Snippet #1675461

Three men stood at the bar, drinking saki. Two of them were three parts drunk, and need not concern us her. The third had drunk as much as them both combined, and was totally sober. This was normal for him. Kaito Mishima (who could have prefixed his name with his Airforce rank, but chose not to) would have loved to have been as drunk as the others, but this always proved an elusive dream. After what he'd seen during his war service, he would have needed more liquor than was available in the whole of Japan to blunt the edge of his sobriety. The best that could be said was that if he drunk all night, he could usually get a few hours sleep!

It wasn't the memories of being shot at, or those that he'd killed, that haunted him. War was war, and the American and British pilots naval gunners who had shot at him had been fighting for their counties, and were doing only what could have been expected. As for the men he'd killed - again, that was war, and he'd done it for his Emperor and his country. Nor did he feel any particular dishonor that he'd never flown a mission of the divine wind, the tactic they called kamikaze. He knew in his heart he'd volunteered, and chance had seen to it he was not chosen in the ballots.

It was the faces of friends. Good friends. Chie, who he had never seen anything but grinning, even when he flew his last, suicidal mission. Gorou, to whom he owed a sum of money lost at cards, a debt he could never pay (though he'd sent the money to Gorou's widow). Katsu, who was always telling dirty jokes. Nori, his drinking partner. Takeo, who was vainer than any woman, and tougher than any wild animal. Norio. Shin. Masao. Kichiro, a friend since childhood, with whom he had volunteered. All good friends. All dead. Some flying on suicidal missions, others shot down in normal combat. But all dead.

Well, there was no sense thinking about it, not if he were going to make even a pretense of enjoying this evening. He drained his glass, and after taking a leave of his companions, walked out into the street. The sea-air hit him with a blast, as if some giant were wielding a huge fan, reminding him of his combat days, most of which had been above the ocean. Around the corner was the theater, to which he'd been invited, for a special evening featuring geisha from the new house. He entered, and immediately began scanning the area, but was disappointing to see no-one he knew. He took his seat unobtrusively on a mat, waiting to see which of the geisha would attend him.

******

Without further words, Nyoto's skillful fingers began working at Kaori's appearance. Picking up her discarded bamboo brush and dipping it into the rice paste, he deftly repainted the design on the nape of her neck. Then, with the aid of a comb, he fixed her shimada into a perfectly symmetrical shape, replaced the fallen and slipping kanzashi, and untied and retightened her obi. It saddened him a little that her head remained down and her eyes staring at the floor during this process, as if he'd frightened her, and desperately racked his brains to find something to say to the poor, frightened girl. But nothing came to him. He shook at her collar, so that it was folded correctly, and adjusted her kimono at the front to a more modest aspect, so that her nagajuban would not be visible every time she bent down. The kimono would probably slip again, since it was not a perfect fit, but he consoled himself that at least she'd look immaculate when she made her entrance. Finally, he bent and lifted the hem of her kimono, and tugged the wrinkled nagajuban back into place, smoothing it with his hands while trying not to be too familiar. He tried hard not to look at her slim legs, but it was a losing struggle!

"There. Now you look beautiful," he said, pulling her kimono back into place and shaking out the folds and wrinkles. "No. Let me say that differently. You always look beautiful. Now, you're perfect!"

And then came a loud noise as the bamboo doors opened. The show was about to start.