The Miko - 02 (33 page)

It did not take him long to catch on. Because MacArthur had been advised to choose an indirect occupation—that is, working through the existing Japanese government instead of doing away with it entirely—the shrewd ministers of the bureaucracy found a way to protect themselves:
menjū fukuhai.
Okuda explained this to Nangi soon after he had been on the job long enough to have impressed his superiors with his skills and to have gained their trust.

“What we continue to do each day,” the vice-minister said, standing in the center of his small office, “is to follow the American orders so long as they are looking, then
reversing them in the belly
when they can no longer see what we do.”

And, as Okuda told Nangi, the bureaucracy had already passed its first crisis point. “One day Minister Hoshijima called me into his office. You could see just how agitated he was. He was pacing back and forth, back and forth. ‘Okuda-san,’ he said to me, ‘MacArthur is threatening to go to the people and have them ratify this new foreign document—what the Americans call a constitution.’ He turned to look at me. ‘Do you know what that would mean? We cannot allow the public direct participation in government if we are to keep our absolute power. A plebiscite would be the beginning of the end for us. We must all gather our power now and push for an immediate acceptance of the MacArthur constitution.’”

Okuda was smiling now. “And it was done, Nangi-san, in just this way.”

In the months ahead, it became plain to Nangi that the fate of Japanese bureaucracy had been set forever. For one thing, the country’s desperate need for economic recovery made it imperative that the legion of bureaucrats be expanded. For another, the political leaders who filtered through SCAP’s erratic and, to the Japanese anyway, illogical system were totally incompetent. The occupation forces had returned to power many politicians who had not worked in over twenty years. Time and again, Nangi would confront cabinet ministers who were forced to bring with them their vice-ministers, whom they turned to for answers to almost every question put to them.

Too, it became manifestly clear to him just how little power resided in the Diet. It was at Nangi’s own ministry where policy was hammered out and only then presented to the legislature for ratification.

In his new position Nangi was put in charge of carrying out many of MCI’s policies that his vice-minister was far too busy to oversee himself. One of these was mining manufacturing.

Morozumi Mining was only one of many fledgling companies in need of total restructuring that came under his purview. Almost all the senior executives had been purged and subsequently tried as class A war criminals since Morozumi had been revamped during the mid forties, becoming one of the leading producers of tri-nitrotoluene for the war effort. Its then standing director had been awarded several medals in 1944 from Tōjō himself for the company’s high levels of production.

But Morozumi was too well run to destroy entirely, and after the SCAP tribunal stripped the tree of all its boughs, it asked MCI to restaff the
konzern.
This Nangi was delighted to do since he was able to install Seiichi as production chief, a job which, in better times, might have been suspect for a young man just turned eighteen. But Seiichi was exceptionally bright and well schooled. Further, instinct had taught him how to act with men his elder, and thus his appointment passed without a ripple of protest from the vice-minister’s office.

With the money they had received from the T’ang Dynasty cups Obā-chama had given them—even in the worst of times mere are those enterprising few on the lookout for treasures—the two men had managed to rent a fair-sized apartment in Tokyo. Sato knew that his friend hated to give up such treasures; Nangi had fallen in love with the antique cups at the moment Obā-chama had first shown them to him. But they had had no choice.

As soon as they had a little money, Nangi had sent Seiichi to fetch Obā-chama. Her daughter had died shortly after Nangi had brought Sato home. And though she loved her little house in quiet Kyoto, age was making a solitary life more and more difficult for her.

One evening early in 1949 Nangi returned to the apartment somewhat early. As always, Obā-chama opened the door. She hurried to make tea, ignoring his protestations. With the tiny cups she brought out three freshly made rice cakes, a special treat in those times.

Nangi watched her distractedly as she went through the delicate tea ceremony, and when the pale green froth was at just the right thickness she withdrew the whisk and offered him the cup. When she had made her own and had taken her first sip, she judged the silence to have proceeded long enough without her intervention.

