Akihito: A Counterfactual
Ceux qui dormaient se réveillèrent, et chacun se leva comme surpris dans son travail.
——Gustave Flaubert
They would like, by all means, to convince themselves that the striving after English happiness, by which I mean COMFORT and FASHION… is at the same time the true path of virtue.
——Friedrich Nietzsche
Why is it that … it is most often “culture?”
——Janam Mukherjee
I awoke, as always in summer, drenched——not so much in a start, but in the way one raises themself from a pile of filth, slowly, looking at one’s hands and arms. I felt it seeped through my nightshirt, though silk. I looked down at my crossed legs, and over around my back. I saw the puddle this time had nearly crept towards the Empress, who was asleep with her back to me. I then regarded my diminutive window a bit above my line of sight from where I sat up on the futon. Despite the broad tree-coverage of the imperial compound, the sleeping quarters faced the city directly. A two-paned view, framed by a stout tree in the left corner, a hedge row constituting the foreground, and the rest enveloped by medium-rise concrete.
Over breakfast, the aids buzzed around the day’s itinerary. I stared into my bowl of miso soup while I was told which documents and appointments were to be given my signature. Tomorrow, there was to be a semi-special ceremony in the early evening, my usual appearance and prayers at Meiji Shrine for the health of the nation and my own family. I used to dread these little visits, but, as I grew older, fewer and fewer people attended. Nowadays, there was the obligatory press photographer and my co-priest, who, though having known me for years, evidently hadn’t a word to say. Then there were the western tourists, who always looked wide-eyed at the priest in his intricate and dignified white jōe complemented by the appendage-like eboshi cap. Children sometimes made fish faces at him for its shape. Expecting some pastiche of divinity, the visitors were often confounded by the appearance of an older gentlemen in a western-style suit complete with morning coat. These people had often only seen such attire, both the jōe and the morning coat, in films, and maybe naturally assumed the older gentlemen was the Emperor’s butler or attendee. There was always a look of disappointment when my identity was revealed. But there were also the regulars, veritable Japanese, who came quietly each month. Some days, if I was feeling silly, I would give them a little wink, and the women would blush.
Today’s main event, though, commencing after sunset, was to be the Disney’s Imperial Family Royal Gala Ball. Commemorating the grand opening of Disneyland Tokyo, it was a media event; Disney characters and princesses would gather with lesser members from royal families the world over to dine and take photographs. F. Cordon Walker would preside, Mickey and I at his right and left hands. It was to be held here, at the Imperial Compound, in the Taishō Palace Hall and Convention Center, larger and more opulent than my own residence. I quite hated the Palace Hall and Convention Center. It was done in a simulacrum hybrid western-Japanese style, as if Walker himself had plucked it from his planned EPCOT Center. It was where I often received Prime Ministers’ wives for a tea shoot. After the events, some from the media (those standing in the back, on their tiptoes to grab a flash of our conversation) would approach me, bow, and ask humbly what words we had exchanged. They had seen our lips moving, accompanied by smiling, laughing, or furrowed brows if I happened to be receiving Gospazha Petrovna Brezhneva. In these moments, I suffered to keep a straight face——they surely saw us both there, even on their tiptoes, around the ornamental Kotatsu draped with a stylized pink chrysanthemum cloth, smiling, laughing, or with brows furrowed——without any interpreters. Perhaps the heaviest mantle was that I could never interact with ordinary Japanese.
My aids——they in suits, me in pajamas——did not hesitate to emphasize the importance of the event. Japan as a nation was honored to share another close link between a massive firm of her closest ally. Meanwhile, it was an opportunity to hang on our nose, as it were, the Emperor’s close rapport with Mickey and Minnie——to imbue envy in all the other royalty of upstart nations such that they would return home and embellish to their courts and, in some cases, sovereigns, Japan’s status as the most prosperous nation in all of Asia. Then, they emphasized this line of thought came directly from the Minister of Education, Science, Sports and Culture, the lesser world nations would have a slightly stronger breeze at their back in the direction of the rising sun.
