The Return
by Keiko Kirin

Sakisaka-san,

Thank you for your letter and the supply of pencils. They are most welcome. Please also thank your wife for the belly-warmer. It fits quite well, and was a generous gift.

I am healthy and getting along in my unit, although it is as different from writing scripts as you could imagine. I miss Asakusa. I am homesick. But I know that for the steak sake of the nation, I am doing what I can.

Best wishes,
Tsubaki Hajime

spring 1942

-----

Tsubaki wasn't repatriated until autumn 1946, and from his reception in Morioka, it was clear that his survival had not been expected. An aunt he hadn't seen since childhood greeted him warily, and slowly the family news was parceled out in discrete blocks of misery. His mother had passed away in the summer of 1944; it was easy to forget, during war, that people also died of natural causes. His grandfather hadn't spoken since the Emperor's broadcast. The house was overrun with relatives and acquaintances with nowhere else to go. After three weeks, Tsubaki left Morioka without regrets, supplied by his aunt with a precious ration of vegetables and a suit tailored from family cast-offs whose original owners would never return to claim them.

He had not seen much of Tokyo on his arrival and initial processing. He had been dazed and lost after the long waiting for return and the numbing shock of the war's end. Now he arrived in Tokyo, knowing of, yet not prepared for, the reality.

It was almost unrecognizable. Burned and gutted and laid to waste beyond even the most nightmarish imaging. Rising from the destruction, random and surprising, were the buildings untouched and unburnt. The oasis of the walled Imperial Palace was unchanged. Tsubaki spent a day simply walking and trying to get his bearings in a city he used to know.

By week's end, he realized he was fortunate. He had been fortunate to survive, of course -- through sheer stubbornness and a silent but enduring skepticism about the course his country had charted -- but the months of waiting and the cool reception at home had diminished some sense of this. His fortune now was in having friends who were still alive. Inoue, a Communist poet who'd been jailed in '38, was free now, occupying an uncle's abandoned house and publishing a literary magazine called New Spirit. Tsubaki followed a chain of acquaintances and rumors and tracked Inoue to his home, to be invited to stay indefinitely and simultaneously made an assistant editor.

Tsubaki had not written anything for an audience since 1942, but was reluctant to appear ungrateful to his host and benefactor. Editing, he told himself, would not require writing. Or so he hoped.

For the first few monthly issues, he was spared. Inoue had a steady stream of literary friends to supplement his own bold poetry, full of hope for the workers who would build a new Japan. But inevitably there were artistic squabbles, old rivalries reborn, old disputes retried, and soon friends were breaking off to start their own magazines. Inoue turned to Tsubaki, and Tsubaki turned to face the blank page.

The last blank page he had faced had been small: a military-issue postcard. On it he had carefully written the address first. He had stared at the empty message space for a long time before finding short, inadequate words to thank Sakisaka-san for the parcel which had miraculously arrived nearly intact. That had been years ago, and even now, when Tsubaki thought of that parcel, he could imagine Sakisaka preparing it for sending, adjusting the contents just so, ignoring no detail no matter how small. In the midst of insanity and despair, the parcel had been dropped like a bomb of normalcy and hope. Tsubaki had not found the right words then, and ever since, the ability to find the right words had eluded him.

How could he find the right words now, he wondered. If only he could summarize his confusion in jokes and write comedy again. He yearned for comedy, longed for the satisfaction of a clever pun and the anticipation of perfect timing. But when he stared at the blank page, he could think of no jokes or puns.

After a hesitation, his thoughts flowed forth with the ink. The questions he asked daily as he looked around him; the hopes, dreams, and fears he had never anticipated expressing. Emboldened as his words darkened the paper, he found a few twists of meaning, a precious wordplay or two. He filled pages. Inoue was delighted.

After this outpouring, Tsubaki retreated from writing and returned to an old love he'd rediscovered: sketching. He appropriated Inoue's scrap papers and wandered through the city, sketching the everyday sights of defeat and occupation. Theatrical backdrops in miniature.

