The Persimmon Tree (96 page)

‘Well, for a start, in me, for you.’

‘Nicholas, you talk bullshit.’ I forgot to mention that Anna now spoke English perfectly and obviously idiomatically, with only the slightest trace of an accent.

‘No, Anna, it’s not bullshit.’

‘Nicholas, you know nothing. You don’t know the Japanese. What they did!’

‘Well, no, but I killed a few and saved one. Even the Japanese understand love.’ I was thinking of Gojo Mura.

‘Jesus! Where have you been?’ she yelled. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Anna, do you want to get off the shit?’

‘I don’t know! Yes, yes, yes!’ It was then that she started to sob. I held her in my arms for ages, kissing her forehead, her hair, her neck. But all she did was sob against my chest. When she’d recovered a little I put her in a taxi. It was a short ride, we could easily have walked there in ten minutes, but I gave the taxi driver a quid for a two-bob fare. ‘See she gets home safely,’ I urged.

The following morning I wrote her a note giving her my telegraphic address in Port Vila: ‘If you want to try and get clean, come and stay. I love you, Anna.’
There didn’t seem to be any more I could do or say. I’ve never felt more miserable or helpless in my life.

A month passed and then one afternoon a telegram arrived: NICHOLAS STOP I BE ON THE AFTERNOON PLANE TUESDAY STOP ANNA. It was a lapse in grammar, the first I’d seen her make.

Tuesday was three days away. I was aware she might change her mind, but I provisioned
Madam Butterfly
for six weeks, then called the little bloke. ‘Mate, I haven’t taken a holiday for five years, I’m taking six weeks off, going sailing, no way you can reach me, see ya!’

‘What about da time yoh spent wit da broad in Melbourne?’ he protested.

‘Get stuffed, Kevin.’

‘Hey, Nick, don’t hang up, buddy, I got good news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We got dat asshole, da crocodile! Anytime he step outta line we skin him alive an’ put da skin on my wall! Dat bondage brothel story — if da newspapers get dat, he’s finito. Dat Janine, she tol’ me ’bout dat. Now da special good news, buddy — Bren Gun, she pregnant again. Joe Nicholas, he on da way — only seven months ta go!’

I met the plane and to my enormous joy Anna was on it. Her suitcase was about half the size of the tray of my utility. In those days there was no customs inspection and the case was carried to my truck by a sweating porter. Anna waited until she was seated in the cabin before she kissed me. ‘Thank you for inviting me to your home, Nicholas,’ she said.

I laughed, unable to hide my joy. ‘Delighted you could come, Anna.’

Anna dug into her handbag and produced a small box tied with a white ribbon. ‘Inside is your butterfly handkerchief and also eighty persimmon seeds. You must sow five immediately, because I am five years behind now. Then, you must sow one seed each year on my birthday. You must promise me, Nicholas.’

I smiled. ‘I promise, Anna, but why persimmon seeds?’

‘I will tell you some day, not now,’ she said quietly.

We arrived at the gates of Beautiful Bay and as we went down the long driveway I suggested, ‘Shall we plant one persimmon each year along this driveway? What do you think, Anna?’

She clapped her hands and clasped them to her breast in the same way the old Anna had always done when she was excited. ‘Oh, Nicholas, I would like that! I would like that very much.’

‘Then it shall be done,’ I said, grinning. ‘Seventy-five as well as five immediately.’

The cook and the two maids, the three gardeners and the boatman had all been lined up by Ellison on the front steps and were grinning their welcome. ‘Oh, what a beautiful house!’ Anna exclaimed, getting out as Ellison stepped forward to open the ute door. She walked over and plucked a frangipani blossom and pushed it into her hair.

Ellison lifted the suitcase from the back of the truck and carried it up the steps, placing it on the verandah.

‘Anna, I thought you might want to rest for a while and then we might go for a sail at sunset. Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘Oh yes, I would love that, Nicholas,’ she exclaimed.

‘Ellison will take your suitcase and Mary, our housemaid, will unpack for you.’ I watched Anna’s eyes as they darted over to the large suitcase. ‘No, no, thank you, that is not necessary, I will do it myself.’ I could sense the urgency in her voice.

Ellison knew what to do later after we’d sailed away on
Madam Butterfly
. He’d been told, should it prove necessary, to strip the lining of the suitcase to find the heroin I was certain Anna would have brought with her.

Each of the servants, smiling shyly, came up and shook Anna’s hand. ‘Welcome, madam,’ they said. After they departed I instructed Ellison to take the suitcase and place it in Anna’s room. Then we climbed the steps onto the front verandah, and Anna turned and looked over the bay to where the cutter was moored. ‘
Madam Butterfly!
’ she screamed, again clapping her hands and clasping them to her bosom in the old familiar Anna way. Then she turned to me, her beautiful eyes serious. ‘Oh, Nicholas, I really want to try to give up, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘Yes, I know. I’ll be with you, Anna — every step of the way.’

