David Peace - Tokyo Year Zero

My wife bows a third time. My wife says, ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s not much, not with the way prices rise,’ I say. ‘But if I can get away, I’ll try to come back and bring what I can.’

‘Please don’t think about us,’ she says. ‘We will be fine. Please just think about solving the case.’

I want to upend the table. I want to tear apart the children’s clothes. I want to slap her face. I want to beat her body –

I want to make her really, really hate me –

I want to make her really leave me –

This time. This time. This time …

To take the children and go –

‘Don’t try and make me feel sorry for you,’ I tell her and close the doors to the other room. ‘Martyrdom is out of fashion!’

*

Behind the shredded doors, I close my eyes but I cannot sleep –

I think about Yuki all the time, all the time …

I could never sleep because I thought about her –

Because she haunted me even then …

From the day I first met her, even here –

She is lying naked on the futon, her head slightly to the right, her right arm outstretched and her left arm at her side. Her legs are parted, raised and bent at the knee …

I get up from the tatami. She brings her left hand up to her stomach . I go into the other room. She dips her fingers in my come . I search through the kitchen cupboards and drawers. She puts her fingers to her lips . Through all the cupboards and the drawers. She licks my come from her fingers . But there is no Calmotin and no alcohol to be found, not one pill, not one drop –

She haunted me even here …

I gently slide open the doors. I step inside the room in which we sleep. My two children still lain together beneath their net. I lie down beside my wife. Her eyes are closed now. I close mine but I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep –

In the half-light, I can’t forget …

I remember when the bombs began to fall on Mitaka. I remember their evacuation, out to my wife’s sister’s house in Kōfu. I remember the platform on which we parted. I remember the train on which they left. I remember their tears; that they would live and I would die. Then, when the bombs began to fall on Kofu, when her own sister called her cursed, I remember their return to Mitaka. I remember the platform and I remember my tears –

That they would die and I would live –

In the half-light, the walls falling in …

‘But we’re already dead,’ they’d said. ‘We’re already dead.’

Tokyo, 89°, fine

I itch from black-headed lice. I scratch. Gari-gari . I get up from the low table. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I go over to the kitchen sink. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I comb my hair. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . The lice fall out in clumps. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I crush them against the sink. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . The skin lice are harder. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . They are white and so more difficult to hunt. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I turn on the tap. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . The water starts. The water stops. The water starts again –

I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari …

Brown and then clear, clear and then brown again –

I rinse my face. I search for soap to shave –

But there is none to find, again –

I rinse out my mouth and spit –

I am one of the survivors …

I put on my shirt and my trousers, the same shirt and the same trousers I have worn every day for the last four or five years, the same shirt and the same trousers that my wife has tended and mended, stitched and re-stitched, like the socks and the shoes on my feet, the winter jacket on my back and the summer hat on my head –

I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari . I itch and I scratch –

I am one of the lucky ones …

There is one small dish of zōsui on the low table, a porridge of rice and vegetables. I leave it for my wife and my children –

I take out my watch. Chiku-taku . And I wind it up –

It is 4 a.m. My wife and children still asleep –

I still itch and I still scratch. Gari-gari …

I put on and lace up my old army boots in the genkan . I gently open the front door and then close and lock it behind me. I walk down the garden path of our house. I close the gate behind me –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I walk away from my house, away from my family –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I walk down our street towards the station –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

Through the sound of the hammers –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

The dawn of a New Japan –

Ton-ton …

The reconstruction work starts early; the surviving buildings being repaired or demolished, new ones built in their place; the roads being cleared of the rubble and ash, the rubble and ash tipped into the canals, the canals filled up and hidden. But the rivers and roads of Tokyo still stink of piss and shit, of cholera and typhus, of disease and death, death and loss –

Ton-ton .

This is the New Japan; Mitaka station swarming with hundreds, thousands of people waiting for trains in both directions; to travel out into the countryside to sell their possessions off cheap to buy food; to travel into Tokyo to sell food to buy other people’s possessions cheap: endlessly back and forth, forth and back, endlessly buying and selling, selling and buying; the New Japan –

Every station. Every train. Every station …

People in two solid lines along both platforms, swaying as newcomers try to push their way to the front, treading and trampling on the bodies of those who have slept out all night upon the platform, a last huge surge as the first Tokyo-bound train approaches –

Every train. Every station. Every train …

Two empty carriages exclusively reserved for the Victors, one second-class hard-seat carriage for the privileged Losers, and a long string of run-down third-class carriages for the rest of us –

The ones who’ve lost everything …

The third-class windows already broken, the carriages filled to the last inch at 5 a.m., the people on the platform pushing more bundles through the windows to take into Tokyo as others silently fight for a foothold on the steps or on the couplings –

Every station. Every train …

I take out my notebook –

I itch and I itch …

I shout, ‘Police!’

I manage to climb on board the train. I itch but I cannot scratch . I force my way inside one of the carriages. I itch but I cannot scratch . People continue to push from behind me. I itch but I cannot scratch . The train begins to move slowly down the track. I itch but I cannot scratch . My arms are pinned to my sides in the crush. I itch but I cannot scratch . There are people and there is baggage in every possible place. I itch but I cannot scratch . They squat on seat backs and they squat in the luggage racks. I itch but I cannot scratch . I can only move my eyes. I itch but I cannot scratch . The young boy’s head in front of me covered in ringworm. I itch but I cannot scratch . Lice crawl in and out of the hair of the young woman to my left. I itch but I cannot scratch . The scalp of the man to my right smells of sour milk. I itch but I cannot scratch . The train lurches over another set of points. I itch but I cannot scratch . I close my eyes –