Fishing for Stars (23 page)

I’d positioned my chair so that I could look out through the hotel entrance, ready for his arrival on foot from the nearby subway or by taxi. A
gaijin
my size with a large gift-wrapped box on his lap wasn’t going to be too hard to spot, but we’d agreed on the phone he would carry a butterfly collector’s catalogue.

I guess it’s natural to feel a little anxious when you meet someone for the first time with whom you’ve been sharing a passion for twenty-five years but, in fact, about whom you know very little. I guess I was preoccupied with just such a notion when there was a squeal of brakes beyond the entrance. Moments later, two bellboys rushed past me towards the glass doors, holding them open and standing as stiffly as a pair of wooden figures. The doorman, I observed, had also sprung to rigid attention, and I could hear people outside crying out.

Two black Toyota motorcars had drawn up, burning rubber and halting seemingly inches behind each other, horns blaring, almost immediately followed by a black Mercedes Grosser, the first of these huge German cars I had ever seen. Then two more Toyotas slammed to a halt behind it. Men in black wearing sunglasses spilled from the four Toyotas and formed a guard around the Grosser 600.

By this time everyone in the foyer, hotel guests and staff, appeared frozen to the spot and the place had fallen completely silent. The desk clerks at reception were standing rigidly to attention, ignoring a telephone that suddenly sprang to life within arm’s reach.

As I watched, the driver opened the rear door of the huge square-rigged monster of a car and a tall, slender Japanese man dressed like the others in a black suit and wearing sunglasses stepped out, took two steps away from the car and paused. The men divided and ran to either side of him. He advanced a couple of steps towards the entrance then stopped again and retreated to the car, opened the rear door, stooped and half disappeared into the interior. By this time I’d partially gathered my wits and realised, some time after seemingly everyone else had made the connection, that the entire entourage as well as the bloke reaching into the rear of the big car were
yakuza
. And the guy rummaging in the back of the big Benz was obviously a very important gangster.

My immediate thought was,
Shit! It’s about the kid I humiliated on the pavement last night
 . . . 
They’ve come to get me!
All this happened in a matter of seconds and then the tall slender gangster turned back towards the hotel entrance, whereupon the six
yakuza
on either side of him formed an escort as he moved through the open plate-glass doors. It look me several seconds more to realise he was carrying a butterfly catalogue.

Fuchida-san
entered the hotel, ignoring the doorman’s salute, and seemed to recognise me immediately, although this may have been because I appeared to be the only person still seated and a
gaijin
to boot. He advanced, smiling, his entourage drawing back. I rose to my feet, placed the butterfly box on the chair, and went to greet him.

‘Welcome, honourable
Duncan-san
,
master of all butterfly collectors!’ he announced loudly so that all could hear his tribute to me, then he bowed deeply.

‘I am not worthy,
Fuchida-san
, it is you who surely deserve such a title,’ I answered, bowing in return. He seemed pleased with my reply and the men around us smiled and nodded. ‘I have brought you a small gift. It is unworthy, its only virtue is that it is almost unique – the twenty rarest Pacific Island butterflies.’ I bent to retrieve the parcel and handed it to him, knowing that in theory the gift should be handed over at the conclusion of our meeting. But I decided to do it the Western way.

I had expected him to accept it politely in the enigmatic manner of the Japanese and put it aside for a private appraisal. But no such thing happened. His eyes shone with excitement and he immediately called for another chair. When it was brought he sat down and, placing the butterfly box on his lap, untied the parcel. I noticed the top two joints on one of his little fingers were missing. His hands were slim and tattooed, each finger sporting a gold ring, one of which was set with a large ruby, the others crusted with diamonds. He carefully separated the folds in the paper, unconcerned about the time this took. Finally, without the tiniest tear in the wrapping, the tray of butterflies within was revealed. ‘Hiee!’ he exclaimed, clasping his hands tightly. ‘It is a treasure beyond the imagination!’ He scanned the tray. ‘Twenty, and I have only three of them!’ Then showing off outrageously he pointed to each and recited its Latin name. Laughing, he turned to face me. ‘You honour me,
Duncan-san
. I cannot repay your generosity.’