At this point I looked up from my bowl and gave a weary smile. They saw I understood and left me to my morning leisure time. I donned a simple coat and tie and made my way to the imperial garage. It was connected to the residence by a short staircase. A vast, underground concrete box——my footsteps echoed off the walls. It could’ve held nearly thirty automobiles, but right towards the front was its only object, my prized possession, a white E20. My wife was not a motorist, and neither was my father, who, despite never learning how to drive, had liked to bring with him to the garage a western-style chair and sit and smoke and look at his collection, which filled the entire space. Sometimes he’d get into a car and sit in the driver’s seat. I’d sneak down there and watch him on occasion. He stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel, for a half hour.
I drove out into the stiff humidity, windows down, the pages of my notebook fluttering in the passenger seat. I went an easy 15 kilometers an hour, the speed limit in the compound. There was no one else on the road——why would there ever be?——but I stopped at all the stop signs. I never hurried, even when I was younger, when my son wanted to spend every extra second soaking in the sun by the pond. He used to bring his charcoal and paper to study the koi. I kept all his drawings in a drawer. One winter, holed-up in the morning, I pored over them, trying to select one or a few to display throughout the residence. He was gone by then. In my indecision, I wrote to ask him his favorite. I was dubious he would remember any of them; it had been so long, and there were so many. But they were numbered: 1-236, and in his response, he replied only “164.” His curt reply invigorated me, but I couldn’t recognize anything special in it. I held it up next to each drawing; it took days. I wore myself out and shoved them back in the drawer, where they remain, obscured by darkness. He still wrote to me, from his new life, commoner wife, in Asahikawa. He lived simply on his modest pension, having ample opportunity to draw, more than in his youth. The recent letters contained detailed watercolors of snowy landscapes, sometimes just a solitary, bare tree. I never liked snow or Hokkaido, even what little I saw on state trips: into a separate drawer they went and lived.
In winter, koi often huddle together in a corner, under the ice. In the heat, they dive and languor about. They space themselves apart, forming a multicolored, almost textile, pattern on the pond’s floor. Their eyes bulge and become partially blinded, such that the bird-of-prey come in the midday to rearrange the weft and warp. It was a kind of pleasure to see who survived the season, which colors shined brighter. Others often put nets over their ponds in the summer, but mine spared no expense. It was a multiple function: the birds had to eat; in the past my son wanted to draw; and I needed a kind of personal variety in my day, an excuse to take out the car and check in to see what had changed. I always attended the restocking, because I was the one who determined the pond’s salinity, its temperature. Seasonally, I changed the décor, the landscaping, and the rock formations. One or two fewer Lili pads, an extra shrub on the perimeter, a large stone in the center. In truth, I was Japan’s foremost koi scientist, yearly conducting experiments with unlimited budget. I bought the same colors from the same breeders each year. I kept notebooks that enumerated each specimen——their descriptions, their daily behaviors, their environment, their dates of death.
Alas, or hurrah, none had perished since yesterday. My notes were sparce. I sat in the dirt, in my trousers, and looked directly into the sun. Its ray enveloped me; it blinded and warmed. I moved to my back, felt the earth with my palms, and turned my head to the side, towards the bamboo thicket. For a moment, I enjoyed a dance of pinks and blues. I imagined they were little yo-kai, the ones from the classical children’s stories I used to read to my son, the one’s my own father, in spite of himself, read to me. They ran amok, causing mischief between the shoots.
Soon, another engine approached. An aid stepped out of the car, turned his back towards me, and announced the Emperor ought to be on his way in preparation of the Gala Ball. I was in no hurry; I made no response. I took fistfuls of dirt, then released them. He began to grow impatient, repeatedly going up on his tiptoes and down again. I took a long sigh, wiped my hands on my trousers, planted the heel of my hand, and arose. He finally turned, having heard me dignify my posture. I wiped them again, this time on my coat. He frowned, opened his passenger door, extended his hand:
“Feel free to accompany me, Your Highness. Rest assured I will send someone along to retrieve the imperial sedan.”
