Number9Dream (36 page)

‘No, my brain is normal, thanks. Sort of normal.’

Ai Imajo finds this funny.

We both begin talking at the same moment.

‘After you,’ I say.

‘No, after you,’ she says.

‘I, uh’ – the electric chair must be more pleasant than this – ‘am wondering if, I mean, it’s perfectly all right if not, you know’ – never commit your army without a clear path of retreat – ‘but if, uh, it’s okay for me to, uh, call you.’

A pause.

‘So, Miyake, you are calling me to ask me if it is okay to call me, right?’

I really should have planned this better.

Walking was pleasant since Goatwriter sloughed off his arthritic body in the sacred pool. The bamboo swayed sideways to let him pass, and whippoorwills wavered quarter quavers. Up ahead, he saw a house. It was a strange building to encounter in the Lapsang Souchang plateau. It would not have seemed out of place in a sleepy suburb, with its pond of duckweed and dragonflies. A stone lantern glowed on an island. A piebald rabbit disappeared amid a rhomboid rhubarb riot. Beneath the gable was an open triangular window. Whisperings filled the air. Goatwriter took the path to the front door. Its lockless knob twizzled uselessly, the door swung open, and Goatwriter climbed the lightening stairs to the attic. ‘Good afternoon,’ said the writing bureau. ‘Greetings,’ said the pen of Sei Shonagon.

‘But I left you in the venerable coach!’ exclaimed Goatwriter.

‘We travel anywhere you go,’ explained the bureau.

‘And since when did you learn to speak?’

‘Since
you
learned to unblock your ears,’ answered Sei Shonagon’s pen, who had sharpened her nib on the whetstone of her original mistress’s wit. ‘Shall we make a start?’ suggested the writing bureau. ‘Mrs Comb and Pithecanthropus will be along, in a little while.’ Goatwriter took out a fresh sheet of paper. Outside, over the highlands, lowlands, rainforests, slums, estates, islands, plains, the nine corners of the compass, peace dropped slowly from the mist-melded sky. Reality is the page. Life is the word.

Six

KAI TEN

Amadeus Tea Room is a wedding-cake world. Icing-pastelled, fluted and twirly. Aunt Money would award it her highest decoration: ‘Rapturous’. Me, I want to spray-paint its creamy carpets, milky walls and buttery upholstery. I found the Righa Royal Hotel immediately, which left over an hour to kill walking around Harajuku. Dreamy shop-girls cleaned boutique windows in the morning cool, and florists hosed down pavements. I poke the ice in my water. My grandfather is due here in fifteen minutes. ‘Grandfather’, as a word, will acquire a new meaning. Weird, how words slip meanings on and off. Until last week, ‘grandfather’ meant the man in the grainy photo on my grandmother’s family altar. ‘The sea took him off,’ was all she ever told us about her long-dead husband. Yakushima folklore remembers him as a thief and a boozer who disappeared off the end of the harbour quay one windy night.

Amadeus Tea Room is posh enough to support a butler. He stands behind a sort of pedestal at the pearly gates, examines the reservations book, orders the waitresses, and pedals his fingers. Do butlers go to butler school? How much are they paid? I practise pedalling my fingers, and at that very moment the butler looks straight at me. I drop my hands and look out of the window, acutely embarrassed. On neighbouring tables wealthy wives discuss the secrets of their trade. Businessmen peruse spreadsheets and tap sparrow-sized laptop keyboards. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart looks down from his ceiling fresco, surrounded by margarine cherubs blasting trumpets. He looks puffy and pasty – little wonder he died young. I badly want to smoke one of my Clarks. Mozart certainly has a great view through the panoramic window. Tokyo Tower, PanOpticon, Yoyogi park – where the dirty old men hang out with telephoto lenses. On a soaring chrome block a giant crane builds a scale model of itself. Water tanks, aerials, rooftops. The weather is stained khaki today. A silver teaspoon is struck rhythmically against a bone-china teacup – no, it is the carriage clock on the mantelpiece announcing the arrival of ten o’clock. Butler bows, and guides an elderly man this way.

Him!

My grandfather looks at me – I stand up, flustered, suddenly under-rehearsed – and he gives me that ‘Yes, it
is
me’ look you put on when you turn up for an appointment with a stranger. I cannot say he looks like me, but I cannot say he doesn’t. My grandfather walks with an cane, wears a navy cotton suit and a bootlace tie with a clasp. Butler zips ahead and prepares a chair. My grandfather purses his lips. His skin is sickly grey and mottled, and he fails to hide how much effort walking costs him. ‘Eiji Miyake, one presumes?’ I give an eight-eighths bow, searching for the right thing to say. My grandfather gives an amused one-eighth. ‘Mr Miyake, I must inform you at the outset that I am not your grandfather.’

