The Lonely War (43 page)

Andrew expected to find a sadness take hold of Mitchell’s face, but there was something more complicated there, an expression revealing that he knew Andrew spoke the truth—an emptiness, the sudden loss of something nameless, yet profound.

“I never realized it,” Andrew said, “but I’ve lived only for beauty. The kind of beauty that is beyond what is reflected in one’s eyes. First Clifford, who has an angelic, simple innocence; and you, with your clean-cut, manly elegance; and Tottori, whose strength of character made his sexiness extraordinarily beautiful. Even Master Jung-Wei, with his old, failing body, had the most exquisite spirit of any man I’ve known. For me, now, there is no Clifford, no Mitchell, no Tottori, and no Master Jung-Wei. My existence is estranged from beauty. I have nothing I care about. Tottori took his life because he would not allow himself to live with the shame of defeat. Just so, I can’t bear to live in a world devoid of the beauty I love.”

“I won’t let you.”

“If you have any compassion for me, you won’t try to stop me. The memories of you are now unbearable. There are times when I wish I could obliterate them, to forget these last five years and return to the pure mind I had before. But I know that to erase those memories would mean to forever lose the most wonderful experience of my life. I won’t let them go, but it seems I must let go of you.”

Mitchell looked bewildered and desperate. “This can’t be good-bye. I’m not losing you again.”

Andrew took Mitchell’s right hand in his own. “I’m so sorry. I have no right to be this morbid with you. Having you so close and yet not being able to have you makes me crazy. Please, forget what I said. I’ll go to Kyoto and, after that, I’ll let destiny decide what happens.”

“I’m coming with you. I’ll take a week’s leave.”

“Stop—”

The pain in Andrew’s head grew monstrous, the voices shouting. He brought both palms to his temples, trying to press the pain away, desperately craving the black loam in his pipe. The light coming through the windows shifted, quivering with a yellow color that pierced his retinas.

“You have special gifts. You’ll make Kate a very happy woman, and hopefully your children will grow strong and happy as well. You’ve made your karma and you have your duty. Tottori taught me that nothing is more important than family. I have no family. I must go alone.”

Before Mitchell could utter another word, Andrew moved around the table to cling to him. Their lips found each other and they kissed, hard, passionately. After a moment they relaxed, and Andrew smiled under the kiss. His cheek pressed against the officer’s shoulder. “Raising your children. For the first time in my life I feel envy. Envy of what she is able to give you. I love her for that, and envy her.”

Andrew felt the cold draft sluicing over his feet and Mitchell’s warmth covering his frail body. Tears came up slowly in his eyes, the way a spring fills with water. They broke free of his eyelashes and slid down his cheeks, falling warm on the back of his hand.

“Good-bye, without any bitterness or regrets. I love you.”

Mitchell wrapped his arm over Andrew’s shoulder, holding him tight.

Andrew broke away. He hurried to the doorway, slipped on his clogs, and grabbed his coat and hat. As he was about to dash through the streamers hanging over the door, Mitchell let out a sorrowful groan, begging him to come back.

Every eye in the sake shop turned to stare.

Andrew said, “‘I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true: the empty vessel makes the greatest sound.’”

Mitchell managed a smile. “I’ve always loved hearing you quote Shakespeare.”

“‘And so, fare thee well: Thou never shalt hear Herald no more.’” In a blink, Andrew disappeared through the doorway. He hurried down the street, hugging his overcoat about him while clutching the pipe and lighter. He brought the stem to his mouth and sucked the life out of the charred loam in the bowl.

Nothing in his life had changed. He still carried the same loneliness as before, the same sense of failing to find happiness. The voices retreated, but he knew they would return by sundown. There was only one way, now, to rid himself of them. Love, he understood, was an emotion that could bring joy and sorrow, and apparently it also had the power to take a precious life.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

December 30, 1946—1900 hours

T
HE
train from Kobe pulled into the Kyoto station at sunset. It had been a sad journey. The train had chugged from Kobe to Kyoto by way of Osaka and stopped at every small town along the way. The third-class carriage was old and shabby. The seats sagged like the belly of a swayback mule. Several windows were broken out, which allowed smoke and cinders from the coal-burning engine to pour into the freezing carriage, making Andrew’s throat raw. An old tabby cat prowled the aisle for mice, and by the size of her, Andrew assumed she found plenty.

