One Morning Like a Bird (18 page)

    Taro comes out. ‘Their friends have arrived. Now they want to show us how things are done across the water. Let’s go.’

    The door out of the yard is locked. They clamber over the wall, drop into the alley behind, then run past the shack-like backs of restaurants, past dog-fences and silent birdcages hanging from the eaves of unlit houses. They come to a railway line. Before they can cross it a bell starts clanking. They crouch, wait. The train lays down a bitter scent of coal, but when they run into the streets the other side, the air is fragrant with night flowers blooming on countless rooftop gardens. Are the soldiers after them still? There are no cries of pursuit, no hurrying feet. They hear water and walk onto a bridge over a canal. Below them, tethered boats shift in the current. They lean on the parapet. Taro lights a cigarette. Junzo seems to have sobered up, though Yuji doubts he was ever quite as drunk as he pretended to be (and what did he mean, ‘
au vainqueur
?’ Did he know what he was saying?). They start to laugh about the soldiers, go on laughing even when the joke’s exhausted. None of it matters now. They have had an adventure. They are unscathed. It is like old times. And suddenly it feels immensely pleasurable to be standing together on the warm stones of a bridge in the heart of the Low City, this Year of the Dragon, immensely pleasurable, immensely precious. Then Taro blows out a last lungful of smoke, flicks away his cigarette. The ember arcs over the water, an early firefly.

    Then gone.

3

It is only because the front door is open that he manages it at all. If he had to ring the bell and stand there waiting, he would, he is sure, simply run away before the door was answered. He approaches slowly, creeping up behind the steadily falling rain. Hanako is in the hall wiping the tiles with a cloth. When she sees Yuji, she looks up, startled, then nods and gestures with the cloth towards the salon. Yuji shakes his umbrella, folds it, takes off his rubber boots, his raincoat.

    In the salon, Feneon is alone. He is sitting on the piano stool in his shirtsleeves, his braces hanging down from the waistband buttons of his trousers. There is two or three days’ growth of stubble on his face. His feet, by the piano’s brass pedals, are bare.

    ‘I can’t play it,’ he says. ‘None of her talent could have come from me.’ He sounds a note with the edge of finger, smiles, then turns and squints at Yuji as if they were much further away from each other than they are. ‘I thought you two would have come together. I hope you haven’t fallen out.’

    ‘Fallen out?’

    ‘Had a row.’

    ‘Row?’

    ‘A dispute.’

    ‘But with whom?’

    ‘With Junzo. He left ten minutes ago.’

    ‘Junzo was here?’

    ‘He plays the clown but underneath he takes it all terribly seriously, don’t you think? You’re a much more carefree fellow. It’s all that German philosophy he studies. I can think of nothing more detrimental to a young man’s health. Philosophy was invented by the Greeks as a guide to good living. Then the Germans got hold of it and made it joyless. Better off spending his time in a bordello. Women there can teach you a great deal. Live with their eyes open, not just their legs.’ He chuckles to himself, shakes his head. ‘Fancy a drink? Or don’t you, in the morning?’

    The urge to flee, to splutter some excuse and get out, is very strong. He has never seen Feneon like this before. He is drunk, of course, or almost drunk, but that would be tolerable – it might even be exciting – if the disarrangement of mind that made the first drink necessary was not so disturbingly plain. He clears his throat. He has a little speech prepared but when he starts (listening all the while for the opening or shutting of a door, the approach of footsteps), he finds himself quite unable to manage the language with his usual assurance.

    ‘I am  . . . I wish, monsieur  . . . I wish to say how profoundly  . . . how the unfortunate events  . . . the suffering, naturally. And all those who revere a great culture, and I, who have been inspired. And you, monsieur, who, with great consideration, most generously, with the Japanese people—’

    ‘My dear little Frenchman!’ says Feneon, standing and clapping Yuji’s shoulders. ‘My dear, dear little Frenchman. You’re going to drink wine with me! Here, I’m going to start you off at the deep end. This is a Saint Emilion, and a pretty good one. Take your time with it. Give it a good sniff. Now, roll it over your tongue. Slowly, slowly  . . . It’s the last case. There won’t be any more until the Boche go home, though what they can’t drink they’ll try to carry with them. There must be cellars the length and breadth of the Reich full of good French wine from the last time they visited.’

    ‘France has not yet surrendered, monsieur.’

    ‘You’ve seen the pictures in the paper. Storm troopers on the Champs-Élysées! Another week, two at most  . . .’

    He sits at the piano again and stares at the keys as though their surface is a riddle staring might solve. ‘I’ve been dreaming,’ he says, ‘one I haven’t had in years. A memory as much as a dream. Woods near Noirceur. A place we advanced and retreated through a dozen times in the summer of 1917. I was on my own one evening bringing up a sack of loaves for the company. Somehow, I lost the path and wandered into a small clearing where a soldier was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree. He must have been there for months. There was no flesh on him. His uniform was so black with rot you couldn’t even say which army he was from. What made me stop and take a closer look was his boot, just the one, standing in the grass beside him like a tombstone. My first thought was that he must have been taking off his boots when he was hit, that he had been marching all day dreaming of the moment he would sit down and let the air at his feet. It even seemed slightly amusing, the idea of him planning his little rest and suddenly starting a much longer one. Then I saw his rifle in the grass, the muzzle pointing towards him, and I realised the reason he had taken off his boot was so he could press the trigger with his toe.’

    ‘And you dream of him?’

    ‘He talks to me. Whispers things I would rather not hear.’

    ‘I have dreams about fire,’ says Yuji.

    Feneon nods. ‘You’ll have more of those before this is over.’

