“They say there’s been a warning to the Fuji area,” said Kunieda, his face pale. “The steam rising from the Ozawa landslide has become more intense, it seems. And, just below the Hoei crater, steam has started to rise. The meteorological station on the crest has been evacuated except for a small emergency group.”
“I wonder if we’ll be able to see an eruption from here,” said the old man, smiling with anticipation. “If Komagadake or some other mountain in Hakone erupted, we’d get a good view, I should think.”
“There are three cars at your service, sir. The Prime Minister’s strict orders. Please go back to Tokyo as quickly as possible. If, by chance, something should occur . . .”
“Don’t worry. Death and I are on easy terms,” said the old man. “I’m resigned. If I have two or three days left, that will be fine. Besides, that matter of ours should be concluded this evening.”
“The work has been making progress?” Kunieda asked, his tone edged with irritation. “I had the impression, I’m afraid, that they spent most of the day relaxing and strolling about.”
“Yes, and while doing that, they’ve been thinking,” said the old man, giving Kunieda a penetrating glance. “Their whole concern, you see, has been given to this matter. For three days now they’ve gone without sleep. I’m worried about their health.”
They were referring to the group gathered around Fukuhara, the scholar who had come to this mountain villa from Kyoto and remained here ever since. In accordance with Fukuhara’s request, two more men, both rather unusual, had come to the villa. One had a smooth, pale face, which made his age hard to determine, and though he wore an ordinary kimono, his manner was that of a Buddhist monk. The other was rather elderly. He had white hair. And then, in order to keep records, deliver material, and establish liaison, three more men had been sent from Plan D headquarters to join them.
The frantically busy Prime Minister had spent a whole night talking with the three of them. Kunieda had been engaged in conversation in the neighboring room, and sometimes, when a maid slid open the door to bring refreshments, he had casually glanced in. Each time the group—Watari among them—had been casually talking of garden shrubbery, tea-ceremony utensils, and the like as they sipped their tea, not a thing on their minds, it seemed, but pleasant conversation. One of the trio, for example, had been relating an amusing anecdote about his experiences abroad while the old man and the Prime Minister laughed uproariously.
A young woman in a rust-colored Yuki pongee kimono appeared at the end of the corridor and came to where the old man was sitting in his wheelchair, gazing out at the garden through the glass doors. She knelt down beside him and whispered something in his ear. The old man nodded slightly. She got to her feet and began to push the wheelchair toward the hall.
“Please come along,” said Watari to Kunieda, turning his head.
Making a right-angle turn from the corridor, they proceeded down a passageway leading to a detached wing concealed by a growth of shrubbery. At the end of this, beyond a foyer four and a half tatami mats in size, there was a room ten mats large. Beside it was another room which seemed to be of about eight mats. The sliding door between the two was open a few inches.
Around the edges of the room were piles of books and documents. Periodicals and the like lay scattered about the floor. Some were in European languages, and there were also Chinese books in their distinctive cases. Yearbooks and dictionaries were conspicuous as well as every kind of map—everything strewn about. A middle-aged man, apparently the recording secretary, sat in a corner, his face worn with fatigue. Two men were sitting at one corner of a table. One, a small man wearing a dark blue Oshima kimono, was gazing at the scenery outside, his arms folded. The other, the man who looked like a monk, was wearing a grayish-blue cotton kimono. Sitting with his fingers linked together over his stomach and one leg folded beneath him, he had his eyes closed. On the table before them were three large manila envelopes, each one designated by Chinese characters written in a bold hand.
The man who had been looking out the window unfolded his arms and, with a slight bow, spoke in a low voice: “As for the fundamental principles, they are here for the most part. ...”
“You gentlemen have completed it?” the old man asked, bowing slightly in return. Assisted by the young woman, he got out of the wheelchair and sat down on the tatami. “What of the Imperial Household—to Switzerland, I imagine?”
“As to that, sir,” said the small man, “one of the Imperial Family to America, one to China, and, if possible, one to Africa. ...”
As he spoke, the small man looked for the first time in Kunieda’s direction. Kunieda swallowed hard at the sight of the pain so evident in the man’s features. In no more than a week Professor Fukuhara’s face had undergone an incredible transformation. Only a short time before, his boyish face had had the glow of youth about it, but now his cheeks were hollow, his eyes were sunken, and his skin grayish, his cheeks covered with a scraggly growth of beard. His face seemed to belong to a man in the last stages of cancer. His eyes alone shone with spirit, but their odd glitter was like that struck from the embers of a dying fire.
“Probably about half will die,” said Fukuhara in a low voice, his tone detached. “And for those who survive, there will be much suffering.”
“You’ve made three divisions?” asked the old man, glancing at the envelopes on the table. “In what way?”
“It’s not according to geographical areas, sir, but rather as to types,” said Fukuhara, clearing his throat. “The first is that portion of the Japanese who might begin a new nation somewhere. The second is for those who would be scattered among various nations as naturalized citizens. The third is for those who could go to no other country.”
“The example of the Jewish people is not especially relevant,” said the man who seemed to be a monk, his eyes still closed. “The Jews have the experience of a two-thousand-year period of exile. Whereas this island people of ours have had the happy experience of living secure in their own country for a like period. Therefore it would be no easy matter to take on the other role. Would we gain some wisdom from our Diaspora over the course of the years? And throughout such a period, would the Japanese people remain the Japanese people? In that third envelope is enclosed still another envelope. It contains an opinion that is somewhat of a departure,” said the monk. “The truth is that not one of the three of us is averse to this opinion. Since, however, the conclusion it presents is not in line with the purpose of the task set for us, we offer it as nothing more than a variant opinion.”
“In effect, it proposes that the best thing would be to do nothing whatsoever,” said Fukuhara, hiccoughing slightly. “The best thing would be not to lift a finger.”