The Devil of Nanking

  37

  Nanking, 20 December 1937 (the eighteenth day of the eleventh month)

  This is how you learn.

  As the sun came up I listened to the radio for a while. Still no official announcement that it was safe to go into the streets. When full daylight was at last with us I drank some tea, dressed quietly, tied my quilted jacket and slipped out into the alley, barricading the door behind me and stopping once to check for any movement. Outside, a light snow was falling: thin white flakes covering the old dirty snow. I slipped silently between the houses, reached the Liu house within minutes, went to the back door and gave a coded series of knocks. After a while the door was opened by Liu’s wife, who stood back wordlessly and allowed me to pass. Her eyes were red, and she was wearing a tattered man’s winter robe over several layers of her own clothes.

  It was bitterly cold in the house, and immediately I could feel the strained atmosphere. When Liu came to the hallway to greet me I knew that something had happened.

  ‘What is it?’

  He didn’t answer. He beckoned me out of the hall and into a small cluttered room where his son sat in abject misery, his head hanging low. He wore a Sun Yat-sen military-style jacket, torn and ripped and hanging on his frail shoulders, making him look more dishevelled and pitifully stained than ever. On the table in front of him lay a filthy sack, what appeared to be buckwheat spilling out of it.

  ‘He’s been out all night,’ said Liu. ‘Brought back food.’

  I stared hungrily at it. ‘Master Liu, I commend your bravery. This is indeed news. Good, good news.’

  Liu’s wife brought buckwheat dumplings – some wrapped in muslin and crammed into a bamboo steaming basket for me to take to Shujin, and another dish for me to eat now. She put them down in front of me without a word or a look, and left the room. I ate as fast as I could, standing up, cramming them into my mouth and looking blankly at the ceiling as I chewed. Liu and his son averted their eyes out of decency. But, in spite of the food, I couldn’t avoid noticing the atmosphere between them.

  ‘What?’ I said, through a mouthful. ‘What is it?’

  Liu touched the boy’s foot with his toes. ‘Tell him what’s happened.’

  The boy looked up at me. His face was white and serious. It was as if overnight he had lost his childhood. ‘I’ve been out,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes?’

  He lifted his chin in the direction of the street. ‘Out there. All night I’ve been walking in the city. I’ve spoken to people.’

  I swallowed the last of the dumpling, feeling it stick in my throat. ‘And you’ve come back safely. The streets are safe?’

  ‘No.’ A sudden tear ran down his face. My heart sank. ‘No. The streets are not safe. The Japanese are devils. The riben guizi.’ He gave his father an anguished look. ‘You told me they would only kill soldiers. Why did you say that?’

  ‘I believed it. I thought they’d leave us be. I thought we’d be considered refugees.’

  ‘Refugees.’ He batted the tears away with his sleeve. ‘There’s a place for people they call refugees.’

  ‘At the university,’ I said. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Not only me. I am not the only one who has been there. The Japanese have been too. They took the “refugees” away. I saw it. They were strung together.’ He jabbed a finger into the soft flesh behind his collarbone. ‘They put a wire through here and strung them together, like – like a necklace. A necklace of people.’

  ‘You actually saw all of this? At the refugee zone?’

  He pushed roughly at his eyes, the tears leaving streaks in the dirt. ‘I’ve seen everything. Everything. And I’ve heard everything.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, sitting down on one of the rickety chairs and looking at him seriously, ‘did you hear screaming? An hour ago. A woman screaming. Did you hear that?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Do you know what it was?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at his father, then back at me, anxiously biting his lip. He felt in his pocket and pulled out something to show us. Liu and I both leaned forward. On his palm was a Japanese condom. I took it from him and turned it over in my hand. It bore a picture of a soldier racing forward, bayonet at the ready, the word ‘Totsugeki’ written underneath. Charge! Liu and I exchanged looks. His face had become very grey, tension creeping into the skin round his mouth.

  ‘Rape,’ the boy said. ‘They are raping women.’