He hadn't forgotten about his essay, but it was not in his mind the day Inoue came home and said in his casual, distracted manner, "Oh, Tsubaki-kun. When I was in the office today, a man asked about you. He asked me if you were the Tsubaki Hajime who'd been with the University of Laughs."

Tsubaki looked up from his sketch, drawn on the blank side of an old calendar page. He was too puzzled by the first statement to focus on the second. Office? Inoue worked out of his house.

"What office?"

Inoue waved it off. "The Americans' publication office. I just got the March issue cleared, and your essay…" He paused and shook his head. "Perhaps we can have it for the April number." He pulled a threadbare jacket over his shoulders and sat cross-legged on the floor with a stack of papers he untied. As he leafed through the pages, his other statement floated back to Tsubaki, who felt a curious warmth curl into a tight ball and settle at the top of his spine.

"What man?" he asked cautiously.

Inoue made a noncommital noise, too engrossed in reviewing the pages to reply. Tsubaki watched him, reluctant to ask again, afraid of the answer. After a few moments, Inoue glanced up as if the conversation had never faltered and said, "Don't worry, he was Japanese. I think he works there. I've seen him before. If he knows about the University of Laughs, he must know you from before. That was old Ao-Kan's troupe, wasn't it?"

Tsubaki nodded and gazed away, staring blankly out the window at pale green ginkgo leaves and a dead cherry tree in Inoue's tiny garden. A dark shape moved between the trees -- a man approaching the house -- but just as Tsubaki noticed him, the man was out of sight, and Inoue said, "Say, I didn't do wrong, did I?"

Tsubaki glanced up. "What?"

Inoue furrowed his brow. "I thought, since he knew you from before…"

He trailed off, but the silence was brief, broken by a soft knocking on the outer doorframe. Inoue rose to answer it, and Tsubaki sat motionless, listening to the rapid exchange of greetings. Inoue returned alone, looking confused, and said from the doorway, "That man. He's here. He asked to see you."

The coil of warmth below the nape of Tsubaki's neck pulsed and dispersed. He calmly stared at Inoue before shifting his focus to the man who appeared at Inoue's side. Sakisaka.

Sakisaka clutched a worn old briefcase with both hands and bowed. His eyes darted to Inoue and back and he said nervously, "I'm sorry for intruding…"

Tsubaki stood up and bowed. Inoue looked at Tsubaki questioningly, but given no answers, he tied his jacket, picked up his stack of papers, and murmured, "I have work to do, so please pardon my rudeness for leaving you here."

Sakisaka bowed to Inoue and stood uncertainly in the door. Tsubaki sat down on the floor and slid the cushion he'd been sitting on across the mat towards Sakisaka.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you a chair. Inoue-san doesn't seem to have any."

Sakisaka nodded and after a slight hesitation sat on the cushion, placing his briefcase on the floor between them. He was carefully not looking at Tsubaki, Tsubaki noticed. He was instead inspecting the room, eyes following the bookshelves, reading the spines of books before moving forward to the windows and the chest that Tsubaki used as a desk.

He was older, of course. There were strands of white in his hair, fewer than might be expected, and more lines around his eyes. His face was thinner, which gave him a strangely vulnerable appearance. He wore a dark suit over a neat shirt and tie, but no waistcoat, and the toes of both socks had been darned more than once.

"Sakisaka-san," Tsubaki said, smiling. He hadn't expected this moment, hadn't prepared for it, but now that it was here, he felt a sense of comfort he hadn't known since his repatriation. So much had changed. Japan, the entire world, had changed. But Sakisaka remained.

Sakisaka looked at him now, directly, for the first time. And inspected him, too, as he had the room. Tsubaki couldn't guess what he thought of what he saw. He was older now, too. The University of Laughs had been so long ago.

