Under the Sun Page 13

  He listened with a bemused look on his face as a troop of soldiers climbed up the steps of his hut, singing and playing a variety of musical instruments. There were trumpets and flutes, cymbals and drums, violins and tambourines. They stood there on the verandah singing and playing and making an extraordinary cacophony. The captain leapt to his feet and shouted, trying to look angry. But the more Hayama stamped and swore, the more everyone’s mirth increased.

  ‘My birthday is not to be celebrated! I gave strict instructions!’ he bellowed.

  Even though his voice was harsh, you could see the captain was trying to keep a straight face, his mouth suppressing a smile.

  ‘Damn you insolent sons of bitches! Shut up! Shut up I tell you, you bunch of beardless hermaphrodites! I wouldn’t employ you in a brothel!’

  The men ignored him and carried on playing their tuneless dirge. Unnoticed, Ito slipped away and the pilot got up and took Hayama by the arm and led him outside. Together the soldiers serenaded the officers across the compound towards the mess, the captain lamely protesting as they walked. When they arrived there was a great cheer from the rest of the company, who were all waiting for them. The tables had been cleared away and replaced by several rows of benches, which faced a curtained stage. Hayama and Strickland were escorted to an empty place in the middle of the front row. They sat down and the band stopped playing and took up some chairs to one side. There was a hush as the house lights dimmed and the babble of voices subsided. The curtain was raised and the audience sat in silent expectation, waiting for the performance to begin.

  On stage a woman was sitting at a table combing her hair and singing, her voice accompanied by a violin’s mournful note. A light shone through a window revealing a large double bed. As the woman turned and faced the audience, Strickland saw that it was Ito. His face was whitened with chalk, his lips rouged so that he looked as pretty as any geisha, and he began to sing in a lilting falsetto.

  O what am I to do?

  I’m such a lonely girl.

  A poppy in a paddy field.

  All around me are weeds

  Which choke and stifle me.

  O what am I to do

  I’m such a lonely girl!

  As Ito sang Hayama leant across and whispered in Strickland’s ear, giving a brief outline of the play, The Gilded Cage, which was an old favourite in Japan. The story was about a beautiful young woman called Sweet Pea who is married to a wealthy but hopeless drunk and is obliged to take lovers because her husband ignores her. Ito stopped singing and the chorus began.

  Poor little city girl

  As fragrant and pretty as a rose.

  She lives out in the country

  Surrounded by rustics.

  Poor little city girl,

  Married to a drunken bore

  Who spends all his money

  On sake and gambles.

  He doesn’t deserve her.

  Poor little city girl!

  A burly man arrived on stage staggering and carrying a flagon, which he waved about his head. Despite the actor’s beard and make-up, Strickland could see that it was Sergeant Noguchi and the chorus began to sing again.

  Here he comes now!

  Look at him, as drunk as ten men.

  What a hopeless slob!

  Full of grand gestures

  And empty promises.

  Wait till he gets into bed.

  He’ll wilt like a geranium

  You’ll see!

  He’ll wilt like a geranium

  You’ll see!

  The husband began to sing, his ‘basso profundo’ voice rumbling like a storm cloud as it filled the mess hall.

  I am a rather splendid fellow,

  It’s true.

  As lithe and supple as an athlete

  And as fecund as a bull.

  O come to bed my jasmine blossom,

  Your skin’s as pale as moonlight.

  O come to bed my ocean pearl,

  Your eyes shine like the stars!

  Sweet Pea stopped brushing her hair and taking her husband’s hand to great whistles and catcalls from the audience, she drew back the covers and the pair of them got into bed. As soon as the sergeant’s head hit the pillow he gave an enormous belch and began to snore and the chorus burst into song once more.

  He’s a slob, he’s an oaf.

  He’s got a belly full of sake

  And a radish in his trousers!

  O what’s a woman to do?

  O what’s a woman to do?

  The heroine then sat up in bed, sounding forlorn as she sang.

  While the birds make their nests

  And fill them with their young

  My bower is empty and silent.

  Like a petrel tossed on a stormy sea,

  How I long for a proper home!

  And so Sweet Pea was left with no other choice but to take a succession of lovers, hiding them under the bed or getting them to jump out of the window when her husband arrived home drunk and bellowing and demanding satisfaction which he could never give. The audience roared with laughter and cheered as the cuckold began to suspect that something was awry, but of course could never catch the perpetrators. The climax came when the husband failed to come home one night and Sweet Pea discovered that he had been so drunk, he had fallen down a well and drowned. She went through the motions of mourning and wearing widow’s weeds, but in a dramatic finale she stripped them off, returning to the city a free woman. The chorus rose and sang a rousing finish.

  The nightingale has fled

  Her gilded cage

  And taken to the air.

  How sweet the taste

  Of freedom is!

  How sweet the taste

  Of freedom is!