I unbow. ‘Oh.’

Butler withdraws, and the stranger sits down, leaving me marooned on my feet. ‘But I am here at your grandfather’s behest to discuss matters pertinent to the Tsukiyama family. Be seated, boy.’ He watches my every motion – his eyebrows are sunken, but the eyes inside are laser sharp. ‘The name is Raizo. Your grandfather and I go back many decades. I know about you, Miyake. In fact, it was I who brought your personal column advertisement to my friend’s attention. Now. As you are aware, your grandfather has been convalescent, in the wake of major heart surgery. His doctor’s original forecasts were overly optimistic, and he is obliged to remain in hospital for another three days. Hence I am here, in his stead. Questions.’

‘Can I visit him?’

Mr Raizo shakes his head. ‘Your stepmother is helping to nurse him in the ward, and . . . how can I express this?’

‘She thinks I am a leech who wants to suck money from the Tsukiyamas.’

‘Precisely. Just for the record: is that your intention?’

‘No, Mr Raizo. All I want is to meet my father.’ How many times must I say this?

‘Your grandfather believes that secrecy is the wisest strategy to belay your stepmother’s misgivings, at this point. Young lady!’ Mr Raizo crooks his finger at a passing waitress. ‘One of my gigantic cognacs, if you please. Your poison, Miyake?’

‘Uh, green tea, please.’

The waitress gives me a well-trained smile. ‘We have eighteen varieties—’

‘Oh, just bring the boy a pot of tea, dammit!’

The waitress bows, her smile undented. ‘Yes, Admiral.’

Admiral? How many of those are there? ‘
Admiral
Raizo?’

‘That was all many years ago. “Mr” is fine.’

‘Mr Raizo. Do you actually know my father?’

‘Blunt questions earn blunt answers. I make no secret of the fact I despise the man. I have avoided his company for years. Since the day I learned he sold the Tsukiyama sword. It had been in his – your – family for five centuries, Miyake. Five Hundred Years! The snub that your father dealt five centuries of Tsukiyamas – not to mention the Tsukiyamas yet to be born – is immeasurable. Immeasurable! Your grandfather, Takara Tsukiyama, is a man who believes in blood-lines. Your father is a man who believes in joint stock ventures in Formosa. Do you know where the Tsukiyama sword presently resides?’ The admiral rasps. ‘It resides in the boardroom of a pesticide factory in Nebraska! What do you think of that, Miyake?’

‘It seems a shame, Mr Raizo, but—’

‘It is a crime, Miyake! Your father is a man devoid of honour! When he separated from your mother he would happily have cut her adrift without a thought for her future! It was your grandfather who ensured her financial survival.’ This is news to me. ‘There are codes of honour, even when dealing with concubines. Flesh and blood matter, Miyake! Blood-lines are the stuff of life. Of identity! Knowing who you are from is a requisite of self knowledge.’ The waitress arrives with a silver tray, and places our drinks on lace place mats.

‘I agree that blood-lines are important, Mr Raizo. This is why I am here.’

The admiral sniffs his brandy moodily. I sip my soapy tea. ‘Y’know, Miyake, my doctors told me to lay off this stuff. But I meet more geriatric sailors than I do geriatric doctors.’ He drinks half the glass in one gulp, tips his head back, and savours every molecule. ‘Your stepsisters are dead losses. A pair of screeching vulgarities, at some half-wit college. They rise at eleven o’clock in the morning. They wear white lipstick, astronaut boots, cowboy hats, Ukrainian peasant scarfs. They dye their hair the colour of effluence. It is your grandfather’s hope that his grandson – you – have principles loftier than those espoused in the latest pop hit.’

‘Mr Raizo, forgive me if . . . I mean, I hope my grandfather doesn’t see me as any kind of, uh, future heir. When I say I have no intention of muscling my way into the Tsukiyama family tree, I mean it.’

Mr Raizo makes rumbles impatiently. ‘Who – meant – what – where – when – why – whose . . . Look, your grandfather wants you to read this.’ He places a package on the table, wrapped in black cloth. ‘A loan, not a gift. This journal is his most treasured possession. Guard it with your life, and bring it when you rendezvous with your grandfather seven days from now. Here. Same time – ten hundred hours – same table. Questions?’

‘We never met – is it wise to trust me with something so—’

‘Brazen folly, I say. Make a copy, I told the stubborn fool. Don’t entrust some boy with the original. But he insisted. A copy would dilute its soul, its uniqueness. His words, not mine.’

