Mo Hayder - The Devil of Nanking aka Tokyo

Liu and I still haven’t discussed these doubts, even after what we saw this morning. We still haven’t said the words, ‘Maybe we were wrong.’ When we got out of the house in the late afternoon, when the troops had gone and the streets had been quiet for some time, we didn’t speak. We ran, crouched, bolting from door to door, terrified. I ran faster than I have ever run before, and all the time I was thinking, Civilians, civilians, civilians. They are killing civilians. Everything I have imagined, everything I have promised myself, all that I have forced Shujin to believe, it has all been wrong. The Japanese are not civilized. They are slaughtering civilians. There were no women in that crowd, true, but even that is a poor relief. No women. I repeated the words over and over again as we flew back to our houses: No women.

When I burst through the door, panting and wild-eyed, my clothes covered in sweat, Shujin jumped up in shock, spilling her cup of tea on the table. ‘Oh!’ She had been crying. Her cheeks were stained. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she said, taking a few steps towards me. Then she saw my expression and stopped in her tracks. She put her hand up to my face. ‘Chongming? What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ I closed the door and stood for a while, leaning against it for support, catching my breath.

‘I did. I thought you were dead.’

I shook my head. She looked very pale, very fragile. Her stomach was big but her limbs were thin and breakable. How vulnerable instincts make us, I thought vaguely, looking down openly at the place our son lies. Soon she will be two and there will be twice the fear and twice the danger and twice the pain. Twice the amount to protect.

‘Chongming? What happened?’

I looked up at her, licking my lips.

‘What? For heaven’s sake, tell me, Chongming.’

‘There’s no food,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t find any food.’

‘You ran back here like the wind to give me the news that there’s no food?’

‘I am sorry. I am so sorry.’

‘No,’ she said, coming nearer, her eyes on my face. ‘No, it’s more than that. You’ve seen it. You’ve seen all my premonitions, haven’t you?’

I sat down in my chair with a long exhalation of breath. I am the tiredest man in the world. ‘Please eat the man yue eggs,’ I said wearily. ‘Please. Do it for me. Do it for our moon soul.’

And to my astonishment she listened. As if she sensed my despair. It wasn’t the eggs she ate, nevertheless she did something that came some way towards me. Instead of flying into a superstitious rage, she ate the beans from the pillow that she’d made especially for the baby. She brought it from upstairs, slit it open, emptied the beans into the wok, and cooked them. She offered some to me but I refused, and instead sat and watched her putting the food into her mouth, not a hint of expression on her face.

My stomach aches unbearably: it is like having a living sore, the size of a gourd, under my ribs. This is what it is like to starve, and yet it is only three days that I have been without food. But, and this is surely the worst thing, later, when we were preparing for bed, through the closed shutters the smell came back. That delicious, maddening smell of meat cooking. It drove me to insanity. It sent me on to my feet, ready to rush out into the street, careless of the dangers that lie out there. It was only when I remembered the Japanese officers – when I remembered tanks rumbling down the street, the sound of rifles reloading – that I sank back on to the bed, knowing that I had to find a better way.

Nanking, 20 December 1937

We slept fitfully, in our shoes just as before. A little before dawn we were woken by a series of tremendous screams. It seemed to be coming from only a few streets away and it was distinctly a woman’s voice. I looked across at Shujin. She lay absolutely rigid, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her head resting on the wooden pillow. The screaming continued for about five minutes, getting more desperate and more horrible, until at last it faded to indistinct sobs, and finally silence. Then the noise of a motorcycle on the main street thundered down the alley, shaking the shutters and making the bowl of tea on the bed-stand rock.

Neither Shujin nor I moved as we watched red shadows flicker on the ceiling. There had been a report earlier that the Japanese were burning houses near the Xuanwu lakes – surely those weren’t the flames I could see moving on the ceiling. After a long time Shujin got up from the bed and went to where the kitchen range had died down to ashes. I followed her and watched as, without a word, she crouched, took up a handful of the soot and rubbed it into her face until I couldn’t recognize her. She rubbed it all over her arms and into her hair, even into her ears. Then she went into the other room and came back with a pair of scissors. She sat in the corner of the room, her face expressionless, took a lock of her hair and began to hack at it.

For a long time after the screaming stopped, even when the city was silent again, I couldn’t settle. Here I am at my desk, the window open a chink, not knowing what to do. We could try to escape now, but I am sure it is too late – the city is completely cut off. It is dawn and outside the sun filters through a yellow miasma that hovers above Nanking. Where has that fog come from? It is not smoke from the Xiaguan chimneys mingling with river mist because all the plants there have come to a halt. Shujin would say it is something else: a pall that contains all the deeds of this war. She would say that it is unburied souls and guilt, rising and mingling in the heat above this cursed place, the sky teeming with wandering spirits. She would say that the clouds must have become poisonous, that it is an unspeakable, fatal blow dealt to nature, having so many troubled souls crushed into one earthly location. And who would I be to contradict her? History has shown me that, in spite of what I have long suspected, I am neither brave nor wise.

Suddenly, almost overnight, I wasn’t afraid of Tokyo. There were even things I liked about it. I liked the view from my window, for example, because I could tell hours in advance when there was a typhoon in the east, just from the bruised colour of the sky. The gargoyles on the roof of the club seemed to crouch a little lower and the gas streams, red against the blackening sky, sputtered in the gathering wind, spitting and guttering until someone in the building thought to switch them off.

That year venture capitalists were throwing themselves off the top of the skyscrapers they’d built, but I was oblivious to the depression that was creeping through the country. I was happy there. I liked the way no one on the trains stared at me. I liked the girls sashaying down the street in oversized sunglasses and embroidered bell-bottom jeans, wearing the glittery red eyelashes they got in the shops in Omotesando. I liked the way everyone here was a little bit odd. The nail that sticks up will be hammered down. That was how I’d expected the Japanese to be. One nation, one philosophy. It’s funny how sometimes things turn out so differently from the way you picture them.

I worked on my room. I cleared everything out, all the furniture, the dust and the sheets tacked on the walls. I bought new tatami mats, washed every inch and replaced the dangling lightbulb with a flush, almost invisible fitting. I mixed up pigments and painted a picture of Jason and me on the silk in the far corner of the room. In the picture he was sitting in the garden next to the stone lantern. He was smoking a cigarette and watching someone just out of the frame. Someone moving, maybe, or dancing in the sun. I was standing behind him, gazing up into the trees. I drew myself very tall, with my hair full of reflections and a smile on my face. I was wearing a black satin Suzie Wong dress and I had one knee slightly forward and bent a little.