Fire Flowers Page 5

  “She’s dead isn’t she?” I said, softly. “You came here on your own.”

  She gave a tiny nod.

  “How did she die?”

  Tomoko shook her head. “I don’t know, Hiroshi-kun,” she said. “She was sick. Something to do with her blood, I think.”

  “What about your father? Couldn’t he help? What did he do?”

  “He was a doctor. At the naval hospital.”

  “He could have helped her then, couldn’t he?”

  She shook her head helplessly. “Everyone was sick, Hiroshi-kun.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She stared at me. “Not straight away. Afterwards.”

  I stared at her. “After the air raid, do you mean?”

  Tears began to leak from her eyes.

  “What was it like, Tomoko?” I blurted. “Is it true what they say? That the whole city went up with just one blast?”

  She held her arms very tightly against her sides. With a jerk of her head, she began to sob.

  I was appalled at myself. Idiot! I thought. This was exactly why we didn’t talk about such things!

  I hurried away down the path, my cheeks throbbing with shame. After some time, I heard Tomoko’s footsteps behind me. I finally dared to glance at her. To my relief, her face was calm now, her eyes dry.

  “Please forgive me,” I said.

  “Shall we talk about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  She considered the question. “Well. What about you, Hiroshi-kun?” she said. “Tell me about Asakusa. Was it really as exciting as all the songs used to say?”

  I stared at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Sanja Matsuri?” I asked, relieved to be on home ground again. “It used to be the best festival of them all!”

  Her smile widened. “Is that so?”

  “What?” I said. “You country bumpkin. Everyone knows that!”

  To my delight, she let out a peal of laughter, and I told her about the rowdy celebrations that took place in our neighbourhood every year in honour of the founders of Senso Temple—the swollen crowds, the bulging-eyed men who carried the three enormous portable shrines up to the temple, swaying and crashing into the narrow buildings of the alley as they passed.

  “And did you ever carry a shrine, Hiroshi?” Tomoko asked, her eyes wide.

  I hesitated. “Well, yes, of course I did. One of the smaller ones, a little mikoshi. But you should have seen it! It was covered with real gold . . . ”

  I blustered on, hoping to thrill Tomoko with exciting tales of Asakusa. But, the truth was, I didn’t remember much about the days before the Pacific War, those wonderful times that my parents had always talked about, of the golden wooden horses in Hanayashiki Park, the jugglers out at Asakusa Pond.

  Tomoko was smiling now though, and she happily blew her hair from her eyes. “It all sounds wonderful, Hiroshi-kun.”

  Her white arms swung by her sides. For a moment, more than anything, I wanted to take her hand and hold it in my own.

  “Maybe we could go there one day,” I said, carefully. “They’re showing American films again at the cinemas now. I could show you Senso Temple if you like.”

  Tomoko stopped walking and looked at me quizzically. “Hiroshi-kun, would you really?” she asked.

  “Well,” I stuttered. “Not that there’s much left of it, of course.” She tilted her head to one side, ever so slightly. She was smiling at me again.

  The shadows were stretched out in the copses by the time we got back to the train tracks. After a while Tomoko murmured that she was hungry. She was very pale, and I realised that, in fact, she was starving, and trying to hide the fact by sheer willpower. I cursed myself for not bringing more food and wondered whether I should try rummaging about in the nearest farmer’s field. But just then, a blue-green four-car train came creaking toward us along the track and I hopped up.

  “Come on,” I said, “Hurry!”

  “Hiroshi—” Tomoko was struggling to stand. “Please. I don’t think I can. I’m so dizzy.”

  I grabbed her hand and tugged her along as the train shuttled closer. A coupling came alongside us, and I leaped up, gripping onto the carriage. But Tomoko stumbled, and for a second, I was dragging her along the ground, my arm being wrenched out of its socket. With a great heave, I hoisted her up, and she fell into my arms. Her body was a dead weight. She had fainted.

