Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
Murota Hideki twitched, jumped, and opened his eyes. His heart pounding, his breath trapped, he swallowed, he choked, he spluttered and coughed. He wiped his mouth, he wiped his chin, he blinked and blinked again, looking down at the desk, the sticky desk and brown rings, the dirty glass and half-empty bottle, looking up and around the office, the tiny office and yellow walls, the dusty shelves and empty cabinet. His desk, his office, all dirt and all dust –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
He put his hands on his desk, pushed himself up and the chair back. He got to his feet and walked over to the window. He closed the window, closed the city, the stench from the river and fumes, the noise of construction and trains, always that stench, that noise: the stench of the past, the noise of the future; Edo stench, Olympic noise –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
He sat back down in his chair at his desk, his collar wet, his shirt damp. He took out his handkerchief. He wiped his neck. He tried to unstick his shirt from his vest, then to straighten his thinning hair, the smell of his clothes and his hair fighting with the stink from the sink in the corner, the trash can by the door, the ashtrays on his desk, the alcohol on his breath. That taste, that taste, always that taste. He picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He squeezed the end of his nose and sniffed, massaged his right temple with cigarette fingers and closed his eyes, the dream hanging over him still, all dirt and dust, all stench and noise, with that taste, that taste –
Ton-ton …
Trapped, stale –
He opened his eyes, stubbed out the cigarette, and then called out, Yes?
The door opened and a thin young man in a tight, gray-shiny suit stepped into the office. He gave the mess of the room the quick once-over, spent a moment too long on the empty bottles of cheap Chinese wine, did the same to Murota Hideki, then smiled and asked him, Is this Kanda Investigations?
Like it says on the door, said Murota Hideki.
And so you’re Murota-san, the owner?
And sole employee. Next question?
Excuse me, said the young man, putting down his new and expensive-looking attaché case. He reached inside his jacket. He took out a silver-plated name card holder. He took out a card from the holder. He put the holder back inside his jacket. He approached the desk. He held out the name card in both hands, bowed briefly, and said, I’m Hasegawa.
Murota Hideki pulled in his stomach and got to his feet. He reached across the desk to take the card from the man. He read the name on the card, the profession, position, and company beneath. He shook his head, tried to hand the card back to the man, saying, Not interested.
The young man frowned: But you don’t –
Yeah, I do know, said Murota Hideki. You’re an editor. You work for a publishing house with a famous weekly magazine. But I don’t talk to the press. It’s bad for business.
The man gave the office the quick once-over act again, this time with a sneer: Business good, is it?
Good, bad, or gone-to-the-fucking-dogs, it’s my business, not yours, said Murota Hideki, flicking the card at the man, the card falling to the floor. See, about once or twice a year, some skinny young hotshot like you shows up here, in their tight suit with their smart mouth, asking for one of two things: if I got any dirt on anyone famous to sell, or if I’ll spill some sexy private-eye bullshit for the feature they’re writing. Either way, each time I tell them what I’m going to tell you: you got the wrong guy, now go get lost.
The young man bent down. He picked up the card from the floor. He held it out toward Murota Hideki again, in both hands again, but this time in a longer, deeper bow as he said, Excuse me. I apologize. But thank you. Now I know you’re the right man. And so I’d be very grateful if you would please just listen, at least just listen to what I have to say. Please.
Murota Hideki looked at the man standing there, with his card out and his head bowed. He rolled his eyes and sighed, then sat back down and said, Go on then, sit down.
The man looked up. He thanked Murota Hideki. Then, with the card still in his hands, he sat down, smiled, and asked, Do you by any chance remember the name Kuroda Roman?
Murota Hideki nodded: A writer, yeah?
I’m impressed, said the young man. You read a lot?
Murota Hideki shook his head: Just the papers.
Then you must have a good memory.
Unfortunately, smiled Murota Hideki. But that was what they call a good guess, you being in publishing.
So you don’t remember Kuroda Roman then? You’ve never read any of his books then?
Nope. Sorry.
Don’t be, said the man. Few people have these days. He was briefly popular during Taishō, then there was a period of mental illness and silence. He published nothing more before or during the war; a couple of translations maybe, that was all. But then he did have a few books published après-guerre, as they used to say. Mysteries, true crime, that kind of thing. I thought, in your line of work, there was a chance you …
Be the last thing I’d read, said Murota Hideki.
Really, said the young man, staring at Murota Hideki, smiling at Murota Hideki. But you were a policeman, right? During the war, after the war? I’d heard cops liked reading true-crime books? Just thought you might’ve read –
Murota Hideki held the man’s stare, ignored his smile, swallowed, and said, Who told you that?
Told me what?
That I was a policeman?
Well, he did.
Who?
Kuroda Roman, said the man, looking away now, but still smiling. Well, not in person, in one of his books. You’re in one of his books, you see. Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon. It’s the one about –
I can imagine what it’s about, said Murota Hideki.
But you’ve not read it, said the young man, nodding to himself. Well, you’ve not missed anything, it’s not that good. And you’re only mentioned very briefly. About how –
I was dismissed, said Murota Hideki.
For improper conduct, yeah.
For fucking a pan-pan gal on my beat, said Murota Hideki, still staring across his desk at this man, this thin young man, in his tight, gray-shiny suit.
Yes, said the man.
Murota Hideki picked up the packet of cigarettes from his desk again, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke across the desk at the man, saying, It’s no secret. It was in some of the papers, or a version of it. Nearly twenty years ago now. So that’s my story. Now you going to tell me yours, Mister Editor, tell me why you’re sitting here? Or you going to keep on sitting there, wasting my time?
Excuse me. I apologize, said the young man again. That came across very badly. I just wanted to say, I know you’re an ex-policeman. And I know you lost your job, but that it was a long time ago now. But I also know that you know how to keep a confidence. You don’t betray people.
Murota Hideki said nothing. He glanced at his watch, his watch running slow again, losing time again.
The man coughed, cleared his throat, then said, Sorry, I’ll get to the point: Kuroda Roman has disappeared. He’s gone missing. And we’d like you to find him.
“We” being who exactly?
Our publishing house.
Why, asked Murota Hideki. You said yourself, no one’s heard of this guy or reads his books these days.
Unusually, said the young man, lowering his voice, and somewhat foolishly, one of my predecessors advanced a number of quite substantial payments to Kuroda. Understandably, the owners of our publishing house are very keen to recoup the money. Or the manuscript.
Murota Hideki stubbed out his cigarette, looked up at the man, shook his head, and said again, Not interested.
Why, asked the man, frowning again.
Pre-marital background checks, divorce cases, some insurance, that’s what I do, said Murota Hideki. Nothing heavy, no debt-collecting, that’s not what I do.
No, no, no, said the young man. That’s not what we want you to do. We just want you to find him, that’s all.
Murota Hideki shook his head again: But you’re not bothered about him, not concerned for the man’s welfare, right? You just want your money back, yeah?
Yes, said the man. But you don’t have to do that part; our lawyers will handle all that.
If you can find him.
If you can find him, said the young man, smiling again. That’s why I’m sitting here, wasting your time.
Murota Hideki stared at the man, not smiling, saying, Just because I’m mentioned in one of his fucking books? That’s why you’re sitting here asking me?
Not only that, said the man, still smiling. Actually, that was my idea, asking you. See, I thought you might’ve met the man, met Kuroda Roman, back then, before.
Still staring, not smiling, Murota Hideki shook his head, But I didn’t. Never met the man, even heard of him.
Doesn’t matter, said the young man, reaching down to pick up his attaché case. Might have been a bonus, might have helped, but it’s not important. What is important is that I’m sure you are the right man to find him.
Murota Hideki reached for another cigarette from his packet and lit it: What about the police, they know he’s missing? Any family, friends reported him missing?
No, said the man, opening his case.
Murota Hideki inhaled, exhaled, then smiled and said, Popular guy, this writer of yours, yeah?
Used to be. Briefly.
When did you last see him?
Me, said the man. I’ve never seen him, never met him.
Murota Hideki inhaled again, exhaled again, then sighed and said, Great. So how long’s he been missing …?
About six months, we think …
You think?
We’re not sure, said the young man, taking out a large brown envelope from his attaché case.
Look, Mister, er, Hasegawa?
Yes, said the young man.
This isn’t one of your mystery novels, this ain’t the movies. It’s a big city, getting bigger by the day, in a big, big country. Believe me, this is a big place to get lost in, and six months a long time to be lost for, ’specially if a man don’t want to be found. See, my guess is your man isn’t missing, your man isn’t lost; he just don’t want to be found.
Mister Murota, said the man, the case on his lap, the envelope in his hands, I know this isn’t a novel, I know this ain’t the movies. But we need to find this man, we want our money back, and we want both done quickly. Now if you don’t want the job, we’ll engage someone else.
Murota Hideki stubbed out his cigarette: I didn’t say that. But it would be negligent of me if I didn’t warn you of the difficulty in finding missing persons.
I appreciate your honesty, said the young man. But we’re well aware of the difficulty involved in finding him.
Murota Hideki stared at the man again, smiling at the man now: You aware of the expense involved, too?
Yes, said the man, nodding. And we’re prepared to pay whatever it takes, pay whatever you ask.
Still smiling, Murota Hideki said, Well, I take my pay in US dollars. Fifty of them a day, plus expenses.
Expenses in yen, asked the young man.
