Mr Okada's Manor

Reginald didn’t know what he was expecting, but he certainly wasn’t expecting this. At all.

His first visit to Japan hadn’t gone well so far. While he very much enjoyed his visit to Kyoto, with its majestic temples and quite spectacular gardens, that peace was disturbed during a short but informative visit to Kyoto University that resulted, among other things, in him having to change his trousers after being egged and branded a “Western Imperialist.” He did not mind in the least however, he was here for one reason. He cared little for politics, anyway. He was much more interested in the house he was standing in front of. The spring air hit him, which only served to remind him of his farm back home.

“Bloody Commies!” Simon Fitzsimmons growled, wiping yolk from his tie. “We release these children from fascism and this is what they choose to do with their lives? Ridiculous.”

“I brought you on this trip to help seal the deal, Simon. Try not to let your bigotry show when we’re in another man’s home, much less his country.”

Reginald watched Simon’s face go through about sixteen different emotions. Ever the patriot and certainly less inclined to travel than Reginald, Simon let his feelings play out in silence until reaching the end, when he finally decided to quietly mutter, “This happens when you stray too far from home.”

Reginald laughed. “Ah yes, because only a true Englishman would view broadening your horizons as a betrayal of the nation. Come now, old friend, nationalism like that served during the Blitz for sure, but now we’re on holiday! You might try to enjoy yourself a little.”

“My loyalty to the Crown still serves me when any number of Reds could be at this soiree you’ve dragged me to.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake Simon! I’m sure if one of Brezhnev’s men were to pop out from behind a cupboard, you could quickly dispatch them with your SAS fisticuffs. I’m here to secure a translation deal, not defend the free world, much as I would like to.”

Simon remained silent after that, and he did not want to continue the conversation. Arguments like this always occurred when they met. 

They had known each other since primary school and even then, Simon’s parents always viewed Reginald as something of a lower-class boy. Simon’s father would constantly tell the boys of his heroism during the First World War and then casually remark after that, the fact that Reginald’s father in fact did not serve. This level of national pride had always troubled Reginald as a boy, and now that Simon had spent years spouting the same rhetoric, it troubled him even more.

Still, he wasn’t in Japan to argue with his friend. Reginald was here to meet one of his heroes. He couldn’t help an excited gasp as he could finally gaze upon the manor house of Japan’s newest rising literary star, Seiji Okada.

Mr Okada’s manor was certainly out of place. It was certainly odd for the two Englishman to see a home that would not be out of place in the Sussex countryside. Painted white with a brown thatched roof and a giant cast iron gate at its front, It was something that both of them were used to seeing at their local debating society garden parties. What it was doing in the middle of a bastion of Shinto culture like Kyoto, Simon couldn’t guess. Not that this was the focus of his attention, though. He tapped Reginald on the shoulder and pointed up at the roof.

“Christmas lights? Diner signs? What’s going on here?”

“Oh, right, you wouldn’t know. Okada-s…Mr Okada is a bit eccentric.

Simon scoffed. “You don’t say. The lights are a bold choice but how far does it go?”

“Oh um, Mr Okada tends to…Forgo anything Japanese.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say his political views are more likely to align with yours than mine. Big fan of Nixon.”

“I don’t follow.”

Reginald sighed. For someone so clever Simon could be dense. If the subject didn’t interest him, you may as well be talking to a scarecrow. “Did you read Mr Okada’s novel I translated? Camaraderie under Malice?”

“Of course not. You know I’m not one of those artsy types, I don’t have the time…no offense, of course, Chap.”

“Oh, none taken. The point is, the novel is about a Japanese soldier who gets captured by the Americans and through spending time with them and learning about the American way of life, defects and fights for the allies. Very Anti-Imperial. Caused quite a stir when published in the summer.”

Simon let out a whistle. “I can imagine. How has he managed to survive? I bet the nationalists are crying bloody murder.”

“I imagine his fame affords him a degree of protection. Besides, look at Japan’s economy, it’s booming so loud it almost makes America look poor. To be so vocally anti-capitalist now would make you look foolish.”

A smile played across Simon’s lips, “Here here!” He took much joy out of watching my shoulders slump as we approached the door to Mr Okada’s home. The steps were lined with stone statues of cowboys, British royal guards, astronauts and Mickey Mouse. While Reginald personally admired Seiji and his boldness. It was one reason he wanted to translate his book. He too wondered how the author remained safe with such glaring anti-Japanese sentiment in his work and his home decor. It seemed that Mr Okada took care of the rest of the building. Surely he had the money to get repair work done thanks to the sale of his book. Not that it was any of his business, mind you.

