|
Recent
Stories
April
10, 2003
Zoltan
Grossman
The Perils of Occupation: the Easier
the Victory, the Harder the Peace
Uri
Avnery
The Night After
Wayne Madsen
The Telltale Signs of Empire
Ron
Jacobs
Bush and Rummy's Drunken Drive-by
David Krieger
Before You Become Too Flushed with Victory, Think of Ali Ismaeel
Abbas
Jeremy
Brecher
What Can the World Do Now That Tanks Prowl Baghdad?
Robert
Jensen
The Unseen War
Geoffrey
Neale
Ashcroft's War on the Constitution:
A Patriot Attack on America
Jeffrey
St. Clair
Last Tango in Baghdad
Hammond
Guthrie
Rumors of War
Joseph
Heller
Nately's Old Man
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 4/10
Website
of the Day
The
Third Page
April
9, 2003
David
Lindorff
Secret Bechtel Docs Reveal: Yes,
the War Is About Oil
Doug
Lummis
Saving Private Lynch: Hollywood and
War
Susan
Davis
The New York Times and the Peace Movement
David Vest
Smoking Gun? You're Watching It
John
Chuckman
America's Sovereign Right to Do
as It Damn Well Pleases
Akiva
Eldar
Gary Bauer and AIPAC: an Unholy Alliance
with the Christian Right
Ray
Hanania
Suicide Bombers without the Suicide:
Racism, Hypocrisy and the War on Iraq
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 4/9
April
8, 2003
David
Lindorff
Killing the Messengers: It Doesn't
Matter If It's Deliberate or Accidental
Richard
Lichtman
Dr. Phil in the Trenches
John
Brown
Why Uncle Ben Hasn't Sold Uncle Sam:
a Former Foreign Service Staffer on Bush's Policy Failures
Ben
Terrall
Report from the Oakland Docks: "The
Cops Had No Reason to Open Up on Them"
Jason Leopold
FERC and Wall Street: Conversations
May Have Violated Federal Law
Anthony
Gancarski
Conyers Heeds the Call on Perle
Linda Heard
Journalists Die, the Networks Lie, Iraqis Ask "Why?"
Ahmad
Faruqui
Wallowing in Hypocrisy
Wallace
Gagne
Baghdad Babble
Harry
Browne
Report from the Protests at the Bush/Blair
Summit
Larry Kearney
I Understand There's a Boy in
a Baghdad Hospital
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 4/8
M. Shahid
Alam
The Israelization of America
April
7, 2003
Todd
Chretien
Wooden Bullets & Grenades: Oakland
Cops Attack Peace Protesters and Dock Workers
David
N. Gibbs
Spying, Secrecy and the University:
The CIA is Back on Campus
Harry Browne
War and Peace Summit a Royal Farce
Gideon
Levy
America is Not a Role Model
Diane
Christian
A Scene from an Obscene War
Jules
Rabin
Remembering Deir Yassin
James Davis
Oddsmaking in Dublin: Will Bush
Shake Gerry's Hand?
Robert
Fisk
The Twisted Language of War
Patrick
Cockburn
Slaughter on the Road to Dibagah
John
Mackay
War and Art
Seth Sandronsky
Wars and the Color Line
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 4/7
April
5, 2003
Alexander
Cockburn
The Iraqi Humanitarian Relief is
in Shambles
Anne
Gwynne
A Drowning in Salem
Uri
Avnery
Roadmap to Nowhere
Chris
Floyd
Hell for Leather: Bombs, Bullets, Bibles and Bush
William
Cook
Would You Have Sent Your Son (or Daughter) Off to War If...
Gila
Svirsky
A Busy Day for Bulldozers
Mike Ferner
Back from Baghdad: What Next for the Peace Movement?
Joanne
Mariner
Civilian Deaths and Official Apologies
John Stanton
Bush Takes His Killing Orders
from the Lord
Romi
Mahajan
Learning to Count the Dead
Aluf Benn
After Iraq, US Vows to Deal with
Other Mideast Regimes
Mary
Ellen Peterson
Gay Marine Refuses to Fight
William
MacDougall
Country Music and the Crimes of Patriotism
Ron
Jacobs
War and Occupation
Bernie
Pattison
Aborigines and the Different God
Mark
Engler
Iraq War as Arms Expo
Adam Engel
Li'l Box of Love: a Novelini
Poets'
Basement
Tripp, Albert, Katz
Jeffrey
St. Clair
Flesh and Its Discontents: the Paintings of Lucian Freud
Norman
Madarasz
Canada and the War
April
4, 2003
Anthony
Gancarski
Colin Powell's Shame
John
Chuckman
Was Einstein Right About Israel?
David
Krieger
The Meaning of Victory
Tom
Gorman
The Mantra of the Troops: Support
or Treason?
Adam
Federman
The Absence of War
Vijay
Prashad
There Are No More Arguments
Tom
Stephens
The End of the Innocence
Mickey
Z.
Makes Me Sic (Sic): Copy Editing
Bush Speak
Pierre
Tristam
War Coverage: a Dishonest Reality
Show
Hammond
Guthrie
The Deadly Mihrab
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 04/04
April
3, 2003
Uri
Avnery
A Crooked Mirror: Presstitution and
the Theater of Operations
David
Vest
Can You Hear the Silence?
Anthony
Gancarski
Colin Powell Telemarketer
David
Lindorff
Takoma: the Dolphin Who Refused
to Fight
Michael
Roberts
War, Debts and Deficits
Ramzy
Baroud
Now That Iraqis Are Being Killed Is Israel Any More Secure?
Jo Wilding
From Baghdad with Tears
Anton
Antonowicz
Cluster Bombs on Babylon
Alison
Weir
Israel, We Won't Forget Rachel Corrie
Bruce
Jackson
Hating Wolf Blitzer's Voice
Eliot Katz
War's First Week
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 04/03
Hot Stories
Paul de Rooij
Arrogant
Propaganda
Gore Vidal
The
Erosion of the American Dream
Francis Boyle
Impeach
Bush: A Draft Resolution
Click Here
for More Stories.