Murota Hideki nodded: All in cash.
Of course, said the man. But you should also be aware that there will be a substantial bonus if this matter can be resolved by midnight on the Fourth of July.
How substantial?
Five thousand US dollars, said the young man. Cash.
Murota Hideki stared across his desk at this man again, this young man, this man who said his name was Hasegawa, and he whistled, then said, You really want him found.
Our owners do, said the man. Yes.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar on his desk, then looked back up at the young man: Why the rush?
The contract for the manuscript, for which the advances were made, expires at midnight on the Fourth of July.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar again, then looked back up again: And if it’s not resolved by then?
Then we’d no longer require your services.
Murota Hideki nodded, then nodded again, then said, Of course, there is one other possibility, one I’m sure your owners must have considered: he may be dead.
Of course, said the young man. But dead or alive, the monies still need to be repaid, either by the man himself or from his estate if, in fact, he is deceased. So if you do find proof he’s dead, you’ll still receive your bonus.
Before the Fourth of July?
Before midnight on the Fourth of July, yes.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar again, reached for his notebook and pen, opened his notebook, looked up at the young man, and said, Okay, first I’ll need some basic –
I do apologize, said the man. But we’ve been dancing for rather longer than I imagined, and I have another –
It was you who asked me to dance …
And I do apologize, said the young man again, placing the large brown envelope down on the desk in front of Murota Hideki. Then, reaching back into his attaché case, he took out another envelope, opened up this envelope, and began to count out two hundred and fifty US dollars in various denominations. He placed the notes down in a pile on the desk next to the large brown envelope, then began to count out eighteen thousand yen, again in various denominations, again putting the notes down in a pile on the desk in front of Murota Hideki, as he said, In that envelope you will find all the pertinent information we have about Kuroda Roman. The money I am giving you is for five days’ work, plus some yen on account for expenses.
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Thanks.
You’re welcome, said the man. I’ll call again in five days, at ten o’clock on Thursday, the twenty-fifth, to see how you’re progressing and to give you more money.
Murota Hideki nodded again: Thanks.
The young man smiled, reached inside his attaché case again, and took out a typewritten document. He placed it on the desk, on top of the envelope and the money, in front of Murota Hideki and said, I’d be grateful if you’d just write your name and address in the space provided and then add your seal. Just to acknowledge receipt of the money. I’ll bring a copy for you when I come again on Thursday.
Murota Hideki filled in the form with his name and address, then took out his hanko from the top drawer of the desk and did as he was told.
Thank you, said the man, taking the piece of paper from Murota Hideki. He put it inside his attaché case, then closed and locked the case, smiled, and said, Until Thursday.
Murota Hideki did not get up, he just smiled back and nodded, then watched the young man in his tight, gray-shiny suit walk toward the door, watched him open the door, then turn back in the doorway to bow and to thank him –
One last thing, said Murota Hideki.
Yes, said the man, glancing down at his left wrist, at the cuffs of his jacket and shirt, the face of his watch. Yes?
This manuscript? This manuscript you say one of your predecessors foolishly advanced so much money for …
Yes, said the young man again.
What’s it about?
The Shimoyama Case, I think it was, said the man, sighing, then saying, I’m sure you must remember …
Yes, said Murota Hideki. I remember.
But to be honest with you, said the man, no one believes he’s actually written it, least not finished it. And that suits us just fine. We’d rather have our money back.
I see, said Murota Hideki, nodding, watching the young man bow again, thank him again, then turn again and step out of the office, closing the door behind him –
And then the man was gone –
The man was gone, and Murota Hideki was on his feet, out from behind his desk and to the door, and by the door, his ear to the glass of the door, Murota Hideki was listening: the man walking away, down the corridor, down the stairs.
Murota Hideki opened the door. He went down the corridor, to the end of the corridor, the stairs to his left, the toilet to his right. He went into the toilet, past the basin, past the stall, past the urinal to the window. The window already open, always open, Murota Hideki opened it wider, peering out, staring down, down to the street –
Down at the guy –
The guy who called himself Hasegawa, the guy walking out of the building toward an old gray car parked out front, possibly a Toyopet Master, but definitely not a taxi. The guy opened the rear passenger door, but he didn’t get in. He just leaned in, leaned in for a minute, two minutes. Then he closed the door and the car pulled away, past the shrine and under the tracks. The guy who called himself Hasegawa watched it go, taking out a packet of cigarettes, lighting a cigarette, then the guy crossed the road, toward the tracks, and headed south, toward the station, just the cigarette in his fingers, no attaché case in his hand, the guy disappearing, out of sight.
Liar, muttered Murota Hideki as he pulled his head in, turning to the urinal. He undid his flies and he took a piss. He did up his flies, then turned to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his face, he washed his neck. He caught a glimpse of himself in the grime, in the grime of the mirror above the basin: fifty-two, balding, fat, and gone-to-shit. He smiled and said, Not gone-to-shit, always shit.
He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his trousers, taking out his handkerchief, finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He wiped and dried his face, put his handkerchief back in his pocket, took out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, one last, bent cigarette. He put the cigarette between his lips, crushed the empty pack of cigarettes in his hand, tossed it in the wire basket underneath the basin, then patted himself down: front trouser pockets, back trouser pockets, shirt pocket – nothing. He glanced back up at himself in the grime, the bent, unlit cigarette between his lips. He smiled again, took the cigarette from his lips, and said, Fucking liar.
He said goodbye to the mirror, bye to the toilet, and he went back down the corridor, back into the office, back to his desk and his chair. He lifted up the money, he lifted up the envelope. He moved his notebook, he moved his pen. He looked under the calendar, looked under the ashtrays. He sifted through all the other pens and pencils, all the scraps of paper and other bits of shit on his desk. He opened the top drawer of his desk, rummaged through the drawer, picked up a bunch of name cards, flicked through the name cards one by one, shaking his head. He stuck the name cards back in the drawer and closed the drawer. He pushed back his chair, looked under his chair, looked under his desk. He stood up again, walked around his desk, and looked under the other chair, on the other side of the desk, looking on the floor, picking up magazines, picking up newspapers, putting them back down again, down on the floor again, over the dirt and over the stains, saying, Dumb, dumb, dumb.
He shook his head again, cursed himself again, then walked over to the shelves. He picked up the phone book. He carried it back to his desk. He sat down and opened the directory. He turned the pages, found the name of the publishing house, the number for the publishing house. He picked up the handset of the phone on his desk, stuck his finger in the first hole, and began to dial the number. He heard the ringing down the line, heard a girl on the switchboard give the name of the publishing house, then he said, Hasegawa-san, please. Not sure which section he’s in these days, sorry.
And who shall I say is calling, asked the girl.
Murota Hideki said, It’s Murota.
Thank you, said the girl. Please hold –
And Murota Hideki held, cradling the handset between his ear and his shoulder, putting the bent cigarette back between his lips, reaching for his lighter –
I’m sorry, said the girl, Hasegawa-kachō is not at his desk, maybe not in the office today. But if you’d like to leave your number, then I’ll be sure to pass it on.
It’s okay, thanks. I’ll try again on Monday, said Murota Hideki, and he put down the handset. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke across the desk, over the money. He stared down at the money, then picked up the dollars. He counted the notes once, then once again, one by one, holding the dollars up, up to the light, the light from the window, the light from the river. Then he put them back down on the desk, stubbed out the cigarette, then reached down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk. He took out an envelope and put the dollars inside the envelope. He sealed the envelope, dropped it in the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. He picked up the yen from the top of his desk and counted out the notes. Then he reached behind himself, taking out his wallet from his jacket on the back of his chair, opened up his wallet, and put most of the yen inside. He put the wallet back in his jacket pocket, then folded the rest of the notes in half and stuck them in his trouser pocket. He took another cigarette from the packet on his desk, lit the cigarette, and stared down at the large brown envelope on top of his desk, a long morning shadow falling across the large brown envelope, the long morning shadow of a half-full bottle of cheap Chinese wine. He looked at the half-full bottle of cheap Chinese wine standing on his desk in the light from the window, the light from the river, and he smiled to himself, he nodded to himself, and then he said to himself, Well, why not?
Murota Hideki reached over to the bottle, picked it up, and unscrewed its top. He held it over the glass, the empty glass, then tilted the bottle and filled the glass. He put down the bottle and picked up the glass. He held the glass up to the light, the light from the window, the light from the river, and he looked at the wine, the golden-brown wine, smiled at the wine, the golden-brown wine, then he put the glass to his lips and put the wine to his lips, tilting the glass, sipping the wine, the wine on his lips, in his mouth, down his throat, golden brown and mellow, down it went, down it went, then filling the glass again and tilting the glass again, sipping the wine, drinking the wine, the golden-brown and mellow wine, the room, this office golden brown and mellow, the world, this life golden brown and mellow, drinking and smoking and saying to himself, saying to her, Well, he may or may not be who he says he is, be who he claims to be, but his money, his dollars are real enough, real enough for you and me, for me and you to celebrate, my Nori-chan, yeah, we’ll celebrate tonight, my Nori-chan …
And then smiling to himself, laughing at himself, Murota Hideki put the empty glass down beside the empty bottle and picked up the large brown envelope from the top of his desk. He opened the envelope, stuck his hand inside, and pulled out the papers, a thick, fat sheaf of them. He shifted the papers from hand to hand, turning through the pages, the densely packed, typewritten pages, with all of their characters and numbers, all their dates and their names, histories, and biographies, lists of book titles and photostats of articles, shifting and turning them from hand to hand, back and forth, one by one, from hand to hand, all these papers, these pages, back and forth, all their characters, their numbers, one by one, the past of a man, the ghost of a man, from hand to hand, all the pasts and ghosts of this man, this man, Kuroda Roman –
Fuck, you must be in here somewhere, said Murota Hideki, throwing down the thick, fat sheaf of papers back onto the top of his desk, screwing up his eyes, massaging both temples, then opening his eyes, looking back down at the papers, shaking his head, saying, But where are you?