Anna moved forward and I took her in my arms and kissed her. Then she drew away. ‘Nicholas, I have kept my promise. You will be the first,’ she said.

At five o’clock we had afternoon tea with a sponge cake the cook had baked. Anna had slept for a couple of hours, showered and was wearing shorts and a blue shirt, a white sweater hung over the back of her chair, as I’d previously warned her that a south-westerly blew in about seven and it could be quite chilly out on the bay. The boatman had brought
Madam Butterfly
up to the landing pier at the bottom of the garden. It was nearing the end of a beautiful day. ‘Come,’ I instructed. ‘The gardeners have prepared the soil, you have five persimmon seeds to plant. They must be approximately ten feet apart. I looked it up in the
Encyclopaedia
Britannica
. We’ve put a small wooden stake at each location.’

Anna planted the persimmon seeds, carefully smoothing the soil with her palm. She was sobbing softly. They were private tears and so I left to fetch a watering can. Her persimmon seeds would receive their first blessing of water from her hand.

In my mind I went over the inventory. Water tanks full, six weeks’ food and drink, spare clothes for Anna (I’d guessed at her size), spare sails, diesel for the engine I’d installed, bedding, headache tablets, anti-nausea tablets (though I’d been told they wouldn’t help her), pills to stop diarrhoea (same advice), extra towels, sponges, hand cream, face cream, suntan lotion, toothpaste (six tubes) and toothbrushes. I couldn’t think of anything else.

‘Oh, Nicholas, I have waited so long to do this!’ Anna cried out, still sobbing. I handed her the can and she walked down the driveway, pausing at each wooden marker she held the nozzle over it, baptising the planted seeds. When she’d completed the last she said softly, ‘
Sayonara, Konoe-san
.’

At six o’clock we walked down to the pier where the beautiful cutter was waiting. I took Anna’s hand, saying, ‘Here, let me help you aboard.’ Anna stepped from the pier onto the scrubbed deck of
Madam Butterfly
. ‘Welcome to
Madam Butterfly
, Madam Butterfly,’ I said softly, to Anna’s scream of delight.

I felt a real bastard. I was lying to her, but I could think of no other way. Anna was my first love — not my only love, but my first. She had taken a shy young butterfly collector and given me the joy of loving a woman, a sense of belonging, of being wanted; she had helped the loner to find that being alone was not the only way. I remembered the first time I’d seen her when she’d come to my door in the
kampong
near
De Kost Kamer.

I’d seen then a slim, fine-boned girl who was quite tall. She’d worn a simple, light-blue cotton dress, worn off the shoulders, the sleeves slightly puffed and covering the top of her arms, which were the colour of honey in sunlight. Her hair fell just short of her shoulders, was jet black and framed a heart-shaped face. Her lips were full and generous and her cheekbones high; together with her arched eyebrows they seemed to emphasise her incredible eyes that were only slightly almond-shaped and framed in rich dark lashes. Even in the prevailing lamplight they appeared to be a remarkable deep violet colour. When she smiled, my heart had skipped a beat.

Now, on
Madam Butterfly
with the sun beginning to set on Beautiful Bay, my heart was still pounding.
Nicholas, whatever it takes
, I thought to myself. A sudden breeze sprang up, not unexpected but also not necessarily dependable. I’d take a chance and not use the engine. ‘
Anna, forgive me, darling
’, I whispered to myself as I went forward to hoist the mainsail for what I knew would not be six weeks of plain sailing.

THERE ARE FIFTY-FIVE PERSIMMON
trees that line the driveway to Beautiful Bay. Some are grand old trees and when the leaves drop in the dry season and they come to fruit, their golden lanterns shine through the years, a symbol of sweet fecundity. The newest seedling has just popped its head up above the soil. Each year on Anna’s birthday, when it’s time to plant a new seed, I thank God for her and for having had such a fortunate life.

Nick Duncan, November 2000

Sources

Headquarters, US Marine Corps

United States Marine Corps Historical Monographs, Division of Public Information, US Army Historical Series

Australian War Memorial, Canberra, Australia–Japan Research Project

Australian War Memorial, Canberra, Monographs on the Pacific War

Australian War Memorial, Canberra, Collections Database

Books and other publications

Australian Dictionary of Biography
, John Ritchie (gen. ed.) Vol. 16, 1940–80, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 2002

Campbell, Lloyd,
Z-Special
, Australian Military History Publications, Sydney, 2006

Chapman, F. Spencer,
The Jungle is Neutral
, Times Books International, Singapore, 1997

Courtney, G. B.,
Silent Feet, The History of ‘Z’ Special Operations 1942–1945
, Slouch Hat Publications, Melbourne, 2002