Burn Your Sweatshop Clothes!
Buy Union Made Apparel!
|
April 12,
2003
A CounterPunch
Classic
The
Song of Mars
by
ISHIKAWA JUN
Whenever the song comes within earshot how shall
I describe this emotion? It is the wildly popular song "Mars,"
overflowing the frenzied streets to beat against windowpanes,
and rush in to my ears as I sit in the room alone at twilight.
Gods are asleep beneath the heavens
And all of wisdom holds its tongue.
Arise, Mars, and boldly--
The storm of voices stinking of smoke
turns to blackest soot, blowing against house corners, blasting
trees throughout the city, asphyxiating chickens and dogs, the
wounds of the age splitting wide open but if I keep on writing
like this, will I ever arrive at the beginning of my novel? Actually
I have been trying to write a novel these past few days, surreptitiously
squirming about on my broken chair, and yet all my pen has managed
to produce have been lines of bungling words of this kind, mere
dregs of a pitiful, childish outburst. Amidst the oppressive
season fraudulently substituted by the bellowing of "Mars,"
is such a wretched dodge all I can muster? Derided by the chorusing
voices outside the window, I flush with anger and tearing sheets
of writing paper one by one with irritated fingertips, cast them
into the air; then, my feelings as disordered as before, I trample
them underfoot along with the scattered shreds. Why, to begin
with, have I become so earnest about worldly events? Is it not
imperative that a pen writing a novel be severed from every worldly
emotion and concomitant turmoil? I spring up, face the song resounding
through the distant streets, and shout, NO! Then, grinding my
teeth to clamp down on the resurgent swell of emotion, I once
more snatch up a pen, expel everything from my mind, and turn,
with maniacal resolve, to the novel.
Last night I wrote this far--truly ashamed
to have written so pathetically little, and unable to endure
staying on in a room where I could not compose a single literary
sentence, I impulsively went out for a walk about town, drank
a little saké, and stepped into a movie theater I find
ideal for napping. Dissolving into a darkness complete but for
a light beamed at the screen, I settled into a gap unconsciously
relinquished by people clustered in mutual indifference, and
had just dozed off puppetlike, when the sudden sound of an explosion
startled me awake. I blinked up at the screen where a gigantic
warship was thrusting its long gun barrels over the sunlit water:
the guns seeming just to have fired, their smug muzzles coolly
trailed soft wisps of whitest smoke which slenderly rose and
dissipated. For an instant, the smoke impressed me as very tranquil,
like puffs from the pipe of an old man basking in the sunshine,
but I realized with a start it was precisely in such feigned
innocence the bombardment's ghastliness resided. The scene changed
to a village by the waterside lined with willows and semidemolished
farmhouses in front of which a troop of smiling young men stood
around an older man seated on a chair, his ample beard swaying
with laughter as he thrust both arms before him to press his
sinewy hands over the small heads of two children whose nationality
decidedly differed from that of the men. It certainly seemed
a peaceable sight. And yet, the faces of the two children, surrounded
by the native landscape and the aliens' laughter, remained absolutely
expressionless. In trapped silence, they were shrieking a categorical
NO! Ah, faced with their NO! how feeble mine sounds. Unable to
write even a line of the novel which now if ever ought to be
written, camouflaging my impotence with saké and slovenly
dozing covered with shame, breaking into sweat, I furtively peeled
away from the seat, tucked in my tail (if I had one), and extricated
myself from the thicket of human legs
In the twilit room of the apartment house
back of Ginza I am once more holding the pen while the ever louder
street chorus of "Mars" pounds against my ears. No
longer in a frenzy, I am striving to move the resisting penpoint
to pinpoint my sanity. Suddenly the doorknob behind me rattles.
As I turn, the door bangs open, a young woman storms in to fling
herself onto a wallside bed, and convulsed with irrepressible
screams, bursts into a fountain of tears
Instantly, though the world of the novel
is yet unborn, the room's atmosphere is transformed. Let me divert
the pen awhile, and start from the facts.
2
Gazing at the yellow suit trembling lightly
over the shoulders of the young woman who has burst into tears,
I helplessly inquire, "What happened, Obi?"
My cousins Fuyuko and Obiko lost both
parents in quick succession some years ago, after which Fuyuko,
the elder, married a photographer named Aioi Sanji employed by
a certain newspaper and settled down with him in Kamata, while
the younger Obiko, presently a student at a certain girls' school,
receiving an allowance from her elder brother who heads the main
family and operates a fishery in a certain town of Kanagawa Prefecture,
is renting a single room in the same apartment house as I; but
despite the brother's intention to thus place her under my supervision,
Obiko happily exploits my most unsuitably laissez-faire temper,
and appearing to delight in the headiness of the location, goes
out in the morning not to return till late at night, or packs
her room with uproarious friends sparing no thought for the neighbors--yet
that same Obiko who ordinarily gambols beyond the reach of my
solicitude is suddenly lying across my bed in a deluge of tears.
The name Obiko, given her by her late father who was fond of
composing songs, was originally read as Tarashiko, until as some
point the girl took to pronouncing it Obiko or Obi and signing
herself Obi, not using Roman letters but an ideogram evidently
taken from the name of a river, the source of her pet name: "What
happened, Obi, why are you crying?"
I rise, switch on the light in the darkening
room, and to distract the still prostrate Obiko, suggest, "Shall
I give you some eau de Cologne?" But Obiko, summarily spurning
my jocular tone, tosses her head and murmurs, "Without any
reason, with no reason to die at all, is it possible for people
just suddenly to die?" The heat of the words constricts
her throat with tears, and she whispers, "My sister died."
