Fractured soul, p.1
Fractured Soul, page 1
Dedication
To all the ghosts in the world
Epigraph
SOUND POST or SOUL POST, noun. Music. The sound post of a stringed instrument. Little wooden dowel inserted into the body of the instrument, between the top plate and back plate, to maintain them at the proper distance and ensure the quality, resonance, and uniformity of the vibrations.
Treasures of the English Language
In the face of Schubert’s music, the tear falls from the eye without first asking the soul: it falls into us, so remote from all images and so real. We weep without knowing why; because we have not yet reached the state promised by the music and, in our unspoken joy, all we need is for it to assure us that we one day will.
Theodor W. Adorno, Moments musicaux
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Pause for Contemplation
I. Allegro Ma Non Troppo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
II. Andante
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
III. Menuetto: Allegretto
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
IV. Allegro Moderato
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
[Chapter 6]
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Translator
About the Author
About the Translator
Copyright
About the Publisher
Pause for Contemplation
Sunday, November 6, 1938, Tokyo
“The sharp clip of approaching boots, getting louder, slowing. Someone walking. Stopped. Started. Stopped again. Now he’s very near. I think I can hear him breathing. A faint sound of something brushing wood. Has he just set something down on the bench? I’m in the dark, trembling with fear. It sends a chill down my spine. Silence. Suddenly, the darkness is lifted. A large luminous square opens before me. What can I see? My eyes, dazzled, see the tall body of a man, severely upright, uniformed in khaki. I can’t see his head or his feet. I can see the front of his uniform, buttons neatly aligned along the vertical, a heavy saber dangling from his waist, his arms, his hands emerging from his sleeves, both legs like sturdy tree trunks down to the knees. The light cruelly exposes my feet in their green cotton socks; I can’t hide them any better. Next to my petrified feet, my book . . . its white cover edged with a thin orange stripe. The title in thick black characters shamelessly offers itself to the bright light: How Do You Live? Below, in small characters, the author’s name is printed, and at the bottom, medium-size, the name of the book’s collection: The Little Citizens’ Library. Is he going to take it? Hurry up, you have to beat him to it! No, it’s better if I don’t move . . . A fraction of a second later I place my right hand on the book and pick it up. But I slowly move my trembling hand away . . . Several endless seconds go by. I don’t know what he’s doing—his body hasn’t moved an inch. I’m afraid. Instinctively, I close my eyes. The silence lingers. I open my eyes halfway. Now he bends forward, slowly, very slowly, as if hesitating, as if unsure of what he’s doing. A man’s head, wearing a field cap that matches his uniform, appears before my eyes. Backlit, obscured by deep shadow. At the back of the cap, a piece of khaki cloth hangs down to his shoulders. His eyes alone are shining, like a cat lurking in the half-light. My eyes, now wide open, meet his. I think I can make out the beginnings of a faint smile, spreading to his eyes. What is he going to do? Is he going to hurt me? Is he going to force me out of hiding? I withdraw even farther. He abruptly leans to one side and bends over, then immediately stands up, the ruined violin in hand; that must be what he placed on the bench a few seconds ago, just beside the wardrobe where I am hiding. Suddenly a man’s voice can be heard, loud and urgent, quickly approaching: ’Kurokami! Kurokami!’
“Mechanically, he cocks his head as if wondering where, exactly, the voice is coming from, as if he’s trying to identify the person shouting, all the while his face contracting with tension.
“Without a word, he hands me the broken violin, almost flat, its four strings forming a warped contour; in the dark it looks like a little dying animal. I don’t know what to do. I hesitate, but in the end I take the damaged instrument, timidly, into both hands.
“’Kurokami! Lieutenant Kurokami!’
“He hurries to close the door, after glancing at me one last time. The worried, distraught look he flashes is followed by the ghost of a smile—quickly erased as the man who’s been shouting his name approaches.
“‘Oh, there you are! What on earth are you doing here, Kurokami? We’re leaving. No time to mess around.’
“‘Yes, sir! Forgive me, I was just making sure we hadn’t overlooked anything.’
“In the darkness of the wardrobe I can distinctly hear the hard male voice I think belongs to the man who was shouting ’Kurokami!’ I’m surprised to hear the name Kurokami, because I never dreamed a last name could mean ‘black hair.’ The man is saying something I can’t grasp very well; his tone is commanding, or like that of someone who is very angry. He frightens me. Another male voice replies quite calmly, evenly, almost gently. Is that the voice of the man who gave me the violin?