“You weren’t joking about our boy being a few fruit shy of a cake. I wonder if the good author has a wife.” Simon was still riding high from the patriotism from earlier. Reginald knew better than to talk him down. He hoped he didn’t embarrass him too much.

There was nothing for it now but to knock on the door.

Obviously not being as conscious about his need to be polite, Simon was first. His rhythmic knocking irritated Reginald. He noticed, however, that as soon as the knocking had finished, they could hear music from inside. Faint nineteen twenties jazz mingled with a barrage of chatter as the door opened. A smell of wood and alcohol entered the nostrils of the two men as they stepped inside.

“How could you be so rude!? Reginald chided Simon. “Are you five? Have you forgotten how to enter a home politely?”

“Oh, don’t give me that Reggie! This place doesn’t feel right. Let’s just find the Okada fellow and do what you need to do. I need a bath.”

It really would’ve been impolite to bicker like an old married couple in someone else’s house. Reginald couldn’t help but agree with his friend. The whole experience to this point had seemed rather surreal. Not that he was going to judge people for their lifestyle and preferences, but this had taken a lot more emotional energy out of him than he expected. As excited as he was, he agreed internally that it would probably be best just to quickly find Mr. Okada, sign the contract and leave.

Despite the party atmosphere, the house wasn’t much improved on the inside when compared to the outside. Cobwebs caked every layer of the walls and ceiling, sickly yellow paint peeled from the walls and there was a strong smell of…Perfume? Aftershave? Detergent? Something was covering up an underlying layer the men could not sense. Exiting the hallway and entering the kitchen, they found a man slumped in a dining chair. His shallow face and sunken eyes gave Reginald the creeps, but he found he was muttering something under his breath. Reginald leaned in and heard, “Seiji, Seiji Seiji.”

“Yes hello, I am looking for Mr Seiji Okada. Would you happen to know where I could find him?” There was only the slightest of changes in his facial expression at the mention of Seiji’s name, but not much else. Reginald noticed the marks on his arms, but decorum kept him from saying anything. They left the kitchen.

“This is madness Reggie! I know you’ve always been the more tolerant of the two of us, but if I had any idea you would send me into a drug den I would’ve refused to come here!” He could see that Simon was genuinely mad now and, to be quite honest, he was too. He had always known that Seiji was eccentric, and it was true that the letters they had exchanged had been full of melancholy on his end, yet until now, Reginald had just put that down to the trappings of fame. If something had happened to Seiji, he needed to know what.

“You can leave if you want, Simon.”

“Oh, like hell I am! Just wait until we get back to England, I’m going to make sure everyone-” Reginald decided it would probably be best to continue to locate Seiji…Best was probably an understatement at this point, but something in his stomach felt wrong. Simon could do whatever he liked at this point, he wasn’t leaving until he had permission to publish his translation. A few steps down the hallway from the kitchen, after trawling through what seemed a battlefield worth of drunk and coked up bodies, he noticed a woman giggling loudly, eternally spinning on an office chair.

“Excuse me Miss, I was wondering if-”

“Wheeeeeeeeee! Oh, gee Mister you’re old.” The woman was in her mid thirties. However, her childlike way of speaking and what appeared to be an obsession on her appearance showed that she was aiming to appear much younger. Her bleach blond hair and mountains of makeup make her almost look like Marilyn Monroe, if it wasn’t for the telltale signs of alcohol use. She appeared Japanese. It was unusual for a Japanese person to behave with such wild abandon, at least as far as his limited worldview understood. What was going on here?

“Yes, I get that a lot. Could you please tell me where Seiji Okada is? I’m here on business and I’m going home tomorrow. I need to speak with him urgently.”

“Sei-kun!” She perked up briefly before remembering herself and slumping back into the chair. “Dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? It’s his party, is it not?”

“Well, yeah, but no one’s seen him all day. He just told everyone to bring drugs and booze.” She giggled. “Did you?”

“No, I did not! I would appreciate it if you would tell me where I could find him, any hint at all would be great.”

The woman didn’t respond, and Reginald noticed she began to talk into herself as if she had forgotten that he was there entirely. She had a glazed over look in her eyes and whispered in a low voice. Almost as if wanting to speak inside herself. “Seiji is sorry. He didn’t mean to tell lies. He tried so hard, it all got a bit much for him…A bit too much.”