"Who, Fuyuko?" "My sister" "Died how?
Why didn't you say so right away?" "I was trying to
believe she must be alive, she must be alive. But it's no use.
She can't be. She's dead." Watching Obiko stare off into
space, tears already evaporating from her pale wilted cheeks,
I crush between my fingers a cigarette I have picked up: "What
is this about? Say it clearly." "I'm frightened."
"Of what?" "Saying it clearly; no, being unable
to say it clearly but it must be true." Biting her lip,
she endeavors to tear the mist inside her head with words: "It's
a big mistake to think people do not die without a reason. People
who die couldn't care less about a reason. It's only the living
who can't feel safe without making up some kind of reason. The
reality of sister's death terrified me, because if it is real,
what'll I do?" "When did it happen?" "Just
now I went to Kamata, but the door was tightly closed though
it was almost time for preparing supper, so I went round to the
back and that door too was locked from the inside. Thinking they'd
both gone somewhere, I was standing about absentmindedly till
I heard clattering footsteps behind me: Young miss!--Sister's
maid was looking ready to cry in the late sunlight--Young miss,
where has madam gone? It seems the girl returned from an errand
to find the door shut, inquired in two or three likely places
but learning nothing, started pacing about holding a package
of beef, waiting for sister or husband to appear. Did sister
seem all right, I asked. Yes, not about to go out, but feeling
fine lately, in fact talking about taking a trip with master
this Saturday Well, then she must have just stepped out awhile,
yet I wonder I drew near the glass door of the kitchen again,
pushed my nose against a narrow crack to peek in, and inhaled
a foul smell--"
Jerking away, Obiko spun on her heel
and, sure it was gas, pressed her back against the door to stop
the smell from escaping. "Really, there's nothing to worry
about, so I'll go back. I'm in a hurry and had no special reason
for coming. Give her my best when she returns. I'll visit again
before long." Tossing off such oddly cheerful words, Obiko
left the bewildered girl and ran desperately for about a block,
but why flee like this? If she had sensed her sister fatally
immobilized within a cloud of gas, how could she, a relative,
run away? Did the abrupt collision with death's shadow so dreadfully
stun her? No, not that, she simply could not conceive what could
possibly impel Fuyuko to die. Happily married to Aioi Sanji,
a gentle man blessed with inherited property; both husband and
wife utterly unlikely to indulge in secret love affairs: even
supposing the monotony of an overly tranquil life had sapped
her vitality, Fuyuko was not so impudent as to die just to advertise
the fact; besides her childlessness and respiratory weakness
should already have added sufficient spice to a peaceful marriage--it
was unthinkable Fuyuko would be extravagant enough to die aiming
for more; and no matter how happy she was, no one except characters
in a romance died from an excess of happiness. And yet, there
had been the smell of gas But was it really gas? What smell had
tricked her into this agonizing? All at once, vividly recalling
the spring onion skins seen scattered in front of the glass door
a moment ago, Obiko clutched at the color of green stalks inundating
her eyes--Why, it was the smell of onions!--yet even as she was
trying to reassure herself, the unmistakable smell of gas still
adhering to her nostrils dealt a deathblow to her dodging the
very instant a night-black something thundered by before her
eyes causing her to gasp: she was at the Kamata crossing and
a freight train was rushing through the station
Obiko unsteadily boarded a trolley, got
off at Y_rakuch_ and sat on a platform bench hesitating briefly
whether she ought to turn back, but oppressed by the weight of
her paralyzed spirit, arrived in a daze at the apartment house.
Listening to her story, I swallow the bitterness coating my parched
mouth: "Sure." "What?" "I'm sure she's
dead. The reason no, it doesn't matter. Your words are telling
me the same thing the smell of gas told you. It isn't a hunch;
I feel it is because it's so. She must be dead."
We find ourselves sitting at opposite
ends of the bed. An insect is crawling along the wall. Obiko's
deep, hollow voice seems to be trailing the insect. "Why
must sister die?--with all my might I've only been thinking of
reasons she shouldn't die. Not once did I put myself in her place
to think of some shock or misstep that might have forced her
into it." "And yet, when you smelled the gas, what
kept you from smashing through the glass door and trying to save
her?" Suddenly falling prostrate across my lap, Obiko digs
her nails into my thigh and, her body heaving, breaks into sobs.
"Oh, wicked, cursed Obiko! Had I done it soon, there would
surely have been time, she would surely have been saved. It was
my duty to save my sister by any means. I, I"--Obiko chokes
on her sobs--"I don't know why, I don't know why I ran away."
Obiko pulls away from me, buries her
brow in her hands, and remains slumped forward. The insect on
the wall is no longer visible. Punctured by streetlights, night
is closing in against the window while I shiver inside the unheated
room. Obiko abruptly turns her head away, runs her fingers forcefully
through her hair, and crisply declares: "Obiko will no longer
think about it. Actually, Obiko used up all of this month's money,
and was going to Fuyuko to borrow some. Going to a dead person
to borrow money--how shabby and wretched When I think that such
wretchedness may be the reason I ran away from the glass door,
that I abandoned Fuyuko only because of it, it horrifies me so
much my legs shake. But I'm all right now. Obiko will have nothing
to do with a person who chooses to die. At a time like this,
when so many people who do not want to die are daily dying far
away, to die of one's own free will I'm by no means blaming Fuyuko.
I don't know why she died, whether it's good or bad she died.
I won't think about it. She's dead, and nothing else matters.
That's it--for Obi, the subject is closed." So saying, Obiko
extracts a compact from her handbag, pats her face, and briskly
shades her eyebrows with a Max Factor pencil
A sound of trucks grows audible in the
street below, hailed with a surge of cheers and the rustling
of countless little flags cleaving the night breeze.