Murota Hideki twitched again, jumped again, and opened his eyes. His heart pounding again, his breath trapped again, he spluttered and coughed, then reached for the phone, picked up the handset, and said, Hello, hello … Noriko?
He heard a coin drop, the sound of a station, then a voice saying, Murota-san? It’s Nemuro. I’m at Kanda station. If you’ve got any news for me, I can stop by your office.
Yeah, said Murota Hideki, wiping his mouth, wiping his chin. But let’s meet at the shrine next door.
When, asked Nemuro. Now …?
Ten minutes, said Murota Hideki, and he hung up. He rubbed his eyes, rubbed, then slapped his cheeks, and sighed. He leaned forward, looked down at his notebook lying open on his desk, scanned the brief notes he’d made on Kuroda Roman; he’d left all the literary bullshit for the critics, just tried to find the man, the facts of his life – dates and places, family and friends, places of interest, people of interest – some flesh for the facts, some skin for that flesh. He closed the notebook over the pen, then picked up the Kuroda Roman papers and stuffed them back inside their large brown envelope. He reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, dropped the large brown envelope on top of the envelope of dollars, then closed the drawer. He stood up, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and put it on. He picked up the notebook and his cigarettes, put them into different pockets of his jacket, and walked over to the door. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor, turned back, took his keys from his trouser pocket, and locked the door. He went down the corridor and into the toilet. He undid his flies and took a piss in the urinal. He did up his flies as he walked over to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his face, he washed his neck. He cupped more water, rinsed his mouth, and spat. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his jacket, took out his handkerchief, and wiped and dried his face. He looked at himself in the grime of the mirror, smoothing his hair with his hand, sighing to himself, Shikata nai … It’s who you are … It’s what you do …
He turned away from the mirror, went out of the toilet, down the stairs, out through the lobby and onto the street. In the sticky, gray Saturday afternoon – the sort of Saturday afternoon, he said to himself, that makes you wish you were dead, muttering, wonder if you aren’t already – turning right he walked along the street, then right again, under the stone torii and down the steps he went, into the shrine, the Yanagimori shrine.
Nemuro Hiroshi was already there. Aged and thin with worry and fear, he was standing with his head bowed in front of one of the smaller shrines. He finished his prayer, bowed deeply, then turned and saw Murota Hideki.
Murota Hideki nodded, then walked toward the two stone benches beneath the wooden kagura stage. He sat down on the edge of one, and Nemuro Hiroshi sat down on the edge of the other, their backs to the tall wooden stage which towered behind them, over them. There was a space of less than a meter between them, between the edges of the two stone benches, between the two men; no one else in the grounds of the shrine, just the occasional sound of the passing traffic on Yanagihara-dōri, above them to their right, the more regular sound of the trains going over the bridge behind them, over them, the stage, and the shrine, white gulls falling from the somber sky into the Kanda River to their left, the cats of the shrine sleepwalking here and there, here and there through the sultry afternoon air.
So then, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki, leaning forward, bending down to stroke one of the cats, which was moving between his calves, rubbing itself against his trouser legs. Three, four times he ran his hand down the length of the back of the cat, the cat quivering, the cat purring, then he glanced up at Nemuro Hiroshi, the man chewing the insides of his mouth, his hands gripping his knees, rocking back and forward ever so slightly on the bench. Murota Hideki stopped stroking the cat, sat up straight again on the bench, listening to the trains passing over the bridge behind them, watching the gulls rising and falling over them, and he waited –
He waited for Nemuro Hiroshi to ask, to ask as they always did, ask for the details, details they never needed to know, that would do them no good, no good at all, but which they thought they needed to know, they always wanted to know, always insisting, Please. Tell me, I want to know …
And so, as he always did, Murota Hideki took out his notebook, turned back through the pages, then reading from his notes he told him the time she had left their apartment complex, the streetcar she had taken, the department store she had waited outside, the time the man had finally arrived –
She waited so long for him, said Nemuro Hiroshi.
And as he always did, Murota Hideki neither agreed nor disagreed, he just kept on reading from his notes: the name of the cinema, how long they had spent inside the theater –
What was the movie, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
Murota Hideki said, Hakujitsumu.
Enjoy it, did you, snorted Nemuro Hiroshi.
Murota Hideki shook his head and said, Not really, I was in and out. I went for a coffee.
And so then, said Nemuro Hiroshi, after they’d spent the afternoon watching pornography, I suppose they …
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Yes.
Where, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
An inn in the Yoyogi area.
For how long?
They said goodbye outside the inn at five o’clock, so they were there less than two hours.
Less than two hours, laughed Nemuro Hiroshi. So she could still be back home to prepare my dinner, to greet me in the genkan, telling me she had run me a bath, urging me to relax in that bath, then to pour me a beer and serve my meal, asking after my day, hoping it hadn’t been too stressful, while lying about her own day, her uneventful day, yet stinking of him, dreaming of him, talking in her sleep, moaning in her sleep.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki again, as he always did, closing his notebook, as he always did, waiting for the next question, as he always did, the question they always asked, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but which they always asked, sooner or later, they always ask –
Who is he?
I can’t tell you that, said Murota Hideki, as he always did, as he always had, since that one time he did say, the one and only time he had said.
Nemuro Hiroshi turned to look at Murota Hideki, the worry and fear all bled from him, drained from him, replaced by that predictable, corrosive cocktail of humiliation and anger: Can’t say or won’t say?
Won’t say.
So you do know?
Yes, said Murota Hideki. But you don’t need to.
Why not?
Because it’ll do you no good.
He half said, half shouted, That’s for me to decide.
No, said Murota Hideki, as calmly and as gently as he possibly could. That’s for me to decide, and I’ve decided you don’t need to know. Please, trust me, you really don’t.
He was almost out of his seat, almost off the bench, almost touching Murota Hideki: So it is someone I know.
No, said Murota Hideki again, as calmly and as gently as he possibly could again. It’s no one you know.
So just tell me then, said Nemuro Hiroshi, reaching inside his jacket, taking out his wallet. I’ll pay you more –
Murota Hideki slowly raised his hand, slowly moved the wallet out of his face, and said, It’s not about money, it’s about you, Mister Nemuro, about what you might go and do if I was dumb enough to tell you the name of this man.
What do you mean?
I mean, you might decide to go visit this man, might then do something which wouldn’t help you and which wouldn’t help me, me being the person who’d been dumb enough to tell you the name of this man. That’s what I mean.
I see, said Nemuro Hiroshi. I see.
Murota Hideki nodded: Good.
Yes, I see, said Nemuro Hiroshi, turning to Murota Hideki again, looking up into his face, turning on Murota Hideki now, as they often did, so many did, looking into his eyes and spitting, See, it’s not about me, is it? It’s about you, Murota, about you protecting yourself, isn’t it? Well, what about me? How do I protect myself, Murota-san, protect myself, my wife, and my marriage from this man? This man I don’t know, but my wife knows, yes, she knows, and you know, yeah, you know. Yeah, you know, you know so much, so you tell me what I should do. Go on, go on, you tell this cuckold what the hell he should do then.
Murota Hideki rubbed his eyes, his cheeks, his face, then sighed: You finished?
Nemuro Hiroshi looked away, down at his shoes, down at the gravel, the cat looking up at him, watching him.
Murota Hideki leaned forward, put his hand as gently and as softly as he could on the leg of this angry, broken man beside him, and said, Look, like I told you the first time we spoke, when a man or a woman thinks their spouse is cheating on them, ninety-nine percent of the time they’re usually right. But most of the time it’s a short-term thing; five minutes of fireworks, then finished forever.
Most of the time, said Nemuro Hiroshi, squeezing his wallet in his fist, staring at the cat. But not all of the time.
Not all of the time, no. But this time, yes.
How can you know that, said Nemuro Hiroshi, turning to look at Murota Hideki again, to search his face, his eyes for deception, for a lie. How can you be certain?
Murota Hideki shrugged, then said, I’m never going to tell you his name, but I will tell you this: he has a good job, a nice place, just like you, but he has a pregnant wife and one young son. He ain’t going to be giving up all that, not for your wife.
So I just sit it out, asked Nemuro Hiroshi. Wait for the fireworks to finish, that what you’re saying?
Murota Hideki nodded again: If you’re not going to divorce her, if you still love her, and you obviously do, then yeah. Makes you feel any better, maybe go even things out.
Even things out? What do you mean?
Murota Hideki glanced at his watch, his watch running slow. Maybe go get yourself a turko. But if you’re going, you’d best go quick. They’re clamping down, with the Olympics –
Hardly the same, is it, snorted Nemuro Hiroshi. Paying for it, paying some old fucking whore …
It was beginning to spit, to rain on Murota Hideki, his stomach starting to rumble, to growl. He stood up and said, Wise up, will you? He’s paying for it, you’re already paying for it. We’re always paying for it.