‘Twenty-five years of friendship between collectors is sufficient repayment,
Fuchida-san
. I am grateful to you for this alone without your own generosity in sending me specimens in return.’

‘And now, at last, we meet.’ He seemed to hesitate momentarily, then, seemingly on an impulse, removed a gold ring set with a large yellow diamond from his forefinger. ‘It is a small token of our butterfly brotherhood,’ he said, thrusting the ring at me.

It was a gift of ridiculous proportions. I knew better than to refuse, but enough to protest. ‘You pay me too much honour! How can I accept?’

‘As a brother,’ he exclaimed. ‘In twenty-five years you have given me great pleasure. It is but a small token.’

‘I accept, because to refuse would deny the pleasure of meeting you at last,’ I said, surprising myself with my grasp of the idiom of compounding compliments. While I am not the ring-wearing type and would choose to wear a diamond least of all, I slipped the ring onto my pinkie, it being too small for any of my other fingers. I have always been self-conscious of my hands, which are the size of boarding-school soup plates. ‘I shall wear it always as a sign of our fraternity. It is my turn to be overwhelmed by your generosity, honourable
Fuchida-san
.’

I suddenly became aware that nobody in the lobby had moved, that the
yakuza
surrounding us had now turned to watch every corner of the foyer. I wondered what they possibly thought might happen on an early spring morning in one of Tokyo’s most prestigious hotels and concluded that their vigilance was a show of power and an indication of the importance of their
oyabun.

Fuchida-san
, who can’t have been anything less than an
oyabun
, saw me looking at the reception desk where three telephones were ringing while the clerks ignored them, standing rigidly to attention. I glanced over at the entrance where the doorman and the bellboys stood like statues. ‘Get on with your business!’ he called out. ‘This is not a zoo, even if you all behave like frightened monkeys!’ This caused a burst of fraternal laughter from the
yakuza
and a few nervous titters from the patrons still in the foyer. ‘Come,
Duncan-san
, we shall go to my home,’
Fuchida-san
said. ‘I would be greatly honoured if you would give me your worthy opinion of my unworthy butterfly collection.’

‘No, Nick, I cannot continue! I must go away from you. I cannot be your woman. I am useless! I
must
let you go. You must find another woman to love you. But only understand, no one can love you as much as I do. It is not possible.’

Anna Til, Coffee Scald Island

SEATED IN THE BACK
seat of the big Mercedes with the four Toyotas front and back we merged into the Ginza traffic. I’d left instructions at the front desk that Anna wasn’t to be disturbed by either the phone or the maid, and asked them to slip a note under the door. Not wishing to worry her, I didn’t mention the
yakuza
surprise in my note, but simply said my butterfly swap mate had invited me home and that I expected to be back by late afternoon. I added that the Apollo 13 capsule had splashed down and the crew were safe, adding several XXXs so she’d know I was no longer angry about the previous evening.

Our Toyota escorts added to the traffic noise with their constantly blaring horns, which did nothing to speed us up. The Ginza seemed locked into an unvarying pace, perhaps because the traffic congestion appeared to remain constant, even in the small hours when, waiting for Anna to return, I had stared disconsolately down at the swarming vehicles from my hotel bedroom window.

Though the constant din was muffled in the interior of the big automobile it was still difficult to talk, and it was not until we’d left the Ginza strip and moved into a comparatively quieter street – Tokyo has few quiet streets – that
Fuchida-san
did more than simply point out landmarks and features.

‘
Duncan-san
, you will now realise I am
yakuza
. I hope you are not too surprised.’

‘Very,’ I answered. ‘How else should I be?’

‘Ah, an honest man,’ he laughed. ‘What do you know about the
yakuza
?’

‘A little. My father is a Japanese scholar and amateur historian. I was born here, so he kept up my language and we often discussed Japan. Although the little I know about the
yakuza
is mostly from before the war.’

‘Then you are Japanese!’ he joked. ‘I also like to think I am the historian of the
yakuza,
but only since the war. Is there anything you wish to know about us,
Duncan-san
?’ He grinned. ‘Some things I cannot tell you, but others . . .’ he shrugged, ‘it’s okay,’ he said, using the English word to add a casual, throwaway and, perhaps to him, sophisticated effect.

