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  As luck would have it, the soldier in front of me was the little man I’d met on the train.

  “Hey! So you survived?” he said by way of a greeting.

  “Yeah, just. I was about to be shot by a Gabati just now.” I explained the whole story to the little man.

  “I had a similar experience myself, once,” he replied. “It was just after I’d signed up. I was queuing up for my lunch, just like we are now. But when I looked around me, I didn’t recognize any of the other blokes. I thought I’d gone back to my own lot, but they were actually the enemy. I was going to eat lunch with the Gabatis! When I realized that, I could hardly stand upright. I actually wet myself. Oh dear. Why did I have to tell you that?”

  “What happened, anyway?”

  “Well, I knew the game would be up if I ran for it. So I collected my ration as normal, then I gulped it down as fast as I could and slipped away quietly.”

  After eating a tasteless lunch, we had to listen to instructions from our officers. Army officers and company presidents have that much in common – they keep wanting to make speeches.

  An officer sporting a colonel’s stripes stood on a low mound and started spouting forth. “As you all know, there’s going to be some serious fighting in this area tomorrow,” he said. “But as soon as that was announced, a lot of you wanted to claim your paid leave tomorrow. Shame on you!” His face turned a shade of beetroot. “What do you think war is all about?! Have you never given a thought for your country? Bloody home-loving rabble!”

  I felt rather deflated. He was no better than some ogre of an office superior, shouting at his staff for refusing to work overtime. My respect for army officers plummeted.

  “No one will be allowed paid leave tomorrow. You’ll all be charging the enemy. And I hope you all die in the process. Hahahahaha!” In his raging fury, the Colonel started to look slightly deranged.

  The afternoon’s fighting was about to start. I sought out the officer who was now my superior and gave him a piece of my mind.

  “Platoon Leader! Why did you evacuate like that without telling me? I was surrounded by the enemy and almost got killed!”

  “Oh. Awfully sorry. No need to be so angry!” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “To make up for it, you can work here this afternoon if you like. It’s safe. Look. There’s already a pile of faulty rifles waiting for you.”

  “I’ve lost my tools.”

  “I’ll order some more from HQ.”

  “And you’re sure this won’t be the front line next?”

  “We won’t retreat any more than this. I shouldn’t think.”

  I worked all afternoon with the new tools, but only managed to repair six rifles. It looked as if I’d be commuting to the front for some time yet. The war itself had been going on for more than four months now, with no sign of ending. Both sides had refused offers of support from the superpowers, while the United Nations, faced with appeals from both sides, couldn’t decide which stance to adopt. There were more pressing matters for it to be concerned with, anyway. Safe to say that such minor conflicts between neighbouring mini-states, like family feuds, were simply ignored. Whatever the case, this conflict looked likely to continue for several months to come.

  It was nearly time to go home, so I started putting my tools away. The Platoon Leader appeared again, smiling as usual. “You were late this morning, weren’t you,” he said. “So I’m going to invoke the penalty clause.”

  I looked at him in dismay. “P-penalty clause?”

  “You’ll be on sentry duty tonight.”

  “What?! You can’t make me do that!” I rammed the screwdriver into the ground. “That’s a combatant’s job!”

  He made a hand gesture as if to placate me. “Calm down. Sentry duty’s easy. All you have to do is carry on working here, then go over to check the ammo that’s hidden behind that rock once every hour. There’s not much fighting round here at night. The enemy won’t try to steal the ammo, either.”

  “How do you know that?!”

  “Because the Gabatis all have vitamin A deficiency. They’re all night-blind.” He nodded. “You’ll be relieved at two in the morning. You can sleep at General Staff Headquarters after that. And don’t forget – you’ll get paid time and a half for night work.”

  “I’d rather go home. My wife will be worried.”

  “I’ll explain it to her on the telephone. And anyway, look how few rifles you’ve repaired!” Gradually, his tone had changed to that of someone mollifying a child. He wasn’t at all like army officers in the old war films. His behaviour was quite odd, in fact, considering we were supposed to be superior and subordinate.