Murota Hideki started to walk away, away up the steps and out of the shrine, away from this man, this pathetic, shameless little man, his big fucking voice –
That what you’d do, is it, Murota? Your wife was cheating on you, fucking another man? You’d go get a turko, that’s what you’d do, is it? Is it …?
Murota Hideki stopped, turned back, back down the steps, back into the shrine, back to the man, walked back to the man, and looked down at the man, this pathetic, shameless little man looking up at Murota Hideki, this pathetic, shameless little man with a smirk, a sneer on his pathetic, shameless little face, and Murota Hideki said, he said, My wife is dead.
Nemuro Hiroshi did not look away. He did not even blink. He just kept on looking up at Murota Hideki, looking up at him, staring up at him, tears welling in his eyes, blinking then, blinking now, tears rolling down his cheeks as he said, Please, I just don’t want to lose her …
Murota Hideki did not tell him she was already lost, she was already gone, didn’t tell him that he didn’t blame her, didn’t blame her one bit. Murota Hideki just stood there, looking down on him, stood there and lied to him: You won’t.
But you can make sure, can’t you, said the man, wiping his eyes, wiping his cheeks, opening up his wallet, taking out three ten-thousand-yen notes. He held the notes up to Murota Hideki, held the notes out to Murota Hideki, raindrops falling on the notes, falling on his hand, down on the man and down on Murota Hideki, on the shrine and on the city –
Old city, new city, same city –
I want you to make sure.
It was still raining and he was still hungry, so he walked quickly, following the tracks, sheltered by the tracks, down to Yasukuni-dōri, then under the tracks and along Yasukuni-dōri, over the crossroads and the streetcar tracks, through Kanda-Sudachō and Ogawamachi, along Yasukuni-dōri and into Jimbōchō. Still raining, still hungry, very wet and very hungry, he went from bookshop to bookshop, used-bookshop to used-bookshop, from stack to stack, from shelf to shelf, until off Yasukuni-dōri, down a side street, up an alley, in a bookshop called Gen’ei-dō, in a stack by the door, he found the book he was looking for. He took the book and two other books from the stack by the door, then walked to the back of the store, put the three books down on the counter, and said, How much?
The old man behind the counter looked up from the book he was reading, pushed his glasses back up his nose, then looked back down at the three pocket-sized paperbacks on the counter, picking up Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon, then Teigin Monogatari: Winter of the Demon, then Whereabouts Unknown, opening up each book, turning to the back page of each book, reading the price on the back page of each book, the prices scribbled in pencil at the back of each book. The old man looked up from the books, pushed his glasses back up his nose again, then smiled and said, Ninety yen, please.
Here you go, said Murota Hideki, handing over the exact amount, smiling at the old man.
The old man reached down behind the counter, taking out a paper bag, putting the books inside the bag, and said, Is there some kind of Kuroda Roman revival going on?
What do you mean, asked Murota Hideki.
Well, you’re the second person this month buying his books, said the old man, handing the bag to Murota Hideki.
Murota Hideki smiled again and said, Let me guess: it was a skinny young guy in a flashy new suit.
Hard luck, Holmes-san, laughed the old man, shaking his head. It was a foreigner.
You’re joking?
Nope, said the old man, shaking his head again, pushing his glasses back up his nose again. I was surprised.
Murota Hideki glanced around the cramped and tiny store, lined and piled back to front, top to bottom with shelves and shelves, stacks and stacks of books and books, and asked, You get a lot of foreigners in here, do you?
We used to, said the old man. After the war, during the Occupation. But not these days, not yet.
Murota Hideki smiled again and asked, Not yet?
The Olympics, said the old man, nodding to himself. You never know …
You’re right, said Murota Hideki, nodding himself, turning to go. You never know.
Just hope they’re all wanting Kuroda Roman books, laughed the old man. We got a box of them upstairs.
The bag of books tucked under his left arm, Murota Hideki opened the door, saying, Popular guy.
Briefly, a long time ago now.
So they tell me, said Murota Hideki, stepping out of the shop, closing the door behind him, walking back down the alley, back through the rain.
He went down the side street, along and up another, then found himself on Suzuran-dōri. He crossed the road, went inside the Yangtze restaurant, picked up a newspaper from the rack by the door, then sat down at a table at the back. He ordered a bowl of cold Chinese noodles, a plate of fried rice, six gyōza dumplings, a glass of beer, and a half-bottle of Chinese wine. He ate the gyōza and drank the beer, reading the evening paper, reading about the capture of the Hokkaidō Cabbie Killer, of the Zengakuren and their demonstrations, of Sawako Ariyoshi and her divorce, skipping yet more Olympic crap about another new highway here, another new trainline there. Then, when he’d finished the gyōza and the beer, when he’d finished with the evening paper, he folded the paper back up, stood up, walked over to put it back in the rack, then returned to his table, and sat back down. He took out his packet of cigarettes and lit one, then he picked up the paper bag and took out one of the three pocket-sized books, the tatty, worn copy of Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon. He ate the fried rice, drank the Chinese wine, smoking more cigarettes, ordering more wine, another half-bottle, as he flicked through the pages, scanned the paragraphs, searching for his name, until he found his name, and then he began to read the page, the paragraph beginning: Murota Hideki is originally from Yamanashi Prefecture. But after he was fired from the police for his inappropriate behavior, after he was left without a job, Murota Hideki did not go back to his family’s home in Yamanashi. Murota Hideki stayed on in Tokyo. And so Murota Hideki still lives in an old wooden row house in Kitazawa, not far from the Shimo-Kitazawa station, the same old wooden row house that Detective Nishi found listed as his address in his personal records, the same old wooden row house …
Lighting another cigarette, drinking another glass, reading ahead now, scanning ahead now, through all of the names, all of these ghosts – Detectives Nishi and Minami, Inspectors Mori and Adachi, the girls, the murdered girls, Abe Yoshiko and Midorikawa Ryuko, and the killer, their killer, Kodaira Yoshio – through all of these names, all of these ghosts, searching for her, looking for her, until he found her, there on the page, until he saw her, in black and white, he saw her again step out of the shadows and through the shabby curtain, dressed in a yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress, he saw her again and he heard her, heard her again, saying again, I won’t pretend to be dead. I’m not a ghost.
But they’ll come for you again …
Murota Hideki twitched, he jerked, then peeled his cheek, his ear, and hair off the paper bag of paperbacks. He sat up in the chair, opened his eyes, and rubbed his cheek, his eyes, then both his cheeks, he rubbed them hard, then slapped them hard. He looked down at the desk, the bag of books on the desk, the handset lying next to the bag, droning on the desk, on the top of his desk. He picked up the handset, held it up to his ear and he heard the drone, the drone of the missing, the missing and the dead. He swallowed, he blinked, sniffed up, and said, Now, now, no, no. Don’t be starting with them waterfalls again. He shook his head, he shook his head, blinked and swallowed and sniffed again, then placed the handset back down on the phone, down in its cradle, back in its bed. He pulled himself up out of the chair, and round the desk he went. He picked up his shirt and jacket from the floor, his creased shirt and damp jacket, and put them on. He checked the pockets of his jacket, patting his notebook then his wallet, and he smiled to himself and said to himself, Could be worse, things could always be worse. He walked over to the window, over to the light, pushed open the window just a bit, the morning just a crack –
Ton-ton, ton-ton. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk …
Even on a Sunday, he said to himself, walking to the door and out of the office. He closed and locked the door, then walked along the corridor and down the stairs, the four flights of stairs. In the narrow entrance, he checked his metal mailbox in the wall of metal mailboxes. He sifted through the advertising sheets and utility bills, stuffed them all back inside the mailbox, and slammed its metal shut again. Then he went out of the building, down the steps and onto the street, into the morning, the cast-over morning, noisy and dull –
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, don-don …
But he did not go right, past the shrine and under the tracks. He did not go to Manseibashi to take a streetcar, did not go to Kanda to take a train. He went east to the corner and then turned north, over the Izumibashi Bridge, over the Kanda River, the river darker than ever, its Edo stench worse than ever. North through Akihabara he went, north into Okachimachi, through the crowds and through the noise, the pachinko crowds and the Olympic noise, even on a Sunday, a country mining for gold: pachinko gold vs. Olympic gold –
Don-don, ka-chunk …
He skirted Ueno, avoided Ueno – the movie and the zoo crowds, the park and exhibition crowds – down the side streets, the backstreets he went, through Shitaya and on through Inari-chō, but north, still north, crossing over Shōwa-dōri, passing through Sakamoto-chō, the city getting darker, wooden and more green, the city growing quieter, hushed and more muted, until he was walking under Uguisudani, coming to a place of shadows, he was coming to a place of silence, coming closer and closer, the shadows and the silence –
They’ll come for you again …
Until he had come to the place of shadows, the place of silence, he was in the place of shadows, the place of silence; Murota Hideki was in Negishi.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck, pulled his jacket from his shirt, his shirt from his vest, his vest from his skin, then wiped his neck again. He put away his handkerchief and took out his notebook. He opened the notebook and turned through the pages until he came to the address. He repeated it out loud twice to himself. He closed the notebook, put it back inside his jacket, and walked along the main road, Kototoi-dōri, looking for a map board, a guide to this quarter. In front of a temple, he found a map board, a faded, ink-drawn plan laid out on a battered old wooden board, the tiny handwritten numbers of the addresses etched inside little black squares in a labyrinth of hundreds of little black squares on the decrepit, rotting board. He found the address, the little black square he was looking for, and he took out his notebook again, and his pen this time, and he made a rough sketch of the area around the address, the little black square he was searching for. The notebook still open in his hand, he set off down the main road again, then turned right off Kototoi-dōri into a side road, more of a lane than a road. He went down the lane, dark and narrow, into a maze of lanes, the scent of incense in the shadows, a sense of mourning in the silence, somber and meandering, among temples of moldering tombstones, past houses with weed-grown gardens, isolated and secluded, deeper and deeper he went, into the maze, its labyrinth of lanes, sullen and winding, until he stopped, stopped before a house even more isolated than all of the others, and he stood, stood before this house more secluded than the rest, in the middle of the maze, at the heart of this labyrinth, for he had found, found the house of Kuroda Roman, hidden and hiding.
