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petronia(http://www.livejournal.com/users/petronia/tag/31days)
Irobe-san as Sasaki-sensei, circulatory disease expert, circa 1955. One of the most gratuitously depressing pieces I've ever written, I think, albeit appropriate in a way to the anniversary (Hiroshima isn't mentioned but this is under the influence of Fio's post-war narratives text which I read in an evening and very much liked - then again I claimed that one partly because I knew in the back of my mind that I was going to be writing this ^^;).
There is something to be said for working with a set of characters who are functionally immortal.
***
Her name was Noriko. Twelve years old, knobby elbows and knees in a school uniform a size too loose for her form, her heart shaped face framed by tight braids. She sat, obedient, before Irobe's desk. Her hands were clasped primly in her lap, but the surreptitious manner in which she tapped her shoes against the legs of the chair spoke of impatience with the proceedings. The yellow plastic beads in her hair elastics clattered when she shook her head.
"Am I all right, Sensei?"
"You'll be just fine," he told her. "Call your father in, young miss, I have to speak with him."
She dashed to comply. He saw her smile as she slipped through the door.
When the father was seated he told him the news, as gently as he knew how. At first the man only stared at him. Irobe thought he had not understood, but when he began to repeat himself the man shook his head.
"Is there – is there anything that can be done? To cure her?"
"There are treatments," he said. "But at this time medical science—"
The words left a grey aftertaste.
"Her mother died," the man said. He made a distracted, abortive gesture, as if groping for something in front of his chest, before letting his hand drop back into his lap again. "In the bombing. Both our families. Noriko is all I have left."
"I'm deeply sorry," Irobe said. "We will do all we can, of course."
He described the course of palliative treatment. The father listened docilely. With every moment that passed his unmoving form seemed to collapse further inward on itself.
At the door he turned, brittle calm giving way, and sank to his knees in front of Irobe.
"Please, Sensei," he said. " An operation – anything, anything you can think of – money is no object. I will do something. She's suffered so much already. If we have to go to Europe – America –"
He hurried to help the man up. He was trembling and for a long time would not get to his feet.
***
After they left he spent some minutes gazing out the window.
Eventually he saw the two emerge from the building. Even from afar the daughter moved in the manner of an ordinary, happy child, skipping here and there for a little distance before dashing back to take her father's hand. Her face was lifted toward him, but the man strode directly toward the gate, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead. They passed under a row of trees, and were hidden from view.
The trees were still young. There was no trace of the old ones that had stood in their place, little more than a decade ago. To see the city now one would never have guessed at the devastation; even the scars left on the populace were mostly invisible.
Only the ghosts slumbering under the earth had seen their ranks swell.
It had been thus as well after the Meireki fires, early in Ieyasu's reign. He had not been in Edo then (there had not been the endless night operating in the stench of burnt flesh and the groans of the triage line, until the table ran with blood and exhaustion numbed even the faculty of horror - and the dread of uncertainty until Naoe had stumbled into the field hospital an hour after dawn, face pale and drawn under the soot, supporting Kagetora in his arms), but in the ensuing weeks he had witnessed the extent of the destruction. Nothing had been spared: neither temples nor bridges, hovels nor great noble houses. It had seemed no human settlement could ever again occupy the smouldering shell that had once been a mighty city. Yet Edo had risen again, its streets built wider and more splendid than before over the spirits of the bound, teeming dead.
After all there was little wisdom to be gained in age. Only this knowledge: all wars end. By its nature fire burns to extinction. A decade ago the young strove once again for a glorious death in battle, knowing no other option, but Irobe's first war had been long ago. He knew that as there was a life before madness and conquest, so there would be a life afterward. An ordinary life.
All wars end.
It was a mantra he repeated often to himself, these days.
In the other room the telephone rang. A few seconds later his secretary peered around the door.
"It's Kazahara-san, Sensei," she said. "He's calling long-distance."
She had heard or guessed enough over the years to look concerned. He crossed the floor and took the receiver from her.
"We've discovered the instigator of the incidents in Kyuushuu."
The terrible exhaustion in Naoe's voice preceded the sense of his words.
Irobe closed his eyes briefly.
