Greece/Japan - rescue during the Great Fire of Smyrna
anonymous
June 23 2010, 20:20:00 UTC
The Great Fire of Smyrna occurred at the end of the Greco-Turkish War when victorious Turkish troops set the Greek port city of Smyrna ablaze. There were many Allied ships in the harbor, but none of them made a move to help the fleeing Greeks and Armenians (and even prevented them from boarding) due to their "neutral" status.
...See where I'm going here? And why I want something about Japan being the captain of that ship and Greece being one of the refugees he rescues? And why I went "D'aww..." while reading about that "Japanese hero"?
Bonus: - Greece is found in a half-drowned stupor and Japan has to give him CPR. While furiously telling himself that it does not count as his first kiss.
if it is born in flames 1
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:25:24 UTC
Ok, so. Wow, this is the most research I've ever done on...well, anything, really.
There's actually some debate on who actually caused the great fire of Smyrna. There's conflicting history, conflicting views despite a lot of personal eyewitnesses...I studied both sides as best as I could, but in this case, Herakles believes it is the Turks from the horrors he's seen, his own prejudices, etc. The story follows his account, thus it follows the assumption that the Turks were to blame.
Uchida-san is referring to the Japanese consulate at the time, who happened to be pro-Turkish to the point of being a Turkophile.
The names are different in the beginning, but there's a plot point to this. Just keep on and you'll see. There's also some elements changed in age/birthdates for plot reasons.
According to greek-genocide.com, the Japanese ship came (and left? It doesn't specify) on the 8th, before the fire actually started. The original newspapers excerpted from Greece.com refer to it being there during the fire...I assumed the latter for plot-related reasons.
Another artistic license: CPR wsn't invented until between 1956-60 and this is set in 1922, but this was from a bonus of the request and was too cute and plot related to cut. SO we're going to pretend that in Japan there was some form of CPR which was prior to the Western reveal of it? --
Everything was quiet the day the ship landed. They had been relatively isolated, as such was the way of sailing. What news they had heard had been of Japan, not Anatolia. He'd had contact with a British ship and taken tea with their captain. He told the news of the Grecian retreat, and how the Turks had retaken the city with little-to-no resistance.
A little bloodshed was always unavoidable in these sorts of situations, but he believed everything would even itself out in the end.
He was invited to spend some time with a Levantine family, but he politely declined. He was still waiting for word from Uchida-san, who happened to be a personal friend of the family. He would certainly be happy with the turn of events, given he was very fond of the Turks, even to the point of being a Turkophile.
There were still stragglers of the Greecian army leaving, dejected and bedraggled by their long campaign.
if it is born in flames 2
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:30:17 UTC
Honda had been preparing to meet with Uchida-san, and to deliver his personal quarter of the goods brought when a Yamato burst in.
"The city is on fire!"
Honda left his quarters and came on deck. The sky was lost in waves of smoke. The men informed him that it had been earlier that they noticed the smoke, yet thought it not a fire of great rapport - didn't the peoples of Anatolia cook with open fires? Surely between the Jews, the Egyptians, the Armenians, the Greeks and the Turks that inhabited this diverse city, one of them must have some festival, some reason to bring out bonfires and cook their delicacies.
But Honda knew it was nothing so gentle and controlled. The screams told otherwise. Some had jumped in to avoid the flames licking at their heels, their lungs already stained black. Others wandered through the maze of ashes and smoke, burning houses taking with them the memories and dreams of their former occupants - and in the case of some, the lives as well.
The harbor was filled with ships. French, Italian, English, even American. And yet as the time passed, he saw them refuse the desperate refugees. Sailors stepped on clawing hands, threw hot water on them, pushed them back into the water. Neutrality - it was such a loaded word.
The English and American ships took a staunch stance of neutrality, while the French could be convinced to bring their own aboard, and perhaps, did not look too hard if the French was good enough to pass. The Italians took on those who could row far enough to reach their boats, whoever made it that far past the dirty waters and yet it wasn't enough.
He was reminded of Troy, of the ruins of once beautiful things. Now it was charred and broken, ruined and destroyed, all that beauty cast aside. He had been making trips to the Western countries, from the Mediterranean to England, France, and other countries for many years now, and had always been captivated by the strange beauty of the lands. The waters of the Mediterranean were a clear, pristine color he'd never seen in his native land. He remembered the shores of Greece, the cities rising up white and imposing, with the memories of thousands of years past in their stones. Here in Anatolia, the waters were as dull and murky as tarnished silver. The air was viscous. It hurt to breathe. He couldn't imagine how much worse it must have been for anyone stuck in the city itself.
Honda wasn't impulsive by nature, but this tragedy had shaken something inside him, even if the rest of the horrific details were unknown, more the callousness of the other ships, the other people.
"Bring the cargo to the deck," he said. His voice was steady as he did so. He did not look away from the flames, or the refugees gathering at the wharves, jumping in to escape the fires, only to find no sanctuary.
Lace, silks, china and spices. It was worth thousands, but wasn't human life that much more irreplaceable? That much more worthwhile? History said otherwise. Life was so carelessly taken in such horrific manners. Others might be bound by their neutrality, forced into inaction, but he wasn't.
One by one their precious cargo was brought up. There was an unsaid question in the eyes of his crew.
"Throw it into the harbor, everything but Uchida-san's quarter," he said. "We need all the room we can get."
"Honda-san?" Naoto, his second-in-command queried.
"You heard me," Honda said. His voice held a cold calm, an unbendable strength to it. They did not question him again. He watched, grave as they complied. The cargo crashed into the water. He thought of the silks floating, ruined, like the dresses of drowned women amongst the dross and wreckage of conquering, the bodies already bloated from the heat. It was not all their cargo, but it was still a heavy loss, but he did not think of that. But soon the events turned, so fast they seemed to blend together. The people began to pour onto the ship. Rescued from the waters, from the edge of the harbor. Other ships closed their doors, but he wouldn't, whatever the consequences.
if it is born in flames 3
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:33:03 UTC
They clung to each other, crying and shaking from cold. Under the soot he couldn't tell if they were Greek, Armenian, Egyptian, Jewish or Turkish, but it did not matter. A refugee was a refugee, and that was all that mattered.
Honda surveyed this, and gave orders as was needed. His crew was as efficient as a machine as they brought the waterlogged, half-dead refugees aboard.
"We're getting full, Honda-san," Naoto said quietly.
"Just a few more," Honda said. "It is the least we can do, since the Allied forces have seen it fit to do nothing.".
They saved one from the water, and it was only Honda's downward turned gaze that noticed this one. He had stayed back to allow several others aboard first, but had slipped into unconsciousness by the time they reached him. He was laid out on the desk, limp, cold and wet.
"He isn't breathing," Naoto said. "I think, Honda-san that this one..."
The man looked like a statue of a Greek god, like Adonis. His curly hair was plastered to his face, and his coat and pants waterlogged and soot-covered, and yet it did not hide how strong he was. It seemed a shame for something - someone so beautiful to die. Honda bent before him and with the help of Naoto - for the wet clothes made him very heavy, pushed him to his side, and compressed his chest. He listened for something, any sound to hint that he was still alive. His mind was clouded with panic for the first time since he had come across the burning. He remembered an old tale his grandmother had told him about fishermen giving life from their lips, shared breaths. It had been instituted by a monk, apparently, and kept alive among the fisherman and those who had almost drowned. Pushing aside the thought that the first attempt to get the water from his lungs resembled the embrace of a lover, Honda lowered his mouth until it touched with the other man's. How had it gone again? Pinch the nose shut. Open his mouth. Share breath. He listed off each one mechanically, in a detached, frozen manner. His mouth tasted of salt. Honda strived to push air into his lungs, his mind racing and wondering if he had done it in the wrong order.