In this place protected by shadow, guarded in silence, this place of retreat, retreat and exile, he stared at a low wall, masked by shrubs, buried by weeds, at the bamboo fence which rose up, out from behind the wall, the shrubs and the weeds, the fence which screened the garden and house behind its bamboo, shielded whatever, whoever within from the lane and the world, the eyes of the world, the eyes of Murota Hideki. He put his notebook back inside his jacket, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his neck, then stepped closer to the fence, trying to look through the fence, to peek between bits of broken bamboo, splintered and fallen, through gourds and vines, between plants and trunks, thickets and copses of pomegranate and myrtle, plum and pine, gazing into this garden, through its tones and shades, trying to see where the house should be, to glimpse its silhouette in this garden of shadows, this garden of silence, peering, then squinting through its shifting tones, its shifting shades, pale then gray, dim then dark, where lizards darted and centipedes crawled, in the shadows, in the silence, the silence through which mosquitoes now rang, ringing in his ears, piercing his skin, finding the blood in his vessels, sucking the blood from his neck, his ear, his cheek, his –
Shit, he said, stepping back from the fence and the wall, out of the shrubs and the weeds, into the dirt of the lane, flapping his handkerchief around his face, rubbing the bites, checking for blood, and cursing again, Fucking mosquitoes.
He put away his handkerchief, took out his notebook and pen again, and began to walk the length of the fence to map the boundary of the place, taking five steps, six steps, seven, then turning a corner, still following the low wall and bamboo fence, sketching the border, tracing its outline, until he came to a gap in the wall, a space in the fence, the gap filled with taller shrubs, the space thick with giant weeds, the shrubs and the weeds hiding a gate, the gate to the house. He stepped into the shrubs and the weeds, waded through their stems and stalks, parting and pulling at the shrubs and the weeds, their stems and their stalks, two steps, three steps, four, until he reached the gate, could touch the gate. The gate was made of wood, of old, thick wood, higher than his head, taller than a man, covered with a roof, a roof of thatch and twigs. Under this roof, its sloping eaves, among the shrubs and the weeds, through their stems and their stalks, their flowers and their leaves, he fumbled blindly at the wood, the wood of the gate, groped for a handle, a handle to the gate. But there was no handle, no handle to the gate. He cursed and pushed at the wood of the gate, but there was no give, no give in the wood, no give in the gate. He cursed again and pushed again, then made a fist and knocked on the wood of the gate, then knocked again, he knocked and knocked again, and cursed and cursed again –
Fuck was the point of this, he said, stepping back through the shrubs and the weeds, back into the lane, its shadows and its silence. He put away his notebook and pen again, took out his handkerchief again, waving away the mosquitoes again, wiping the sweat from his neck again as he looked at the gate, shaking his head as he stared at the gate, cursing the gate and cursing himself, Dumb, dumb, dumb.
He coughed and spat in the dirt of the lane, then turned and walked back around the corner, back along the fence, turning at another corner, down another lane, walking past another low wall, another bamboo fence, both tended and weeded, the sound of birdsong from within, a whistle within, the whistle of a man whistling to the birds. Murota Hideki stopped, stopped before the gate to this house, this gate, this house not hidden, not hiding. He slid open the gate, stepped over its threshold, and said, I’m sorry, excuse me …
Yes, said an old, bald man, dressed in a summer kimono, standing on the veranda of his house, four or five birdcages hanging from its eaves.
Murota Hideki took two or three steps up the large stones of the garden path, saying again, Excuse me, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping to speak with your neighbor, Horikawa-san, the writer Kuroda Roman?
Good luck with that, said the old, bald man, raising his eyebrows, smiling as he closed one of the cages.
He doesn’t seem to be home, said Murota Hideki. Don’t suppose you know where is …?
I wish I did, said the old man, shaking his head. My son’s been trying to speak to him for months.
Oh yeah? Why’s that?
We got an offer on this land, said the man, gesturing at his house and his garden. Real-estate company wants to build some apartments and a car park. It’s a good offer, but they want his land, too, Horikawa’s land, or else they’re not interested.
The company can’t find him then?
No one can, said the old, bald man, shaking his head again. You must be the third or fourth person been round here in the last year, asking about him.
Popular guy.
Not him, laughed the old man. Just his land. He’s mad. Last time I saw him, he was eating the flowers in his garden.
Really …?
Yeah, said the man, nodding and turning, pointing over to the back of his garden. Used to be a hole in the fence back there, between the two gardens. The wife made me get it fixed up, she thinks there’s foxes in his garden. I told her, the only fox in there is that crazy old fox Horikawa-san.
But you saw him then?
Oh yes, said the old, bald man. Saw him on his hands and knees, eating the petals off flowers, drinking the water from his pond, he was, talking to his teddy bear …
His teddy bear?
You know, said the old man, smiling at the birds in their cages, waving at the birds in their cages. One of them stuffed animals, stuffed toys kids have?
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Yeah, I know what you mean. But you say he was talking to this teddy bear?
Unbelievable, I know, said the man. But I’ll never forget it, can still hear his voice now: Sada-chan, Sada-chan, he was saying. Must be thirsty, have some water, Sada-chan.
That was the name of the bear then, said Murota Hideki. No one else living there with him then?
Not these days, said the old, bald man. Least not as far as I know. He was married, though, long time ago now.
I heard that, said Murota Hideki, nodding. You know what happened to the wife, do you?
Killed herself, said the old man, lowering his voice, turning to the birds in their cages, nodding to himself.
In the shadows, in the silence, the shadows and the silence again, Murota Hideki swallowed and blinked, blinked and swallowed again, then said, Poor woman.
Yep, said the man.
Murota Hideki blinked again and asked, Did you ever see her, ever meet her?
Nope, said the old, bald man. Heard her, though, sometimes, practicing the samisen. She was a geisha, see, ex-geisha. His family disowned him when he married her, cut him off, never saw him again, that’s what I heard.
I heard that, said Murota Hideki again, nodding again. So when was that, when you last saw him then?
In his garden, you mean?
Yeah, that time.
A year, maybe two years ago now.
You’ve not seen him since?
No, said the old, bald man, tapping on the bars of one of the cages. Thought they must have taken him away again. Been in and out of the asylum since as long as I can remember.
You know which one?
No, said the old man, shaking his head, smiling at the bird in the cage. If we did, my son would’ve been over there like a shot, getting him to sign and sell up.
He might not want to, said Murota Hideki, looking up at the house, looking round at the garden, this beautiful old house, this beautiful old garden.
Might not, said the man. But I reckon he would when he hears what they’re offering, how much they’re offering.
Must be a good offer, said Murota Hideki.
It is, said the old, bald man in his summer kimono on the veranda of his house, looking at Murota Hideki, asking Murota Hideki, So why you looking for him?
Murota Hideki reached inside his jacket, took out his wallet, took a name card from his wallet, and stepped toward the veranda, holding out his name card, saying, He owes his publisher some money, that’s all.
I see, said the old man, taking the name card, reading the name on the card. That’s interesting, very interesting.
Why do you say that?
Because it means he’ll be even more likely to sell, said the man. If you find him …
Maybe, laughed Murota Hideki. If I find him.
Wait there, will you, said the old, bald man, disappearing into his house, his beautiful old house.
Murota Hideki nodded, then waited in the shadows, the silence, turning to look at the back of the garden, the fence at the back, the fence which separated this house from the garden and house next door, the house of Kuroda Roman.
Here’s my son’s name card, said the old man, coming back out onto the veranda, handing the card, together with a narrow, thin, weather-stained notebook, to Murota Hideki. You might as well take this as well …
Murota Hideki nodded, looking down at the book, then back up at the old, bald man. Thank you, but what is it?
His address book, said the man, smiling to himself, shaking his head. Least that’s what we think it is.
Murota Hideki nodded again, opening the book, flicking through the pages, asking, How come …?
He used to throw stuff over the fence sometimes, into our garden, laughed the old, bald man. Can you believe it? Course, we’d try and give the stuff back, but it was like raising the dead, trying to get him to open his gate.
I know what you mean, said Murota Hideki.
That’s if he was even home, said the old man. But my son had a look through it, even tried a few of the numbers, seeing if he could track him down.
No luck, though?
