Fire Flowers (39 page)

The story went on until the very last page. There were no pictures. But after the words, they would come, I thought. My pictures.

A tranquillity descended upon me as I reread the article in the silence of my cabin. It was done now, I thought. It was over.

That evening, I sat on the bank of the lake and looked up at the moon as it slowly rose above the treetops. The water lapped against the shore and a million stars stretched out against the sky. I thought about Satsuko with a terrible ache in my heart. Where would she be tonight? What cramped back room, what urgent back alley? I broke down and shook with tears for a long time; one man, alone in a forest, beneath the starry sky.

Finally, my sobs subsided, and all that was left was the freshness of the night around me. A cool breeze sprang up and the tops of the trees sighed as they waved back and forth in the moonlight. I stood up and brushed myself off, then walked back through the wood to my cabin. I took off my shirt and climbed into my narrow bunk. Within moments, thank God, I had fallen into a profound and utterly dreamless sleep.

W
rap!” Kano cried, as if pronouncing a wonderful blessing over the assembled cast and crew, crowded now below the edge of the soundstage. Michiko Nozaki stood for a second, her hand frozen in tableau. Slowly, her face dissolved into that wonderful, trademark smile of hers, and she flung out her arms and rushed down the steps toward Kano, kissing him on both cheeks in the French manner. Kinosuke, her leading man, strode over and spun her about in his arms. Hoots and catcalls came from the crew as she emerged from his embrace, blushing and breathless. Only then did she notice me and hurry over.

“Sensei!” she said. “You've come to see us at last.”

She pecked me chastely upon the forehead. Kinosuke slid a brawny arm around her waist and held up his other hand in the air.

“Well, then,” he called, “I propose now that we all offer a heartfelt
banzai—
”

Disconcerted noises came from the crew and he stopped himself with a chuckle.

“Excuse me—perhaps I should propose instead that we offer ‘three cheers'—to our director, Kano. That we might express our respect and gratitude to him from the bottom of our hearts.”

He turned solemnly and touched his hands to his forehead. An appreciative purr came from the rest of the crew and Kinosuke raised his fist in the air: “Hip, hip, hooray!”

Kano smiled, his face half-hidden behind a pair of thick American sunglasses.

“Thank you,” he said. “Though it is I who should really be expressing my thanks. To our stars—” He gestured at Kinosuke and Michiko, and everyone applauded enthusiastically. “—the artists—” He turned to the smocked designers, who held up their paint brushes and grinned. “—and to the crew.” He waved up at the lighting box, from which bright bulbs flashed.

“You must all be very tired!” he said. “But there is just one more ‘thank you' I would like to add, one that has perhaps so far gone unexpressed in the production of this picture. I would like to dedicate this film to its true creator.”

Michiko Nozaki's bright eyes fell upon me. I tingled with pride, and bashfully bowed my head as Kano raised his hands.

“To Tokyo. To the city, and to the spirit of its people.”

My head jerked back up.

“To a city that will one day emerge from the ashes again, as it has so many times in the past.”

Heavy applause came from all around as I cleared my throat.

“I have expressed before the idea that a city cannot simply rebuild itself like some robotic automaton. Its true spirit lies in the hearts and the habits of its people.”

The crew nodded earnestly.

“This is to what we pay tribute today. And as long as the spirit of Tokyoites lives on—gruff and arrogant as it may be—so will their city survive. Thank you for your hard work!”

Everyone began to applaud. We moved forward, and then, abandoning all dignity, we flung our arms around each other and began to laugh out loud.

At that moment a deep and quickening sense of dignity passed over me, a feeling such as I had never had before in my entire life. I embraced them all, trying not to weep. My colleagues; my comrades; my friends.

 

I sat at my usual spot at the counter of the Montmartre, drinking Scotch, tapping the stiff toe of my russet Oxford brogue against the stool. I wondered about the reviews that would appear in the cinema magazines the next week.
Dreamy and melodramatic
, they would say.
Inaccurate—naive.