  The curtain fell and when it was raised again, the cast came forward for their bow. Hayama and Strickland stood and applauded, along with the rest of the soldiers who shouted and stamped their feet. The cheers grew as Sergeant Noguchi emerged from the wings to take his turn and rose in a crescendo when Ito appeared. The orderly smiled happily as the soldiers whistled and pounded the floor with their boots. It had been a virtuoso performance and with the applause reverberating around the hall, the rest of the cast pushed him to the front of the stage and began to clap as well. Ito stood there and took another bow as the audience cheered him on. He looked at the two officers who were shouting and clapping as loudly as anyone and smiled shyly and bowed. The orderly had been the star of the show.

  After several encores the cast departed from the stage and the audience began to disperse. Hayama and Strickland left the mess and wandered out into the night air, the sound of applause still ringing in their ears. They walked across the compound without a word, neither man wanting to break the spell. A nightjar called like a voice from the underworld. The officers stopped and listened to the bird’s solitary song. What was it saying? It sounded like a warning. But a warning of what? The nightjar’s chirring grew fainter and fainter, until there was only silence. The two friends walked on, above them cold fires burned in the heavens. The air was pure and still, and a mist rose from the full moon.

  SEVEN

  The submarine slid through the black waters of the harbour like an eel through marshland, the engines making a low humming noise. On its conning tower the letters 1–47 gleamed palely in the moonlight. A bow wave rippled and shone like mercury as the vessel made its way towards the jetty, a trail of phosphorescence floating in its wake. Inside the darkened hull of the vessel Commander Kazuo Shimura was standing knee deep in water, encouraging his men as they continued to work the pumps by hand. The electrics had been destroyed in the attack and the only light inside the vessel came from the open hatch of the conning tower. Inside, it was foul and reeked of diesel and sweat, and Shimura gazed upwards, feeling the night air press against his face. He looked down and saw his men working away as they kept the submarine afloat, many of them stripped naked because of the heat, their bodies covered in grease and engine oil. They were safe now they
had reached the island. But the day before had been very different. At dawn they had attacked an American convoy, torpedoing a merchant ship before the escorting destroyers were alerted and began to hunt them down. They had been depth charged so many times that Shimura had lost count. Each explosion had rocked the vessel until it seemed the hull would crack open like an egg. Somehow they had survived and finally evading the escorts, 1–47 had slipped away.

  A whistle blew and taking the communication pipe, the commander put it to his ear and ordered the engines to be stilled. He replaced the pipe and ascended the conning tower’s iron ladder, joining his second in command who had been acting as the pilot, guiding the submarine through the reef.

  ‘We’re here, sir,’ said the lieutenant, standing to attention and saluting his superior officer as he appeared on the bridge.

  ‘Nice work, Yoshida,’ replied his commander and looking out over the parapet, he watched as his men emerged from the forward hatch and secured the vessel to the pier with steel hawsers. When they had finished Shimura took the communication pipe and ordered the rest of his crew out from the submarine. He replaced the pipe and climbing down the conning tower, the commander joined his company on the quayside. Yoshida followed him and listened as Shimura congratulated his men on their work and explained how their discipline and training had saved their lives. He told the company to go and get some rest, they would begin repairs at dawn.

  The commander turned to his lieutenant and looked at his exhausted, oil-smeared face and smiled.

  ‘That includes you, Yoshida.’

  ‘What about you, sir? You must rest too.’

  ‘I will, but first I must go and see Captain Hayama and tell him what has happened.’

  Yoshida saluted his commander and watched as he turned and strode away down the jetty. The lieutenant waited until he had gone before addressing the submarine’s company again. He repeated Shimura’s orders and telling them to fall out, he leant against a wooden pile and took out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his tunic. The cigarettes were damp and smelt of diesel, but Yoshida managed to light one and as he inhaled all the tension and fear he felt evaporated and his heart was light as he gazed up at the ghost moon.

  Strickland was startled awake by a hand shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Quick! You must get up and leave!’ said a voice in the darkness.

  The pilot opened his eyes and tried to find the voice’s face, but the room was swathed in black and he could see only a dim shape. He knew the voice belonged to Ito, but why had he come to wake him in the middle of the night?

  ‘What is it, Ito? What’s happened?’

  ‘The submarine has returned! You must leave now. Come quickly!’

  The pilot leapt out of bed and putting on his clothes and sandals he followed Ito, slipping out the back of the hut and into the yard. In the distance he could hear the sound of engines throbbing and through the trees he saw the dark outline of the submarine as it made its way across the harbour.

  ‘Here, take this!’ said the orderly, thrusting a canvas bag into the pilot’s hands. ‘It’s some food, enough for three days at least. A week if you’re careful. You must move only at night. Do not come anywhere near the camp.’

  ‘And Hayama?’

  ‘He knows. Quick! You must go!’

  The pilot dashed off into the undergrowth, the lianas and branches swatting his face and arms as he stumbled over the great roots of the banyans that blocked his flight. He found the path that led towards the mountain and continued headlong up the incline, frantic for breath, his lungs heaving as he ran. Before the forest petered out into the plantains and banks of elephant grass, Strickland turned away from the path and forded the stream that flowed down the mountain, his feet slipping upon the moss-strewn rocks as he splashed his way to the other side. He reached the bank and gasping, looked about.

