"Sakisaka-san, we're reassigning you."

He had waited for this for days; he was resigned to it. The guard had overheard his parting words to Tsubaki: the news would have spread through the Office of Public Security like wild fire--

No, he thought, Tsubaki wouldn't have found "like wild fire" funny. He would have chosen a better phrase, something to convey the meaning while playing with the words.

"Sakisaka-san."

Sakisaka darted his gaze to the edge of his superior's desk and bowed low. "Yes, sir!"

His superior adjusted his thin-rimmed round spectacles and moved a stack of papers from one side of the desk to the other. "The truth is, the demand for comedy plays has sharply declined." His superior rested his gaze on Sakisaka for a moment. "You are to be commended."

Sakisaka bowed.

"Yes," his superior continued. "So many theater troupes have disbanded that we no longer need an entire desk for comedy. With your admirable record over just a few weeks--so few plays approved! Well done!--the Office feels your skills will be better employed elsewhere."

"Yes, sir." Sakisaka stared at the edge of the desk, waiting for the blow. At this point in the play, Tsubaki would have sent in a geisha or a country bumpkin or a stumbling policeman to interrupt the scene. Sah, too random, he thought. It needed a set-up. Why would a geisha just appear like that?

"Films, Sakisaka-san."

Sakisaka looked up. "Films?"

"Moving pictures. The demand is high, and ever since Hashimoto-san was called to the honor of serving in the Imperial Army for the sake of the Great Japanese Empire--"

... for the sake of the nation...

"--the section has been shorthanded."

... for the steak of the nation...

Sakisaka bit his lip, but the laugh escaped as a snort he hoped his superior mistook for an aborted sneeze. He quickly bowed his head and declared fervently, "Yes, sir! This is an honor. Thank you!"

At the end of the day, after completing his review of the small stack of plays on his desk--purely amateur stuff, corny parlor tricks and bad puns, but nothing immoral or unpatriotic for which he could deny approval--he arranged his stamps and stamping pads, red slips and red pencils neatly in the tray. He gathered his hat and cigarettes and overcoat, and picked up his closed, locked briefcase with a special reverence. Inside was Tsubaki's play, in safe-keeping, awaiting Tsubaki's return.

... for the steak of the nation...

-----

After comedy plays, censorship of moving pictures was no challenge for a former Investigator of Anti-Japanese Thought. Too many romances. Why did the writers always want to include kisses? Scandalous! And with each reference in each script, the image of Tsubaki standing with his lips puckered--"Just one little peck on the forehead!"--would float by, brushing against Sakisaka's awareness briefly as he took out his red slip and flagged the kiss.

The real problem with the scripts, he decided one evening as he rode the tram home, was that they were unimaginative. Handsome young patriotic son falls in love. Handsome young patriotic son is called to his duty. Handsome young patriotic son bids farewell to his mother and his sweetheart. As he boards the train wearing his new uniform, he joins all the other handsome patriotic young sons in their new uniforms. The train pulls away triumphantly, and the sweetheart gives a rousing patriotic speech to the mother about the inevitability of victory for the glorious Japanese Empire.

All very noble and correct, of course, but so unoriginal! Did these writers never see other moving pictures? It was a disgrace. What did they think they were playing at? Did they think that Sakisaka wouldn't notice the same scenes, the same speeches?

He clutched his briefcase in a surge of anger and heard the papers within crumple. Tsubaki could have come up with something original. Tsubaki could have toyed with the words. Tsubaki... Had Tsubaki climbed aboard the train in his new uniform looking as clear-eyed and determined as the handsome young sons? Had he waved goodbye to his mother? To his sweetheart?

Sakisaka stared out of the tram window at the passing streets, trying to form an image of Tsubaki's sweetheart. Was she a strong modern girl like the girls in the scripts he read? Or was she more shy and traditional, wearing a modest kimono and keeping her head downturned so Tsubaki wouldn't see her tears? He tried to picture Tsubaki's face as he bade farewell to his sweetheart, but all he could see was Tsubaki's face in the corridor, the last day: standing there and looking too young and too thin and too calmly resigned.