He did it again, and again, pressing on his chest, willing him to breathe.
"Honda-san, I don't think...."
Then he was gasping, coughing up water, and Honda felt a surge of relief. He was alive.
The man's eyes were green, and looked straight up at him. Dazed. Confused. His lips parted in a groan, and he stirred. His head lolled to the side and he moaned. For a moment Honda thought he might empty his stomach, but whatever came across him passed.
"You're safe now," Honda said in his own native tongue. It was the natural impulse to him, for of course the man couldn't understand him. His hands were still balanced on the man's chest. Lingering. Now that the man was alive, his mind noted the firm feel of that chest. He pulled them away, and shook his hands as if to free himself from grimy water and salt. In truth, it was to try and dislodge the tingling feeling.
if it is born in flames 4
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:37:15 UTC
It'd been too long since he last had a man. At home waited his duties: a suitable girl met via o-miai, a family to build, his place in society to secure. The noose of the life he was expected to live was tightening. It was surely this childish desire to live rebelliously that made him want to cling on to any man, if only to reaffirm the feeling of being held in strong arms.
The man got up, but wobbled as he did so, and Honda reached to balance him as he did. He allowed the passenger to lean on him, even as he was larger than him, and quite a bit heavier. He moved like a drunken man, stumbling along as Honda guided him to be where the other passengers had been grouped. It was a cargo ship, not a luxury liner. The hold had been freed of other cargo, but as it was, there weren't nearly enough beds to go around. They were packed close together, children crying, some women crying in what Honda assumed was relief - or simply a venting of feelings, their sadness their loss.
He helped the man down to a seating position near the stairs to the deck.
Dirty seawater had drenched his white jacket, probably ruining it for good. He thought no matter how many times it was washed, there'd always be the smell of smoke and death, salt and murky water as his last gift from Smyrna.
There were still more refugees, and yet there was no more room to be had. As of now, they were overloaded, anymore would require them to throw off food supplies, which were not quite as expendable as their cargo had been.
Honda left feeling profoundly tired. He and his crew had done all they could and more to help the victims of Smyrna. He only hoped the other Allied ships would do the same as it grew worse, as the fugitives from the burning city grew more desperate. He did not have faith in this; the burning of Smyrna had shaken his faith in his fellow man, and he had a feeling as he left behind the burning city, that it would only become more horrific as the days went on.
if it is born in flames 5
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:47:26 UTC
I forgot to mention it in above notes, but there's violence and rape mentioned in this fill, but it's only part of mentioned war crimes and told secondhand, and not to the characters themselves if that helps on the trigger factor.
For a short while, it was pandemonium. People being ushered below deck, the thick smoke in the distance, and the screams still lingering in their mind. Honda thought those sounds would never quite fade.It was Piraeus they were headed to, a place where they would be at least for the moment, safer.
Unlike the other ships with higher orders, his was merely a cargo ship, and did not have to wait for messages from Constantinople, or face recrimination from their superiors for breaking neutrality.
The crew and himself did everything they could to make that trip go as smoothly as possible. Passengers on luxury cruises didn't have the attention, the care that they gave. What little they had, they shared. The people, despite everything that had happened to them, were grateful. The below deck reeked of stale smoke and the murky harbor waters. The smoke clung to them, until they exuded it from every pore. They smelled like death, and the death of the city itself as it had imploded in on itself, flames rising higher.
They mingled, grateful and touchy in the way of westerners that tended to so disturb the crewmen, and himself. Ishida and Yamato were younger, more gregarious and outgoing, so that they could laugh with these war-torn people even through it all. Honda, however had never gotten used to this habit. He avoided touch, and casual affection seemed like an invasion.
But as they navigated through the islands towards Piraeus, the questions lingered on in his mind. Why? How?
It was not something he could simply let rest. It was a job he could have gotten another to do, should have gotten another to do, but he wished to hear it directly, and not diluted from each telling from person to person, details changed and forgotten with time.
He found the man in a corner, curled up like a cat. Honda almost left him then, left this foolishness to an underling, but he woke from his daze. Honda was not entirely fluent in Greek, and what he did know centered around the price of silks, of lace and china and spices. He tried in English, which he was reasonably fluent in.
"Do you speak English?" He said. It was heavily accented. His family had always been adverse to him learning as a child,
"Yes. Thank you for saving me..."
"I am glad you are safe," Honda said.
"My name...is Stavros Karpusi..." The man said.
He too had an issue with English, it seemed. Each word was accented and paused, as if he had to think each one over.
"I am the captain here."
He felt reluctant to give Karpusi his name, as if hearing his name pronounced on Karpusi's lips would change everything. He shook this anxiety off. These thoughts were foolish.
"But, your name..." Karpusi prompted.
"Honda," he said.
"Honda..." He seemed to linger over the name, as if her were tasting the way it sounded on his tongue. "Honda."
His accent made the name sound strange on his tongue. No, not strange. Exotic.
"Please, tell me what happened, Karpusi-san," Honda said. "At least, if it is not too painful for you."
Karpusi unraveled the tale to him. He had woken up to smoke, and burning, from where he had been napping in a courtyard in the Greek community. Others, perhaps had looked up from their washing, their selling and simply living to find the city in flames.
The Greek soldiers already had pulled out, battered and tired, with no hint of the first joyous cheers at the start, the thoughts of reclaiming Constantinople, and what was lost to them. The richer had fled, while the poorer groups had awaited their fates.
He told of stories he had heard, atrocities he had seen: the story of how the bishop Chrysostomos had been pulled into the streets by a mob, his eyes gouged out, his beard torn off, his nose and ears sliced off and stabbed again and again; a church burned with five-hundred refugees in it that he had heard from one of the women and then the twisting stories of the horrors that befell the Armenians that he had overheard, or things he had witnessed himself.
if it is born in flames 6
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:49:35 UTC
This was the way of war, the way of the conquered.
They were pushed to the waters, herded towards their deaths just as the Armenians of the past had been herded into the deserts and lonely roads to be slaughtered. He stepped over trampled, charred bodies, their faces warped in pain and fear. These images would never leave him, and they were now too stuck in Honda's mind, even if he had never witnessed them.
Who had caused the fire? The Turks? Karpusi certainly thought so. His gentle expression turned hateful as he talked about the Turks. He often lapsed into Greek, and with the way he spat out the words, they must have been vile curses. His hands balled into fists. He was made almost unrecognizable by this blind hate.
He said the word Turk itself as if it was the most blasphemous, vulgar word ever created. Through this all, Honda kept quiet and simply listened to at times rambling monologue of what had happened. When it finally came to a close, Honda shifted.
"I am sorry for your loss...and to have to ask if of you to retell and recall those events," Honda said.
"No...this must be remembered. And I'm glad you worked so hard to save me. One of the women told me that you saved me personally..."
Honda flushed despite himself. He felt embarrassed then, his attempts to get Karpusi to breathe resembled a kiss.
"It is nothing," Honda said. "I am...glad to be able to help where I could in this disaster."
