A Tale for the Time Being (46 page)

❖

The cherry blossoms on the base have bloomed and fallen, and still I am waiting to share their fate.

❖

“Tomorrow I will die in battle,” said Captain Crow.

Montaigne wrote that death itself is nothing. It is only the fear of death that makes death seem important. Am I afraid? Certainly, and yet . . .

“Que sais-je?” Montaigne asked. The answer is nothing. In reality, I know nothing.

And yet, at night I lie on my bed, counting my beads, one for every thing on earth I love, on and on, in a circle without end.

10.

We arrived yesterday in Kyushu. Two veteran soldiers from the China Offensive, who’d been discharged and then called up for a second tour of duty, have been assigned to
our squadron. They are hard men, coarse and lean, with glittering eyes that know evil, and even F— seems nervous in their presence. The mood in the barracks changed the moment they entered.
Last night after dinner they sat in our midst, surrounded by the fresh young faces of our newest student soldiers, picking their teeth and boasting about the time they’d served in Shandong
province.

It sickens me to recall their stories now, how they laughed when they spoke of the old Chinese grandmothers they’d found cowering in a hut with their grandchildren. One by one they pulled
the old women into the center of the room and raped them, and then they used their bayonets to mutilate their genitals when they were done. Still laughing, they imitated the comical way the old
women begged for mercy for their grandchildren. One by one, they tossed the babies into the air and skewered them on the ends of their bayonets.

How their eyes glittered when they described the Chinese men they hung upside down like meat over open fires, and then watched as their burning flesh peeled from their living bodies and their
arms danced like grilled squid legs. When the men died, they cut their charred corpses down and fed them to the dogs.

How they leered at us as they regaled us with stories of young Japanese recruits, callow boys like me and K, ordered to do bayonet practice on living Chinese prisoners to build their fighting
spirit. They tied the prisoners to posts and drew targets over their hearts. “Stab anywhere but here,” their officers commanded, pointing to the circles. The point was to keep the
prisoners alive for as long as possible, and the boy soldiers trembled so hard their bayonets shook and they defecated in their pants. Our two fine soldiers laughed, recounting their terror. By end
of the exercise, they assured us, when the prisoners had died and their bodies were shredded and running with blood, those Japanese boys had become men.

These deeds they described as they’d performed them, with no shame. They were carrying out orders, they said, to teach the Chinese a lesson, performing these massacres in front of entire
villages, while the victims’ children and parents, neighbors and friends, looked on. And in their retelling, they were teaching us a lesson, too, to toughen us up and inure us for what was to
come.

“Chacun appelle barbarie ce qui n’est pas de son usage,” Montaigne wrote. “Everyone calls barbarity that to which he is not accustomed.”

Thankfully, I will not live long enough to grow accustomed, and in one way I am grateful to these two devils: their monstrous barbarity shines a new light on my own small suffering. I am deeply
ashamed to have wasted so much ink complaining. The time has come for me to close the book on my life. Maman, I am scheduled to sortie tomorrow, so this is goodbye. Tetsu no Ame
¹⁴⁷
has commenced, and tonight, my fellow student officers and I will have a party. We will drink saké and write our wills and our official letters of
farewell. These empty words the naval authorities will send to you, along with my personal effects—the juzu you gave me, my watch, and K’s copy of the
Sh
ō
b
ō
genz
ō
. This diary, however, will not be among my possessions. I must confess, I’ve had a change
of heart, and now I wish there were some way of getting it to you, but I do not dare. Its contents undermine this fine pageant of patriotism we are so grimly playing out, and I’m afraid it
would jeopardize the compensation you are due to receive in return for the sacrifice of your only son’s life. I do not know what I will do with it. Perhaps I will burn it tonight when
I’m drunk, or take it with me to the bottom of the sea. It has been my consolation, and without being overly fanciful, I truly believe that although you have not laid eyes on these pages,
still you have read every word I have written. You, dear Mother, know my true heart.

