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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niijuu
twenty
Feet stood outside of the door to those large looming doors. Gathering up the fear in his throat, he turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
***
They had kept his funeral procession small and intimate. Only those who had been invited could attend. As dictated in his will, he had been cremated and sat in an ornate urn in front of his picture. A younger him, a picture of him in his uniform. Asami's mother had bawled like a baby. His two sons sat nearest the wall. One of them had tears in his eyes but didn't shed them. The other appeared stoic. The last of his children, didn't even show up. There was no pastor or religious rites. But what did play was Louis Armstrong and Ms. Ella Fitzgerald. Two different sounds that when put together created the most beautiful harmony. Like Bea and I.
To his surprise, Takeru Ito had been asked to give the eulogy. The man appeared nervous as he walked up the rows of seats. He'd previously asked permission from his remaining relatives and given the okay, now stood at the short podium, palms sweaty.
"Mr. Matsuda was someone that I can honestly say has changed my life." His relatives wept and blotted the tears from their eyes.
"I had the pleasure and displeasure of being his care specialist. Mr. Matsuda was crass and had the driest sense of humor." Throat tight, he glanced over at his ashes.
"As we know, he's an esteemed veteran of World War II and had earned many accolades for his service. But, behind that was a man who was as complex as his uniform."
***
"....At the core of who he was, he was a simple man who preferred to be away from people. He clung to a cold image and if you didn't know him, he'd intimidate you. If you knew him, you knew that his heart was truly warm. He loved his wife. He loved his family..."
The words he'd spoken echoed in his head and he took in the state of the office. At one time, he was sure that it was grand and stately. The remnants of that existed in the almost grandiose carvings of the desk and chair. Covered in thick dust, it seemed that everything had been forgotten. Closing the door behind him, he felt dread slice through his belly. Before he could start, he needed to conquer the fear of this space. That was first. Taking a cautious step towards the desk, he picked up the first thing he saw, a newspaper clipping. JAPAN SURRENDERS, END OF WAR! EMPEROR ACCEPTS ALLIED RULE; M' ARTHUR SUPREME COMMANDER; OUR MANPOWER CURBS VOIDED.
Swallowing, he placed the aged browning newspaper clip down. He never got rid of it because he never wanted to forget Grandma. Looking around the room, he lowered a shaky hand to the chair. Pulling it out, he took his hand and swiped away the thick layer of dust. Slowly, he sat.
