Fireflies by Ben Byrne Page B

at his linguistic limit. He shook his head. “No die. Sick.”
    â€œThe bomb? The bomb made her mother sick?”
    He nodded fervently. “ So, desu. ”
    A memory came to my mind. The surrender issue of LIFE , back in September, MacArthur’s face glaring from the cover. There’d been a set of photographs of Hiroshima, shots of mangled factories. Toward the end, there’d been a brief reference to reports from local doctors, stories of failing appetites and bleeding gums amongst the surviving population.
    The other children were scampering around now, hurling stones about the wasteground. The scarred boy was staring intently at my Leica. As a reward for his efforts at translation, I took the leather strap from around my neck and handed the camera to him. He examined it with a fierce and concentrated delight, then held it to his face and began to swoop gently around, like a regular Robert Capa.
    I finally managed to prise it away from him, and he gave me a solemn look of thanks. With a polite bow, he ran back to his game.
    Dutch grudgingly printed the picture a week later. I guessed I was now forgiven. It showed the little boy earnestly holding his makeshift bat as the ball of rags flew toward him: “The Tokyo Little Leagues,” the caption read.
    ~ ~ ~
    Eugene’s interest in Japanese culture was of a different strain to my own. One evening, he asked me to join him and his new friend Bob McHardy, a cartoonist at the paper, at a bar called the Oasis, next to our new Postal Exchange by the Ginza Crossing. At the door, yum-yum girls were coaxing men inside, while laughing GIs stood in line at a booth, where the hair-raising VD posters revealed it to be an army prophylactic station. Downstairs, Eugene sat at a table with McHardy, who had a gorgeous girl perched on his knee, running her fingers through his curly blonde hair. I felt a twinge of guilty lust: she should have been kicking up her heels on the stage, I thought, or starring on a cinema screen.
    Another girl, dressed in colourful kimono, was perched on the chair beside Eugene. She was young and neat, with smooth porcelain skin and jet-black eyes.
    â€œHarold, meet Primrose,” Eugene winked. “She’s a swell sort.”
    Primrose refilled his glass every time he took a sip and laughed at practically everything he said. As I drank my lukewarm beer I couldn’t help but picture the gangly boy I’d roomed with in college. He’d been the kind of kid to have sand kicked in his face on the beach. Look at him now , I thought. Eugene sprawled on the chair with an air of easy and wanton debauch, and I felt a stab of envy as Primrose stroked his face and patted his thighs.
    McHardy went off to dance and I seized the chance to tell Eugene about an idea I’d been toying with. I wanted to see more of the country and thought we might try to write some touristic reports about places GIs might like to visit on leave.
    â€œIt would give us a chance to do some travelling ourselves, Gene. Get out of Tokyo.”
    â€œWell,” he said. “I guess . . . ”
    Primrose had taken off his glasses and placed them upon her own nose and was generally distracting him. When she reached over to pour more beer into Eugene’s glass, I noticed that her palms were damaged. They were smooth, shiny in the low light, as if they had been polished.
    â€œCome on, Gene. It’ll do you a world of good.”
    Eugene seemed very uncertain. As Primrose lifted the bottle, I imagined for a split-second her smooth hands touching my face, passing over my back. She saw me staring, and gazed back at me for a second.
    A new song came on the gramophone and, with a delighted gasp, she hopped up and tugged at Eugene’s hand.
    â€œWhat do you think, Gene?” I said.
    â€œWell, why don’t you talk to Dutch about it?”
    â€œI will.” I drained my beer and stood up.
    â€œYou’re not