The tram started to pull away from a stop before Sakisaka realized where he was. Jolting up, briefcase clutched to his chest, he hurriedly shouldered through the standing passengers to the door and managed to jump to the street, stumbling a little and earning a cross look of rebuke from the ticket-taker. Sakisaka trudged home from the tram stop, barely aware of the familiar shops and homes around him.

Tsubaki was from Morioka. His mother would not have been at the station to see him off. Perhaps, as Tsubaki was sent north, he was able to see his mother in Morioka before reporting to duty. Perhaps he was stationed near his mother, and could see her on day passes when he had leave. She could make him noodles: steaming noodles in a large bowl. Sakisaka liked this thought. He liked to think that Tsubaki was not alone up north, that he was able to see his mother, who cared for him with bowls of steaming noodles.

After dinner, Sakisaka slid open the veranda doors and sat and watched the sunset sky over the neighborhood roofs while his wife cleared the table. He smoked a cigarette, still warmed by dinner and by the thought of Tsubaki, somewhere up north, enjoying a mother's meal, when it occurred to him that Tsubaki's sweetheart could have seen him off at the train station. A Tokyo girl. A modern girl in a Western dress and shoes with high heels. Maybe she smoked. Maybe she was even an actress.

Sakisaka's good feeling evaporated. He stared hard at a broken roof tile on his neighbor's roof. This was exactly the problem with their country: that broken roof tile, and modern Tokyo girls who smoked and kissed their men goodbye in public. Lax standards. Lax morals. Did this girl spare a thought for Tsubaki? Maybe he wasn't near Morioka at all. Maybe he'd been posted to Hokkaido, a land still almost wild, once overrun by Russians and Ainu. It could be snowing even now. Tsubaki might be freezing. He'd looked so thin that last day. Did his Tokyo sweetheart think about him the way Sakisaka did? Or was she out carousing with actors, going to the moving pictures and laughing at the patriotic speeches those poor girls gave at the end?

That night Sakisaka lay awake long after his wife had fallen asleep. When the quiet was too much for him, he crept out of bed and into the parlor, going to the far corner with his briefcase and a lamp. He released the catches, pausing and glancing around to make sure the sound hadn't woken his wife. He stared at the paper inside for a few moments before slowly and with great care pulling out Tsubaki's play. He passed his fingertips once over the cover, over the lines where Tsubaki had struck out the original title: "Juleo and Romiet." Ah, Tsubaki.

He read the play through the night and into the morning, biting into a cushion to muffle his laughter.

-----

In the scripts, the barbarians were always cowardly, no match for the heroism of the handsome young sons of the Great Japanese Empire.

In the scripts, the patriotic people of Japan never received telegrams of a beloved son's death, never complained about rations, never noticed the small things like how dim the office lamps had gotten, or how often a superior's shoes had been patched.

In the scripts, no one laughed.

It was dull.

Sakisaka spent his days, pencil poised, reduced to scrutinizing for hints of Communism, anti-militarism, and anti-Imperialism. He had once denied approval of a script glorifying Japan's heroism because its ambitious battle scenes would require too many rolls of film stock, a precious commodity. His superior had praised him. The film's director and writer had bowed silently and left without an objection, without a challenge. Such were his days.

When he thought back to his week with Tsubaki, when he remembered debating with Tsubaki about Winston Churchill making sushi, or pressing Tsubaki to admit that those gags written for his "Blue Sky" boss were corny and unfunny-- sah, those days seemed like another life altogether. Like a different script.

A comedy without laughs.