Arise, Mars, and boldly--
Ah, it started again Springing away from
me sprawling on the bed, Obiko rushes up to the window, flings
up the sash, takes a deep breath facing the street, and raising
high her right arm merges her voice with the seething cheers.
Hurrah!
I clap my hands over my ears. Why? Is the grief hidden in Obiko's
shout too piercing? Am I recoiling from the heroic exclamations
out of mourning for Fuyuko? Or is simple concern for my sanity
urging me to shut out the insufferable song?
3
"You will think it a strange story.
A very strange story. But I had grown so used to it, I did not
think it strange. No, that isn't it. I say it is strange now,
but at the time I thought nothing much of it. Anyway, call it
mischief or joking, Fuyuko was indeed fond of it. In the end
it led to something which can never be undone. I was grossly
negligent it's unforgivable. Regretting it deeply, I would like
to apologize to Fuyuko before you all."
The telegram bearing the no longer surprising
news of Fuyuko's sudden death having arrived the following day,
Obiko and I set out for the house in Kamata where, flanked by
a dozen or more family members drawn up for the wake, Aioi Sanji
spoke the above words seated on his heels before Fuyuko's casket,
placed both hands on the straw mat, and respectfully bowed. The
previous night, returning home late from a company gathering,
Sanji found the door locked and the house saturated with gas;
by the time he discovered Fuyuko lying down in a back room, she
had asphyxiated. The maid, convinced Fuyuko was out, had been
wearily awaiting Sanji's return in a neighbor's kitchen: the
smell of gas never drifted across the adjacent gardens, nor did
anyone in the neighborhood acquainted with the harmonious Aioi
household notice anything amiss. Incidentally, Sanji's so-called
"strange story" runs as follows.
Aioi Sanji and Fuyuko married about four
years ago. Third son of a prosperous family from Tochigi Prefecture,
Sanji was a graduate of a certain private university in Tokyo
and a second lieutenant in the reserves, who having grown fascinated
with photography during school days and developing into a fine
professional, was offered his present job as a newspaper photographer.
Unfamiliar with life's hardships, sufficiently enamored of photographs
to have installed a darkroom at home, Sanji's only other pastime
was billiards: rarely drinking, innately incapable of uttering
a single joke before a casually met woman, he was as devoted
to coddling Fuyuko as a hen doting on its young. Inside the nest
fragrant with straw, lived Fuyuko reading books daily, whenever
free from cheerfully cooking. The books--limited to translated
plays--she devoured indiscriminately, learning the plots and
lines by heart, though surprisingly ignorant of any other genre.
On holidays, she and Sanji took little trips, went to the movies,
and made especially sure never to miss a New Drama performance,
so that before long Sanji too came to count translated plays
among his interests.
On a rainy Sunday about a year back,
sitting in a rattan chair on the veranda and reading a volume
of a certain collected edition, Fuyuko suddenly turned to Sanji
fiddling with film nearby, and asked, "What do you suppose
this means: 'Act deaf if you like, but go too far and you may
forfeit your life'?" "Eh?" "'Act deaf if
you like'" "I don't know when you ask me out of the
blue. I suppose it means just what it says." "But--"
"But if that's what it says, it's probably just what it
means." "Well, just what does it mean?" "I
don't know. I'm not much of an academic." Saying so yet
wondering whatever she might have in mind, he awaited her next
words, but Fuyuko held her tongue, so Sanji put away the film
and lightly called, "Fuyuko." Silence. Fuyuko sat motionless
in the rattan chair without so much as a glance in his direction.
"Fuyuko--hey, what's the matter?" Sanji rose and clapped
a hand over her shoulder: "What is wrong?" Fuyuko thrust
her fingers into her ears and pouted, but her eyes kept smiling.
They were astonishingly beautiful eyes. "Oh, I see, Fuyuko:
you've grown deaf, haven't you?" Sanji wrapped his arms
around her neck, stroked her hair, and gently kissed her pouting
lips. Nothing else of significance happened that day.
Occasionally thereafter, especially when
she was in a good mood, Fuyuko mimicked various disabilities.
Sometimes she grew mute, sometimes blind. Sanji never failed
to play happily opposite her. One evening he returned home to
find Fuyuko limping. Thinking she had really hurt herself, Sanji
nearly rushed out to call the doctor. In the end, however, he
merely had to play the part of a miracle worker for her to recover.
One morning Sanji discovered Fuyuko lying rigidly in bed, holding
her breath. "Fuyuko is dead." "Fuyuko is foolish."
"I am thinking of acting out a suicide." "And
what if you really die?" " No sense in that. To really
die would be quite stupid. Pistols and poisons are not for me.
By the time you think it's all over, it really is all over, and
to have something really happen is no fun at all. By contrast,
what is poised between real and unreal I can quickly will a stop
to when it starts to veer toward the real"
"Had I at such times sensed anything
morbid, troubled, or ominous about Fuyuko, I could never have
been so careless. But Fuyuko at such times was very beautiful,
lovable, and brimming with health. True, when she first came
to live with me she seemed to be suffering from a slight respiratory
weakness, but lately she showed no sign of anything abnormal.
With her body perfectly fit, I felt at ease. No matter how outlandish
her behavior, my mind was quite at rest. Last night too the house
was completely tidied up, not a hint of disorder; Fuyuko, dressed
and carefully made up like an actress, lay with eyes peacefully
closed, very beautiful and lovable. I could not believe she was
dead. I don't think she herself believes it."
The assembly silently waited for Sanji
to go on. But saying nothing more, Sanji quietly slipped away
from the casket into a corner, placed his hands on his knees,
and closed his mouth so firmly it might be wondered who had been
speaking up till now. Others in attendance seemed eager to say
something next, but apparently puzzled over how to put it, kept
their silence.
"Well," one of the present
ventured by and by. "That such a thing should come to pass.
I don't quite understand it. Whatever moved her to implant into
life's magnitude the tiny shell of a separate life of make-believe?"