"It isn't nothing to me. I owe you my life now." Karpusi. smiled then. His whole face, usually languid, and drawn in a perpetual sleepy, half-lidded daze lit up when he smiled.
If there was a precise moment when it happened, in truth, it would be the first moment their lips met to salt and the waters of Smyrna, or perhaps, the first moment Honda decided he would no let Karpusi die, no matter what the costs. But this was the second, the denial breaking moment that made him unable to simply brush this off as nerves, as lust, or a result of fear.
After that moment, something inside him gave in. He would fight this part of him, but everything past this was inevitable.
if it is born in flames 7
anonymous
August 12 2010, 05:53:08 UTC
The trip to Piraeus had gone smoothly as of yet. Honda, however, was not quite so calm. For the past few nights, he'd had dreams of Karpusi. They would start out innocently enough, but would eventually turn to the salty taste of Karpusi's lips that first time, and those wet clothes removed to reveal his body.
The dreams had left him on edge, but more than that, the merest contact with Karpusi left him aware of the distance between their bodies and with a distinct desire to close that distance. His hands tightened at the door. He knew Karpusi would be looking his way. He could feel his gaze at his back, hot, enticing, quietly willing him to return the gaze. They were like this, stealing glances from across the room: Karpusi half-lidded, dreamy and unsubtle; Honda's guilty, forbidden and peripheral where each glimpse was treasured. There was a soft, downy hair at the back of his hands, freckles across his arms, little white scars which held secrets in each one.
They were drawn together as if some outside force, gravity, or Eros' arrow had caught them.
He closed the door behind him and drank in the solitude. He sipped his tea with a shaky hand. He was reminded of his father's dark mutterings of the westernization of their country. His mother had been all too quick to agree that westernization was eating their culture away, and that they should stick to their native ways, lest they dy out to this new seduction. He had voiced agreement to them, but his own thoughts had been more clouded.
It was odd that these two things met together: Karpusi and the thought of the sudden westernization of Japan that had begun ever since the Meiji era. His father remembered the isolationism, even treasured the time when they were closed so tight against other influences.
And to think, he'd one day man a ship. A part of him had always rebelled silently against the isolationist ways he had been raised with. It was a quiet revolution, one given politely, with lies for masks.
And yet, he had always craved other shores, other places...other men.
He couldn't stop watching him. The way he moved captivated Honda. Everything about him had an electric, magnetic draw to him. It was embarrassing how he couldn't wait to see hints of him, or how he found himself looking for ways to meet him and talk to him.
It was like a schoolboy's crush, and he was hardly a schoolboy any longer. He was too old for such fits of passion.
He thought with relief and apprehension that their destination would soon be reached, and this would soon pass. He did not see over the releasing of the refugees, for he had a report to begin to write.
if it is born in flames 8
anonymous
August 12 2010, 06:53:36 UTC
*
Greece was already nearly bankrupt with its wars, and yet these were its people, or at least some of them were. Honda personally saw to the release of the refugees. He thought it odd that he had not seen Karpusi, nor said his goodbyes, but there were crowds he could easily get lost in. Besides, at one point, he had been called away, and Karpusi could have been in the number at that time.
Honda strained to see over the crowd, yet he couldn't see Karpusi there. He felt unsure, a mixture of relief that he could go back to his life without the weight of his attraction towards Karpusi constantly twisting inside him, and yet, there was a dull ache in his chest.
He wondered if Karupusi had missed him then, and regretted the chance they had never gotten to say goodbye. As much as he tried to press it aside, the thought remained, coming up at odd moments when he was in the middle of giving commands that he the memory of the way Karpusi could nap nearly anywhere, like a cat, and the way he would sit down so deep in thought, looking like The Thinker, only cast in flesh and not stone.
And he would pause, lips parted and have to remind himself where he was, what he was doing. And he would shake his head and murmur an apology before continuing.
He wondered how much his life would be like this. It hadn't even been a day and he was already grieving for the loss of something he never had.
*
It was almost twelve hours after leaving Piraeus that a groggy stowaway came out of the lower decks. When Honda looked at him, it was like looking at a ghost. He dropped the pen to the floor he had been using. It rattled and rolled to Karpusi's feet. He picked it up and held it for a while as he looked about him.
Karpusi rubbed at his head. "It's empty around here..."
"Everyone else has been delivered to Piraeus," Honda said softly. "We can't turn back at this rate. Too much time would be lost. When we arrive at the next port, we'll secure you a safe passage home."
Karpusi shook his head. "No... I don't have a family any longer..."
He trailed off. Honda saw a trace of regret in his expression. He must have seen so much blood already. Compassion stirred in him.
"When we reach Japan, I will send you wherever you want - America, or Australia, other parts of Europe...wherever you want. I will pay for your tickets myself, so please do not worry," Honda said gravely.
Karpusi nodded slowly.
"All right. Thank you."
He couldn't tell if it was relief of apprehension he felt. Maybe parts of both, intertwined together.
"Would...would you like to have tea with me until then? It must have been a long time since you last ate. You must be famished," Honda said.
Karpusi followed Honda into his quarters.
He lifted his teacup to his mouth and tried to focus on his memories of tea ceremony. What he wanted was order, and that was what Karpusi was taking away from him. His mother had always had an obsession with keeping order, and the keeping of traditions.
He was an only child. In an odd reversal of fortunes, his mother mourned the lack of a daughter, and passed on the traditions to him. How to tie the female obi; ikebana; the art of obedience.
(Sometimes he wondered if this was why he craved the companionship of men. And yet, something within him seemed to differ. It seemed as if it had been something that had dawned from his earliest hour, even to the youngest memories came hints and histories of the beginnings of infatuations, of love's first beginnings.)
"Karpusi-san, if you please, can you tell me a story..."
"Mmn?"
"If it is not too much to ask, I wish to know more about your culture."
An excuse, though not entirely a lie. He wanted to know about culture, yes, but it was culture through Karpusi's eyes, told in his voice which fascinated him.
"No, it's not too much to ask," Karpusi said. "Where should I begin?"
if it is born in flames 9
anonymous
August 12 2010, 07:11:06 UTC
To ask someone like Karpusi to start from the beginning was a dangerous thing. So he began in his sleepy monotone, a story of how the world started.
This story didn't start with in the beginning. It started with night. Night black wings of a bird. This bird laid on a golden egg for an endless space of time. Karpusi gave extra detail to Nyx, mother of Hypnos, his favorite god. He told of her night-black wings, so dark and deep the outline was lost in the negative space of dreamless sleep.
He told of how one day, a crack appeared in the egg. It began to stir with life. From it hatched love, this was the first creation. The golden broken shell fell below, rose above. From that egg was born Gaea and Uranous: Earth and Sky. He stopped the flow of the story to expand on what Nyx must've felt at that moment. When he continued and the gentle prompting of Honda, it was to tell of the merging.
Those three combined. Love brought together Gaea and Uranous. The sky and earth were completely connected in coitus. Everything was dark between their bodies. Their sweat was like dew, damp over the body of the earth. He was so frank in this part that Honda even felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks. If Karpusi noticed, he didn't mention it.
And Karpusi told of their children: Rhea, Helios, and
It was their children who pushed them apart, and set them where they are today. Hung among the stars, cast across the lands. Uranous' crown, his life and even manhood was taken from him, only to start a cycle as the Titans were overthrown by the gods.