‘Well, you personally, you are obviously not
wakagashira,
a lieutenant.’

‘No, I am
oyabun
. I run the Kanto, the greater Tokyo district and the area surrounding it.’

I whistled. ‘But not just
oyabun
?’

He laughed. ‘I control many
oyabun.
I am like the godfather of lots of mafia godfathers. There is only one
oyabun
above me,’ he explained. ‘In your country I am a criminal boss; in Japan, no . . . 
yakuza
are part of our system.’

I was conscious of not wanting to question him too closely, but my natural curiosity and the fact that I would probably never again be as close to a senior
yakuza
made me persist. Besides, he seemed willing, almost anxious, to talk to me. ‘In what ways are the
yakuza
different?’ I immediately qualified this by saying, ‘As I mentioned, I am aware of the Samurai origins, the tradition of honour and compassion,
giri
and
ninjo−
, and of noble deeds. Do they still pertain? Is that what you mean?’

He laughed, although I sensed a slight embarrassment. I was to learn that
Fuchida-san
laughed a lot to cover a multiplicity of circumstances and evasions. When his twelve lieutenants – his
wakagashira
 – were with him, they would echo his laughter, even when plainly they hadn’t been able to hear the cause of his mirth or follow his conversation. It was a Japanese version of canned laughter, sycophantic cackling. ‘We are more like a service business today,’ he replied.

‘Business? What, based on helping people?’

Again the laughter. ‘More often persuading them, calming them down,’ he said with surprising honesty, then added, ‘The war . . . the Americans, they taught us a lot.’

‘By bringing democracy to Japan?’

This time
Fuchida-san
’s laughter seemed genuine, but he thought for a while before answering. ‘No. They organised the
yakuza
. Before, we were just rival gangs fighting each other for territory, but they turned us into a united force.’

‘The Americans organised the criminal element? You mean, like the mafiosi?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why?’

‘Well they not only wanted to introduce democracy to Japan, they also wanted the Japanese people to understand and embrace it. At the time the various
yakuza
gangs were making huge profits on the black market by hijacking aid supplies handed out by the Americans. The Americans saw us as the enemy; they thought the people would associate democracy with criminal activity, making us rich while Japan starved. So they attempted to use conventional means to stop us – police, their own forces, the FBI,’ he shrugged, ‘but without any success.’

‘They didn’t stop the black-market activity?’

‘No, it didn’t stop. Not at first. But they realised then that while we were separate gangs we shared a Samurai tradition. They saw the potential of a covert unified force and they needed one to fight communism. The Communist Party was growing in leaps and bounds among the Japanese working classes. It was backed by the Soviet Union and the Americans saw this as a major threat to a young and, to the Japanese, alien democratic system. They needed a force that could,’ he smiled, ‘
discourage
communist and leftwing activity, a force that wasn’t directly associated with a democratic government, because democracy is supposed to embrace competing ideologies. Remember, Russia had recently been America’s ally in the war and it wasn’t so easy to paint communism as an evil force to a defeated and hungry Japan.’

I was beginning to realise that
Fuchida-san
wasn’t simply a thug who had risen from the ranks of the
yakuza
by brutal force. Despite the comic-opera scene in the Imperial Hotel, I was dealing with a clever, informed and articulate man.

‘How did they go about this unification?’ I now asked.

‘Well, they needed someone who would work with US Intelligence, the rightwing political parties and big business, and they found Yoshio Kodama who, at the time, was in prison as a Class A war criminal.’

‘Why this man, Yoshio Kodama?’

‘He had all the right connections to all the forces that needed to be united. He was imprisoned before the war by the Japanese government for his involvement in several ultra-nationalist assassination plots. But he was too valuable to keep in prison, so they released him and he started working for intelligence in Korea, Manchuria and in Japanese-occupied China as a spy.

‘After this he worked freelance for the military industrial complex that was running Japan and preparing for war. He organised raw materials from other countries, China, Korea, any neutral country willing to trade with Japan . . .’
Fuchida-san
laughed. ‘Also, before your war with Germany, pig iron from Australia.