As if by prearranged signal, all began
to take turns expressing their thoughts on the subject.
"I'm convinced she was unable to
live unless certain conditions were met. It was her wish to warm
herself in a chair of otherworldly shadows, built for her body
only. She clung to this wish despite having been presented with
a chair of abundantly warm reality. What extravagance of taste!
And yet, if her personality was so constituted to make such taste
inevitable, there is nothing an outsider can say. I doubt it
would even be slanderous to say she was totally divorced from
life."
"Love of danger is what it is, or
rather love of playing with danger. Real life being free of danger,
she came to look for it in reckless pretense. Loving recklessness
too much, she finally grew oblivious of the danger."
"Not only did she create the circumstances
in which to live, she strove to be free of their control and
instead to tamper with them at will. If by chance the circumstances
proved too powerful, she was bound to lose. She might think of
it only as a setback. But there was no margin for error. One
bad move ended the game."
"At first, Fuyuko was merely playing.
She drew a silhouette of danger which she erased whenever she
wished to be rid of it. It depended on her mood. But little by
little, the silhouette came to life, starting to show a reluctance
to withdraw simply because she wanted it to. She had to exert
energy to put a stop to the game. It was a question of will.
In the end, the will committed a truly unfortunate error, bringing
her to an irrevocable pass. It is like the case of a healthy
man who proclaims he would bravely kill himself should he ever
become paralyzed. But by the time he is paralyzed, the will to
kill himself has faded away. When it occurred to Fuyuko to turn
off the gas, the gas had already taken effect. Or rather, because
the gas had taken effect, the mental brake urging her to turn
it off had stopped working. That instant she crossed life's boundary.
Neglecting to take into account her old respiratory weakness
may have helped seal her fate."
"Placed into a certain situation,
individual will and emotions may be rendered powerless. Even
if those affected should desire to break free, they might well
find themselves unable to. A popular song sweeping through the
streets is a case in point. Within the swirl of its popularity,
everyone is strung together. Take the one which is all the rage
these days, that Song of Mars--"
No sooner were the words "Song of
Mars" flung out, than the assembly exploded. A dozen or
more pairs of eyes grew bloodshot, spit flew about, voices crashed
against each other as all burst into talk at once, heedless of
each other.
"Listen, this is an absolute secret:
know how many nails it takes to make a pair of infantryman's
shoes?" "In the large, it was a loss for the nation.
Just imagine if Caruso had been lost in Ethiopia." "When
you're fired off by a catapult, your back gets tightly glued
to the wall behind you, but the moment you take off with a bang,
it feels like your brains and guts are stuck to the wall, and
only the outside of your body flies forward. No, I've never been
on it myself, I got a cousin in the navy." "Answer
right away: how many times do five sen go into fifty billion
yen?" " I wish I knew why the firm won't send me to
look into that stone Buddha." "There's no map, you
see--no good map. So the strategy can't be mapped out."
"The concept of safeguarding the culture--"
Just then an indescribable shriek rent
the air, coming from a corner. As it froze the pit of everyone's
stomach, the surging tumult deflated with a hiss to be blankly
swallowed up by the straw mats. Four or five seconds elapsed
before it grew clear the shriek had emanated from Sanji.
"Aah," with a groan, Sanji
toppled forward. "It was all my fault." Whisking away
the consternated, incredulous voices fluttering down onto his
head, he abruptly sat up and returned to the correct posture:
"My love was lacking." "Eh?" "Listening
to you talk just now, frankly I began to detest you. You are
simply getting a thrill out of Fuyuko's death and its cause.
To you, Fuyuko's death and my pain are nothing but topics for
a lively conversation. And yet, I too I too used to get a thrill
from poor Fuyuko's playacting. If one's life were perfectly fulfilling,
who would ever pretend to be deaf? There had to be a gap somewhere
in our marriage, one I could not fill, and whose existence I
never even noticed. Ah, poor Fuyuko My love was lacking."
A sparkling tear coursed quietly down
his pallid cheek. Yet his features remained composed, and his
posture erect. No one having seen this Sanji before, the assembly
grew spellbound, less by his words than by his despondent tone
and bearing, until everyone's breathing solidified like wax and
the slightest murmur was stamped out. "Ah"--a sharp,
low sigh cleaved the air. Obiko slid over from her seat and sank
against Sanji's shoulder. "You mustn't say that, Sanji.
Such words are not to be spoken. When you say such words aloud,
they break. Take better care of them. Obiko is hurting so much
Ah, my poor sister." Drawing away from Sanji who remained
fixedly facing front, Obiko collapsed before the casket. The
offering of flowers faintly trembled, dropping two or three chrysanthemum
petals onto the scriptures stand. "Please be quiet, Obiko,"
a voice said. "Hush up." Obiko spun in the direction
of the voice, and spat out fiercely, "What right have you
to say anything? Go on and enjoy yourselves talking about the
Song of Mars. Don't bother giving a thought to what it means.
If it's a song you like so much, sing it in earnest! Come on,
all of you, let's hear a chorus of the Song of Mars--"
All this time I was leaning inertly against
a pillar, not uttering a word. The commotion grazed my ears and
dissolved. I was pursuing through midair the image of Fuyuko's
face seen for the last time a moment ago: a carefully made up,
beautiful face, just as Sanji had described it. Especially the
crimson of her lips, bathed with an eerie glow
A door slid softly open at the opposite
end of the room, and someone thrust his face in, summoning Sanji
with his eyes. The face wore a very grave expression. Silently
rising, Sanji lowered his head and soundlessly stepped out. His
exit left the others dumbfounded, hardly aware why they were
gathered.