I ignored him and traipsed on to my own possession. I departed the pond area, with him still holding open his door. I cruised the outer perimeter of the compound for a time, taking occasional detours to pull over and stop in groves. When I finally returned to the imperial garage, he was already there waiting for me. He made not a word as I stepped out and climbed the stairs. I opened the door for myself.
They fretted all about me, mightily, in the dressing room. Someone had failed to dry clean the white bow ties; thus, one was sent to the tailor. The clock was ticking, someone said Walker and Mickey had already arrived. I sat there, tieless, while they applied my makeup. The dispatched returned, short of breath: no tailor had a white bowtie befitting the Emperor’s evening ware. A collective wailing, like that at a funeral, erupted among my attendees:
“We now besmirch our honor. We shall have to ask the Duke of Gloucester if he has brought additional ties.”
“But who will we send? Has he yet arrived?”
“I’ll go,” I ventured.
The collective nearly fainted.
“Absolutely not!”
“What about the Empress?” my suggestion.
An uncomfortable shifting, but no objections.
The lead aid came forward: “We’ll dispatch her at once, Your Majesty.” He knew well none of the aids could ask; it would be ungracious. He stepped to my side and took a deep bow, such that his forehead was gently pressed against my ear. Without looking up, he whispered: “Your Majesty, if you had come at first request, there would have been ample time to have the bowties dry cleaned.” I only smiled.
We were all silent. A handmaid entered the dressing room with her hands behind her back. All eyes were locked onto her. She scurried in front of me, in my chair, adjusted with one hand her ornate light blue kimono patterned with simple-style chrysanthemums, went upon her knees, bowed so that her nose nearly touched the floor, and held up to me a white bowtie. None smiled or cheered, and the only sound was that of the lead stylist’s pattering as she went to receive what was presented to me. After it was taken from her hands, the handmaid stood and announced:
“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, the Duke of Gloucester will no longer be in attendance. He admitted he was inadequately prepared for the event, not anticipating contingencies and only having brought one recently cleaned, brilliantly pressed royal white bowtie. He related to Her Highness that the tie box was so large he only had room for one in his luggage. However, as such, it has been excellently preserved against the misgivings of air travel. He was more than happy to sacrifice his role for Your Majesty’s honor, and insisted, against Her Highness’s protestations, that your Majesty should keep it, that it was a gift from his royal family to yours.”
She bowed again, this time standing, and left at an unhurried but not leisurely pace. Silence reigned again, until the lead aid started suddenly. He clomped out of the room without a word and closed the door in such a way that he very nearly slammed it shut but restrained it at the last second before it met the threshold, such that it closed with only a small click. It was unclear to me whether he was off to apologize to the Duke or to Mickey.
I was shuffled off, finally fully dressed, into the reception hall. The stage on which I stood——left of Walker as anticipated——was made of marble and was three steps up from the floor of the hall. The hall was rectangular, which created a kind of corridor that led to the stage. The square stage itself did not meet the back wall, though, because it was surrounded by a sort of Buddhist pavilion ciborium. It was perversely all white, the main body done in a dignified plaster. The roof, though, like the ground below it, was all marble. It was a traditional irimoya-style roof, though lacking a distinctly Japanese karahafu gable. This absence rendered the pavilion a recognizable Chinese character. The marble itself imitated the cylindrical clay tiling almost always done on dignified temples, and the four corners of the roof sloped up at the ends. A keen eye could tell that the stage wasn’t distanced properly from the back of the hall, such that the rear two sloping edges of the roof were shorter than the front two. There was a false roof under the primary, which jutted out in rectangular prismatic beams, distinguishing itself from the cylindrical marble. The false roof was done in plaster, though, which rendered the whole thing off-putting. On the top and center of the roof, in lieu of a pyramid point, was an ornament meant to resemble the rising sun. Under the roof was a kind of swallowed up box, a mock room——in typical fashion it was much smaller than the roof itself. These would usually have two sliding doors at the front and walls all around, but, as this was a mock room, the four horizonal sides each had four thin white pillars, rendering it open-air but awkward. Where the mock room met the false roof was a small rectangular transom where the pillars ended. It was done out of white stone and contained relief work of Japanese drinking tea, folding origami, drawing calligraphy, and pruning bonsais. It was done cheaply——it was a last-minute addition of the western architects——as such the figures were deformed. Some had their eyes too large; some wore strange expressions that resembled a perverse enjoyment.