"Sakisaka-san," he repeated. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah." Sakisaka broke from his inspection to touch his briefcase. Staring down at it, he knit his brow. Tsubaki gave him the time and silence he needed, then Sakisaka unexpectedly smiled.  Looking up at Tsubaki, he said, "It's good that you returned. I had hoped… But there was no way to know for certain. When Inoue-san told me you were living here, I'm afraid I was tempted… Seeing with my own eyes, as it were. I'm sorry for being such a nuisance by coming here."

"No, not at all." Tsubaki couldn't help but smile back. "It's good to see you, too."

Sakisaka was silent for a moment, his smile deepening briefly before he suddenly stood up and in a different tone asked, "Shall we have some beer together? I always told myself that if you came back and I were to meet you again, I'd invite you for a beer. I thought the circumstances might be different -- a victory celebration -- but no matter. It is a victory, in a way, isn't it?"

Tsubaki blinked at him but grinned. "There's no beer in the house just now."

Sakisaka shook his head. "Don't worry about that. I think there's a place around here where we can get some. It'll be my treat."

At Tsubaki's hesitation, Sakisaka motioned for him to come, and Tsubaki rose and followed him to the entryway to put on his shoes. It wasn't until they had left Inoue's garden and were walking down the hill that Tsubaki noticed that Sakisaka had left his briefcase behind.

At the bottom of the hill from Inoue's house was a temple and what had formerly been a small park. Here a black market had sprung up, doing a brisk and lively business. As they passed under a handwritten sign proclaiming, "Liberty Market," Tsubaki gave Sakisaka a sidelong look.

"I'm surprised Sakisaka-san would come here," he observed. They strolled between the steady flow of customers and sellers until they reached a cart turned on its side behind which were stacked several crates.

"What choice is there?" Sakisaka said with a heavy sigh. "It can't be helped."

He passed some bills to a young man in a leather jacket and received two bottles of beer in return. He held one out to Tsubaki, but Tsubaki, eyeing the busy, tawdry market around them, shook his head.

"Let's go back. There are some glasses at the house, and the garden is nice this time of day."

Sakisaka nodded and carried the bottles as they slowly climbed the hill under a late afternoon sun. The cacophony from the market faded as they passed beneath bare trees with new buds, by vacant lots where scraps of houses were left to be pilfered.

"Forgive me for mentioning this," Tsubaki began carefully, slowing as they neared the corner from which the wall of Inoue's garden was visible. "Inoue-san told me he met you in the Americans' publications office."

Sakisaka stopped and nodded once. "It's true. I'm working there." He took a breath and looked up at the sky. The sunlight lit the brown in his hair and turned the white to gold. "It's a job I'm good at, it seems."

He said this without irony, and his face was severe, sunken, weary. Tsubaki watched him for a moment before they resumed their walk at an even slower pace. He waited until they were almost at Inoue's gate before he said gently, "So, you never stopped working as a censor."

Sakisaka regarded him with a keen look but didn't reply. He stopped at the gate and turned around to gaze out over the hill and street behind them. "I did, for a while. My wife got sick and I had to take care of her." He paused. "During war, sometimes you forget that people die of ordinary diseases."

Tsubaki's hand stilled in mid-air before the gate. He lowered his eyes. "I'm very sorry."

He pushed the gate open and held it for Sakisaka, who strode to the house. Tsubaki touched his elbow, saying, "This time of day, it's nicer outside." He led Sakisaka to the back where a partially standing wall was the perfect height for a bench. On the other side of the wall was an overgrown garden behind a house undergoing a slow reconstruction. Tsubaki liked to come here after the builders had quit for the day and look for signs of progress. Or, failing to detect any, he would sketch the wildflowers.

Sakisaka waited, holding the beer bottles. Tsubaki went to retrieve two glasses, meeting Inoue in the kitchen and ignoring his curious frown. Outside, Tsubaki and Sakisaka sat on the wall, and Tsubaki poured Sakisaka's glass. Sakisaka took the bottle and poured a glass for Tsubaki, and with a silent toast they drank.