  I decided to test him out. “And what if I refuse your order?”

  “Refuse? Would you?” He kept his smile, but lowered his voice in a menacing way. “Look, I know all about you. Your company ordered you to come under our command. So you should look on me as one of your company’s directors. Do you want me to send them a performance assessment?”

  “I understand,” I replied with a sigh. “I’ll stand guard.”

  “Ha! No need to stand. Just sit down and get on with your work.” Suddenly his relaxed, light-hearted tone had returned. He gave me a patronizing smile. “I’ll make sure you get your dinner,” he said, then started humming to himself as he walked away.

  I got up and had a stretch. The sound of gunfire was far off now, and there were few soldiers to be seen. An evening breeze wafted over the area. The slope of the hill was soon awash with the glow of sunset. Soldiers passed me in twos and threes on their way home, chatting cheerfully. Their faces bore expressions of relief that the day’s work was over. In their minds, they were already back home.

  I squatted down again, and got back to work repairing the rifles. I was getting used to it now, and could carry on working even in the gathering gloom. After finishing the next rifle, I carried it with me to check the ammunition that was hidden behind a rock some three hundred yards away. The ammunition had been carefully placed in six different piles, with several boxes to each pile. Everything was in order.

  Far to the east, over in the paddy field area, fighting between the night troops was already starting up. I could hear the sound of shelling, gunfire, screams, and the rest. Just as in the daytime, it seemed to be a war of minor skirmishes between combat units, a kind of guerrilla warfare in and around the forests. Exploding shells lit up the darkening sky, silhouetting the slopes of hills in the distance.

  At last the sun sank below the horizon. I stopped working and stretched myself out on the side of the hill. The moon appeared in the night sky, casting light over the whole area. A breeze blew over from the direction of the mountains occupied by the Gabatis. As I waited for my night rations, I took out a cigarette and lit up. It was already past eight o’clock; dinner should have arrived long ago. I started to wonder if the Platoon Leader had forgotten to order it.

  Then I heard my wife’s voice.

  “Where are you, honey?”

  I got up. “Over here,” I called.

  My wife, carrying a basket over her arm, was struggling down the hill towards me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She squatted down beside me. “They said you were doing the night shift, so I’ve brought your dinner.”

  The Platoon Leader had actually telephoned her.

  “That’s good of you. How did you know where to find me? Did you come by train?”

  “That’s right.” She laid a plastic sheet on the ground and started to arrange the food from the basket on it. “I thought I’d join you, so I’ve brought enough for both of us. And some wine.”

  “That’s grand!”

  We started eating on a slope near the foot of the hill.

  “It’s nice and cool here, isn’t it. Where’s the fighting now?” she asked.

  “Over there. Can you see the gunfire? And there’s a forest burning over there.”

  “Really? Isn’t that beautiful. Oh, I can hear screaming.
Has someone just died?”

  “Probably. Could I have some wine?”

  “Here you are, honey. By the way, how did your work go today?”

  “Well. Not so bad.” I didn’t tell her I’d nearly been killed. I’m the type who prefers not to take work home.

  “Wow. These fish goujons are fantastic,” I said. “And I haven’t had konjak noodles for a long time. Hey! You’ve dropped some pork skin over there.”

  “Funny. I didn’t bring any pork skin.”

  I picked it up from the ground. It wasn’t pork skin – it was a human ear. The ear of some poor wretch who’d been blown apart by a shell. I quickly hurled it into the distance.

  After finishing a whole bottle of wine, I was feeling rather tipsy. I stood up lazily, rifle in hand.

  “Where are you going, honey?” asked my wife.

  “Time to check the ammo,” I said as I set off towards the rock. “Back in a minute.”

  “Mind how you go!”

  That’s what she always said when I left the house. But here, there were no cars to run me over, no roadworks or manholes to fall into. There was no danger overhead or under foot. Of course, I had to be careful about the enemy. But I wasn’t worried, as I’d been told the enemy wouldn’t come at night. With that comforting thought in mind, I reached the rock in good spirits. Then something hit me really hard on the back of the head. I saw a dazzling display of fireworks dancing at the back of my eyeballs before I lost consciousness.

