In return for my honesty, I almost fell into a diabolical-looking, makeshift gutter.
Kohana’s hand steadied me, and I clutched it gratefully.
When I turned to the girl, I saw she had on a long blue and white polka dot dress, boasting a revealing neckline, lapels, and a skirt that came down beneath the knee. The waist was cinched in, accentuated by a thin belt, while the sleeves of the dress sat at mid-length on her arms, rolled-up at the ends. She had a tight coral necklace, high-heeled pumps, and a flower—an orange lily—was tucked into the side of her hair. That hair was pulled back on the sides but heavily rollered at the front, with backswept curls.
‘You look top-heavy,’ I decided.
‘It was the look. 1948.’
‘Post-Orochi?’
‘Pre. I’ll be getting him done next week.’
‘Are we here to meet Pop?’
‘No. He left Japan the year before, in ’47.’
‘You don’t seem so upset about it.’
‘Life goes on—and as you continually reminded me, he was married.’
This time around, we were outside on a street that showed signs of war damage, yet on the mend. Basic construction and slapdash scaffolding could be seen in both directions.
There were still a lot of dilapidated, uneven wooden houses and shops, none of them taller than two storeys—save for the one before us, which appeared to be four. It was a huge hall, with a patched-up roof and a garish new sign that read ‘Western Saloon’ in English, and had a picture of a ten-gallon cowboy hat.
Somewhere nearby, I could hear a big band number, as a trio of rowdy GIs in uniform passed us by—but not before ogling my companion. One of them issued a wolf-whistle as he pushed his side cap to the side of his head.
Kohana ignored them. ‘Americans,’ she sighed. ‘Time for a bop.’
She led me through the double doors, into the building, where I found an East/West collision that socked my senses.
The music, much louder inside, came across desperate and dissolute, a frenzied primeval dirge to which the young men and women here, dressed in copycat Hollywood gangster-and-moll style, shook their frames with reverence.
Their older, far more sensible peers sat at tables, drinking in civilized repose, and there was a band on a stage, comprising a dozen or so musicians, carrying a lot of brass.
The dancehall had two floors.
There was an upper level, with less space, that looked down onto the dance floor, and had a flimsy bamboo trellis to prevent inebriated patrons from toppling over the edge.
I looked back at Kohana. She had just finished speaking to a woman with bulging, frog-like eyes and a bizarre hat with fake fruit all over it, and now was swaying her head to the music. She looked tickled pink.
‘You’re in luck. Shizuko Kasagi sings tonight,’ she said.
‘Astounding! Really?’
‘What, you know her?’
‘Never heard of the woman. I, er, assume it’s a woman?’
‘She is. A little before your time, I s’pose. We christened her the Queen of Boogie, since she mastered American jazz straight after the Occupation, though I heard she sang opera before the war. When she performs, she has a tendency to gesticulate wildly, and acts a little mad—which drives the audience frantic. I mean really deranged.’
I looked around. There were a few hundred people squeezed into the venue, all of them a distorted version of garish, promiscuous, cinematic hoodlum culture. This was deranged enough.
‘Surely the Japanese were not so enamoured with this ugly and absurd side of American popular culture that they renounced their own?’
‘Most of these people are black marketeers—you know, yakuza. But this is the real economy in Japan now. The old structures, and the old formalities, have been ruptured.’
‘The American influence again?’
‘Well, we were occupied by them for seven years. At this point we’d been under the cusp for three. That, and our resounding defeat in the war, changed the way of thinking. Some people got depressed about it—we had a name for it: kyodatsujoutai—while others made a quick buck.’
‘Human nature.’
‘For many people, the black market was the only place to get basic goods. We were struggling to find a new identity. Things like that change society, for good and for bad. The conservative press had a field day. What did they soapbox about? …That young people had become irresponsible, obsequious, listless? Other things too, mostly negative.’
‘Ahh, the youth of today,’ I breezed.
‘In all honesty, Japan in 1948 was a dysfunctional state, in sore need of renovation, like the ceiling above our heads. After World War Two, jazz took off as something modern, an invitation to a new world, from the dustbin of the old. Plus, we got a Japanese Equal Rights Amendment in the new constitution, partially aimed at helping women escape household chores—penned by an American lady, of course.’
