Fishing for Stars (25 page)

‘Ah, it is a beginning,
Duncan-san
. There are ten thousand or more I do not have!’ He laughed, stepping into the room, obviously delighted by my reaction. ‘The ones you gave me, I told you, I have only three of them.’ He pointed to the centre of the wall on my right where he had the butterflies of the Pacific region. I immediately recognised the Magpie Crow, the rare butterfly found only on the Indonesian islands and the Malayan Peninsula. It had been this butterfly that had taken me to Java where I had first met sixteen-year-old Anna and shortly after escaped the Japanese invasion by sailing away in
Madam Butterfly
. He was right. Seventeen of the twenty specimens I had brought him were not in his collection. How he could possibly have known this and recited their Latin names, given the tens of thousands of butterflies displayed, was a remarkable feat of memory.

We spent the next hour discussing his collection, many of which I had never seen, not even in a catalogue or book.

‘Do you travel much? This collection is from all over the world,’ I said at one stage in the conversation.

‘No, I have been to Manchuria as a soldier, also China, the islands of Japan and Korea, but that is all. Most are sent to me, swapped for Japanese butterflies. My network of collectors is vast, but yours also I think,
Duncan-san
? Your own collection must be very impressive.’

‘Not like this one,’ I said, indicating the walls around me. ‘I collect only those from the Pacific region and, since we have been swapping, the butterflies of Japan. But only those specimens you have sent me. I like to catch them myself. I am in shipping,’ I explained, ‘in and out of the various islands. It is a hobby and good exercise. Do you hunt much yourself?’

‘Alas, no, it is hard for me to leave Tokyo. I have another system for collecting the Japanese species I use to swap with other collectors.’ He held up his hand to show me the pinkie with two joints missing. I had already noticed this in the hotel. ‘Two joints, two mistakes, it is a
yakuza
punishment. Mistakes are unavoidable and I have four thousand
yakuza
under me, so there are many mistakes. Now it is known amongst my people that if you fuck up you have two choices – cut off a finger joint or go hunting for butterflies.’ He laughed. ‘In other parts of Japan the Tokyo
Kanto
is known as “The Butterfly Mob”!’

‘No! Really?’ I exclaimed in disbelief.

He laughed. ‘A guilty man must wait until it is the butterfly season, then he is given a butterfly net, a map and a picture of a particular specimen. He must return within thirty days with six specimens or remove a finger joint. He also takes an oath that he will not pay someone to obtain them. If he does and we discover this, then he loses two entire fingers and is demoted.’

‘What a bizarre solution, but obviously effective,’ I exclaimed, chuckling.

‘Not always,’ he replied. ‘These guys are mostly from the city slums and know more about cockroaches than butterflies. They don’t know the countryside. The specimens they must catch are always rare and so are difficult to find. The area they are given may be difficult. Sometimes it is rugged mountain terrain or swamp land. Some come back exhausted, three have died – two were lost in the mountains overnight where they froze to death and one drowned in a swamp. Here in the Tokyo
Kanto
butterfly hunting is regarded as very severe punishment and, if a miscreant still has all his fingers intact, he may even opt to lose a finger joint rather than go on a butterfly expedition into the vast unknown.’

‘I can understand that,’ I laughed. ‘I have had more than one narrow escape in the New Guinea jungle and on some of the islands. A. S. Meek, the greatest of Australian butterfly collectors, suffered malaria, yellow fever, dysentery and various other tropical diseases. At that time in the early 1900s there were also headhunters and cannibals and so he hunted with a butterfly net in one hand and a revolver in the other. Most of his porters died of fever and pneumonia and he barely survived himself. But it was he who found the Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing. The female’s wingspan can reach 31 centimetres. Hunting butterflies is not a sport for wimps or city boys.’

Fuchida-san
whistled. ‘I would very much like to see that big butterfly,
Duncan-san
.’

‘Then come and visit me and I will show you one,’ I replied.

‘In your collection?’

‘Yes, when I was fourteen years old. I have never caught another.’

‘If you do I will pay you a great deal,
Duncan-san
. I would treasure it.’

‘
Fuchida-san
, if I find another you shall have it as a gift, a gesture of our friendship.’

The
mama-san
had knocked several times to say that tea was ready but had been dismissed with a flick of the wrist, then finally dismissed to prepare lunch. Now she announced that lunch was ready and we repaired to a small room decorated in authentic Japanese style,
tatami
floor, cushions and a low black lacquered table only large enough for two people. The old woman, who had changed into a formal silk kimono, served us
sake
on her heels, diamond pendants shining.

‘
Duncan-san
, your gift is of incalculable value to me,’
Fuchida-san
began. ‘To know that you have hunted these butterflies yourself adds greatly to their worth. We are now friends who drink
sake
together and face each other across the table and not across the seas.’ He smiled. ‘If you were
yakuza
we would exchange blood.’ Then a serious expression crossed his face. ‘If I can do anything to help you while you are in Japan you need only ask.’

‘We have been swap mates for twenty years,’ I replied. ‘It is a pleasure just to meet you at last, and a privilege to be permitted to see your remarkable collection.’

‘It is so long ago that I have forgotten how our swap friendship began,’ he observed.

I was immediately alerted. Any person who could remember the Latin names of seventeen Pacific butterflies in his vast collection would remember Gojo Mura, the little Japanese radio operator I had befriended during the war. ‘You will remember that I was given your name and address by your friend Gojo Mura. I hoped to contact him through you,’ I reminded him.

The
yakuza
boss feigned a look of surprise. ‘Ah, yes, now I recall it.’

