Mister Timeless Blyth, page 20
At first light I stepped out into the street, left Tomiko asleep with Harumi held in her arms.
Even this early it was still hot and humid, the air clammy. There were no gatherings, no assemblies, no mobs. The few people I passed looked stunned, every face a bland mask of incomprehension. Some of them stared at me, at my pale skin, my round eyes, my shock of thick lightbrown hair. Was I some kind of advance guard, the gaijin walking among them already? I nodded to each of them, greeted them in Japanese, formally, with respect. But that only seemed to deepen their confusion and they walked on, eyes glazed.
I found myself walking towards the centre of town, buildings on every side flattened by the bombing, the acrid smell of burning in the air, catching the throat.
For no reason I headed towards Mark’s House where I had first been imprisoned. No reason at all, except to orientate myself, take my bearings from somewhere I knew. I thought I must have lost my way, taken a wrong turning, as I couldn’t see the house. Then I recognised the garden wall where the neighbour’s children used to climb and pass us food. Their house, next door, had been damaged and looked empty. Mark’s House itself, our temporary prison, was gone, reduced to rubble and ash, nothing left standing but that wall and a fireplace chimney, the ruin still smouldering.
The building must have taken a direct hit.
If we had not been evacuated, not moved out to Futatabi.
If….
All forms are burning.
8
GAKUSHUIN
If this were a film the screen would fade to black. Then there would be a long shot of downtown Tokyo, razed after the bombing, Ueno and Asakusa blitzed, almost obliterated.
A cloud of cherry blossoms.
The temple bell –
Is it Ueno? Asakusa?
What would Basho have made of this? Ueno and Asakusa unrecognisable, a scene of utter devastation, hardly a landmark left standing save a solitary tall building, the Asakusa Tower, precarious above the burned-out plain. The Kannon temple (where Basho’s bell perhaps sounded) was gone and with it the jumble of wood-and-paper buildings, the shops and tea-houses, markets and noodle bars, the thousands of flimsy homes huddled in the warren of streets, just kindling and tinder, flared up and gone.
Is it Ueno? Asakusa?
Ashes and dust.
If this were a film…
Fade.
Things had moved quickly. Tomiko and I, with little Harumi, had moved to Tokyo, encouraged by Yamanashi and Suzuki who had resolved to find me employment as soon as possible after my sojourn in Kobe. They sensed, rightly, that the teaching of English would be of crucial importance after the war. And who better to teach it than this cultured Englishman already living among them? And where better to teach it than at Gakushuin, the Peers School where sons of the aristocracy had studied – the rich and powerful, even the Imperial family – where Yamanashi had recently been Chancellor. Suzuki had also studied and taught at the school, and was held in the highest regard. With recommendations from both men – the Doctor and the Admiral – I was what the Americans would call a sure thing.
I was summoned to a meeting at Gakushuin. Yamanashi had been Head of the School since resigning as Deputy Minister for the Navy. Ironically that resignation had been forced on him because of his pro-Western sympathies, his opposition to the war. Now he was effectively to be purged from his position at the School by an edict from the occupation forces, removing anyone who had ever been tainted by association with militarism. Even his designation, his rank of Admiral, was enough to condemn him.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
I expressed my sympathy and he thanked me but said he was having none of it. He accepted the situation as he had no doubt accepted every setback in his life, with a true Samurai spirit, a stoicism and fortitude.
He said, Shikata ga nai – It can’t be helped.
It was an expression I heard everywhere, repeated like a mantra. Poverty, hunger, the sheer devastation after the bombings. None of it could be helped. But uttered by Yamanashi it did not sound trite or banal. Instead it resonated with his own inner strength, with all the quiet power of Hakuin’s Is that so?
Besides, he said, I am seventy years old. I look forward very much to having time to tend my garden.
His eyes, those ancient glittering eyes, crinkled.
