One Morning Like a Bird (17 page)

    ‘Berlin, Paris, London, Vienna  . . . even to the Eternal City.’

    ‘The Eternal  . . . ?’

    ‘It is what they call Rome. Do you think you would like to see Rome?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Perhaps you will.’

    ‘I’ve hardly travelled at all.’

    ‘You are still young.’

    ‘But the way things are going, the international situation  . . .’

    ‘The way things are going will give many excellent opportunities to adventurous young men. You needn’t worry about that. But is this what you want to talk about? The international situation? I suppose the author of
Electric Dragonfly
cannot have a very high opinion of my little efforts with the pen.’

    ‘Not at all,’ says Yuji, ‘I was only  . . .’

    “‘In the dream of a city poet, electric dragonflies over Shinobazu Pond. The lilies open like distant gunfire.” Have I got it right? I hate to misquote.’

    ‘Yes,’ says Yuji, blushing and looking down at Ishihara’s naked toes. ‘It’s correct.’

    ‘The problem,’ says Ishihara ‘– and you don’t object, I hope, to our speaking freely? – is that people now prefer stronger flavours. Or to put it another way, it is the tastes and appetites of the popular classes that dominate our society, as they dominate societies all over the world. Your poetry, Takano, belongs to a more elegant age, the time, perhaps, of our grandfathers or great-grandfathers. It is over. It will not return.’

    ‘So poetry is finished?’

    ‘Have you ever stood outside a factory and seen the workers streaming out of the gates the moment the steam-whistle sounds? I recommend it if you want a view of the future. A featureless crowd, semi-educated, longing for some distraction from the harsh reality of their lives. By their mid-thirties they’re exhausted. Do you think they read much poetry? Indeed, do you think they read at all?’

    ‘Then what hope is there for your own  . . . work?’

    ‘None whatsoever.’

    ‘So  . . . ?’

    ‘What shall we do?’ He lights another cigarette, flicks, with a frown, a speck of ash that has settled on the cuff of his shirt. ‘What else but side with history? With the future. I wonder if you know what that means.’

    ‘Siding with the crowd?’

    ‘I’ve heard,’ says Ishihara, ‘that you care for cinema.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘And your favourite film?’

    ‘
La Grande Illusion
.’

    ‘Shall I tell you mine? Ah, but here is our tea.’

    Ota places the tray on the verandah, pours from a silver teapot, throws Yuji a glance of rich hostility, nods to his employer, and withdraws.

    Ishihara hands Yuji a cup. ‘Don’t worry about Ota,’ he says. ‘He is somewhat possessive, that’s all. Now, take a sip and tell me what you think.’

    ‘It’s very good,’ says Yuji.

    ‘Just the right degree of stimulation?’

    ‘Yes,’ says Yuji. ‘But I think you were about to tell me the name of your favourite film?’

    ‘It does not have a name. I saw it privately at General Sugiyama’s house. It was filmed by one of the general’s aides and lasts no more than a few minutes. It shows a battlefield in Shangtung Province. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of dead soldiers, ours, theirs, lying where they had fallen a few hours earlier. The beauty of it is  . . . beyond my poor powers of description. Their gestures, their stillness, their wounds, their youth. I was filled with an emotion that goes far beyond patriotism or pity, or even terror. A voluptuous sensation, an ardour that no poem or novel or song could have inspired in me. I stood. I leaned towards the images on the screen. I
longed
to be there!’

    ‘And this is what the masses want to see?’

    ‘Oh, probably they do. In a diluted form at first, and dressed up a little. But that is not quite the point I am making.’

    ‘If you are arguing that cinema is the pre-eminent form, the form of the future, I suppose I must agree.’

    ‘But would you agree that the future is not simply the depiction of such scenes – a depiction that must indeed be cinematic – but the scenes themselves?’

    ‘War?’

    ‘Yes, war. But more than that.’

    ‘More?’

    ‘It is the imaginative aspect, the aesthetic aspect, even, dare I say, the religious aspect.’

    ‘A worshipping of war?’

    ‘Not exactly war,’ he laughs, ‘but you are getting close. Do you think you’ll remember all this? Perhaps you have a little notebook in your pocket you could use. You see, I am putting myself into your hands. I hope I have not made a mistake?’

Lunch is in the house, an upstairs room where double doors of decorative glass open onto a balcony overlooking the garden. The lunch guests are already seated by the time Yuji and Ishihara join them. The table is as formal, as cluttered, as the tables at the Snow Goose. There are vases of flowers, bouquets arranged in the Western style, and on the walls four or five large paintings, black-and-white abstracts, some kind of Japanese constructivism. Ota is pouring glasses of Monopole champagne. Major Yamazaki is sketching thrusts and dispositions on the starched linen of the tablecloth with the handle of his fork: ‘Naturally I accept the need for a showdown with the Soviets, but the country needs fuel oil – the navy’s using four hundred tons of the stuff every day – and
that
means pushing to the south.’

    Yuji is given a seat beside Dick Amazawa who, paying no attention to the major’s lecture, is leaning heavily on his elbows in a crumpled suit of yellow and white striped linen. There is a woman with him in a short gingham dress who chain-smokes throughout the meal, the food on her plate untouched. To Yuji, Amazawa confides that he has not slept in two weeks. His doctor gives him pills to help him stay awake. He has been awake so long he’s afraid to sleep now. ‘Aren’t you some sort of writer?’ he asks.

