The Emperor of Any Place (26 page)

I bowed again. Isamu was changed. His ghostly crew stuck very close to him. One of them, the eldest of the children, held his hand. Would any of them appear in a photograph? From my pocket I drew the camera. With my eyes I asked if I could photograph him. Isamu backed up toward the compound gates. But then he stopped and bowed, dropped the hand of the ghost child and stood at attention, like a soldier. I snapped two pictures. Then just as I was about to snap a third, I started singing “Skidimarink.” Isamu’s stern face cracked, and I pushed the shutter. I wanted that smile. Where or when I would dare to get this roll of film developed was a problem for another day. I would have to keep it well hidden for now. The photos, with or without ghosts, amounted to proof of treason. I hadn’t quite finished the roll, but I wound it up and removed it from the camera.

I bowed again. I would have liked to shake hands with the man, embrace him, but I sensed sadly that there was no chance. It was not his custom, in any case.

Then he left, without a word, trailing his ghosts behind him. I wasted no more time. I was glad for the chance to see him once again. For, although I didn’t know it then, he would never write to me, would never leave Kokoro-Jima.

I made my way down to the beach. I stopped on the trail and looked back up toward the headland. You could just make out the coral tree. I caught the glint from a set of field glasses. I almost went back to warn him that the man who had brought me here had the eyes of a hawk. But there wasn’t time. I could see soldiers milling down by the landing craft. I hurried and met up with the gunnery sergeant marching along the shore toward me.

I watched him as the distance between us narrowed. His eyes were everywhere, and I tried to see the place the way he did. Without the Stars and Stripes flapping in the wind on a flagpole, he could only assume this was enemy territory. It was on islands like this that the brunt of the fighting got done. Down here on terra firma. The Army Air Force played a huge role in warfare by then,
¹
but, when you thought about it, war was always about land — who had it and who wanted it — and so it made sense that this was where the line was drawn and the killing started.

This was not one of those islands, I wanted to tell him. Surely the ghosts that trailed behind him were proof that this was somewhere altogether different. But he ignored the ghosts. He had probably assessed their potential danger to him or his men upon first laying eyes on them and, finding no weapons on their flimsy bodies, did not let himself be distracted by their fawning, the way they followed, any more than a sailor pays attention to the wake of his boat. But I will tell you, it was quite a sight to see the platoon gathered together on that beach with all those spirits hovering nearby like a vast human-shaped fog.

I didn’t talk about the ghosts to anyone. In a war, sanity is a difficult thing to hold on to. And you didn’t want to give the other fellow any sense that you might be losing yours. I had loaded more film in the camera by then and took the sergeant’s picture. When I finally got the pictures developed, stateside, there were no ghosts.

¹
The U.S. Air Force wouldn’t come into existence until 1947.

I watched Derwood leave from the watchtower. Leave for the second time. I knew they would return, if only for the arms. Derwood had not betrayed me, nor did I expect that he would. Watching them load those crates of rifles into the landing craft, though, I felt so sick at heart that it bent me over double. The two of us managed somehow to live here on the island with no further thought to the arms in the plane. That is what I assumed. Had it been me who was rescued, would I not have done the same thing? I fear I would have. Now they are in the hands of soldiers. Hisako, I found myself shaking with self-loathing. I even cried out. It is a wonder they did not hear me all the way down at the shore.

The war must still be going strong, if what is happening on Tinian is any indication. So those rifles will end up killing my people, and it is only in seeing them leave the island that I fully understand what my failure to act will bring about. Perhaps you would ask me, Hisako, in your wisdom, what could I have done? Could I have blown the rifles up, somehow? Overnight, could I have single-handedly hidden all those crates in caves? Where? How? Or perhaps you would say to me, Hisako, that the enemy was well supplied in any case. That nothing could stop them. That we are finished. This is what I feel in my bones. I fear it must be true. Great bombers now fly from Tinian on regular missions. Bombers that, by the enormous size of them, might fly even as far as our homeland. I watch them load the bombers, I watch the mighty planes go and watch them return, day in, day out. What are five hundred rifles in such a conflict? But no, I cannot reconcile myself to any of these excuses. I am wretched.

I am so lonely. Lonelier than before. I almost hate Derwood Kraft for crashing into my life! By the scratches on the bamboo pole I have been here now one hundred and forty-six days.
¹
I am weak with longing for you, Hisako-chan. But I carry on. I fish and bathe and bury or burn the dead. There is no end of them. The
jikininki
rail at me, and I ignore their pleas.