We weaved around people who were obviously inebriated, and stopped at a table next to the dance floor. There were three chairs, one taken.
Tomeko was in it.
She smiled at Kohana, and pushed a drink across the table as we sat down. If she uttered something, I couldn’t make it out above the ruckus of the band.
I grabbed the tumbler intended for Kohana, and peered at the contents. It was apparently alcohol, but it smelled off.
‘The rich clientele are drinking brand stuff,’ Kohana said. ‘The lackeys, the girls, and most of the others are getting liquored-up on kasutori, a kind of moonshine shōchū. Who knows what’s in the recipe?’
I put the glass back on the table. ‘You know how to cure a thirst.’
‘Live a little.’ She swiped it and took a large sip. ‘Oh yes, I remember this taste. Oh boy.’
I heard a minor commotion above the music, as a diminutive gentleman, with an entourage of three taller minders, wandered in our direction.
The short man was clad in a striking white linen suit that would have cost more than the construction of the entire ramshackle club. He had slicked-back hair, a lime blossom in his lapel, and a winding scar that travelled all the way down his cheek, from brow to chin, riding roughshod over a self-satisfied mien.
‘His name is Katsudo Shashin,’ Kohana said discreetly, ‘and the man is a turning point, of sorts.’
‘He certainly turns heads.’
While Victor Laszlo in Casablanca had a facial scar that made him look dapper, Katsudo Shashin’s scar was just that—a disfigurement. It possibly helps that Laszlo’s was created from stage makeup and could be washed off in a jiffy, whereas the newcomer’s was likely made from a razor and would zigzag there till the day he died.
He had dark rings and an unhealthy pallor that was visible indoors, intimating some kind of illness.
‘Syphilis,’ Kohana whispered.
Shashin had reached our table by this stage and stood close by, his gaze centred on my erstwhile companion.
The man was toying with a cigarette, affecting a pose by continuing to hold the thing with all the fingers of his right hand as he inhaled and puffed out smoke.
The music ceased, and all I could make out was uncomfortable silence as everyone in the room looked this way.
‘Kohana-chan,’ Shashin purred, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips, at the same time that he affected a bow. ‘As luscious as ever.’
‘Shashin-san, what are you doing in these parts? I thought you were moving up in the world, and we’d be henceforth deprived of your company.’
This comment was said so sweetly and so politely that it was impossible to detect the lie. Yet there was something bogus that tainted the sentiments therein.
If he noticed, the man chose to ignore it.
‘Oh, I am, I am. But I’m here for the women—you know what they say about hoodlums that can dance.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
‘Allow me to demonstrate. One Yokohama jitterbug, to go. Shall we dance?’
The band had just started up again, as a diminutive female waltzed up the stairs, onto the podium, and reached the microphone.
‘Shizuko-chan,’ Kohana said, and then she laughed as the song commenced. ‘Oh, “Jungle Boogie”! Would you believe the timing? Perfect.’
It was hard to tell if the tag ‘perfect’ was meant with sincere, or sarcastic, intent.
Kohana gave her hand again to Shashin, who led her to the middle of the crowded dance floor, just as the singer on stage embarked in a frantic jazz work-out and some wild high-notes that the audience loved. I found myself ducking for cover whenever she hit a crescendo—until I looked on the floor.
Shashin could, indeed, dance.
He had a monstrous energy—menacing and sinister, yet at the same time, the women round the room appeared to find his prancing magnetic. Knees bent, he roved across the dance floor, shaking his backside, like a grotesque Groucho Marx who had suddenly discovered how to live la Vida Loca.
For her part, Kohana was the consummate partner, adapting without any glitch to the man’s footwork, as it weaved from tango to seemingly tangled. He spun her around on the dance floor—her dress lifted up and revealed a lining of red, to contrast with the navy blue and white polka dots—and they almost collected a couple of kids in the process.
Shashin then stormed up to the girl, face-to-face, and slapped his palms on each cheek of her derrière. They had their eyes latched, and I would swear the temperature of the place, clammy as it was, spiked a notch.
