A Different Sky (22 page)

Soon, Raj reached the shipping agency, Nanyo Kaiun, sandwiched between Ono's Barber Shop and Dr Mori the Dentist. As he climbed the narrow stairs to the office above, the odour of fermented pickle drifted to him. In the beginning when he had first met Mr Yamaguchi, the acrid odour of this pickle had turned Raj's stomach. The Yamaguchis accompanied every meal with these sour pickled vegetables, which were stored in wooden tubs in a kitchen cupboard. The pungency permeated their home and conjured up for Raj the very essence of Japan.

As he pushed open the door Mr Yamaguchi looked up from his desk and gave a distracted smile. Raj saw with annoyance that the
diplomat, Mr Shinozaki, was sitting with him again, and knew by the disapproval on Shinozaki's face that he had intruded. In spite of this Mr Yamaguchi smiled, pointing affably to a chair beside a standing fan.

‘We will not be long,' he said.

Raj glanced nervously at Mr Shinozaki, who met his gaze with a deadpan stare of enigmatic appraisal. These days, Shinozaki was to be found with increasing frequency in Mr Yamaguchi's home. Both men were hunched over a map of Singapore spread out on the table between them. Raj settled down to wait, listening to the rapid exchange of Japanese and staring at Yamaguchi's bowed and shaven head shadowed with a four-day stubble. The sour odour of the mouldering pickles reached its peak in this room, and Raj moved close to the fan. His linen jacket was tight about the armpits and held the heat, and he thought constantly of that moment at the end of the day when he could change back into the comfort of an old
dhoti.

Under Mr Yamaguchi's tutelage Raj had discarded his traditional loose attire of
dhoti
and
kurta
for Western-style suits of white cotton. He had also adopted the habit of wearing a gold watch-chain across his waistcoat, just like Mr Ho the biscuit maker. The Western clothes were constrictive after the soft flow of a
dhoti,
but to move successfully in his new world, Mr Yamaguchi advised, he must wear its uniform. Yamaguchi was an old seafaring man of earthy humour who, despite his counsel to Raj, was often found in a loose batik shirt. Raj noted that the intellectual Mr Shinozaki, press attaché at the Japanese Embassy, always dressed in a dark suit whatever the heat. It was a mystery to Raj what men from such different worlds could have in common, that they should meet so frequently.

‘We have both roamed the world for too long. We no longer know exactly where we belong,' Yamaguchi said, laughing when Raj questioned him once. During the Russo-Japanese war Yamaguchi had been taken as a POW to Petrograd after his ship sank in action. When the war ended he was sent back to Japan, but on the way stopped in Malaya where he met and married Japanese Mrs Yamaguchi, and never returned to his country.

Yamaguchi's small office was an untidy affair with shelves of dusty files, and sheaves of browning paper that rustled as the breeze of the fan swept over them. The large map the men were huddled over lifted
in its wake; Yamaguchi held it down with a fleshy hand on which was tattooed an anchor. On the wall above Yamaguchi's desk hung a painting of Mount Fuji in winter. The bare branches of trees and the gleaming white slopes of the snowy mountain fascinated Raj. He could not imagine cold such as Yamaguchi described, where water froze and fingers turned blue. Yamaguchi's talk of these strange things projected Raj into distant landscapes, so that he often left Middle Road in a state of expanded experience.

Raj, who had been learning Japanese for some months, strained his ears to understand what the men were discussing in lowered voices. The ships Raj replenished with supplies were exclusively Japanese vessels, and Yamaguchi had suggested that some knowledge of the language would give him an advantage over other local ship chandlers. Listening to the conversation, Raj found that although he understood words here or there he could not fit them into a meaningful context. As he watched, Shinozaki leaned across the desk to Yamaguchi, speaking in an earnest manner, his arms folded upon the map, his long face lined with anxiety. Before joining the Japanese Foreign Office Shinozaki had been a journalist and worked in China. Yamaguchi told Raj that, as a young diplomat, Shinozaki had been posted to the Japanese Embassy in Berlin. There he had fallen in love with a German woman and for such inappropriate behaviour had incurred the disapproval of the Ambassador.

Eventually, Shinozaki ceased speaking and drew back glumly in his chair. Yamaguchi folded up the map and replaced it in a drawer and then picked up a small blue teapot on his desk. Shinozaki put away his notebook and lifted his empty cup for Yamaguchi to refill with lukewarm tea. Yamaguchi poured a further cup of tea for Raj, and pushed it across the desk towards him.

