The Future Is Japanese Read online

  Now, of course everyone wants peace. Believe it or not, I myself didn’t particularly enjoy the act of fighting—not at all, in fact. But there was really only one answer you could give when the white man came to your land and told you that all you now had to do was to forgive the people who raped the shit out of your sister before killing her. The answer being:

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuck that.

  I thanked the soldier for the food and said goodbye and walked away. After a while I looked back to see one of those flying fans floating just above the American’s head. This machine, oh so clever and oh so soulless, was surveying the land below it, master of all it could see, camera and machine gun both ever ready.

  I needed something done about my messed-up head.

  I cut across Heaven City, making a beeline for Brave New World. As I walked I found myself gradually getting used to the reality that I could no longer tell the race of the people whose faces I was passing. I thought of my surroundings as being part of a dream and focused my attention on the soles of my feet. This became my whole world, the only thing that was real. The grains of sand underfoot. The twinges of pain whenever I stepped on a sharp stone.

  I felt the pain, savored it like I savored the feeling of the sand, and by the end of the day I was back at Brave New World.

  “Anybody home?” I yelled out.

  Brave New World was a burnt-out, blackened husk. Walls had been ripped down and doors smashed in.

  The sight itself was nothing new to me. I’d seen it countless times. In villages I had raided. When my own village was attacked. All of them had been like this. The only difference was that here there weren’t actually piles of severed limbs or corpses strewn about the place, stripped naked and desecrated. Otherwise, it was pretty much the same—blood spattered about the place, and signs that machetes or some such had been used to tear the place up.

  “Is that you, Enza? You decided to come back, did you?”

  I spun around to see where the voice was coming from. It was Fatty, my old teacher. She looked half dead.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  “It was awful,” she said in a choked little voice. She collapsed in a heap on the floor. “There was a riot. You know how they say suspicion breeds suspicion? Well, that’s exactly what happened here. After your incident, when you ran off, there were similar incidents, almost every day. Things got worse and worse, and before we knew what was going on, Ezgwai managed to get hold of a machete and smuggle it in. You can imagine the rest …”

  She pointed toward one of the classroom walls, and when I looked over there I saw a machete firmly embedded in it. It was lodged deeply into the wooden surface, with a long hairline crack running up the wall from the point it had made contact.

  Ezgwai did this? Gentle Ezgwai? For a moment I refused to believe it—I couldn’t believe it—but then I remembered the look on his face when he jumped me. It was the expression of a Hoa soldier who had killed and killed and would kill again. Not unlike me, in fact. A mirror image.

  “Why don’t you just fix all our heads up so that everything goes back to normal? Surely that would solve all your problems?” I asked.

  Fatty flashed a wry smile. “You really want to go back to the way things were? All that hatred?”

  This time it was my turn to almost laugh. “What, you think that just because you’ve messed around with our minds a bit we’ve stopped hating each other?”

  “No,” said Fatty, “but if we were to go back to the way things were, how long would it take before you started drawing up battle lines again? Us and them? Then you start killing anyone on the other side. You know what I think of that? Fuuuuuuuuuuuck that!”

  Hang on a second. Wasn’t that the sort of thing I was supposed to say?

  Then I realized that the fat woman in front of me had fallen into the same sort of trap that I had. She’d been living with the illusion that all she had to do was pull the wool over our eyes and peace would naturally come of its own accord. The illusion that all you had to do was to strip away the labels “Hoa” and “Xema” and people would stop hating each other. Her fuuuuuuuuuuuck that! was the inevitable, gut-wrenching response of her illusions being shattered into a million tiny pieces.

  “In any case, the white men have all evacuated,” she continued. “The NGO, whose pet project this was, was involved in some sort of scandal back in its home country. Before any of us knew what was happening, the donors all pulled out and the program was completely derailed. Apparently the NGO is going to ‘consider its options’ back in the safety of its home country. There’s no one left in the hotel, and as for the CMI, once the funding dried up, do you think they hung around for any longer than it took them to pack away their precious equipment?”

  So we’d been abandoned.

  Abandoned in our own messed-up minds.

  A strange calm descended on me. I’d come a long way to reach this point, and only now did I truly feel I had been released. Hoa and Xema were nothing to me now. The empty slogans that the white man and his lackeys such as Fatty here used to spout endlessly—the time was now ripe for me to embody them with my own flesh and blood. I knew the way it had to be.

  I yanked Ezgwai’s machete from the wall. It had been stuck so firmly in there that I had to pull real hard. For a moment I thought I had dislocated my shoulder.

  And then it was time for me to do what I had to do. Before I left the city. This fat woman’s corpse would serve as a beacon to signal the beginning of my struggle. I was no longer thinking in terms of the war that had not yet ended for me. Rather, I realized that everything that had come before was nothing more than a dry run for the real thing that was now about to start. If you really wanted to call that my postwar period, fine, but as far as I was concerned that was now well and truly over.

  I approached the fat bitch from behind and brought my machete down on the nape of her neck. Her spine may have been protected by her blubbery skin, but I knew I’d still be able to shatter it in one blow. I could see it clearly. Just as I could see her fat skull perched on top of that spine, smugly smiling away.

