Loe raamatut: «Empire of the Sun»
J. G. BALLARD
Empire of the Sun
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road London W6 8JB 4thestate.co.uk
This edition published by Fourth Estate in 2014
Previously published in paperback by Harper Perennial 2006,
Flamingo 2001 and (as a Modern Classic) 1993
First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz in 1984
Copyright © J. G. Ballard 1984
The right of J. G. Ballard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
Introduction © John Lanchester 2014
Interview © Travis Elborough 2006
‘The End of My War’ © J. G. Ballard 1995
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Cover by Stanley Donwood
Photograph of atomic bombing of Nagasaki on August 9, 1945, taken by Charles Levy © Corbis. Background colours from strontium and caesium/methanol combustion carried out by Dr Roy Lowry at Plymouth University, and photographed by Anna Walker.
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780007283132
Version: 2014-08-15
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Epigraph
Part I
1: The Eve of Pearl Harbor
2: Beggars and Acrobats
3: The Abandoned Aerodrome
4: The Attack on the Petrel
5: Escape from the Hospital
6: The Youth with the Knife
7: The Drained Swimming-Pool
8: Picnic Time
9: An End to Kindness
10: The Stranded Freighter
11: Frank and Basie
12: Dance Music
13: The Open-Air Cinema
14: American Aircraft
15: On their Way to the Camps
16: The Water Ration
17: A Landscape of Airfields
18: Vagrants
19: The Runway
Part II
20: Lunghua Camp
21: The Cubicle
22: The University of Life
23: The Air Raid
24: The Hospital
25: The Cemetery Garden
26: The Lunghua Sophomores
27: The Execution
28: An Escape
29: The March to Nantao
30: The Olympic Stadium
31: The Empire of the Sun
Part III
32: The Eurasian
33: The Kamikaze Pilot
34: The Refrigerator in the Sky
35: Lieutenant Price
36: The Flies
37: A Reserved Room
38: The Road to Shanghai
39: The Bandits
40: The Fallen Airmen
41: Rescue Mission
Part IV
42: The Terrible City
An Investigative Spirit
The End of My War
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
Introduction
BY John Lanchester
When Empire of the Sun was published in 1984, it had a huge and double impact. The first part of this consisted of the effect on its author’s reputation. J. G. Ballard turned fifty-four that year, and had published nine novels and more than a dozen short-story collections. He was regarded as a known quantity: an admired writer, and also the kind of writer who has fans. That implies a passionate, but perhaps rather narrow readership. He was seen as a writer of science fiction – an unhelpfully broad term, and one which perhaps puts off more people than it puts on. When I interviewed Ballard at his home in Shepperton in 1987, en route to writing about his novel The Day of Creation, he specifically asked me not to describe it as a work of science fiction, because that was a limiting and compartmentalizing description. Even those of us who loved his work could see why it didn’t have mass-market appeal. The sentences were clear, the images vivid, but the strangeness of the worlds he described was all the more pronounced for that. The normals out there would never be able to handle Ballard. We fans loved him all the more because of that.
And then came Empire of the Sun. In place of the mysterious dreamscapes we had come to expect, it was a largely realist, autobiographically inspired novel about growing up in wartime Shanghai. The new book seemed to explain and contextualize the earlier work. It had an immediate success, not just for its own merits, but also because the wider public suddenly had a key to Ballard’s oeuvre. Ballard’s worlds, for instance, shared a particular strain of imagery to do with abandonment: empty swimming-pools, crashed planes, deserted or ruined buildings, objects made by and for humans now given over to unimagined purposes, or reclaimed by nature. The source and locus of all these imaginings suddenly became clear: Shanghai.
