STORIES, AFTER EIGHT

III

Rebecca Stanhope looked out at the small lagoon where the supply ship lay hove to, the anchor chain glistening in the late afternoon sun. She counted five Daihatsu landing craft approaching the pier. Four of them were loaded with supplies, she knew, the other one had crewmen to help with the off-loading. She watched as the landing crafts bypassed the pier and drove halfway up the beach where the base’s fifty soldiers were waiting to help off-load the supplies. That was when she usually tried to make herself scarce — she’d learned that lesson the hard way. The last thing she wanted was for some dirty, sweaty, sailor thinking he could have a moment of R&R, with her as the intended “recreation.” They all thought the same thing whenever they saw her, even if they never said anything, she knew.

Kaigun Daisa — Captain Nakashima, she reminded herself — believed that the needs of his men were secondary to the needed discipline of the Camp — not that there’d been any planes needing to refuel over the last four months — but when they did, the pilots were usually given access to the Comfort House.

While it seemed that some of the women had given up and surrendered themselves to the soldiers both body and soul, it was something she refused to do. She still remembered what life had been like before the War. It was something the others seemed to have forgotten, she told herself — as if they’d had a choice — but it was the only thing that mattered as far as she was concerned. It was the only thing that kept her going; the only thing that kept her from losing her mind.

Was it because she was English, she wondered? Or was the only reason the men wanted her because she had blonde hair? Maybe it was her blue eyes? Was it as simple as that, her being different — a foreigner — that made them want her more than the others?

Now twenty-five, she’d been a captive for three years — ever since the surrender back in ‘42. During the first six months she’d been held in a compound on Java, along with the wives and children of the other plantation owners. They’d been separated by class, as well as nationality. The natives were either working as servants, house-keepers, and cooks, or else in the fields as labourers. She tried not to think of what may have happened to the children.

She’d failed them, and not just as their Gouvernante, she told herself as she gathered up the Captain’s freshly laundered uniform and undershirts. She held them in her arms, taking care not to wrinkle them, and stood outside on the landing watching the approaching landing craft, and wishing with all her heart they were Brits, or maybe Aussies — even Americans, she told herself.

She tried not to think of those early days. The conditions in the camp were deplorable; the food, scarce. And there was disease. Madame Van Velthuijsen had suffered greatly before she died of scurvy. They took the children away and she never saw them again.

Shortly after that, they came for her.

*

Rebecca climbed the six short steps leading up to the Captain’s bungalow and knocked on the door. It was a soft knock, almost mute she thought to herself, so she knocked again — harder this time, louder. She could hear him call out a moment later and pushed the door open. It was not like him to keep her waiting. She put the laundry on the shelf to her left, not wanting to make eye contact with him, and then turned around to leave.

She was surprised to see him standing beside a small wicker mat with a short legged table, a small tea pot on it, and two cushions in front of it. He stood formally — looking nervous — and hesitated before he bowed. She looked at him, looked at the tea, smiled, and then bowed in return. He stood tall, pointing to the small cushion as he directed her to sit.

He was talking, and though she’d picked up a few words and phrases since arriving, it was difficult to understand him. He pointed to the cushion, motioning for her to sit. She approached, and he smiled, again, motioning for her to sit. She said something he didn’t understand, and she could see a look of frustration cross his face as she sank down to her knees.

It wasn’t the traditional table one used for the Tea ceremony, she noted; she could see that at once. There was no elaborate gold leaf inlay, or enamel finish. It was small, and looked to be home-made, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d made it himself. It seemed like something a man like him might do, she told herself. She sat, head bowed as she waited for him to sit and pour the tea. There was a ritual to it, she knew that much — there was a ritual to everything the Japanese did, she remembered Van Velthuijsen telling her. She thought it was his way of telling her he expected her to service his needs.

As he sat, he spoke, picking up the delicate instruments on the table and cleaning them with elaborate gestures as she waited patiently. She kept her head down, her eyes lowered, as she slowly undid the buttons of her shirt. She could see that he was concentrating on the ritual and suddenly stopped when she opened her shirt and exposed her breasts. She could feel her heart beat picking up as he shook his head, motioning for her to do the buttons up.

She was confused, embarrassed, and felt the blood rushing to her face as there was a hurried knock, and the door suddenly burst open; Emilio fell on the floor, jōttō heisō Hoshikawa standing over him, his voice raised. She didn’t know if the man was in speaking anger or not, as he bowed to Captain Nakashima. She could feel the man’s eyes on her and quickly did the buttons up as she saw the leering grin on the man’s face.

Emilio lay on the floor, holding his ribs where the man had kicked him, gasping for breath as Captain Nakashima stood up, screaming at jōttō Hoshikawa. The man froze, bowed again, and bent down to grab Emilio by the hair and pull him outside where she knew Hoshikawa would beat him mercilessly — she’d seen him doing it to the poor man before — but Captain Nakashima said something and Hoshikawa stopped, bowed once again, and left.

Rebecca got to her feet and ran toward Emilio, helping him to his feet.

“What did you do this time?” she asked, and he looked up at her and smiled.

“Hello, Becky,” he coughed, still holding his ribs.

“You know I don’t like that name,” she scowled.

“I do,” he smiled again.

“Then why use it?”

The Captain spoke, and Emilio turned to look at him, tried to bow, then looked at her. She knitted her brows, waiting as she looked at Captain Nakashima who pointed to the cushion once again. She looked at Emilio and he nodded, once, forcing a smile.

She shook her head, refusing.

“This isn’t what you think it is,” Emilio said gently.

“And what does he think I think it is?” she replied.

“Obviously you think he wants to seduce you.”

