And so off Ryūnosuke set again, back around the neighbourhood, buying candles and rice, canned goods and vegetables. But back on the Tsukimi Bridge at twilight, staring back out over Tokyo, Ryūnosuke felt as though he was looking into the blast of a furnace, the sky so very, very red, the fires getting only stronger, not weaker, a never-ending river of people now flooding through Tabata and Nippori, the streets all lined and blocked with chairs and mats, no one sleeping indoors tonight.
That evening, Kurasuke called back in on Ryūnosuke and his family with the reports from his tour, with the news he had heard – Honjo-ku, all burnt; Hongō-ku, all burnt; Shitaya-ku, all burnt; Kōjimachi-ku, the palace and the block south of Hibiya Park safe; the Imperial Hotel and the district south, safe; Koishikawa-ku, the River Edo side, burnt; Kyōbashi-ku, all burnt; Shiba-ku, mostly burnt; Azabu-ku, partly burnt; Ushigome-ku, safe; Yotsuya-ku, mostly safe; Asakusa-ku, all burnt; Nihonbashi-ku, all burnt; Akasaka-ku, the half towards the city centre, burnt; Fukagawa-ku, all burnt; Yokohama and the Shōnan areas all lost, too – and Ryūnosuke feared the houses of his sister and half-brother in Shiba and Honjo must have been completely burnt out, worried how they and their families could possibly have survived. Before moving to Tabata, Ryūnosuke and his family had lived in Honjo. Had we not moved, thought Ryūnosuke, then surely we would all be dead by now. And Ryūnosuke feared for his friends who had stayed on in Kamakura, too, only praying they had somehow, somehow survived.
A little later, Dr Shimojima also called on them, to check on their health, offering them medicine if needed. For luckily his supplies had been saved by his wife. During the quake, she had gone back into their dispensary and held all the cabinets, shelves and drawers of medicines in place, all by herself, so they had had no need to worry about any sudden fires inside. How brave she was, thought Ryūnosuke. He knew he could never have done what she did; surely she was the reincarnation of Shibue Chūsai’s wife!
But the ground continued to shake, their nerves continued to fray, smoke still filling the air, ash falling from the skies on the house and garden, and more visitors continued to call, now to borrow their money, to eat their food, to drink their water, now to share their reports of destruction and fire, their rumours of insurrection and invasion, their accusations of arson and looting, their whispers of rape and murder, their words of death and words of fear.
Finally that evening, the head of the Neighbourhood Association also called on Ryūnosuke and his family; the head of the Neighbourhood Association asked Ryūnosuke if he and his family were all healthy and well, their house habitable and safe; then the head of the Neighbourhood Association told Ryūnosuke that martial law had been proclaimed, that all troops in Tokyo had been mobilised, and that anyone refusing to comply with requisition orders would be subject to three years’ imprisonment or a three-thousand-yen fine. Now the head of the Neighbourhood Association asked Ryūnosuke if he, as a Good Citizen, would join their newly formed local Committee of Vigilance, so he, as a Good Citizen, could help safeguard their neighbourhood during this period of uncertainty and upheaval. Ryūnosuke, as a Good Citizen, nodded. Now the head of the Neighbourhood Association handed Ryūnosuke a helmet. And Ryūnosuke, as a Good Citizen, put it on.
After the head of the Neighbourhood Association had left, Ryūnosuke dashed round to see Kurasuke; he explained his fever had returned and he had a headache, a headache so terrible he could barely stand, so would Kurasuke kindly take his turn on watch for the Committee of Vigilance that night? Kurasuke readily agreed, laying out a small dagger, putting on a wooden sword and looking every inch the Good and Vigilant Citizen.
That night, back home, Ryūnosuke lay on the futon between his wife and two sons. He tried to read the Bible. But he could not concentrate. He tried to read The Communist Manifesto. But, again, he could not concentrate. For under the ground he could feel the earth continue to grind and scream, a gigantic mechanical worm burrowing through caverns and tunnels, pushing the ground up, then pulling it back down in its wake. Ryūnosuke imagined the turning gears and spinning cogwheels deep within the metallic body of the beast. And he could hear again and again those accusations and whispers, of rape and murder, of death and fear. He put his fingers in his ears, he put his fingers in his eyes, and Ryūnosuke waited for the dawn.
*
I am a Good Citizen. But in my opinion, Kan Kikuchi is lacking in this respect.
After martial law was imposed, I was conversing with Kan Kikuchi, a cigarette dangling from my mouth. Though I say conversing, we spoke of nothing but the earthquake. As we were talking, I said that I had heard the cause of the fires was XXXXXXXXX. Upon hearing this, Kikuchi raised his eyebrows and exclaimed, ‘What a lie!’ When put to me this way, I could do nothing but agree, ‘Hmm, so it’s not true.’ But I still said again that it seemed that the XXXX were the fingers of the Bolsheviks. Kikuchi again raised his eyebrows and scolded, ‘It’s not true, you know, what they say.’ Again I said, ‘Oh, so that’s not true either,’ and immediately withdrew my explanation.
Nevertheless, in my opinion, a good citizen believes in the existence of conspiracies between Bolsheviks and XXXX. If, by chance, one could not believe, one should at least put on a show of believing. But that barbaric Kan Kikuchi didn’t even make a show of believing, let alone actually believe. This should be seen as a complete renunciation of the qualifications of being a good citizen. I – the
