After the War, Before the War
‘Master Peachling,’ called a pheasant, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to the Land of the Demons,’ said Momotarō,
‘to carry off all their treasures …’
Momotarō, the Peach Boy, a Japanese folk tale
1
The tide was high, the time was now, and with long strides, up the gangway, Ryūnosuke boarded the Chikugo-maru at Mojikō …
‘I have no courage to go to China,’ Kume had declared at the Ueno Seiyoken to their gathered friends, at the farewell party, the big send-off –
The Chikugo-maru began moving, her engines turning, as Ryūnosuke marched out onto the upper deck and sat down in a wicker chair …
‘But Mr Akutagawa here, he has the courage. And he will be resolute and he will be strong. For he is great; he is the best of us!’
On the deck, in his chair, with a cigar in his hand and the wind through his hair, Ryūnosuke stared out across the ocean at the horizon …
‘The Chinese were great in the past,’ Ton Satomi had told him. ‘It is unthinkable that these great people suddenly became so weak now. So when you visit China, don’t look solely at China’s greatness in the past; look for China’s greatness today. Old China exerts itself like an old tree, but new China is striving to come up like young grass, like wild grass …’
‘And forget about the uninformed Japanese guides,’ Jun’ichirō Tanizaki had added. ‘In my experience, the local Chinese are quite gentle, and I never saw any of them behaving badly. Only the soldiers present a threat; in the tumult of the Revolution, there are a great many in the cities, especially in Nanjing. And so find someone reliable and Chinese …’
In his chair, with his cigar, Ryūnosuke watched the white-capped waters off the coast now turn into the waves of the open sea …
How he had envied Tanizaki-sensei all his Chinese adventures; how he had begrudged Haruo Satō his Chinese trip; how he had begged the Osaka Mainichi to let him follow in their footsteps please, beseeching his editor to let him, too, walk on Chinese soil, please; a Japanese man with Chinese dreams, a Japanese child of Chinese books; raised by Saiyūki, schooled by Suikoden. With greedy eyes, in dim light. Nights not sleeping, nights spent reading. At his desk, in the toilet. On a train, in a street. Night after night, day after day. Dreaming and imagining, fierce warrior beauties and brave wild monks. The monstrous tiger of the Jinyang Pass, the battle flag proclaiming: ‘We Act on Heaven’s Behalf’. Battling with this imaginary cast, armed with his wooden sword. From then until now, reading, still reading; over and over, laughing and crying. Over and over, changing him, transforming him. Those Chinese books, his Chinese dreams. Then and still now, changing him, transforming him, then a toy sword, now a trembling pen: his own words, his own stories, inspired by China, in love with China –
His first inspiration, his first true love …
‘Please just be sure to take good care of yourself,’ his wife had said, had pleaded at the station, on the platform, through the steam and through her tears. ‘Be careful what you eat, and what you drink. And be sure to rest, and not to worry about us, please …’
Bubbling now, churning now, the waves of the open sea were now hills of grey, smacking the sides of the ship, spraying the chairs on the deck, the hills of grey now mountains of black, drenching his jacket, dousing his cigar, he turned up his collar and sucked on a mint, churning and tossing, his stomach unstable, his head unhinged, his hands in his pockets, his back against the chair, tables tilting, men slipping, his back rigid, his eyes fixed, on the horizon, the rolling horizon, a little boat, a small tugboat, thin wisps of smoke, a trail of bravery, soon swallowed up, now lost at sea, his sea legs lost, his legs at sea, lurching this way, pitching that way, Ryūnosuke admitted defeat and went below, to his berth, on his bunk, the cabin still rolling, his stomach still turning, he glanced at the porthole, out of the porthole, the horizon now falling, the horizon now rising, rolling and turning, he looked away from the porthole, he looked down at his hands, with another roll, with another turn, books fell from the bunk, papers slid from the desk, a bigger roll and a bigger turn, the crash of porcelain dishes from the kitchen, the fall of wicker chairs up on the deck, he got up from his bunk, he clung to the wall, bile in his mouth, bile in the sink, he collapsed back on the bunk, another roll, another turn, he got back up from the bunk, half on his feet, back at the sink, more heaving, more bile, reaching for the wall, struggling to the bunk, with a final roll, with a final turn, all that he had dreamed of, all that he had longed for, falling and rising, the country he had dreamed of, the land he longed for, rolling and turning, falling and rising, mountains into hills, tossing and churning, hills into waves, churning now bubbling …
Out on the fresh deck, back in his damp chair. A crumpled cigarette in his hand, calm waters before his eyes; the sea with no memory, land on the horizon: the country he had dreamed of, this land he had longed for. Ryūnosuke lit the cigarette and Ryūnosuke waved to the land. It was the afternoon of March 30, 1921 –
This is what you want, what you want.
2
Off the sea, up the river. Past the warehouses, the endless warehouses. The piles of lumber, the piles of metal. The docks and the foundries. The cotton mills and the shipyards. On stilts, the billboards. Promising curatives, touting cigarettes. Round the bend, towards the harbour. A line of warships, in grey and white. Cruisers