Reappearing promptly, Sanji paused at
the threshold. He stood tall, attired in a crested kimono of
fine silk, while a small slip of paper, a flimsy red strip of
rough, low-quality paper, quivered between the fingers of his
right hand. It was the fateful slip of paper by which at present
the young men of this country are rounded up without distinction
to be sucked up into the chorus of the Song of Mars and driven
to faraway fields reeking of gunpowder smoke. Drawing all eyes
to itself, this insensate scrap of paper electrified the assembly
on the spot. Sanji's voice sounded most matter-of-fact as he
addressed his tremulous hearers.
"The order has come. I thought it
might, so I was prepared. Now that Fuyuko is gone I have no regrets.
It saddens me I will not be able to hold proper memorial services
but that too cannot be helped. Tomorrow, without delay, we will
cremate and bury her. Of course I have a five-day deferment.
By the morning of the fifth day, I am to report to Utsunomiya.
I hope to have my father come to dispose of this house."
Everyone seemed suddenly to be struggling
to compose some sort of spoken response. But faced with the colorlessness
of Sanji's stolid utterance, everyone clamped his teeth over
his own garish phrases so that for some time no one said anything.
4
Directly after the wake I attended Fuyuko's
funeral conducted quietly at the S_jiji temple in Tsurumi, and
when that was over, leaving Obiko at the house in Kamata to sort
out Fuyuko's belongings, I returned alone to my room back of
Ginza, to be gotten out bed the following morning, namely at
crack of dawn today, by a ringing telephone.
"Sorry to be calling all of a sudden,"
said a voice belonging to one of the relatives present at the
wake, "but you know the inn at Nagaoka, yes, Izu Nagaoka,
it seems to be Sanji's favorite? Sanji went there last night.
Just now I got the word, only that he is in Nagaoka, nothing
else. The problem is, it appears Obiko is with him Yes, they'll
probably come back soon, so maybe there's nothing to it, but
if they hadn't gone there would've been even less to it. Really,
what a time to be enjoying a leisurely holiday. Right on the
heels of that horrendous happening--even if there's nothing to
it, it shocks me, I can tell you. First of all there's the matter
of Utsunomiya Yes, surely not I hope not, but if by some chance
he's not on time, there'll be hell to pay. So what do you think,
if you've got time to spare, would you go see how it stands?
You will? Good. In any case, none of us here can possibly leave
work. I appreciate it. We're all worrying about it, you see."
And so I found myself riding this morning's
outbound train on the T_kaid_ line. Considering it utterly pointless
to speculate in the dark, hence determined to put off any thought
regarding Sanji and Obiko--if thinking about them was warranted--until
after arrival, I for the moment replaced the nuisance of this
coerced journey by the capriciously conceived pleasure of travel.
In fact, I thought it fairly delightful to have the wind whistling
along the train windows sweep away the furrows imprinted into
my brow by the air current of my dimly lit room. Unfortunately,
my self-indulgent plan was swiftly smashed to bits at the Tokyo
station platform. There, swordless men in khaki uniforms with
faces slick as barbers' sprinted busily about among fluttering
little flags, jumbling with throngs of other passengers, the
entire multitude immersed in bursts f applause. The train whistle
blew to cries of "Hurrah!" In the same instant, ah,
once again the Song of Mars
Arise, Mars, and boldly--
From my compartment, too, voices rose
to join the chorus. Total strangers sang in unison, those who
abstained staring awkwardly at the floor. As the train gathered
speed, the song gave way to stray chatter springing up here and
there, sharing a common theme with the wagging of tongues which
threw that wake into disarray. Everywhere the subject seemed
prearranged--it is a wonder they never tire of rehashing it.
Even this train carriage was crammed full of the season ruling
the streets, and no sooner did the wind blowing in through the
windows chance to lighten the air, than it was made dense again
by choruses of the Song of Mars waiting in readiness at each
station platform. About to asphyxiate in my corner seat, I extricated
from my valise two or three books I had brought along. A small,
archaically bound volume slipped out from among them and fell
into my lap. It was a book of comic poetry sandwiched unawares
between the rest. I put back those I had planned to read, and
with a three-gill bottle purchased at Yokohama for a companion,
opened the promising slender volume. Master Groggy was replying
to Master Copperveins in a doggerel patterned after old-style
Chinese verse: "Penned by you at vernal close, / Fifth of
fourth placed in my hands. / Humbly read by truly yours. / What
flourishing elegance" Ah, what flourishing elegance What
an age it was that saw the birth of these redoubtable connoisseurs'
spirits, who concealed their very best, scattered blossoms with
secondary talent, and were able impudently to disport amidst
the worldly dust! The writers' true colors lingered invisibly
among the blossoms. Such remote blossoms by now. What flourishing
elegance More and more, my links with the novel have grown distant.
Another bottle, bought at Atami, rapidly emptied. In the season
prevailing within this carriage, joining voices to the Song of
Mars was decidedly a badge of sanity. Was my own sanity madness,
then? The sunlight streaming in through the windows became suddenly
intense, setting sprays of saliva to sparkle against particles
of dust. The khaki shimmered. Someone's gaiters dropped from
the overhead baggage net. Across from me, a child was unsheathing
his midget military sword. And yet, ah, what flourishing elegance
A touch of lunacy had beyond doubt stolen over me.
The train stopped. With a jolt, I saw
it was Mishima station. I hastily jumped off. From the station
a car swiftly drove me off to Nagaoka.
At the entrance of the inn I guessed
to be the one, I soon learned the news of Sanji and Obiko. They
arrived very late last night, awoke comparatively early this
morning, appeared busy and cheerful, and were already gone, but
asked before leaving that the boathouse at Mito be called, evidently
wishing to hire a boat for a trip to Shizuura. "I would
say they are still at sea. As soon as they disembark they plan
to travel on, so a car will be sent for them to Mito at four.
If you should go to the boathouse and wait, you will surely be
able to meet them." A glance at the watch showed it was
nearly three. I strolled out of the inn, boarded a bus which
runs through the town, and went to Mito.