  Liu glanced at the doorway. His wife was in the back of the house and she couldn’t have heard; nevertheless he put out his foot and kicked closed the door. My heart was thudding dully. When I was thirteen I had no idea what rape was, but this boy used the word matter-of-factly, as if it was an everyday event.

  ‘Girl hunts,’ he said. ‘It’s the Japanese’s favourite pastime. They take coal trucks from Xiaguan and trawl the villages for women.’ He raised his dirt-smeared face to me. ‘And do you know what else?’

  ‘No,’ I said faintly. ‘What else?’

  ‘I’ve seen where the yanwangye lives.’

  ‘Yanwangye?’ A little ghost of fear crossed my heart. I glanced instinctively at Liu, who was contemplating his son with a mixture of fear and confusion. Yanwangye. The devil. The greatest of the death lords. The ruler of Buddhist hell. Ordinarily the likes of old Liu and I would roll our eyes at such folk-religion, but something in us has changed over the last few days. Hearing the name whispered in this cold house made us both shiver.

  ‘What are you talking about,’ said Liu, leaning closer to his son. ‘Yanwangye? I didn’t teach you such nonsense. Who have you been speaking to?’

  ‘He’s here,’ whispered the boy, his eyes meeting his father’s. I could see goosebumps on his skin. I glanced up at the windows, locked tight. It was very quiet outside; the falling snow made the light flicker pink and white. ‘The yanwangye has come to Nanking.’ Not taking his eyes from his father’s, he got slowly to his feet. ‘If you don’t believe it then come with me out there.’ He gestured to the door and we both turned and looked at it in silence. ‘I’ll show you where he lives.’

  38

  Shi Chongming was surprised to see me. He opened his door with chilly civility and let me into his office. He clicked on a three-bar heater, pulling it nearer to the low, battered sofa that sat under the window, and filled a teapot from the Thermos on his desk. I watched distantly, thinking how odd – the last time we spoke he had put the phone down on me.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, when I was seated. He was looking at me curiously because I had come straight from the temple and my skirt was still wet from the grass. ‘Does this imply we are on speaking terms again?’

  I didn’t answer. I pulled off my coat, my gloves and my hat and bunched them all up on my knees.

  ‘Have you some news? Are you here to tell me that you’ve seen Fuyuki?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ve remembered something? Something about the glass box you saw?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it possible that Fuyuki is preserving something in the box? Because that’s how it sounded when you described it.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes. Whatever it is that Mr Fuyuki is drinking, he believes it’s saving him from death.’ Shi Chongming swirled the teapot. ‘He’d have to be careful how much he took. Especially if it was dangerous or difficult to replace his supply. From what I suspect, I am sure the tank is how he preserves it.’ He poured the tea, his eyes not leaving my face, studying me for a reaction. ‘Tell me more about the impression you had.’

  I shook my head. I was too numb to pretend. I took the cup he gave me and held it tightly, in both hands, looking down through the steaming water at the greyish streak of sediment in the bottom. A long, awkward silence filled the room, until eventually I put down the cup.

  ‘In China,’ I said, although I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, ‘what happens if someone isn’t buried properly? What happens to their spirit?’

  H
e had been about to sit down with his own cup, but my words stopped him. He checked himself, bent, half in, half out of the chair, digesting my question. When at last he spoke his voice had changed: ‘What an odd thing to ask. What made you think of that?’

  ‘What happens to their spirit?’

  ‘What happens to their spirit?’ He sat, taking some time to settle, straightening his tunic, moving his cup back and forward. At length he rubbed his mouth and looked up at me. There was a blush of red round his nostrils. ‘The unburied? In China? Let me see. The simple answer is that we believe a ghost is produced. A mischievous spirit is released to come back and cause trouble. And so we bury our dead carefully. We give them money to pass into the next world. It was . . .’ He cleared his throat, tapping his fingers distractedly. ‘It was what always worried me about Nanking. I was always afraid of the thousands of mischievous spirits left in Nanking.’

