“A torroko?” asked Takeshi. “You mean one of those handcars that you move by pumping the handle up and down?”
The boys ignored him and continued talking.
“Come on. Maybe we can get it moving.”
“We all get on.”
“We take off the brakes and get it moving on the rails.”
“Torokko torokko it’s slow at first.”
“Torokko torokko there are rocky hills all around us torokko torokko the tracks go up and down torokko torokko now it’s going downhill a bit torokko torokko make it go faster faster.”
“Torokko torokko this hill’s pretty steep torokko torokko it’s going fast fast torokko torokko there’s a cliff to the right torokko torokko I can see the valley floor torokko torokko I’m scared I’m scared torokko torokko it’s so fast so fast torokko torokko I can see a forest up ahead.”
“It’s such a big forest torokko torokko the wind’s rushing past us torokko torokko we’re really moving now torokko torokko how far will we go? torokko torokko we’ve come off the rails torokko torokko we’re going into the forest torokko torokko there are trees all around us torokko torokko how can we stop this thing? torokko torokko we’re going so fast torokko torokko I can’t breathe torokko torokko it won’t stop torokko torokko I feel dizzy torokko torokko.”
“Torokko torokko somebody save us torokko torokko somebody stop this thing torokko torokko I can’t look torokko torokko we hit a tree torokko torokko but we’re still going torokko torokko we just tore through some grass torokko torokko it’s like a storm of grass around us torokko torokko there’s a cliff up ahead torokko torokko oh no oh no torokko torokko we’re gonna fall torokko torokko we’re gonna die torokko torokko we fall off the cliff torokko torokko the valley floor is below us torokko torokko we’re upside down torokko torokko we’re falling into a river torokko torokko we’re in the river torokko torokko but it still won’t stop torokko torokko what happened? torokko torokko we’re dead torokko torokko and now we’re in Hell.”
Izumi was lying on the bed in his hotel room, thinking about his wife Sachiko. She had never really loved him. She hadn’t slept with his boss to help his career; she’d done it to satisfy her own vanity. She could have gone with him to France, but she chose not to. But would things have been different if she had?
Izumi had been sent by his company to an art auction in France. Takeshi, his boss, had suggested he take his wife along.
“No, I wouldn’t feel right doing that,” she’d said with feigned reluctance. “It’s a business trip, after all.”
But it was clear that she hadn’t been the least bit interested. Had she planned to use his absence to sleep with Takeshi? Had Takeshi’s offer been a ruse to cover up their affair? Izumi supposed he could check on that point, at least, the next time he saw Takeshi.
It was on the flight back from France that it happened. Just after take-off, two men, who looked Middle Eastern, pulled out guns that they had managed to smuggle aboard. There was a huge ruckus in the cabin, but as the guns were trained on the passengers, their screams became muffled sobs. Soon the cabin was completely quiet. It wasn’t clear how many hijackers there were – some others had forced their way into the cockpit. And then came the announcement: the plane was turning south to Algiers. Not long afterwards, the flight plan was changed to include a stop in Barcelona.
“The women and children are getting off!” yelled one hijacker. A mixture of relieved voices, stifled wails and desperate gasps filled the cabin. The hijackers laughed as several women stood up to leave before the plane had even landed.
“You plan to flap your arms and fly home?” said one.
Across the aisle from Izumi sat an older couple. The husband was portly and dressed in casual holiday clothes. The wife, who looked much younger than her husband, was immaculately dressed.
“You have to go,” said the husband.
“No, I’m not getting off this plane without you.”
“Algiers is a dangerous place. I can survive by myself, but having you with me will put us both in danger. Please, you have to get off.”
“No, I’m not going.”
Izumi was deeply touched. The couple must have loved each other very much. What kind of people would be so devoted to one another? Many of the wives on board had decided to get off without any discussion and were busily preparing to leave. Izumi had no doubt that his wife wouldn’t have hesitated.
The couple was none other than Nobuteru and his wife Nobuko, but Izumi had no way of knowing about his distant ties with them.
The plane landed in Barcelona, and as the women and children left the plane, Nobuteru tried to persuade his wife to go with them. She refused to leave her seat. A half-hour passed, and a hijacker noticed that Nobuko was still on board and ordered her to get off. “No!” Nobuko screamed in English and clung to her husband. The hijacker watched as Nobuteru pleaded with his wife to get off and she continued to shake her head. Finally the hijacker smiled and told them both to get off the plane. At first Nobuteru did not understand, but Nobuko immediately got up and pulled her husband to his feet.
As he walked towards the exit, Nobuteru turned to the hijacker and thanked him. The man smiled wryly, saying something that probably meant Nobuteru should be grateful for having such a good wife. After they had got off, one of the passengers cried out:
“Damn it! Some people have all the luck! My wife left without giving me a second glance!”
Laughter spread through the cabin. Izumi laughed as well. He had been so impressed he wanted to applaud as the couple left. The remaining passengers were mostly Japanese, nearly all middle-aged except for a few in their twenties and thirties; there were several Europeans as well, probably French. There were no elderly men left on board, so perhaps the hijackers would have let the couple go in any case.