"This fellow Inoue," Sakisaka said in a low voice. "Is he a good friend of yours?"

"I'm very grateful to him," Tsubaki said, glancing at the house.

"You know he's a Communist? He's admitted as much to me."

Tsubaki smiled at the note of scandal in Sakisaka's voice. "It's not something he keeps a secret, no."

"Yes, well," Sakisaka said, sitting up straight. "The Americans don't like Communists. Just… be careful."

Tsubaki took a drink of beer and refilled Sakisaka's glass. He stared at the house as it sank further into shadow.

"The magazine," he said at last, understanding. "You came because of my essay."

Sakisaka didn't reply until Tsubaki looked at him.

"Not just that, no. I wasn't lying earlier when I said I had to come to see for myself." He glanced away, lowering his head for a moment and sighing deeply. "But yes, it's true about the essay. It can't be published. I thought, under the circumstances, as it was you, I would come tell you myself."

When he looked up, his eyes were bright, soft, serious, and told Tsubaki more truth than his words had.

"The essay… I asked a lot of questions I shouldn't have asked, I suppose," Tsubaki said, turning his glass around in his fingers until Sakisaka gently plucked it away to refill it. "I'm not a Communist. I was never good at politics. I wrote what I thought, that's all."

"I know," Sakisaka said heavily, placing the glass in his hand. "I can't say I disagree with you, but it's not my decision now. If I hadn't read it, someone else would have, and it would have been the same decision."

Tsubaki nodded. "Thank you for coming to tell me." He watched the sun disappear beyond Inoue's house. "In a way, that answers some of the questions I asked."

"I'm sorry," Sakisaka said. He set his empty glass on the wall and reached for the unopened bottle but Tsubaki shook his head. Sakisaka pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Tsubaki.

"They're American."

"No, thank you."

Sakisaka took one and lit it and said, "I know what you're thinking. You're asking yourself if this hypocrite can be the same man who lectured you about the 2600th anniversary of the accession of Emperor Jimmu."

"I'm not thinking that," Tsubaki said quietly, watching him.

Sakisaka exhaled a stream of smoke and stared at the pinkened sky. "The truth is, when the Americans came, and there was word that there were opportunities to rebuild the government, I wanted to be part of that. I wanted to help make Japan the great nation I've always felt her to be. I still had friends in the police bureau; they helped me get a job. Before I knew it, I was doing what I've always done." After a pause, he added bleakly, "It's my talent."

Tsubaki rubbed his thumb up and down his glass. "They're your Ao-Kan." Sakisaka gave him a sidelong look, and Tsubaki continued, "You remember my boss from the University of Laughs? And how I had to include that corny line in my scripts, just to keep him happy? It's the same thing. If your boss is happy, we all feel it. We can all relax, can't we?"

Sakisaka looked at him steadily, his eyes sad, but said, "That's probably true."

They sat in silence while Sakisaka finished his cigarette. By then it was evening, getting cooler, and inside Inoue had lit some lamps.

"I should get going," Sakisaka said, standing up. He picked up the unopened bottle and presented it to Tsubaki. "Please, take this. Share it with your friend, with thanks for letting me visit."

"Thank you for coming, Sakisaka-san." Tsubaki held the bottle in one hand, and with the other shook his hand. Sakisaka gazed at him for a moment, then bowed deeply. Tsubaki escorted him to the gate, they bowed again, then Tsubaki watched his silhouette wander down the hill until the dark and distance made him disappear.

Inside the house, after giving Inoue the bottle of beer, Tsubaki stopped in the doorway to the parlor. Sakisaka's briefcase lay on the floor.

He returned the briefcase the following day, after sharing the room with it all night. He was curious about its contents, but respected that they were not for him to see. Then he fretted about the consequences of Sakisaka showing up at work without it. After a fitful sleep, in the morning he set off with directions to the publications office from Inoue.