  I put down the cup and looked at him, my head on one side. He’d never talked about Nanking like this.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, running his fingers round the rim of his cup. ‘It used to worry me. There wasn’t enough land in Nanking for marked graves. Most people waited months to be buried. Some had already disappeared into the earth or into . . . into one another, before there was a chance to . . .’ He hesitated, looking into his tea, and suddenly he seemed very old. I could see the blue veins under his loose skin. I could sense his bones, waiting under the surface. ‘I saw a small child once,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘She’d had some – some flesh removed by the Japanese, here, under her ribs. Everyone thought she was dead, but no one had buried her. She lay there for days, in full view of the houses, but no one came out to bury her. I still don’t understand why they didn’t. In Nanking it was the lucky ones who were left with a body to bury . . .’ He trailed off into silence, watching his fingers moving round the cup.

  When it seemed that he wasn’t going to speak again, I sat forward and lowered my voice to a whisper: ‘Shi Chongming. Tell me what happens on the film.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I need to know, I need to know so much.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If you need to know so much you’ll help me with my research.’ He looked up at me. ‘That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  I sighed and sat back in the chair. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, it is.’

  He smiled sadly. ‘I thought I had lost you. For a long time I thought you had drifted.’ He gave me a look then that was sad and sweet and quite unlike any look he had ever given me before. For the first time since we’d met I had the feeling he liked me. I supposed I’ll never know what journey he’d been on during those few weeks when we didn’t speak. ‘What made you come back?’

  When I got up to go I should have just opened the door and left. But I couldn’t help myself. I stopped at the door and turned back to where he sat at the desk. ‘Shi Chongming?’ I said.

  ‘Hmmm?’ He looked up, as if I’d interrupted his thoughts. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You told me that ignorance and evil are not the same thing. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘Is it true? Do you think it’s true? That ignorance isn’t evil?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course it’s true.’

  ‘You really mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it. Ignorance you can forgive. Ignorance is never the same as evil. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because . . . because . . .’ A feeling was racing through me, coming from nowhere, making me feel strangely powerful and lightheaded. ‘Because it’s one of the most important questions in the world.’

  39

  As the day went on it was getting colder. There was a threat of rain in the air and in the lines of traffic waiting at the lights car windows were closed tight, steamed up. The wind skulked round corners, out of sight, then leaped, picking things up and racing off into subway entrances with its prize. I got off the train a few blocks away from Fuyuki’s apartment complex, tightened my coat and walked quickly, using the red and white Tokyo Tower as a guide, going through streets I didn’t recognize, full of small restaurants and noodle-makers. I passed a wholesaler’s called Meat Rush, and slowed, staring rudely at the customers in the basement car park loading up their huge cars with twenty-pound joints. Meat. Japan and China had shared years when the only protein people could get was silkworm cocoons, grasshoppers, snakes, frogs, rats. Now they had places called Meat Rush.

  Meat, I thought, stopping at the iron railings outside Fuyuki’s apartment. Meat. One of the garages was open and a man in overalls was waxing one of Fuyuki’s big black cars. The windows were open, the keys were in the ignition, and the radio was playing a song that sounded to my ears like the Beatles. A gardener was using a hose to clean the path. I laced my hands round the railings and looked up the outside of the building to the penthouse. The windows were mirrored, black. They showed nothing, only the reflection of the cold sky. Shi Chongming thought that whatever Fuyuki had in his apartment needed to be preserved. Especially if it was dangerous or difficult to replace his supply …

  There was a phone box just opposite the apartment building so I went to it and got inside, where all the photos of Japanese girls in their knickers were wedged into the creases behind the coin box. I fumbled in my wallet, took out Fuyuki’s meishi and stared at it. Winter Tree. Winter Tree. I pushed my hair off my face and dialled the number. I waited, biting my nails. Then there was a click and a mechanical woman’s voice said in Japanese: ‘Sorry, but this number is unobtainable. Please check and redial.’