The plane took off once again and headed south to Algiers with Izumi aboard.
The plane crashed not long afterwards. It was said that a hijacker fired his gun in the cockpit, but it was never clear precisely what happened. From that day on, Nobuteru felt deeply indebted to his wife. She had, after all, saved his life. They had been in love when they married, but after more than forty years he wasn’t sure that she still loved him. The experience made his feelings for her grow strong once again.
Whenever they talked about the hijacking, Nobuko would say, “That was the second time I saved someone’s life, you know.”
Nobuko often told the story of how her younger brother Koichi had nearly been kidnapped when he was three years old. One day Nobuko, who was seven years older, noticed that Koichi wasn’t in the house. She went out to look for him. Before long she met an old woman whom she had often seen while they walked their dogs.
“Have you seen my little brother? I can’t find him anywhere,” asked Nobuko, desperate.
The old woman seemed a bit surprised. “That was your little brother?”
Nobuko continued to look for Koichi as the old woman watched. Finally the woman called out:
“Wait here. I’ll go look around where I saw him. If I find him, I’ll bring him back.”
The old woman walked towards the outskirts of the neighbourhood and came back ten minutes later with Koichi in tow. From what the family was able to piece together later, the old woman had offered Koichi sweets to get him to go with her. She then handed Koichi over to someone in exchange for cash. Such things often happened before the war. If Nobuko hadn’t known the old woman from walking their dogs together, Koichi would have almost certainly been sold to a circus, or worse.
Hearing this story made Nobuteru feel close to Koichi. Of course Koichi was now a grown man working at the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office and approaching retirement – hardly of an age when Nobuteru could shower him with affection. But Nobuteru always had a warm spot in his heart for him, and Koichi in turn always liked being with him and still called him “big brother”. They often visited each other and went drinking together. It was a closeness that wen
t beyond brothers-in-law.
One day Koichi invited Nobuteru to dinner at a small restaurant he’d never been to before. Nobuteru found Koichi waiting for him in a tiny private room.
“I know you have a great deal of experience in these matters,” said Koichi after a bit. “And you helped me deal with those yakuza who showed up at the property administrative department a while back. So I wanted to ask your advice about a situation that has come up.”
There was in Nobuteru’s neighbourhood an ornate rococo-style home known as the Kashiwara Mansion that had been built in the 1920s. Its architecture was unusual for Japan, and it was often photographed for magazines and as a backdrop for television shows. When the owner of the house died, the heirs had been unable to pay the inheritance tax, and the government took possession of the property. The plan was to demolish the historic structure and put up a government building, but the residents in the area had started a campaign to save the mansion. Could Nobuteru help with this problem? asked Koichi. If so, he would be generously compensated.
Nobuteru decided to accept the job. It would allow him to stretch his dramatic skills, and his remuneration would be guaranteed. First, Nobuteru requested the names of the fifty-three people who had signed the petition to save the mansion. Next, he opened a bank account in the name of the Historic Kashiwara Mansion Preservation Fund using two million yen of his own money. He then proceeded to visit each of the signers in turn, his bankbook in hand.
“I want to save the old Kashiwara Mansion,” he told the petitioners. “I’ve visited the government offices many times about this, and they’ve finally agreed to allow our organization to purchase the building and the surrounding two hundred and thirty square metres of land for the price of one hundred million yen. Of course, that’s on the condition that we will be responsible for the repair, restoration and maintenance of the property, which I will be happy to pay for out of my own pocket. However, for the initial one hundred million yen, I must turn to the fifty-three of you who have been fighting to preserve this historic building. As you can see, I’ve donated two million yen myself. If each of the petitioners does the same, we’ll have one hundred million yen. Can I count on your support? You will be made a member of the board of directors once the property has been made an official historic site.”
Most of the people looked at Nobuteru as if he was insane, but that was exactly what he had expected. The only wrinkle in his plan occurred when an elderly woman by the name of Aya Naramoto obediently deposited two million yen in his account. Nobuteru did not want to be liable for fraud, so he quickly wrote her a receipt for the funds and signed a statement that if he was unable to raise the entire one hundred million yen, he would promptly return her money. While Nobuteru continued his fundraising efforts, men from the government demolition team periodically visited the mansion site. Seeing them poking around one day, members of the campaign called an emergency meeting, to which Nobuteru invited himself. He quickly assumed the role of the leader and began to bellow at the government representatives:
“I’ve already talked to you people about this! I was told that the demolition would not take place until the end of next month! We need time to raise the money! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about that! Go get someone who knows what he’s talking about! Go on, get out of here!”
The government representatives had been briefed by Koichi about the situation, and quickly left after Nobuteru’s outburst. Nobuteru then used the opportunity to speak to the assembled group.
“Why haven’t you donated to the preservation fund?” he cried. “Anyone living in a wealthy neighbourhood like this should be able to spare a measly two million yen! You say you want the building saved, but it’s a different story if you have to cough up a little of your own money! Just think how proud you’ll be to have a historic site like this in your own neighbourhood! But you just want to enjoy the benefits without taking any responsibility for it! I don’t care what it takes! Each and every one of you is going to donate two million yen by the middle of next month! Do you hear me?”