Ballard was born in Shanghai in 1930 and lived there until 1946. In the pre-war years, Shanghai had a claim to be the most interesting and also the strangest city in the world. The greater part of China had fallen under control of the Japanese following their invasion in 1937. The subjugation of China was brutal, and saw some of the twentieth century’s worst atrocities, most famously in what became known as the Rape of Nanking. Shanghai, however, was partially exempt from the mayhem. Inside the city was the International Settlement, an area forcibly seceded from Chinese control by the treaties which brought an end to the nineteenth-century opium wars. The International Settlement, which was free from Chinese laws and Chinese rule, had a population of more than 1 million Chinese. When the Japanese invaded, the army stopped short of overrunning the settlement, no doubt on the basis that it would have constituted a declaration of war against the Allies. Instead the Japanese army waited until Pearl Harbor before launching their attack. The story of what happened next is told in Empire of the Sun, which balances a highly personal and partly fictionalized account of the narrator’s experiences with a careful and accurate use of the real historical framework.
A number of themes that run through Ballard’s work are crystallised in Empire of the Sun. All his novels give a powerful sense that the reality in front of our eyes is never much more than a stage set, a temporary scene that can be instantly and irrevocably swept away. This isn’t a benign, Humean or Buddhist sense that reality is an illusion. It’s much more pressing than that. In Ballard’s novels, any apparently settled reality is prone to be dissolved and reconfigured. In Empire of the Sun, the process is prefigured on the very first page. ‘At night the same silent films seemed to flicker against the wall of his bedroom in Amherst Avenue, and transformed his sleeping mind into a deserted newsreel theatre.’ The real images and the mediated images blur into each other. ‘The whole of Shanghai was turning into a newsreel leaking from inside his head.’ And then, when the war does finally break out, the slide from the old reality into the new one is figured memorably: a Gone with the Wind poster of Atlanta on fire blends into the real, burning Shanghai. ‘Chinese carpenters were cutting down the panels of painted smoke that rose high into the Shanghai sky, barely distinguishable from the fires still lifting above the tenements of the Old City, where Kuomintang irregulars had resisted the Japanese invasion.’ The image of a city in flames has become reality. For the next 300 pages, reality is never stable, and Jim is never safe, not for a moment.
This world, like all of Ballard’s worlds, is full of images which hover on the edge of being symbols. The young Jim is fascinated by everything to do with aviation, especially military aviation. He has detailed real-world knowledge of all the different types of Allied and Japanese aircraft. He has good reason to be interested, as is painfully clear to the reader, but at the same time the planes and their pilots are also symbols of escape and freedom, worlds beyond the horrors of Shanghai. All Ballard’s books have something like that, a piece of reality which is also a piece of dreamscape: the underwater city of The Drowned World, the tower block of High-Rise, the river of The Day of Creation. There had always been a strong sense of psychic pressure in Ballard’s work, a powerful force of feeling behind these insistent images. Now we readers felt we knew where those feelings were coming from.
The tone of Ballard’s fiction also seemed more explicable. His work had always featured images of extraordinary power recounted with a consciously flat affect. His narrators – heroes is definitely not quite the right word – see extraordinary, unprecedented things, but never let on. It’s a rule of actors playing in a farce never to signal that they know what’s happening is funny. Ballard’s characters follow an inversion of that rule: especially when confronted by horrors, they never admit to horror. This deadpan manner is one of the things which makes his work so forceful and so disturbing. Its origin – this distinctive, mesmerizing emotional flatness – is to be found in Shanghai. It seems to come from a childhood exposure to many things that a child should never see. Consider the flotilla of coffins floated on the Yangtze River every night. The coffins are surrounded by paper flowers. ‘Jim disliked this regatta of corpses. In the rising sunlight the paper petals resembled the coils of viscera strewn around the terrorist bomb victims in the Nanking Road.’ No eleven-year-old should have that in his head: not the coffins, not the terrorism, and not the viscera. The novel is full of such sights. ‘Looking at the glove, Jim realized that it was the complete skin from one of the petty officer’s hands, boiled off the flesh in an engine-room fire.’