‘The military government paid him commissions on all purchases and turned a blind eye to his control of the drug trade between Japan, China and the remainder of the Japanese empire. When we declared war he joined the navy, and by its end, at the age of thirty-four, he was a rear admiral. He had continued to control drugs in Japan and to all the regions throughout the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere, where the Japanese forces used them to calm the local population. At the time of his arrest by the Americans as a war criminal it is said that he was worth one hundred and seventy-five million dollars US!’

‘Thirty-four! He was still a young man. Is he still alive?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘He was my mentor when the
yakuza
were brought together. He chose me and some other young
kobun
. I was twenty-three years old and just making my way in the
yakuza
when he made me one of his
wakagashira
, his lieutenants. Later he sent me to Tokyo University. I didn’t have the necessary qualifications, but he had influence and I studied logic and political science.’

‘I’m interested – how did Yoshio Kodama go about it?’

‘It wasn’t all that difficult. Yoshio Kodama was a longstanding member of a powerful
yakuza
gang, although he was too young to be the
oyabun.
We, all the gangs, had great admiration and respect for him. He was the one man in Japan who could unify us by promising us a share in
kuroi kiri
[black mist]
.
’

‘
Kuroi kiri?
What is that?’

Fuchida-san
spread his hands. ‘
Duncan-san
, there are aspects of every society where the government and the army cannot be seen to be involved. They are necessary and practical aspects of government influence such as paying bribes to ensure the right result, making sure that politicians see the national interest in the right way, making sure the right company gets the government contract. Sometimes a certain amount of
persuasion
of one kind or another is needed. That is the meaning of the black mist. Apart from violence,
kuroi kiri
is what gives us our power. We, the various
yakuza
organisations, agreed to unify and, through Yoshio Kodama, to work with the US Army Intelligence arm, G2.’

‘To do the government’s dirty work?’

The
yakuza
boss nodded. ‘Of course. But first we had to be trained. The Americans are very thorough, and to let us loose against the communists and some of the new unions would look too obvious. I was chosen with Yoshio Kodama’s other lieutenants and taught how to find locally plausible excuses to break major strikes, to disrupt leftwing party meetings and to use violence to the best effect.’ He grinned. ‘To break all the right heads or kneecaps, to hurt without leaving marks. It was a natural progression for the
yakuza –
 we have always been ardent nationalists. We were serving our country and we were proud patriots.’

‘And now?’

‘Now?’

‘Do you believe you’re serving the best interests of Japan?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, but now perhaps it isn’t so clear-cut . . . things have changed, the Americans have gone home. It is 1970. Japan begins to prosper as a democracy and is becoming a world power. Its government no longer faces imminent danger from leftwing forces.’

‘So, how have you adapted to these changing circumstances?’

‘You said your father studied our history. Then you will know that Japanese society has always done everything by strictly observed rules of behaviour. Traditionally there is a way to behave in every situation. But that is
old
Japanese history and now there is
new
Japanese history. We are a people who have had to adapt to new ideas, those that our
old
history may not have accommodated.’

‘No doubt
old
history includes your social mores?’

‘Yes, traditional behaviour has developed throughout our history. Since the defeat of Japan by America, traditions have changed more quickly than at any other time in our history and so the old ways have been replaced with new rules that have no historical basis and have not yet stood the test of time.’

‘I guess most people are slow to embrace change.’

‘Ah, to understand the Japanese it is important to realise that we
must
have a set of rules to follow in our daily lives.’

‘Do you mean morality? What is regarded as right and wrong?’

He sighed. ‘You see this is precisely what I
don’t
mean. Japanese society doesn’t have a concept of individual morality or guilt, only collective behaviour that has evolved over generations. What one does, all do. Morality is a group experience and so is guilt. In the West you talk much about Japanese atrocities during the war. To us these were not individual atrocities. They were a collective way to wage war, common practice against any enemy. There was no individual conscience or guilt. When you hanged our leaders for war crimes you were punishing all of Japan, you were challenging our entire belief system. You were threatening us with change we did not understand, change without the benefit of practice or precedent.’

‘What about the young people? They are always the ones prepared for generational change,’ I suggested.