    ‘Well,’ says Yuji, ‘I suppose.’

    ‘You’re going to work in the Unit?’

    ‘The unit?’

    ‘He hasn’t told you about the Unit?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘But you want to work in cinema?’

    ‘Yes, perhaps.’

    ‘Who do you like?’

    ‘Renoir, Ford. Ozu  . . .’

    ‘Hitchcock?’

    ‘
The Man who Knew Too Much.
’

    ‘
Murder!
’

    ‘
The Lady Vanishes.
’

    ‘Imagine a film that’s just a woman screaming. The whole film. Just that.’

    ‘It’s difficult to imagine.’

    ‘That’s because you sleep too much. Have some of these. I’ve got more than I can use. More even than she can use.’

    The woman blinks, a lizard on a stone. Amazawa takes a handful of brownish-pinkish tablets from his pocket, eats one, and drops the rest in the pocket of Yuji’s jacket. From across the table Ishihara is smiling at Yuji as though they alone understand that the afternoon is a kind of game, an elegant charade, something to divert themselves with until the serious business of welcoming the future becomes possible.

    The houseboy serves the coffee. The major, face to the ceiling, is snoring in his seat, a piece of tomato from the cuttlefish ‘
à la française
’ dangling from a corner of his moustache. Yuji excuses himself and stands.

    ‘Ota will drive you,’ says Ishihara.

    ‘Really, there is no need,’ says Yuji.

    ‘What is the point in keeping a car,’ smiles Ishihara, ‘or even a personal secretary, if one doesn’t use them?’

    Bowing, Yuji begins to thank him. Ishihara cuts him off with a movement of his hand. ‘Until next time,’ he says. ‘Until our next little meeting.’

    Outside, the sun is dancing off the curves of the big car. Ota holds open the rear door, every gesture of servility carefully deranged to express its opposite. They drive in silence, the car rocks expensively on its springs. As they pass the Yasukuni shrine, Yuji, who certainly does not wish to arrive outside his house in such a car, to be seen by Father (to be seen by someone), asks to be dropped. He has, he says, some business in the area. Would it be convenient  . . . ? Ota says nothing. The car rolls to a halt. Yuji gets out. The instant he has closed the heavy door, the car moves off. Yuji watches it, waits until it is out of sight, then unbuttons his collar and begins to walk. He wonders where the nearest tram-stop is. He wonders, too, whether, when he comes to write the article, he should mention the fact that all the men at the lunch had in their lapels the same ruby-headed pin he saw Makiyama wearing in the Don Juan.

2

Wisteria, azaleas, peonies. The first mosquitoes, the first bites  . . .

    On 10 May the radio announces that all stores will henceforth be prohibited from carrying non-essential merchandise. Zen monks, in recognition of the rice shortages, vow to live on nothing but fruit and vegetables. Citizens are ordered to sell their gold to the government. Soon there are stories of people hiding their gold watches and buying chrome ones to wear instead.

    In China, the army suffers heavy casualties in its advance on the Nationalist capital at Chunking. The brush-maker puts up his shutters. His son is among the missing. In Europe, German tanks sweep into France. After four days the battle already looks lost, soldiers and civilians fleeing along clogged roads. (And what is Feneon doing? What is he thinking? Does this disaster not justify a visit? Does it not
require
it?)

    The nineteenth is Yuji’s birthday. He goes with Taro and Junzo to the Ginza. They visit the Black Pearl, but not the Don Juan, the billiard parlour, but not, of course, the Snow Goose. By midnight the question is what to do with Junzo. Yuji has never seen him like this, not even on his twenty-first, when he was babbling about ‘spineless intellectuals’ until he tripped down the steps to the toilet and had to be carried home by his brother. When he hears about Yuji’s lunch with Ishihara, he immediately wants to take a taxi to the Azabu Hills. ‘At least we can break a few windows, eh? At least we can do that.’

    He pulls at Taro’s arm. Taro shakes him off. ‘What,’ says Taro, ‘do you suppose would happen if we were caught? You would be thrown out of Imperial, I would be finished at the ministry, and Yuji would lose any hope of finding a respectable job.’

    ‘Perfect!’ cries Junzo. ‘Don’t you see that’s the best that could happen to us?’

    A group their own age come into the hall, and though out of uniform it’s obvious – the shaved skulls, the sediment of fatigue in their faces – they’re all off-duty soldiers. Junzo leaps to attention, salutes them. They come over. Taro tries to calm things down while Yuji hustles Junzo through the back door into the yard. The door swings shut. Side by side they urinate against the bins, blue neon above, then stars.

    ‘Let me congratulate you,’ says Junzo.

    ‘On becoming an old man?’

    ‘I just hope you’re not going to be an idiot.’

    ‘Idiot? What about you? Those soldiers would have—’

    ‘Just don’t be an idiot,’ says Junzo. ‘And please take care of yourself. Please take care of—’

    ‘Are you getting sentimental?’

    ‘You’re right,’ says Junzo, buttoning his trousers. ‘I should probably despise you, but somehow I can’t. So instead, let me congratulate you.
Toutes mes félicitations! Au vainqueur, le gloire!
’

    ‘
La gloire
.’

    ‘
La gloire
. . .’