It wasn't too difficult to know when he was in the government zone: jeeps, GIs, more signs in English than Japanese. He found the building and was directed to the right office by a tall, gum-chewing American soldier.

It was a small, stuffy, cluttered room with five desks in the center, and twice as many people working. At first, he didn't spot Sakisaka behind a stack of publications, then Sakisaka looked up, noticed Tsubaki with a hint of surprise, and left his desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, his neck-tie loosened over an unbuttoned collar. He looked so different, so changed where yesterday he had not been, that Tsubaki instinctively took a step back.

"Tsubaki-sensei, this is unexpected," Sakisaka greeted him, coming close. In a lower voice he asked, concerned, "What are you doing here?"

Tsubaki held out the briefcase, looking him over. "You left this at the house. I thought you would need it."

Sakisaka stared down at the briefcase. "Oh. Yes." He took a short breath. "Just a moment," he said, going back to his desk. He said something to a co-worker, fetched his jacket from a coat-rack, and guided Tsubaki out of the office.

In the corridor they passed closed office doors, and their footsteps echoed on the polished floor. Sakisaka turned a corner and opened a non-descript door, and they were outside, in a small square of pebbles and weeds surrounded by offices. A wooden bench, an office chair, and a square table had been placed randomly and incongruously in the space.

"The Americans like to have their lunches here," Sakisaka explained as if this were the strangest habit of the occupation forces. "We're allowed to take breaks."

"Sakisaka-san," Tsubaki said, wringing his hands on the briefcase as he glanced up at the office windows. "If I've caused you some trouble by coming here, I'm sorry. I only wanted to return this."

Sakisaka looked at him and his manner softened. He rubbed the back of his neck and with a small, embarrassed smile, said, "There's no need. I meant to leave it with you."

"I don't understand."

Sakisaka winced and glanced away. "During the fire-bombings, my ward was almost entirely destroyed. My house…" He abruptly took a step back and bowed deeply. "Tsubaki-sensei, please forgive me! My house burnt down. I was unable to save anything."

Tsubaki stared at his bowed head, slowly comprehending. Moisture welled in his eyes. "My script… You kept it all that time?"

"Of course," Sakisaka said, still bowed.

"Please, Sakisaka-san." Tsubaki touched his shoulder. "Please. There's nothing to forgive. You lost so much… Everyone lost so much… It was the war."

Sakisaka straightened, his eyes gleaming, also moist. "Thank you for understanding."

Tsubaki blinked rapidly. "I never expected… You took better care of it than I would have."

Sakisaka shook his head, saying nothing. Tsubaki gazed at him, not knowing what to say. Finally he lifted the briefcase. "But this--?"

Sakisaka gave him a pained smile. "I read the script so many times I lost count." He nodded at the briefcase. "I wrote down as much as I could, as much as I remembered. It's not the same, I know. It can never be exactly the same. But I had to try. I couldn't lose… what you gave me."

Tsubaki held the briefcase in both hands and sank down onto the bench. "Sakisaka-san."

It was a long time before he could look up or move. Sakisaka stood there, watching him.

"Thank you," Tsubaki said.

Sakisaka nodded once.

Tsubaki looked into his eyes. After a long moment, he stood up and clutched the briefcase. "I should go now. I've kept you from your work."

Sakisaka opened the door for him. They walked through the corridor to the front entrance, where two American military policemen stood guard outside, uninterested in them.

Tsubaki bowed. "Thank you," he said again.

"It's good that you came back," Sakisaka said, gazing at him steadily.

Tsubaki smiled softly. "I'm beginning to think so."

He turned, and with a secure grip on the briefcase, embarked on a long walk through Tokyo, the city he was coming to know again.

november 2006
many thanks to Dorinda and klia for beta-reading and help
originally written for Caithion in the 2006 Yuletide challenge