  I struggled to grasp her under the arms, trying to stop her falling from the accelerating train. Somehow I managed to steady her between me and the carriage, holding her around the waist as the train rattled forward. She softly moaned and buried her head against my chest. A caramel scent came from her hair, and her breath fell in hot, delicate waves against my neck.

  She made a small sound. As she looked up, the colour slowly came back into her face. I realized my hand was resting on the bump of her chest and I quickly wriggled around so that I was standing behind her.

  “Thank you, Hiroshi-kun,” she murmured. She turned to face the locomotive, clutching onto the carriage for balance. She looked into the distance as the engine gave a long bellow and the train sped up, its wheels clattering faster and faster along the track. The last light of sunset was bleeding over the trees and bright gold glinted from the windows and the rails.

  As we raced back toward Tokyo, the smoke from the locomotive puffed around us, and the wind whipped her hair back into my face.

  It was dark by the time we clambered down from the train at Ueno Station, and the children were bitterly disappointed that our bamboo cages were empty. Tomoko took the kids off to try to scrounge something to eat, and I wandered away on my own, filled with the urge to lose myself in the uneasy magic of my sensations.

  Not far from the railway arches was a wide bomb crater with tumbledown houses looming over it. It was flooded with dark water, and now and then bubbles rose to the surface and burst with such a revolting smell that I normally steered well clear of the place. But that evening, as I passed, a glint caught my eye and I froze. Over on the far bank, there was a tiny pulse in the air, a bright, thrilling glow, like a green star. I clambered around the rim of the crater and squatted down to get a closer look. It was just as I’d thought—though I could hardly believe it was possible so late in the year. Fireflies—floating up and down by the muddy bank, like ghostly little lanterns.

  With my heart in my mouth, I took a matchbox from my pocket and shook it empty of tobacco strands. I held it open, and caught one of the creatures at the top of its ascent. Then I slid the drawer shut with my thumb, slipped the matchbox into my pocket, and raced back to the station.

  Koji gave a whimper when he saw me coming through the slumped crowds of the ticket hall. He rushed over and grabbed my arm.

  “Big brother, you’ve come back!”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Shin said you were gone!”

  Beneath the concrete stairwell, Shin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a nasty grin on his face. The children looked tearful. When Aiko saw me, she gave a squeal of relief.

  “What’s been going on here?” I said.

  Shin looked up at the ceiling.

  “He said you were leaving us!” Aiko said. “That you don’t like us anymore.”

  “It was just a joke,” Shin said. “You damned crybabies!”

  I put my hand in my pocket. A tiny flicker came from inside the matchbox.

  “Shut up, will you? I’ll deal with this in the morning. Let’s just get some sleep.”

  The children curled up on their mats. An old woman with a black shawl rasped away beside us. The station lights were extinguished, and the hall grew heavy with sleep.

  I lay there in the darkness, wide awake, listening to the snores and night murmurs around me. I held the matchbox in my palm, picturing the creature trapped there in its min
iature chamber of darkness, its body welling with light.

  The children were dead to the world, breathing quietly with their mouths open. Koji frowned and snorted in his sleep. Beside him, Tomoko lay very still, her lips slightly parted, the thin blanket over her shallow ribcage gently rising and falling. I reached over and tugged her leg. She moaned in her sleep, then shifted. I pulled her leg again, and this time she jerked awake and sat bolt upright. When she saw me, she rubbed her eyes. I beckoned to her. Frowning, she edged forward. I held out the matchbox in my palm, and then pushed the drawer open a fraction. As the light pulsed in the box, she gasped, and a faint green glow lit up in her eyes.

  She took the box from my palm and pushed the drawer open all the way. Suddenly, the creature flew up and out of the box, and hung suspended in the air between us. We looked at each other in silent delight. She gestured to the ground beside her. I carefully clambered over Koji’s body. As we lay down, the firefly spiraled slowly in the darkness and her warm cheek pressed against mine. She fumbled for my hand and picked it up and placed it upon her chest. She held it there beneath her fingers, and then I could feel her delicate heart beat, as we lay there together on the cold, hard floor of the station, gazing up at the magical light as it pulsed softly in and out of existence.