“Seduce me? Funny word, that,” she said. “I think of it more as rape.”

“It’s a Japanese Tea Ceremony,” he said, ignoring her comment. “It’s done out of respect. He’s showing you great respect.”

“Respect? For what? Doing his laundry?”

She would have laughed if he wasn’t so pathetic, she thought. Still, she knew that she’d insulted the man and he’d lost face in front of Emilio; he might never forgive her. He could make life harder for her than it was already.

“He’s asking you to forgive him,” Emilio added.

“Forgive him? Ask him for what?” she asked, distracted.

Emilio looked at her and then looked at Captain Nakashima before nodding and speaking again.

She waited for Captain Nakashima to speak again.

“He says, were it not for the War, none of us would be here —”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Please, Rebecca,” Emilio said.

“Does he really think I’m going to forgive him? Or is he talking about the interruption? Does he think because Jōttō came in, I might feel embarrassed? Insulted? Is that it? He’s embarrassed because of his goddamned Samurai pride, isn’t he? That is what he is, isn’t he? A goddamned Samurai? I’m pretty sure that’s what that sword is over there is, isn’t it?” she added, looking at the ceremonial sword on the far wall. “Wouter had one of those displayed on his wall back in Java.”

“It’s called a Katana,” Emilio said, and she saw Captain Nakashima look at the sword on the wall.

“Ask him what he thought I was supposed to think? I am ianfu. That’s the right word, isn’t it? Comfort girl?” she added, and then turned to look at Captain Nakashima who looked away, embarrassed. “But if that’s not why he brought me here,” she said, confused. “Then why am I here?” She realized that he’d lost face in front of her — not because of the interruption — but because she’d refused to join him again, and now he was asking her for forgiveness.

Damn, the man, she thought. Why does he have to confuse everything? Or was it her? He’d never tried to use her as a Comfort Girl before, so why did she think that’s what he wanted from her now? She was a fool.

She listened as Captain Nakashima spoke to Emilio. Then he bowed slowly, deeply, and Emilio replied, bowing in return, before he turned to her, motioning for her to bow as well before backing up and turning for the door.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pausing and looking at him. “Tell him, no, tell me how to tell him to say it.”

“What?”

“I want to apologize. I thought he wanted me here because of what I am, not who I am. Does that make any sense? The last thing I expected was that he wanted to be my friend — that is what this is all about, isn’t it? For some strange reason he wants to be my friend? If not — I mean, if I’m wrong — well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Just tell him I’m sorry, but we can never be friends. Not here,” she added.

“You can’t expect me to tell him that,” Emilio said, looking at Captain Nakashima who was watching him.

“I can, and I do,” she said.

Emilio spoke and she waited, watching him. When Emilio stopped talking, she looked Captain Nakashima and he bowed again, and looking at her he said, in broken English: “Thank you.”

He looked at Emilio, said something else, then turned and went into the little office off to the side.

*

She hesitated on the top step, looking at the soldiers who paused to look at her as they were unloading the last of the supplies. Emilio stopped, and then told her to follow him as they slipped around the side of the building. There was a small jungle trail leading down to the beach. The edge of the jungle skirted along the side of the beach and then surrendered itself to the clean white sands. The supply ship loomed large in the lagoon, while on the horizon, the escort ship — a small destroyer — bobbed listlessly on the waves.

“Why did Jōttō drag you there in the first place?” she asked.

“Because he’s a fool.”

“Are you sure it’s not something else?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Do you think the fact that you speak English and all those other languages, and help the Captain — you’re his clerk, aren’t you? I mean, when you aren’t serving the needs of the house. But do you think it’s something as petty as that?”

“As what?”

“Jealousy.”

“Jōttō Heisō Hoshikawa is a man who has dedicated himself to the Empire. He hates me because I’m a survivor. I’m not a soldier. As far as he’s concerned, I should’ve been shot when I washed up on the beach. And maybe I would’ve if he’d been the one to find me. But he didn’t, did he? Captain Nakashima found me, and realized my worth from the moment he met me.”

“Your worth?” she laughed.

“I help him.”

“He put you in charge of a brothel. You might call it a Comfort House, and call us Comfort Girls because it sounds nice, but it’s still a brothel, and we’re nothing but whores meant to service the needs of every man on this island. Isn’t that what a Tea House is?”

“A Tea House is not a brothel. A Comfort House is not a Tea House. You might call it that, but that’s simply because the other women in the house told you that.”

She sat on the sand, looking out at the lagoon. Birds were floating in the clear sky, screeching as they flew near the supply ship looking for scraps of garbage. She looked up at him, squinting into the sun.

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Kaigun Daisa Nakashima is a lost soul,” he said, looking out at the sea.

“A lost soul?” She looked at him, expecting more.

“He’s writing a memoir,” he said slowly.

“A memoir? Why?”

“He comes from a disgraced family. Samurai, yes, but still, disgraced all the same. His father died when he was a child. It was during the Chinese War, before the turn of the century. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he committed ritual seppuku—”

“What’s that?”

“It means that he killed himself according to the Samurai code of Bushido.”

“How?”

“He disembowelled himself and then had his head lopped off.”

“Christ,” she said. “Really? How the hell do you disembowel yourself?”

“The Japanese are a very cultured people. They believe in rituals, and ancestry. They think of their Emperor as a god, almost. Everything they do is based on face. If you lose face in front of an enemy, it’s best if you kill yourself rather than live with the shame.”

“So that’s his father’s sword on the wall?”

Emilio nodded.

“They have a name for him,” he said after a moment.

“Who does?”

“The soldiers — the sailors — all of them. They call him The Last Samurai. Fitting I suppose, considering.”

“Considering he is?” she smiled.