From where I stood at Walker’s left, my view was slightly obscured by one of the thin pillars. The hall was replete with small, circular, white tables. White tablecloths, white chairs, walls, ceilings: blinding. I could see how the evening would progress——a procession of international royals, each accompanied by a Disney character, would enter through the big, white stone doors. They would walk to the stage, awkwardly navigate through the pillars to hug Mickey, shake Walker’s hand and give a little comment, give me a respectful bow, pretend to exchange words, take a picture with all five of us scrunched humiliatingly between the center opening of the four pillars. They would then be escorted to their table by the character, whence it would go out the side door for a rest and, presumably, a smoke. After the procession, Walker would give a big speech, propose a toast to me and to Disneyland, forcefully exclaim kanpai as him and I drank a choko of sake, and everyone would dine. A course of salmon and tuna nigiri appetizers, then big juicy steaks for all. After the dinner, we would recess and mingle.
We were standing on-stage waiting for the procession to start. When I arrived Walker looked at me, smiled, and gave a paltry bow. Then he stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge me again. He kept checking his watch, it seemed everything was behind schedule. I noticed Mickey was, quite oddly, in a pastel yellow kimono, complete with an obi that bore his three circled image. Walker wore a typical black western business suit——notably not white tie, as were the directions for all Japanese state dinners, balls, and galas. He wore a blue striped tie and no waistcoat. I was there, in my double-breasted tailcoat, upturned collar, and the mischievous white bowtie. I stood with my hands behind my back and stared at the floor.
There was no band, so a great fanfare played from hidden speakers commenced the procession. It was led by Queen Fabiola of the Belgians, accompanied by Cinderella. They walked down the aisle, the corridor bounded by tables and chairs to the facsimile pavilion, whereon they came to have their picture made. The queen sidled next to Walker, sticking Mickey on the end, and Cinderella’s wig jostled a smidge when she politely nudged me further to the left, taking Walker’s other side. I stood with my hands behind my back and gleamed a smile. Flash photography always bothered me, less the light itself but the suddenness of the flash. There was only one photographer present——lucky. It was unclear if there was a media prohibition, a thought which puzzled me. In fact, the royal photographer was absent, and I had not been made aware. Then, in laggard turn, each with their own escort, who, without fail took Walker’s direct left side, came Princess Stéphanie of Monaco, Princes Magriet of the Netherlands, Infanta Federica Victoria Antonia de la Santísima Trinidad de Borbón y de Grecia, Crown Prince Vajiralongkorn, Prince Fatafehi ‘Alaivahamama’o Tuku’aho, Princess Farahnaz Pahlavi, and on and on, accompanied by a slew of Disney royalty, most of whom I did not recognize.
Each new royal seemed to take longer to approach the stage, each photo needed longer setup, each flash more disorienting. My mind began to drift; I became a child again. I was peering from behind the curtain, then I was taken away. I became a teenager again. I ran from my dressing room. I became a young man again. My father had something to tell me.
I stood in the doorway of his study. Cigar smoke filled the room. He asked me to, please, sit. I remained there tepidly. The light poured from behind me, from the hallway. I saw him lower his long face, and his eyes struck me over his classes. I sat with a huff. He rose to his bookshelf and sat before me, on his desk, Kakuzō’s Book of Tea. I told him I already drank tea. He turned to a page:
“The wanton waste of flowers among Western communities is even more appalling than the way they are treated by Eastern Flower Masters.”
I told him would that he lightened his study with some flowers, and the tops of the mass graves. He rose his right hand to strike me, so I ran away and hid behind the open door in the hallway. I heard a strange silence. I returned to the doorway, tepidly, and the light poured from behind me. He sat, limp against his chair, body and head tilted somewhat to the left, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his mouth agape. His left hand lay in his lap, and the risen fell off to the side onto the armrest of his leather and burnt-dark-wood-clad-then-finished desk chair. His wrist was limp.