Sakisaka often walked home now, to save some money and to save some of his country's resources. He sometimes detoured through Asakusa, past the old University of Laughs theater, shabbier than ever, which now staged short musical acts that attracted soldiers. He no longer searched the faces of the soldiers: he did not want to see Tsubaki there, in uniform, a witness to how the theater had changed. And, he admitted, he was afraid of what Tsubaki's face would look like now. No smiles. No wily glances. No challenge. No youth.

He had watched Tsubaki work during that week. Hunched over Sakisaka's desk, murmuring words to himself, reacting to what he wrote. Genius in action. A master of imagination. Sakisaka did not like to think of all of that being gone. He harbored a secret wish that somewhere, in a drab Army office much like the interrogation room at the Office of Public Security, Tsubaki was hunched over a desk, writing comedies. That, once the Army saw the true genius before them, and saw that Tsubaki's ideal contribution to the Great Japanese Empire was his own unique talent, they would have put him to work immediately. "Write comedies! For the good of all Imperial citizens, write!"

Sah, his imagination was wilder than Tsubaki's had ever been. Sakisaka stopped at the hole-in-the-wall bar near the bridge, which still did a lively business and was still full of Asakusa gossip, and had a quiet drink amid the bustle of customers. He read the terse newspaper reports of barbarian threats and Japanese victories, recognizing the approved language crafted by his own department, and he tried very hard not to think of Tsubaki being involved in any of it. Tsubaki was timeless: standing in the interrogation room, reading the parts of Kanichi and Omiya and directing Sakisaka in the role of the policeman.

"It's wonderful!" Tsubaki said, his eyes lit with pleasure at Sakisaka's improvised lines.

It had been a different script.

-----

It was a snowy winter's day when the bundle of thin papers, neatly tied with a faded blue ribbon, was left in his tray. Sakisaka glanced at the clock and stretched. The woollen jumper he wore under his suit for warmth made him itch and he rolled his shoulders and back against the chair. He blew once on his fingers, lifted the bundle from the tray, untied the ribbon, and with a passing glance at the title--"Heroic Fight In The Pacific"--he opened to the first page.

Act I

Scene I

Barracks of an Imperial Army station in Hokkaido. Spring. Day.

COLONEL'S office. COLONEL is a man in his late 40s with a serious face and piercing eye.

COLONEL: For the sake of the nation, I go to die! For the sake of the nation, I give my life freely! For the sake of the nation, I make this sacrifice, that the enemies of the Emperor may be crushed!

Sakisaka stared at the words. He read them again, then anxiously flipped through the pages, scanning the lines. The handwriting was not the same, but not dissimilar... Yes, yes: a different kind of pen! Of course the handwriting would not be the same with a different kind of pen.

Sakisaka closed the script and sat back. His heart raced. He glanced around the office to see if anyone had witnessed his excitement. Could they not hear his heart? Did they not notice how breathless he'd become?

His eyes stole to the title page. "Heroic Fight In The Pacific." He stared hard at the words, searching for the hidden pun. None that he could find, but how many times that week had Tsubaki had to explain the word play to him? Yes. He was no comedian, despite Tsubaki's compliments.

Sakisaka drummed his fingers on either side of the script and licked his lips. His eyes darted around the office: the clock, the hat stand, his co-workers. This was not the right place. Tsubaki was before him again (and a pulse of a thrill ran through him at this thought), and he needed the right place to meet him. Sakisaka gathered the script, his pencils and stamps, put them in a tray, and rose without another glance at his co-workers. He strode down the corridor to the interrogation room, ignored the questioning look of the old guard stationed there, and closed the door firmly behind him.

When he was seated at the desk, facing the door, the chair--the very same chair Tsubaki had sat in--facing him, Sakisaka carefully lifted the script from the tray and held it before him. His fingers trembled. He swallowed moisture into his dry mouth. He laid the script down, moving the tray to give it room to unfold, to open before him and breathe out its life. He had the sensation that Tsubaki sat across from him, watching him, awaiting his approval. Already smiling, Sakisaka opened the script to page one.