I felt myself stiffen. I picked the drink back up and downed it in one shot, though I felt no ill effect whatsoever, nothing to chase away the discomfort. Kohana eclipsed every other person in this place, and did it with flair—even while dragged down by an uncommon brute like Shashin.
Then I looked at Tomeko, opposite me at the table.
The girl also had a flower, a white lily, tucked behind the ear on the left side of her head. Yes, she had Kohana’s glamour, to be sure—but there was something transparent about her, as if she lacked gumption. A passive, enduring temper occupied this space, but the artistry had strayed.
Likely, I did her an injustice.
It’s possible that, were we allowed the opportunity to carouse, I’d debunk such talk once I realized otherwise. I had misjudged people’s character traits before.
Which brought me to another point—if Kohana were here, with me, and this was her memory, where was the real Tomeko? Was she also dead, but elsewhere? If so, why were they separated?
Or was Tomeko alive, living up the real world, sans sister, at an age most people only dream of reaching?
Tomeko.
I looked harder at her. Either this girl lacked life because Kohana wasn’t standing right here feeding it to her, or Kohana’s memories faded, the further she stepped away from them.
Alternatively, it was my doing. If I were a flesh-and-blood person, Tomeko surely wouldn’t stare through me like this. She’d bother to put in an effort, and there would be far more, I don’t know—oomph? Why bother performing when you’re alone at a table in a place like this? If I were Tomeko, I’d lay an egg too.
‘Stop her.’
I think I jumped.
Tomeko’s lips moved, while her gaze, following Kohana and Shashin, had not changed at all. The swing was too loud for me to be certain of what she said—but she had spoken.
I leaned forward, as puzzled as I was disturbed.
‘What did you say?’
Right then, Kohana squeezed in between her sister and me.
‘Oh my gosh, I’d forgotten how much he takes out of me,’ she said, as she sat down to my right. I could feel the heat radiating from her. ‘The man can move. He’s the Devil on the dance floor.’ She took up another drink, sipped, and stared into space. ‘And elsewhere,’ she muttered.
‘Another cad you fell in love with?’
‘Not at all. I couldn’t stand him. But Tomeko…’
Kohana held out a hand and touched her sister’s impassive face. The sister didn’t notice. All of her attention was focused on Shashin, who had found a new, less able-footed partner with whom to tread the boards.
‘Tomeko what?’ I asked.
‘Tomeko was infatuated. Just like all the other women here. You can see that. She was nineteen, and she still hadn’t lost her virginity.’ Kohana polished off her drink in a flash. ‘Tonight, Shashin will take advantage. He has a charming concept of seduction, very smooth—you’d like him. He dances a girl off her feet, gets her drunk with the cheapest of kasutori, whisks her home to play some records, and then he tends to beat them up.’
I started. ‘You’re joking?’
‘I wish I were.’ Kohana’s voice sounded sad, but I was horrified. ‘It’s all a part of his foreplay,’ she pasted.
‘Good Lord, then we have to stop him!’
‘How?’
‘How? You appear to be interactive in this memory—tell your sister. Just damned well warn her.’
‘You really think she’ll listen to me? Look at her face, Wolram. Right now, she’d let him tear off her dress. Which he does do, by the way, though at a latter point in the evening, when Tomeko is no longer willing.’
‘He rapes her…?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘But his illness. It’s infectious. You’re not going to—Wait.’
The words froze in my throat as I glared at the woman. What was it I believed I’d heard Tomeko utter? ‘Stop her’? This was insane.
‘All of this has happened before, and you’re going to sit back and allow it to happen again. Aren’t you?’
‘P’raps.’
Kohana lit herself a cigarette, crossed her legs, and leaned back.
‘Do you despise your sister that much?’
‘Oh, Wolram.’ I never thought to hear a patronizing tone swing back my way. ‘It’s just a memory. We can’t change anything—what happens, happens. Deshō?’
I almost punched her on the nose. ‘You could at least try. You could do that much.’
Kohana smiled. A bitter, hateful, offensive-looking thing it was. I never thought I’d be so disgusted in her.
‘This is Tomeko we’re talking about. What do I care? Or you? Since when did you sprout a conscience? Martyrdom is out of style.’