First few numbers he tried, said the man. They’d never heard of him, so he gave up. Thought you might have better luck, you being a professional. You never know?
You’re right, said Murota Hideki, nodding to himself. You never know. Thank you.
Just make sure you let us know, said the old, bald man. If you do find him.
Will do, said Murota Hideki, holding up the name card, then turning to go, saying again, Thank you.
From the veranda, among the birdcages, the old man called out, Where you heading now?
The asylum, said Murota Hideki, not turning back, not looking back, stepping through the gate, out into the lane.
He closed the gate behind him, put the name card inside his wallet, his wallet back inside his jacket, and then opened the notebook, this address book again, flicking through the pages, turning through the syllables – A, KA, SA, TA, NA, MA – stopping when he came to MA, reading down the list of names, the names beginning MA, MI, MU …
Murota – 291-3131.
In Negishi, in this lane, in the middle of the maze, at the heart of this labyrinth, in the address book of Kuroda Roman, on a narrow and weather-stained page of this book, he read his own name, he saw his own number, and then he turned the page back, and back again, back through NA to TA, and he looked down the page, read down through the list, the list of names beginning TA, TI, TU, TE, TO …
Tominaga – 291-3131.
And in the shadows, and in the silence, in this place of retreat, retreat and exile, he read her name, her name and his own number, a line through his number, a line through her name, in the silence, in the shadows …
Come for you again.
He got off the Keiō train at Hachimanyama station. He went into the toilet on the platform. He took a piss, then went over to the basin. He took out a necktie from the pocket of his jacket and put it on, took out his spectacles from another pocket, then put them on. He ran the faucet and rinsed his hands, then dried his hands on the front of his jacket and shirt. He left the toilet, he left the station. He found a cake shop and he bought the two cheapest, smallest cakes they had on display. He crossed over the tracks, went south down a quiet, narrow road, then turned left and passed through the West Gate of the Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital, formerly known as the Matsuzawa Hospital for the Insane, with the box of cakes in his hand, smiling and nodding to the guard-man at his post, who nodded, smiled back, and said, Good afternoon. He walked along the driveway to the main entrance to the Main Clinical Building. He walked up the steps, went into the lobby, and made a big show of standing there, the box of cakes in one hand, scratching his head with the other, turning one way then the other, screwing up his eyes, squinting through his spectacles –
You looking for reception, asked a young nurse.
He nodded, he smiled: Yes, I am. Could you –
It’s this way, she nodded, and she guided Murota Hideki down a corridor, up to a counter, and left him there, in front of a stern-faced, much older lady.
Good afternoon, said Murota Hideki, placing the box of cakes on the counter between them.
She gave the box of cakes an irritated glance, looked back up, and snapped, Yes?
Excuse me, said Murota Hideki. I’m not from Tokyo. I’m from Yamanashi. This is my first time. Not my first time in Tokyo, but my first time here, here at this hospital. You see, I’m here on business. Not at your hospital, I mean here in Tokyo. But because I’m here, here in Tokyo on business, my mother and my aunt, they asked me if I would try to come to visit my uncle. That is, if I had time, because I wasn’t really sure I would have time, because I wasn’t sure how the business would go. But as it turns out –
Name, she said, through gritted teeth, teeth flecked with specks of lipstick that had long since left her lips.
Murota Hideki, he said, bowing.
Not your name, she spat. The name of the patient, this uncle you are here to see?
Tamotsu, said Murota Hideki. Uncle Tamotsu.
Full name, she sighed. His family name?
Ah, so sorry, he said. Horikawa. Horikawa Tamotsu.
The stern-faced nurse looked at Murota Hideki, stared at Murota Hideki, his creased suit and shirt, his necktie and his spectacles, his puffy and unshaven face. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. He touched the box of cakes on the counter, and she glanced at the box again, then back up at Murota Hideki again. He smiled at her again, again she did not smile back, but then she sighed again and said, Horikawa Tamotsu? Just a minute …
She got up from her chair behind the counter and went into an office set back from the counter, leaving him standing there, touching the box of cakes, tapping the box.
I thought so, she said, returning to her chair behind the counter, smiling now, gloating now, an open file in her hands. Your Uncle Tamotsu is not here.
Really, said Murota Hideki, scratching his head, pulling at the lobe of his ear.
Yes. Really.
Sorry, said Murota Hideki, but are you sure?
Yes, she said. I am sure, very sure.
Just a minute, said Murota Hideki, reaching into a pocket, then another pocket, then another, patting himself down. But my mother and my aunt, they told me this was the name of the hospital. I even wrote it down somewhere. I’m sure this is the right hospital, I’m sure this is the right place …
He was here, she said. But he’s not here now. You have the right hospital; he’s just not here, not anymore.
But they gave me the name of the doctor, the name of his doctor, said Murota Hideki, still going through his pockets. They wanted me to speak with his doctor … Doctor, Doctor … oh, what was his name? Where’s the letter …?
He is not here, she said again. You’re too late.
But that can’t be right, said Murota Hideki. We would have been told, someone would have said. Where would he go, what would he do? He’s not a well man, he’s a very sick man. Poor old Uncle Tamotsu …
There were people behind Murota Hideki now, queuing up behind Murota Hideki now, impatient and annoyed people, looking at the receptionist, the receptionist looking at them, gritting her teeth again, shaking her head.
… Are you really, really sure?
LOOK, she snapped and spat, slamming down the open file onto the top of the counter, next to the box of the cakes. Then she turned to the people stood behind Murota Hideki, smiling at the first people in the queue, asking them, Yes …?
Murota Hideki blinked his eyes, scratched his head, and looked down at the file, turning it around, staring down at the page, reading the names and the dates, his lips moving as he blinked his eyes again, scratched his head again, then shook his head and shook his head again as he closed the file and turned it back around again, waiting for the receptionist to deal with the people in the queue, just standing there, waiting there, waiting for her to pick up the file and triumphantly say, See.
Yes, said Murota Hideki, quietly and sadly, reaching into his pockets again, searching through his pockets again. But I wonder if it would be possible just to speak with his doctor? Just to have a quick word with Doctor Nomura, please?
No, it would not be possible, said the receptionist, getting up from her chair again, taking the file away.
How about if I came back tomorrow?
She got to the door of the office set back behind the counter. She turned around, she looked at him and sighed, No. He retired in March. He’s not here either.
Murota Hideki nodded, then nodded once again and turned and walked away from the counter –
Just a minute, she shouted.
Murota Hideki turned back, smiled, and said, Yes?
You forgot your cakes.
He smiled again, smiled at her and said, You keep them. They were for Uncle Tamotsu. Please, you have them.
She looked down at the box, then back up at Murota Hideki, shook her head, and said, No, thanks. You take them, take them back to Yamanashi, to your mother and your aunt.
Murota Hideki walked back over to the counter, picked up the box of cakes, nodded at the woman, bowed to the woman, and said, You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.
You’re welcome, she said. Goodbye.
He bowed once more, then turned and walked away from the desk, back down the corridor, back through the lobby and back down the steps of the Main Clinical Building, then back down the long driveway and back through the gates, smiling and nodding again at the guard-man at his post, who nodded, smiled back again, and said, Otsukaresama desu …
Murota Hideki nodded again, then turned left and walked south down the narrow, quiet road, following the walls and the trees which hid the grounds of the Matsuzawa Hospital, those high walls and tall trees which screened the lawns and the ponds of the hospital, shrouded the patients, the inmates inside. He turned left again at the corner where the Hachimanyama police box stood and walked up a path of dirt and stones, following a high wire fence which marked the southern boundary of the Matsuzawa Hospital, looking through the links of the fence, staring across a baseball field at the tall trees, at more tall trees, at more screens and more shrouds. He turned left again at another corner and then came to a park, a very small park. He sat down on a bench in the park, this very small and empty park, and opened the box of cakes. He took out the first cake and stuffed it in his mouth, swallowed the cake and then ate the other, his first food of the day. He wiped the cream from his mouth and his lips, licked his fingers, and then took out his cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, and inhaled, then exhaled. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out in the dirt at his feet, then took off his spectacles and necktie, put them back in the pockets of his jacket. He took out his notebook and pen from inside his jacket. He opened the notebook and began to write down names and dates, his lips moving as he wrote, whispering other names and other dates as he wrote: Chief Inspector Mori, June 1946, purged and gone insane, committed to the Matsuzawa Hospital for the Insane …
He stopped writing, closed his notebook over his pen, and put them back inside his jacket. He lit another cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke up into the sky, Murota Hideki looking up into the sky, the sky over to the east, cast-over and dull, over Kitazawa, the clouds over Kitazawa, its old wooden row houses cast-over and gone, long gone, long gone, they were all long gone, cast-over and gone. He dropped the cigarette into the dirt at his feet, stubbed it out under his shoe, then rubbed and wiped his eyes. He stood up, picked up the empty cake box from the bench, walked over to a concrete trash bin, and dropped the box inside. He walked out of the small park, turned left, and went north up another narrow, quiet road, following more walls and trees, the walls and trees on the eastern edge of the hospital grounds. He turned right when he reached another park, another small park, and followed the Keiō line tracks east to Kami-Kitazawa station. He bought a ticket and went onto the platform, waited for a train, then boarded the train when it came. He sat in the carriage and closed his eyes, not looking out of the windows, not watching the houses disappear, the apartments rise up, in towers, in blocks, as the train headed to Shinjuku –
Furimukanaide onegai …
He walked out of the station, walked through the crowds, the movie and pachinko crowds, the milk-hall and the jazz-club crowds. He climbed the stairs to a second-floor coffee shop. He drank a cup of coffee, ate a thick slice of buttered toast, then ordered a glass of beer and a plate of Napolitan. He ate the spaghetti, drank the beer, ordered another a beer and then a highball, drinking and smoking, checking his watch, his watch running slow, time going slow, killing time until time was dead and he was standing in front of the mirror in the cramped, dank toilet of the coffee shop, looking at himself, telling himself, Shikata nai …
He got off another train at another station in another suburb west of Shinjuku. But he did not put on his necktie and spectacles, he did not buy any cakes. He took out his notebook to double-check the address, the address and the route. He put the notebook back inside his jacket and began to walk, to walk the way he had come last Friday night, last Friday night when he had followed the man, followed the man back to his home, his family home, his happy home. Maybe because it had been a little later then, a little darker then, or maybe because it had been a Friday and not a Sunday, but it had seemed a much nicer place then, a much better area then. Now it was just another ugly little concrete hutch in another ugly sprawling suburban development, with its silly little fence and its patch of yellow grass, so much better in the dark, so much nicer in the night.