“If you have pain in your legs I will get your pills.” Age had made her more outspoken. In any case she saw no shame in soothing away hurts inflicted by the war. She was grateful that he, at least, had been spared as her Gōtarō-chan, her daughter, and her son-in-law had not.

“My legs are no better or worse, Obā-chama.”

Outside, the sounds of traffic ebbed and flowed as the convoys of military transports supervised by the Occupation Forces ran true to schedule.

“Then what is troubling you, my son?”

Nangi looked up at her. “It’s the ministry. I work very hard, and I know my ideas are forward thinking and innovative. And yet there seems no hope of advancement. Obi-san, who is younger than I am by more than a year and is nowhere near as quick and knowledgeable, has already been promoted to bureau chief. His
sotomawari
, his going around the track, as these series of postings are called, has already begun on the elite course.”

Nangi closed his eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears pearling there. “It is unfair, Obā-chama. I work longer hours than most. I come up with the solutions to problems. The vice-minister uses me when he’s stuck for an answer but he never invites me out to drink after work, he never confides in me. I am an outcast in my own bureau.”

“This Obi-san,” the old woman said, sitting like a Buddha, “he graduated from Todai as did your vice-minister, is that correct?”

Nangi nodded his head.

“And you, my son, what university did you graduate from?”

“Keiō, Obā-chama.”

“Ah.” Obā-chama nodded as if he had provided her with the key to the Rosetta Stone. “That explains it then. You are not of their faction. Do you so soon forget the history, of which my grandson is never loathe to tell me you are a
sensei
? Always the
samurai
-bureaucrat’s position depended on Imperial appointment, not on performance.” She took another sip of her tea. “Why should it be any different today? Do you think any
iteki
—barbarian—interference can change us that much?”

She snorted in derision. “But you, my son, must learn to work within the system.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Nangi said with an edge to his voice. “But I cannot swim against a tide. Keiō is not a well-known university. I know of only one other man in the ministry from there. He’s a junior and not a classmate, so he’s no use at all.”

“Oh, stop sniveling, Nangi,” Obā-chama snapped. “You sound like a baby. I’ll not have such a demeaning display in this house, is that clear?”

Nangi wiped at his eyes. “Yes, Obā-chama. I apologize. For a moment my frustration seemed too much to bear.”

Obā-chama snorted again and Nangi winced, now the object of her derision. “What do you know of the capacity to bear pain, disappointment, and suffering? You are only twenty-nine. When you get to be my age you might have some inkling although, Buddha protect you, I hope not.”

She squared her shoulders. “Now. We do what must be done. And that does not include crying over the inequity of a system which all young men must abide by. Obviously
gakubatsu
,** the first and, at least as far as the ministers are concerned, the strongest of the factions that will help you in your life, is of no use to you here. But there are others. We may rule out
zaibatsu
as well, since that bond is based on money and you have very little at this moment.

“That leaves
keibatsu
and
kyōdobatsu.
Of the first, as far as you have told me you are not related by blood or marriage to any minister or vice-minister and the chances of you marrying into such a family at any time in the near future seems nil. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Obā-chama,” Nangi said softly. The bursting of his months-long frustration had brought no relief. Rather it had given rise to a feeling of dull depression.

“Lift your head up, Tanzan-chan,” the old woman said. “I want to look in your eyes when I speak to you.” Nangi did as he was told. “You look as if all is lost, my son. It is not.” Her tone had changed, softening just a bit. “You speak to me of how ingenious your thinking is at the ministry. It is time to bring some of that home, to guide yourself.

“It is my understanding that in order to receive promotions each junior bureaucrat must have a senior to champion him. Tell me, my son, who is your
sempai
?”

“I have none, as yet, Obā-chama.”

“Ah.” The old woman put down her cup and folded her mottled hands in her lap. “Now we come to the root of the problem. You must have a
sempai.
” She knitted her brows together, her eyes crossed in concentration, the stylized
mie
used in the
kabuki
theater and in art. “The first three factions have been put aside, but what about
kyōdobatsu.
Have we, by chance, a vice-minister who comes, as you do, from Yamaguchi prefecture?”