Evans, Bernard,
Japan’s Blitzkrieg: The Allied Collapse in the East
, Pen and Sword Books, London, 2006

Feuer, A. B. (ed.),
Coast Watching in World War 2
, Stackpole Books, Penn., US, 2006

Forrester, Stanform M., ‘An introduction to the Poetry of Taneda Santoka’,
Simply
Haiku
, vol. 3, no. 3, Autumn 2005

Gullett, Henry,
Not as a Duty Only
, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 1976

McKie, Ronald,
The Heroes
, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1960

McKie, Ronald,
Proud Echo
, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1953

Parkin, Ray,
Wartime Trilogy
, Melbourne University Publishing, Parkville, 2003

Pfennigwerth, Ian,
The Australian Cruiser
Perth
, 1939–42
, Rosenberg Publishing, Sydney, 2007

Russell, Sharman Apt,
An Obsession with Butterflies
, William Heinemann, London, 2003

van der Graaff, Nell,
We Survived
, University of Queensland Press, St Lucia, 1989

Increasingly I hear and read that old-fashioned generosity of spirit has largely disappeared. This may well be true in the wider world but, it seems to me, it hasn’t yet reached the world of books and writing.

Every novel I write requires a great deal of hard knowledge: facts, dates, people, places, natural phenomena, background, foreground, speculation and intelligent guesswork. No author, least of all this one, can pretend to possess the intimate and specific knowledge required to write a large, wide-ranging story.

In effect, I launch into every new book with my begging cap extended, knowing that without the intellectual donation of others it isn’t going to be possible to complete the work.

I am constantly surprised at the generosity of friends and strangers who impart hard-gained knowledge without payment and quite often offer me their further involvement by giving their time and energy. I thank you all for your help and for sharing what you know with me. In some small or large part,
The Persimmon Tree
belongs to you as much as it does to me.

I would like to thank John Adamson for his guidance as a grammarian, for his erudition and unfailing dedication. Thanks also to Jessica Wynands for her good scholarship and a clear point of view.

I am grateful to Syria Angina, Yasuko Ando, Tony Crosby, John Forsyth, Tony Freeman, Michael Harrison (Gardner Marine Diesels, UK), Alex Hamill, Marg Hamilton, Celia Jarvis, Christine Lenton, Irwin Light, William McKenzie, Don Thomas, Susan Thomas, Connie Wang and Greg Woon.

Then there are those who played a pivotal role in bringing the novel to fruition and to whom I owe a special thank you. My partner, Christine Gee, worked so hard as my chief co-ordinator as well as performing a hundred other tasks, and kept the flow of information (as well as delicious meals) and encouragement going at all times. Like all authors’ partners, she endured months of loneliness downstairs when I frequently worked all day and deep into the night. Her spirit, passion and intelligence are always an inspiration.

Bruce Gee, who acted as my major researcher, constantly astonished me with his depth of knowledge and ability to check and counter-check information. He often worked more hours than I did and always delivered on time. His suggestions on narrative were always sound and frequently inspired. If a book may be said to bear the stamp of good research, then this one should have his name embossed on the front cover. Bruce made every direction I decided to take a possibility, and this novel should bear his imprimatur.

Lee White was my editor and without good editors bad things happen in books. Lee worked under extraordinarily difficult circumstances connected with this book and did so uncompromisingly, with both the big picture and the minutiae always in mind
.
She is what all editors should be but seldom are: constantly questioning, somewhat didactic, usually right, uncompromising, dedicated to the truth, intolerant of hyperbole and with the ability to maintain and enhance the author’s own ‘voice’ without intruding on his narrative style. I thank her for the long hours, consistency of viewpoint and her patience.

Publishers tend to stay in the background, often doing the hard yards and expected to perform the ambiguous roles of headmistress and cheerleader, issue the rap over the knuckles and soothe the damaged ego – or to put it into the Australian vernacular, give the pat on the back and the kick up the arse, both accompanied by a serene smile. In this regard and in many others, Rachel Scully is your number-one woman. If she doesn’t deliver, then it’s trouble for everyone concerned with the book, but she always does.

Then there are the workers in the field of dreams, those numerous people who make a book possible. At the top of the Penguin pyramid sit Gabrielle Coyne, Bob Sessions (‘Uncle Bob’) and Julie Gibbs, who encourage, reprove, decide and remit. Then there are Alan Jacobs, who guards the brand name, and Dan Ruffino and Sally Bateman, who take each new book to market afterwards. Then, Nicole Brown, Tony Palmer, Deb Brash, Anne Rogan, Saskia Adams, Jessica Crouch, Ian Sibley, Lia Kelleners, Fumie Ode-Smith, Carmen de la Rue, Peter Blake, Louise Ryan and Peg McColl – I thank you all for your hard work, tolerance, persistence, patience and good humour.