  When I came to, I found myself tied to one of the ammunition boxes, bound with something that felt like wire. A man was laying fuses to each of the six piles of ammunition, connecting them all to a detonator he’d placed about a hundred yards away. He was obviously a saboteur from the Gabati army. He was planning to blow up all the ammunition, and me with it. I was going to shout out for help. But I stopped myself in time. If I called out now, my wife would come. Then the man would capture her too, and we’d both be blown up together. She didn’t deserve that.

  Even so, I didn’t want to die. The man came towards me, so I decided to plead for my life. “Help me! Please! I don’t want to die! I’m a non-combatant. I’m just here to repair rifles. Don’t kill me!!”

  “Sorry. I can’t let you go,” said the man. In the moonlight, I could see him clearly now – a goofy-looking, weasel-faced man with glasses. “You won’t suffer. It’ll be over in a split second.”

  “No, but really, I’m not a soldier at all. I’m Japanese!” I urinated with such force that my trousers swelled up like a balloon. “I’m a Japanese company employee. I’m just a day soldier!”

  “You mean – you’re Japanese too?!” He spoke in Japanese as he came towards me. “I work for a pharmaceuticals company that makes explosives,” he whispered in my ear. Then he grinned and nodded. “But that’s OK. I’m just a day soldier, too.”

  Hello, Hello, Hello!

  “Could I buy some new clothes, dear?” said my wife. “I’ve had these for two years now.”

  “True,” I replied with a frown.

  I needed a new suit myself. Being a company man, my clothes should have been more important than my wife’s, from a practical point of view. But if I’d said that, we’d only have ended up having another row. Of course we would. And the result would have been an overwhelming victory for my wife, as always. She’d have pointed out that I didn’t earn enough money. That, even after five years of marriage, we couldn’t afford to have children and were still living in rented accommodation. I would have been denounced for my incompetence and left without a leg to stand on.

  Just as I was wondering how to respond, the apartment door opened and a middle-aged man appeared.

  “Hello, hello, hello! Here I am, here I am, here I am! Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!”

  The man walked straight into our apartment, came up to the kitchen table where we sat and continued to speak as we looked on in amazement. “New clothes, is it? Out of the question. You mustn’t buy new clothes. Must she, sir? You mustn’t buy new clothes, madam. Just look at your husband’s suit. It’s nearly worn out. Your husband’s clothes are more important than yours are. Aren’t they, madam? But even then, it’s too soon to have a new suit made. You can still use your old one, sir. This is where you must both persevere. You really must. If not, you’ll never save any money. Am I wrong?”

  For a while, I gaped open-mouthed at his sparsely moustached face as he continued to speak. My wife looked on wide-eyed, staring up and down at his neatly trimmed hair – parted on one side – and his carefully brushed suit.

  After a moment, I turned to my wife. “Come on then,” I said. “Introduce us. Who is he?”

  She gave me a confused look. “What? Isn’t he one of your friends?”

  “You mean you don’t know him?!” I said, half standing in surprise.

  My wife also rose, and turned to the moustache man. “Er… May I ask what you, er, what you…”

  “Have no fear, have no fear,” he said loudly, “Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!”

  As I stood there stunned, he took my hand, squeezed it tightly and shook it vigorously. “I see. I see. You didn’t know me. I see.” He sat on a chair and started to introduce himself.

  “Tanaka’s the name, Tanaka, Household Economy Consultant, sent to your apartment block by six local banks, Tanaka’s the name!”

  “Did you ask for someone to come?” I asked my wife.

  “No,” she replied with a shake of her head.

  “Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!!” The moustache man rose and knelt on the chair with an air of urgency. “With respect, madam, with respect, you must have ticked the box on the questionnaire from your bank, asking if you needed a free Household Economy Consultant?”

