A Snow, on Cherry Blossoms - 11

A novella

2

15 January 1905

It is odd that I am reflecting on the works of Hiroshige – And his pictures of Edo. While pain freezes up and down my spine, it is to be passed that my thoughts return – to a time where it was not Tokyo - “East Capitol” - but just the seat of a warlord. However, do not be fooled – Edo was the real capital, though Kyoto was the place where the God-Emperor rained. It depends on whether you want fictional power, or real.

Hiroshige painted both humanity and naturality with great feelings – often the 2 were assembled in different ways in the same woodcut. I remembered a scene where on the left there papers and streamers in the foreground were, and boots and another building in the mid-ground – but then there was the blue water and green mountains – and then beyond that the white sky with a tone that consumed all.

I drank my green tea and considered.

Thinking on this, where does power lie? Is it in the imaginary world of, or in the paper walls that make up the decision, or is it out in the field, where theory translates to cold hard practice? Because it is in the translation that things which should be obvious in hindsight, are not clear when the decision is made. When the world compresses to one head it must encapsulate all of the reasoning that can be brought to bear. Not in hindsight, with a large number of books – but in the cold light of simple lines and simple equations. There is not to do an experiment, but only to group around with such means as one has available. This is why things such as Hiroshige's paintings are so because they make a form out of what is only words. They paint a story that can be duplicated, by setting the phases of humanity, within which are the poetry of the world. We must conquer bit by bit our own story.

'Ourself' is a canvas, a canvas on which we paint our feelings and our desires. When I was getting dressed to go out on my mission – I asked a nurse what had happened to my mate. She did not know that there was anything between us, so she just remarked that he was dead – after I had been taken away, for the abuse which came from – he was beaten, very quickly and with no great significance. Inside I wept, but outside there was no trace.

Instead, I looked for the Naval officer assigned to intelligence – and when finding him, learning that he had sent men to find me, retired back to a tent that he had set up. a number of flat tables and one secretaire, which was made in Europe, upon which were stacked papers and a few photographs. I again noticed that there was only one chair, and immediately the officer sat down in it leafing through some papers until he found the one he wanted. He looked down at the sheaf of papers, then up to me: “We have information from on high that the Russians are sending one of their most versatile spies. He is signed to blow up either one of the bridges or some sections of track – or because we do not know how many people are assigned to him.”

“Is that all?” Hoping that it was – but fearing that it was not.

He saw that my face was mottled – deciding at that point there to assign me more work. He turned over to a small field desk – of the kind that American officers used frequently – and immediately fished out another set of papers.

“If you accomplish that, then protect the bridge until our men are able to cross it.” his spectacles for reading material close at hand slid down his nose, and his eyes met mine. “Get on the next train, aboard the carriage – you will be the only one on it, and you will be delivered before the troops take their positions. It is an urgent thing we send you on.” I remember thinking, and a suicidal one, you should take a man's life. But that would be an admission that no one wanted to make, even though it was the truth.

After that, it was no trouble to find the wide flat concrete station – with a corrugated roof just put up – and got on the forwardmost passenger compartment before the regular men. They had not even been allowed to board – my existence was a secret. waiting until the vestibule stopped, and then clambering up the steps to the door. Then I looked beyond the train, to observe the beginnings of mountainous foothills that would take me to – and my mission. It was already the dead of night, and we would only be going very little ways until we were deposited on a makeshift endpoint. It was a truly sorry trip for the men who would soon be fighting – but it was truly the end of the fighting, and the various European powers would have to admit that the Empire of the Sun had a place at the table.

Inside the carriage, it was spare – the passenger seats were low. It had not occurred to me, but the Russians had used our passenger cars, rather than supplying them themselves. Looked around at the scarlet wallpaper and for electric light bulbs - which were the only thing that they bothered to install. It was cramped, and noisy, and already I could hear the steam whistle from the outside. I sat down and after some time the train moved in a rather rickety motion – to the front line. Though I looked out the window, I could see nothing at all – the only thing that could be heard was the horn, as well as the whistle. I stumbled around to find that the only luxury was a teapot – and I drank two cups, intellect void and waiting while scribbling these words on a wave.