Ryūnosuke flicked his cigarette out into the night and the water and said, ‘For hope and all young wings are drowned in you …’
‘Awfully sentimental,’ said Jones.
Ryūnosuke nodded. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave you, but not Shanghai.’
‘The rest of China is no better,’ said Jones. ‘You still have too many illusions, you always do. So I’m afraid you’ll be very disappointed.’
‘Then I hope when we meet again it will be in Japan and in happier times, and you’ll be much happier, too.’
Jones was staring up the river at the shadows of the warships. In the night, with their guns. Silent and waiting. Now Jones turned to Ryūnosuke and said, ‘I’m sorry, old friend. But I very much doubt it.’
Ryūnosuke said nothing. There on that quay, here in this night, he was remembering their first meeting. A fire burning brightly in a fireplace, its flames reflecting in the mahogany tables and chairs. They had talked all night, of literature and of Ireland, until Ryūnosuke had been overcome with drowsiness. It had not been so very long ago, not even ten years, but it felt like a memory from another life, another world. The flames of that fire no longer seemed comforting and warm, but threatening and portentous, filling Ryūnosuke with a vague feeling of anxiety and dread.
On the quay, in the night, Ryūnosuke shivered in the damp air and said, ‘Do you still detest George Bernard Shaw?’
‘More than ever,’ laughed Jones.
‘And the words of Christ?’
‘Awfully sentimental.’
Ryūnosuke stared into the water again, the dog and its wreath not moving now, just floating. The face of Jesus on the water. There were tears in his eyes, on his cheeks and now his collar, as he said, ‘It’s surely better to believe in at least the possibility of forgiveness, and of redemption …’
‘You should return your ticket,’ said Jones. ‘The East and the West cannot be reconciled. They will tear you apart, Ryūnosuke.’
And now, suddenly, Jones sneezed again.
9
After the goodbyes, in the night. Ryūnosuke walked out onto the deck of the Hōyō-maru and lit a cigarette. On the pier, no souls abroad. Lights shone downstream, along the Bund. All a forged facade, all a grotesque parody. And in the night, out on the deck, Ryūnosuke closed his eyes …
Long, long ago, there was a giant peach tree, its roots in the underworld, its branches above the clouds. One fine morning, Yatagarasu, a mythical crow, landed upon one of the branches of the tree. Yatagarasu pecked off one of the fruits of the tree. The fruit fell through the clouds into a stream far down below. A childless old woman saw the peach in the stream. Inside the peach was a boy. The old woman took the boy home. And the old woman and her husband called this boy Momotarō.
Now Momotarō had the idea to conquer the Demon Island, because he hated working in the fields, the mountains and the rivers like the old man and woman who had adopted and raised him. The elderly couple, exhausted by this naughty foundling, prepared a banner, a sword and some dumplings, and off he set. Soon Momotarō was joined by a starving dog, a cowardly monkey and a dignified pheasant on his quest to the Demon Island.
But despite its name, the Demon Island was actually a beautiful natural paradise. And the demons themselves were a placid, pleasure-seeking race. They played harps, sang songs and danced dances. Their grandparents, though, would often tell cautionary tales of the horrible humans across the water: ‘If you are naughty, we’ll send you to the land of the humans. Their men and women tell lies. They are greedy, jealous and vain. They set fires, they steal things, and even kill their friends for pleasure or profit.’
With the banner of the peach in one hand, waving his sun-emblem fan, Momotarō brought terror to the demons, ordering the dog, the monkey and the pheasant: ‘Forward! Forward! Kill the demons, leave none alive!’
The dog killed one young demon with just one bite. The monkey ravaged and then throttled the demon girls. The pheasant pecked countless demon children to death. And soon a forest of corpses littered the Demon Island. And the demon chieftain surrendered to Momotarō –
‘Now in my great mercy’, declared Momotarō, ‘I will spare your life. But in return, you will bring me all your treasure and you will give me all your children as hostages …’
The demon chieftain had no choice but to agree. And in triumph, with his treasure and his hostages, Momotarō returned victorious to Japan. However, Momotarō did not live happily ever after. The demon children grew up to be most ungrateful adults. Endlessly trying to kill Momotarō, ceaselessly trying to escape from Japan, to return back home, back to the Demon Island –
Endlessly, ceaselessly …
Her engines turning, the Hōyō-maru began to move now. Ryūnosuke opened his eyes, threw his cigarette butt into the water and reached back into his pocket. But instead of the yellow box of Egyptians, Ryūnosuke felt something else in his fingers –
‘Roses, red roses …’
The petals already withered, the fragrance already gone, already spent now, but a dream now –
A nightmare …
The sudden crack of shotgun fire, the shrill whistle of a gunboat. Firefly larvae feeding on a paralysed snail. New flesh, fresh meat. Devils turning corners, evil reading maps. A great noise, all around him, grinding and screaming. Through valleys of darkness, through vales of tears –
‘Awfully sentimental …’
In the night, on the deck. Ryūnosuke tossed the wilted red rose into the churning dark waters. Then his fingers in his ears, now his fingers in his eyes, Ryūnosuke cursed Momotarō, Ryūnosuke cursed Yatagarasu. And then he cursed himself. And now Ryūnosuke prayed, his ticket in his hand; Ryūnosuke prayed and he prayed no birds would ever disturb the branches of that tree again. No babies ever be born of peaches
