Beasts Head for Home

  The street was everywhere filled with the smell of food. Even among all the congestion, the youth continued with his strange manner of walking. When he bumped into someone, he would glare at them swaggeringly, while the other person merely remained silent, pretending not to notice. Suddenly the youth leaned over and deftly scooped up a darkly shriveled dried pear from the stall of a confectionery vendor. Perhaps his erratic way of walking served as a kind of preparation for shoplifting. The youth bit into the stolen pear as he continued walking, and his mouth became smeared with the amber-colored sugary juice. Urged on by the stomachache that now seemed to force its way up all the way below his chin, Kyūzō also began to shoot darting glances around him. It appeared, however, that he needed considerably more time before he might actually reach out to take something.

  After two blocks, they came upon another large road with streetcar tracks. Ahead lay a quiet residential district. Stopping, the youth spoke for the first time. “It’s close by now. You go on alone. Once you go, don’t come back to the park. If I find you wandering around there again, you’ll pay for it! You’ll be treated the same way as those dogs!” With an exaggerated gesture, he signaled with his hands that he would slit Kyūzō’s throat.

  “No, you’ve got it wrong—wrong.” Kyūzō repeated to himself. The youth continued, “Go west from here and then south after two blocks, and you’ll soon arrive at the place where the Japanese are. All right then, don’t come back again!”

  Pivoting on one foot, the youth turned around and quickly slipped in among the crowd of people. Kyūzō felt utterly distraught and close to tears. “Damn it, you Chink!” he said to himself, but these words in no way corresponded to his feelings then. “No, you’ve got it wrong—wrong,” he repeated, dragging his feet along the route the youth had described. Soon, however, his bitterness was overcome by the hope of arriving at the place for Japanese people as well as his anxiety over whether such a place even existed.

  He quickly figured out the place where the Japanese were. It occupied one section of what appeared to be company-owned housing, with barbed wire stretched high above the walls. Approximately ten identical-looking buildings were lined up alongside one another. The walls facing the main street were all kept tightly shut with stacks of railroad ties, and only one common gate behind the alley was open. A small wooden sign had been nailed to the alley entrance: “Residence of Overseas Japanese Retainers.” His mouth agape, Kyūzō breathed roughly. It was even difficult to close his mouth when he swallowed. He felt absolutely no sense of reality. He could not even distinguish whether he felt happy or sad. Only his long journey ran through his mind, as if it were someone else’s story. He felt that his escape from Alexandrov’s room was an event that took place so long ago that he could no longer recall it.

  Inside the gate, a Nationalist Army soldier carrying a gun and bayonet and a Japanese young man wearing an armband were standing around a large stove laughing wearily about something. When the soldier noticed Kyūzō, he clucked his tongue and raised his hands as if driving away a dog. Kyūzō was actually panting like a dog.

  “I’m Jap-an-ese!”

  With a flustered expression, the young man looked at the soldier.

  “Get out of here!” warned the soldier, indiscriminately grabbing hold of his gun.

  “But I’m … Japanese.” Kyūzō began trembling so violently that he could no longer stand up.

  “You can’t come in here without a certificate,” the Japanese said, averting his eyes as if annoyed. He was the first Japanese person whom Kyūzō had seen in three years. “This place is now under the direct control of the army.”

  “I know the Nationalist Army officer named Bai. He gave me a ride partway in his truck!”

  “Then you should go talk with him.”

  “But I’ve become separated from the person who knows his whereabouts.”

  “Then nothing can be done.”

  “I’ve walked all the way from Baharin.” Kyūzō’s eyes began to overflow with tears. “Please help me. I’ve walked such a long way without food.”

  “But really, nothing can be done. It’s not the same as before, you see.”

  “What should I do?” Kyūzō rubbed the tears around his filthy face.

  “What to do? Many kids your age have already died. We don’t even know what will happen to us tomorrow. I feel bad for you, but we’ve got absolutely no power to do anything. I know that sounds cold.”

  “But what should I do?”

  “The detention camps are gone and there are no more repatriation ships. There’s absolutely nothing that can be done. In town, though, there are people who’d gladly hire a Japanese kid.”

