The Call of the Thunder Dragon (44 page)

Abe was at a loose end, with
nothing to do his fears were growing. Ono Itchi had told him
directly to wait where he was. The assassin apparently didn’t want
him involved. After sitting for most of the morning in their hotel
room, he decided to try to find Goemon, the last member of the
paratroopers with whom he’d arrived.

The soldier had been forced to
bunk in a boarding house with the rest of the gardeners and
groundsmen. The walk from the town to the boarding house took over
an hour. He hadn’t expected to find him there, having assumed he’d
return at the end of the day.

Goemon was sat on the back step
of the ramshackle building in full uniform cleaning his rifle, with
his kit laid out as if ready for inspection.

“Nani? Baka! What are you doing?”
Abe was appalled. His first instinct for the last two years was the
preservation of his cover, lest he ever was discovered by the
British, Chinese or Burman. His life, he had been trained and the
continuation of his life would be down to one thing, maintaining
cover.

“I am doing my duty as a soldier.
As an officer, there are rules to follow. I learnt duty and honesty
long before I joined the army. I must be the best soldier I can be;
it is my obligation to protect the weak! Not oppress them!”

“Goemon! We told you, - you can’t
wear your uniform! You’ll be shot!” Abe grabbed hold of the larger
man, his hands struggling to grip the neatly buttoned uniform.

“We’ll be shot if we are found as
assassins or spies.”

Goemon pulled Abe’s hand away
easily. “Our lives are not to be wasted! They are promised to the
cause of the Emperor!”

“I believe as much as you in the
cause of the Emperor,” Abe stuttered out the words, words he’d not
used in a long time. “The rise of Japan is our goal!”

“I don’t think so any longer!”
Goemon said flatly. “I am a soldier. Abe, you are not a soldier,
not a real one. I worked hard to become an officer. That is my
life. What is yours, Abe? Are you a Barber? Is that what you really
are?”

“I don’t know! But if you show
yourself we’ll be killed! Ono will kill us! I don’t want to die
here!” Abe begged.

“Is it that you don’t want to die
or because you’ve been forced to come along? You had been just a
barber before this weren’t you?”

“I’m not a barber! I’m a
scholar!” Abe insisted. “I just watch and survey the town!”

“No barber nor soldier or scholar
does those things,” Goemon said flatly, then after a pause, he
asked Abe a question. “It troubles me Abe-San, there used to be
monks, of the Tendai
⁴⁷
sect at the temple
near to my house. They used to teach in the school. I listened to
those monks and scholars too when I was a boy, but the monks were
taken away. The Kempeitai, the Tokko
⁴⁸
said they were
un-Japanese? Is that what sort of scholar you were before you
became a spy?”

“No! I mean I was a classical
scholar, of literature.” Abe boasted. Waka-poetry of Murasaki
Shikibu! And Nihon Shoki, of course, that was in Chinese, but those
and the Indian texts have been prohibited. I was banned from
newspaper work because I studied manuscripts written in Chinese.
This work was the only thing I could do if I didn’t I starve! My
father and mother could not support me! I used to copy classic Waka
poetry and verse to support myself while at college, but once I
finished I could do nothing with my learning! My pay goes home to
support my parents now! I mustn’t be discovered!”

“It may be the work of a scholar
to sneak and hide, but it is not the work of a soldier to do so.”
Goemon rose to leave. “You can say you tried to stop me if you
wish. But I will face pilot Falstaff, like this! Like a bushi!”

Abe watched him go. He considered
running to Maka-Kishi, he daren’t tell Ono for fear of his
reaction. Abe was lost in his sudden recollection of the classic
poems he had loving studied. Tears ran down his face without
stopping. The poetry he’d learnt in Chinese, Indian and Japanese
conjured up words in his mind.

“I am covered in a mist by this
fabricated war, I am an accidental spy? I am lost in this forest of
deception?”

He ran after Goemon screaming.
“All I see now are the lies! Did you know? Don’t go! We must
hide!”

Goemon turned and saw Abe raving
his eyes unfocused, his face filled with doubt. He silenced Abe
with a sweeping blow from his rifle butt. He remembered doing the
same to the Chinese monks in Foochow when he was ordered to. Then
the Kempitai had come, taken the monks away and hung them. Killed
them for having ideology that was 'un-Japanese'. Was that the fate
of his teachers in Hokkaido? What did un-Japanese mean?