History was a series of overthrowing and being overthrown. Many ages of humans went by: Gold, silver, bronze, iron.
But then, there were always variations. Every story ha multiple tellings, each grew to become its own being when told by another person. This was only one way it was told. Karpusi noted this, going into details of translations and different accounts that Honda didn't quite get, but he politely agreed with.
Honda had listened intently, never interrupting. Karpusi was an eloquent storyteller. He loved the calming sound of his voice. He felt as if he could be lulled to sleep.
"I wonder what she thought about," Karpusi said.
"Who?"
"Nyx. The bird of night," Karpusi said.
"But there was nothing, so what could she have thought about?"
"I think she must have thought about a lot of things..." Karpusi said. "About what things would be if they existed. Maybe she even thought them into being...had the Oneiroi tell people through their dreams when they existed."
He had a far away look. When he spoke again, it wasn't of creation myths, but of flames.
"In Smyrna....Ashes were falling....it made me think of Pompeii. People were encased where they slept, turned to living statues in a moment's time.
Honda didn't know what comfort he could offer. Condolences seemed hollow in the face of such a tragedy. So he touched Karpusi's arm in a gesture of comfort, a very bold move for him, though Karpusi surely didn't know the significance.
He looked down at where Honda's hand touched as if he were studying the bones in his hand.
if it is born in flames 10
anonymous
August 12 2010, 07:12:58 UTC
And so he began the tale he had read in schoolbooks, and heard from his own elders. He told of the unity, of how life was not separate. Heaven and earth were mixed together. Fire and water, air and ether. It was one seed. His was more terse, a less fanciful telling than Karpusi, but still a telling.
He told of the dark oceans, and how from them arose a reed. It grew, little by little through the swirling chaos, reaching towards the skies. When it reached the heavens, it turned into a slender god who rose up on thin limbs and felt the aloneness weighing down upon him. This god, in turn created more gods: Ame-no-Minaka-Nushi-no-Mikoto and Takami-Musubi-no-Mikoto, Kammi-Musubi-no-Mikoto and finally, Izanagi and Izanami.
One story said it was a giant carp that made a tidal wave that created the islands. Another said that Izanagi and Izanami stirred the ocean with a jeweled spear. They created the first island, made from the mud at the bottom of the sea as a potter would. They built a pillar, and strode across the sandy beaches, building as they went on. From the mire they created creatures, molded lovingly, and greenery to feed them.
This was how the world began, but it was nowhere near the rest of the story. There was still the story of how rain came to be, of thunder, of the disintegration of Izanagi and Izanami. But those were continuations of the first thread, the first story of how life came to be. His teacup was empty. The story done.
"That isn't all, but that finishes the first part of the beginning," Honda said.
"Stories never finish," Karpusi said. "They only end for the night...for that telling."
*
Honda didn't allow himself to seek out Karpusi too often. If they came across each other by chance, then that was acceptable. He still took meals, and yet he rationed the time he spent with Karpusi, lest someone suspect.
Karpusi was out looking at the sky. The sea breeze teased his hair. He leaned over the deck, his olive skin across the railing.
Honda had been going to fetch Naoto to discuss something with him, but he paused.
"Please be careful to not fall over, Karpusi-san," Honda said.
"I won't. I'm used to boats," he said. "I have good balance..."
"I see," Honda said.
"You must miss your wife and children," Karpusi said conversationally. He turned around so that he was leaning on the side of the ship, and looking at Honda in a searching manner.
"I am afraid I have none," Honda said. "Only my parents, who are getting on in years."
"I see," Karpusi said. "I'm sorry."
But he didn't sound particularly sorry, even a worn social ritual as it was. He sounded almost...relieved? Honda refused to let himself dwell on the minute details.
"No, no...it is something I intend to rectify when I return home," Honda said. "It is...time I get started on such things before I am too old. My mother has been wanting me to get married for years, but I was too busy with work."
He had kept himself busy. Driven himself. Hadn't that been it deep down, a way to keep himself from the inevitable?
Karpusi gave him a sideways glance. "You don't look that old."
"Looks are deceiving, Karpusi-san."
"You can't be older than twenty-eight," Karpusi said. One eye was closed, as if he were looking through a scope at some precious stone.
"I assure you, I'm quite a bit older than that. But that is unimportant. As it is...please come inside, it is time to eat."
Karpusi followed him in.
He sat crosslegged as he ate. He sat down in close proximity. Honda, who was used to barriers and distance felt slightly taken aback. It was a mere difference in culture.
f it is born in flames 11
anonymous
August 12 2010, 07:26:11 UTC
Honda had a feeling that they could tell the entirety of each other's history and still have more to discuss. Talking about this was a good distraction, and distancing method.
This was how they began: hands almost touching, a hesitant threaded thought after the beginning of the world each from two different cultures and lands, each chronicling an unknowable event.
"What story do you want to hear next?" Karpusi said.
"You. Yours," Honda said. He said it shyly. He would usually not be so blunt, verging on rude, but something within him yearned to know more about Karpusi. He couldn't help himself.
"I was a philosophy student... I wasn't raised in Smyrna, but I came here to be with family members before the war started....they didn't survive."
"I'm sorry to bring it up," Honda said.
"No...I don't want to forget them. Even if it hurts."
"What about you?" Karpusi asked.
"What?"
"Your story."
"There is not much to tell about me. I was raised in a respectable household from a good family. We did not originate in shipping; this was my own doing. As you already know, I am an only child. I'm afraid my story isn't particularly interesting."
"No," Karpusi murmured. "You're wrong. I find you very interesting..."
Honda blushed. Just like some schoolgirl. He did not know how to respond. He cleared his throat.
"You know...I was born the day our countries became friends. I've always thought that was significant somehow. I think I finally understand..."
Karpusi's gaze focused on him in a way that made Honda feel naked. Not in the physical sense, but in the sense that every hidden fear, dream or aspiration could be pulled to light by Karpusi.
He cleared his throat. "I have some duties to attend to, you must excuse me..."
He left. It was terribly rude to flee like that, walk out on the way he felt giddy just to hear his voice, the softening of the resolve, of everything inside him.
He found Naoto and asked for details he already knew and sifted through papers that were already sifted.
When he finally returned to his room, it was empty. The giddy feeling had fallen, and now his chest felt weighed down, as if it were filled with stones. He hoped Karpusi would forgive this rudeness.
*
He didn't see him again until the last grips of dusk had receded from the horizon, and the sky had turned dark with velvety night. He hadn't seen Karpusi at dinner, which worried him in both for Karpusi's health and whether he had taken the abrupt leave poorly.
He was leaning against the rails again, his gaze upwards. Honda came close, wishing to touch him to politely get his attention and not startle him, risking sending him overboard - wishing simply to touch him.
"I didn't see you at dinner," Honda said.
"I was sleeping," Karpusi said.
"I will have the cook make something for you," Honda said.
If Karpusi had been one of his underlings, Honda would have reprimanded him, but he wasn't, and Honda was too filled with relief that Karpusi didn't feel snubbed to give even a gentle reprimand.
"Thank you," Karpusi said. He was distracted, looking up to the stars above. Honda looked too, wondering what had so fascinated him.
He pointed up to each and every one, and named them. Each was steeped in Greek mythology: Pegasus, Orion, Cassiopeia, Pisces. He would guide Honda's vision with his outstretched hand in the dim light, and tell the story of each.