But first, he said, I have a proposition for you…
Yamanashi met me at the main gate, close to Mejiro station. On the way through the grounds, he stopped and pointed out four inscriptions on the walls. He explained they were maxims by the Emperor Ninko, and he translated them for me.
Walk in the paths trodden by the feet of the great sages.
Revere the righteous canons of the empire.
He that has not learned the sacred doctrines, how can he govern himself?
He that is ignorant of the classics, how can he regulate his own conduct?
So, he said. Those are the ideals, the spirit of this place. Unfortunately, like most of Tokyo the school has taken a pounding.
He indicated where an entire teaching block had taken a direct hit, been completely destroyed. The playing fields were overgrown, nets sagging, fences torn down. A large central building which he said had been a handsome centrepiece, had been commandeered for the billeting of troops and was in a state of disrepair, windows broken, doors hanging from their hinges, plaster walls once white, now grey and scarred.
But it will be rebuilt, he said. It must be rebuilt. And this is where you come in…
His proposition was something of a ploy, albeit with serious intent. He had called me to meet him here at the school, partly to confirm the offer of a teaching post, subject to a few formalities. But there was more to his plan, as I was about to find out.
He led me into one of the older buildings, all old pine and sliding doors, which had clearly, and mercifully, not suffered damage. At one of the inner rooms he took off his shoes. I did the same and he opened the door, called out a formal greeting and indicated I should follow him.
Two distinguished-looking Japanese gentlemen in well-cut suits stood to greet us. They were of Yamanashi’s generation and he introduced them as Professor Abe and Professor Koizumi. It took me a moment to realise that I had met Professor Abe before. Some years had passed but I recognised him as the Abe who had been Head of the Law Department at Keijo, the very same man who had negotiated my salary there and told me I was doing a good job.
Mister Blyth, he said. I don’t know if you remember me.
Abe-Sensei, I said. I owe you a debt of gratitude.
I am happy to meet you again.
Likewise.
Yamanashi had spoken to me very highly of both men. Abe had succeeded him as Chancellor, Koizumi was, I knew, involved in the education of the young Crown Prince, Akihito. They bowed to me, the bows respectful but not too deep, then they both stepped forward and shook me by the hand. Koizumi said he was delighted to make my acquaintance. I noticed he had some scarring to his face, as if from burns, and he leaned on a cane as he stood. But his handshake, like Abe’s, was firm. Both men had a kind of dignity about them, a quiet strength. They shared with Yamanashi that quality of the samurai, poised and self-contained.
In the centre of the room was an old but elegant hardwood table round which four chairs had been arranged, western-style.
Please, said Koizumi, indicating that I should sit, and they did the same.
As if summoned, a young Japanese woman slid open a side door and brought in a tray bearing teapot and cups. Again the style was not Japanese but European, the delicate china cups resting in saucers, each with a silver teaspoon. The woman, however, was entirely Japanese in her manner, her movements, picking up the pot and swirling it round, pouring tea into each cup, making the event a little tea ceremony before bowing and leaving as quietly and gracefully as she had come.
Cha-no-yu, I said.
Afternoon tea! said Koizumi.
They had clearly gone to some trouble in deference to my Englishness. In a little bowl was a quantity of granulated white sugar, and in another was a similar amount of pale powder I took to be dried milk.
Please, said Koizumi again, indicating that I should help myself. Both items must have been in short supply, and I was happy to spoon two heaps of the sugar into my cup. The milk was another matter – I had encountered something like it before and not been impressed. But it would have been churlish to refuse so I sprinkled on some of the powder, watched it clot and coagulate then spread out when I stirred it, a spiral nebula.
I raised the cup to my lips, sipped, grateful for the sweetness but tasting the powder on my teeth.
Good, I said. Thank you!
My hosts had taken neither milk nor sugar, preferring their tea unadulterated, the thing itself.
Professor Abe handed me a plate on which four little hard sweet biscuits were laid out, one for each of us.
You can dunk, he said. That is the word? Dunk?
