The China Lover (9 page)

   14   

T
HE YEAR
1941 was a magnificent one, but it did not begin auspiciously. I had rented an apartment at Broadway Mansions in Shanghai, a city more suited to the task of penetrating the artistic circles of China than my old haunts in Manchukuo. I had always liked Shanghai, despite its rancid smell of Western imperialism. It gave me a peculiar satisfaction to stroll past the British consulate on the other side of the creek, with its huge lawn kept smooth as a billiard table by teams of natives straining to pull an iron roller so the English could play their game of cricket. In the spring I would listen to the sound of arrogant English voices rising over their teacups, and I would say to myself: It is our turn now. They had lorded it over the Asians for too long. This time we were in charge. They had to bow to us, even to the lowliest Japanese policeman, if they wished to go anywhere outside their wretched concession.

However, I’m getting ahead of the story. New Year’s Day, 1941. After handing the doorman of Broadway Mansions his New Year’s tip, I walked into my bedroom to get changed for an evening I had been looking forward to all week. Bai Yu, a budding young actress, was going to be my guest at the premiere of a new film at the Cathay Theater. She was a charmer, with a saucy smile and the kind of Chinese legs, long, firm, slender, that drive me crazy. Her young breasts stood
up proudly to attention. Her peachy bottom was just begging to be caressed by a man of experience.

So I wanted to look my very best. After a long soak in the bath, thinking of all the things I would do with that little minx, I opened my closet. And there, to my horror, was a scene of total devastation. Every single item of my clothing—my silk Chinese robes, my summer kimonos, my Kanto Army uniforms, my white sharkskin suit made by C. C. Lau, the finest tailor in Shanghai, my shirts from Charvet, even my Italian neckties—had been cut to shreds. Strips of linen, worsted, and silk were spilled all over the floor, as though a wild animal had been rampaging in my closet. What kind of maniac could have done this? I looked for a clue, but found nothing. I switched on the bathroom light to splash cold water on my face, and then I saw it—how could I have missed it before? Daubed in powerful, rather masculine, but extremely elegant Chinese characters, in lipstick, on the bathroom mirror: “There cannot be two Yoshikos in your life. You have chosen the wrong one.”

I was more than used to female temper tantrums. Chinese girls, especially, were given to thunderous rages. I had seen it all: crying, screaming, cursing, running away with my money. But this was the first time my entire wardrobe had fallen victim to a jealous fury. What made this especially irritating was that this act of wanton destruction was based on a complete fantasy. I may have spread my affections around a little liberally at times, having my pleasure where I could find it. I was a man, after all. But I couldn’t feel guilty about something I had not done. And this was the woman who knew me better than anyone, including my mother. How could she have misjudged me so badly? I could only put it down to the madness of true love.

   15   

S
HINKYO WAS FREEZING
as usual in March. Snowdrifts kept even the Asia Express from arriving on time. And this, I can tell you, was a very rare occurrence. So rare, indeed, that this little story had a sad ending. The driver of our train took personal responsibility for our tardy arrival and threw himself in front of the express train from Dairen. At least he was given the posthumous satisfaction of an honorable mention in the next day’s papers. Perhaps this accident affected me more deeply than I thought, but my mind was not at ease.

Amakasu had summoned me to Shinkyo for a meeting. Normally, I would have been happy to visit the Manchurian studios and catch up on the latest gossip. But this time I felt something particularly oppressive in the wintry air. Compared to Shanghai, the wide avenues of the Manchukuo capital looked deserted. It was as if only policemen and soldiers ventured out into the cold, loitering in drunken groups at night. The natives stayed in their homes on the outskirts of town.

It was the second time I attended a meeting of the Ri Koran Fan Club. On this occasion there were more people in the large, overheated room at the Yamato Hotel. The usual members, including Kishi and Yoshioka, were there, rubbing their hands around the fireplace in large, overstuffed leather chairs, but also a high-ranking officer of the Kempeitai, whom I didn’t recognize. I’m not, as a rule, fond of our military policemen. We all lived in fear of them, even if we were in
the Kanto Army. This young fellow, named Toda, looked particularly smug, pulling at the crease of his trousers and patting his brown leather boots with a look that managed to convey impatience and limitless self-satisfaction.