Nobuteru grew increasingly manic as he spoke, and this continued when he visited the members’ houses to ask for donations. He would show them the entry for Mrs Naramoto’s two million yen in his bankbook and berate them for not following her example. And as Nobuteru had hoped, membership in the preservation campaign began to dwindle until there was only a small group lead by two intellectuals. This group advocated making the building an official historic site but had no interest in buying the property themselves. Convincing this group to give up required all of Nobuteru’s skill. He visited each person repeatedly, almost to the point of harassment, and each time he would rave and blather on, his eyes red with passion. After a while Nobuteru could no longer tell if the madness he displayed was real or feigned.
Finally, the day of the demolition arrived. Nobuteru waited outside the Kashiwara Mansion from early that morning, but he was alone. No one from the group was there. His steady stream of vitriol had ensured that no one even came to witness the demolition, which took place without incident. As a finishing touch, he mugged in an appropriately exaggerated manner for the television cameras that had come to cover the event and then went directly to the bank to transfer Mrs Naramoto’s two million yen back into her account. Koichi was very grateful, and when Nobuteru received his remuneration of four million five hundred thousand yen, the two of them went out to celebrate, and drank the night away.
Several days later, Nobuteru had a dream. He was standing in front of the Kashiwara Mansion. No, not precisely in front of it. The mansion was situated on a cliff and Nobuteru was standing on a path below it, looking up at the two-storey structure. No workers were in sight, but the structure was being slowly demolished. Sections of wall fell without a sound, until finally the entire building collapsed, taking the cliff with it. It all came rolling down towards Nobuteru in a dusty tidal wave of gravel, earth, tiles and bricks.
Nobuteru began to run. But he found that there were cliffs on either side of him and debris was pouring over them as well. Soon his path was almost completely covered, and he had to wade through the valley of rubble, pushing and kicking his way through. Suddenly, he was met with the mask-like faces of corpses poking out from the rubble. There had been a cemetery on the cliff, and it had collapsed in the landslide.
Even as he sweated and screamed in his nightmare, Nobuteru realized its source: in Sasayama, where Nobuteru and his family had fled to during the war, there had been a cemetery like this, where the dead were buried whole instead of being cremated. Children who dared to venture into the cemetery were so frightened that they wet themselves. Ominous dreams like this – dreams of meeting the dead – were best woken from as quickly as possible.
“Wake up!” he thought, and mustered all of his strength to force himself awake.
Could the nightmare have been caused by his guilt for having deceived the members of the preservation campaign? Surely a crafty old buzzard like Nobuteru was impervious to such feelings. And yet the episode had left a mark on his mind. He had begun to think about death almost obsessively. Perhaps the dream was a sign. Perhaps coming so close to the dead in his dream was an indication that he could cross over from his dreams into the next world if he should so desire.
I’m still dreaming, but where did Yuzo go?
Daté was sitting by himself in the middle of a traditional Japanese room. The sliding door behind him was closed, and there was an oblong brazier before him on which an iron kettle sat steaming. Parts of the room reminded him of his family’s home out on the Yakihata Line, and yet it also seemed like a room in the house of the boss of the Sakaki gang. It seemed to him that he had been sitting there for a long time, but he did not know where he was. If you could really travel to Hell in a dream like Yuzo said, then maybe he had ended up in Hell. It wouldn’t have surprised him, not after what he had been through.
Daté knew that he wasn’t a real man – not like Yuzo was. Yuzo said that being orphaned during t
he war was what had made him grow up. But when Daté was that age he had still been in primary school. Once he had been playing with friends and fell and hit his knee. His friends gathered round him, worried about his injury, but when he started to cry and call out for his mother, they broke into laughter. Even through his tears, Daté saw the humour in the situation, and he began to laugh as well. But when he thought about it later, his feelings turned into embarrassment and then into unfocused rage. He had carried this rage with him into adulthood.
Things only got worse for him in junior high school. He was arrested for shoplifting and would often get into fights with other boys, sometimes seriously injuring them. He didn’t throw away his junior-high-school graduation photo, though. In it, Daté was in the third row. Perhaps because his teacher disliked him, Daté had been given a small wobbly chair to stand on. He looked like a gasping goldfish as he struggled to make himself seen behind the tall boy in front of him and the heavy-set boys to either side. He managed a smile, but his expression was such a desperate attempt to assert his existence that Daté felt miserable every time he looked at the photo. He had saved it just because it was the only picture of a girl in his class he had a crush on. For all his skill at fighting, he was very shy around girls. Yes, thinking back, Daté realized what a baby he was then.
Yuzo had once told Daté about a dream he had while he was living on the streets of Tokyo as a war orphan. He was always hungry, which made him think of the Buddhist “Hell of starvation” his grandmother used to tell him about. In Yuzo’s dream he went to Hell and ate a terrific feast. Yuzo said he remembered thinking that even Hell might be better than the life he was living.
You told me about that dream when I asked about what you wrote on the last page of your notebook. You know, the notebook you kept ever since you were a kid before the war. It might’ve been the last thing you ever wrote. It was funny, like a poem. I still remember it.
I dreamt I went to Hell
And had a giant feast.