-----

The room was nearly dark, the day quickly coming to an end. Sakisaka stood, leaning against the wall, puffing on the last centimeter of his cigarette. He gazed in bewilderment at the script on the desk.

He'd only laughed once, at the three repetitions of "for the sake of the nation" on page one, and that had been more from remembering Tsubaki's clever twist on words--for the steak of the nation--than from what was written in this script.

In fact, this script was not a comedy. Not even a comedy without laughs. In fact...

In fact, this script was like every other moving picture script about the glorious war in the Pacific.

He couldn't understand it.

But. But there were signs, yes. This troubled Sakisaka the most. He left the wall and paced back and forth by the desk, shooting interrogative looks at the script.

The first, and most telling, sign was that the script bore no author's name. The scripts always bore the author's name. It was required by law, so that the censors could interrogate the authors and have any objectionable passages removed. "The Tragedy of Juleo and Romiet" had borne the author's name!

However, if Tsubaki had written the script in secret--he was, after all, supposed to be fighting the enemies of the Emperor--he might have omitted his name, trusting Sakisaka to recognize him through his words and trusting Sakisaka to take care of the script. Much as this thought pleased Sakisaka on many counts, he could not quite bring himself to believe it. More likely was that Tsubaki, realizing the script was so unimaginative, so unworthy of his talent, could not bring himself to sign it.

Or: the script had been written by somebody else.

This thought, while preserving Tsubaki's genius, made Sakisaka's stomach hollow. He could not face it yet. There were other signs, yes. Other signs. On page forty-three, a cowardly barbarian hiding in the captain's quarters onboard ship had grasped a cushion in his nervousness. A clear reference to "Blue Sky" and his corny party trick of twirling cushions. On page seventy-seven, one of the heroic young men had eaten a toasted bean cake. Like the ones Tsubaki had brought with him the first day of his interrogation. On page two-hundred and one, a heroic young man and his sweetheart were prevented from kissing by the appearance of the colonel.

And the sweetheart! A modern Tokyo girl in a Western dress. The script never mentioned her smoking, but Sakisaka was sure she would've.

Yes, there were signs. Tsubaki was all over this script in these small ways. And yet...

Where was the genius? Where was the laughter? Where was the brilliant imagination? Even for a patriotic drama, this was tired stuff. Only a country bumpkin who'd never seen a moving picture before could be moved by such trite, artificial emotion. It wasn't worthy of precious Japanese film stock. It wasn't worthy of Tsubaki's talent.

Disappointed and puzzled, Sakisaka discarded his cigarette, retied the script, and gathered his things. He returned to the deserted office, saw the late hour, and got ready to go home. As he picked up his briefcase, Tsubaki's precious script safely stowed inside, he glanced again at "Heroic Fight In The Pacific." That was it!

It was a challenge from Tsubaki: make it funny. Tsubaki had always believed in Sakisaka's comedic abilities, even if Sakisaka doubted them.

"Why, you..." Sakisaka said, smiling. He stuffed the script into his briefcase, next to its sibling, excited again, mind furiously racing through gags and puns.

-----

"Sakisaka-san."

Sakisaka looked up at the boy in front of his desk, a spotty boy who was growing out of his page's uniform. Behind the boy were two men, one grey-haired and formidable-looking, the other about Sakisaka's age, plump, bespectacled, and wearing his hair greased flat against his round head.

"The director and the writer are here."

"Oh?" he said to the men, rising with a polite bow and dismissing the page. "For which moving picture?" He leafed through several scripts in his tray.

"'Heroic Fight In the Pacific'," said the younger man.

Sakisaka stilled. He cast another, slower look at the men, waiting for there to be some mistake. They watched him, the younger man nervous, the older man imperious.

The younger man bowed and presented his card. "Hasegawa," he introduced himself. Sakisaka stared at the card as if it were a knife blade. The older man give a bow within the minimal boundaries of courtesy and said gruffly, "Hiroda. Director and producer."