‘I, uh . . .’ I look at the black package. ‘I am honoured.’

‘Indeed you are. Your father has never read these pages. He would probably auction them to highest bidder, on his “Inter Net”.’

‘Mr Raizo: could you tell me what my grandfather wants?’

‘Another blunt question.’ The admiral downs the rest of his cognac. The jewel in his tie-clasp glimmers ocean-trench blue. ‘I will tell you this. Growing old is an unwinnable campaign. During this war we witness ugly scenes. Truths mutate to whims. Faith becomes cynical transactions between liars. Sacrifices turn out to be needless excesses. Heroes become old farts, and young farts become heroes. Ethics become logos on sports clothing. You ask what your grandfather wants? I shall tell you. He wants what you want. No more, no less.’

A coven of wives blowhole wild laughter.

‘Uh, which is?’

Admiral Raizo stands. Butler is already here with his cane. ‘Meaning.’

Morning, cloudy. Afternoon, light rain. I am on the train from Nagasaki. My journey to Tokuyama in Yamaguchi prefecture will take several more hours, and I will not reach Otsushima island, my destination, until tomorrow morning. Over the last weekend, Takara, I was torn between two promises. One promise was to you: to tell you every detail about my training in the Imperial Navy. My second promise was to my country and the emperor: to keep every detail regarding my special attack forces training an absolute secret. The purpose of this journal is to resolve my dilemma. These words are for you. My silence is for the emperor.

By the time you read these words, Mother will have already received a telegram informing you of my death and posthumous promotion. Perhaps you, Mother and Yaeko are in mourning. Perhaps you wonder what my death means. Perhaps you regret you have no ash, no bones, to place in our family tomb. This journal is my solace, my meaning, and my body. The sea is a fine tomb. Do not mourn immoderately.

Let me begin. The war situation is deteriorating rapidly. Our emperor’s forces have suffered severe losses in the Solomon Islands. The Americans are invading the Philippines with the clear aim of possessing the Ryuku chain. To prevent the destruction of the home islands extraordinary measures are called for. This is why the Imperial Navy has authorized the kaiten programme.

A kaiten is a modified mark 93 torpedo: the finest torpedo in the world, with a cockpit for a pilot. A kaiten can be steered, aligned and rammed into an enemy vessel below the waterline. Destruction of the target is a theoretical certainty. I know you are fond of technical data, Takara, so here goes. A kaiten measures 14.75 metres in length. It is propelled by a 550hp engine, and fuelled by liquid oxygen which leaves no wake of air bubbles on the surface, thereby allowing an invisible strike. A kaiten can cruise at 56 kph for 25 minutes, thus outpacing capital target vessels. A kaiten is tipped with a 1.55-ton TNT warhead which detonates on impact. Four kaitens will be mounted on I-class submarines. The submarines will sortie to within strike range of enemy anchorages, where the kaitens will be released. This new, deadly manned torpedo will reverse the recent losses in the Great East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, will dismay and ultimately decimate the American Navy. The Pacific Ocean will become a Japanese lake.

From the naval airbases at Nara and Tsuchiura, 1375 volunteers offered their lives for the kaiten programme. Only 160 passed the stringent selection procedures. You can see, my brother, how the Tsukiyama name shall be honoured and remembered.

Hazy morning; a hot, cloudless afternoon. I awoke with other kaiten trainees in cells at the military police barracks in Tokuyama – regular billets were destroyed in bombing raids last month. A bomb struck the fuel depot, and in the ensuing destruction the port and large districts of the town were razed to the ground. From this wreckage a launch took us to Otsushima. The short voyage takes only 30 minutes, but the contrast could not be more complete. Otsushima is a body and head of peaceful wooded hills, terraced with rice-fields. The kaiten base and torpedo works lies on the low-lying ‘neck’ of the island.

Sub-Lt Hiroshi Kuroki and Ens Sekio Nishina, the two coinventors of the kaiten, paid us the inestimable honour of meeting our launch. These men are living legends, Takara. Initially, Naval High Command was reluctant to sanction the use of special attack forces, and rejected the kaiten proposals submitted by Sub-Lt Kuroki and Ens Nishina. To convince High Command of their utmost sincerity, they resubmitted their proposals, written in the ink of their own blood. For all this, they are cheerful, unassuming fellows. They showed us to our quarters, joking about the ‘Otsushima Hotel’. They led the technical debriefings that took up the rest of the day, and postponed the tour of the base until tomorrow.