Fire Flowers (30 page)

I
spent much of spring in a state of dissolution, my vow to seek out Satsuko Takara blurring steadily away to transparency in countless glasses of
kasutori
shochu. I had relapsed into torpor, paralysis, as if the natural cords between motivation and action had been entirely severed.

Then I was seized with a bout of the stunning, virulent malaria that had tortured me in New Guinea, and while the cherry blossoms blushed along the canals, I spun in and out of high fever, harrowed by visions of green chasms and purple corpses.

Thus it was not until the end of April that I had the energy, or the application, to take up my pen once more. I dedicated my convalescence to writing a novella, which, I was convinced, would capture the elusive spirit of our times. It followed the transmission, in excruciating stages, of a mysterious virus from an American soldier to a young Japanese artist. I felt it by far my most compelling work to date, and I confidently submitted it to several of the leading literary reviews of the day, entitled simply, “The Germ.”

It proved too avant-garde to be published. “Obtuse,” the responses noted. “Incoherent.” But this was just further proof, I realized, of something I was rapidly coming to understand.

Men were starving to death in the Tokyo streets, our nation knelt grovelling before an army of occupation. This was no time for deep examinations of the human condition. What was needed now was diversion and distraction: American pinups and bare-knuckle wrestlers; baseball games and “The Apple Song” piped through countless speakers. It was an age for fairy tales, for the rabbit in the moon.

I received the last of my rejection notes in the morning, and was slumped drunk by midday, the manuscript of “The Germ” crinkling to cinders in the stove. When I awoke later that evening, I felt maudlin and out of sorts, and I reached in my drawer for a faithful tablet of
courage
. As it dissolved beneath my tongue, a cheery chemical abandon erupted into my bloodstream. The room seemed suddenly claustrophobic, and I slipped downstairs to immerse myself in the comforting waters of the
demimonde
.

The bar was busy. A haze of acrid smoke lapped the walls, the revelries already in full swing. Two editors from a leading review of the day were sitting in an advanced state of disrepair at the counter, dribbling over their glasses.

In the centre of the room was a clique I didn't recognize. They were celebrating, and I hovered nearby on the off chance they might offer me something to drink. At the centre of the party was a man with a goatee beard, wearing dark, round glasses and a wine red beret. The young people at his table refilled his glass each time he took a sip, laughing uproariously at every word he said.

“Who's that?” I asked Nakamura, who had appeared by my side. He was grinning drunkenly, and seemed very pleased with himself.

“You're behind the times, sensei,” he said. “That's Kano, the famous film director.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “Well, the cinema . . . ”

I had heard of the man, of course—his “kiss” film had been the talk of Tokyo for weeks. One could hardly enter a room without overhearing allusions to his genius, his “distillation of the modern spirit.”

“Why don't you come and meet him?” Nakamura suggested.

“You're acquainted with him, I suppose?”

“Oh yes,” he said, grinning. “He wants me to work on his next film. Just some sketches for scenery, you understand . . . ”

That wily old raccoon. Taking advantage of my illness to cozy up to film directors . . . Several of Nakamura's new cartoons had been published in the
Asahi Shimbun
that month. He had even started to ramble about founding a new magazine, devoted entirely to manga.

“Well,” I said, “perhaps I'll drop over later. Though I haven't much time for cinema people.”

“Come on, Maruki,” he said, gripping my arm. “Don't be such a snob.”

“Nakamura, not now, please . . . ”

“Come on,” he said bluntly, and I smelled the booze on his breath. “It's his birthday. And he's buying.”

With a sigh, I let Nakamura draw me over to the table, sharply aware of the Philopon now off on its gleeful spirals around my bloodstream. Most of the men at the table were young, with slick hair and gaudy shirts, shrieking with laughter. None looked up as we approached, and I found myself considering them resentfully, when, to my embarrassment, Nakamura suddenly shoved me forward and I banged into the table.

“Maruki-sensei!” he announced, sniggering. “The famous, talented writer!”