Sakisaka was aware of the looks from his co-workers. He quickly offered the men chairs and when they were all seated, said with forced calm, "Yes, I believe I remember that one." He rearranged the pencils and stamps on his desk. "How may I help you?"

Hiroda cleared his throat. He sat with his hands folded over the handle of his umbrella and reminded Sakisaka of a theatrical daimyo holding court. Hasegawa pulled a sheaf of thin papers from an envelope and said meekly, "It's about these corrections we received from your office. We had a few questions."

Sakisaka surreptitiously moved his hands to his lap and wiped his palms on his pants. He schooled his face to a look of stern disinterest, a look he'd perfected during his years in Manchuria. He kept his eyes on Hasegawa, the weaker one.

"Yes?"

"We understand you're responsible," interjected Hiroda. He flicked a finger at the top page in Hasegawa's hand. "This is your seal, is it not?"

Sakisaka's gaze darted to the seal and back. "Yes. What were your questions?"

Hiroda gathered himself up, as if he barely knew where to begin, but Hasegawa said quickly, in a placating voice, "It's not that we don't appreciate the hard work your office does, for the sake of the nation--" Sakisaka stared hard at Hasegawa. "--but these changes... They were not what we expected. I mean to say, there were rather a lot of them."

Sakisaka narrowed his eyes. He could not keep from saying harshly, "The script needed a lot of them." Hasegawa winced.

Hiroda interrupted. "What are you trying to do?! Close the studio? Your corrections turn this into a farce! No better than a silly theatrical piece. We can't film that. You fool!"

The anger, the bitterness, the disappointment all welled inside Sakisaka, spurred on by a quiet, hollow devastation uncurling in his stomach, reaching for his heart. He cloaked himself in cold, condescending determination, aware that his closest co-workers were listening and watching him. Sakisaka clasped his hands on top of the desk and addressed Hasegawa.

"What did you think, when you submitted the script to my office unsigned? Were you so ashamed of it that you could not put your name on it?"

Hasegawa looked guilty and chewed on his lip. Hiroda lashed his furious gaze from Sakisaka to Hasegawa and back.

"I'm not surprised," Sakisaka continued. "Calling it a script is being generous. What recourse did I have, under the circumstances? I considered it my duty to bring the script up to acceptable standards. To turn it into something worthy of entertaining the Japanese people!" He hit the desk with his fist and glared at Hasegawa in defiance. Hasegawa bowed his head, ashamed.

Sakisaka sat back and ran a hand over his hair. "Therefore, if you have any complaints--"

"Complaints?!" Hiroda sputtered. "It's unfilmable! The studio will never finance it like this! They want war, glory, sad romance. They don't want people laughing."

Sakisaka coolly regarded Hiroda and said crisply, "Then, at such time when you are ready, you may submit another script to my office. I regret that my day is very busy, gentlemen. If you'll excuse me." He rose and bowed, motioning for the page to escort them out. He ignored Hiroda's muttered outbursts and Hasegawa's repeated apologies until they were at the office door.

Hiroda turned and said loudly, "The studio will have something to say about this! The studio produces movies for the Imperial Army! The studio has connections inside the Ministry for War!" He stormed out, bumping into the page who hurried after him.

The Imperial Army... Sakisaka's mind latched onto a hope, a solution. He blocked Hasegawa from the door. "Is there a man named Tsubaki working for you? Do you know a man named Tsubaki?" he asked quickly.

"Tsubaki?" Hasegawa blinked few times. "No. No, I don't know anyone by that name."

Sakisaka moved out of the way and watched Hasegawa down the corridor, waiting for Hasegawa's sudden stop and rush back, excitedly confirming that he did know Tsubaki, that Tsubaki was the genius writer the Imperial Army had sent to work on their scripts. But Hasegawa turned at the entrance and disappeared. Sakisaka closed the door, heart falling.

His co-workers were all staring at him. His superior stood in the doorway of the private office.

"Sakisaka-san!"

