Oldest of them all was probably the man who now lay in a room of his imposing mansion in Fuchu, just outside of Tokyo. The town was covered with a thick layer of reddish-brown ash. Built of reinforced concrete, the house had withstood the successive quakes relatively undamaged, but nothing could keep out the fine stream of ash that worked its way in through every crack, covering not only the sleeping kimono the old man was wearing but even his face, which was like a skull etched with wrinkles. The dust lay on it like the cosmetics that are applied after death.
“So . . .” said the old man, mumbling, “it’s all settled. His Majesty and the Imperial Family are safe in Switzerland. . . . And the government?”
“The Paris arrangement seems to be working out, sir,” answered the huge young man with close-cropped hair who sat, back straight, on the tatami mat beside where the old man lay. “And the headquarters of the Evacuation Committee is now in Honolulu.”
“Yukinaga and Nakata?”
“On board the Haruna, sir, together with the rest of the Plan D staff.”
“Very well. Are you leaving by helicopter?”
“No, sir. There is too much danger of the ashes choking the engine. A large-sized jeep is coming to get us. Then we shall be transferred to an amphibian.”
“All right, Yoshimura . . . you’d better be off. What’s Hanae doing?”
“I believe that she’s all ready to go, sir.”
“Bring her here at once.”
The huge young man named Yoshimura got to his feet and hurried out of the room, the tatami mats squeaking beneath him. As soon as he was gone, a young girl appeared in the doorway, as though she had been hiding in the corridor.
“Hanae!” said the old man, raising his eyes. “You’re going to ride in a jeep dressed like that?”
The girl was wearing an Akashi kimono of deep, glowing purple, fastened by a silk obi of an old-fashioned morning-glory pattern. She stood gazing at the old man, her eyes passionate, and then she suddenly began to walk toward him, her tabi-shod feet moving with exquisite grace. She knelt beside him, her head and shoulders drooping.
“I’m . . . I’m not going,” she said, covering her face with her hands. Her voice shook with emotion. “I want to stay just like this ... at your side.”
“No,” said the old man calmly. “You’re young. You’re not meant to die with an old man like me.”
“No! No! I can’t leave you.”
“Hanae, what a way to carry on!” said the old man wearily. “I never expected to hear such nonsense from a girl of your breeding. You must go. You must live. That’s what’s important.”
The girl threw herself down, the sleeves of her kimono spilling over the floor. Her slender shoulders trembled from her sobbing.
The old man glanced up to see Yoshimura looking hesitantly in through the doorway. He raised his voice: “Bring her some clothes. Something she can wear in the jeep.” He coughed faintly. “What a bother you are, girl.”
A dreadful roar rose up from the earth, rocking the room. Yoshimura staggered as the sliding door tore loose and collapsed. A cloud of powdered ash filled the room. The air echoed with the loud noise of something falling, and the steel reinforcing rods rang ominously. From outside came the rumble of sliding earth.
“Hurry up,” said the old man. “The roads are going to be blocked”
Yoshimura turned and ran down the corridor.
“Hanae ...”
The girl raised her tearful face.
“Would you let me see . . . ?”
She drew in her breath with a quick movement of her white throat. Then the girl stood up and loosened her obi. There was a faint rustle of fabric as the kimono slipped from her shoulders. With this single graceful gesture, her naked body stood revealed in the desolate room. Its firm and rounded flesh shone in the gloom like a secret cache of snow.
The old man looked at her but for a moment before closing his eyes.
“A daughter of Japan,” he whispered to himself. “Hanae . . . have children. ...”
“What, sir?”
“You must have children. You could have good, strong babies. Find a good man. . . . He doesn’t have to be Japanese. Have many children.”
Yoshimura reappeared in the doorway with the girl’s clothes. The old man glanced up at him. “Take her with you.”
The huge young man draped a coat over Hanae’s shoulders and then knelt beside the old man’s bed.
“Farewell... Master,” he said, bending forward and pressing his palms to the ash-covered tatami.
“Hurry up,” said the old man, shutting his eyes once more. “There’s no time to waste.”
The sounds of footsteps and quiet sobbing receded. Then there was the sound of an engine at the front of the house, and soon that, too, grew more distant and faded away. There was no dearth of other noises, however; the air was filled with them. The continuous rumble of the eruptions that were shattering the mountains of the Kanto Region, the convulsive shuddering of the earth that rocked, the creaking house ... Then there was another sound, a rustling in the air that gradually grew stronger until, finally, a strong gust of wind blew in from the ravaged veranda, stirring up the ashes and bringing still more in its wake, which formed new piles.
The old man opened his eyes slightly. The figure of a man had appeared on the veranda.
“Would that be Professor Tadokoro?” the old man asked in a hoarse voice.
“It looks like the typhoon is almost on us.” Tadokoro came in and sat beside where the old man lay. “Miss Hanae is safe by now, I imagine.”
“So you didn’t go, after all? Why not?” The old man closed his eyes, and his expression became somewhat contorted as another fit of coughing took hold of him.
Tadokoro’s eyes had sunk deep into his head. His cheeks were hollow. He seemed to have aged at least ten years. Even his broad, heavy shoulders had grown thin and were sagging. The crest of hair that surrounded his bald head had turned pure white.
“If there had been a jeep left that ran, I think that I might have taken a ride up into the mountains,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think you would have gotten very far,” said the old man, opening his eyes from time to time. “How much time do you think is left?”
“About two months, I’d say,” said Tadokoro, rubbing his eyes as though ashes had gotten into them. After he took his hands away, several tears rolled down his cheeks. “But as far as staying alive goes . . . then I think that it’s a matter of only two or three weeks.”
“Professor Tadokoro,” said the old man in a louder voice, as though something had just occurred to him, “how old are you?”
“I’m sixty-five,” Tadokoro answered, smiling slightly, the tears still wet on his cheeks. “I’d be retiring this year. There’d be the ceremonial speech to give, and all that. . . .”
“Sixty-five? You’re a young fellow. Why do you want to die?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sad . . . that’s why,” Tadokoro answered in a low voice, his head drooping. “After all, I’ve lived to a good age.”
“Because you’re sad? Hmmm . . .”
“At first, you know ... I thought that I’d say nothing.” All at once, as though stirred by some strong emotion, Tadokoro spoke out in a loud voice. “When I saw that it was going to happen . . . well, for a long, long time the scientific world had been giving me a wide berth anyway. Remember when we met for the first time at the hotel and you asked me what was the thing most important in a scientist? I told you it was intuition. And the only proof lay with my intuition. It was obvious that no one was ready to see it my way, no matter how I protested. I felt a chill of dread when I put everything together ... and then the thought came to me: Wouldn’t it be better to keep it to yourself anyway?”