“It is my duty to protect the
weak,” Goemon remembered now the old priest at childhood home in
Hokkaido talking about helping a village beset by floods.

Abe moaned and sat up, rubbings
his chin, his lip was split and bleeding. “See, you are a soldier!
See how you beat me! You go and be the soldier, I can’t. I can’t! I
must hide?”

Too many questions thought
Goemon, Abe was not fit to ask them. What was it he did to soldiers
who showed weakness? He did his duty and beat them. Abe crumpled
under the blows of Goemon’s fists.

Abe raised his broken face and
looked at Goemon, he was crying. Abe appealed to the man in the
dark green uniform. “Let me hide, please? Goemon-Sama, soldier? Let
me hide!” He chirped, “Soldier! Let me hide, soldier?”

Goemon pushed him away. Abe fell,
then as he tried to struggle to his feet, he found his voice. He
spoke in Chinese; two lines from an old Chinese poem, “How many
green lotuses hatefully support each other, instantly I turn my
head; my back to the western wind.”

Without spite or pity, Goemon
raised his rifle and took aim and fired, Abe fell shot through the
heart.

“You are not a soldier and I will
not hide!” Goemon stuttered mournfully as tears ran down his face,
wetting his lips. He licked the salty tears, a hard lump congested
his throat he couldn’t speak anymore.

Zam and Falstaff planned to
spend the rest of the morning exploring Jorhat city, one of the
most important cities of Assam. They asked the porter to find a cab
or rickshaw. Falstaff reassured Zam that his shopping list was
entirely due to their urgent need for decent clothing and some
equipment essential to their journey.

Zam wondered why he asked the
blonde woman and again asked him about ‘Mrs. Anderson’.

“She was just there in the
lounge, we got talking about the department store, they do hampers!
I’d like to try one, - see if we can get some food to take with us
on the next leg of the journey?”

“She!” Zam said, with enough
spite for Falstaff to recognise he’d best not mention talking about
playing bridge.

“She did not need to offer to
take us there! Her car only had two seats! Didn’t you know? I
couldn’t have sat on your knee could I? I’d have been left behind
wouldn’t I?”

“I’m not sure that was the
intention? But at least, we got this rickshaw to take us?”

The ride into town soon absorbed
their attention. The sights of Jorhat were worth looking for beyond
the roadside signs, repeating the blue and white Lukwah Tea Estate
badges.

The history of Jorhat could be
glimpsed beyond the recent growth due to tea. The Tea trade was
good business, but the junction of the rivers were far more
important. Brahmaputra River had always been a gateway to the rest
of Assam and to India. Along the river, to the east was Hajo.
Situated on the north bank of the Brahmaputra, Hajo was a
destination for Hindus, Muslims and Buddhists. Jorhat’s location on
the pilgrimage trail made it one of the greatest centres of
learning and culture in Assam, maintained by its unique climate, a
haven for agriculture and tea, alongside the temples and
schools.

They passed elephants carrying
baskets of lumber and a line of women carrying baskets on their
heads half as tall as they were. They stared ahead, balancing their
load, trudging out to the fields to attend to the tea bushes, even
in the winter, care of the tea gardens continued.

A troop of grubby faced boys,
with bright eyes and flashing white teeth passed by following an
aged Buddhist monk in a dusty saffron robe. The rickshaw puller
adjusted his pace to avoid them.

Close behind the boys jogged a
Chinaman wearing a long, faded grey gown with dark sleeves. Slung
across his back was a Guquin case. He jogged lazily, weaving
through the traffic, a straw hat pulled down to shield his eyes
from the dust. Occasionally a car came, brashly honking its horn.
The rickshaw man paid little heed to the competition on the road
and if anything quickened his lolloping pace to follow in the dust
of the car.

Jorhat was and always had been, a
vibrant place and was a seemingly faultless mixture of tradition
and modernity. The struggle beneath the surface had less to do with
the good fortune the British Tea trade had brought, but more to do
with the migrant workers from India that followed the wealth. Many
Chinese merchants also came and settled attracted by the wealth.
China street was becoming China town. The educated Indian clerks
ran the plantations with their white masters while the Assamese
worked in the fields.

