STORIES, AFTER EIGHT

WHERE THE NIGHT HIDES ITS SHADOW (Part 4)

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IV

Captain Nakashima stood at the edge of the cliff with his binoculars, looking out over the ocean where it broke against the reef before rolling toward the wide shores of the lagoon. He’d always been one to enjoy an evening walk — the sound of the surf, the salty taste of the sea air — watching the rollers break across the reef. It reminded him of walking with his wife through the parks and gardens of Tokyo.

Watching the waves made him wonder how the Clerk had managed to get the lifeboat over the reef without it smashing to pieces. He didn’t even have oars, he remembered thinking when he spotted both the Clerk, and the boat, washed up on the shore.

How long ago was that now? Two years?

Seeing him on the beach, he remembered doubting if the man was even alive, until he saw him stirring in the waves. The boat lay rocking on its side, while the man looked to be face down in a pool of water. He remembered raising his binoculars and watching him, curious as the man stood up and leaned against the boat’s side. Later, he’d learned the man’s face had been resting on his arm, which had saved him from drowning.

He turned his attention outwards, scanning the vast width of the ocean. In the distance, he was almost certain he could see the supply ship. It was a tiny silhouette against the horizon, looking for all the world like a smudge of soot on a faded page. And somewhere out there, he remembered his father telling him, is where the night hides its shadow. A fairy tale meant for children, he thought now, turning to look back at the air strip. The shadows of the trees stretched across the airfield, and for a moment he wondered if maybe his father’s story was more than just a children’s tale, watching the way the shadows danced across the airfield.

He turned his attention back to the empty sky. There hadn’t been a plane in more than a week, he reminded himself, scanning the distance before turning his attention back to the ocean. He’d seen planes flying overhead, but none of them had landed and a part of him wondered if that was also by design. He felt as if the war had slowly moved away from them; that it was leaving the island behind as a mute reminder of what life used to be.

A reminder for who? he wondered. Us?

There hadn’t been any new orders coming in over the wireless — not for the last ten days — nor had there been incoming orders from the supply ship. It was as if the war had left this part of the world and had moved on. He didn’t know whether it was a good thing, or not. He had sixty men in his command, and while he’d made certain they were always prepared, he wondered now if it hadn’t been a waste of time.

What good are sixty men going to do me?

Sixty-one if I include the Clerk, he told himself.

And what about the comfort girls? They were his responsibility as well. While the powers that be had told him in no uncertain terms that the women would not be leaving the island no matter the war’s outcome, a part of him refused to act on such an order. He was a soldier, he reminded himself, not a murderer.

And what about the English woman?

He knew what was expected of him. If he didn’t do it himself, he’d still have to give the order, and he knew he couldn’t live with such an order. He found himself walking along the game trial. When was the last time he’d seen one of the island’s wild goats? The trail was overgrown, and he wondered if he should send a work patrol out in the morning to widen the path. He stopped to make a note of it in his notepad. It wouldn’t do to have the island’s one major trail overgrown.

What if the Americans came? What if they somehow saw the landing strip on a fly-by and thought it was just what they needed? There had to be a planned route of attack as much as they needed an escape route. They would take the battle into the jungle with them. And what then?

Would he be able to kill the comfort girls then?

The question always came down to the same one. Why?

They know too much, he told himself. That was the thinking as far as he knew. The women would let out such a hew and cry, that the whole world would sit up and take notice. The Emperor would be embarrassed; he’d have to answer questions, to which there were no answers, because Comfort-girls were the best-kept secret of the war.

What do I do about her?

It was a thought that was often in his mind. She’d caught his attention from the moment he first saw her. He never thought he’d ever look at another woman the way he looked at Keiko, but her blonde hair with its curls and long tresses, had somehow captivated him. He’d never seen a woman as beautiful as her. And while Keiko had meant everything to him, her death had caught them all off guard. He’d been especially hard hit, knowing that if they’d lived closer to the city, she would’ve survived.

He paused and looked at the fading sky. It would be dark soon. There were no gradual sunsets in this part of the world, he reminded himself. One moment the sun was up, and when it set, it went down without a second thought; one moment it was daylight, and the next moment it was twilight, and then the night would fall. There were no lights visible on the airfield. Those were only turned on for approaching aircraft.

*

He climbed the six short steps leading up to his office and pushed the door open. The last of the day’s light stretched across the floor, his shadow growing with it, and he paused to watch as the light slowly disappeared. Shadows filled the corners as he walked about the room, closing the outside shutters and casting the room into a Stygian blackness. He reached for the lighter in his pocket and ignited it, holding it to the single candle on the table.

The room gradually came into focus. He sat down beside the little table and picked up the small cup — the chawan — looking at the design and marvelling at the beauty of the cup. It had once belonged to an ancestor and had been passed down through successive generations. He supposed it had to be over two hundred years old, made sometime during the Edo era of the old Tokugawa shogunate. He picked up a cloth and wiped the bowl with delicate, measured twists, turning the bowl in his hand just as his mother had taught him. Three twists to the left, and another three to the right. Next, he picked up the tea pot — the Kama — and poured the water out on the floor, watching it seep through the cracks.

He knew he had to take just as much time putting the tea set away as he had when first setting it up. It would disturb the spirit of his long dead mother if he mishandled the tea service. He reached for the lined box, opened the lid, and carefully put everything back in its rightful place.

He wondered what he’d been thinking, inviting the woman to take part in the chanoyu with him. It was something one did for a loved one. Wives would preform special ceremonials for husbands as they set off for war, or perhaps a business trip that would take him away for weeks at a time. It wasn’t something a man in his position did for ianfu. A man in his position would never allow himself to be seen in the company of such a woman.

And why not?

He wondered. He knew of men in his position who slept with comfort girls on a regular basis. Men who took them to their beds in place of their wives, and just as quickly abandoned them if they were transferred. They never thought twice about them, or what those women’s fate would be after. Why couldn’t he live his life the way they did? Was it the shame of his father’s death that still haunted him? Perhaps it was the thought that if he were discovered, he’d shame his family’s name once more and be forced to kill himself, just as his own father had — except that he doubted if he could go through with such an act.

Did anyone even care anymore? The Shogunate’s end brought his father down with it. His father had been raised to believe in the bushidō, just as Nakashima wanted to believe in it himself. But the times would not allow for it anymore. Years later, his father had died by his own hands, having lived through the shame of the shogunate’s defeat, and his own acceptance of an offered amnesty.

And why is it so important to honour my late father’s life?

There was a slow, insistent whine that soon filled the night.

Emilio burst into the office, his eyes large and frightened. He was trying to catch his breath, and Nakashima supposed he’d run the entire width of the island. He looked at the Captain and then straightened himself, tugging on his tunic and running a hand through his hair.

“There’s a ship.”

“Where?”

“Approaching the island.”

“How long?” Nakashima asked, telling himself not to let the situation get out of hand. There was a lot he had to do. There would have to be messages sent. And the code book would have to be burned.

“I don’t know. An hour?”

Plenty of time, Nakashima told himself.

“Gather the men.”

“You can’t expect them to listen to me. I’m not a soldier,” Emilio said.

Nakashima nodded to himself, and then looked at the Clerk.

“Listen. I want you to get the women away from here.”

“What? Where?”

“You’ve still got the lifeboat; I know you’ve been fixing it.”

“Why do you say that?”
“Am I wrong?” Nakashima said.

“How long do you expect me to stay away?”

“I don’t know. But you have to leave the island.”

“And go where?”

“As far away as you can.”