Linked to the sense of horror is a sense of abandonment. Jim is living in a world without safety and authority and love; a world without parents. In reality, Ballard had his parents with him in the internment camp. As it happens, my godfather, Bill Stewart, was interned in the same camp, and made this point forcefully. ‘I knew James Ballard,’ he said, referring to the writer’s father. ‘It wasn’t a bit like that.’ But that misses the point: the point is what it felt like. In the camps, there was nothing parents could do to help their children. Survival was at the whim of the Japanese. Children knew that. In Empire of the Sun, the parents are absent because in real life, they felt completely absent. The sense of abandonment is total. ‘He felt a strange lightness in his head, not because his parents had rejected him, but because he expected them to do so, and no longer cared.’
All of these things came together in Empire of the Sun: the sense of reality as a stage set, potent imagery pressing on the edge of symbolism, the horrors and the flat affect. Almost overnight, Ballard’s reputation changed. His admirers had always felt that his work had a strong sense of imaginative truth; now we had a greater sense of why.
The transformative impact of Empire of the Sun on Ballard’s reputation is only part of the reason why it is such an important book. It also has a claim to be the best English novel about the Second World War. The book dramatizes the sheer geographical and world-historical sweep of the war. The immense casualness with which Jim regards death is very powerful, but also – a greater horror – thoroughly representative. He is a child of the war and his terrible familiarity with death is, in this context, normal. The typical combatant in the twentieth century’s wars, for the first time in human history, was not a combatant at all, but a civilian. Jim’s story captures that truth.
It captures other things too, among the most vivid the sense of total chaos around the war. The history of war is usually told in terms of battles, of more or less clearcut conflicts, of front lines and rearguard actions, of advances and retreats. For the people living through it though, especially for civilians, war is much more chaotic and formless and fluid and unpredictable. Jim could lose his life at almost any moment: he knows it so well he has accepted the fact. The ungoverned landscape around Shanghai, lawless and lethal, is a typical twentieth-century place. My grandparents were in Hong Kong when it fell to the Japanese (my father having been evacuated to Australia), and my grandmother would sometimes talk about the time just afterwards, and also the time immediately after the end of the war. The overwhelming impression given by her stories was one of anarchy and chaos, and the only text I’ve ever read that catches that flavour is Empire of the Sun.
There is a broader truthfulness to the novel too. As well as being the story of Jim and Lunghua internment camp and Shanghai, and the undertold reality of civilian war, it’s also a story about the future. One of the most heartbreaking moments in the book comes when Jim interprets the chaotic ending of the Second World War as being the outbreak of the third. ‘He was sure now that the Second World War had ended, but had World War III begun?’ To make it more painful, Jim isn’t necessarily wrong. The second half of the century didn’t see a world war, but it did see a world that was almost constantly at war somewhere or other. In Empire of the Sun everything is swept away, everything is going to change: Jim knows it, and the reader knows it too. The novel figures the end of the British Empire, and the first glimmerings of the Asian century, the Chinese century, through which we are just now beginning to live. ‘The war had changed the Chinese people – the villagers, the wandering coolies and lost puppet soldiers looked at Europeans in a way Jim had never seen before the war, as if they no longer existed.’ It’s a novel about a profound historical pivot, a fundamental change of global orientation, and it’s told through the eyes of a child in an internment camp.
London, 2014
Empire of the Sun draws on my experiences in Shanghai, China, during the Second World War, and in Lunghua C.A.C. (Civilian Assembly Centre) where I was interned from 1942–45. For the most part this novel is based on events I observed during the Japanese occupation of Shanghai and within the camp at Lunghua.
The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor took place on Sunday morning, 7 December 1941, but as a result of time differences across the Pacific Date Line it was then already the morning of Monday, 8 December in Shanghai.
J. G. Ballard
Part I
1
The Eve of Pearl Harbor
Wars came early to Shanghai, overtaking each other like the tides that raced up the Yangtze and returned to this gaudy city all the coffins cast adrift from the funeral piers of the Chinese Bund.
