Kohana aged quickly.
I slid open all the shōji screens of the bedroom, next to the living area, and propped her up in bed next to a lamp. She was wrapped in a white nightdress, snug, with a book in her lap.
The woman had shrunk in size, much smaller than me. Kohana’s hair was white, thick still, and it hung down over her right shoulder in a ponytail that I had made myself.
I’m not going to sit here and paint a picture of a centenarian who miraculously looks like a teenager, let alone a middle-aged woman. This was genuine age before me. I was back to the place I would have been in the real world before we died—much younger than her, even at seventy-one.
When I looked closely, I could see the features I knew and those expressions I revered. They were right there.
‘Age is a different kind of geisha makeup,’ Kohana laughed, in a soft way that sparkled to my ear. ‘I just can’t wash it off.’
I walked across the room, to go make a cup of tea, paused next to the suit of armour, and inspected Pop’s cricket bat. There was an extra dent in it where I had struck Shashin on the noggin, and I chuckled.
The only round of cricket I’d ever played well.
Putting down the bat, I carefully crossed it with the axe, as before. Then I reached up and felt the silk of that splendid, hanging kimono.
At the very least, I had learned the difference between a stork and an ibis.
Kohana looked over at me, mischief dancing on her face despite the frailty. ‘What are you thinking, my sweet?’
As an afterthought, she held up a hand. I walked over to hold it, the tea forgotten. Her fingers felt brittle.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘Impossible.’
I inclined my head away from her, in order that she wouldn’t see the running of feckless tears. I should have known otherwise. Kohana’s other hand pushed up my chin, and a modicum of strength had entered her expression.
‘I mean what I say. It’s not over.’
‘I love you.’ Out gushed the silly comment before I could bar its passage.
‘And here I was, thinking you were enamoured with my good-looks.’
‘They help. But I’m more in love with you, than your looks.’
No gushing this time. Honesty instead. A brand new sensation.
‘You’re an incredible lady, Kohana.’
‘You embarrass me,’ she grouched. ‘You’re overestimating me.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘No, listen here, I’m not a woman with any special skill, but I’ve had plenty of experiences in battles; losing battles, all of them. In short, that’s all I am. Drop such an idea for your own good.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘By the way, that was my gruff samurai tone, gleaned from watching a few too many period dramas on TV. Was I intimidating?’
‘Can I lie?’
‘Hmpf.’
‘Did you ever like magic?’
Kohana clasped her hands together. ‘How did you guess? I loved it.’
‘Allow me to show you some hocus pocus.’
I brought over a small blanket, very carefully unfurled it across the floor, and placed the Godzilla statuette beneath, at the centre of the spread.
‘Deceptively simple,’ Kohana mused.
‘Hang in there. Abracadabra, alakazam—voilà!’
I yanked off the blanket and the Godzilla statue was gone.
Kohana’s eyes opened wide with wonder for a few seconds, the reaction I was after. She couldn’t see the blighter cleverly hidden behind me.
‘This is what you used to do for your daughter, isn’t it?’
For a while after this comment, I contemplated the smokeless fire.
‘Yes. Well—without Godzilla. I used Corinne’s doll Mimi as my assistant. Corinne loved it too, although she sussed out the method in the end. She turned the tables on me by making my mobile phone disappear. For good.’
‘Oh, before I forget, when I disappear—’
‘Stop that. You’re going nowhere.’
‘Be what may, there’s something hanging up in the bathroom wardrobe that I’d like you to have. You’ll know when you see it, but no peeking till then. Promise?’
‘Whatever.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘I expect you to do so.’ I packed up my blanket and replaced Godzilla on his shelf. As I did, I thought of Shimada and his monster movies. I looked at Kohana on the bed. ‘Can I ask something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Isn’t life disappointing?’
‘No,’ she smiled, with warmth, ‘it isn’t.’
We fell asleep, not long later. I woke up kneeling on the floor beside the bed, with my arms spread out on the futon. I raised myself to my elbows.
The hovel around me was empty. All the furnishings and bric-à - brac had been looted while we slept.
I knew, the moment I saw Kohana, that she was also gone.
Her body may have remained, but the essence was missing. I gently removed the hardcover book she had on her tummy, with the title La Tavola Ritonda, which I placed at the foot of the bed.
I pulled her husk to me, and bawled for a long time. Yes, I felt overly sorry for myself. I’m not afraid to admit it. Life, or whatever existence this feigns to be, was unbearable without her here.