-----

He was not fired, much to his surprise, nor was he reassigned. The stern reprimand had embarrassed and shamed him, and for weeks afterward, he expected the inevitable repercussions: interrogation, job loss, perhaps even public humiliation. But the episode passed, he arrived at work everyday to read more film scripts, and slowly, it was all over.

At least to the Office of Public Security.

To Sakisaka, it was not over. The question remained in his mind: what had been Tsubaki's involvement in the script? He had seen the signs. They were there. Tsubaki had been there.

For a while, he was convinced Hasegawa was lying. He didn't want to admit he'd needed help with the script. He was embarrassed that he'd had a comedy writer like Tsubaki work on it with him. (Sakisaka could only imagine the trials Tsubaki had gone through to work on such trash. Poor Tsubaki!) Hasegawa may have violated laws to have Tsubaki help. Tsubaki was supposed to be in the trenches, putting bullets in the heads of barbarians, not reluctantly lending his expertise with words to a hack like Hasegawa. No wonder Hasegawa had lied.

Then the moving picture, "Heroic Fight In The Pacific," was released. Sakisaka went to see it with his wife. His wife always inexplicably cried at these pictures. For Sakisaka, it was a chance to see those brief glimpses of Tsubaki once again, and to remember the script he'd written. Tsubaki would have liked it. Would have improved it, no doubt, but he would have given his approval.

But there was no Tsubaki in the moving picture. Seeing the scenes on the screen--even the infamous opening lines, with "for the sake of the nation" repeated three times--robbed the script of all hints of Tsubaki. It was flat, serious, and artificial. Nothing of the young man with spirit, smiling up at Sakisaka with dark, pleased eyes.

After the picture, Sakisaka and his wife walked home in the chilly night, passing cherry trees with early blossoms. Sakisaka looked up at the pale buds against the dark sky and felt very hollow inside. He hadn't found Tsubaki in the picture, and maybe Tsubaki had never been in the script at all. Tsubaki was gone. He was utterly alone.

-----

The depression he fell into was invisible to most, though his wife could see it, and let it worry her, and her concern began to irritate him. At work he swung from a dispassionate severity that prevented him from approving anything to a bored helplessness that made him not care what sorts of films were made. He never received praise from his superior anymore. Most of his co-workers were sent on to better assignments. Those that weren't conscripted.

It was a year before he read Tsubaki's play again. Although he carried it around in his briefcase everyday, it had become something mythological to Sakisaka. He began to doubt its existence. He began to think his week with Tsubaki had been fiction. Had been a play he'd seen, or a script he'd read. Maybe Tsubaki didn't exist.

It was a desolate thought, and yet it strengthened him in some ways. What had he lost, if Tsubaki had never existed? And this play... Had it really made him laugh, or had he dreamed the whole thing?

On the way home one evening, he passed a bakery with nearly empty shelves. A sweet smell caught his notice and he followed it inside, where the baker brought out a small tray of toasted bean cake. Still warm.

Tsubaki's hand reaching to take the bag of toasted bean cake had been warm.

Sakisaka ate the warm bean cake by the river, then took a slow walk home, passing through Asakusa, where the University of Laughs theater was closed and boarded up. He stopped in the hole-in-the-wall and had a quiet drink, alone but for the proprietor. He followed the disused tram tracks to his old stop, trudged up the hill to his house, ignored the dinner laid out by his wife, and opened the veranda doors. That evening, he took from his briefcase the rumpled pages of Tsubaki's script and read every word over again. He laughed until he cried, and he cried until he laughed.

-----

"Sakisaka-san?"

Lately Sakisaka had taken to patronizing the old hole-in-the-wall in Asakusa. Though he was not its only customer on most nights, it was a shade of its former bristling self. And it was the only place left, aside from the interrogation room at the Office of Public Security, where Tsubaki had once had a known presence. Sakisaka ate the cheap, hot food, drank until he needed the walk home to clear his head, and listened to the proprietor's old gossip, now a set piece of repeated stories.

