Free The China Lover by Ian Buruma Page A

of the train. The smell inside was still overpowering. We opened the window, but the late autumn air was too chilly, so Ri asked us to close it. “Why the hell can’t we keep going?” asked Hasegawa, who was not used to being held up. “Bandits,” said the officer, who pulled a flask of saké from his tunic, took a swig, and slipped it back into his pocket.
    “So what about a song, then?” the officer persisted. Ri told him that would be impossible. In the middle of the night, without a stage, or a microphone, or any light at all. “My, your Japanese is good,” said the officer and hissed politely through his teeth.
    Soon all the lights were turned off inside the compartments and we were in the dark, with nothing but the sound of moaning and coughingmen, and once in a while a disembodied scream. Sleep was impossible. Several officers came in with torches and asked for autographs. One of them insisted that Ri should sing. It would comfort the men, remind them of home, get them through the night. He would provide her with a torch, which she could shine on her face. Hasegawa instructed her that she should always think of her fans. At last, she shrugged her shoulders and relented.
    But this was easier said than done, for there were bodies everywhere in the corridor, some barely alive. I followed Ri through the train to protect her. We kept treading on arms and legs, as she sang, eliciting soft moans and the occasional curse. At first she was almost inaudible. The sounds of distress, the bodies, and the darkness were unnerving. But as she slowly made her way, from compartment to compartment, her torchlit face the only visible spot in the entire train, something magical happened: her voice gained strength and the moaning stopped. It was as though an angel had stepped into this hellish place. “China nights, ah China nights . . . the junk floating upstream, the ship of dreams, China nights, nights of our dreams . . .” Then “If Only,” and the men sang softly with her, a ghostly chorus in the dark: “If only you would love me, if only you’d be true . . .” And then, the unforgettable sound of hundreds of grown men sobbing.

   10   
    T HERE WAS NOTHING wrong with the first part of our trip to Tokyo. Ri, Meng Hua, Menchukuo’s second biggest star, and myself boarded the train at Shinkyo Station, where the Manchurian studio staff gave us a wonderful send-off. All the actors and actresses were there, as well as the technical staff, dressed in their uniforms, waving little Japanese and Manchukuo flags, shouting words of encouragement, as a brass band played songs of farewell. In the middle of the station hall Amakasu stepped onto a wooden podium, festooned with the Manchukuo colors, and gave a speech, in that hoarse voice of his, which was difficult to hear over the din of hissing steam and people singing songs of farewell. I remember that he mentioned his great personal pride in sending the finest flowers of Manchukuo to our imperial homeland as “the ambassadresses of friendship.”
    Ri was so excited about the prospect of visiting her ancestral country for the first time that she could barely sit still all the way to Pusan. The train was not as comfortable as the silver-clad Asia Express, and considerably slower, but unless it had to stop for snowdrifts or bandit raids, at least it was always on time. I tried to catch some sleep after we passed Ando and crossed the frozen Yalu River into the Korean peninsula. It was dark outside. All we saw of Ando were a few flickering lights far in the distance. The train’s whistle sounded lonely, like a wandering ghost. But Ri was wide awake, her eyes shining with anticipation.She couldn’t stop talking, about the Nichigeki Theater, where she would star in a gala performance celebrating Manchukuo-Japanese friendship, and the sights of Tokyo, and the various entertainments to be laid on by famous figures of the literary and cinematic worlds, whom she had met when