Fire Flowers Page 15

  “Oh, I’ll make sure I do,” I called back.

  The driver of the ambulance was a handsome young man of around twenty. To my surprise, he spoke English too—his parents had been Christians, and he’d been taught German and English by the monks at the church school, though the English lessons had come to an end some years before. He’d lost both parents in the blast, but he himself had survived largely unharmed, a feat which he ascribed—admirably, under the circumstances, I thought—to “God’s grace.” All he’d suffered were some small burns that wouldn’t seem to heal. Out of thanks to God, he had now dedicated his life to helping the sick and the injured.

  As we drove along the dark, wide dirt road, he recounted some of the grim stories and grotesque myths that had sprung up in the wake of the blast. The bomb had been the size of a matchbox, people said. The bomb had been tested on a mountain range in America, which it had destroyed entirely. Some other stories had a ghastly ring of truth. A group of soldiers had wandered lost in the park that night, holding each other’s hands in a macabre line, their eye sockets empty, their eyeballs having melted down their cheeks. A whirlwind tore through the city a few hours after the blast, uprooting trees and sucking dead bodies up into the sky.

  I pictured the old man as he lay on his hospital bed, the dreamy look in his eyes. He’d been imagining what it would be like to fly, thinking how beautiful the world must seem from up there.

  Poor devil.

  I asked the driver if he’d suffered any effects of radiation disease himself.

  He said he didn’t know. He’d lost some hair, but it had grown back. Far worse were the headaches he got at night, the inertia that sometimes pinned him down for days.

  He frowned, then carried on in a low, confidential tone.

  “The worst of it is that the women’s menses have stopped. There are fears over whether they will ever begin again. My wife and I were only married last year, and we so want to have a child one day.”

  It was pitch black by the time we reached the station and I said goodbye to the boy with a fervent handshake. The snow was coming down in steady drifts now, and in the ticket hall, the shivering inspector made me understand through sign language that the train would be delayed.

  I wandered around the back of the station to the railway sidings. A long chain of carriages lay tipped on its side, the wood scorched. There was a low hill nearby, and partway up, exactly one half of a torii arch marked the entrance to what had once been a temple. Nothing remained now but the broken stones of the votive pool, still bubbling with water from some mysterious spring, and the stumps of what must have once been enormous cedars. Beyond them was a mound of rubble, and atop it, two perching Buddhas, about to fall. The face of one was sheared away. The other gazed at the ground, his hands resting in his lap, a silent, secretive smile on his face.

  As I walked back down the hill, soft snowflakes brushed my face and settled between the tracks and along the rails. From the lonely platform, I watched the snow fall until finally, with a distant glow, a train approached the station. When it pulled in, I clambered up into an empty compartment and took a hard wooden seat by the window. With numb fingers I slid the whisky bottle from my knapsack and took a long swig as the train jerked into motion. I craned my head out of the window as the train gathered speed. The station passed into the distance as snow whirled silently in the black sky. For a second, there was a faint glimmer of light somewhere far out on the plain. Then came a scream of wind as we plunged into a tunnel, and it was gone.

  17

  THE BLOOD CHERRY GANG

  (Satsuko Takara)

  The Ginza was bright and crowded with American GIs in fur hats and thick woollen gloves. A boisterous bunch were stamping along the frosty avenue in front of me as I walked toward the tram stop, flinging little icicles at each other and bellowing with laughter. I tried to dodge around them, but as I did so, a girl suddenly barged right into me. Short and plump, she wore a violet dress and reeked of liquor—she was clearly a streetwalker. She glared at me, slurring a curse. Then she spat full in my face.

  I stood there, speechless, as she started screaming, her face twisted with rage. Who did I think I was, she demanded, with my airs and graces? Was I somehow superior to her?

  “You’re just a whore like me!”

  It was awful. A crowd had gathered to watch the show: Americans pointing and sniggering, the eyes of the Japanese men blazing in spiteful satisfaction. I stepped away down the avenue, wiping my face with my handkerchief as the dreadful girl hurled insults behind me.

  There seemed to be legions of streetwalkers out in Tokyo that night. Lurking in the doorways, darting out like crabs from their holes to grab any passing man. They really were a wretched mob, I thought, their makeup smeared, bare legs puckered from the cold.

  I drew my coat around me. Was it true what that floozy had said? That I saw myself, somehow, in a class above them? Girls such as I drank Scotch whisky in cabarets, after all, while they swigged shochu dregs in dead-end alleys . . . Naval captains reserved my company in orderly private rooms, while they were pummelled by hideous old Japanese men in storefronts and frozen bomb craters.

  Michiko had despised them all. Harlots and tarts, she called them, filthy pan-pan. While she, of course, was a courtesan, a modern-day Okichi.

  It just went to show, I thought, as my tram pulled up. People always needed someone else to look down upon, no matter how far they had fallen themselves. After all, even the dogs that roam the streets and eat trash have hierarchies of their own.

  The next morning, when I woke up, I felt very odd. A great weight was pressing upon my rib cage and it was so cold that I could see my breath. When I finally dressed, I grew dizzy, and had to lie back down again. I felt like a butterfly pinned to card.