I shook my head. The critics, for once, did not concern me. I only hoped that I had perhaps managed to capture something of the peculiar spirit of the times—the spirit of the burned-out ruins. Of the curious resilience of human hearts in the face of chaos and destruction; of our potential to rise again from tragedy, to cast off the burden of time as a butterfly shrugs off its chrysalis.

The gala premiere performance was held, at Kano's insistence, in the ruins of an old theatre in Shinjuku that he had regularly visited as a child. The roof was still mostly open to the sky and battered chairs were lined up in the amphitheatre to face an improvised canvas screen. Michiko Nozaki sat down in the front row, chattering to the friends she had brought along. A matronly lady sat on one side of her, and on the other was a teenage boy, smartly dressed in long shorts and a white shirt. Beyond him was another woman, and as I gazed down, in the last light of dusk, she turned, so that for a moment, I could clearly see her face.

Such a strange and curious thing.

Satsuko Takara wore a flowing cotton summer dress, her hair pinned and fastened with a simple comb. How odd, how fateful, for her to appear right now, just moments before the drama that was so inspired by her was to be enacted. Would she recognize something of herself up there on the screen?

A profound sense of humility and providence coursed through me. Here, for surely the last time, was my heaven-sent chance. I swore that I would go down to her after the film had ended. That I would offer her the hand of companionship again. That I would ask, if I was not too ashamed, for her forgiveness.

The lights went out and the projector began to whir. A thick beam of smouldering light hit the screen, and the symbol of a torch flickered onto the canvas. The name of the film appeared in stuttering ideograms, followed by the name of Kano, then of myself. With an excited murmur, the audience settled back in their seats.

It was like nothing I had ever dreamed of. A new world came into being for me as Michiko Nozaki appeared on the swaying screen and her birdlike voice emerged from the speakers. Everyone in the crowd seemed to sense it too, and a sound rose from the auditorium like a soft, collective sigh.

Up above, the beautiful face turned this way and that, smiling and nodding, her skin translucent, her eyes glistening. With the blurry backdrop of the ruined city behind her, she began to run down a narrow alley of low tenement houses . . .

The audience gazed at the screen as, above them, stars glimmered in the sky. With spectacular longing in my heart, I closed my eyes, willing myself to cling tightly to that beautiful image forever.

Wonderful faces, shining over and over with light.

M
ichiko skipped along a street of low wooden houses, dodging puddles in her path and throwing her hands this way and that like a dancer. Blurry ruins were painted behind her, distant buildings and a smudgy sky. She stopped at the edge of the stage and put her hands on her hips, and flashed her beautiful smile. With a flouncing curtsy, she skittered off to one side, where handsome Mr. Kinosuke stood holding a lacquer box of powdered mochi cakes. She pinched his nose, giggling, and promptly popped one into her mouth.

Hiroshi stood on a crate, squinting through the view finder of the camera, supported by Mr. Mogami the cinematographer, who was spinning him smoothly around to film the action. The film made a sound like a flittering clock as it whirred through the contraption. The director, Mr. Kano, stepped forward and raised his hand.

“Cut! Cut!” he called.

The rest of the assembled actors and stagehands laughed and clapped as Hiroshi opened his eyes. He blinked in the bright stage lights, a bashful smile slowly growing on his face.

 

I came to, lying in the tunnel beneath the railway arch that night, overwhelmed by an almost unbearable sense of excruciating shame. My kimono was soaked, my crimson nails chipped. Hiroshi's eyes were still wide as he stared at me.

Slowly, I got to my feet. I could hardly believe how grown-up he looked. He wore a collared shirt and smart woollen trousers. But his face was covered with thick, swirling welts, and I felt a stab in my heart as we stood there in the tunnel, in silence.

Finally, he spoke.

“Big sister,” he said, his voice deep. “You're alive.”

A sob rose in my throat. “And you,” I whispered.

He bowed his head, and placed his palms formally together.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured.

Tears filled my eyes. “Forgive you?”


He knelt on the ground and touched his forehead solemnly to the concrete. “Please forgive me. For leaving you alone that night.”