The passenger cars were crammed with families making their way to Kyoto for the
Hatsumode
—the New Year’s pilgrimage to various shrines to pray for blessings. At each stop, the train had emptied as fast as a cyclone, and people stood in groups, talking and laughing. Sometimes families were met by relatives from the town, and a partylike atmosphere would flourish on the platform. Food vendors in every station sold grilled fish that were as long as an index finger and served over bowls of rice with pickled vegetables, pure white tofu, and plenty of sweet candies. Only Andrew went hungry.

From the train’s window at the Kyoto station, Andrew saw a long valley protected by high snowcapped mountains on three sides. At the base of the mountains were orderly clusters of cherry trees and random patches of bamboo. Further up the slopes stood a thick evergreen forest, which was powdered with snow. There are over a thousand temples in and around Kyoto. Most of these treasured sanctuaries were nestled into the foothill.

A blue sky spread above the valley, as blue and vast as the ocean. A single cloud floated across the expanse like a lifeboat drifting aimlessly across a calm sea.

The Kamo River cut down the east side of the valley. Clear, icy water tumbled over granite boulders. The rushing water sounded melodic, as if the river were singing its way through the valley. West of the river lay the city; its bustling town center was surrounded by finely manicured parks, temples, and immaculate neighborhoods where the houses had rooftops made with blue tiles overlapping like fish scales. The houses stretched from the downtown markets to the base of the mountains.

Golden-red light toppled off the mountainside, intensifying the blue rooftops and causing the city to sparkle. This vision of tranquil beauty became painful as Andrew realized that this was the last leg of his journey. Tomorrow he would leave Kenji for the first time in over a year and dash to the finish line, alone.

From the station platform, Kenji led Andrew east, over the Kamo River and away from the city. They wandered through the narrow streets of a suburb until they came to a traditional
ryokan
hotel. It lay in the shade of Mt. Kiyomizu, an arched mountain with a thick pine and bamboo forest that swayed in the wind like the mane of a lion.

At the front door, an old man knelt to help them remove their shoes and then hurried behind the desk to check them in. Half a dozen antique lacquered lamps lit the lobby, giving the room a warm glow and veiling the corners and alcoves in shadows. Kenji held up an envelope with a local address written on the front. The note inside requested an audience with Mrs. Tottori on the following day. He asked the clerk if he would send a boy to deliver the note.

The clerk graciously agreed, saying it would be delivered within the hour. He took the note and showed them to their room.

Andrew studied the furnishings. In one corner stood a folding screen that displayed a mountain scene painted in the Zen style. In the alcove hung a scroll with Japanese calligraphy on it. Andrew asked Kenji to translate.

Kenji read out loud:

“No gambling,

No prostitution,

No majhong,

No noisy parties,

No credit!”

The sliding doors were thrust aside and a woman knelt in the doorway. Her lavender kimono covered three undergarments that showed at her neck, framing her ivory-colored face. She did not wear her hair on top of her head like geishas; it fell about her shoulders and flowed down her back in a ponytail.
Tabi
socks covered her feet and a sash was tied around her waist with a huge knot in the back. She bowed low and rattled off a burst of Japanese.

Andrew caught the words “bath” and “dinner,” but the only thing that he understood was that her name was Fumiko.

She carried a bamboo tray into the room, and on it were steaming hand towels, a pot of green tea, and two cups. She set the tray on the low dining table and bowed again before leaving.

An iron stove warmed the room. Andrew and Kenji shucked their traveling clothes and pulled on the blue-and-white-checkered kimonos that they found hanging in the closet.

Andrew sat at the window overlooking the garden. He took two puffs of his pipe to beat down the voices in his head. A moment later he took Jah-Jai and played a meditative tune that Kenji’s father had taught him.

Kenji sat at a low table, sipping tea and studying a book of English grammar by candlelight. Every so often he said a word or sentence out loud. “Ruvrey music.”

Andrew corrected him, “Lovely. La. La.  Lovely music.”

“Ruvrey. Ra. Ra. Ruvery music.”