  Drifting in and out of sleep, I began to have the uncanny sensation that someone else was there in the room with me. The feeling grew stronger and stronger, until I became convinced that my mother was sitting over on the tatami by the table. I closed my eyes tightly and hid my face in the blanket, but the feeling grew so intense that I suddenly spun around and looked.

  And there she was. Sitting on the floor, staring at me with lashless eyes. Her blue kimono was scorched, her hair all burned away. A terrible smell of char filled the room and I screamed out loud and fainted.

  When I came to, she was gone. But I could still picture her, grimly staring at me, smouldering in accusation, and I knew that the reason she had returned from the other world was to punish me for having betrayed our family’s honour by becoming a prostitute.

  Over the following days, I wondered whether I should go up to the temple to say a prayer, or light some more incense in our street, but I doubted if either would help. Perhaps I should set out once more in search of Hiroshi, in the hope that by finding some trace of him, I might somehow quiet her restless soul . . . but I knew it was useless. There were no graves I could visit, no fragments of bone that I could inter.

  I grew frightened that other ghosts might come to haunt me now as well. Some nights, when I left the Oasis, I thought I saw a pale figure standing on the other side of the avenue, gazing at me with solemn eyes. My heart would patter and I would hurry away through the crowded streets, terrified that Osamu’s spirit was following me. But whenever I turned to look, the figure was gone.

  Mr. Shiga must have noticed that I was on edge, because one night he summoned me to his office.

  “Takara-san,” he said, “if you can’t get a grip on yourself, then you’re fired. Your gloomy face is causing our customers discomfort.”

  I gave a shrill laugh and bowed low, asking him to forgive me. I explained that I just felt very tired.

  He opened the drawer of his writing desk and took out a small green bottle.

  “Take one of these each evening, Takara-san, before you come to work.” He shook a small white pill onto his palm. “Our noble troops we
re given these at the end of the war to revive their stamina. You may find they help.”

  Later that night, I swallowed one of the tablets shortly before sitting at a table of American sailors. Soon enough, my mind became quite calm, and I started to feel pretty and sparkling. Their conversation was very amusing, and I began to laugh and chatter away in broken English, an unusual confidence and excitement quivering all through my body. It was quite extraordinary. The Americans smiled at me and joked with their friends at the other tables, and they all asked me to dance one after the other, so that in a few hours I earned more for tea dances than I normally did lying on my back for the whole night.

  Girls were sprawled, drinking, in the dressing room when I finished my shift. They grinned when I showed them the bottle of magical pills.

  “We’ve all been taking them for weeks now,” they laughed. “They really are amazing!”

  The pills had the added benefit, they said, of stopping you from getting hungry, so you wouldn’t get too fat, either. We all laughed at that one: none of us were more than skin and bones in any case.

  From then on, I swallowed a chalky pill as soon as I arrived at the Oasis each evening. It fizzed inside me as I dressed and painted my face. The Americans gave me swigs of whisky, and the club turned into a glowing merry-go-round as they twirled me across the dance floor. Finally, I took a yen taxi home, still wide awake, but then I just drank more whisky, and the room would spin deliciously around me as I sank down into a deep, dreamless sleep. And then, even if my mother, or my brother, or Osamu did come and visit me from beyond the grave, I was always too dead to the world to notice.

  I was far out on the Pacific Ocean, on a battleship ploughing through the waves. My father was tucking me into a bunk, but the blanket wouldn’t quite stretch. He climbed in beside me, and I was ashamed, but then he turned around, and he was Osamu. There was a loud explosion, a clanging alarm. Sailors were running through the galleys—we had been struck by a torpedo, the boat was sinking, and I was deep beneath the ocean, the sea pouring into my lungs—

  “Satchan!”

  Water dripped down my cheeks. Michiko was leaning over me, holding an empty glass.

  “Satchan, really!” she said. “I thought you’d never wake up. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Michiko unpacked tins from a bag and laid them out on the table, a silver bracelet sparkling around her wrist. A thick, luxurious looking white fur coat hung by the door. She’s put on weight, I thought. She had a lovely, sleek look and there was a rose-pink flush in her cheeks.

  Michiko sat down and drew up her knees with a sigh. I groggily climbed out of bed to make some tea as she launched into a tirade about her admiral.

  “Such demands, Satsuko!” she wailed. “I sometimes think I was better off at the Oasis.”

  I smiled thinly as I glanced at the fur coat.

  “He won’t keep away, you know. He treats me like I’m a prisoner!”

  “It must be very unpleasant for you, Michiko,” I agreed, swirling the kettle.

  She gave a sad nod. “But he loves me, you see, Satsuko. He’s going to tell his wife in America that he’s leaving her.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “And marry you, Michiko?” I asked. “Is that honestly likely?”

  “He’s very wealthy,” she said airily, ignoring the question.

  She took a small, jewelled mirror from a leather purse and applied an invisible dusting of powder to her face.

  “And you’ll never guess, Satsuko,” she said.

  “What’s that, Michiko?”

  She cleared her throat and stood up. With one hand against her breast, she sang the notes of an ascending scale in a pure, clear voice.

