Min slumps down and goes to sleep with his arm over my breast. He has left a few white droplets on my stomach. They’re warm and slip smoothly over my fingers like silk threads. Men are spiders who weave traps for women from their seed.

I get up gently. I am filled with a new energy and I feel ready to embark on a game of go. With a straw hat over his face Jing is snoozing on a chaise longue under a tree in the garden. I don’t know when he arrived or whether he watched our exploits. I am just about to leave when he suddenly lifts the hat and stares at me pointedly. I am secretly delighted by the look of despair and contempt I can read in his face, and I meet his eye defiantly. His lips tremble and he can’t say a word.

The long drawn-out cries of a fruit vendor reach us.

“I’d like some peaches,” I say.

Jing punches his chair with his fist, gets to his feet and runs off. He comes back with a basket of fruit and cleans them over by the well before choosing the biggest one for me. We eat our peaches in silence. The juice sprays out of Jing’s mouth and runs down onto his shirt.

The cicadas sing their strident song: the smell of leaves burned by the sun mingles with the smell of my hair. A carp pirouettes in a large jar that serves as an aquarium.

44

Among the new faces in the barracks

Captain Nakamura, the information officer, stands out from those keen to find women-he chooses a solitary existence. Despite his rank, he encourages our outrageous jokes about him and willingly plays the role of Kyogen. [15]

In restaurants he typically drinks twenty bottles of sake one after the other and then falls asleep snoring loudly. One day we are emboldened to rouse this ostentatiously noisy sleeper: I give him a dig with my elbow and start interrogating him like a Zen master talking to his pupil.

“Eating, drinking and seeing women are the vanities of the flesh. Tell me, Captain, what is the vanity of the soul?”

He gets up like a ghost rising from the grave and, oblivious to our laughter, he chants:

“Yes, the vanity of the soul is death!”

Holding back my smile, I ask him, “Captain, what is the vanity of vanity?” He is slightly taken aback and scratches his head before replying:

“The vanity of vanity… the vanity of vanity is…”

To prolong his torment, I separate out each syllable as I speak: “Vanity is vain, the vanity of vanities is doubly vain. Now, vanity and vanity cancel each other out. The vanity of the soul is death, the vanity of the vanity of the soul is life. In between life and death, who are we?”

He looks at me and his astonished expression elicits a roar of laughter around us.

When I visit his room one afternoon I see a go-set. We start to play a game straightaway and, to my great surprise, the Captain who is such an awkward muddler in life plays with considerable ability and an offhandedness that bespeaks confidence. He has earned a reputation as a madman in the barracks because he thinks he sees plots and schemes everywhere, an obsessiveness that manifests itself as exaggerated wariness when he plays go.

After his defeat the Captain invites me for dinner, and a few glasses of sake are enough to make us the best friends in the world. We talk about Chinese literature and he is amazed that I speak Mandarin. The game of go sets people against each other across the checkered board, but it gives them a reciprocal sense of trust in life. Without any hesitation I open my heart to him.

A woman from Peking followed her student husband to Tokyo. The man died of cancer, leaving her alone in the world with a newborn baby. She spoke only a few words of Japanese and had no money, but she knocked on doors asking for work. Mother took her in as a nanny, she was a gift sent from Buddha. My parents, like all Japanese parents, had given me an implacably strict upbringing: one wrong step and I would get a slap. With cheeks burning, eyes brimming with tears and an aching heart, I would run into the arms of my Chinese nanny, who would weep for me. To wash away my pain she would hug me and tell me legends from her homeland. For me, Chinese was the language of dreams and of consolation. Later, she taught me to recite poems from the Tang dynasty and to write. She taught me Confucius’s ethics and introduced me to the Dream of the Red Pavilion. When I read these out loud, my Peking pronunciation made her sob with joy. She breast-fed my brother and sister, and she bewitched us all with her gentleness. Then one morning she vanished. A year later Mother destroyed all my illusions: she had gone back to her own country and would never return.

The Captain sighs as he listens to my story. He empties a glass of sake, gets up and, imitating the poses of a Noh actor, uses a chopstick as a fan as he sings:

I am overcome with sadness and I clap as the Captain bows and empties another glass. Then he changes the subject.

“Did you know that there is a place in the middle of town where the Chinese meet to play go? It’s the most incredible sight. Players sit down at tables that have the squares carved onto them, and they wait for someone to come and challenge them. You speak Chinese with such a good Peking accent that you should dress up in civilian clothes and take up their challenge, play a game of go.”

He drinks another glass of sake before going on, “I’ve been intrigued by this setup of theirs for a long time, but I’ve never dared go near them. I don’t care how often my informers tell me they’re harmless, I’m sure they can’t be. Ever since the terrorists managed to get into the town, I keep my eye on everyone, and these people are scheming to bring us down. The game of go is just a camouflage: it’s there on that square, as they pretend to play their war game, that our enemies are putting together their twisted strategies.”

The Captain is flushed scarlet and starting to drift into some imaginary universe. I try to sound interested. “But how could I disguise myself? Would I have to hire a hotel room to get changed in?”