the door of his room. Not me – you tell them from me, it’s over, I’m out.

It’s not that simple, Don, says Kaz, standing there, staring at you. You can’t just walk away –

Yeah? You just watch me, you say, walking out of his room, out down the corridor, the seminary corridor …

Not from them, or from me, Don.

But you’re not listening anymore, not to him or to them, to anyone, not anymore: you just keep walking, out of the seminary, through the garden and the gates, not looking back, back at the cathedral, its domes and its crosses: down one slope, one hill, then up another, another slope, another hill, and into the station: you stand on the platform and wait for the train, the first train: but you do not bend down to tie your shoelace: no, you just board the first train to Tokyo station: you get off at the station, go down the stairs, through the gates, and walk as fast as you can to the Yaesu Hotel: you go under its canopy, into its lobby, up to the desk, the front desk: you ask the man on the desk for an envelope, and he hands one to you: you reach inside your jacket pocket, take out your notebook and pen, tear off a sheet of paper, and scrawl, It’s Closing Time, but Zed Unit are not to be blamed for nothing: you fold up the single sheet of paper, put it in the envelope, seal the envelope: you turn back to the man on the desk, ask him for the room number of Mister Harold Sweeney of the Public Safety Division: he tells you the number, and you write it under Sweeney’s name on the front of the envelope: you hand the envelope to the man on the desk and say, Onegaishimasu: the man on the desk nods, and you turn, walk away, out of the lobby and the Yaesu Hotel, and keep walking: through the morning, the afternoon, and the city, you keep walking, walking all the way back: back to the house, the yellow house, its gate, its garden and its path, its door and its lock: you take out your key, put your key in the lock –

You open the door, see her heels in the genkan, lying in the genkan: you step out of your own shoes, up into the house, and call out, I’m home, sweetheart, home –

She is sat at the table, a bottle, a glass, and her gun on the table: she looks up at you, smiles up at you, then says, she says, I know, Don, know what you’ve done, all you have done. But why, Don, why? Just please tell me why –

 

She smiled, she said, Do you despise, detest your own?

No, he said, and took another sip from the can, the last can of beer from the bag at his feet. I have no own.

She smiled again and said, Then why?

Indifference, he said. He took another sip from the can, stared out across the pond of lotuses, shriveled and withered, still dead where they stood. I despise, detest indifference.

She nodded, she said, But not cowardice?

Perhaps before the war, he said. But since then, I would say, and still now, indifference is the greatest sin.

Not state-sanctioned murder …?

Despite what you say, what you think, I was Chief of Station in name only.

She smiled, she said, So then what were you, Don – not in name, Don, but then really?

A false flag, he said, and a goddamn fool.

And a traitor.

I didn’t know, not really know, he whispered. But then, when I did, as soon as I did, I quit. I quit and walked away.

She smiled, she said, And they let you just slink off and away – to teach, to translate, to do what you pleased …

Once I was out, I was of no use to them, neither Washington nor Moscow, as they say.

Footloose and fancy-free.

I wouldn’t say that.

She nodded, she said, What would you say?

I have regrets, of course, bitter regrets. Everything I did wrong, I said wrong, gestured wrong. Every single day, everything wrong – a lifetime lived wrong.

She smiled, she said, There is a memorial to President Shimoyama, you know, close to the scene where he died.

I know, he said. I know.

She stood up, she said, Let’s go.

Next time, he said.

She nodded, she said, It is next time, Donald.

He turned away from the dead lotuses, their stagnant pond, drained the last beer, his last can, put the can in the bag, empty and crushed, and said, said again, I know.

She smiled, she said, After you …

He tied the handles of the bag, tied them in a plastic knot, then stood up from the bench, no longer his bench, and walked away, quickly away from the bench, clockwise this time, away from the pond, away from the park, side by side, in silence now, clockwise they walked, away to the station, the platform, the train, then got on, stood on the train, side by side, in silence still, down the line, on down the line, over the crime, the scene of the crime, to the end, the end of the line.

The train pulled into Ayase station, terminated here, the doors opened, and he said, Please, after you.

She nodded, she said, No, after you.

He smiled, stepped off the train and onto the platform, the platform elevated, high above the shops and pachinko parlors. He looked down the platform to his right, the winter sun setting on the horizon, over the river, the city, then turned to her and said, It’s that way. The West Gate exit …

She smiled, said again, After you.

He smiled again, sadly now, then started to walk, slowly, slowly down the platform, people stepping around him, passing and overtaking him, toward the top of the stairs, the stairs down to the ground, the exit and out –

At the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked down, down the steep, narrow flight of stairs. He blinked, smiled again, then reached for the handrail, felt a hand on his back, his body topple forward, his feet miss the step, the first step, leave the ground as forward, down he fell –

down the steps, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down each one, each single one of the thirty-six steps to the ground,

the exit

and –