  “But I want to return to Japan. I’ve walked all the way from Baharin”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Now get moving!” the soldier yelled mockingly in a provincial southern accent.

  Choked with tears, Kyūzō made a sound like a broken pump as he threw himself at the young man’s knees. As the young man quickly pulled back, Kyūzō suddenly crashed against the ground.

  “Don’t get violent!” the young man muttered bitterly. With a gleeful yell, the soldier grabbed Kyūzō by the neck and shoved him toward the alley. Cowering at the bottom of the opposite wall, Kyūzō loudly burst into tears. The soldier approached and began poking him with his gunstock. Clinging to the wall, Kyūzō rose to his feet and staggered away. His tears stopped once he left the alley. In their place, he was left only with a whitish sense of emptiness, as if his body weight had disappeared.

  For a long time, Kyūzō sat still by the roadside facing the enclosure. Two or three people regularly walked past, but no one even turned to look at him. The sun began to go down, and soon the roofs across the street crept all the way to his feet. Japanese people lived under these roofs! Stretching his legs, Kyūzō kicked out with all his strength. He was surprised to feel something hard move about in his pocket. It was his shoe heel, he recalled dejectedly. Beyond the wall there was the sound of a door opening. Then Kyūzō heard the shrill voices of small children playing together: “That’s not right! It’s because he did that! Look, look! This is good!” Without realizing it, Kyūzō got up and approached the wall as if drawn in. Stepping onto an area where the wall jutted out, he supported his weight with both hands and peered in. Two boys about ten years old were playing with some mud. Despite his sobbing, Kyūzō could not stop looking at them. He was just worried that they would return home. His hands began to hurt, but he clung there, unable to leave.

  One of the boys suddenly looked up and yelled. “Hey, there’s a beggar spying on us!”

  With that, he threw a lump of mud at Kyūzō. Covering his face with his arms, Kyūzō yelled back. “I’m Japanese, you idiot. I’m Japanese!”

  “There’s a beggar!” cried out the other boy toward the house. “As if Japanese people would have such dark faces!”

  From the window the face of someone who appeared to be the children’s mother peered out and then vanished. Kyūzō continued shouting. The door opened, the children were called back in, and then the door closed with a bang. Heavy footsteps could now be heard racing through the alley. At the same time that Kyūzō slipped down from the wall, the soldier turned a corner and rushed toward him. This time he appeared truly angry. Springing up on one foot, Kyūzō quickly ran away. From behind, jeers and pebbles grazed his ears.

  Dusk was near. Where should I go? I’ve been completely abandoned. This feeling of helplessness was just like that of a middle school student who couldn’t enter class because he was late. Yet there were houses everywhere. If there were houses, then there had to be doors; and if there were doors, then they had to be tightly locked. There was a door right over there, but its inside was infinitely far away. In the end, this is no different from the wasteland that was completely empty of people. Or maybe it’s worse. The wasteland refused to allow me to escape, whereas the town prevents me from approaching. Even those mummies in that roofless, deserted ho
use ended up dying just before town. If only I had money … damn it, Kō, you bastard! That’s right, it was all his fault from beginning to end! I wonder if there isn’t some way I could track him down. But I remember learning something at school when we studied geography: “The city of Mukden is larger in size than London.” I don’t know how large London is, but it has to be pretty big. Besides, he took back the vest. There’s no way he’s still in town. Kyūzō suddenly recalled what Alexandrov used to say: “All the enemies of the Soviet Union are fascists, and all fascists are bad.” Come to think of it, it was precisely people like Kō who were fascists. He kicked that young wagon driver so hard that his teeth broke.