‘Hitler will soon invade England and win the war.' Yamaguchi grinned displaying his many gold teeth. Raj did not know how to reply to this statement and stood before Yamaguchi, teacup in hand. The year before in faraway Europe a war had started. Although Raj could not yet see what relevance such a distant event had for Singapore, Yamaguchi and Shinozaki discussed it often.

When the door finally shut behind Shinozaki, Yamaguchi walked over to the window and beckoned to Raj, pointing down into the road below. ‘Watch that fat Malay in a checked sarong in front of Mr Nemoto's
photograph shop. See what happens when Shinozaki-san appears.' With Yamaguchi Raj looked down at the peeling colonnade with its food hawkers, overflowing merchandise and mouldering shop signs. Within a moment Shinozaki emerged from beneath the office of Nanyo Kaiun and hailed a rickshaw. Immediately, the Malay stepped forward to follow Shinozaki in another rickshaw.

‘The British authorities now think all Japanese are dangerous people. Shinozaki-san is a high-ranking diplomat and receives his orders directly from the Japanese government, so of course Special Branch detectives have their eye on him. A Chinese in a straw hat, who will be waiting somewhere in the shade, always follows me. I am just a nobody, but I have caught the authorities' interest because Shinozaki-san is my friend,' Yamaguchi admitted.

‘Come, let us settle our accounts,' he continued briskly, turning to his desk.

Once the business of accounts was over Raj followed Yamaguchi into the living area behind the office. In these cramped rooms where the odour of pickles and dried seaweed was joined by that of honey buckets and disinfectant fluid, Mrs Yamaguchi ruled. She devoted much of her free time to the making of Japanese dolls with delicate white faces and elaborate hairstyles speared with ornate pins. They stood in glass cases about the room, one looking much like another and none bearing any resemblance to Mrs Yamaguchi with her wide jaw and a wart in the fold of her nose. Seeing Raj, she bustled forward to fuss about them. Soon, a Malay houseboy appeared with square lacquer boxes of cold noodles, bottles of beer and small plates of peanuts and pickles. Yamaguchi settled himself on a cushion before a low table and began to suck up the noodles with relish; Raj declined the meal but accepted the beer and peanuts. He had yet to acquire a taste for Yamaguchi's strange food with its odours of the sea and fermentation, but he had begun to enjoy the bitter taste of beer. The liquid washed through him, stretching him open inside and he had come to like these loosened sensations.

‘I could not understand what Shinozaki-san was saying; it sounded as if he was asking about guns. Is that possible?' Raj asked. The beer gave him the courage to question Yamaguchi and he was rewarded by seeing his startled expression, before the man broke into a chuckle.

‘Your grasp of our language is better than I thought. He did indeed
mention guns, and also military installations. This is a British colony and, although the war in Europe is far away, Japan has just made a pact of friendship with Germany. Now, can you see how such a pact would reflect on us Japanese here, obligating us to Britain's enemy?' Yamaguchi sucked up a further mouthful of noodles with a loud appreciative slurp. The beer had weakened his usual discretion and he picked his teeth as he considered the situation, his small shrewd eyes resting on Raj as he continued.

‘When the Japanese army reaches Singapore you Indians will have nothing to fear,' Yamaguchi said. Raj looked at him questioningly but Yamaguchi did not respond, looking down instead at his wristwatch.

‘Nakamura-san is late today,' he commented, shaking his head.

Every Monday evening Raj came to Mr Yamaguchi's home for a Japanese lesson. Yamaguchi had arranged these lessons, but the fee was so nominal Raj suspected the old seaman might be subsidising the lessons in order to help him. He had come to regard Yamaguchi as a mentor, just as he had Mr Ho before him.

When Takeshi Nakamura at last arrived, Mrs Yamaguchi fussed about him in her usual motherly manner, pressing beer and cold
somen
noodles upon him. Takeshi responded with grateful delight, dipping up and down like a tall crane, in small obligatory bows. Takeshi was a mystery to Raj. At first, observing his slim frame, tall skull and ears prominent as wings, Raj had taken him to be a student, and was surprised to find he was thirty-four. He was a teacher at a Japanese language school on Bencoolen Street but, even in the middle of term, he seemed able without difficulty to leave his duties to visit a sick uncle in Bangkok and might be gone for days at a time. It was not his business to wonder at such occurrences, Raj eventually decided; he had only to learn the language. Beside him now Takeshi ate his noodles hungrily, sucking them up with relish. Yamaguchi, red in the face from an excess of beer, pushed the empty dishes to one side and leaned over towards him.