The group looked up at me askance. I tried to back away, cursing Nakamura for his boorishness, but Kano held up his hand. He took off his dark glasses and turned to me with a twinkle in his eye.

“We were just discussing our traditional Japanese culture, Maruki-san. Whether it still has any place at all in a modern nation. What is your view?”

I wondered if it was a trap, noticing the shining eyes, the arch smiles. Someone pushed a glass of shochu toward me and I drained it. As I looked at their smug faces, I felt a sudden wave of recklessness—inspired, no doubt by the combination of shochu and amphetamine now pulsing through me. I'd throw their superiority right back in their faces.

“I think our ‘magnificent culture' has all turned to piss, sensei,” I said, turning on my heel, deciding that I would march straight out to another, less condescending watering hole.

To my surprise, a peal of high laughter came from Kano. Quickly, the rest of his disciples followed suit.

I turned. Kano was smiling at me.

“Thank you, Maruki-san,” he said. “You see, we've just returned from the theatre.”

I felt a tinge of doubt. “Well, the kabuki, of course—” He cut me off. “Actually, I was thoroughly bored by it all.”

A smile played on his lips. The heads of the others swivelled toward him, like acolytes waiting for a sutra to drop from the mouth of the Buddha.

“Is that so?”

He smiled. “Don't misunderstand me, Maruki-san. I have always been a great fan of the theatre, ever since I was a boy. But so much else has been lost that it seemed somehow meaningless to me. Hence my boredom.”

“I see,” I muttered, not quite following.

“It was as if one was attending a birthday party, surrounded by all sorts of delightful guests, and treated to all manner of delicacies, only to be told that the host had just died.”

The acolytes chuckled, though none had any clue what he was talking about, clearly. Kano took a cigarette from a packet in his side pocket—French, I noticed, they must have cost a fortune—lit it, then blew out the smoke in a tangled ring.

“And then. Just think. I visited the urinal.”

There were snorts of laughter. Kano was smiling dreamily. “I thought to myself—how many thousands must have pissed here on this same spot in the past? How many generations have passed water here over the decades, the centuries, even? How many gallons of sake and shochu have drained away; how many fathers and sons have stood here, aiming, shivering with the same primordial satisfaction? That most universal, absent-minded moment of pleasure, when even the most sophisticated man approaches the divine simplicity of the Buddha . . . The smell was overwhelming, and yet I stood there, inhaling the fumes, thinking to myself—how wonderful! How delightful! And then—do you know what I thought? I thought,
This is it
.
This is the true smell of culture
. This is where the soul of a nation truly resides.”

The disciples shook their heads at such erudition. Mrs. Shimamura approached the table carrying two large bottles of sake. Kano looked at me directly. “Culture's a pretty sorry thing if it lives in a few temples and monuments, isn't it?”

I nodded.

“But it's always still there, you see? In the habits, the manners, the customs of the people. They can't be destroyed, Maruki-san. The way people talk. They way they laugh. And, yes—the way they piss. And so thank you, sensei, you are indeed correct. Our magnificent culture has indeed all been turned to piss. And that, if I may say so, is where it's always been. When everything else has been stripped away—that is where any culture finds its true essence.”

Loud and enthusiastic applause burst from all sides of the table, there was a hammering of feet upon the wooden floor. I hardly knew where to look. Kano raised his glass, and proposed a toast: “To a true scholar of the modern age!” Another large glass appeared in front of me. With an unsteady grin, I raised it to the assembled company and tipped it down my throat.

Room was made for me at the table. Mrs. Shimamura set down bottles and snacks, glancing at me in amusement. Soon enough, I felt relaxed and cheerful. Every so often, someone would bang the table and stand up and declare that they were “off to analyze our true culture” and everyone would laugh as the man went outside to urinate in the alley.

I found myself sitting next to Kano. He pushed his cigarettes toward me in an encouraging manner. The tobacco was delicious, and he talked to me in a conspiratorial way, as if we were both men of the world.

“And how are you surviving these morbid times, Maruki?” he asked politely.

“Well,” I said, hesitantly, “I print a small journal. Nothing of any great consequence, you understand.”