  Up ahead there was a spinny of young trees and he crawled into the middle of the thicket, dragging the bag of food after him. He settled down in the pitch darkness, surrounded by dense scrub and listened as his breath came in shallow, painful rasps. There was nothing, just the faint music of the stream as it fell towards the sea. The pilot could smell the leaves and dry earth beneath him and knew that no rain or sunlight ever penetrated this place. He was safe from prying eyes. Gradually his breath and sense of equilibrium returned and using the bag as a pillow, Strickland lay down to rest. He looked up at the dark and heavy foliage which hung above his head and wondered why the submarine had returned, and thought that perhaps he had been betrayed.

  Yet Ito had told him to flee and said that Hayama knew, so it could not be. Once again the captain had saved the pilot’s life. How could he ever repay his debt? He realised there had to be a reason for the submarine’s return, but whatever it was he must stay hidden for as long as the vessel remained at the island. Strickland lay cocooned in the undergrowth, listening to the forest sounds and the distant song of the stream as it cascaded over the rocks. He felt secure in his hiding place and hoped Hayama would not worry. It was only now that he understood the extraordinary risk the captain had taken in sparing his life. This singular act of compassion had so surprised the pilot that he had never given it any further thought. It would have been so much easier for the captain if he had executed him and yet he had not. He had said himself that he did not know why. It was fate which had decreed it should be so and Hayama the faithful servant had obeyed. But Strickland also knew that one day the gods would demand their dues and he would have to repay his debt.

  The captain sat at his desk chain smoking, bathed in the light of a solitary lamp as he waited for the submarine’s commander to arrive. He had already sent Noguchi down to the harbour to greet Shimura, lest he should think it strange that a man of subordinate rank had not bothered to do so himself. But Hayama had been concerned the Englishman might have been tempted to give himself up out of some erroneous sense of honour and that would have been disastrous for everyone. So, he had stayed behind just in case, until Ito had told him that all was well and the pilot had disappeared into the forest.

  Hayama tried to relax, but the tension he felt within was almost overwhelming. His hand shook as he held his cigarette. He put it to his lips and drew deeply on the filter, exhaling a cloud of smoke which swam in the pool of light before him, slowly dissipating into the night air. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and stubbing out his cigarette, he got to his feet. The captain straightened his uniform and saw two figures ascend the stairs and appear at his doorway.

  The sergeant walked into the room and bowing low at Hayama, he introduced his visitor.

  ‘Commander Shimura-san of the Combined Fleet honours us with his presence, sir.’

  ‘Indeed we are honoured,’ replied Hayama with a bow. ‘You are most welcome.’

  Shimura gave a curt salute and stepping forward, he extended a hand in greeting. Hayama took it and offered his superior the chair opposite his desk and they sat down.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Noguchi standing at the doorway.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the captain and with another bow, the sergeant turned and left.

  For a moment the Japanese officers looked at each other and the contrast could hardly have been more different. Hayama neatly turned out as always, his khaki uniform spotless, his boots well polished. Whereas the submariner was covered in grease and engine oil and had the sour vinegar smell of someone who has not washed in weeks. Shimura’s face was filthy, but below the dirt you could see the stress and exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. Years of patrolling beneath the surface of the sea and attacking and evading enemy shipping had taken their toll. His eyes had a dark and hooded look about them like a crow’s.

  ‘Would you care for some refreshment, commander?’

  ‘Yes … please.’

  The captain called out to his orderly to bring them some tea and as they waited he offered his guest a cigarette, which he declined.

  ‘I’m sorry I forgot.
You don’t smoke. You don’t mind if I do?’

  Shimura shook his head and watched as his host lit yet another Kinshi, his fingers trembling slightly.

  ‘I apologise for my unexpected return, captain, but it was absolutely necessary. I couldn’t inform you because I didn’t want to break radio silence, in case we were still being pursued by the enemy.’

  ‘There’s no need to explain yourself, commander. I quite understand. I’m simply glad that you are safe and well.’

  Shimura nodded and looking up he saw Ito emerge from the kitchen with a tray, which the orderly put down on the desk in front of them. He departed and the captain began to pour them both some tea. On a plate were some sweet rice cakes known as omochi, which he offered to his superior. Shimura took one and together the two men drank their jasmine tea, Hayama’s cigarette smoke trailing through the humid air.

  The captain listened as the commander told him of his successful attack on the American convoy and their fortunate escape, adding that their hull had been badly damaged during the destroyers’ subsequent pursuit and would take several days to repair.

  ‘I’m glad the gods have smiled upon your endeavour and that you will soon be able to continue your glorious work against the enemy. Naturally my men are at your disposal. If there is anything else you require, you only have to ask.’

  Shimura smiled and drained his cup and Hayama dutifully refilled it and offered him another rice cake which he accepted. The captain took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, before picking up his packet and lighting another. He took a deep drag and exhaling, he began filling his own cup. The commander noticed the teapot tremble briefly in his grasp, but put it down to exhaustion. He was tired enough himself.

  The submariner looked at his watch and stifled a yawn with his hand. There were only a couple of hours left until dawn.