What I have to tell you now, I cannot write in any official document that may be read or intercepted. I have made my decision. Tomorrow morning I will wrap my head tightly in a band that bears
the insignia of the Rising Sun and fly south to Okinawa, where I will give my life for my country. I have always believed that this war is wrong. I have always despised the capitalist greed and
imperialist hubris that have motivated it. And now, knowing what I do about the depravity with which this war has been waged, I am determined to do my utmost to steer my plane away from my target
and into the sea.

Better to do battle with the waves, who may yet forgive me.

I do not feel like a person who is going to die tomorrow. I feel like a person who is already dead.

1.

She read the last of Benoit’s translated pages and placed it on top of the pile on the sofa next to her. She stared out the window at the horizon. Storm clouds darkened
the sky with such heavy striation that, were it not for the tiny flecks of whitecaps kicked up by the wind and adding texture to the water, she would have been unable to trace the line between dark
sky and dark sea. The waves looked so small from where she sat on the couch. Hard to imagine. From up close, they would look much bigger. Hard to miss.

He flew into a wave
, she thought.

The gusty wind battered the house, making the old wood beams creak. Outside, the trees groaned and swayed. Living wood.

Nao doesn’t know this yet. She still thinks her great-uncle flew his plane into the enemy’s battleship. She thinks he died a war hero, carrying out his mission. She doesn’t
know he scuttled it. How can this be?

The electricity was on, but already the lights had flickered several times. Somewhere a tree had come down across a power line. The generator was still at the shop in Campbell River. They were
hanging by a thread.

She’s read his Japanese letters—the official one she found in the picture frame and the others that Jiko gave her—but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a secret
French diary. Does she even know about it? Where is it? If Haruki #1 had gotten drunk and burned the diary, or taken it with him on his mission, then it would long ago have turned to ashes
scattered in the wind, or cellulose dissolving in the sea.

She picked up the waxy packet containing the composition booklet that Benoit had returned with the translated pages. She turned it over and studied it carefully.

It’s real, but how did it get here? How did it end up in the freezer bag and here in my hands?

She wanted to discuss this with Oliver, to ask these questions out loud, but he was out in the rain looking for Pesto. She unwrapped the waxy paper and unfolded the booklet. She ran her fingers
across the page. The paper was cheap. The ink was faded, but she could tell it had once been a dark shade of indigo blue. He’d hidden it in his lunchbox, under his rice. He’d hidden it
inside his coat, next to his chest. She closed her eyes and held the booklet to her face, inhaling deeply, but the only smell was from the wax and the sea.

Nao must read this, and her father, too. They have to know the truth.

She opened her eyes and folded up the diary again, packing it away. It was growing dark outside. She looked at the sky soldier watch to check the time. The watch was still ticking. Where was
Oliver?

Haruki #1 was struggling with the most profound moral and existential issues of genocide and war and the consequences of his imminent death, and we’re upset about a missing cat? How is
this even possible?

But it was possible and true. They’d been distracted ever since the cat had run away, and even more so after they’d learned about Benoit’s dog being eaten by wolves. Every time
Oliver heard a noise outside he would stop what he was doing and go to the door, open it, and listen. He listened to the screech of the owls, the howling of the wolves, and even the cawing of the
ravens with equal trepidation.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, trying to make himself feel better. “He’s such a little guy. Just a scrawny morsel. Who would bother to eat him?” But
they both knew that the forest was full of predators who would love to eat a little cat for dinner. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer, and when the wind picked up he went out to search
for him.

Ruth felt bad. It was her fault for getting angry and scaring Pesto out of bed and into the night. She wished she’d been able to contain her anger. She wished Oliver hadn’t made her
mad in the first place.

2.