Mrs. Shimamura was leaning over the table, wiping away a spillage.

“Oh?” Kano inquired.

“It's been a great success, sensei!” Mrs. Shimamura piped up. “Better than half the other rubbish out there at the moment.”

My face flushed. Hastily, I insisted: “Just popular entertainment of course, sensei. Nothing of any artistic merit.”

He frowned. “What's it called?” he asked.

“It's called
ERO,
sensei,” interjected Mrs. Shimamura, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “It's really very popular. I was just thinking, in fact, that sensei might like to take a look at it himself. I think we have a few spare issues behind the bar.”

I jumped up from my seat. “Thank you, Mrs. Shimamura! That won't be necessary! Now, if you'll excuse us . . . ”

But Kano was looking at her. “There's no need, obasan,” he said. “I've read every copy.”

I was stunned.
Kano
, I thought,
reading my rag?

“Not so much for the erotic pieces, you understand,” he went on. “More for the ‘man-in-the-street' interviews. I think they are an act of genius.”

I was speechless.

“Yes, they're quite remarkable. I look to them for inspiration. You truly have the ‘human touch,' Maruki-sensei. You are a true pioneer.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I had always hoped . . . ”

“There is a childlike simplicity to your work.”

“You don't say?”

“Oh yes,” he murmured. “And now, as never before, we must return to a state of simplicity.”

I was dizzy as Kano himself poured me another large drink. I felt absurdly pleased with myself. I had started out the evening as a pornographer and a literary flop, and now looked set to end it the pioneer of a new
naïf
school. The room began to glitter around me and I felt a great warmth toward everyone there.

“I'd like you to write something for me,” Kano was saying, his figure blurring in and out of my vision. “Something about the men and the women of the Tokyo streets. You're the expert, after all.”

Mrs. Shimamura drew up a stool.

“How much?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Shimamura, please,” I protested, “Sensei, you must ignore her.”

But Kano was smiling, and he casually named a sum that made my jaw drop. Mrs. Shimamura jotted figures on a piece of paper, crossing out numbers and totting them up as she murmured to herself.

“That's five months' rent—overdue now, if you please—shochu, food, breakages . . . Well, sensei, I think that should do nicely to start with.”

She stood up and put out her hand, Western-style. Kano shook it with a smile as the rest of his disciples gathered their things.

“He'll start on it first thing tomorrow, sensei, don't worry,” promised Mrs. Shimamura. “I'll make sure he does.”

“Please do,” smiled Kano. “And thank you, Maruki-sensei. I look forward to reading your work.”

As I stood up, I felt the floor sway beneath me.

He bowed formally. “Maruki-sensei. Please write it from the heart.”

The heart, I thought—the heart, of course. I started to slip toward the floor, and felt Mrs. Shimamura's hand underneath my armpit, more to soften my landing than to raise me up again. As I rested my cheek against the hard wood, I was vaguely aware of Kano and his party hovering just above me. His words came to me as if through water.

“Just look. We're all at the bottom now. Isn't it glorious!” Metallic laughs echoed from all sides.

“After all—it's only after one collapses that one can learn to stand on one's own two feet.”

 

The next day, I took myself to Asakusa to watch Kano's famous “kiss film,” in order to gain some understanding of his style. The damaged theatre was packed to the rafters, though most of the seats had been removed, and I squirmed through an excited crowd to stand behind the sole remaining row of chairs at the front of the auditorium. Before me was the glossy head of a Japanese woman, and that of a tall Western man sitting next to her. As the projector rolled, the woman turned to whisper something into the foreigner's ear. For a moment, the reflection of the screen lit up her face.

A bolt of shock.

It was Satsuko Takara. Her hair cut to a bob, smiling up at the man, those obsidian eyes with long lashes that threw into relief the glittering pupils. As she turned back to the screen, her hand fell lightly upon the man's well-clothed leg. A man, I realized, with growing astonishment, whom I also recognized: last seen on the Yurakucho tram, reading a newspaper and wearing a glossy pair of chestnut Oxford brogues . . .