  Three years have passed since then, and now we’re finally about to return to the city.

  There are glittering clusters of light up ahead; it is the light of people going about their daily business. The scent of the living drifts over. The city in the distance is like a starry sky reflecting on a large body of water. We pick our way over the twenty or so corpses of Government Forces troops lying on the ground and reach the top of the hill, surveying the night vista in front of us, taking in the smells.

  I’m going to let the people of this city know that the war isn’t over yet. Not for me.

  The war isn’t over. Because I myself am the war.

  It’s going to be hard to convince them of this fact with mere words, so I’ll have to use my AK-47 to persuade them. I’m sure they’ll get the message.

  Just before my bullets pierce their hearts.

  My mind makes no distinction between Xema and Hoa. Same goes for most of the other guys here. I’m sure some of the guys here used to be in the SLF and would have done all sorts of terrible things to Xema women and children. But I forgive them. After all, they could no longer tell the difference between Hoa and Xema either.

  Our army transcends tribalism, transcends race. Not like the uneasy alliance of Government Forces troops who spent half their time watching their own backs, constantly suspicious of each other. With us, it’s only when we actually tell each other that we even get to know what tribe our comrades are from. So we don’t. We’ve managed to become a true band of brothers.

  You see, it seems I wasn’t the only one who found he needed to leave the city fast after losing the ability to distinguish between Xema and Hoa. Some of us banded together, looked out for each other, managed to arm ourselves, and then we started raiding caravans and traveling groups of foreigners. Before long we were strong enough to start attacking villages, and whenever we did we always welcomed their children in
to our ranks. We traveled far and wide, across the breadth and depth of Shelmikedmus, steadily expanding our influence as we did so.

  And now, here we are.

  I wave at my comrades, my friends, behind me. Even in the darkness I can tell that they’re all smiling.

  We’re bearing down on Heaven City. All there is left to do is head down the wide road taking us into the city and then we, the outcasts from Heaven, will kill everyone and everything in sight. The people of the city who made us what we are today. The people who drove us out of Heaven. The white man is afraid of us now. He’s long since left the city from one of its ports. There won’t be a single American soldier or a single machine waiting to greet us.

  We march.

  We advance.

  We bear down on the shining lights.

  The scent of life, of culture, of peace.

  Once upon a time we wanted all of this for ourselves. Wanted it desperately, but couldn’t have it.

  Not anymore, though. Now we’re going to destroy it all. And we’re going to enjoy doing so.

  Some of the guys are taking their time, others are impatient to get going. We each advance at our own pace. Fat, thin, lanky, short—no need to bother anymore with the pretense of trying to step in time.

  All we need now are our AK-47s. They’re there for the taking, scattered all over the place. All you need to do is pick one up and prove to the world that you are who you are.

  Go on. Pick it up. Pick it up and join our ranks.

  We’re almost there now. Coming with us? Get ready for the ride of your life.

  (First published in SF Magazine, November 2007)

  Not ten minutes in, I spot yellow electrical tape strung through the trees. Recent, not tattered. I grab, hold on hand-over-hand as I scramble over roots and rocks. Good to have a touch-connection to the way out. If you don’t know the way back, the trees might lure you and keep you.

  The forest is all shadows. Clinging mist damps the sunlight. Light penetrates at strange angles, casting a glow over lichen-covered roots, shredded bark and rotting logs.

  To the left: a rope suspended from a branch that’s too weak to support a man’s weight. Hung by someone stupid or indecisive or playing a prank. Hope that’s not all I’ll find today.

  To the right: a second tape trail branching into the shadows.

  Better stick to the trail I’m on for now. Hope it pays off.

  A few meters later: a woman’s compact on the ground. Kick it; watch it bounce end over end, mirror flashing. It leaves an indentation in the soil. It’s lain undisturbed awhile. Good. Makes it more likely I’ve gotten here before the suicide watch. I slip the compact into my pack.

  I’m feeling really good right now. This is a bingo. Can already see yurei shadows hiding behind trunks. Not long dead, this one, not with ghosts still gathering.

  The scent of mandarin oranges precedes a yurei flashing next to me. She’s all floating with no feet. Her Edo-style white burial kimono casts a shadow on the lichen.

  Black hair sweeps to her waist, equally covering the back and front of her head. Impossible to locate her face. Tendrils curl toward me entreatingly.

  This yurei’s been around as long as I have. Likes jokes. Minor pranks. She’s harmless.

  “Your life is a precious gift from your parents,” she says. “Please think about your parents, siblings, and children.”

  “Ha.”

  She’s quoting the signs that are posted at the edge of the forest in a weak attempt to turn back the suicidal before they add to the body count among the trees. Who gets this far to be stopped by a sign?

  Tendril of hair grasps my shoulder. I bug-shudder it off. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Don’t keep it to yourself,” she says, still quoting. “Talk about your troubles.”

  “Only trouble I’ve got right now is where to find good scavenge.”

  The yurei rotates slowly in the air. A raven lock gestures down the trail I’ve been following.

