Tokio Whip (37 page)

The kimono no doubt was finally devoured by flames – and so too was the city. Three-quarters of Edo were razed; more than 100,000 inhabitants died – one-quarter of the population. And a fifth of that number were to be found piled so high in the Kanda River that sight of the river itself disappeared. Even the gold in the castle keep melted.

A more prosaic account of the fire would speak of eighty days without rain; tremendous winds sprinkling layers of sand and dust over thousands of already highly flammable thatch-roofed houses. And then the flames began. Three days of raging fires that only ended when finally it snowed.

The dead were honored in a new temple, Eko'in, which also suffered its own horrors: it burnt down in 1916, and again in this century's other two great disasters. But somehow it not only absorbed all this suffering, it dedicated itself further and drew into its embrace the memories of those who suffered in further disasters (more fires and earthquakes), the aborted, babies who died in childbirth, those who died in prison, even animals.

We could go on, but enough horror. The only romance about it all lies in its name and the legend of its origin. Perhaps someday the “long sleeves” will be forgotten and the great disaster that recreated the city will only be recalled by its alternate, or “official” name, “Meireki no Taika,” the Great Meireki Fire (“Meireki” referring to the name of the period in which it occurred). Perhaps, but that is unlikely, this being Tokyo.

Fires have no narratives – or none known to this author. Let us indulge ourselves though and simply create the space here and now for that other fire mentioned earlier. It is a short, sad tale and again concerns the flames of unfulfilled passion.

In 1682 a fire broke out, again destroying much of Edo (including Bashō's hut). The house of a grocer in Komagome was among those destroyed. He and his family took refuge in a nearby temple. There his daughter, soon to turn fifteen, the young and lovely Oshichi, fell in love with one of the temple's acolytes. But within a few days, the house was rebuilt and the grocer's family returned home. Oshichi was desperate. So much so that she dared – so as to see the young man once more – she dared by her own hand to burn down her own family's new home – and she was caught.

The law was clear: Arsonists under age fourteen were banished to live on a distant island. “But when fifteen years of age and over: Burning at the Stake.” Oshichi was lead to the stake along with five other arsonists. As the wagon in which she stood drew past the crowd, all could see that the fair young girl was unrepentantly noble, self-assured and unafraid for she had done all for love. (One thinks of Anne Wiazemski in Bresson's
Joan of Arc
.) And the city's heart went out to her. She was memorialized at Enjōji, where, it was thought, the Bodhisattva Jizō elected to take on the burden of her sufferings. And even today people pray at her grave, laying flowers and other offerings. Before they play her role, Kabuki actors come, too. (Just as they also pray at the grave of Oiwa of
The Ghost Story of Yotsuya
, jilted and slain, forever haunting the man, her face horribly disfigured.) In his
Five Women Who Loved Love
, Saikaku too wrote of Oshichi.

But of fire and its horrible effects we have spoken enough.

***

Why this sudden spiritual crisis? Why does the young woman suddenly hear the names Kukai, Dōgen and others? Why this dream of the sacred giant dragonfly under her pillow?, the dream of the fat woman who saved her from embarrassment (and saved the insect from the viper who lay under the absent lover's pillow)?, the dream of the religious leader's convention where they all entered with their heads completely covered, swathed in endless cloths, covering their own never-cut hair, even their eyes covered, a bit of gauze to see through, these signs of the ego's denial, why, the woman wonders, at this time above all, why this burst of spirit?

***

Our bodies sets of lips, chests, drifting, imploding into one another, all tongue and penetration, a single blood-stream, cum-stream.

***

–
Here you are.

–
Mugi-cha
! Makes the summer almost bearable. Shame they don't export it.

–
I knew a pregnant woman who spent her summer in department stores for the air-conditioning.

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She didn't shop too, did she?

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Oh no, just kept cool. How do you manage?

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I was born cool, Cafferty, haven't you noticed?

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Inside-out.

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Well, that's what people think, so why disillusion them? That is true of you too, isn't it?

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I would like to think so, but alas.

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Alas what?

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Alas, I am of your party.

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I knew we had something similar.

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Probably more than you suspect.

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Oh, I hope not.

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Whatever for? What could you mean?

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Oh, Cafferty, you would not like to be like me. Trust me.