Directly below the embankment to the
right of the coastal road where I alighted, transparently clear
wavelets sloshed against a narrow beach cut into the rocks, beyond
which a glassy sea glittering in the sunlight stretched away
toward a slender promontory thickly covered with brilliant foliage,
while a pleasure boat exhaling smoke steamed across the tranquil
inlet under the impeccably azure sky. To the left stood a tight
row of houses, and near it a teahouse loftily displaying a sign
painted to say "Steamer Terminal"--presumably the boathouse.
Though a corner of its earth-floored interior contained two or
three glass cases of caramels and cheap sweets along with a rectangular
table and benches, there was no sign of life nor any response
when I called out, but a young matron suddenly emerging from
the rear tersely answered my query saying the boat should be
returning soon, stopped by the entrance to chat with a passerby,
slipped away to the rear once more, brought out an aluminum teapot
and teacup and placing them on the tabletop nimbly vanished again,
this time seemingly for good. As I sat on the bench absently
smoking, I noticed I had been conscious of something for quite
a while, yet irritated by an inability to identify something
extremely simple, I remained perplexed as to what it was. A few
moments passed before I realized the something was autumn. Ah,
the season. Surely the season enveloping me now was not that
of the Song of Mars I rose, took a pair of binoculars from the
valise atop the bench, stepped out to descend the embankment
in front, and stood on the beach.
Fanned by an intermittent breeze, distant
fishing boats reposed in a circle. The sea at my feet fizzed
like mineral water. Ripples were sweeping across it, not in order
to ruffle the surface but rather to make it taut. Happening to
look up at the sky to the north, I was surprised not to have
seen it sooner, so great and tall did it loom, distinctly dominating
the sky's expanse: Fuji. Yet since something in me basically
dislikes the shape of this mountain devoid of anything capable
of challenging the intellect, its vaunted grace and beauty leave
me all the more unimpressed. Mostly to banish it from my field
of vision, I began to gaze at the offing through the binoculars.
The line of fishing boats extended in an arc, a band of naked
men at the gunwale of each vessel pulling hard at the net. What
fish were they intercepting with the eyes of the thick net pending
underwater from the semicircle of boats? A small craft appeared
from beyond the tip of the outlying promontory. It went round
behind the row of fishing boats, then broke free to head this
way. Now I could see it well. Ah--Sanji and Obiko. Its speed
suddenly dropped. They seemed to be letting it drift. At the
prow, holding a mask to the water with his left hand, the boatman
was leaning over it peering into the depth, his right hand manipulating
a pole as if spearing octopus. Sanji and Obiko watched laughing.
Both appeared most healthy and high-spirited. What was there
to worry about? Obiko looked particularly beautiful today. Her
yellow dress well matched the sunlit water Before long, the act
of observing another's flesh and its movements--severing it from
the surroundings without the other's knowledge and peeking only
at a magnified section--struck me as repulsive. It contained
something sinister. I lowered the binoculars. Fuji blocked out
the sky. Back to the binoculars. A close-up of Sanji's face,
Obiko' face Vexed at having no place to look, I pocketed the
binoculars. The boat had begun to move again. It was gradually
drawing closer. Apparently seeing me too, they stood on tiptoe
waving. The prow abruptly rose as the boat accelerated, and the
sound of put-puts spread over the water. The motor was on; the
craft running straight toward me.
"Hello!" Sanji hopped down
onto the beach. "You should have come sooner." "How?
You never told me where you were going." "Oh, right.
Who then--I see. But there's really nothing to worry about."
"I'm not all that worried." "I thought I'd enjoy
myself good and hard these two or three days. I'm craving to
do so many things, it's quite hectic. I should've invited you
along." "You might be freer by yourself." "I
think it would be more frightening by myself. I'd throw myself
into action only to break out in shivers, so I doubt I could
do it alone. I'm glad Obi's come with me." Holding up her
skirt, Obiko ran down a plank lowered from the gunnel. "It's
an out-and-out race. We seem to be chasing each other. Just when
we're out of breath, one or the other thinks of something that'll
make us even more breathless. Obiko suggested we go to the sea.
Before we even reached Shizuura, Sanji was pressing to head for
the mountains." "No, it's Obi who's spurring me on."
"How far do you intend to wing?" "No plan at all.
I think we'll cross Amagi by car next. When it gets late, we'll
stop for the night wherever we are. If only there were some outrageously
luxurious hotel nearby. By tomorrow night I have to be back,
though. Company colleagues are giving me a farewell party. After
that, Utsunomiya. That's when I'll meet the relatives. What do
you think, would you like to come along?" "I'm no athlete.
I'll leave you to Obi." "Obiko can't fathom it either.
Somehow I feel so wonderful. But how he scares me, this Sanji!
Out at sea, he suddenly says he's going for a swim and makes
as if to jump into the chilly water. Once we're in the car, I'm
sure he'll insist on having it drive along the edge of cliffs."
"Danger's no longer dangerous. Whatever I do between here
and Utsunomiya, I think it'll be nothing but safe."
Standing atop the embankment, the teahouse
mistress was looking our way. A Pontiac was already parked in
front of the teahouse. "Have you been to the aquarium?"
asked Sanji, pointing to a small jutting island a short distance
off. "Go take a look later. It doesn't interest me now."
Sanji climbed the embankment first. The Kodak he carried whenever
traveling was absent today. "No photos?" "I just
noticed it myself. I seem to have forgotten all about photos."
Under the brim of his hat, the long eyebrows faintly darkened.
A bag and a folded overcoat were visible through the open door
of the Pontiac. Sanji got in after Obiko. "Well, good-bye
now." "So long. Stay well. And however far you go,
by all means come back." "Thank you." The car
started off. Leaning out of the window, Sanji bowed once more,
while Obiko stretched her arm to wave lightly with a ripple of
her fingertips. The car disappeared around the bend.