  “Oh… yes,” my wife replied vaguely. “Well, I thought, if it’s free…”

  “Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!!” repeated the moustache man, shaking my wife’s hand triumphantly. “Here I am. Here I am!” He suddenly knotted his eyebrows. “Madam. I cannot agree with you buying clothes in your current financial straits. Your clothes are perfectly good. Of course, I understand what you mean. You’ve been wearing the same clothes for so many years, they don’t look good, they’re out of fashion. But you’d have nothing to gain by buying new ones, madam. After all, you’re still young. You’re beautiful. You could wear whatever you liked. God gives young people health and beauty to encourage frugality. Go and buy your clothes then. And you won’t be able to make this month’s saving towards your home. Or would you rather have just one meal a day this month? Could you do that? Could you?”

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” said my wife, hanging her head low in dejection. “I can do without new clothes.”

  I laughed in the pit of my stomach. If I’d said it, she’d have been fuming. But now that an expert had said it, she couldn’t help but agree. I looked at my wife, marvelling at the power mere names and positions of authority have over women.

  “Come on, then. Make the guest some tea!” I said, cheerily shaking hands with the moustache man. “You came at just the right time. Just the right time! Hahaha!”

  “Yes, I’ll make some tea.”

  But as my wife was about to stand up, the moustache man banged his fist hard on the table. “Out of the question! You have nothing to gain by offering me tea. Tea must only be offered to the most exceptional of guests. Even tea’s expensive these days. If you’re thirsty, drink water. You’re both too young to appreciate the taste of tea. Water’s perfectly good for you.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right,” said my wife with moistened eyes.

  In that case, I thought somewhat vacantly, it would also be rather wasteful to bring my friends home.

  “Well, seeing as you’re here now, I wonder if you could look at our household accounts,” said my wife.

  The moustache man stood up in a hurry. “No. That I cannot do, madam. After all, I’m looking after all fourteen households in this block. I’ve enough
on my plate just seeing you all. Besides, in your case, I can more or less guess your accounts without even seeing them.” So saying, he moved to the hallway and slipped his shoes back on. Then, as he opened the door, he turned to face us. “Whatever you do, avoid being wasteful. Though of course, if ever you’re about to be wasteful, I’ll be sure to come and warn you. Hahahaha!” And with that, he left.

  “If he’s a Household Economy Consultant, you’d expect him at least to look at our accounts!” my wife said with some dissatisfaction.

  “I’d say that shows what a professional he is,” I replied. “He just takes one look around a house and understands everything without seeing the accounts. And anyway, all the houses in this block have about the same income and the same family composition. I bet all the household accounts are the same too.”

  “Well. Experts are experts, after all,” said my wife, nodding solemnly in appreciation.

  From that time on, the moustache man started appearing before us on a regular basis. Not only in our apartment, but when my wife was out shopping in the local supermarket, too. Once he even turned up in a restaurant near my work.

  “Hello, hello, hello! Here I am, here I am! Tanaka’s the name!!” He looked at the set lunch I was about to eat, and said loudly, without regard for privacy, “Just as I thought. As if eating out weren’t beyond your means already! But no, you have to eat an expensive meal in a high-class restaurant!”

  I put my knife and fork down. “Sorry,” I said, bowing my head.

  “From tomorrow, get your wife to make you a lunch box. I’ll tell her myself if you like.”

  “No, no. I’ll do that.”

  “Well, you’ve already ordered, so it can’t be helped. You’d better eat it now,” he said over his shoulder with some annoyance, as he returned to his seat at the back of the restaurant. I finished my lunch with no pleasure at all. As I got up to leave, I craned my neck to look across at the moustache man’s table. He was sitting by himself and eating a steak. There was no doubt about it – it was the prime steak lunch.

  “Mr Tanaka turned up at the supermarket again today,” my wife said with a hint of irritation as we ate our dinner at home that night. “I was going to buy some meat, but he said I should buy potato croquets instead. He said it out loud in front of all our neighbours. I was so embarrassed!”