The rain was starting to fall in earnest, so she went downstairs to throw some wood on the fire and found that the stack was getting low. She put on her raincoat and gum boots,
grabbed a headlamp and the firewood sling, and headed out to the woodpile. The wind had really picked up and the cedar limbs were thrashing. Where was he? It wasn’t safe to be out in the
woods in high winds like this. The trees were groaning and creaking under the gale’s assault. For such tall trees, their roots were surprisingly shallow, and the forest floor was soggy from
rain. She thought for a moment she should go out and look for him, but then realized that was foolish. She started pulling the split logs from the pile and stacking them up in the leather sling.
Just then she heard a harsh cry from overhead. She looked up. It was the Jungle Crow, perched on its usual spot on the branch of the cedar. The crow looked down at her, fixed her with a beady eye.
“
Caw!
” it cried, with an urgency that sounded like a warning. She looked behind her at the house. The windows had gone black. The power was out. Suddenly, she felt afraid.

“What should I do?” The rain beat against her face as she turned back to the crow. “Go,” she said. “Please, go and find him.”

The crow just continued to watch her.

Stupid, she thought. Talking to a bird, but there was no one else nearby, and somehow just hearing her own voice helped to calm her.

The crow stretched its neck and shook its feathers. She heaved the heavy sling filled with firewood onto her shoulder and headed toward the darkened house. “
Caw!
” cried the
crow again, and when she turned back, she saw Oliver emerging from the wind-lashed trees, dripping with rain. Seeing her standing there with the wood, he spread out his arms. His wet hands were
empty. No cat.

1.

Making the decision to end my life really helped me lighten up, and suddenly all the stuff my old Jiko had told me about the time being really kicked into focus. There’s
nothing like realizing that you don’t have much time left to stimulate your appreciation for the moments of your life. I mean it sounds corny, but I started to really experience stuff for the
first time, like the beauty of the plum and cherry blossoms along the avenues in Ueno Park, when the trees are in bloom. I spent whole days there, wandering up and down these long, soft tunnels of
pink clouds and gazing overhead at the fluffy blossoms, all puffy and pink with little sparkles of sunlight and blue sky glinting between the bright green leaves. Time disappeared and it was like
being born into the world all over again. Everything was perfect. When a breeze blew, petals rained down on my upturned face, and I stopped and gasped, stunned by the beauty and sadness.

For the first time in my life, I had a project and a goal to focus on. I had to figure out everything I wanted to accomplish in my remaining time on earth, and that’s how I came to realize
that I wanted to write down old Jiko’s life story. Jiko was so wise and interesting, and now, when I think about how I’ve failed in my goal to tell her story, I want to cry.

2.

The reason I was spending my days in Ueno Park, getting lost in the blossoms, was because Babette was still pissed off at me, and of course I still wasn’t going to school.
I hadn’t been back since I shaved my head and found my superpower, and mostly I just felt a huge sense of relief, but now that the school year was almost over, I also felt some regret.
I’d taken my high school entrance exams like I’d promised my mom, and I really blew it. The minute I sat down at my seat, I knew I was in trouble. The examination room was incredibly
hot and crammed with rows of jittery kids in uniforms, stinking of teenage sweat and polyester. You could almost see the smog of pheromones in the air, turning my juicy, interesting brain into
lead. Dense, heavy, inert. All I wanted to do was to put my head down on the desktop and sleep.

It turned out I knew a lot of the material, after all, especially in the English section, but I didn’t even bother to answer most of the questions. My scores were so low it was a joke,
like I was mentally handicapped or something, but I was like, whatever. It didn’t bother me a lot, but it bothered me a little, knowing that I would never go to high school and learn all the
things that my great-uncle Haruki #1 had learned before he died. I mean, you could say what’s the point in learning stuff if you’re only going to kill yourself, and that’s true,
but there is something noble about the effort some people put into trying. Like old Jiko’s superhero, Kanno Sugako, who continued to study English and write in her diary, right up until the
day they hanged her. I think she is a good role model, even if she did try to assassinate the emperor with a bomb.

Anyway, now that I knew my time on earth was limited, I didn’t want to waste my precious moments with any more stupid dates, and this really pissed Babette off. She said that I was taking
up valuable table space at Fifi’s, and that my scribbling was bringing the mood down. I tried to convince her that having a writer there made the place feel more authentic, like a real French
café, but she disagreed, and then finally she gave me an ultimatum. Either go on a date or get out.