It is indeed, I said. And a fine word it is too.
Dunk.
For some reason I was back in Wormwood Scrubs, dunking stale bread in a tin mug of stewed tea, three decades ago, in another world.
Dunk.
So, said Koizumi, spreading his hands. Welcome to Gakushuin.
I recalled what Yamanashi had told me about the two men. Like him, they were cultured and cosmopolitan. Like him they had spoken out against militarism and criticised the rush to war. For this they had been treated with hostility and investigated by the Kempeitai, the none-too-secret police. Now, Yamanashi had said, in this time of rebuilding, perhaps they would come into their own.
Abe had travelled in Europe, studied Kant at Heidelberg University. He had visited China and spent that time in Korea, in my old stamping ground of Seoul. Since the war he had served as the Government’s Minister for Education, and now he was taking over as Principal at Gakushuin.
Koizumi had also spent time in Europe, studying economics in London and Berlin, returning to Japan via New York. He was a respected scholar and had been persuaded to take on his new role as Counsellor to the Crown Prince.
Gentlemen, I said, I am honoured.
Strangely, looking back, I find it hard to recall the detail of our conversation. I simply remember the range of it, and the depth. We talked about Kantian ethics and Mahayana Buddhism, the Dhammapada and the New Testament, Bach and Spinoza, Shakespeare and Dickens and Noh. We had much to share, and I found it stimulating and invigorating. At some point I referred to those maxims by Emperor Ninko which Yamanashi had shown me, inscribed on the walls, said how much they had impressed me as a declaration of intent.
There was a natural lull, a comfortable hiatus, a drawing breath.
So, said Koizumi, setting down his teacup.
There was another little pause, then he continued.
There is something we would like to discuss with you.
Yamanashi’s proposition perhaps.
There has been much…deliberation… about the teaching of the Crown Prince in these changed times.
Changed utterly, I said.
Ah, he said. Your Mister Yeats.
Yes.
Things fall apart.
The centre cannot hold, said Abe.
So, said Koizumi. We who have survived have a great responsibility to ensure mere anarchy is not loosed upon the world.
We have to rebuild, said Abe, echoing what Yamanashi had said to me. A mantra.
We have to rebuild.
It begins here where we are, said Yamanashi, Here at Gakushuin.
The next generation, said Abe.
The future Emperor is in our care, said Koizumi. It is essential that his education should be broad. He should learn about the wider world, beyond these shores.
Its history, its philosophy, its literature – in general, its culture.
Its poetry, I said. Most important of all.
Yamanashi nodded, twinkled at me.
By the end of the meeting it had been agreed. I would be employed as a teacher at Gakushuin, working to a curriculum of my own devising but based on English language and literature. The salary would be very reasonable given the times and circumstances, and I would be provided with accommodation on campus. In addition to my regular teaching duties, I would tutor the Crown Prince privately for one hour every week.
Not for the first time in my life, I felt I was a beneficiary of some divine providence. Karma? The roll of the dice? Whatever the truth of it, benign force or random unfoldment, I was unutterably grateful.
Well, as Alice might have said, that was the strangest tea-party I was ever at in all my life.
The house was in a little row, set aside for teaching staff, near the stables. It had lain empty for a while, felt cold and smelled musty, but Tomiko was happy we had a place of our own where we might be settled at last, and Harumi was delighted, ran from room to room, laughing.
There were a few old bookcases, left by the previous resident (now retired). I set about building more – a whole wall of shelves in what would be my study. I unpacked my books – those that had survived the bombings – transported from Kobe via Kanazawa along with boxes of other belongings, old clothes that were still serviceable, bedding and blankets, a padded quilt.
With my first wage I made what I thought would be a necessary investment – I bought a bicycle. Markets had already sprung up everywhere, folk showing a remarkable if desperate resilience, picking themselves up, providing necessities, eking out a living. One of the biggest markets was not far away in burned-out Ikebukuro, close to the station. I made my way there on foot from Mejiro, followed the line of the railway track. I returned home on my new bike, a sturdy old bone-shaker, complete with shopping basket on the front. I would use that to carry my books, wrapped in a trusty furoshiki cloth.