Jim had begun to dream of wars. At night the same silent films seemed to flicker against the wall of his bedroom in Amherst Avenue, and transformed his sleeping mind into a deserted newsreel theatre. During the winter of 1941 everyone in Shanghai was showing war films. Fragments of his dreams followed Jim around the city; in the foyers of department stores and hotels the images of Dunkirk and Tobruk, Barbarossa and the Rape of Nanking sprang loose from his crowded head.
To Jim’s dismay, even the Dean of Shanghai Cathedral had equipped himself with an antique projector. After morning service on Sunday, 7 December, the eve of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the choirboys were stopped before they could leave for home and were marched down to the crypt. Still wearing their cassocks, they sat in a row of deck-chairs requisitioned from the Shanghai Yacht Club and watched a year-old March of Time.
Thinking of his unsettled dreams, and puzzled by their missing sound-track, Jim tugged at his ruffed collar. The organ voluntary drummed like a headache through the cement roof and the screen trembled with the familiar images of tank battles and aerial dogfights. Jim was eager to prepare for the fancy-dress Christmas party being held that afternoon by Dr Lockwood, the vice-chairman of the British Residents’ Association. There would be the drive through the Japanese lines to Hungjao, and then Chinese conjurors, fireworks and yet more newsreels, but Jim had his own reasons for wanting to go to Dr Lockwood’s party.
Outside the vestry doors the Chinese chauffeurs waited by their Packards and Buicks, arguing in a fretful way with each other. Bored by the film, which he had seen a dozen times, Jim listened as Yang, his father’s driver, badgered the Australian verger. However, watching the newsreels had become every expatriate Briton’s patriotic duty, like the fund-raising raffles at the country club. The dances and garden parties, the countless bottles of Scotch consumed in aid of the war effort (like all children, Jim was intrigued by alcohol but vaguely disapproved of it) had soon produced enough money to buy a Spitfire – probably one of those, Jim speculated, that had been shot down on its first flight, the pilot fainting in the reek of Johnnie Walker.
Usually Jim devoured the newsreels, part of the propaganda effort mounted by the British Embassy to counter the German and Italian war films being screened in the public theatres and Axis clubs of Shanghai. Sometimes the Pathé newsreels from England gave him the impression that, despite their unbroken series of defeats, the British people were thoroughly enjoying the war. The March of Time films were more sombre, in a way that appealed to Jim. Suffocating in his tight cassock, he watched a burning Hurricane fall from a sky of Dornier bombers towards a children’s book landscape of English meadows that he had never known. The Graf Spee lay scuttled in the River Plate, a river as melancholy as the Yangtze, and smoke clouds rose from a shabby city in eastern Europe, that black planet from which Vera Frankel, his seventeen-year-old governess, had escaped on a refugee ship six months earlier.
Jim was glad when the newsreel was over. He and his fellow choristers tottered into the strange daylight towards their chauffeurs. His closest friend, Patrick Maxted, had sailed with his mother from Shanghai for the safety of the British fortress at Singapore, and Jim felt that he had to watch the films for Patrick, and even for the White Russian women selling their jewellery on the cathedral steps and the Chinese beggars resting among the gravestones.
The commentator’s voice still boomed inside his head as he rode home through the crowded Shanghai streets in his parents’ Packard. Yang, the fast-talking chauffeur, had once worked as an extra in a locally made film starring Chiang Ching, the actress who had abandoned her career to join the communist leader Mao Tse-Tung. Yang enjoyed impressing his eleven-year-old passenger with tall tales of film stunts and trick effects. But today Yang ignored Jim, banishing him to the back seat. He punched the Packard’s powerful horn, carrying on his duel with the aggressive rickshaw coolies who tried to crowd the foreign cars off the Bubbling Well Road. Lowering the window, Yang lashed with his leather riding crop at the thoughtless pedestrians, the sauntering bar-girls with American handbags, the old amahs bent double under bamboo yokes strung with headless chickens.