"Sakisaka-san?"

Familiar voice. It hadn't sounded so tentative before, nor so concerned. Sakisaka looked up.

It was Tsubaki.

Sakisaka's vision blurred. In some of the old film scripts, there was a scene like this. The handsome young man returned to his sweetheart and his mother, because Japan had won the war and the new era of Asian peace and co-prosperity had begun. He hadn't seen a script like that in ages. Nowadays they all mentioned the noble sacrifice of the handsome young man's life in the name of the Emperor.

"For the steak of the nation..." Sakisaka mumbled to himself.

"You liked that line." Tsubaki smiled, though his eyes didn't look relieved. "May I sit?"

Sakisaka sat up, looking around. The idea that this might be real, that this might not be another script, entered his mind. Yet he hesitated to call for another round of drinks, in case the proprietor couldn't see Tsubaki.

Tsubaki called to the man, and they were brought a couple of small glasses of thin beer.

Sakisaka's fingers clutched the briefcase on his lap. He blinked to clear his vision and took a long look at Tsubaki.

He was still young. Still thin. Perhaps thinner. He lacked that touch of comedy, that theatrical spirit and hint of laughter. His hair was short in a poor hair-cut, and his suit was the color of an Army uniform and was strangely cut.

"You... You came back," Sakisaka said, allowing all the relief he felt to come out. He smiled, eyes never leaving Tsubaki's face.

Tsubaki glanced around with a sad smile. "I wanted to see it again. I heard the theater was gone, but still... I wanted to see it. Imagine this place still being here. He'll outlive us all," he said with a nod to the proprietor.

Sakisaka searched Tsubaki's face for signs of laughter, puns, gags, jokes. He was still young, still handsome, but it wasn't the same face as before. Not the same Tsubaki who'd made love to Omiya as Kanichi and to Kanichi as Omiya.

Sakisaka recalled what Tsubaki had just said. "Don't say that," he said sternly. "You came back. It's a good sign. Victory, prosperity, comedy. There will be comedy again."

Tsubaki smiled at him. "To hear you say so..." He bowed. "Thank you."

Sakisaka shook his head. "No, no. Thank you." Then, feeling the seriousness of the moment, he relaxed a little and said, "You remember that bit about the policeman? I was too hard on you at first, but I couldn't see the sense of it."

"No, no, you were right," Tsubaki said. "It was much funnier in the end."

"Yes," said Sakisaka with satisfaction, the years melting away as he remembered running in the interrogation room, playing out the script with Tsubaki. "Yes, it was. A classic."

Tsubaki smiled modestly.

"You wouldn't believe the things I read now. Unworthy trash." Sakisaka sighed. "I'd like to ban it all, but there's nothing objectionable. From the standpoint of public morals, that is. It's just rotten."

Tsubaki nodded, smile fading. "I'm sorry to hear it. It must be very hard for you to bear."

How like Tsubaki, to be concerned for Sakisaka's sensitive taste! "Oh, no. It's nothing. Not compared to-- Well, not compared to the sacrifices others are making." He took another critical look at Tsubaki. "You're all right?"

Tsubaki's eyes met his. A look of soft, pleased surprise. How Sakisaka had longed to see that look again!

"I'm all right. I was very lucky." He paused in slight embarrassment. "It wasn't my writing hand."

"Your--?" Sakisaka sat motionless, puzzling over his words. A pun? Let it be a pun, he thought. But his eyes travelled over Tsubaki's shoulders and chest and arms, and what he had taken for odd tailoring he now saw was an empty sleeve. "Your writing hand," he said quietly.

"All here," Tsubaki said brightly, wiggling his five fingers.

"When-- How--? I'm sorry." Sakisaka glanced down. "I don't mean to pry."

"Ah, but you'll appreciate this, Sakisaka-san," Tsubaki said with a wily smile. "I was in Manchuria. Yes! I found no traces of anti-Japanese thought there. Your legacy endures."