I knew I had to have been called in for a reason, but the gentlemen took their time to come to the point. Kishi spoke about the usual humdrum business of state: the need for harsher measures to raise the production in our factories and mines, to crack down on banditry, and so on and on. Colonel Yoshioka was asked how the Emperor was doing. Very well, he said, laughing for no apparent reason. Except that His Majesty had been showing unfortunate yearnings to leave his compound. He was bored. His wives were a constant source of irritation. And he couldn’t very well watch Charlie Chaplin films all day. Thank goodness for the poppy, said Yoshioka, for His Majesty could always be pacified after a pipe or two. “Courtesy of the Manchukuo government, I trust?” offered Kishi, baring his prominent teeth in a grin that looked more like a snarl. Yoshioka’s nostrils widened alarmingly.

Amakasu got up from his chair to change the record, and offered me a drink. Peering into his own whiskey glass, he said he had to broach an embarrassing topic. All eyes were now on me. I braced myself. “It has been brought to our attention,” he said, “that you are having an affair with Ri Koran.” I began to protest, but he held up his hand. “No need,” he said, “no need. We know you wouldn’t do anything so foolish. The information comes from an unreliable source, indeed from a woman who is giving us nothing but trouble, a woman with whom, I believe, you do enjoy intimate relations.”

I was astounded that my Eastern Jewel would go so far to do me damage. Wrecking my clothes was one thing, but this could have ruined me. The Kempeitai officer, who spoke in a provincial Kansai accent, began to lecture me. His hand had shifted from his trousers to his belt buckle, as though to check whether it was still there. He puffed
out his chest like a pigeon. I couldn’t bear the man. But there was nothing I could do. I had to listen to this youngster telling me that my liaisons with native actresses were lowering the tone of our mission in Asia. Every man was entitled to a bit of fun, he declaimed, but intimate affairs were a different matter. We Japanese had to be seen to be above that kind of beastliness. We had responsibilities, after all. We were not here for our pleasure, but to offer leadership and discipline. All the while, the sweet voice of Ri was crooning away in the background. “China nights, nights of our dreams . . .”

Much to my relief, Amakasu changed the subject. But the relief was only temporary. Kawashima Yoshiko, Amakasu said, was becoming a problem for us, a real menace in fact. Apart from her lies about Ri Koran, she had been causing trouble in other ways. It seemed that she had been blabbering about politics in a most inconvenient manner, shooting her mouth off about us Japanese forcing opium on the Chinese people, and so forth. She had even approached some deluded Japanese idealists about starting a party in favor of Chinese independence. This was a most delicate time for our mission in Asia, and it went without saying that we had to put a stop to this kind of thing. “We will have to get rid of her,” said the Kempeitai officer, who had shifted his attention to the shiny tips of his boots, turning them this way and that. “And since you know her better than anyone,” he continued, “and you have to make up for your unfortunate behavior, we have chosen you to take care of our problem.” An unpleasant grin lit up his face. “After all, you have a bone to pick with her now. So it shouldn’t be too hard for you to get your own back, now would it?”

I looked at Amakasu, who refused to return my gaze. Kishi and Yoshioka were softly talking to one another about something else. I was beside myself. A refusal was out of the question. And yet the idea of murdering someone I loved so dearly, even though she had tried to do me harm, was unconscionable. Now that the official business had been
concluded, the members of the Ri Koran Fan Club decided to have some gaiety. More drinks were ordered and the men sang a song celebrating the beauties of Suzhou. Sometime after midnight, Amakasu, red-faced and roaring drunk, conducted with his chopsticks, as the rest of us, standing on the long dinner table, sang “Coo Coo Goes the Pigeon.” It was one of the most unpleasant evenings of my life.