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Well, I certainly do trust you. And I like you – how you carry yourself, your conversation, your –

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My conversation? My weird talk, you mean.

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Call it what you like, it is fascinating.

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Incomprehensible. Hell, I even confuse myself much of the time.

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You're not after lucidity, are you?

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In my own weird way. It would not be unwelcome, believe me.

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But you are lucid, Marianne – in a weird sort of way.

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Thanks, I think.

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No, I mean it.

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I think of lucidity as being in some way reasonable, communicative.

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Not me, I think of it as illuminating. A flash of light, a beam thrown on something that had hitherto been opaque.

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Oh, comeon now.

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No, I'm serious. That other kind of lucidity is just rational talk that makes the days go by, makes us ignore the slings and arrows. It's convenient.

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Cafferty, I do not pretend to poetry. And if you call my talk poetic, I'll deny it – poetic only in the worst sense. A car crash in a movie that takes place on a beach.

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Have I seen that movie?

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No, I just made it up. And believe me, it's a bad movie.

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But there's a lot of poetry in the movies.

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And a lot of bad dialogue that some people believe is poetry.

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True. But do you really confuse yourself so?

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Oh, I don't know if that's the right word, really. I certainly surprise myself. I often say to myself, “Did I just say that?” Confusion, surprise – I provide my own amusement.

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And ourselves with wonder.

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Well, it's a wonderful world.

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You do think so, don't you?

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Of course. You don't?

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Let me respond later. Back to you.

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What's on your mind?

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Wonder.

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Ok, I will.

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No, I mean your sense of it.

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Oh, yes. The branches of a tree. How they hold up. How do we? All the punishment, outrageous fortune. A child on his bicycle. How his father teaches him. Bread rising in an oven. A woman at a window. What does she gaze on? Is she turning away from something? Waiting for the bread to finish, expecting some word? The telegram that releases her? That will doom her?

–
Are these movie references?

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Oh a couple, I suppose. Does it matter?

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No, I was just wondering.

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Watermelon. Do you remember that scene in
Late Chrysanthemums
, the actor and the maid who is the only person who tells him the truth, that he stinks on stage?

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Vaguely, yes. Why?

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I don't know, it just occurred to me. I love that scene. Maybe because it's summer.

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You'll stay in town?

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Haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll go on an inspection tour.

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Of your islands?

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Yes, I haven't seen them in a couple of years.

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But you'll still be in the city, you know?

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Of course, I couldn't bear to leave, you see.

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Nor I. I used to go away every summer, unbearable.

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Did you see the fireflies?

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Oh yes. You still can, in pockets here and there, you have to know where though.

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And I assume you do?

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I'm not keeping it a secret. Why don't we go sometime?

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Oh, Cafferty, I'd love to. What an honor, thank you. The fireflies of summer. Dragonflies. What are bluebells, by the way, insects or flowers?

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Does it matter? They sound like both, don't they?

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Do they sound deadly, poisonous?

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Blue, bell. No, not at all.

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We should make them the official Tokyo flower-insect.

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I think we just have. But let's not tell anyone just yet.

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Ok. But are there any in Tokyo?

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Does that matter? There are now.

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Yes, yes, there are.

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What else is there in Tokyo that only you and I know about?

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People like you and I, Marianne.

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Ha ha. True. But I hardly know you.

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Better than you think, I'm sure.

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I'm not so –

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Try me.

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Love life.

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I've had one. Or two or three.

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Or four or five?

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Or six or more.

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But you're not telling.

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Oh, I don't mind telling you. But it would be nothing new to you, I'm afraid.

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Really?

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I'm sure. I think that I love like you – full-speed ahead, and then things get sloppy.

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Slip on your tongue and all that.

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The whole rigmarole.

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Work life.

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Various. Editing, PR, office work of many kinds, private secretary. Nothing special but it enabled me to drift through and pay the bills along the way. Not at all like your experience, I'm sure.

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Not unlike if you count waitressing, hostessing here, some office work there, barely paid the bills, though.

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No, not unlike, I suppose.

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Friend life.

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Blessed.

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Very like. Benevolent bluebells.

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Hummingbirds.

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Irises.

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Cafferty, you're a dear.

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Marianne, you're a charm.

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Merely?

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In the other sense.

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Do I have antlers?

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In the other spelling.

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I accept.

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Japan life.

–
Where's that?