  8

  THE COMFORT STATION

  (Satsuko Takara)

  The International Palace was housed in an old watch factory, just off the highway out towards Chiba. The name might have sounded very grand, but the walls were crumbling and the partition rooms didn’t even have doors of their own, just sheets of cloth hanging from nails. The Americans had found their way there straight away. There was a long line of them waiting outside when we arrived. They all clapped and cheered as our buses pulled up.

  A celebration ceremony had been held in the Imperial Plaza that morning. Lines of us modern-day Okichis throwing up our hands and cheering Banzai! just as if we’d been schoolgirls off on an outing to the countryside.

  The fat pig from my interview—the president of the Recreation and Amusement Association—was already waiting at the entrance, dressed like a cheap stage comic. There was an older lady there too, Mrs. Abe, who was to be our “manager.” She led me to a cubicle at the end of the corridor and gave me a crayon and a piece of card and asked me to think of an English name for myself. I couldn’t think of any, so, after staring at me for a moment, she wrote “Primrose” in jagged orange letters and tacked the card up on the wall. She told me it was the name of a flower.

  “Get yourself ready now, Primrose-san,” she instructed. “Our foreign guests will be arriving soon.”

  The cubicle was tiny, barely big enough for the straw futon that lay on the floor. A grubby window was set high in the wall and a bare electric bulb hung from the ceiling. I sat on the edge of the mattress and drew my arms around my legs.

  A loud cheer came from along the corridor, the jangling of uniforms and the heavy thud of boots. My stomach quivered. The Americans were shouting and laughing as they came in, all bursting with excitement.

  My eyes focused on a patch of bubbly mould on the partition in front of me. I pictured Osamu, his body thin and muscular in the bedroom of the Victory Hotel. This wouldn’t be like that, I suddenly realised. It wouldn’t be like it at all. My heart started to pound as footsteps came along the corridor. At that moment, I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry, whatever happened.

  Girls were moaning in the other cubicles now, men were grunting and hollering out. Then the curtain of my room was tugged away, and the first one was standing in the doorway.

  There were little dents in the copper of the teakettle from where it had been buried in the rubble. I’d been staring at it for hours, hunched over on the stained tatami in our cramped, silent house. The dents were dirty with grime which I just couldn’t seem to clean away, no matter how much I tried to polish the metal to a dazzling gleam, as my mother had once done.

  I could still smell the reek of tobacco and sweat and hair oil. They had kept on arriving all day long, in their uniforms and boots. Most hadn’t even bothered to undress. They just pulled down their pants and turned me around and buttoned themselves up as they left.

  After the first one finished, I was stunned. I couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. But then the curtain twitched open and another one was standing there. Again, and again, and again. After a while, I just lay dumbly on the mattress and let them pull my kimono aside.

  Only a few had any idea what they were doing. Most of them were no older than boys. They only lasted a moment, which was a relief. One was rough. He pulled my hair and twisted me around. I screamed, and he leaped up, clutching his trousers as he ran out of the room.

  In the late afternoon, I started to get raw and jittery. The room was filthy and stinking and hot and I felt as if I was suffocating. The curtain opened again, and I let out a sob and rolled up into a tight ball.

  But it wasn’t an American this time. It was Mrs. Abe, who told me that my shift was over and that I should go home. I fumbled into my clothes, but when I got outside into the hallway, I very nearly did start to cry because most of the rooms didn’t even have curtains anymore—the Americans had taken them all away for souvenirs.

  A sound came from outside and I jerked up. The door slid open and Michiko’s face appeared.

  “Satsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko-chan!” She rushed in and put her arms around me. “Was it really that bad?”

