The Last Trip to Yokohama.

Ken is fidgety. He keeps on thinking of the foolishness of his act. He is apparently correct.

***

Against the backdrop of a lazy orange sunset, Ken was fighting against his primal instinct to book for a ticket to Yokohama. People have been telling him various tales of what they had experienced in their journey, but he did not completely believe them. Tales of the booming trading capital, of the influx of silk and linens, and the many items that glitter in the dark while the ships bid farewell. Something in their eyes though belied their every declaration of grandeur. There’s sadness in their stories, but Ken can’t quite decide which part is.

He was torn whether or not he would throw his hat on to Yokohama. Deep down, a part of him wants to go and experience the stories that are both substantial and inconsequential. Though the other part thinks it is a foolish idea to spend all of his five years of savings just to buy the ticket for the trip.

***

The stench of air reeks of cemetery and the humidity of August air prevents Ken from thinking. “There is nothing lovely here,” he says.

He is greeted by a rough, frontier atmosphere, and stony pavements that are all callous. The only consolation, he can think of, is the blinking cargoes from the sea. They are like fireflies, trapped in the middle of the ocean, finding solace in its calmness.

There is one ship that blinks flames: fiery red lights that has caught his attention. He was trying to go to the nearest dock to look at the ship. He can see people inside the ship, as tiny as ants on the pavement. But he felt that they are happy and spirited, inside the blinking light of the cabin.

 ***

Ken boarded the Yellow bus with a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart. He just gambled his savings for a trip that might not have any bearing on his future endeavors.

He sat on the farthest seat, at the rightmost part, and he looked at the window to see the greenery of his town. Ohama has been so far idyllic for him, but it has held him back from prospects of exploits and opportunities. He felt he stopped growing.

***

“That’s the best ship in town,” a man casually said to him. “How so?” Ken inquired.

“They have the best Western women in all of Japan, and Western women are quite rare here,” the man said to him while transfixed at the pavement.

“How can I go there?” Ken casually asked.

“You can’t. It’s just by invitation,” the man now starting to fix his bag and in the mood to stop the conversation.

The man mumbled a few words and left Ken who is still fascinated with the fiery red lights that seem to haunt him.

***

Ken started as a young reporter in the local newspaper in Ohama, a quiet idyllic town embracing the ocean. Even when he was small, Ken has a knack for finding the truth, even in a sea of lies. This trait was useful, and has paved way for his fast promotion in the newspaper company.

His editor even commended him for being such an astute reporter, and for being at the right place and the right time. There was a time when Ken was leisurely riding a bike near the shoreline, when a factory 500 meters away had an explosion. He was the nearest reporter at the scene and he was able to provide a blow-by-blow account of the incident and interview as many people, before the authorities arrived.

***

 “I can get you there, young man,” a voice whispered from the alley. Ken is hesitant to answer. The figure does not fidget, and it makes him quite unease. “What would you want in return,” Ken shakily asked.

“Just your story. Tell me your story.” The woman in a bright red kimono said, who walked towards the strange yellow lamp.

“I don’t have a story to tell,” Ken said while trying to familiarize himself with the woman’s features. She was pale, with a rather somber face. The woman is pretty, probably in her late ’20s, with a slender figure. She would remind you of women from old Japan who might have been a top geisha during her prime.

“Everybody has a story,” she paused as if catching her breath. “Even those who say they don’t have a story to tell.”

***

Ken is looking at his return ticket to Ohama and he starts to cry.  The tears continue to flow, despite any attempts from him to suppress the feeling of loneliness.

He recalls the saddest and happiest moment he ever had. He can’t imagine why such extreme sadness and an overwhelming happiness can occur in one same night.

He starts to wipe his nose with his white handkerchief and looks at the line of ships in the nearby dock. They seem peaceful, yet uncaring.

***

Ken turned to the red lady with tired eyes and sighed. He wrinkled his nose and bit his lower lip. It was the usual look of resignation that Ken had when his boss wants him to sensationalize one of his usual articles or when he does not know how to address a given situation.

“Do you always bite your lips when you are stressed out?” the red lady nonchalantly asked Ken. This is the first time someone commented on Ken’s mannerism, and he was taken aback. It took him some time before he commented.

“Yes. Also when I am unsure of things and circumstances,” Ken honestly replied.

Ken’s eyes suddenly lit up, and pointed his pinky finger to the red lady. He quickly took his hand back and placed it in his pockets, thinking that it might be a form of disrespect to the red lady.

I will tell you the story of my grandmother, and how she lost her pinky finger.

***

“My grandmother was a tough woman,” Ken started narrating. One day, when a local warlord was passing by at their compound, the local warload tried to stop near the gate to look at an old tree. The local warlord was attended to by a retinue of Samurai as his personal guards. While my grandmother was tending the trees in their compound, one of branches fell near the warlord.

The head of the Samurai was offended for his warlord and challenged to a duel the person who caused such branch to fall.

The red woman was listening intently to Ken. “Go on,” she said when Ken stopped to look at her.

*To be concluded*

Written for the round table manifesto.