“What are you talking about?” Reginald was confused, but as he watched the woman fall asleep over the boom of the gramophone and Cole Porter show tunes, he decided he would find no one in the mountains of bodies and sweat and filth.

But as he took a step onto the first broken stair of the staircase, he smelt something much worse. A smell so recognisable that it took him all the way back to the beaches of Normandy when he and his friends defended the world against a tyranny he had hoped to never see again.

Death.

Reginald ran up the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him. He let the smell guide him. He did his best not to vomit, although that was becoming increasingly difficult to do as he approached Mr. Okada’s room. The door was stained with alcohol and had pieces of glass lodged in the wood. Reginald had no doubt about what he would see when he opened the door.

Inside the room, dressed in a flamboyant pink and yellow pinstripe suit and a revolver placed haphazardly in his lap, was the dead body of Mr. Seiji Okada. Reginald crossed himself. He had sworn off religion after the war, yet in situations like this, the Lord has a way of inserting Himself, whether or not we want Him to.

Seiji’s room was a mess. Reginald must’ve counted hundreds of various bits of paper with various markings on them. He cautiously took steps into the room, picking up bits that caught his eye. One of them, a school report, noted, “Okada does not follow instructions well, has no talent for physical activity and has almost no social or leadership skills. The staff worry about his feminine tendencies.” Reginald could not help but laugh at that. They would never meet now, but at least he knew they had a hatred for the education system in common.

Reginald continued to walk around the room. He noticed photographs of Seiji when he was a child. Some with family, some school photos. In all of them, he looked incredibly depressed. It was almost as if the myth of the camera sucking out your soul from the Victorian era was true for him. He had no life at all. On the photograph there were words written in Kanji such as “weakling”, “failure” and “disgrace.” Reginald had hoped that someone else wrote them, but given the shaky hand it had been penned in, he guessed in was Seiji’s.

How could Reginald not know the man was in such distress, while it was true that they had only exchanged letters a couple of times, surely his anguish must’ve been noticeable? Of course? It was normal not to show your feelings too often, especially to strangers, but anguish like this must’ve come through. How could you’ve missed it? He promised himself that he would not cry for this man and continued to search the room.

Taking care to step past the dead body, he noticed that upon the writer’s desk there was a giant pile of letters. Each one carefully contained in a leather envelope with a wax seal not too dissimilar from a Medieval royal seal. The dust collected on them showed they had been there for a good while, and while it was considered extremely rude in both countries to go snooping around somebody else’s belongings, Reginald could not resist the compulsion to find out more about his now dead almost companion. He saw too hundreds of copies of a book, carelessly abandoned in the corner of the room.

His book? Why would they be there?

 Oddly enough, the addresses on the envelopes were written in English. It appeared that Seiji Had much more correspondence with the English-speaking world as he did the Japanese, although one could’ve guessed that much would’ve been obvious. Nearing the bottom of the pile, he found a letter addressed to a Mr Reginald P Waters. A letter for him. Taking a knife off the table and carefully undoing the wax seal, he opened it

Dear Reginald.

My sincerest apologies we could not meet in person. Further apologies for the glum nature of my letters of late. It has recently come to my attention that I no longer wish to be living and I wanted to tell you in writing.

In our correspondence, you recently told me that sometimes you struggle with society versus yourself. That you consider yourself to be much softer than society would dictate you be. I feel the same way.

My schooling was very difficult. You see, during the war, everyone was expected to be a soldier, even if you weren’t one, but I…I was never cut out for that type of life. Like you, I didn’t really enjoy sports, like you, I didn’t really have any friends and, like you, I would much rather be buried in a book than fixing a gun. Japanese society wouldn’t have me that way, so I didn’t want to have it.

Being a westerner, you probably wouldn’t understand the freedom that your society appeared to give somebody like me. You don’t understand the joy of seeing all the different people that existed, To see homogeny disappear. I longed to live life like that so much, but I couldn’t get there. Therefore, in an outburst I can only consider childish. I wrote Camaraderie under Malice.

It probably came across to you as a bit fanciful didn’t it? It definitely was, and I am ashamed of it. So I am ashamed of the lie I told you. I’m sorry, my friend, but there was no sale of the book. There was no media storm. I lied to you because I’m a coward.

Even in my adulthood, all I wanted to do was find a place to belong and with all my intellect and my literary skill, I couldn’t even imagine that place for myself. I’m sorry, my friend. I wish we could’ve met in person. I think I would’ve liked you.

Love

Seiji

Reginald held the letter and wept.