The old fellow who sold me the bike was was like a caricature from one of Hokusai’s sketchbooks. He wore a headband, a padded kimono jacket tied at the waist, wooden geta on his feet. When he grinned he showed a single tooth, his gaunt, lined face lighting up. He was next to a stall piled high with sweat-stained army surplus tunics, khaki leggings, forage caps and steel helmets, a stack of mis-matched boots. He said he could get me cigarettes – Imperial Chrysanthemum and American Lucky Strike, and bottles of pre-war Kirin Beer. When I said No he mimed disappointment, the corners of his mouth turned down. But he was astonished and amused to be selling his bike to this crazy tweed-suited gaijin. He pointed out that it came with a pump in working order, and for good measure he threw in a little tin box, an image of Fuji on the lid, containing a basic puncture repair kit. I thanked him enormously and we laughed, exchanging deep bows (each trying to outdo the other). He was still laughing, waving in benediction as I cycled off down the road.
He shouted, Gambatte! Go to it. And I would. I had a job, and a place to stay, and now my own transport. I was ready.
If I hadn’t bought a bike, the only way to get around would have been on foot. The trains and streetcars were overcrowded to the point where boarding meant risking serious injury. All the windows had been smashed, no glass left, and passengers would climb in or out through the gaps where the panes had been. The insides had been stripped of any padding or upholstery, ripped out and carried away to patch torn clothes or blankets. I heard stories of ribs broken in the crush, a pencil snapped in an inside pocket.
One of my students told me about his journey. My foot are stood on. My hands are caught. I feel like sardine in can.
So yes, I cycled everywhere, whatever the weather. As I did, I realised once more how fortunate I was, how blessed.
I saw whole families living on waste land, each hunkered down in a hole dug in the ground, covered over with tarpaulins. They cooked on a smoky open fire by the roadside, women fetching cold water from a communal tap. I knew the market at Ikebukuro was thriving but here on this bomb site, this scorched earth, it was sheer desolation, the poorest of the poor trying desperately to sell anything. I dismounted and pushed my bike, took a closer look at their pathetic wares, scraps and detritus laid out on frayed straw mats – a hank of wool, a shoelace, a ball of string, a toothbrush, a comb, a tin of boot polish, a half-used tube of toothpaste, old chopsticks, a baby’s rattle, an inkstone, a single wooden geta, a cracked tea-bowl, a chipped cup, a moth-eaten sweater, a tea-strainer, battered pots and pans, bamboo utensils – a rice paddle, a whisk, a pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses, a fountain pen with no cap and a broken nib…
My neighbour, how does he live?
I noticed rows of little orange discs laid out on stone steps. I asked Tomiko later and she told me they were slices of sweet potato spread out to dry. She said sometimes it was all poor families had to eat, that and cornmeal distributed by the Red Cross. She mimed moulding the meal into little patties, dumplings. Gyoza, she said but wrinkled her face in distaste at the thought of how unpalatable they would be.
At Ikebukuro Tomiko was able to buy the essentials, rice and flour, vegetables, tea (for herself), sometimes fish (for herself), as well as garlic and ginger, sesame oil, soy sauce, tofu, buckwheat, all at a price, at a price.
Yami ichi, she said. Black market.
Then she gave a little sideways tilt of the head I had come to recognise as a kind of resignation.
Shikata ga nai, she said. It can’t be helped.
That mantra again. At one level it was an admirable stoicism, an acceptance. But I was wary of a kind of fatalism, and found myself wanting to add something more, especially with Tomiko. I gave her my own mantra, a pronouncement by Ikkyu, the wild old Zen reprobate. It was said he’d left his followers a message locked in a box, only to be opened in case of emergency. It read, Nantoka naru. Somehow things will work out.
