Steve Cash - The Remembering

I smiled, following him through the turnstile. I thought of Koki still deep inside the shiro in the hills above Nagasaki, probably smoking a cigarette or playing another game of chess, wiping his chin and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. By now, I was sure Koki had completely forgotten Susheela the Ninth and me and what he had done for us. Whether or not the Fleur-du-Mal had allowed it to happen became moot and meaningless. Sailor stopped and waited for an explanation. I walked by Sailor and whispered, “Yes. Yes, I do know a cockroach that speaks,” then added, “he is a good friend of mine … and the best chess player in the world.”

Luck, like beauty to the eye, is truly in the mind of the believer. Consider the tale of the Basque shepherd who one morning left to tend his flock. By midday, while crossing one of the highest and most treacherous passes, a sudden blizzard blinded them for hours. When the storm passed, the shepherd found a lamb stranded on a precarious ledge. As he crept out to save the lamb, he dislodged a hawk’s nest hidden in the cliff. The angry mother hawk flew at the shepherd and plucked out his right eye with one sweep of her talons. The shepherd lost his balance and grabbed for the lamb, dragging them both over the ledge. They dropped nearly twenty feet to another ledge and rolled over as they landed, crushing the shepherd’s left leg and making it useless. He cried out in agony, but miraculously crawled off the ledge with the lamb. Using his walking stick for a crutch, he was able to gather the rest of his flock and make his way out of the pass and down to the meadow near his home. He later lost his leg and wore an eye patch for the rest of his life. Whenever asked to recount that horrific day, the shepherd would always smile and gladly tell his tale, ending with the words, “It was the luckiest day of my life.” Then with a quick wink of his one good eye, “After all, my friend … it could have been night.”

The train was crowded and chaotic. Sailor led the way, followed by Susheela the Ninth, then me. We slipped through and around each person like sleight-of-hand magicians, barely touching anyone or even being seen until we’d already passed. Sailor and Susheela the Ninth were ancient masters of the trick, and I was getting better. Inside the train the air was stifling, even though every window was wide open. We squeezed into a narrow seat at the rear of our compartment, along with an old woman carrying a pumpkin in her lap. The pumpkin was wrapped in a ragged blanket, and she had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. She saw the face and hands of Susheela the Ninth and asked Sailor in Japanese if the great bomb had turned the girl’s skin black. Sailor waited a moment, then told her, yes, it was true, the bomb had done it. The answer satisfied the old woman and seemed to confirm something in her mind. She glanced once more at Susheela the Ninth, then looked away from us for the rest of the time she was on the train.

I turned to Sailor. He anticipated my question and answered before I said a word. He spoke in English, but low so only I could hear. “Luck,” he whispered. “In a word, Zianno, it was simply luck that I survived. I was in the right place at the right time, while Sak was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The circumstances could have easily been reversed. But now is not the right time or place to tell you everything. Later, Zianno, later.”

Our train headed north and east, changing routes and making several detours. Just minutes before noon, we made yet another unscheduled stop in a small station near Kurashiki. As the train came to a halt, Sailor and I leaned our heads out the window. The station was filled with people, but they weren’t waiting for the train. Every single person on the platform or inside the station was gathered around the loudspeakers. Many had their heads bowed in reverence. Then the Japanese national anthem, “Kimi Ga Yo,” began playing through the loudspeakers. When it came to a close, an announcer said the next speaker would be the Emperor of Japan. Sailor turned his head and gave me a quick look of disbelief. We both knew this had never happened before. The voice was thin and high-pitched. “To our good and loyal subjects,” the Emperor began. “After pondering deeply the general trends of the world, and the actual conditions in our Empire today, we have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure.” At the end of the speech, it became evident Japan had surrendered unconditionally. In twenty-six hundred years, Japan had never surrendered to anyone or any country. No one in the crowd or on the train shouted or cried out with joy. Many were confused from the courtly language, some were praying, but most were sad and in tears, including the old woman next to us. She stared down at her pumpkin and held it even tighter. I only had one thought — World War II was over.

Sailor looked at me, whispering between his teeth, “We must leave these islands!”

I whispered back, “What about the Fleur-du-Mal? In case you didn’t know, he’s still alive and well.”

“The Fleur-du-Mal is no longer relevant,” Sailor said, exchanging subtle glances with Susheela the Ninth. He had not yet addressed her by name and she had barely spoken. “We have everything we want from him,” Sailor added. “The Fleur-du-Mal has become obsolete, Zianno.”

I didn’t respond, but I didn’t agree. The Fleur-du-Mal had lied to me about Susheela the Ninth and her existence. He could have also been lying about everything else, including the “futility of vendettas.” And though the Fleur-du-Mal may or may not be relevant, I knew he would never be obsolete. In a few minutes our train began to pull slowly out of the small station and continue on to Osaka. I watched the fields and tiny farms pass in silence. The Japanese countryside was beautiful. It was the middle of August and the grasses and trees were deep green. I let my mind drift away from war and the Fleur-du-Mal and thought about St. Louis and Forest Park … and Opari.

Once we were off the train and walking the streets of Osaka, it became much easier to go unnoticed. The great city had been devastated in several areas from heavy incendiary bombing, and after the Emperor’s speech many people seemed almost in a state of shock. We did see a few patrols and truckloads of drunken soldiers driving wildly through downtown, crashing liquor bottles in the street and screaming that the war would go on. Most people simply watched them, unmoved and unaffected. Finally, just after dark, we found the address Sailor had been seeking. The house was on the south side of the Dotonbori Canal in the Minami section. Sailor said we were looking for a man named Katsuo Gidayu, the last in a long line of masters in the art of Bunraku, or traditional puppet theater.

“Do you know this man?” I asked.

“No,” Sailor replied.

“I don’t understand. Then why are we here?”

“Do you remember the dinner we had many years ago in St. Louis, Zianno, when Solomon and I recalled our first meeting in Macao?”

“Yes, of course. Solomon said you were ‘too easily found.’ ”

“Well, what can I say? He may have been right. The point is, I told you I was waiting for someone.”

“I assumed it was Solomon.”

“It was not Solomon for whom I was waiting. I was waiting for Takeda Gidayu, Katsuo’s father. The Gidayu family has, how shall I say, assisted the Meq on several occasions throughout the last three centuries. Takeda and Geaxi were especially good friends.” Sailor paused, removing his odd straw hat and surveying the crowded street. “I am hoping he told his son about us. If so, we can be assured he will help us.”