  I stifled a sob. She had been working in a different part of the building and I hadn’t seen her since she’d squeezed my hand goodbye that morning.

  “Did you have to go with an awful many?” she asked, stroking my arm. “Poor Satsuko!”

  She unrolled our futon and made up the bed, then gently helped me into my nightclothes and tucked me in beneath the covers.

  I heard her yawn as she bustled about by the hearth. She was actually humming to herself as she rummaged about in the cupboard. It was amazing. She didn’t seem in the slightest bit concerned.

  “Satsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko! Look what I’ve got.”

  I couldn’t bear to look.

  “Satsuko!”

  With a great effort, I twisted round. She was waggling a small square bottle full of dark liquid.

  “American whiskey. One of the yankiis gave it to me.”

  She unscrewed the cap.

  “Yankiis,” she confided. “That’s what all the other girls call them.”

  She sniffed the bottle, then wrinkled up her face. “Mmm!” she murmured. “Not bad.”

  She put the bottle to her lips and took a long swallow. Her throat moved once, and she sat there, eyes wide, waving her hand over her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”

  She recovered her breath and poured out the drink into two teacups. She handed one to me, and I sat up and gave it a cautious sniff.

  “Who would have thought it?” Michiko said. “An American, giving me whiskey.”

  I took a tiny sip, and retched. The taste was disgusting and made my eyes water.

  “And cigarettes,” she said, taking out a packet from her purse and waving it at me. “Have a cigarette!”

  She slid one out and lit it carefully, frowning at the glowing end and sucking in the smoke as if she had been doing it her whole life. I took another little sip of the whiskey. It was very pungent, but also sweet. When it reached my belly, I felt a burning, relaxing sensation that was really quite pleasant. My eyes grew heavy and I wondered if I was already drunk. I quickly tipped the rest of the liquid down my throat.

  Then I really did feel dizzy. I rolled over on the bed and stared up at Michiko’s swaying shape in front of me.

  “He was the nicest one, anyway,” she said, puffing away on her cigarette. “The one who gave me the whiskey. Even if he was a black one.”

  I sat bolt upright.

&n
bsp; “Michiko!” I shrieked. “You didn’t go with a black one?”

  “So what?” she demanded. “What do I care?”

  She poured more whiskey into our cups and I forced myself to drink it. I closed my eyes and lay back, hoping I would fall asleep straight away. The thought of the next day loomed in my mind. A throbbing pain pulsed in my neck and I felt a tightness in my chest. Finally, Michiko blew out the lamp and slid into bed beside me.

  My mind was thick with clouds, but sleep wouldn’t come. Shapes were moving about in the darkness in front of me; I could see faces of men flickering and blurring into each other. The floor was moving back and forth, as if I was on a boat, men were heaving up and down on top of me, I was suffocating and there was a filthy, cold wetness inside me . . .

  I woke with a shriek and seized hold of Michiko. “Michiko!” I cried. “Michiko, help me!”

  She raised herself onto one arm. “Satsuko?” she murmured. “What is it?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t she understand? She was looking at me in the darkness and I could smell the whiskey on her breath.

  “Is there really nothing we can do, Michiko?” I whispered. “Nothing at all?”

  Her answer came sharply. “No, Satsuko. There’s nothing we can do. So the sooner you get used to it the better. Now go to sleep.”

  With that, she rolled over and pulled the covers across herself. I drew my arms around my body, shivering. A few moments later, I heard a rasping sound. She was snoring.

  Every time I looked up, there was an American standing in the doorway. The building was hot and airless, and my room became a wretched, stinking cave. The murky bathroom where we were told to wash and disinfect ourselves after each visitor was the only refuge, but the smell in there was sickening too, and no matter how much I scrubbed myself I couldn’t get rid of the stink of chemicals and men. On the train home at night, I was sure that the other people in the carriage could smell it too, and that they were looking at me in disgust, as if they knew exactly the kind of woman I had become.