I don’t know how long passed.
I lay there on my front, my hands holding hers. Sometimes, I nodded off. Other times, I shook her and begged her to return. I have no idea where all the tears came from, much like the electricity here and the running water. But I refused to move and refused to let her go, though she already had.
After a time, I did move.
I made cups of tea she didn’t drink, told silly stories about anything and everything, forged empty plans for a future we would never have together, lay there for hours simply holding her.
I don’t know when I became aware that the front door was open.
Brilliant, blinding sunshine was streaming in, and a figure, in armour, stood at the end of the bed, carrying white lilacs, rosemary, and a few branches of cherry blossoms.
I squinted, sheltering my eyes with my hand, and sat up between Kohana and this newcomer—trying, I gather, to block the view.
The longer I stared over at this person, behind burnished metal and leather, I could better see the face, beneath a samurai helmet tied with a red string under the chin.
Held fast, by a flexible bamboo pole on her back, was a large white banner. Two kanji symbols were splashed across the material, but I had misplaced my ability to read the language.
By the way, I did say ‘her’.
I assumed this would be the boy from the alley behind Kohana’s okiya—I never did hear his name—but it wasn’t.
Nor Pop, Shimada, O-tee-san, or Y.
I saw Kohana, returned to me, aged about nineteen, and my heart bucked. Then I understood my mistake.
‘Tomeko.’
Of course.
Having placed her foliage on top of the book, she walked closer, touched my shoulder, and smiled.
There were no damned words necessary.
Straight after, this girl leaned over the bed to very gently embrace the unmoving body in the nightshirt that lay there.
I did not object when Tomeko then lifted her up and carried her out through the doorway.
I followed at a discreet distance, watching as they got onto a horse and rode away in the direction of a sun I hadn’t seen for far too long, low on the horizon.
When I couldn’t see them any more, I walked back into the hovel.
I was well and truly fed up with the beard hanging off my jowls.
I went into the bathroom and poked about for a reasonably sharp instrument. I would have used Shashin’s sword, if need be, but luckily I discovered bounty in the hidden cabinet behind the mirror: a complete shaving kit, with my preferred Gillette razors and a tin of foam.
‘You haven’t used these to shave your legs, have you?’
Yes, I asked Kohana aloud. I removed my smoking jacket and slacks, wrapped a towel around myself, and started to work up lather.
I didn’t expect any response.
‘No,’ I decided. ‘I’m sure you’d prefer to use a butter knife, since it’s more of a challenge.’
I laughed. Doing so was something of a coup, and I don’t use the word lightly.
‘Convenient,’ I waffled on. ‘I wish I knew about these razors before—I’ve been stumping about, looking like an unlaundered Moses character. Do you mind if I take a few minutes to freshen up?’
I could imagine her response: ‘Help yourself. Let’s not slip back into yawn-inspiring formality!’
‘I’ll give it my finest shot. Turns out, old habits do indeed die hard.’
I would have winked at the woman, if she were here.
She wasn’t.
I ceased what I was doing, and stared at myself in the looking-glass for the longest time. White foam covered my lower face.
‘You know, I think I’ve figured it out. When I was younger, my daughter said I looked like a fake Santa when I lathered up like this. Now, I resemble the real McCoy.’
‘Profound stuff,’ I could have sworn I heard Kohana deadpan from the other side of the door.
‘No, no, not the Santa Claus thing,’ I continued, sliding the razor across my left cheek. Nice to see I hadn’t forgotten how to shave. ‘Me. Moi. I’m not one for symbolism or religious claptrap, as you well know, but I think I’ve got it.’
This pronouncement was greeted with silence.
I finished shaving, and rinsed my face in water that came from some source unknown, and best to keep it that way.
The bathroom wardrobe was there, to my left. I went over, opened it, and discovered a black suit on a hanger, wrapped in plastic.
After I tore off the protective sheath, I was happier to see the label. It was a London job—Anthony Sinclair—not an offering from some twee Parisian haberdasher.
There was also a British-made white shirt, but the tie was my old favourite from the 1980s, the dark wine and black Christian Dior. So there was one last Frenchie jab. I laughed. The woman was marvellous.
When I returned to the living room, I found emptiness.
‘My God, you do like your drama,’ I sighed. ‘Disappearing on me like this. Goodbye, Kohana.’