Regardless of the local racial
tensions, for the people of Jorhat it was the hub of the
anti-British struggle in Assam, where Japan had yet to advance its
plans of conquest to Assam.

Beneath the surface, the word
independence was muttered and considered while Japanese agents
mumbled co-prosperity and probed for the key to trigger the region
to rise against the British, who rode around the Tea Gardens, with
the utmost ignorance to the Japanese presence under the
surface.

The rickshaw ride into the heart
of modern Jorhat, from the surreal colonialism of the Manor house,
was comfortable, taking them closer to the old city, but yet it
reminded out of reach.

The many tea gardens and parks
created many attractive places full of greener space padding the
busy town with public plots; creating a deceiving place that
maintained the unstated segregation the European Tea potentates
appreciated.

The old town, whose temple spires
and domes peeped above the new town hall and the cinema were still
streets away, still on the old city plan. Out of stride with new,
wide roads. ‘The Elyee Talkies’ house, as the Elyee Cinema was
known, marked the end of their rickshaw ride. From there Falstaff
and Zam walked arm in arm to market.

Seeing the many women passing by
carrying goods and wares within obligatory baskets on their heads,
Zam piped up. “Shall I buy a basket? Think of all the things I can
take back to the hotel?”

Falstaff shook his head. “Might
as well have the shop boy deliver it. For a few coppers, they’ll do
that for you. It’ll pay for rice for a week! Don’t think of it as
being lazy. It was the same in the Punjab. I’d carry my own stuff
and the coppers I didn’t need rattled in my pocket. Sometimes I’d
give them to beggars, but I’d rather see that delivery boy smile
when I left the shop! He’ll only go hungry if you don’t!”

“That still doesn’t seem right
somehow?” Zam said.

Falstaff urged her away from the
woven baskets and hats, crossing the road.

Just then, passing so close, a
Chinaman snagged Zam’s sleeve. The ragged bagger kept going into
the crowd his face hidden by a straw hat. Falstaff frowned after
the hurrying figure. All he could see was the back of the long
Guquin case.

The name Jorhat comes from the
expression ‘place between the two hats’ or a meeting or marketplace
in the local language. The bazaars of Jorhat were many and varied,
an ideal outing for travellers in want. Busy, crowded and an
endless maze of stalls were tourists could easily get lost or
separated.

Falstaff instinctively turned to
the west. “We’re in the centre, Gar Ali. The list of shops and
places here is pretty extensive! Mrs. Anderson must spend a great
deal of time and money here. She told me she has a large family
both in Mysore and back home in Somerset and is always shopping for
them.”

Zam prickled at the mention of
the blonde woman’s name. “Come on!” She pulled at Falstaff’s arm
angrily. “Where are we going first?”

The trades had different stores
and markets located in different areas of Jorhat City. The Shopping
outlets were located strangely in inviting places like Babbu Patty,
Old Balibat, New Balibat, Chowk Bazar, KB Road and Lahoti.

“
Dross
and Co,” Falstaff
grinned, “Sorry, Doss and Co the departmental store is down KB Road
there, It’s been in India for decades! At the next corner, if our
rickshaw puller was on his game.”

They proceeded to buy in turn: a
made to measure dark red-brown Indian Tweed sports jacket, new
shirts, trousers; khaki and black and proper shoes.

Zam bought a large silk shawl and
found a Cloche hat, with which she was immensely pleased, having
had it modified with the same material to match the shawl.

Pausing in the next district to
eat and buy refreshing hot tea from street vendors Falstaff
searched for a sports and hunting shop. Eventually, they found an
establishment, run by an old Sikh, Randhir Singh.

Falstaff purchased 50 rounds .455
Webley ammunition and 60 rounds of 9 mm shells for the Mauser he’d
acquired from the Japanese. Looking around Falstaff took the
opportunity to look at a camera and with some persuasion, managed
to persuade Zam to buy it.

Outside, the busy street buzzed
with passers-by going from one district to the other. One old lady
would pass by with a bundle of radishes one moment. Then another
would pass by in the opposite direction with a bale of cotton.