"I'll come down by train tomorrow morning," he said.
***
Irobe-san as Sasaki-sensei, circulatory disease expert, circa 1955. One of the most gratuitously depressing pieces I've ever written, I think, albeit appropriate in a way to the anniversary (Hiroshima isn't mentioned but this is under the influence of Fio's post-war narratives text which I read in an evening and very much liked - then again I claimed that one partly because I knew in the back of my mind that I was going to be writing this ^^;).
There is something to be said for working with a set of characters who are functionally immortal.
***
Her name was Noriko. Twelve years old, knobby elbows and knees in a school uniform a size too loose for her form, her heart shaped face framed by tight braids. She sat, obedient, before Irobe's desk. Her hands were clasped primly in her lap, but the surreptitious manner in which she tapped her shoes against the legs of the chair spoke of impatience with the proceedings. The yellow plastic beads in her hair elastics clattered when she shook her head.
"Am I all right, Sensei?"
"You'll be just fine," he told her. "Call your father in, young miss, I have to speak with him."
She dashed to comply. He saw her smile as she slipped through the door.
When the father was seated he told him the news, as gently as he knew how. At first the man only stared at him. Irobe thought he had not understood, but when he began to repeat himself the man shook his head.
"Is there – is there anything that can be done? To cure her?"
"There are treatments," he said. "But at this time medical science—"
The words left a grey aftertaste.
"Her mother died," the man said. He made a distracted, abortive gesture, as if groping for something in front of his chest, before letting his hand drop back into his lap again. "In the bombing. Both our families. Noriko is all I have left."
"I'm deeply sorry," Irobe said. "We will do all we can, of course."
He described the course of palliative treatment. The father listened docilely. With every moment that passed his unmoving form seemed to collapse further inward on itself.
At the door he turned, brittle calm giving way, and sank to his knees in front of Irobe.
"Please, Sensei," he said. " An operation – anything, anything you can think of – money is no object. I will do something. She's suffered so much already. If we have to go to Europe – America –"
He hurried to help the man up. He was trembling and for a long time would not get to his feet.
***
After they left he spent some minutes gazing out the window.
Eventually he saw the two emerge from the building. Even from afar the daughter moved in the manner of an ordinary, happy child, skipping here and there for a little distance before dashing back to take her father's hand. Her face was lifted toward him, but the man strode directly toward the gate, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead. They passed under a row of trees, and were hidden from view.
The trees were still young. There was no trace of the old ones that had stood in their place, little more than a decade ago. To see the city now one would never have guessed at the devastation; even the scars left on the populace were mostly invisible.
Only the ghosts slumbering under the earth had seen their ranks swell.
It had been thus as well after the Meireki fires, early in Ieyasu's reign. He had not been in Edo then (there had not been the endless night operating in the stench of burnt flesh and the groans of the triage line, until the table ran with blood and exhaustion numbed even the faculty of horror - and the dread of uncertainty until Naoe had stumbled into the field hospital an hour after dawn, face pale and drawn under the soot, supporting Kagetora in his arms), but in the ensuing weeks he had witnessed the extent of the destruction. Nothing had been spared: neither temples nor bridges, hovels nor great noble houses. It had seemed no human settlement could ever again occupy the smouldering shell that had once been a mighty city. Yet Edo had risen again, its streets built wider and more splendid than before over the spirits of the bound, teeming dead.
After all there was little wisdom to be gained in age. Only this knowledge: all wars end. By its nature fire burns to extinction. A decade ago the young strove once again for a glorious death in battle, knowing no other option, but Irobe's first war had been long ago. He knew that as there was a life before madness and conquest, so there would be a life afterward. An ordinary life.
All wars end.
It was a mantra he repeated often to himself, these days.
In the other room the telephone rang. A few seconds later his secretary peered around the door.
"It's Kazahara-san, Sensei," she said. "He's calling long-distance."
She had heard or guessed enough over the years to look concerned. He crossed the floor and took the receiver from her.
"We've discovered the instigator of the incidents in Kyuushuu."
The terrible exhaustion in Naoe's voice preceded the sense of his words.
Irobe closed his eyes briefly.
"I'll come down by train tomorrow morning," he said.
***