"You know a lot about the stars, Karpusi-san."
"I was studying the past. Mythology, philosophy...things like that."
Karpusi fell quiet. In the dark Honda couldn't see his face, and he was turned away from the lantern on the deck.
"Is something the matter?"
"A memory..." Karpusi said.
Honda waited, but Karpusi did not immediately respond.
Karpusi brushed the back of his hand over Honda's lips. Knuckles, fingers, skin.
"Karpusi-san-"
"I didn't tell you the whole truth...I was part of the army...."
Except for a Japanese ship whose (unidentified) captain dumped all its cargo overboard, packed the ship with as many refugees as possible, and whisked them away to the safety of a nearby port city. (More info: http://www.greece.org/main/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=59&Itemid=82)
...See where I'm going here? And why I want something about Japan being the captain of that ship and Greece being one of the refugees he rescues? And why I went "D'aww..." while reading about that "Japanese hero"?
Bonus:
- Greece is found in a half-drowned stupor and Japan has to give him CPR. While furiously telling himself that it does not count as his first kiss.
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SECONDED!! ♥
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There's actually some debate on who actually caused the great fire of Smyrna. There's conflicting history, conflicting views despite a lot of personal eyewitnesses...I studied both sides as best as I could, but in this case, Herakles believes it is the Turks from the horrors he's seen, his own prejudices, etc. The story follows his account, thus it follows the assumption that the Turks were to blame.
Levantines were...actually, wiki sums it up easier than I can: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Levantines
Uchida-san is referring to the Japanese consulate at the time, who happened to be pro-Turkish to the point of being a Turkophile.
The names are different in the beginning, but there's a plot point to this. Just keep on and you'll see. There's also some elements changed in age/birthdates for plot reasons.
According to greek-genocide.com, the Japanese ship came (and left? It doesn't specify) on the 8th, before the fire actually started. The original newspapers excerpted from Greece.com refer to it being there during the fire...I assumed the latter for plot-related reasons.
Another artistic license: CPR wsn't invented until between 1956-60 and this is set in 1922, but this was from a bonus of the request and was too cute and plot related to cut. SO we're going to pretend that in Japan there was some form of CPR which was prior to the Western reveal of it?
--
Everything was quiet the day the ship landed. They had been relatively isolated, as such was the way of sailing. What news they had heard had been of Japan, not Anatolia. He'd had contact with a British ship and taken tea with their captain. He told the news of the Grecian retreat, and how the Turks had retaken the city with little-to-no resistance.
A little bloodshed was always unavoidable in these sorts of situations, but he believed everything would even itself out in the end.
He was invited to spend some time with a Levantine family, but he politely declined. He was still waiting for word from Uchida-san, who happened to be a personal friend of the family. He would certainly be happy with the turn of events, given he was very fond of the Turks, even to the point of being a Turkophile.
There were still stragglers of the Greecian army leaving, dejected and bedraggled by their long campaign.
The city was quiet and pensive as night fell.
*
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Honda had been preparing to meet with Uchida-san, and to deliver his personal quarter of the goods brought when a Yamato burst in.
"The city is on fire!"
Honda left his quarters and came on deck. The sky was lost in waves of smoke. The men informed him that it had been earlier that they noticed the smoke, yet thought it not a fire of great rapport - didn't the peoples of Anatolia cook with open fires? Surely between the Jews, the Egyptians, the Armenians, the Greeks and the Turks that inhabited this diverse city, one of them must have some festival, some reason to bring out bonfires and cook their delicacies.
But Honda knew it was nothing so gentle and controlled. The screams told otherwise. Some had jumped in to avoid the flames licking at their heels, their lungs already stained black. Others wandered through the maze of ashes and smoke, burning houses taking with them the memories and dreams of their former occupants - and in the case of some, the lives as well.
The harbor was filled with ships. French, Italian, English, even American. And yet as the time passed, he saw them refuse the desperate refugees. Sailors stepped on clawing hands, threw hot water on them, pushed them back into the water. Neutrality - it was such a loaded word.
The English and American ships took a staunch stance of neutrality, while the French could be convinced to bring their own aboard, and perhaps, did not look too hard if the French was good enough to pass. The Italians took on those who could row far enough to reach their boats, whoever made it that far past the dirty waters and yet it wasn't enough.
He was reminded of Troy, of the ruins of once beautiful things. Now it was charred and broken, ruined and destroyed, all that beauty cast aside. He had been making trips to the Western countries, from the Mediterranean to England, France, and other countries for many years now, and had always been captivated by the strange beauty of the lands. The waters of the Mediterranean were a clear, pristine color he'd never seen in his native land. He remembered the shores of Greece, the cities rising up white and imposing, with the memories of thousands of years past in their stones. Here in Anatolia, the waters were as dull and murky as tarnished silver. The air was viscous. It hurt to breathe. He couldn't imagine how much worse it must have been for anyone stuck in the city itself.
Honda wasn't impulsive by nature, but this tragedy had shaken something inside him, even if the rest of the horrific details were unknown, more the callousness of the other ships, the other people.
"Bring the cargo to the deck," he said. His voice was steady as he did so. He did not look away from the flames, or the refugees gathering at the wharves, jumping in to escape the fires, only to find no sanctuary.
Lace, silks, china and spices. It was worth thousands, but wasn't human life that much more irreplaceable? That much more worthwhile? History said otherwise. Life was so carelessly taken in such horrific manners. Others might be bound by their neutrality, forced into inaction, but he wasn't.
One by one their precious cargo was brought up. There was an unsaid question in the eyes of his crew.
"Throw it into the harbor, everything but Uchida-san's quarter," he said. "We need all the room we can get."
"Honda-san?" Naoto, his second-in-command queried.
"You heard me," Honda said. His voice held a cold calm, an unbendable strength to it. They did not question him again. He watched, grave as they complied. The cargo crashed into the water. He thought of the silks floating, ruined, like the dresses of drowned women amongst the dross and wreckage of conquering, the bodies already bloated from the heat. It was not all their cargo, but it was still a heavy loss, but he did not think of that. But soon the events turned, so fast they seemed to blend together. The people began to pour onto the ship. Rescued from the waters, from the edge of the harbor. Other ships closed their doors, but he wouldn't, whatever the consequences.
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They clung to each other, crying and shaking from cold. Under the soot he couldn't tell if they were Greek, Armenian, Egyptian, Jewish or Turkish, but it did not matter. A refugee was a refugee, and that was all that mattered.
Honda surveyed this, and gave orders as was needed. His crew was as efficient as a machine as they brought the waterlogged, half-dead refugees aboard.
"We're getting full, Honda-san," Naoto said quietly.
"Just a few more," Honda said. "It is the least we can do, since the Allied forces have seen it fit to do nothing.".
They saved one from the water, and it was only Honda's downward turned gaze that noticed this one. He had stayed back to allow several others aboard first, but had slipped into unconsciousness by the time they reached him. He was laid out on the desk, limp, cold and wet.
"He isn't breathing," Naoto said. "I think, Honda-san that this one..."