Nangi thought for a moment. “The only bureaucrat of such senior position is Yoichirō Makita. He was born in Yamaguchi just down the road from me.”

“Well, then.”

“Obā-chama, Makita-san was minister of the Munitions Ministry during the war. He is now a class A criminal serving time in Sugamo Prison.”

Now Obā-chama smiled. “You have been so busy working away at your ministry you have no time to read the newspapers. Your Makita-san has been in the news lately. You know that as well as being munitions minister, Makita-san had also been granted cabinet minister status by Tōjō.” Nangi stared at her clear-eyed. It seemed as if he had suddenly awakened from a dream. What was in Obā-chama’s mind?

“When the Americans captured Saipan in 1944, Makita-san publicly expressed his belief that the war was over for Japan and that we should throw up our arms in surrender.

“Tōjō was outraged. Well, who can blame him, really. In those days the word ‘surrender’ had been struck from the language, and rightly so, in the spirit of the intense patriotism we all rallied around.”

“But Makita-san was right,” Nangi said.

“Oh, yes.” She nodded her gray head. “Just so. But Tōjō called him to task. Cabinet minister or no he would have no more of this defeatist talk. As the head of the
Kempeitai***
he could have had Makita-san executed. But he did not. As it happened the minister had a number of influential friends in the Imperial Household, the Diet, even the bureaucracy, and they were strong enough to stay Tōjō’s hand.”

Obā-chama picked up her tiny cup, poured herself more tea. “These facts have just come to light. Last week, Makita-san’s status was changed to unindicted class A war criminal and the machinery is currently under way to depurge him.” Those dark eyes watched Nangi carefully over the rim of the delicate tea cup. She swallowed and said, “You know, my son, Makita-san served as vice-minister of commerce and industry under three cabinets and as minister under a fourth. That would certainly make him
sempai
, would it not?”

“Hai.”

Obā-chama smiled charmingly. “Now eat your rice cakes, my son. I baked them especially for you.”

Sugamo Prison was a depressing place. It had nothing to do with the physical aspect of the place, which was altogether ordinary. In fact, in those areas not given over to cells, it might have been the repository for any one of the myriad ministerial bureaus housed across the city.

The indifference of those who ran Sugamo appalled Nangi more than anything else. Yes, there were
iteki
—as Obā-chama would call them—always present. But it seemed to Nangi as if the everyday administration of the prison had been given over to the Japanese, and it was the behavior of these people that affected Nangi so intensely. To a man they exuded the shame and indignity the SCAP forces had put them through incarcerating their own people. The daily horror of feeding, exercising, observing, and, most of all, punishing these war criminals was tattooed on their faces as clearly as if they were the inky artwork covering Yakuza flesh.

It took Nangi three weeks to burrow through the labyrinth of red tape guarding the entrance to Sugamo like a Gordian knot. His vice-minister was of some help, though the man himself was unaware that his signature on a form in triplicate helped Nangi open the steel-clad doors of the prison.

The scent of defeat rather than despair perfumed the atmosphere inside Sugamo. Bars were everywhere in evidence, and during his hours there the resulting striped sunlight gradually came to seem normal to Nangi.

Because Makita-san had been declassified and was in the process of being depurged, they allowed him to sit across from Nangi without the usual steel net screen between them.

Nangi could remember having seen Yoichiro Makita only once—in a photograph in the newspaper announcing his appointment as munitions minister. That man had been hearty and as rotund as a Chinese, with a fine, wide face and broad, heroic shoulders. The Makita who now appeared before him had another appearance entirely. His body had lost most of its weight. Because one could now see that he was a relatively large-boned man, his undermuscled flesh appeared as thin as the skin over it. He had an unhealthy pallor that made him appear almost jaundiced.

But oddest of all, his face had lost none of its roundness. If anything, that moonlike quality had inexplicably increased, bloating his features. All save his eyes, which seemed sunken in soft folds of meaty flesh.

Nangi expressed none of his dismay in either tone or movement, merely bowed formally as he introduced himself.