‘I have already taught him some new vocabulary. He has learned
gun, military installation, naval base
and
defence
,' Yamaguchi informed him in amusement. Takeshi looked up over his chopsticks and nodded approvingly. As Mrs Yamaguchi reached to refill his glass with beer, Takeshi stopped eating and dabbed his wet mouth on a napkin in a womanly manner.

‘He is a good student and will be a credit to us both,' Takeshi smiled, his Adam's apple rising in his throat like the bubble in a spirit level. Raj could not hide his pleasure at such praise, but he noticed the glance that was exchanged between the teacher and Yamaguchi. He also noted Takeshi's conspiratorial tone, and was puzzled.

When Raj returned again to Middle Road the following week for his Japanese lesson, the street lamps were being lit. He looked up at the weathered façade of Yamaguchi's office and was surprised to see it in darkness. At this time Mr Yamaguchi was usually still working, and a light shone in the window. Raj climbed the stairs to Yamaguchi's door and rapped the small brass knocker in the shape of a fox. After a while, the old Malay servant opened the door a crack and Raj saw Mrs Yamaguchi's frightened face peering at him from behind the man. Recognising Raj, she stepped forward immediately.

‘Very sorry for inconvenience, we keep everything dark; better people think nobody here. I am afraid they will take the Master away. Sorry also, no Japanese lesson today. Teacher send message he is gone to Bangkok to visit sick uncle. But, please, come in, you are welcome,' she bowed, smiling.

In the small living room behind the office Raj found Yamaguchi, shirt unbuttoned, sitting morosely at the low table, a bottle of whisky before him; the room was hot and airless. Mrs Yamaguchi picked up a paper fan and kneeling beside her husband waved it vigorously about to cool him. Mr Yamaguchi offered Raj some whisky but he refused, finding the drink like fire-water. The servant appeared as always with a bottle of beer, and Mrs Yamaguchi filled a glass for Raj. In spite of the heat Yamaguchi wore a high, knitted
harumaki
wrapped about his waist, his bare chest beneath the open unbuttoned shirt glistening with sweat. Usually, Yamaguchi was unshakeably affable and it filled Raj with alarm to observe his bloodshot eyes and grim expression.

‘War in Europe is now causing us Japanese in Singapore much trouble. Because Japan has become Britain's enemy we are now a suspect people here in Malaya, arrests are being made on any suspicion. They arrested Shinozaki-san after a visit to me yesterday.' Yamaguchi swilled the whisky absently about in the glass.

‘Maybe tomorrow they will come for me,' he said, forcing a smile.

‘Why should a war so far away affect you here?' Raj was still unable to understand the full implications.

‘The world is just a large pond. When a stone is thrown in, the ripples reach everywhere.' Yamaguchi sighed and stared into his whisky glass before looking again at Raj.

‘Shinozaki-san is in Outram Prison. He has sent a message to me asking for some books from his house, and foodstuffs and cigarettes to be brought to the prison. I cannot visit him but there is no danger for you,' Yamaguchi said, his voice lifting on the thought.

Raj was conscious that Yamaguchi's gaze, focused intently now upon him, contained the weight of his obligation to the man. He thought of the help Yamaguchi had given, the business pushed his way, the Japanese lessons, the meals, the beer, the waving now of Mrs Yamaguchi's fan, ordering coolness in his direction, and knew this was the moment when Yamaguchi expected a return.

Outram Prison was weathered black by age and the mould of tropical dampness. A high wall fringed with iron spikes surrounded bleak blocks of cells. As the gate swung shut behind Raj the clang of metal reverberated and he faced a bare yard with a few spindly trees. The Chief Warder, a European with muttonchop sideburns, considered Raj from across his desk as he placed the things Mrs Yamaguchi had tied in a blue silk carrying cloth, upon the table. The cloth was printed with the design of a stork in flight, and Raj stared at the delicate pattern of its wings wrapped about the bundle as the warder opened the cloth and took out a pile of books. Holding each up to the light, he examined the titles with interest.

‘
Crime and Punishment
;
Old Chinese Poetry
;
Nanking Road
. I see our Mr Shinozaki likes highbrow stuff.' The warder turned the books over in his hand and then poked about amongst the packets of foodstuff Shinozaki had requested. They were mostly bags of dried fish and squid and a variety of strong-smelling bottled mixtures to eat with white rice. The warder took the tops off these bottles, peering at them closely and turning his nose up at the contents. At last he seemed satisfied and replaced everything in the carrying cloth, except the cigarettes.