Andrew smiled through his drugged haze, knowing that many Japanese had trouble with the English
L
and also understanding that he himself mangled the Japanese language equally as badly. “Okay, try saying beautiful instead of lovely.”

“Andrew is beautifur!”

“No.” Andrew corrected again, “Andrew’s music is beautiful.”

“Yes, music is beautiful too.”

“You did it. You pronounced the
L
perfectly! Say it again.”

“Andrew is beautiful, and his music is lovely.” Kenji flashed a proud smile. “Now I sound rike American.”

“Like an American. And yes, your English sounds perfect. I’m proud of you.”

The sliding doors opened and Fumiko was on her knees, bowing.

Kenji glanced up from his book. “Time for bath. After, Fumiko will prepare dinner.”

In the tub room, Kenji was first to strip off his kimono and sit on the stool beside the cypress-wood tub. Fumiko dipped a wooden bucket into the hot water and poured it over Kenji’s head. With a bar of soap and a washrag, she scrubbed him from head to soles. Lather clung to his compact body like white frosting. A thorough rinse, and Kenji eased into the tub while Andrew sat on the stool and went through the same scrubbing. Fumiko was visibly shocked by Andrew’s thinness. She washed him as gently as a mother with her newborn.

The tub was so hot it took minutes for Andrew to immerse himself. Once in up to his neck, he closed his eyes and drifted in the lovely heat. Over the past year he and Kenji had bathed together many times, and most nights they had shared the same bed. Andrew felt a deep-seated comfort in those intimate situations.

Kenji’s coarse hair was slicked down like an otter’s pelt. Without his wire-rimmed glasses, his face took on new dimensions. Unveiled, his smooth face and huge black eyes made him look like a different person altogether.

Kenji tilted his head to one side. “Why so sad?”

“Bathing is the saddest time for me, because Hikaru and I had so much pleasure in the tub. In the cool water, he would hold me. I can’t help thinking of him.”

“When I soak with you is hoppiest time for me. I never have friend to share bath before. Come, I hold you so you be hoppy.”

“Happy. Ha, Ha, Happy,” Andrew corrected.

“Happy,” Kenji said as he gently pulled Andrew into his arms.

Andrew didn’t resist. He felt hard muscles under silky skin enfolding him. He closed his eyes and his mind reached back, feeling Tottori’s embrace. He laid his head on Kenji’s shoulder and sighed.

They stayed nailed together until the skin on their fingers pruned. They toweled and dressed and returned to the room, where Fumiko was preparing dinner. She knelt beside the low table with two place settings. On the floor, a charcoal hibachi sat next to a large tray of raw fish, eggplant, and mountain vegetables. Another tray held bowls of soup, noodles, and tofu.

A note lay next to one place setting. Kenji read it and told Andrew that it was from Mrs. Tottori. “She will send someone to meet you here at one o’clock tomorrow. He will take you to her.”

Fumiko served them hot sake followed by bowls of miso soup. Andrew claimed he had no appetite, but Kenji scolded him, saying if he didn’t eat, he would get no more opium.

They leisurely drank their soup while she cooked fish and vegetables over the hibachi. As she worked, she hummed a soothing song that no doubt had been passed from mother to daughter for a millennium. Both men studied her movements as she prepared each item in the time-honored methods of her culture. She was an artist. The strict economy of her every move seemed to emphasize restraint and simplicity.

Andrew and Kenji looked into each other’s freshly scrubbed faces and Kenji tilted his head to one side. Their eyes returned to watching Fumiko’s artistry. For dessert, she sliced a sweet bean cake, which had the delicate shape and color of a plum blossom. She poured them each a cup of green tea and left the room to wait behind the door.

Once they finished all their dinner and another flask of sake, Fumiko stacked all the dishes onto her tray and carried them from the room. She returned five minutes later to move the table against the wall, creating an open space in the center of the room. She pulled a soft futon quilt from the closet and laid it over the floor, then spread linen sheets and another lighter quilt over the futon. Finally, she placed two hard pillows at one end. All the bedding was as white as falling snow and had the same crisp scent.

Fumiko shuffled to the door, bowed low, and slid the door shut.