1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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juu hachi
eighteen
Their walk had led them into the courtyard, their steps slow and easy.
"Tell me about your family." She asked softly, enjoying the feel of his arm against her cheek.
"Anything specific you want to know?"
"Hmmm..." She balled up her lips in thought.
"Do you have siblings?"
"A younger sister." Her mouth formed a surprised 'O'.
"Her name was Mitsuko."
"Was?" He was quiet for a while and she glanced up at him, thoughts of pushing him too far past his comfort limit in her mind. He sighed finally before answering.
"She was hit by a streetcar."
"Oh...I'm... I'm sorry..."
"It happened when we were young." He dismissed and she nibbled her lip some.
"I was born in Kurashiki, a small merchant village. It used to be the main rice supplier back in the 1600s up until 1860s. Most of life hasn't changed since then." She listened as they strolled, the soft trickling of the fountains supplying a peaceful atmosphere.
"My country has a long history of civil war, militarism, and brutality. For nearly 400 years, it is all we have known." Letting that sink in, she slipped her hand down to his, grasping his fingers. The action made him look down and she could feel his eyes boring holes into her but she kept her gaze elsewhere. He spoke again, fingers tightening on hers.
"My father was born and raised in Kurashiki as well in a period called Edo. Not far removed from the struggle of the previous generations of war, famine, and poverty. He grew up in a time when our country was attempting peace within its own borders."
"Hm."
"He was very proud to be Japanese. Very proud of our land... our way. He raised me to be the same."
"I suppose it's no different from Americans being proud to be American." She commented, smiling up at him. He didn't return her smile but his expression was receptive to her words.
"He died when I was eight years old. His vast military influence and prestige encouraged me to follow in his footsteps." They came to a stop, now under a black starless sky. Chinese lanterns had been lit and they cast a soft dreamy glow upon him. In the low light, he looked striking and mellow. The gin had also relaxed him and encouraged him to open up. Looking up at the sky, she caught a glimpse of a smile... a little one that tugged the corner of his mouth.