The man looked like a statue of a Greek god, like Adonis. His curly hair was plastered to his face, and his coat and pants waterlogged and soot-covered, and yet it did not hide how strong he was. It seemed a shame for something - someone so beautiful to die. Honda bent before him and with the help of Naoto - for the wet clothes made him very heavy, pushed him to his side, and compressed his chest. He listened for something, any sound to hint that he was still alive. His mind was clouded with panic for the first time since he had come across the burning. He remembered an old tale his grandmother had told him about fishermen giving life from their lips, shared breaths. It had been instituted by a monk, apparently, and kept alive among the fisherman and those who had almost drowned. Pushing aside the thought that the first attempt to get the water from his lungs resembled the embrace of a lover, Honda lowered his mouth until it touched with the other man's. How had it gone again? Pinch the nose shut. Open his mouth. Share breath. He listed off each one mechanically, in a detached, frozen manner. His mouth tasted of salt. Honda strived to push air into his lungs, his mind racing and wondering if he had done it in the wrong order.
He did it again, and again, pressing on his chest, willing him to breathe.
"Honda-san, I don't think...."
Then he was gasping, coughing up water, and Honda felt a surge of relief. He was alive.
The man's eyes were green, and looked straight up at him. Dazed. Confused. His lips parted in a groan, and he stirred. His head lolled to the side and he moaned. For a moment Honda thought he might empty his stomach, but whatever came across him passed.
"You're safe now," Honda said in his own native tongue. It was the natural impulse to him, for of course the man couldn't understand him. His hands were still balanced on the man's chest. Lingering. Now that the man was alive, his mind noted the firm feel of that chest. He pulled them away, and shook his hands as if to free himself from grimy water and salt. In truth, it was to try and dislodge the tingling feeling.
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It'd been too long since he last had a man. At home waited his duties: a suitable girl met via o-miai, a family to build, his place in society to secure. The noose of the life he was expected to live was tightening. It was surely this childish desire to live rebelliously that made him want to cling on to any man, if only to reaffirm the feeling of being held in strong arms.
The man got up, but wobbled as he did so, and Honda reached to balance him as he did. He allowed the passenger to lean on him, even as he was larger than him, and quite a bit heavier. He moved like a drunken man, stumbling along as Honda guided him to be where the other passengers had been grouped. It was a cargo ship, not a luxury liner. The hold had been freed of other cargo, but as it was, there weren't nearly enough beds to go around. They were packed close together, children crying, some women crying in what Honda assumed was relief - or simply a venting of feelings, their sadness their loss.
He helped the man down to a seating position near the stairs to the deck.
Dirty seawater had drenched his white jacket, probably ruining it for good. He thought no matter how many times it was washed, there'd always be the smell of smoke and death, salt and murky water as his last gift from Smyrna.
There were still more refugees, and yet there was no more room to be had. As of now, they were overloaded, anymore would require them to throw off food supplies, which were not quite as expendable as their cargo had been.
Honda left feeling profoundly tired. He and his crew had done all they could and more to help the victims of Smyrna. He only hoped the other Allied ships would do the same as it grew worse, as the fugitives from the burning city grew more desperate. He did not have faith in this; the burning of Smyrna had shaken his faith in his fellow man, and he had a feeling as he left behind the burning city, that it would only become more horrific as the days went on.
*
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For a short while, it was pandemonium. People being ushered below deck, the thick smoke in the distance, and the screams still lingering in their mind. Honda thought those sounds would never quite fade.It was Piraeus they were headed to, a place where they would be at least for the moment, safer.
Unlike the other ships with higher orders, his was merely a cargo ship, and did not have to wait for messages from Constantinople, or face recrimination from their superiors for breaking neutrality.
The crew and himself did everything they could to make that trip go as smoothly as possible. Passengers on luxury cruises didn't have the attention, the care that they gave. What little they had, they shared. The people, despite everything that had happened to them, were grateful.
The below deck reeked of stale smoke and the murky harbor waters. The smoke clung to them, until they exuded it from every pore. They smelled like death, and the death of the city itself as it had imploded in on itself, flames rising higher.
They mingled, grateful and touchy in the way of westerners that tended to so disturb the crewmen, and himself. Ishida and Yamato were younger, more gregarious and outgoing, so that they could laugh with these war-torn people even through it all. Honda, however had never gotten used to this habit. He avoided touch, and casual affection seemed like an invasion.
But as they navigated through the islands towards Piraeus, the questions lingered on in his mind. Why? How?
It was not something he could simply let rest. It was a job he could have gotten another to do, should have gotten another to do, but he wished to hear it directly, and not diluted from each telling from person to person, details changed and forgotten with time.
He found the man in a corner, curled up like a cat. Honda almost left him then, left this foolishness to an underling, but he woke from his daze. Honda was not entirely fluent in Greek, and what he did know centered around the price of silks, of lace and china and spices. He tried in English, which he was reasonably fluent in.
"Do you speak English?" He said. It was heavily accented. His family had always been adverse to him learning as a child,
"Yes. Thank you for saving me..."
"I am glad you are safe," Honda said.
"My name...is Stavros Karpusi..." The man said.
He too had an issue with English, it seemed. Each word was accented and paused, as if he had to think each one over.
"I am the captain here."
He felt reluctant to give Karpusi his name, as if hearing his name pronounced on Karpusi's lips would change everything. He shook this anxiety off. These thoughts were foolish.
"But, your name..." Karpusi prompted.
"Honda," he said.
"Honda..." He seemed to linger over the name, as if her were tasting the way it sounded on his tongue. "Honda."
His accent made the name sound strange on his tongue. No, not strange. Exotic.
"Please, tell me what happened, Karpusi-san," Honda said. "At least, if it is not too painful for you."
Karpusi unraveled the tale to him. He had woken up to smoke, and burning, from where he had been napping in a courtyard in the Greek community. Others, perhaps had looked up from their washing, their selling and simply living to find the city in flames.
The Greek soldiers already had pulled out, battered and tired, with no hint of the first joyous cheers at the start, the thoughts of reclaiming Constantinople, and what was lost to them. The richer had fled, while the poorer groups had awaited their fates.
He told of stories he had heard, atrocities he had seen: the story of how the bishop Chrysostomos had been pulled into the streets by a mob, his eyes gouged out, his beard torn off, his nose and ears sliced off and stabbed again and again; a church burned with five-hundred refugees in it that he had heard from one of the women and then the twisting stories of the horrors that befell the Armenians that he had overheard, or things he had witnessed himself.
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This was the way of war, the way of the conquered.
They were pushed to the waters, herded towards their deaths just as the Armenians of the past had been herded into the deserts and lonely roads to be slaughtered. He stepped over trampled, charred bodies, their faces warped in pain and fear. These images would never leave him, and they were now too stuck in Honda's mind, even if he had never witnessed them.
Who had caused the fire? The Turks? Karpusi certainly thought so. His gentle expression turned hateful as he talked about the Turks. He often lapsed into Greek, and with the way he spat out the words, they must have been vile curses. His hands balled into fists. He was made almost unrecognizable by this blind hate.
He said the word Turk itself as if it was the most blasphemous, vulgar word ever created. Through this all, Honda kept quiet and simply listened to at times rambling monologue of what had happened. When it finally came to a close, Honda shifted.
"I am sorry for your loss...and to have to ask if of you to retell and recall those events," Honda said.
"No...this must be remembered. And I'm glad you worked so hard to save me. One of the women told me that you saved me personally..."
Honda flushed despite himself. He felt embarrassed then, his attempts to get Karpusi to breathe resembled a kiss.