  “Thief-girl.” She uses her derisive pet name for me. “That one’s got nothing. Couldn’t even take a train back to Tokyo.”

  Another tendril points back to the tape fork.

  “That one came with everything he’s got. Red tent under a big tree.”

  Her tone is too helpful. Suspicious. This yurei likes barbs and mischief. She’s not sugar unless she’s hiding something.

  “Not gone yet, is he?” I ask.

  Ends of her hair curl up in a shrug. “Neck’s broken. Wait ten minutes.”

  All right. I open my hydration pack. Drink.

  Yurei keeps floating by. Can’t tell where her eyes are behind all that hair, but she’s watching me.

  “You want something?” I ask.

  She bobs silently.

  Sigh. “Go ahead.”

  She floats closer. Tendrils of hair reach out like tentacles. I grit my teeth as she feels my face like a blind person. Hair feels like hair feels, but this hair moves like hair shouldn’t. Body knows that. Body does not like being touched by the dead.

  The scent of mandarin oranges lingers as her hair withdraws. “Just wanted to remember,” she says. “What it’s like. To touch skin that wants to live.”

  I wipe my mouth, reseal the hydration pack. “It’ll be ten by the time I get there. Thanks for the tip.”

  You can call this place Aokigahara or you can call it Jukal, the sea of trees. Either way, it’s haunted.

  The forest grew 850 years ago after an eruption of Mount Fuji. Green things sank their roots after the lava cooled.

  The woods are very quiet. Little lives here except for ghosts and people on their way to joining them. Wind scarcely blows. Mists hang. Overhead, branches and leaves tangle into a roof underneath which the world is timeless and directionless.

  Everything is trapped.

  Everything is waiting.

  A pair of tennis shoes, sitting alone.

  Pants, voluminous over leg bones.

  A suicide note nailed to a tree: “Nothing good ever happened in my life. Don’t look for me.”

  The yurei, watching.

  The man hanging above the red tent smells like the shit his bowels just released. He has three gold teeth, an expensive watch, brand-name trainers, and a pack of money. I’m unclear on the point of taking cash into the forest, but people do what they do.

  Good scavenge, that’s sure. Most people have nothing when they come here to die. Easier to feel empty when your bank account’s the same.

  Scissors, nail clippers, a comb. Copy of Wataru Tsurumi’s Complete Manual of Suicide. Half of everyone who comes here carries that. Stupid book. Stupider people. Can’t even reject their lives without instructions.

  I’m about to toss it back when I hear a crunch in the undergrowth.

  Nearby.

  Damn it.

  Snap to my feet. Pull on my pack. Now I notice what greed blinded me to: where are the yurei around this fresh death? Other living people must be on their way. Scared the ghosts off.

  That yurei must have known. She trying to get me caught?

  The suicide watch is not going to be friendly when they realize I’m looting. I scramble, searching for a tree to climb. No way they won’t have heard me by now, but some are superstitious, might put noises down to yurei without really looking.

  I hear the smack of someone tripping. The swearing that follows is in American English.

  “Damn it to bugfucking, motherfucking hell!”

  I can see her now. American tourist wearing a downy red sweatshirt over jeans with sandals of all stupid things. Half-empty hydration pack hangs from her backpack. Either she can’t ration or she’s been hiking awhile.

  Young. Maybe fifteen, sixteen. Makeup and clothes are all-American, but can’t conceal Japanese eyes. Probably another fucking Nisei looking for her roots.

  I push into the shadows, thinking I’ll wait her out, but it turns out that despite being clumsy and unprepared, she’s not stupid.

 
“Sumimasen,” she says. “Eigo hanashimasuka?”

  She wants to know if I speak English. I have no intention of letting her know I do. “Gomen nasai. Eigo ga wakarimasen.”

  “Figures,” she mutters. “Just another slant-eyed motherfucker with half a brain.”

  I can’t stop my snarl in time. She cracks a grin.

  “Ha! Thought you did!”

  No point denying it. “What do you want?”

  “I’m lost.”

  I point over her shoulder at the tape path. “You can get out that way.”

  She squints. “I recognize you. In town. I stopped to use my phone. You were on the corner.”

  “Sorry, wasn’t me.”

  “Someone pointed you out. They said there aren’t many women who spend time up here. They said an onryo follows you around.”

  People should set up shop and charge for gossip the way they toss other people’s stories around. Everyone figures it’s fair game if there’s a ghost.

  I gesture at the trees. “You see an onryo?”

  “They didn’t say it followed you all the time.”

  I cross my arms. “What do you want?”

  “I need to find a yurei.”

  I point to the newly hanged man. “Wait around.”

  “No. I need to find a particular yurei. I need to find my father.”

  Here’s the thing about me: I came to Aokigahara when I was twenty-two, the year my onryo came for me. I’ve been here seven years since. Sure, I leave the trees, but I’m always here.

  I make my living scavenging. Selling valuables. Or, most of the time, not finding anything valuable and then hunting down buyers with too much death on their minds, people who want to thrill themselves with a hint of the haunted by buying detritus that once belonged to a suicide. Combs. Glasses. Rope from a noose. Remnants of lives abandoned.