Sakisaka wondered that he could make such a joke. Distasteful. Rude. He stared. Tsubaki said wryly, "But to be truthful, there was one trace, I'm sorry to say." He ran his hand over the empty sleeve. "A small trace only. Not even an entire Japanese. In this case," he added in an undertone.

"Perhaps they mistook it for your writing hand," Sakisaka said without thinking, matching Tsubaki's tone, staring at the empty sleeve. When he realized what he'd said, he looked up guiltily.

Tsubaki smiled broadly. "I thought of that, myself. In that case, it may not have been a Chinese. It could've been my own..." He trailed off, coloring, but his smile did not quite fade entirely.

Sakisaka gave him a disapproving look. "Words like those, Tsubaki-sensei, will only land you in trouble. Not to be countenanced."

"I'm sorry." Tsubaki bowed his head, but he was smiling.

Sakisaka looked at him, welling with relief, fondness... happiness. Yes, happiness and hope. He wanted to laugh. Tsubaki met his look, smiling very softly. No longer the young man refusing to be defeated by Sakisaka's demands, but another confident, spirited, handsome young man.

"Come home with me," Sakisaka said suddenly. "Have dinner with me and my wife. My wife would love to meet you. She's always liked comedies."

"I would enjoy that, Sakisaka-san." Tsubaki bowed low. "Thank you very much."

Sakisaka paid the bill and met Tsubaki outside in the darkening street. "What will you do now?" he asked as they began the long walk home.

"Ah," Tsubaki said hesitantly. "I've been assigned to an office. Someone found the letter in my file, the letter you wrote to defer my conscription." He bowed at Sakisaka-san. "They told me that if I were such a talented writer, I could write for the Great Japanese Empire."

"For the steak of the nation," Sakisaka put in.

"Just so." Tsubaki gave him an open, fond look. "I'm to write radio plays for the Ministry of Propaganda. I'm to prove to the enemy that the Japanese people will meet any adversity with good humor, determination, and the spirit of sacrifice." He sounded as if quoting from memory.

Sakisaka tucked his briefcase under his arm and gently placed a hand on Tsubaki's shoulder: the shoulder with the sleeve hanging slack below. "I know you will face this challenge with the same talent as before. The same genius and imagination."

"Thank you for saying so."

They walked together along the tram tracks, in no hurry, and, now, no pressing need for words. Tsubaki was back. Sakisaka had laughter again: inside, stored there, safe.

When they reached the corner of Sakisaka's street, he stopped and held his briefcase up. "I kept it for you."

He could barely see Tsubaki's face, but thought that he smiled.

"I knew you would," Tsubaki said.

"We'll perform it together. We did pretty well together, I think." At Tsubaki's silence, Sakisaka said, "After the war. This is a good sign. Victory. The people will want comedy again. But I was only keeping it safe for you." He held the briefcase out. "I should return it now." He clutched the sides of the case firmly, saying farewell to the treasure within with his hands.

"No. You keep it. I wrote it for you, in the end. Because you understood."

Sakisaka was thankful for the dark that hid the tears that welled in his eyes. He blinked them back and tucked the briefcase under his arm. "Thank you. Thank you very much. It's my most valued possession."

"Sakisaka-san," Tsubaki said softly.

The dark street corner was empty, quiet. They stood there for some moments, alone and not speaking, understanding.

"Come now," Sakisaka said, feeling the laughter inside like a warmth that wrapped around his heart. "It's only a few houses from here. I think I can see the light. My wife will have dinner waiting. She'll be so pleased to meet you." He rested his hand on Tsubaki's back to guide him.

"Thank you, Sakisaka-san." Tsubaki's voice was quiet and pleased. "I knew you wouldn't let go."

"Never, Tsubaki-sensei. Never."

(the end)

Click here to see Sakisaka and Tsubaki

january 2006