"It is nothing," Honda said. "I am...glad to be able to help where I could in this disaster."
"It isn't nothing to me. I owe you my life now." Karpusi. smiled then. His whole face, usually languid, and drawn in a perpetual sleepy, half-lidded daze lit up when he smiled.
If there was a precise moment when it happened, in truth, it would be the first moment their lips met to salt and the waters of Smyrna, or perhaps, the first moment Honda decided he would no let Karpusi die, no matter what the costs. But this was the second, the denial breaking moment that made him unable to simply brush this off as nerves, as lust, or a result of fear.
After that moment, something inside him gave in. He would fight this part of him, but everything past this was inevitable.
*
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The trip to Piraeus had gone smoothly as of yet. Honda, however, was not quite so calm. For the past few nights, he'd had dreams of Karpusi. They would start out innocently enough, but would eventually turn to the salty taste of Karpusi's lips that first time, and those wet clothes removed to reveal his body.
The dreams had left him on edge, but more than that, the merest contact with Karpusi left him aware of the distance between their bodies and with a distinct desire to close that distance. His hands tightened at the door. He knew Karpusi would be looking his way. He could feel his gaze at his back, hot, enticing, quietly willing him to return the gaze. They were like this, stealing glances from across the room: Karpusi half-lidded, dreamy and unsubtle; Honda's guilty, forbidden and peripheral where each glimpse was treasured. There was a soft, downy hair at the back of his hands, freckles across his arms, little white scars which held secrets in each one.
They were drawn together as if some outside force, gravity, or Eros' arrow had caught them.
He closed the door behind him and drank in the solitude. He sipped his tea with a shaky hand. He was reminded of his father's dark mutterings of the westernization of their country. His mother had been all too quick to agree that westernization was eating their culture away, and that they should stick to their native ways, lest they dy out to this new seduction. He had voiced agreement to them, but his own thoughts had been more clouded.
It was odd that these two things met together: Karpusi and the thought of the sudden westernization of Japan that had begun ever since the Meiji era. His father remembered the isolationism, even treasured the time when they were closed so tight against other influences.
And to think, he'd one day man a ship. A part of him had always rebelled silently against the isolationist ways he had been raised with. It was a quiet revolution, one given politely, with lies for masks.
And yet, he had always craved other shores, other places...other men.
He couldn't stop watching him. The way he moved captivated Honda. Everything about him had an electric, magnetic draw to him. It was embarrassing how he couldn't wait to see hints of him, or how he found himself looking for ways to meet him and talk to him.
It was like a schoolboy's crush, and he was hardly a schoolboy any longer. He was too old for such fits of passion.
He thought with relief and apprehension that their destination would soon be reached, and this would soon pass. He did not see over the releasing of the refugees, for he had a report to begin to write.
*
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*
Greece was already nearly bankrupt with its wars, and yet these were its people, or at least some of them were. Honda personally saw to the release of the refugees. He thought it odd that he had not seen Karpusi, nor said his goodbyes, but there were crowds he could easily get lost in. Besides, at one point, he had been called away, and Karpusi could have been in the number at that time.
Honda strained to see over the crowd, yet he couldn't see Karpusi there. He felt unsure, a mixture of relief that he could go back to his life without the weight of his attraction towards Karpusi constantly twisting inside him, and yet, there was a dull ache in his chest.
He wondered if Karupusi had missed him then, and regretted the chance they had never gotten to say goodbye. As much as he tried to press it aside, the thought remained, coming up at odd moments when he was in the middle of giving commands that he the memory of the way Karpusi could nap nearly anywhere, like a cat, and the way he would sit down so deep in thought, looking like The Thinker, only cast in flesh and not stone.
And he would pause, lips parted and have to remind himself where he was, what he was doing. And he would shake his head and murmur an apology before continuing.
He wondered how much his life would be like this. It hadn't even been a day and he was already grieving for the loss of something he never had.
*
It was almost twelve hours after leaving Piraeus that a groggy stowaway came out of the lower decks. When Honda looked at him, it was like looking at a ghost. He dropped the pen to the floor he had been using. It rattled and rolled to Karpusi's feet. He picked it up and held it for a while as he looked about him.
Karpusi rubbed at his head. "It's empty around here..."
"Everyone else has been delivered to Piraeus," Honda said softly. "We can't turn back at this rate. Too much time would be lost. When we arrive at the next port, we'll secure you a safe passage home."
Karpusi shook his head. "No... I don't have a family any longer..."
He trailed off. Honda saw a trace of regret in his expression. He must have seen so much blood already. Compassion stirred in him.
"When we reach Japan, I will send you wherever you want - America, or Australia, other parts of Europe...wherever you want. I will pay for your tickets myself, so please do not worry," Honda said gravely.
Karpusi nodded slowly.
"All right. Thank you."
He couldn't tell if it was relief of apprehension he felt. Maybe parts of both, intertwined together.
"Would...would you like to have tea with me until then? It must have been a long time since you last ate. You must be famished," Honda said.
Karpusi followed Honda into his quarters.
He lifted his teacup to his mouth and tried to focus on his memories of tea ceremony. What he wanted was order, and that was what Karpusi was taking away from him. His mother had always had an obsession with keeping order, and the keeping of traditions.
He was an only child. In an odd reversal of fortunes, his mother mourned the lack of a daughter, and passed on the traditions to him. How to tie the female obi; ikebana; the art of obedience.
(Sometimes he wondered if this was why he craved the companionship of men. And yet, something within him seemed to differ. It seemed as if it had been something that had dawned from his earliest hour, even to the youngest memories came hints and histories of the beginnings of infatuations, of love's first beginnings.)
"Karpusi-san, if you please, can you tell me a story..."
"Mmn?"
"If it is not too much to ask, I wish to know more about your culture."
An excuse, though not entirely a lie. He wanted to know about culture, yes, but it was culture through Karpusi's eyes, told in his voice which fascinated him.
"No, it's not too much to ask," Karpusi said. "Where should I begin?"
"The beginning, of course."
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To ask someone like Karpusi to start from the beginning was a dangerous thing. So he began in his sleepy monotone, a story of how the world started.
This story didn't start with in the beginning. It started with night. Night black wings of a bird. This bird laid on a golden egg for an endless space of time. Karpusi gave extra detail to Nyx, mother of Hypnos, his favorite god. He told of her night-black wings, so dark and deep the outline was lost in the negative space of dreamless sleep.
He told of how one day, a crack appeared in the egg. It began to stir with life. From it hatched love, this was the first creation. The golden broken shell fell below, rose above. From that egg was born Gaea and Uranous: Earth and Sky. He stopped the flow of the story to expand on what Nyx must've felt at that moment. When he continued and the gentle prompting of Honda, it was to tell of the merging.
Those three combined. Love brought together Gaea and Uranous. The sky and earth were completely connected in coitus. Everything was dark between their bodies. Their sweat was like dew, damp over the body of the earth. He was so frank in this part that Honda even felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks. If Karpusi noticed, he didn't mention it.
And Karpusi told of their children: Rhea, Helios, and
It was their children who pushed them apart, and set them where they are today. Hung among the stars, cast across the lands. Uranous' crown, his life and even manhood was taken from him, only to start a cycle as the Titans were overthrown by the gods.
History was a series of overthrowing and being overthrown. Many ages of humans went by: Gold, silver, bronze, iron.
