Fireflies Read Online Free PDF Page B

through the air with a repetitive gesture and Roy was frowning. He shook his head: “No, he means rats.”
    â€œRats?” Eugene said. “Don’t tell me he eats rats.”
    The old man ducked his head into his chest, clearly embarrassed.
    Roy explained that rats — big bloated ones — often came floating down the river. The old man fished them out and barbecued them on his hibachi.
    So there it was. Our first story. We thanked the man and presented him with a packet of cigarettes, which he tucked into his raincoat pocket before touching pressed palms to his forehead.
    â€œIs there anything else he needs?” I asked.
    The old man cocked his blunt head for a second. He knelt down, hands on his knees. Would it be possible to bring him a package of soy sauce? I promised that it most certainly would. The old man touched his forehead to the ground.
    We clambered up the slippery bank to the main road. When I looked back, the old man had already disappeared back into his shelter.
    ~ ~ ~
    That afternoon I processed the prints in the darkroom in the basement while Eugene typed the story in the newsroom upstairs. I knew the picture I wanted as soon as it emerged in the developing tray. The old man, cross-legged like a ragged Buddha, looking out at the lonely river, his carved face and wild fisherman’s beard silhouetted against a sky piled with grey cloud. A certain “enigmatical quality,” as Eugene later put it.
    The piece he wrote was too sensational for my taste. It lingered on the peculiarities of the man’s diet and spent little time on his account of the fire raid. But Dutch ran it on the third page later that week, and I felt a glow of pride to see my byline beneath the photograph. I’d been published for the first time.
    Later on that day though, Dutch called us into his office. He looked shaken.
    â€œI’ve just had a call, gentlemen,” Dutch said, “from Brigadier General Diller of the Public Relations office.”
    I’d heard the name already, generally accompanied by blasphemy. Brigadier General LeGrand Diller — “Killer Diller” — was part of General MacArthur’s inner circle, now his head of Public Relations. A surly, stony bastard by all accounts, he dictated the official line, and took any criticism of the Occupation as a direct slur against the general.
    â€œHe demanded to know what I was doing running stories about old men eating rats. What exactly was I implying? That the Japanese population is starving?”
    Warily, I pointed out that the population was, in fact, starving.
    â€œNot according to Supreme Command it isn’t!” he hollered, slapping a hand on the table. He rubbed his head and accused us of being morbid, of wanting to land him in a whole heap of trouble.
    I had a flash of inspiration. I told him we’d planned the story as the first in a series, to show how much life in Japan would improve as the country became accustomed to the Occupation. We’d necessarily started with some poor fellow living in the pits.
    Dutch scrutinized me. “Well. You’d better just run anything like this past me in the future,” he said.
    I told him that we would.
    â€œNo stunts!”
    I assured him we were not here to play stunts.
    As we were leaving, he called out: “I liked your picture in any case, Hal!”
    The rest of the staff certainly found it all amusing. They’d gathered outside Dutch’s office, listening in to our dressing down. For weeks, we couldn’t go anywhere without them holding up their hands like little paws and twitching their noses. One day a spoof story appeared on the notice board, claiming that rat meat was going to be brought onto the ration.
    But the publicity didn’t do the old bargeman any good. The Tokyo police got wind of the story and they trooped down the next week to clear him out. Half the city was sleeping in holes and ditches, but the authorities