It will be New Year’s Day in just a few days.
Akemashite omedetō.
Happy New Year, Hisako-chan. I can remember the feast we had a year ago to welcome in the New Year. How strange it seems that it was our one and only holiday together. We knew then — or I did, for sure — that we would be married before the year was up. Then the world speeded up, and we were married even more quickly than we would have expected. I wonder if you regret our decision? Had we not married, would losing me like this have been easier or harder? I can only say for myself that it would have made no difference whether we were married or not, for I intended to spend the rest of my life with you. I hope you know that. And I hope if you read this and I am not there, that you will be happy to know this.

I failed to tell you that I am now writing out my thoughts, as few as they are, in the sketch pad Derwood gave to me. I tried to use the ink-loaded pen he left me, but you will see that I have badly blotched my effort and have reverted to pencil. The other pen that he told me was called a “ballu-pointo” ran out of ink and none can be added, though I tried.

Such great generosity Derwood has shown to me. There are these other lined books he left, enough for me to write a novel of great length had I but the talent. I certainly have the time. But I seem to be running out of steam.

I think about Derwood. How if Emperor Hirohito himself landed on my island and demanded that I give up my prisoner, I would not have done so. Now, on the other hand, had you arrived, I would have led you straight to him. I know you, my Hisako-chan. You would not have been frightened, not as long as I was there. You like people — all kinds of people. Maybe it is because of working in your father’s noodle shop. You have met so many! You are not quick to judge. Why, you even liked me when I would come in for my lunch and tease you. Do you remember? I would ask you to sing, and you would blush and then your father would sing, and we would all laugh.

I am smiling to think of those days.

I worry that the pencil marks I make will fade over time, for I have no idea how long it will be before you see this, or if you will see it. Or if you will see me again. This is a sad thought that I banished from my mind, but I can no longer pretend that it is not a possibility. Some days I feel as if I did truly die on that day on Tinian when I saw the puppet battle. Three times I awoke and who is to say whether one of those awakenings was into a new world? If this is it, then it is a good one. The air is clean; the food is plentiful. But it is now a lonely place. It wasn’t before Derwood arrived. Just surviving seemed a miraculous thing in those times. Then he came and reminded me of what it is to be with people. Then
Tengu
came and reminded me of what it is to be at war. And so now what is it? Some unquiet part of me asks what is there left to learn? And there is a darker voice inside me that asks what is there left to live for? Ah, but the reason for living is before me in these words scratched onto a snow-white page. You. There is you to live for and, in your place, there are these words. How I pray that you are well. But to whom do I pray? Are there gods anymore in the world?

¹
I marked my own stay on the island (which amounted to approximately fifty-seven days). I say approximately, because, like Ōshiro’s, my first day or two were lost in a feverish and drug-induced haze. By my estimation, this entry of Isamu’s dates from around Christmas Day, 1944.

Ōshiro made only three more entries despite the extra writing material I left him. Indeed, the three ledger books I purloined from the quartermaster were sent to me, by Griff, along with the flight journal and the sketch pad. The sketch pad contained several pages of writing, but the ledgers were untouched, empty. Apparently, Griff wanted me to understand that he had sent me
all
the writing left behind by Isamu Ōshiro and had not withheld any of it. This, I decided, was just the thoroughness of a well-trained soldier. But it interested me, nonetheless. At that point the sergeant — or I should say the sergeant major — would have had no idea what the books contained, as I mentioned in the prologue. The writing was all in Japanese. He would have no reason to suppose there might be evidence in Ōshiro’s writing that would incriminate him.

Of what happened to my friend Isamu Ōshiro between the previous entry above and the following entry in late January, I can only guess. He writes that he was running out of steam. There is a wistfulness that might easily be interpreted as the words of a man not long for the world. Perhaps that was it. But in truth, he was a different man after
Tengu.
There are some battles you lose even if you win.

That being said, the last entries bear witness to extraordinary happenings and, I hope, something of happiness, as well.

I have a child!
We
have a child, Hisako. Ah, but why am I telling
you
this? Of course you will know. How do I know? Because this very day I witnessed the most astounding mystery. When I arrived on the beach, back from fishing on the coral reef, I saw the ghost children huddled in a close circle. I don’t pay them much attention, for the most part, for they are always there wanting my attention but not in need of it. Something was clearly different today. You see, usually, they become quite perturbed when I go out on the water, and I swear they look as if they would whimper, if they could only make a sound, like puppies tethered in the yard while the master must go to work. So when I landed and was not met at the beach by them, I was most curious and went to where they were gathered.

Although they are translucent and some of the lesser ones almost transparent, they were packed together so tightly I really could not see right away what it was they were looking at. When they became aware of my presence, however, they moved aside enough to allow me a view. And there was the one who always stands closest to me lying on the sand struggling, as if under the force of some great pressure, a seizure of some kind. I was greatly perturbed. The poor thing looked so frightened, though the others only watched in fascination. How he writhed, clearly distressed!