An open truck packed with professional executioners swerved in front of them, on its way to the public stranglings in the Old City. Seizing his chance, a barefoot beggar-boy ran beside the Packard. He drummed his fists on the doors and held out his palm to Jim, shouting the street cry of all Shanghai:
‘No mama! No papa! No whisky soda!’
Yang lashed at him, and the boy fell to the ground, picked himself up between the front wheels of an oncoming Chrysler and ran beside it.
‘No mama, no papa …’
Jim hated the riding crop, but he was glad of the Packard’s horn. At least it drowned the roar of the eight-gun fighters, the wail of air-raid sirens in London and Warsaw. He had had more than enough of the European war. Jim stared at the garish façade of the Sincere Company’s department store, which was dominated by an immense portrait of Chiang Kai-Shek exhorting the Chinese people to ever greater sacrifices in their struggle against the Japanese. A faint light, reflected from a faulty neon tube, trembled over the Generalissimo’s soft mouth, the same flicker that Jim had seen in his dreams. The whole of Shanghai was turning into a newsreel leaking from inside his head.
Had his brain been damaged by too many war films? Jim had tried to tell his mother about his dreams, but like all the adults in Shanghai that winter she was too preoccupied to listen to him. Perhaps she had bad dreams of her own. In an eerie way, these shuffled images of tanks and dive-bombers were completely silent, as if his sleeping mind was trying to separate the real war from the make-believe conflicts invented by Pathé and British Movietone.
Jim had no doubt which was real. The real war was everything he had seen for himself since the Japanese invasion of China in 1937, the old battlegrounds at Hungjao and Lunghua where the bones of the unburied dead rose to the surface of the paddy fields each spring. Real war was the thousands of Chinese refugees dying of cholera in the sealed stockades at Pootung, and the bloody heads of communist soldiers mounted on pikes along the Bund. In a real war no one knew which side he was on, and there were no flags or commentators or winners. In a real war there were no enemies.
By contrast, the coming conflict between Britain and Japan, which everyone in Shanghai expected to break out in the summer of 1942, belonged to a realm of rumour. The supply ship attached to the German raider in the China Sea now openly visited Shanghai and moored in the river, where it took on fuel from a dozen lighters – many of them, Jim’s father noted wryly, owned by American oil companies. Almost all the American women and children had been evacuated from Shanghai. In his class at the Cathedral School, Jim was surrounded by empty desks. Most of his friends and their mothers had left for the safety of Hong Kong and Singapore, while the fathers closed their houses and moved into the hotels along the Bund.
At the beginning of December, when school ended for the day, Jim joined his father on the roof of his office block in Szechwan Road and helped him to set fire to the crates of records which the Chinese clerks brought up in the elevator. The trail of charred paper lifted across the Bund and mingled with the smoke from the impatient funnels of the last steamers to leave Shanghai. Passengers crowded the gangways, Eurasians, Chinese and Europeans fighting to get aboard with their bundles and suitcases, ready to risk the German submarines waiting in the Yangtze estuary. Fires rose from the roofs of the office buildings in the financial district, watched through field-glasses by the Japanese officers standing on their concrete blockhouses across the river at Pootung. It was not the anger of the Japanese that most disturbed Jim, but their patience.
As soon as they reached the house in Amherst Avenue he ran upstairs to change. Jim liked the Persian slippers, embroidered silk shirt and blue velvet trousers in which he resembled a film extra from The Thief of Bagdad, and he was eager to leave for Dr Lockwood’s party. He would endure the conjurors and newsreels, and then set off for the secret rendezvous which the rumours of war had prevented him from keeping for so many months.