    In the garden, the leaves of the magnolia are trembling in the rain, the last of the white petals scattered in the grass. Is this the moment to take his leave? He has been fortunate, but how long before they are interrupted? He swallows a last large mouthful of wine (such a heavy, soporific drink) and is looking for somewhere to put the glass when Feneon begins to speak again.

    ‘I try to imagine,’ he says, ‘how it is for her. She’s never even been to France. It’s just a story, a few pictures. What can it mean to her, a country she’s never seen?’ He shakes his head. ‘I should have taken her, even only for a month or two. It would have helped her, I think. But somehow  . . .’ Once more he sounds a single note, waits as it melts into the air. ‘I’m afraid if you were hoping to see her, you’re out of luck. She went out a few minutes before Junzo arrived.’

    ‘She could not have known.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘That I was coming here.’

    ‘You might have a daughter yourself one day.’

    ‘Me?’

    ‘Or a son.’

    ‘A son!’

    ‘Well, why not? Didn’t you tell me you almost got married once?’

    ‘Yes. Once.’

    ‘Life is full of the unexpected, Yuji. Anyone who thinks they know what’s going to happen is a bloody fool. What’s that saying you have? “When men talk of the future, devils laugh.”’

    Yuji nods. ‘It is one of Grandfather’s favourite sayings.’

    ‘The great pickle-maker? I’d like to meet him one day. I always think you’re more impressed by him than by your father.’

    ‘Perhaps Father is not so impressed by me.’

    ‘No? I never liked mine much either. Left France to get away. Tried to do a better job with Alissa, better than he did with me. It appears I might not have been as successful as I thought. The truth about being a parent is that it’s completely impossible. Did you know that? When they’re small they worship you. Later, secretly or openly, they judge you. The best you can hope for is that you live long enough for them to forgive you.’

    ‘May I ask, monsieur, if you forgave your father?’

    ‘To forgive someone, you need to stand in front of them. You need to look them in the eyes. You can’t do it by post. When my old man died, I had not seen him for thirteen years.’

    ‘He was Rimbaud’s friend.’

    ‘They weren’t friends, not really. Neither had any gift for friendship.’

    ‘Verlaine?’

    ‘Rimbaud shot Verlaine.’

    ‘Only a small wound.’

    ‘Is that your definition of friendship? Fine to shoot them so long as you don’t actually kill them? I shall have to warn the others.’ He rubs his hands across his face, rasps the stubble. Beneath his breath he starts to sing. ‘ “
Quand Madelon vient nous servir à boire”  . . .
I think,’ he says. ‘I shall go to bed with the rest of the Saint-Emilion. You don’t mind, I hope?’

    ‘No,’ says Yuji. ‘No, of course.’ Then, speaking carefully as though stood before the examiner, he expresses again his regret over the fate of France.

    ‘I don’t hold you personally responsible,’ says Feneon.

    ‘Thank you,’ says Yuji. He bows, steps back, turns, and retreats to the hall. Hanako has gone out, the door is shut. He pulls on his boots, takes his umbrella, opens the door. From the step, as he buttons his coat, he sees that someone is sheltering behind the pillar of the verandah across the street. The brim of a hat, the hem of a raincoat, the heel of a shoe. For a moment he can go neither forwards nor back. Then he puts up his umbrella and hurries to his bicycle, his boots splashing in the yellow mud of the road.

4

He is sitting on the drying platform, his back to that part of the wooden wall that divides the platform from Father’s room. The writing board is on his lap, and on the board a page of writing, the last of the Ishihara piece. He has found an entirely unexpected pleasure in the work, just as he found something disquietingly sympathetic about Ishihara himself. Even the novels, with their utter indifference to the genius of the language, their interminable dark combats between unblemished youth and corrupt old age, the page after page of impossible odds, flashing swords, terse farewells, the boy heroes with skin ‘pale as a maiden’s’ or ‘shining with the vitality of his seventeen years’, have had unexpected virtues, have even, on occasion,
spoken
to him, to some inner and unattended condition of his heart, his spirit.

    Is he not, then, quite what he thought he was? Not the observer standing at a distance, arms folded, a supercilious smile on his face, but nearer to one of those Ishihara spoke of as the future, pouring from the factory gates as the steam whistle shrieks? Can he imagine himself among them, brow grimy with sweat, eyes narrowed against the evening sun, not an individual any more but part of the animated destiny of the nation? ‘A hundred million hearts beating as one!’ ‘Onward, Asian brothers, onward!’ ‘Work, work, for the sake of the country!’ To say such slogans sincerely, to shout them out when everyone was shouting them out so that you cannot tell your own voice from your neighbour’s, might that not be a little like falling in love?

    He is crafting a sentence about Ishihara’s manner of speech, its passionate sincerity (he wants, but cannot quite bring himself to write ‘apparent’) when Miyo puts her head out of the door and tells him he has a visitor.

    ‘Someone to see me?’

    She makes a face as if to say. ‘Isn’t that what a visitor is?’, then slips away. He brings the board inside, buttons his shirt. He has not heard anyone arrive, no car pull up, no call from the vestibule. Who visits him in the middle of a Tuesday morning? An angry woman? A father demanding explanations? Or someone from the military clerk’s office, a red envelope in his hand?

    He goes downstairs. The doors of Mother’s room are open. There are voices inside, the sighing sing-song of middle-aged women. Cautiously, he peers inside. ‘Mother  . . . ?’

    The room is lighter than usual, morning sunlight filtering through the paper screens where the sharply etched shadows of leaves move almost imperceptibly.

    ‘Here he is,’ says Mother. ‘Please sit with us, Yuji. Mrs Miyazaki is paying us a visit.’