  Over in the apartment buildings the gardener was coiling up the hose. The water ran off into the flower-beds, where the ornamental cabbages had been wrapped with string to keep their shape over the winter. I hung up the receiver, pushed the meishi into the bag and turned for home. Tonight was the night Mama Strawberry got her drinks delivered. She was usually in a good mood. Tonight I was going to ask her again what she had meant when she told me not to eat at Fuyuki’s.

  When I saw Jason again, at the club that evening, it was almost as if nothing had happened. I was checking my makeup at the mirror in the little cloakroom when he stopped on his way to the bar and said, ‘I know what you need. I know how to make you feel better.’ He pointed at my stomach and winked slyly. ‘You just need to work off a little frustration, that’s all. We’ll figure it out when we get home.’ When he’d gone, and I was sitting on my own again, looking at my face in the mirror, I was surprised to find that I felt nothing. Nothing at all. There’s something scary about how quickly I can draw back into myself. It’s practice, I suppose.

  It was an odd night. I didn’t say much to the customers, and some of the other hostesses asked me if I was feeling well. From time to time, in a lull in the conversation, I’d find Jason staring confidently at me from where he stood in front of the bar. Once he raised his eyebrows and mouthed something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t respond.

  Mama Strawberry had been drinking tequila for a long time. I’d been watching her out of the corner of my eye, seeing her light cigarettes then forget and leave them smouldering in ashtrays. She kept sitting on customers’ knees, and swayed when she walked. When there was a break between customers I went to the desk and sat down opposite her. ‘Strawberry,’ I said. ‘I still need to know. I need to know what stories you heard about Fuyuki.’

  ‘Scccht!’ she hissed, flashing a dangerous look at me, her blue contacts catching light from the skyscrapers outside and refracting it back like diamonds. ‘You forget everything Strawberry say. Okay. Everything.’

  ‘I can’t forget. Why did you tell me not to eat anything?’

  She swallowed more tequila and clumsily fitted a cigarette into her holder, making three or four stabs at it before she succeeded. She lit it, and searched my face with her watery eyes. ‘Listen,’ she said, after a while, in a different, softer voice. ‘I’m gonna tell you something. I’m gonna tell you about Str
awberry mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about your—’

  ‘Strawberry mother,’ she said steadily. ‘Very interesting woman. When she a girl, little girl like this big, everyone in Tokyo got no food.’ I opened my mouth to interrupt but Mama Strawberry’s hand lifted to stall me. Her voice was intense, focused, her eyes pinned on a point above my head. ‘You know that, Grey? Everyone hungry.’

  ‘I do know. They were starving.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Starving. Terrible. But then something happen. Something amazing for my mother. Suddenly the yakuza markets start.’

  ‘The black-markets.’

  ‘No one in Tokyo call them black. They call them blue. The Blue Sky markets.’ She smiled up into the air, opening her hands as if describing the sun coming up. ‘Blue Sky because it the only place in Tokyo there no clouds. The only place in Tokyo there food.’ She looked out of the window, past the Marilyn swing. It was a rainy evening: the neon of Yotsuya Sanchome was spitting and fizzing, throwing little spurts of light down into the wet street hundreds of feet below. The skyline was shimmery, indistinct in the rain, as if it was a fairytale illustration. ‘Biggest market was over there.’ She pointed out into the night. ‘In Shinjuku. Brightness over Shinjuku.’

  I’d read about the Mafia-run market in Shinjuku. I’d always imagined it to be an incredible sight in bombed-out Tokyo – the sign was supposed to have been made from hundreds of light-bulbs: it would have been visible from miles around, blazing above the charcoaled city roofs, like a moon over a petrified forest. The stalls sold tinned whale, seal sausages, sugar, and there must have been the atmosphere of a street festival, with lanterns hanging from the trees and charcoal-burners hissing and men propped against stalls, drinking kasutori and spitting on the ground. In those days kasutori was the only substitute for sake you could find in Tokyo – the third glass, they said, made you blind, but who cared? What did a little blindness matter when everyone was dying?