  “Very melodic, Michiko,” I said, impressed. “You’re much better than before.”

  “Do you think so?” she said, proudly. “Guess what else. I’m learning how to act as well.”

  She had apparently persuaded her admiral to pay for lessons with some old stagehands from the Minato Theatre, and had even cajoled him into buying her a piano. In fact, she said, it was to be delivered later on that very day.

  As the kettle boiled, I felt queasy. I thought urgently of my vial of pills in the dresser.

  “It’s kind of you to visit, Michiko,” I said as I poured out the water, “what with all your new distractions.”

  My stomach suddenly heaved.

  “But I’ve missed you, Satsuko!” she said.

  “Do you know,” I said, inhaling sharply, “I was at the cinema just last week. An American film. There was an actress who somewhat resembled you—could it be possibly be Ingrid something?”

  “Ingrid Bergman?” she cried, clapping her hands. “How clever you are, Satsuko! I think so too. There’s a definite resemblance.”

  I turned away, swallowing bile. Could I politely ask her to leave? To my relief, Michiko waved away her tea in any case.

  “Satsuko,” she said, “please forgive me. I must go now. My piano is to be delivered at any moment.”

  “Please come again, Michiko. You’re always very welcome.”

  “As soon as I can. Oh, and before I forget . . . ”

  She took a box wrapped in red crêpe de chine from her bag and placed it on the table.

  “Michiko-san,” I stammered. “Honestly, I’ve no need for gifts. I’m doing perfectly well . . . ”

  “Please accept it, Satsuko,” she begged, kneeling in front of me. “You really must.”

  A horn blared outside. Before I could respond, Michiko had scuttled to the door and pulled on her fur coat. She whipped out her mirror and applied a last, rapid puff of powder to her face. Then, with a wave of her gloved hand, she was gone.

  The powder hovered in the air, pungent and flowery. Suddenly, I gasped, reaching for the pail. I heaved up the milky contents of my stomach, my eyes blurry with tears as I clung onto its cold metal rim.

  When I had finally recovered, I slid over to the table and held up the package Michiko had left. Several silk bows and ribbons criss-crossed the box and I fumbled with them for some time, until I gave up and ripped open the red tissue paper.

  Oh, Michiko, I thought.

  A fur stole lay in the box, taken from a white fox or some other expensive animal. It was so beautiful that tears sprang into my eyes. The fur was the softest thing I had ever felt in my life, delicate and supple and luxurious. I held it against my cheek for a long time. Then I lay back down on the futon and drifted away, lost in its fleecy softness for the rest of the afternoon.

  A Joe with a pockmarked face was fast asleep on top of me, snorting violently in my ear. He had been celebrating his birthday that night and his cronies had strong-armed him into swallowing one bottle of beer after another. With an effort, I heaved him onto the floor and rang for Mr. Shiga. The man’s companions finally came to fetch him, deciding first to dress him back to front in his uniform, which was just the kind of childish joke the Americans seemed to continually enjoy playing upon on another.

  So I wasn’t in an especially good mood as I waited in the cold drizzle for a tram that never came. Eventually I decided that it would be just as well to walk to Shimbashi Station and take the overground train back from there. I drew my fur stole close around my neck and walked off into a slanting wind.

  It was deep winter now and I wondered how they survived, the pan-pan girls. Rows of them were sheltering in the low tunnels beneath the railway line, each with a leg bent up, cigarette smoke curling around them in wisps. I quickened my step, dodging the icy pools of water as I went.

  A crunch of footsteps came from the shadows. I glanced over my shoulder. A knot of girls were walking fifteen paces behind me, silent in the darkness. I focused intently on the lights of the station, a hundred yards ahead, as my heart began to beat faster. The footsteps were coming closer. I suddenly hitched up my skirt in panic, about
to run, but already they were behind me—

  A fist struck my face and I sprawled to the ground.

  Voices chorused above me, brutal and shrill. A tooth was loose on my tongue, my mouth full of blood. Thin, strong hands grabbed my arms and heaved me to my feet. I was trembling helplessly. Three women stood in front of me, and I saw the fat girl in the purple dress who had spat at me the week before. She stank of tobacco and sour sweat as she stepped forward and slapped me as hard as she could. Then she hawked and spat at me once again, her chewing gum catching in my hair.

  “Where have you been tonight, you bitch?” she demanded. I gulped. “Still think you’re better than us?”

  Her fingers dug into my wrist, and she twisted it until I cried out in pain.

  “You American whore!” she screamed. “I should stab you in the heart right here and now!”

  I gasped as she shoved me and I stumbled backward. She seized my bag from the floor and began to rifle through it. Another woman stepped in front of me. Tall, dressed in a crimson frock, her eyebrows were painted high up on her forehead, giving her a puzzled expression. She grasped a clump of my hair and twisted it until tears sprang into my eyes. Her voice came in a low rasp.

  “What are you doing here, anyway? You know this is our patch.”

  I gasped in pain, unable to speak. In the darkness, her other hand moved. A cold, sharp point suddenly pressed against my lip and nose.