By way of a happy bonus, Sunday was Vera’s free afternoon, when she visited her parents in the ghetto at Hongkew. This bored young woman, little more than a child herself, usually followed Jim everywhere like a guard dog. Once Yang had driven him home – his parents were to stay on for dinner at the Lockwoods’ – he would be free to roam alone through the empty house, his keenest pleasure. The nine Chinese servants would be there, but in Jim’s mind, and in those of the other British children, they remained as passive and unseeing as the furniture. He would finish doping his balsa-wood aircraft, and complete another chapter of the manual entitled How to Play Contract Bridge that he was writing in a school exercise book. After years spent listening to his mother’s bridge parties, trying to extract any kind of logic from the calls of ‘One diamond’, ‘Pass’, ‘Three Hearts’, ‘Three No Trumps’, ‘Double’, ‘Redouble’, he had prevailed on her to teach him the rules and had even mastered the conventions, a code within a code of a type that always intrigued Jim. With the help of an Ely Culberston guide, he was about to embark on the most difficult chapter of all, on psychic bidding – all this and he had yet to play a single hand.
However, if the task proved too exhausting he would set off on a bicycle tour of the French Concession, taking his airgun in case he ran into the group of French twelve-year-olds who formed the Avenue Foch gang. When he returned home it would be time for the Flash Gordon radio serial on station XMHA, followed by the record programme when he and his friends telephoned requests under their latest pseudonyms – ‘Batman’, ‘Buck Rogers’, and (Jim’s) ‘Ace’, which he liked to hear read out by the announcer though it always made him cringe with embarrassment.
As he flung his cassock to the amah and changed into his party costume he found that all this was threatened. Her head muddled by the rumours of war, Vera had decided not to visit her parents.
‘You will go to the party, James,’ Vera informed him as she buttoned his silk shirt. ‘And I will telephone my parents and tell them all about you.’
‘But, Vera – they want to see you. I know they do. You’ve got to think of them, Vera …’ Baffled, Jim hesitated to complain. His mother had told him to be kind to Vera, and not to tease her as he had done the previous governess. This moody White Russian had terrified him as he recovered from measles by telling him that she could hear the voice of God in Amherst Avenue, warning them from their ways. Soon afterwards Jim had impressed his school friends by announcing that he was an atheist. By contrast, Vera Frankel was a calm girl who never smiled and found everything strange about Jim and his parents, as strange as Shanghai itself, this violent and hostile city a world away from Cracow. She and her parents had escaped on one of the last boats from Hitler’s Europe and now lived with thousands of Jewish refugees in Hongkew, a gloomy district of tenements and faded apartment blocks behind the port area of Shanghai. To Jim’s amazement, Herr Frankel and Vera’s mother existed in one room.
‘Vera, where do your parents live?’ Jim knew the answer, but decided to risk the ruse. ‘Do they live in a house?’
‘They live in one room, James.’
‘One room!’ To Jim this was inconceivable, far more bizarre than anything in the Superman and Batman comics. ‘How big is the room? As big as my bedroom? As big as this house?’
‘As big as your dressing-room. James, some people are not so lucky as you.’
Awed by this, Jim closed the door of the dressing-room and changed into his velvet trousers. His eyes measured the little chamber. How two people could survive in so small a space was as difficult to grasp as the conventions in contract bridge. Perhaps there was some simple key which would solve the problem, and he would have the subject of another book.
Fortunately, Vera’s pride made her rise to the bait. When she had left for her parents’, setting off on the long walk to the tram terminus in the Avenue Joffre, Jim found himself still pondering the mystery of this extraordinary room. He decided to raise the matter with his mother and father, but as always they were too distracted by news of the war even to notice him. Dressed for the party, they were in his father’s study, listening to the short-wave radio bulletins from England. His father knelt by the radiogram in his pirate costume, leather patch pushed on to his forehead and spectacles over his tired eyes, like some scholarly buccaneer. He stared at the yellow dial embedded like a gold tooth in the mahogany face of the radiogram. On a map of Russia spread across the carpet he marked the new defensive line to which the Red Army had retreated. He stared at it hopelessly, as mystified by the vastness of Russia as Jim had been by the Frankels’ minute room.