“Gradually the voices recede. The footsteps, too. I remain in darkness. Before long I can’t hear anything. Or rather, at the periphery of my ears I hear something like the faint, stubborn trill of dying cicadas. It’s tinnitus, a word I learned from my father not long ago. In a way, it’s the sound of silence. I peer through the keyhole. The room is dark because the black curtains have been drawn, but there’s enough light from the neons to convince me no one is here anymore. What time is it? Night hasn’t fallen yet, but I’m starting to get hungry. I listen . . . and convince myself that really, no one is here anymore. So, I lift the latch as quietly as possible, trying not to make the slightest noise as I open the door. But it creaks. ‘Shut up!’ I think. I wait a little. Nothing new—it’s still as silent. There’s no one here anymore. I put my canvas shoes back on—I’d taken them off, to not make any noise. I leave my hiding place, the broken violin in my hands and my book in the pocket of my trousers. I take a few timid steps; I’m having trouble walking: Ah! My legs have gone to sleep! I stop. I wait a few seconds. I start walking again. I cross the big hall and go toward the door. With all my weight I push the heavy entrance door. Now I’m standing outside the municipal cultural center. I look up at the sky. Day is departing. It’s starting to get dark. I feel helpless and alone. Sobs catch in my throat. A huge black force is crushing me, projecting shapeless suffocating shadows onto me. People walk by in the street. Soldiers from the military police, with rifles on their shoulders, are on patrol. I can’t see a single child around. Where has Papa gone? Will he come back? Or go straight home? I start down the street that leads home. I hurry my steps . . . cradling the ruined violin as if it were a dying animal I must save at all costs.”
I’m standing rooted at the altar of the wide-open cupboard. My eyes are closed. I can smell behind me the sweet perfume of a female presence. I step slowly down the dark stairway of time . . .
I
Allegro Ma Non Troppo
1
IT WAS A SUNDAY AFTERNOON OF MEEK SUNLIGHT. THE ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD schoolboy was reading all alone on a bench with a backrest in the meeting hall of the municipal cultural center. He was immersed in his book. It looked as though nothing could distract him from the pages he was turning at regular intervals, so mesmerized was he by the story he read, by the words he savored, as motionless as a statue. As for his father, he wore a simple gray jacket, while he swept the floor that was scattered here and there with bits of fluff. Once he finished his summary housekeeping, he set up, side by side, two folding music stands he’d brought from home.
“Well then, Rei, is Coper’s story interesting?”
Rei didn’t budge. Coper, a nickname for Copernicus, was the protagonist of his book: a fifteen-year-old Japanese schoolboy. In fact, they called him Coper-kun, adding the suffix for familiarity.
“While we’re rehearsing, you can go on reading, but you must say hello when they arrive! You hear me?”
“Yes, Papa.”
The boy replied in a low voice, swallowing a bit of air, never tearing his eyes f
“How far are you?”
The boy didn’t answer.
His father raised his voice.
“Hey! Rei, where are you in the book?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Papa, uh, I’m at the statues of Buddha in Gan . . . dha . . . ra . . .” Rei stumbled over the word Gandhara.
“Ah, that’s where the uncle explains that it was the Greeks who came up with making statues of Buddha, long before people in Asia. That’s a terrific passage!”
“I’ve nearly finished, it’s such a pity!” murmured Rei, fingering the thin layer of pages he had left.
“So, it didn’t make you cry?”
“Oh, it did, when Kitami-kun defends Urakawa-kun from Yamaguchi. Everyone makes fun of him, the poor boy!”
“When Yamaguchi and his gang ridicule Urakawa-kun for the fried tofu he has in his bento every day, since his parents are tofu merchants. You mean there?”
“Yes. Then there’s another scene: Coper hasn’t got the courage to side with his two friends. The gang of older boys bullies them! I didn’t cry, but I was infuriated by those arrogant older boys! They tell Kitami-kun to obey. Otherwise, others will think he doesn’t like his school, that he’s a traitor!”
“Ah yes, that scene is thrilling. But didn’t you like what came next? There are some beautiful pages about Coper suffering precisely because of his cowardice. Then his mother is so kind to her son. You know, Coper’s mother reminds me of your mother.”
“Yes, yes, when his mother tells him about things she couldn’t do because she was too shy, or when she lacked courage, regarding the old lady climbing the steps to a temple with a big bundle. That made me cry. Coper’s father died, and with me it’s my mother . . . So, we’re similar . . .”
“You know, Rei, I’d like for the two of us to discuss this book, once you’ve finished.”
Rei, already lost in the final pages, didn’t respond.
Just then, steps were heard in the entrance hall. A man in his forties, rather tall, with blond hair, came into the big hall. He wore a beige suit with a blue cotton scarf around his neck.
“Hello, Yu. How are you? I thought I’d find you here. You said you’d be rehearsing with your musician friends this afternoon.”
“Ah! Hello, Philippe! What a surprise! What brings you here? I didn’t expect to see you,” said Yu, his French somewhat hesitant but fluent.
“Um . . .”
“You seem worried, Philippe.”
Over Yu’s shoulder the foreign visitor noticed the boy gazing somewhat dreamily from his book at the two adults conversing.