Someone cleared their throat. I saw in front of me Princess Hala of the house of Saud. I looked to my right. Walker, leaned slightly forward, was staring at me; Mickey was staring at me. Daisy Duck, who, curiously, had been her escort, was staring at me. I looked in front of me, past the princess. Everyone was still, I heard not a breath. I realized the whole while I had been smiling. My cheeks were sore. She wore a long, patterned floral, yet darkly shaded dress. It was rather loose on her. It gave hardly any definition to her figure, and it did not accentuate her breasts——she might have been absent a brasier. She wore black shocks and shiny black leather shoes, something disturbing between a ballet flat and a penny loafer. Her dress had long sleeves, and she wore no hijab. Her hair was a medium length, but it was messy, slightly curled, and not frizzy, like black somersaults. Her posture was somewhat slouched, and she put her weight slightly on one leg. On the whole, she seemed quite boyish. I could even see droplets of perspiration on her upper lip and forehead; her brown skin reflected the bright lights of the all-enveloping whiteness.
“Excuse me? Your Highness?” she said, in comprehensible Japanese.
I heard the whole room exhale, but not of relief. And I felt their inhales timed with my leaning in towards her.
She began to jostle her right arm. It caught my gaze, and I saw a glint. She stepped back with her left foot, brought back her arm, then with full force brought the knife to bear into the side of my neck. I felt the cold metal slice throat my throat and trachea and jugular. It was an unrivaled pain. My body tensed, and a woman screamed, but no one else made a sound, and no one moved. I thought I might’ve heard the twinkling of stars.
She removed the blade, and blood immediately spewed forth the wound. The crowd screamed and began to stampede. I stumbled towards the left and brought the same-sided hand to my neck. There I stayed hunched and slouched. I heard the thuds of costume heads hitting the floor. I heard the flash of a camera. I heard Walker retching, and I felt the torrent of blood against my hand. I felt myself choking and my consciousness dimming.
But I lifted myself from a slouch and stood straight up. I removed my hand, whence the blood splattered onto the floor in bursts and starts. I looked Princess Hala in the eyes, and I saw fear in them, a cowering at my erect posture.
Suddenly, a crash came from the front of the hall, over the head of the grand entryway. A circular hole had been blown in the wall, and the still dispersing crowd screamed yet louder and dodged falling debris. A circular ray of rainbow light penetrated through the hold. It enveloped me, and only me. I looked away from Princess Hala and into the beam.
I saw fire. Red, blazing, consuming fire. Miles wide and meters high. I saw it contract and expand, like lungs. I heard the screams of people with it stuck onto their body, trapped in an alleyway or in a room or under debris. Babies, babies crying, curdling cries. Mothers dragging charred little corpses by the arm, unaware. I saw roofs caving in and embers rising up, all the way into heaven. I saw grandmothers fall down the stairs and break their hip on the floor, suffocating before they cooked. I saw the gods evaporated. I saw them fall from bundles and shatter. A father went back into the house to get his father’s watch. A mother could not run back in because none of her three children could walk——two too young and one injured. She held one in each arm, the other clinged onto her back, her neck. I saw from above, way above, and it was smoldering because there was so much smoke. On the ground it raged brightly, like a soul, like the sun, above it was obscured like the night sky of a new moon. I saw those ablaze jump into the rivers, only to be boiled alive. Their floating skin grew taut. I saw cattle lowing in the street. A horse trampling an elderly man, only to run off the missing bridge in confusion. Objects strewn from where bundles had fallen: hand mirrors, gloves, combs, tins, glasses, buttons, pencils, notebooks, silverware, portraits, grains of rice. They surrounded still bodies like aspects of effigy images. I saw the sky a deep yet bright, encompassing red. It tore through the black smoke. The air was red. The fleeing shadows were red. My own palms were red. The sun had set; the East was red. A little child with a doll standing in the street, between two raging, crackling, roaring, walls sobbing, sobbing while standing, with its arms at its side, calling mommy or daddy or brother or doggy. I saw doggy, near a pile of rubble, on its back like a cockroach.