vegetables in my pockets. The eggs in my hands –
To eat. To work. To eat. To work
…
There is only this now.
*
I have waited hours to lie again here upon the old tatami mats of her dim and lamp-lit room.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to stare again at her peeling screens with their ivy-leaf designs.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to watch her draw her figures with their fox-faces upon these screens –
I think about her all the time
…
Yuki is the one splash of colour among the dust, her hair held up by a comb. Now Yuki puts down her pencils and stares into the three-panelled vanity mirror and says, ‘Oh, I wish it would rain…
‘Rain but not thunder,’ she says. ‘I hate the thunder…
‘The thunder and the bombs…’
She haunts me
…
‘Rain like it used to rain,’ she whispers. ‘Rain like before. Rain hard like the rain when it fell on the oiled hood of the rickshaw, drumming louder and faster on the hood, the total darkness within the hood heavy with the smell of the oil and of my mother’s hair, of my mother’s make-up and of her clothes, the faces and the voices of the actors we had seen on the stage that day, in those forbidden plays of loyalty and of duty, those plays of chastity and of fidelity, of murder and of suicide, those faces and those voices that would swim up through the darkness of the hood towards me…’
She has haunted me from the day I first met her, in the thunder and the rain, from that day to this day, through the bombs and the fires, from that day to this
…
Yuki is lying naked on the futon.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her head slightly to the right.
Red! Red! Incendiary bomb!
Her right arm outstretched.
Run! Run! Get a mattress and sand!
Her left arm at her side.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her legs parted, raised and bent at the knee.
Black!
Black! Here come the bombs!
My come drying on her stomach and on her ribs.
Cover your ears! Close your eyes!
‘Make it rain again,’ she says –
And then she brings her left hand up to her stomach.
I think about her all the time
. She dips her fingers in my come.
I think about her all the time
. She puts her fingers to her lips.
I think about her all the time
. She licks my come from her fingers and says again, ‘Please make it rain, rain like it rained on the night we first met…’
She haunts me here. She haunts me now
…
I place an egg and two hundred yen on her vanity box and I say, ‘I might not be able to visit you tomorrow.’
Here and now, she haunts me
…
‘I am a woman,’ she whispers. ‘I am made of tears.’
*
The Shinagawa station is in chaos.
Every station
. There are queues but no tickets.
Every train
. I push my way to the front and I show my police notebook at the gate.
Every station
. I shove my way onto a train.
Every train
. I stand, crushed among people and their goods –
Every station. Every train. Every station. Every train
…
This train doesn’t move. It stands and it sweats –
Finally, after thirty minutes, the train starts to move slowly down the track towards Shinjuku station –
Every station. Every train
…
I force my way off the train at Shinjuku. I fight my way along the platform and down one set of stairs and then up another. I have the two eggs in one hand, my notebook out in my other –
‘Police. Police,’ I shout. ‘Police. Police.’
People hide their eyes and people clutch their backpacks. People stand aside as I heave my way onto the Mitaka train. I stand crushed again among more people and more goods –
This is how we live, with our houses lost
…
I jostle my way off the train. I go through the ticket gate at Mitaka. I put the eggs in my jacket pocket. I take off my hat. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I am parched –
Itching and scratching again –
Gari-gari. Gari-gari
…
I follow crooked, impotent telegraph poles down the roadto my usual restaurant, half-way between the
To eat. To work. To eat. To work
…
There is only this now.
*
I have waited hours to lie again here upon the old tatami mats of her dim and lamp-lit room.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to stare again at her peeling screens with their ivy-leaf designs.
I think about her all the time
. I have waited hours to watch her draw her figures with their fox-faces upon these screens –
I think about her all the time
…
Yuki is the one splash of colour among the dust, her hair held up by a comb. Now Yuki puts down her pencils and stares into the three-panelled vanity mirror and says, ‘Oh, I wish it would rain…
‘Rain but not thunder,’ she says. ‘I hate the thunder…
‘The thunder and the bombs…’
She haunts me
…
‘Rain like it used to rain,’ she whispers. ‘Rain like before. Rain hard like the rain when it fell on the oiled hood of the rickshaw, drumming louder and faster on the hood, the total darkness within the hood heavy with the smell of the oil and of my mother’s hair, of my mother’s make-up and of her clothes, the faces and the voices of the actors we had seen on the stage that day, in those forbidden plays of loyalty and of duty, those plays of chastity and of fidelity, of murder and of suicide, those faces and those voices that would swim up through the darkness of the hood towards me…’
She has haunted me from the day I first met her, in the thunder and the rain, from that day to this day, through the bombs and the fires, from that day to this
…
Yuki is lying naked on the futon.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her head slightly to the right.
Red! Red! Incendiary bomb!
Her right arm outstretched.
Run! Run! Get a mattress and sand!
Her left arm at her side.
Air raid! Air raid! Here comes an air raid!
Her legs parted, raised and bent at the knee.
Black!
Black! Here come the bombs!
My come drying on her stomach and on her ribs.
Cover your ears! Close your eyes!
‘Make it rain again,’ she says –
And then she brings her left hand up to her stomach.
I think about her all the time
. She dips her fingers in my come.
I think about her all the time
. She puts her fingers to her lips.
I think about her all the time
. She licks my come from her fingers and says again, ‘Please make it rain, rain like it rained on the night we first met…’
She haunts me here. She haunts me now
…
I place an egg and two hundred yen on her vanity box and I say, ‘I might not be able to visit you tomorrow.’
Here and now, she haunts me
…
‘I am a woman,’ she whispers. ‘I am made of tears.’
*
The Shinagawa station is in chaos.
Every station
. There are queues but no tickets.
Every train
. I push my way to the front and I show my police notebook at the gate.
Every station
. I shove my way onto a train.
Every train
. I stand, crushed among people and their goods –
Every station. Every train. Every station. Every train
…
This train doesn’t move. It stands and it sweats –
Finally, after thirty minutes, the train starts to move slowly down the track towards Shinjuku station –
Every station. Every train
…
I force my way off the train at Shinjuku. I fight my way along the platform and down one set of stairs and then up another. I have the two eggs in one hand, my notebook out in my other –
‘Police. Police,’ I shout. ‘Police. Police.’
People hide their eyes and people clutch their backpacks. People stand aside as I heave my way onto the Mitaka train. I stand crushed again among more people and more goods –
This is how we live, with our houses lost
…
I jostle my way off the train. I go through the ticket gate at Mitaka. I put the eggs in my jacket pocket. I take off my hat. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I am parched –
Itching and scratching again –
Gari-gari. Gari-gari
…
I follow crooked, impotent telegraph poles down the roadto my usual restaurant, half-way between the
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