But then, there were always variations. Every story ha multiple tellings, each grew to become its own being when told by another person. This was only one way it was told. Karpusi noted this, going into details of translations and different accounts that Honda didn't quite get, but he politely agreed with.
Honda had listened intently, never interrupting. Karpusi was an eloquent storyteller. He loved the calming sound of his voice. He felt as if he could be lulled to sleep.
"I wonder what she thought about," Karpusi said.
"Who?"
"Nyx. The bird of night," Karpusi said.
"But there was nothing, so what could she have thought about?"
"I think she must have thought about a lot of things..." Karpusi said. "About what things would be if they existed. Maybe she even thought them into being...had the Oneiroi tell people through their dreams when they existed."
He had a far away look. When he spoke again, it wasn't of creation myths, but of flames.
"In Smyrna....Ashes were falling....it made me think of Pompeii. People were encased where they slept, turned to living statues in a moment's time.
Honda didn't know what comfort he could offer. Condolences seemed hollow in the face of such a tragedy. So he touched Karpusi's arm in a gesture of comfort, a very bold move for him, though Karpusi surely didn't know the significance.
He looked down at where Honda's hand touched as if he were studying the bones in his hand.
"Tell me your story?" Karpusi asked.
"My story?" Honda said.
"The story of your gods," Karpusi said.
"It is a bit different than yours..."
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He told of the dark oceans, and how from them arose a reed. It grew, little by little through the swirling chaos, reaching towards the skies. When it reached the heavens, it turned into a slender god who rose up on thin limbs and felt the aloneness weighing down upon him. This god, in turn created more gods: Ame-no-Minaka-Nushi-no-Mikoto and Takami-Musubi-no-Mikoto, Kammi-Musubi-no-Mikoto and finally, Izanagi and Izanami.
One story said it was a giant carp that made a tidal wave that created the islands. Another said that Izanagi and Izanami stirred the ocean with a jeweled spear. They created the first island, made from the mud at the bottom of the sea as a potter would. They built a pillar, and strode across the sandy beaches, building as they went on. From the mire they created creatures, molded lovingly, and greenery to feed them.
This was how the world began, but it was nowhere near the rest of the story. There was still the story of how rain came to be, of thunder, of the disintegration of Izanagi and Izanami. But those were continuations of the first thread, the first story of how life came to be. His teacup was empty. The story done.
"That isn't all, but that finishes the first part of the beginning," Honda said.
"Stories never finish," Karpusi said. "They only end for the night...for that telling."
*
Honda didn't allow himself to seek out Karpusi too often. If they came across each other by chance, then that was acceptable. He still took meals, and yet he rationed the time he spent with Karpusi, lest someone suspect.
Karpusi was out looking at the sky. The sea breeze teased his hair. He leaned over the deck, his olive skin across the railing.
Honda had been going to fetch Naoto to discuss something with him, but he paused.
"Please be careful to not fall over, Karpusi-san," Honda said.
"I won't. I'm used to boats," he said. "I have good balance..."
"I see," Honda said.
"You must miss your wife and children," Karpusi said conversationally. He turned around so that he was leaning on the side of the ship, and looking at Honda in a searching manner.
"I am afraid I have none," Honda said. "Only my parents, who are getting on in years."
"I see," Karpusi said. "I'm sorry."
But he didn't sound particularly sorry, even a worn social ritual as it was. He sounded almost...relieved? Honda refused to let himself dwell on the minute details.
"No, no...it is something I intend to rectify when I return home," Honda said. "It is...time I get started on such things before I am too old. My mother has been wanting me to get married for years, but I was too busy with work."
He had kept himself busy. Driven himself. Hadn't that been it deep down, a way to keep himself from the inevitable?
Karpusi gave him a sideways glance. "You don't look that old."
"Looks are deceiving, Karpusi-san."
"You can't be older than twenty-eight," Karpusi said. One eye was closed, as if he were looking through a scope at some precious stone.
"I assure you, I'm quite a bit older than that. But that is unimportant. As it is...please come inside, it is time to eat."
Karpusi followed him in.
He sat crosslegged as he ate. He sat down in close proximity. Honda, who was used to barriers and distance felt slightly taken aback. It was a mere difference in culture.
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This was how they began: hands almost touching, a hesitant threaded thought after the beginning of the world each from two different cultures and lands, each chronicling an unknowable event.
"What story do you want to hear next?" Karpusi said.
"You. Yours," Honda said. He said it shyly. He would usually not be so blunt, verging on rude, but something within him yearned to know more about Karpusi. He couldn't help himself.
"I was a philosophy student... I wasn't raised in Smyrna, but I came here to be with family members before the war started....they didn't survive."
"I'm sorry to bring it up," Honda said.
"No...I don't want to forget them. Even if it hurts."
"What about you?" Karpusi asked.
"What?"
"Your story."
"There is not much to tell about me. I was raised in a respectable household from a good family. We did not originate in shipping; this was my own doing. As you already know, I am an only child. I'm afraid my story isn't particularly interesting."
"No," Karpusi murmured. "You're wrong. I find you very interesting..."
Honda blushed. Just like some schoolgirl. He did not know how to respond. He cleared his throat.
"You know...I was born the day our countries became friends. I've always thought that was significant somehow. I think I finally understand..."
Karpusi's gaze focused on him in a way that made Honda feel naked. Not in the physical sense, but in the sense that every hidden fear, dream or aspiration could be pulled to light by Karpusi.
He cleared his throat. "I have some duties to attend to, you must excuse me..."
He left. It was terribly rude to flee like that, walk out on the way he felt giddy just to hear his voice, the softening of the resolve, of everything inside him.
He found Naoto and asked for details he already knew and sifted through papers that were already sifted.
When he finally returned to his room, it was empty. The giddy feeling had fallen, and now his chest felt weighed down, as if it were filled with stones. He hoped Karpusi would forgive this rudeness.
*
He didn't see him again until the last grips of dusk had receded from the horizon, and the sky had turned dark with velvety night. He hadn't seen Karpusi at dinner, which worried him in both
for Karpusi's health and whether he had taken the abrupt leave poorly.
He was leaning against the rails again, his gaze upwards. Honda came close, wishing to touch him to politely get his attention and not startle him, risking sending him overboard - wishing simply to touch him.
"I didn't see you at dinner," Honda said.
"I was sleeping," Karpusi said.
"I will have the cook make something for you," Honda said.
If Karpusi had been one of his underlings, Honda would have reprimanded him, but he wasn't, and Honda was too filled with relief that Karpusi didn't feel snubbed to give even a gentle reprimand.
"Thank you," Karpusi said. He was distracted, looking up to the stars above. Honda looked too, wondering what had so fascinated him.
He pointed up to each and every one, and named them. Each was steeped in Greek mythology: Pegasus, Orion, Cassiopeia, Pisces. He would guide Honda's vision with his outstretched hand in the dim light, and tell the story of each.
"You know a lot about the stars, Karpusi-san."
"I was studying the past. Mythology, philosophy...things like that."
Karpusi fell quiet. In the dark Honda couldn't see his face, and he was turned away from the lantern on the deck.
"Is something the matter?"
"A memory..." Karpusi said.
Honda waited, but Karpusi did not immediately respond.
Karpusi brushed the back of his hand over Honda's lips. Knuckles, fingers, skin.
"Karpusi-san-"
"I didn't tell you the whole truth...I was part of the army...."
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