I saw him, silhouetted by fire. I desperately shook my head, unable to speak. He finally sat down cross-legged on the ground.

“I needed to fetch the pot, you understand,” he said, frowning. “Father was counting on me.”

“Of course.”

He drew his arms around his legs. I wondered what could possibly be passing through his mind.

“Did you find it, Hiroshi-kun?” I finally asked.

He shook his head.

“Well. Perhaps we might go to look for it together one day.”

He glanced up at me.

“Are you still in pain?” I said, gesturing to his face. His cheeks looked angry and shiny in the streetlight. He shook his head again.

“Hiroshi-kun—” I started. He glanced at me. “Please, Hiroshi-kun,” I said. “There's no need for us to talk about anything that has happened.”

He stared at the ground, and nodded.

I walked over to him, and held out my hand.

“Please, brother,” I said. “Will you come with me, now?”

 

As we approached Mrs. Ishino's shop, something was very wrong. On the wall outside there were scrawled letters and tin signs, just like the Americans had put up outside the Oasis.

Inside, it was as if a typhoon had swept through the place. Chairs had been thrown aside, streamers pulled down, and broken glass littered the floor. I shivered as a memory came to me—of how the Americans had torn away the little curtains outside the girls' rooms at the International Palace.

Mrs. Ishino was slumped over at the back of the bar, her thick arm hugging a bottle of shochu. On the table was the photograph of her husband in his flying jacket, the glass shattered in the frame. The gramophone was playing a mournful fragment of “The Apple Song” over and over again.

Hiroshi's eyes were so wide that I was frightened he would bolt. I wouldn't have blamed him. But instead, he sat on a stool as I shook Mrs. Ishino and tried to pour water down her throat. There was the sound of a motorcar in the alley outside.

The whole scene had the feel of a dream, as the rain blustered in through the window. I heard a soft knock. A voice called my name.

Standing there by the doorway, dressed in a pleated white skirt and wool sweater, was Michiko.

 

The workmen tottered on a ladder in the alley and I called out in direction as they hoisted up the sign with the name of our new shop painted upon it in large crimson letters: Twilight Bar. Inside, two carpenters were sanding down the new counter and there was a strong smell of paint and sawdust. Hanako and Masuko were sitting with Mrs. Ishino, poring over the shopping list for our opening week. Hiroshi stood with them. He had all kinds of connections at the market now, he said, and could get food especially cheap, though I didn't care to know how.

Several of his photographs were framed on the newly painted walls. Shoeshine boys buffed the boots of American soldiers in Ueno Plaza; a packed four-car train travelled slowly through the countryside. Opposite the bar was a photograph he'd hung in pride of place: a portrait of a tough-looking gangster, dressed in a three-piece suit, scowling away beneath the big illuminated sign at the Ueno Sunshine Market.

Michiko had barely asked a single question that night. She had calmly stepped over the threshold, taking in the wreckage of the bar.

“Why, Satsuko. Aren't you going to introduce me?” She gestured at Hiroshi.

“This—this is Hiroshi-kun.”

“Your brother?” she asked, staring at me in amazement. I nodded. She walked over to him and pushed the hair out of his eyes.
She really is a good actress
, I thought.

“Satsuko,” she said, taking one last look around. “I think perhaps you should fetch everybody's things and come along with me.”

We stayed all summer at her luxurious apartment. It was all her own now, Michiko having bought it after her admiral had been sent back to American following some scandal.

Every afternoon, on her return home from filming, she brought us gifts: slabs of chocolate; summer clothes for Hiroshi; fish, rice and vegetables. I cooked our meals in the evenings and we all ate together at her Western dining table. Mrs. Ishino had fallen quite in love with Michiko by then, and told stories of Tokyo theatres of the past, of the glory days when she had danced in the cabarets and operettas. Michiko regaled us with the antics of the actors and stagehands, gave us the gossip about her famous leading man Kinosuke.

One evening, the conversation turned to the subject of Hollywood. The film
My Darling Clementine
had just opened, and Hiroshi had come back from the cinema earlier that day, breathless with excitement.