‘At the time you wrote to say you had lost contact with him,’ I added.

Fuchida-san
paused. ‘There cannot be lies between good friends,
Duncan-san
. At that time it was difficult. I wanted to help but it was not possible. Gojo Mura was a traitor to Japan.’

‘Traitor? Impossible!’ I exclaimed. ‘He was the
worst
soldier I have ever known. He had no treachery in him, no interest whatsoever in fighting. When I captured him, his rifle bolt and barrel had rusted up and the cartridges and magazines were green with mildew.’

‘It was not that,
Duncan-san
. He
returned
to Japan having been taken a prisoner of war and put in a concentration camp. At that time it was still
old
Japan. If a warrior is captured he must commit
seppuku – harakiri
; this was our way then, collective guilt. When I received your letter I did not know who you were, only that you were in my mind still the enemy, one of Japan’s conquerors. But then I found out you were a warrior of great distinction awarded the Navy Cross, America’s second-highest medal for bravery.’

My surprise must have been apparent. I obviously hadn’t mentioned my role in the war, other than to say in the original letter that I’d captured Gojo Mura while fighting with the Americans and had subsequently got to know him well while he was interned in Australia, where we had become good friends. ‘How? How did you know of my war record?’ I asked, amazed.

‘When your letter arrived just after the war I had already been recruited by Yoshio Kodama. I thought it might be a trap to plant someone close to me, so he could spy on my boss. I told him about your letter and he said he would check you out with the FBI. They came back and told us you were a great warrior and worthy of the highest respect.’

I laughed. ‘The FBI credited me with too much honour,
Fuchida-san
. At that time the Navy Cross was only the third highest American award for bravery. It is not a big deal; many were much braver than me in battle.’

‘Also that you got another medal for bravery, the Distinguished Service Cross, which you received personally from the hands of MacArthur! There can be no higher honour for a warrior on your side!’ he said, his expression close to awestruck. ‘It would be like the Emperor awarding a Japanese soldier a medal. Such a gesture from the Chrysanthemum Throne would not be forgotten in his family for ten thousand lifetimes.’

‘Ah, MacArthur gave out a lot of medals. He was the world champion at giving medals. I think I got it mostly for having malaria.’ I glanced up and grinned. ‘The FBI didn’t tell you I was in an intelligence unit?’ I asked. It was clear to see why the young
Fuchida-san
had been recruited by the notorious Yoshio Kodama. He had been careful and circumspect even as a young man. His apparent respect for my war record also explained his openness and the candid discussion we’d had earlier.

Fuchida-san
looked momentarily horrified, then burst into uproarious laughter. ‘It is my luck then,’ he said finally. ‘If the FBI had told us you were in Intelligence at the time, I would not have become your butterfly swap mate. I would have regarded it as too dangerous to be associated with you. As I said, we Japanese are by nature paranoid.’

‘This affirmation from the FBI, it didn’t change your mind about helping me find Gojo Mura?’

‘At the time, I still thought it better to do nothing about finding him. To let, as you say, sleeping dogs lie. Although we came from the same village and were childhood friends, I knew he would not return to the village because of his shame. The village people would not have tolerated it. Besides, he was officially dead. Officially there were no Japanese prisoners of war.’

‘But many did return to Japan?’

‘That was the
haji
, the disgrace. They had dishonoured the Emperor’s
Senjinkun
military code, which laid down that no surrender was possible for the individual soldier. They had not only disobeyed the instructions to commit suicide if they were captured, but now they were refusing to be officially dead. Their reappearance in Japan would cause great disgrace to their families who had received a small box supposedly containing their ashes, so they knew their beloved son or father had died an honourable death fighting for the divine cause. Their names were listed at the Yakusuni Shrine as honoured dead and their families received a small government pension. They were also removed from the national family register as, clearly, dead men cannot continue to be Japanese citizens.’

‘And that is what would have happened to Gojo Mura?’ I asked. I had, by alluding to the fact that I had captured him, in effect condemned my little Japanese friend to a future of shame. He was a dead man walking. ‘I am to blame for telling you of his capture,’ I lamented.

Fuchida-san
sniffed and then shrugged. ‘No, he would have been on a repatriated prisoner of war list. When he got back he changed his name. He was clever but, like me, came from a very poor but honourable family. He would not want them to lose their pension and, much worse, be forever disgraced in the village for a son who brought them
haji
, shame and humiliation.’

‘Wait a minute, if he gave me your address did he not contact you?’

Fuchida-san
hesitated momentarily. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s how you know he changed his name?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you see him again?’

‘No. I was in the
yakuza,
it was not appropriate to know a traitor.’

‘But all the Japanese prisoners of war were exonerated and the
Senjinkun
military code abolished by a dictate from your emperor.’

‘Ah yes, but that is the
new
Japan. The shame is not abolished in the mind. The shame is
old
Japan, and it will not go away so easily. It will only die when the soul of the last captured soldier who returned to Japan is enshrined at
Yakusuni
.’
Fuchida-san
suddenly paused and frowned as if a perplexing thought had occurred to him. ‘You don’t
still
wish to find him, do you,
Duncan-san
?’ he asked.

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No. I advised him to change it but not to tell me. What you don’t know cannot harm you . . . or him.’

‘So, it would be impossible to trace him?’

The
yakuza
boss seemed to think for a moment. I sensed he felt he was being challenged. ‘Not impossible; we can try. If he is alive there are fifteen thousand
yakuza
in western Japan who can make enquiries. But it will be
very
difficult. I will have to think if there was anything about him that would identify him.’