  Kyūzō idly sat down on some stone steps. His mouth felt gritty with sand. He spat, and the color of his saliva was stained yellow like muddy water. I wonder if it’s all over now. Before that, though, I’d at least like a cup of water. If I ever see that bastard Kō again, I’ve got to kill him …

  At the same time, however, exactly the opposite thought emerged in the depths of his heart. He had perhaps never relied so much on Kō as now. If Kō were to unexpectedly appear here, Kyūzō would no doubt have burst into tears from excess joy. Kō was perhaps an evil man, but he had the strength to press on toward his goals. And maybe he really wasn’t so evil after all. For example, proof could be seen in the pistol that he had left behind in the fountain. He had to have been extremely rushed. But why was he so rushed? A dog had fallen into the trap just then, causing him to panic. He originally didn’t want to hit Kyūzō, but knocked him down because he mistook him for a thief. Although he quickly realized his mistake, he was surprised by the sounds coming from the trap and had no time to help Kyūzō, so just took the vest and fled. Right, that’s entirely possible. That’s precisely why he didn’t try to kill Kyūzō but instead even covered him with the overcoat that he had taken off. Kō had treated him roughly. Still, maybe such treatment was unavoidable for something worth fifty foreign cars. In that case, maybe I should go back to the fountain and wait for Kō. He’s much more reliable than the Japanese people here.

  “Idiot!” said another voice in strong contradiction. The fact is that he was a fascist. He just used you as a hiding place. And once your job was finished, you became useless. Right, that’s the long and short of it. It wasn’t the dog who fell into the trap; it was you!

  It’s all the same! I just want some water. Rising to his feet, Kyūzō again set off walking. The sun was beginning to set. Soon martial law would go into effect.

  I’ve got to decide where to stay until then. But where should I go? Can’t think of anyplace else. The only thing that comes to mind is to return to that park. I suppose that dog-catching youth will be angry. I wonder if he still wouldn’t forgive me if I told him that I was driven away by Japanese people. Come to think of it, it seems that I never thanked him. Right, I should go and thank him. I could then take the chance to ask for help. “I’ll help you with anything. It’s all right if I can’t return to Japan for a while. If we clear up some misunderstandings, then you and I would get along well.” But what kind of misunderstandings? Kyūzō could not quite grasp what separated him and the youth. He also felt that it wasn’t simply misunderstandings that separated them, that there were rather larger things at stake.

  Suddenly he roughly kicked away a rock on the ground. That’s right, I should go to that bustling town before the merchants close up their shops. And I’ll snatch something! Of course it was hunger that partly influenced his decision, but he also felt that stealing something would bring him that much closer to the youth. Imitating the urchin’s way of walking, Kyūzō began staggering erratically as he set off straight ahead to the shopping district.

  XXX

  Three times Kyūzō walked back and forth, from one end to the other of the busy part of town. Yet he had absolutely nothing to show for it. At the moment he was about to reach out his hand, he would suddenly lock eyes with the vendors. Each time he walked back and forth, the number of shops would decrease. He just became more flustered and weary. The evening mist was already beginning to set in. Although the wind had died down, the temperature had steadily dropped. This time I just have to succeed, he thought. I’ll target that peanut vendor in the corner, the one right next to the lamp-fuel stand. I’ll do it quickly and casually, just like the urchin …

  However, Kyūzō was unsure whether he could really make up his mind at the right moment. What would happen if I got caught? he reflected. They’d all gang up and beat me and then toss me in the back alley. If that happened, I’d probably die. Someone would come and strip off my clothes. Then some stray dogs would approach. The dog that bit me would fall into the trap, and then that guy would turn it into meat and sell it … Kyūzō trembled. Just as his heart had become empty, so, too, had he lost all physical strength. And yet—or rather precisely because of this—he had to succeed. Swallowing his belly back down after it had thrust its way upward inside him like a hard fist, he moved toward the peanut vendor.

  Suddenly a man appeared before Kyūzō. There were many men, but this one was different from the others. He was distinctive. His clothes were inconspicuous, but the virtually straight line of his shoulders, the way he swung his hands with strength in the joints, and particularly the way he walked with bent knees as well as the thickness of the base of his neck—he was Japanese! He wasn’t Korean; he had to be Japanese. Kyūzō turned pale, the area around his lips grew numb, and a tiny bit of urine leaked out from him, wetting his underwear. Imploringly Kyūzō called out to the man from behind.

  “Hey, you’re Japanese, right? Mister, you’re Japanese, right?”