Murota Hideki took out his sunglasses and put them on, took out a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. Then he opened the stupid little gate and walked up the stupid little path. The lights were on in the living room, the television on, the baseball on, the faint smells of dinner, the soft sounds of voices, the smells of a family, the sounds of a family. He pressed the stupid doorbell of the stupid glass door, holding it down a little too long, just a little too long, listening to it ringing through their little family home, hearing little feet running to the door. Little hands opened the door and a little face looked up at Murota Hideki. He took his finger off the bell, the toothpick from his mouth, put a big hand on the little head of this little child, looked down through his sunglasses, and said, Is Papa home?
Of course Papa was home, he could see him now, see him coming down the little hallway, anxious and fearful. He could see Mama, too, see her standing in a doorframe down the hallway, anxious and fearful, too. Both anxious and fearful because they could see Murota Hideki, see him standing at the door to their house, on the threshold of their home, their little family home, their little happy house, with his sunglasses and his toothpick and a hand upon the head of their firstborn, their precious little boy, the boy turning his head, looking for his father, the father pulling him away from the man at their door, pushing his precious little boy back down the hall, back to his mother, into her arms, as his father turned to Murota Hideki, asking Murota Hideki, What do you want …?
Murota Hideki stared past his face, over his shoulder into his house, down the corridor, straight at his wife as he told the man his own name and the name of his company. Then he smiled and said, That’s you, isn’t it?
Who are you, said the man. What do you want?
Looking through his sunglasses, still staring at the wife, Murota Hideki licked his lips, then smiled again and said, A little chat in your little garden.
The man glanced back at his wife, his anxious, fearful, pregnant wife, her arms around her firstborn, then the man turned back, stepped outside, closed the glass door behind him, and followed Murota Hideki down the little path to the little gate, where he stopped and said, A little chat about what?
A little chat about your little wife.
What about my wife?
Very pretty, your wife, said Murota Hideki, staring at the house, rubbing his crotch. A very beautiful woman.
The man was a little taller and quite a lot younger than Murota Hideki, but he was not a hard man, just a salaryman. But the man was already balling his fists, already adjusting his stance, already thinking thoughts it was best to stop –
More beautiful than Nemuro Kazuko, said Murota Hideki, turning from the house to stare at the man, to smile at the man. In my opinion, but, of course, you’ve seen more of them than I have. Much more of them both.
The man was not balling his fists, not adjusting his stance anymore. All his weight was in his feet now, his heart in his mouth now as he struggled for air, as he spluttered to say, to repeat again, What do you want?
Well now, said Murota Hideki, chewing on the toothpick. That’s the question, isn’t it? What do I want? See, I could want many things, couldn’t I? Many things from you: information from you, information about your company, information that could be beneficial, beneficial to me and my friends, if we were interested in stocks and shares, if we were so inclined. Or I could just want money, couldn’t I?
How much, sighed the man.
How much what?
Money.
Murota Hideki smiled, he laughed and put a hand on the shoulder of the man, squeezed the shoulder of this man, and said, I don’t want your money.
His face full of fear, his eyes filled with dread, the man looked at Murota Hideki and said, Then what do you want?
Murota Hideki smiled again, squeezed the shoulder of the man again, leaned in close, and said, Your word.
My word to do what, asked the man.
Your word that you will go back into your house, your lovely little house, and tell your wife, your pretty pregnant wife, that everything’s all right, everything is fine, that I was just some guy who had heard from a friend that you were looking to buy a car, a car on the cheap, some guy who was just passing by, just in the neighborhood. But you told me you weren’t interested, told me not to call again. You think you can tell her that, you think you can remember that?
Yes, said the man. But –
But this is the important part, said Murota Hideki, gripping the shoulder of the man, holding it tight. The part you don’t tell her, the part you never say, but the part you always remember, you never forget …
What, what …?
You give me your word you will never see Nemuro Kazuko again, understood?
The man started to nod, to nod and to say, Yes, yes, of course, of course. But then he started to think, to think and to say, But she’ll contact me, I know she will, she always does. It’s her, not me, it’s always her. Then what do I say?
Tell her what happened, the truth: tell her this ugly big guy in sunglasses showed up at your house, your family home, on Sunday night. Tell her this ugly big guy in sunglasses had seen you both going in and coming out of your favorite little love inn in Yoyogi last Friday. That this big ugly guy knows who you are, knows both of your names, that he followed you home, knows where both of you live. That he banged on your door and asked you for money, lots of money.
But what if she doesn’t believe me, asked the man, shaking his head. What if she won’t leave me alone?
Then I won’t leave you alone and I won’t leave her alone, said Murota Hideki. Your money and her pussy, because that’s what I’ll want, what I’ll take. And if you won’t give it, or she won’t give it, then I’ll tell your wife and tell her husband. Is that what you want, loverman?
No, no, said the man, wide-eyed and shaking.
Murota Hideki patted the shoulder of the man, smiled at the man, and said, But she’ll believe you, because you’ll make her believe you. And then she’ll leave you alone, and then I’ll leave you alone, you and your family. Okay?
Yes, said the man, nodding.
Good, said Murota Hideki. Now you take one last look at me, then you turn around, walk back up your little path, through your little door, into your little house, and you go back to your little wife, your little boy, and your happy little life.
By the time he got back to Kita-Senju, the time he got to his apartment building, time he ran up the rusted metal stairs stuck to the side of the old wooden building, went down the damp and humid corridor, unlocked and opened his door, tore off and slung his jacket into his room, picked up the plastic bowl, the flannel cloth, and ancient razor from the top of the shoebox in the thin strip of a genkan, closed and locked the door again, went back down the corridor and stairs again, ran around the corner, up the road and stuck his head through the curtains hanging in the doorway, it was almost closing time at the public bathhouse. But the old granny on the counter laughed and waved him in: Quickly, in with you then, you sweaty old git.
Murota Hideki laughed, thanked the old bag, and stepped out of his shoes, up into the bathhouse. He undressed, dropped his clothes in the basket, then took his bowl, cloth, and razor into the large communal bathroom. He walked through the steam to the side of the room, ran a faucet and rinsed a stool, crouched down on the stool and soaped his hands, then his face, and began to shave. He shaved his face, then rinsed his face. He soaped his hands again, then his body, and began to wash. He washed and washed his body, cleaned and cleaned his body. The sweat, the dirt, and the grime from his skin, the sweat, the dirt, and the grime of the city. Then he filled and refilled the bowl three or four times, rinsing his body clean of the soap and its suds, clean of the sweat, the dirt, and the grime. And then he wrung out the cloth, rinsed off the stool, and walked over to the big bath. He climbed into the bath, sat down in the bath, nodded to the last of the men still soaking in the bath, then he sank down deeper, deeper into the water, closing his eyes.
Come on, let’s be having you, shouted the old granny from the door. I want to go home, even if you don’t.
Yeah, yeah, laughed Murota Hideki, opening his eyes, the last man in the bath, pulling himself up, climbing out of the bath. He slopped back over to the stools and the faucets, ran a faucet and filled his bowl again, rinsed himself down again, then wiped himself down with his cloth. He rinsed and wrung out his cloth again, picked up his bowl and razor, then went out of the bathroom back into the changing room. He picked up a towel from the pile by the door. He dried himself, dressed, and then combed his hair. He picked up his bowl, his cloth, and his razor, and dropped the towel into the basket by the door. He stepped down, back into his shoes, said thanks and goodnight to the old granny closing up, then went back out through the curtains, out of the public bathhouse and onto the street.
He walked back down the road, bought a bottle of beer, three packs of cigarettes, and some dried squid from the store on the corner, then went back around the corner, back to his building. He climbed the rusted metal stairs again, went back down the damp, humid corridor again, the stench from the single, communal toilet on the ground floor tart and rank. He unlocked and opened his door, put down the bowl, the cloth, and the razor on top of the shoebox, closed the door, stepped out of his shoes into the room, and said, Tadaima.