“How are you, Rei? What are you reading?” asked Philippe, in Japanese that was perfectly comprehensible, despite his strange intonation. Philippe, not waiting for a reply, looked Yu in the eyes. “My wife and I have decided to go back to France. Life is becoming difficult for me here. I’ve asked to be repatriated. The newspaper’s decision should come any day now. Anyway, I would have liked to talk about all that with you, but it looks like just now you won’t have time.”
Yu looked at his watch. “No, they’ll be here any minute. Can you stop by my place this evening? Or I can come and see you, if you like. Otherwise tomorrow evening, if that works for you.”
“All right, I’ll come to your place tonight, but it will be rather late, around eight o’clock, eight thirty, if it’s not a bother,” said Philippe, after hesitating for a moment.
The people Yu was expecting had just come into the hall. Two men and a woman, between twenty-five and thirty years of age. Yu greeted them with a bow and shook their hands. Afterward, he introduced Philippe, adding that he was a correspondent for a French newspaper. Yu’s friends were Chinese. The youngest of the three was named Kang. In his left hand he carried a violin in its case. The young woman, called Yanfen, was a viola player, and her case was slightly bigger. The last visitor, who looked older than the others, with his beard and receding hairline, was bravely carrying a cello case on his shoulders. His name was Cheng. The three amateurs were among the few Chinese students who’d not conformed to a narrow-minded nationalism, exacerbated by the animosity between the Middle Kingdom and the Japanese Empire. Since the 1931 Manchurian Incident, colonial expansionism had been gaining ground.
“Mizusawa-san, perhaps you’re busy today?” said Cheng to Yu in fluent Japanese, a smile blooming on his wide face.
Yu noticed that Cheng was glancing furtively at his journalist friend.
“No, don’t worry, Cheng-san, I’m all yours. Philippe-san and I will have all the time we need later on.” Just as Cheng had done with his family name, Mizusawa, Yu added the affectionate suffix to each of their names.
“I’ll stay and listen for a while. Don’t pay me any mind, Yu.”
“Thank you, Philippe. See you this evening.”
“Yes.”
Yu went over to a storage room beside the bench. He took out two stools, and on his way back said to his son, lost to the outside world, “Rei, they’re here now. Go say hello!”
His son stood up and looked at his father’s three Chinese friends, who were taking out their instruments.
“Konnichiwa!” said Rei in a clear voice, making little bows.
The Chinese musicians answered him at the same time. The men raised their hands in greeting, while Yanfen gave him a lovely smile and told him she was curious to find out about the book keeping him so thoroughly engrossed. Rei was surprised by the velvety beauty of her voice and by the Japanese words she uttered in an uninterrupted flow. He looked at the young woman. She was wearing a dark brown dress that enhanced the smooth lines of her slender body. Her oval face shone a brilliant white. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied behind her bare neck. Her eyes were like a spill of jewels reflecting a gentle ray of morning sun from every angle. She wore no lipstick, and her lips moved like leaves quivering to the whim of a warm spring breeze. To finish the drawing, a mysterious curved line ran from her chin down to the faint roundness of her breasts.
Surprised by the indiscretion of his eyes, Rei tried to contain himself, quickly returning his gaze to his book, but his diverted attention could no longer find the beginning of the lines.
Yu set the stools down in front of the music stands. Kang returned from the storage room with two more stools, which he put next to the cardboard boxes. Yu in turn took his violin out of its case, which he had left on the floor between the bench and a tall European wardrobe of carved mahogany, its looming presence simultaneously mammoth yet discreet. Then without thinking he went to put the case away in the storage room.
Now all four of them were sitting in a semicircle. Yu played first violin; Kang, second. Next to Kang sat Yanfen with her viola. Finally, Cheng, the cellist, sat almost directly across from Yu, six feet away. Once they had placed their respective scores on either box or music stand, they began to tune their instruments. Suddenly Yu turned to speak to his son, as if he had just remembered something important.
“Excuse me, Rei, could you draw the black curtains and switch on the light?”
This time Rei reacted immediately.
“This is our third session, but we still haven’t progressed any further than the first movement!” said Yu, speaking to Philippe in French. Then he hurriedly translated the exclamation into Japanese for his Chinese friends.
“Fortunately! We’re trying to prolong the pleasure as much as we can,” said Cheng with a laugh. “We’re in no hurry, are we?”
They all laughed wholeheartedly. Philippe joined in, encouraged by their good humor, but he thought he could sense the tiniest trace of poorly hidden anxiety.
“Ready?” said Yu to the other musicians.
There was a long silence. Then with a slight nod, Kang signaled to the viola player and the cellist to start, while Yu, propping his instrument beneath his chin, where it gleamed in the dim light from the neon overhead, waited to make his entrance, his bow still in the air. Pianissimo, Kang played a languorous melody that slipped gently over the regular lapping of bass notes provided by Yanfen and Cheng.