  The man turned his dark, pointed face around quickly. He was younger than expected. His eyes were open wide, and his yellow teeth could be glimpsed from partly open lips. Spotting Kyūzō, the man gave a sigh of relief, but he clearly looked angry and annoyed. Feigning ignorance, he tried to walk past. Yet Kyūzō was not to be denied. Walking right next to the man, he hopped along while peering at him as he continued speaking.

  “Help me! I’m close to dying from starvation. Mister, you’re Japanese, right? I know it. I know you understand what I’m saying.”

  All gazes were focused upon them. This seemed to upset the man.

  “Stop it!” Turning his face straight ahead, he continued in a hushed voice, “So what if I understand? You’re of no concern to me.”

  “You’re heartless, mister.”

  “I’m busy!”

  “I’ll really do whatever you say.”

  “Idiot! I told you to stop! We’ll be killed if people find out we’re Japanese. You’re chattering too loud.”

  They were in front of the peanut vendor. Yet snatching anything was now out of the question. Kyūzō was just desperately clinging to the man.

  “Hey mister, I’m begging you.”

  “Get lost!”

  “I can’t. If you abandon me like this, I’ll die. I’ve walked all the way from Baharin.”

  “Baharin?” The man was about to push Kyūzō away, but suddenly stopped raising his arm and asked suspiciously. “When did you come from there?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “Really? Then do you know a man named Kuki?”

  “That’s me!” Shocked, Kyūzō suddenly raised his voice like a record that had fallen while turning.

  The man, however, seemed even more in shock.

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m Kuki! But how would you know that?” He found his voice rippling with a presentiment of hope that had suddenly begun to open up. “I grew up in Baharin. My name is Kuki Kyūzō. My mom was the housemother of the pulp factory. But … Right, you must have heard it from Mr. Kita.”

  “No … Well, wait a moment.” The man’s lips twitched as he smiled vaguely. When he smiled, several short, deep wrinkles appeared by his thin nostrils. “But your story does seem rather odd and interesting.”

  “That’s right. I’m really begging you. I’m famished. I thought I wo
uld snatch something here and then sleep inside the fountain in the park.”

  Waving his hand in front of his face as if silencing Kyūzō, the man appeared to be deep in thought.

  “Well, I’ll take you to my lodgings. Don’t say anything more here.”

  “The house for retainers? I was turned away there.”

  “No. I told you to be quiet.”

  They were near the southern end of the busy part of town. The man bought Kyūzō something that he didn’t recognize—a thick white and yellow rice cake with black jam inside. He was given some hot water and ate the cake while walking. He was so happy that he felt like flaunting a bit.

  They turned east along the road with streetcar tracks, in the opposite direction of the house for retainers. This meant that they would approach the park. The water tank soared up diagonally to the left, breaking up the line of roofs. I wonder if we might run into that dogcatcher, Kyūzō reflected. If we see him, I should ask the man to let me thank him … Dusk was approaching. Far to the north, multiple gunshots could be heard one after the other. Then another gunshot rang out close by. That had to be the martial law signal.

  As if it were his own home, the man silently passed through an eating house with a sign of red piping and came out onto a large courtyard, which was surrounded on all four sides by a long building that looked like a castle wall. It seemed that one had to pass through some shop in order to arrive there. In the center was a two-storied building that appeared to be an apartment. The man was lodging in one of the rooms. He must be pretty important to stay in a place like this, Kyūzō thought with encouragement.

  It was a single room roughly fifteen square meters in size. However, tatami straw mats were laid down in the Japanese style. Inside there was only a rucksack as well as bedding that had been left out. The man appeared to have no other belongings. “You’re probably crawling with lice,” he said, sprinkling some white powder on Kyūzō’s neck. The man then turned on an acetylene lamp and ordered some steamed meat buns, allowing Kyūzō to eat his fill. Kyūzō began choking on the eighth bun. Unable to stop, however, he tore the food into small pieces, incessantly placing them in his mouth. He continued eating until he naturally fell asleep while still clutching the last bun. In the end, he appeared to have eaten a total of twelve or thirteen of them.