A few minutes later I arrived at the
aquarium on the small island Sanji had pointed out. Not in fact
an island, it was a coast-linked lump of land bulging out into
the sea, the submerged portion forming the aquarium, a craggy
tip supporting a lookout platform on which I was presently standing.
As it eternally does, Fuji, like a cut of stuffed silk, stayed
pasted against the already feebly sunlit sky, but I turned my
back on that spectacle and watched the fish swarming in the water
below me. The aquarium with neither roof nor glass tanks spread
under the autumn sky its flawlessly clear surface beneath which
partitions divided fish into species swimming through water endlessly
renewed by tides rolling in from the open sea. As there were
no stagnant pools, so there were no lean fish. Shining of steel,
a school of young tuna intrepidly sliced the water, brushing
the bottom of the big basin a bright indigo. Sightseers called
the keeper to have him toss in feed. The instant the scraps of
mackerel flung high from a bucket struck the water, finned bodies
flashed in a leap, and the mackerel scraps were gone. At the
opposite side of the crawl, hemmed in by sightseers, stood a
man wearing white trousers and an undershirt, his right hand
pressing to his stomach a thick bamboo rod trailing a line from
its point. A heavy-looking spindle-shaped piece of wood attached
to the line's end floated in the water as would a cork. Flipping
up the rod with a ventral intake of breath, he shot out his left
arm and caught the wood come dancing through the air. It was
a dry run of angling for young tuna. Demonstrating the maneuver
several times, the man offered the bamboo rod to the watchers
who all shrank from accepting. Eventually two or three took turns
trying, but their stomachs lacking firmness, the wooden tuna
refused to obey. Spectators were laughing. In the enclosure,
slender fish, like silver streaks--
Vacantly, I kept gazing at all that.
What was so fascinating about it to make me stare at such things?
Certainly the scene contained something seemingly reassuring,
but not a thing that might fill a spiritual gap. The clear air,
the healthy fish bursting with sheer fat, and the dumbstruck
figures in a seascape formed an amiably reconciled symmetry within
which the sightseers lost sight of their own shortsighted selves,
forgot their comical everyday gestures, and for the present appeared
content to remain in a trance. Indeed, come to think of it, there
was something infinitely odd about everyone, be it Sanji, Obiko,
the uniforms on the station platform, the train passengers, or
I myself. The very fact that no one's behavior was particularly
eccentric, bizarre, inscrutable, or anything other than commonplace,
made the strangeness of the resulting tableau all the more strange.
Thrust into the season of the Song of Mars, did people's shadows
slip away from their proper places? The rays of this magic lantern
grew blurred, dim and turbid, distorting the scene. Whatever
was lacking to render the people lucid, distinct, strong and
comely? Here again, as at the teahouse a while ago when casting
about to find autumn, I seemed to be baffled before something
extremely clear, remaining irritably disconcerted until that
something tardily arrived, struck me to the core and forcefully
expanded, whereupon a sense of stupidity at having been brought
to a standstill by what was so obvious caused my face to flush
with shame. Thought, ah, thought A terrific thirst seized me.
With it came the presentiment of an immense thirst raging elsewhere
than in my own parched throat.
I stepped down from the lookout platform.
Facing the fish-filled water stood a two-storied house built
in the traditional style, a portion of the downstairs floored
with boards and lined with tables and chairs, giving it the appearance
of a modest restaurant. Under the eaves, illustrated postcards
and similar souvenirs were on sale. A walkway resembling a jetty
extended to the front of it, leading up to a tank containing
a dolphin. Evidently popular, it attracted quite a crowd. The
dolphin was poking its head above the surface. There was a little
hole covered with a lid in the pate of its smooth, flat head;
this opened from time to time for it to blow off a breath. Whenever
the keeper tossed in feed, it deftly dived into the water and
gobbled it up. It looked like the man were drilling a military
dog. Watching it, I grew revolted. I recalled the time I saw
a military dog supinely baring its spotted belly while waving
its paws in the air: the act exuded empty-headedness and squalor.
Turning back, I entered the restaurant
and asked for a beer. A boisterous group of four or five barged
in, occupied the seats at the opposite end, and launched into
a noisy conversation. Ah, what will they chat about? Here too,
that story again! An antiquated phonograph with a horn attached
rested in a corner. The proprietor was putting on a record. Ah,
what will it be? Here too, that record--"Stop it!"
The shout burst from my throat. It rang malevolent. Suspicious
faces swung my way. The following instant censuring eyes stabbed
through me. The smugness of those backed by authority and force
was bluntly manifest in that censure, chafing my nerves. Draining
the remaining beer, I stalked out and set off for the gate. A
murmur of voices seemed to be giving chase. I suppose someone
was flinging words at my back.
Click here to read Zeljko Cipris's essay
Mocking Militarism: On Ishikawa
Jun's Song of Mars.
Yesterday's
Features
Zoltan
Grossman
The Perils of Occupation: the Easier
the Victory, the Harder the Peace
Uri
Avnery
The Night After
Wayne Madsen
The Telltale Signs of Empire
David Krieger
Before You Become Too Flushed with Victory, Think of Ali Ismaeel
Abbas
Jeremy
Brecher
What Can the World Do Now That Tanks Prowl Baghdad?
Robert
Jensen
The Unseen War
Geoffrey
Neale
Ashcroft's War on the Constitution:
A Patriot Attack on America
Jeffrey
St. Clair
Last Tango in Baghdad
Hammond
Guthrie
Rumors of War
Joseph
Heller
Nately's Old Man
Steve
Perry
War Web Log 4/10
Website
of the Day
The
Third Page
Keep CounterPunch
Alive:
Make
a Tax-Deductible Donation Today Online!
home / subscribe
/ about us / books
/ archives / search
/ links /
|