I was not a fool. I could see the hypocrisy around me. Eastern Jewel was speaking the truth about our opium trade. But she failed to see the big picture. I still believed in our mission, despite men like Kishi or the Kempeitai officer. Even when I wore Chinese clothes, I was still a Japanese. I loved China, perhaps more than I loved Japan, but I knew that my country offered the only hope for a better Asia. Even if I disagreed with some Japanese policies, or the petty little officials entrusted to carry them out, my duty was clear.

And yet I couldn’t do it. I lacked the moral courage to kill a woman I loved. I didn’t even have the guts to pay someone else to do the job. And so I did nothing. Back in Shanghai, I canceled all my social engagements and neglected my professional duties. For three days and three nights I dropped out of our sordid world and stretched out on a comfortable bed in an obscure corner of the French Concession, trying to focus my gaze on a slender Chinese girl with melancholy eyes cooking the black, sticky stuff of my dreams over a bright blue flame, before placing it with her expert fingers into the bowl of my pipe to take me to the sweet land of oblivion.

   16   

T
HERE WAS A
man in Peking, a born fixer. I had had dealings with him before, and did not care for him. A petty gangster in the 1920s, Taneguchi Yoshio had worked himself up ten years later as the self-appointed head of the Japanese Fascist Party and had even contrived to have a meeting with Mussolini in Rome. The photograph of him, beaming like a schoolboy in his black uniform, shaking hands with the Duce, had been printed in all the Japanese papers. He was unscrupulous, greedy, rough with the local women, just the kind of Japanese I despised. But he did know his way around China. If you needed to smuggle antiques, diamonds, or weapons, Taneguchi was your man. If someone needed to be eliminated, quickly and without fuss, Taneguchi would get the job done. If secret meetings between people who couldn’t afford to be seen together had to be arranged, Taneguchi would manage it. There were even rumors that he, Taneguchi, was the liaison man between the Japanese army and General Chiang Kai-shek, our arch enemy. Taneguchi, in short, knew everything and everyone, including Eastern Jewel, who had been his lover at one time. I had reason to believe he still viewed her with some affection and was hoping that he might see a way out of my dilemma. I knew the risk of taking this man into my confidence, and found it humiliating
to ask him for favors, but at that dire moment in my life I didn’t know where else to turn.

Taneguchi’s compound in the center of Peking, in a short alley between Wang Fu Jing and the Forbidden City, was guarded by White Russians. He trusted them for some reason. I believe he spoke a bit of Russian. I was ushered into his office by a young Japanese who packed two pistols under his armpits. Taneguchi, dressed in a blue suit and a tie pinned to his white shirt with a fat shiny pearl, was on the phone. He was a short man, with thick lips and tiny eyes, which tended to disappear from view entirely after he had had a few drinks. His small stature was accentuated by the fact that he seemed to have no neck; his round pink face emerged straight from his narrow shoulders, like a turtle’s head. He didn’t so much speak on the phone as grunt. The entire conversation consisted of grunts. Behind his desk, on the wall, was a gold-framed calligraphy in bold, showy, masculine brushstrokes. They were the Chinese characters for sincerity, loyalty, and benevolence. On the opposite wall, behind my chair, as though about to leap at my neck, was the stuffed head of a tiger.

I thanked Taneguchi politely for the meeting. He told the young man with the pistols to bring us two cups of green tea. The young man padded off to the kitchen in a pair of light blue woolly house slippers. After I had told Taneguchi my story, he cocked his head and said, more to himself than to me, and not without a hint of fondness: “She’s a troublemaker, that one.” All I was asking of him was to get her out of the country. A leering smile creased his fat face. “So she’s getting in the way of your love life?” No, I said, that wasn’t the point. He waved away my objection with his right hand, which looked surprisingly dainty for someone so stout. “Yes, well,” he said, “we might still need her one day.” He couldn’t promise anything, but mentioned a place in Kyushu where she might lie low. It would buy her some time. He had
friends. They would protect her, at least for a while. I would be in his debt forever, I said. “Yes, you will be,” he replied, sizing me up like a shrewd peasant at a country market. As soon as I returned to my hotel room, I ran a hot bath and soaked in it for a long time, as though I were covered in slime.