He found and pulled the cord, switched on the bulb, put the beer, the cigarettes, and the squid down on the low table under the dim bulb in the middle of the tiny room. He turned back to the genkan, took the cloth from the bowl, and picked up his jacket from the floor. He walked over to the tattered, torn paper of the shōji screen which covered the single window on the opposite wall. He draped the damp cloth over a coat hanger, hung it from one of the lattices of the screen, then hung his jacket on a nail in the wall. He took off his shirt, his trousers, his socks, and his underwear again. He hung the trousers on another nail, then put on clean underwear. He screwed up his dirty underwear, his socks, and his shirt in a ball and stuffed them in a corner on a pile of old underwear, socks, and shirts. He walked back around the low table to the sink next to the genkan, picked up a glass from the rack, and slumped down on the floor at the low table. He opened the beer, poured and drank a glass, chewing on a piece of squid. He leaned over, across the dirty mats, and picked up a thin towel from the floor. He wiped his face and neck, then wrapped and tied the towel around his neck. He poured another glass, listening to the sound of radios and voices, radios and voices from the rooms next door, the rooms below. He took another gulp of beer, the beer already warm, and cursed himself. He got back to his feet, went back over to his jacket on its nail. He took his lighter, the address book of Kuroda Roman, and his own notebook and pen from the pockets of his jacket. He carried them back over to the low table and sat back down on the floor. He drank the beer, chewed squid, and smoked cigarettes as he went through the address book of Kuroda Roman, looking for the last names and numbers on each page of the book. He copied out these names and numbers into his own notebook, drinking the beer, chewing on squid, smoking his cigarettes, then finishing the beer and drinking a glass of shōchū from a bottle under the sink, mixed with pickled sour plums from a jar under the sink, stirring the drink with a pair of chopsticks from the sink, making a second list of names and numbers from the address book of Kuroda Roman, a list of older names and numbers, stirring then drinking more glasses of shōchū and pickled sour plums –
Darling, she whispered, what are you doing?
He said, I want to find this man.
Please don’t, she said, please stop.
But he poured another glass of shōchū, mashed the pickled plum into even smaller bits with the chopsticks, then took a long drink and said, No, no. I want to find who blabbed, the bigmouth who talked about us, who gave us up.
Long ago, she said, it’s so long ago now.
He poured again, he mashed again, he drank and drank again, then said, Maybe to you, but not to me.
In tears, she said, it’ll end in tears.
So what, he said, reaching for the bottle again, pouring again. It began in tears, it’s always tears –
My tears, she said, not yours.
He picked up the chopsticks, smashed them down into the remains of the plums in the glass, again and again as he said, I need to know, I need to know, I NEED TO KNOW.
Darling, please, it will do you no good.
He looked up from the broken plums, the snapped chopsticks, the cracked glass, from the pools of shōchū, the splinters of wood and the spots of blood, looked up at the filthy, stinking sink, the single grease-coated ring, at the piles of dirty old clothes on the dusty, frayed mats, his soiled jacket and grubby trousers hanging by their nails on the grimy yellow walls, the dim, naked bulb dangling from the stained, warped ceiling, in the thick and foul, dank and insect air, looking for things that were not there, searching for people who were not here, talking to their shadows, speaking to their silence, he said, he said again, So what, so what? Is this some kind of good?
The Shimoyama Case, said Yokogawa Jirō, in the Yama-no-Ue Hotel in Ochanomizu. He was sitting on one of the black-leather-and-cherrywood sofas in the lounge of the lobby, filling his seat like it was some kind of throne, the pair of thick, red velvet curtains behind him adding a further regal touch to the scene. But instead of a jeweled crown, he was wearing a black beret with his brow-line glasses and his stiff, dark-green kimono, the beret giving him the appearance of a successful manga artist rather than the founder and chairman of the Mystery Writers of Japan. His face was even rounder, his lips even thicker than in his photographs, and he looked every one of his sixty-three years. He took another pull on his fat cigar, another sip from his whisky, then Yokogawa Jirō swallowed and said, Yes, I’m afraid that’s what did for poor old Kuroda-sensei.
In the court of the Emperor of Mysteries, Murota Hideki nodded, sipped his own whisky, and waited. It was a slow, hungover lunchtime on the second day of the Rainy Season, Monday, June 22, 1964.
Ages ago now, said Yokogawa Jirō, after another pull, another sip. But it still sometimes feels like yesterday.
Murota Hideki nodded again, sipped again, and waited.
I’ll never forget this one time, it was that summer, the summer of Shimoyama, Mitaka, and Matsukawa, must have been the August, I think. We called a meeting of the Mystery Writers of Japan, at the Tōyōken, up on the seventh floor of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, where we always held our meetings back then. But we called it specifically to debate the Shimoyama Case, invited the press, asked certain writers to give their opinions, their theories on the Shimoyama Case, and then, at the end, we were to hold a vote on whether it was suicide or murder, whether President Shimoyama had killed himself or been murdered. It was all people were talking about – suicide or murder – back then, if you remember …?
Murota Hideki nodded and said, I remember.
I’ll never forget, said Yokogawa Jirō again. Right at the end of the meeting, after we’d had the vote, the doors burst open and in flies Kuroda Roman. You should have seen the state of the man! His yukata hanging open, underwear on display, holding his geta in his hands, his bare feet all cut and bloody, his hair all messed up, eyes wide and wild, he was almost foaming at the mouth, babbling and raving about how he’d cracked the case, solved the mystery of Shimoyama.
Murota Hideki asked, What was he saying?
I was at the other end of the room, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head. So I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but apparently, I heard later, he was just babbling and raving on about time, about how time was “the mystery to the solution.”
Murota Hideki said, The solution to the mystery?
No, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head again. The other way around, “the mystery to the solution.” I remember that, people repeating that later. But then he just started haranguing everyone, the writers and the journalists, as they were leaving, saying it was all just a game to us, another puzzle, that no one really cared. And he had a point, you know, but pretty soon after that he was committed, I think. It wasn’t the first time either, or the last, from what I’ve heard.
But you’ve seen him since then, Sensei …?
Another one, said Yokogawa Jirō, gesturing with his empty glass at his personalized bottle of whisky, standing next to the ice bucket on the cherrywood table between them.
Thank you very much, said Murota Hideki, nodding. He leaned over the table, picked up the whisky bottle, unscrewed the top, and poured them both another drink, then used the tongs to drop two cubes of ice into each of their glasses.
Yokogawa Jirō took another long pull on his fat cigar, then picked up his fresh glass, took a big sip, swallowed, then nodded and said, Maybe two or three times, I think. But not for a long time now. That’s why I was quite surprised when you called, surprised he had my number. Because we were never very close. Not sure he was close to anyone.
May I ask you when these two or three other occasions were, when and where you did see him?
Well now, let me think, said Yokogawa Jirō, looking up at one of the chandeliers, puckering his thick, wet lips, then looking back across the glass-topped cherrywood table at Murota Hideki, nodding to himself as he said, Yes, once was soon after he came out of hospital. I remember because I was so surprised to see him. I didn’t realize he was out. So that must have been late 1955, I think.
Murota Hideki asked, And where was that then?
The Imperial Hotel, at the Shinpi Shōbō bōnenkai, said Yokogawa Jirō, laughing to himself. Only way they could get people to go was if they held the party there.
Did you speak with him?
Oh yes, said Yokogawa Jirō, still laughing to himself but shaking his head now. Well, I mean, I listened to him …
And what was he talking about, do you remember?
What do you think, said Yokogawa Jirō, not laughing now. What did he ever talk about? The Shimoyama Case.
And what was he saying about it, Sensei …?
He was just going on about the oil, the oil that had been found on the clothing of President Shimoyama, about the tests on the oil, about different types of oil, about factories where it could have come from, possible locations for these factories, but speaking so quietly, so quickly, faster than you could follow. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t keep up with him.
In the lounge of the Yama-no-Ue Hotel, on this slow, hungover lunchtime on the second day of the Rainy Season, Murota Hideki said, But you didn’t want to …?
Look, I liked him, and not a lot of people did, said Yokogawa Jirō, looking down at the end of his fat cigar, then back up at Murota Hideki, nodding to himself again. That’s why I agreed to meet you, why we’re talking now.
And I’m grateful for your time, Sensei, said Murota Hideki. I didn’t mean to accuse or insult you …
No, no, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head, waving his cigar across his face. I didn’t think you were. What I mean to say is, and to give him his due, Kuroda-sensei was the first person to start talking about the Americans, about GHQ, saying some unit within GHQ had had a hand in the death of President Shimoyama. Of course, a lot of people think that now, but Kuroda Roman was the first person to say so, and to say so publicly, and then to write about it.
Murota Hideki looked across the glass-topped cherrywood table and asked, Is that what you think, Sensei …?
Me, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head as he stubbed out his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray. I long since gave up thinking about the Shimoyama Case.
Murota Hideki nodded and said, I see. So when were the other times, or the last time you saw Kuroda-sensei?
Probably around the time I stopped thinking about the Shimoyama Case, said Yokogawa Jirō, nodding to himself, smiling to himself. Would have been the ten-year anniversary of the death of President Shimoyama, so July 5, 1959, six years ago now. There was a sort of memorial service up at Ayase, at the scene of the crime, as they say. And he was there.
Did you speak to him again that time?
Nope, not that time, said Yokogawa Jirō, then he picked up his whisky again and took another big sip.
Murota Hideki nodded, waiting.
He was there with this guy, Terauchi Kōji. I mean, that was bad enough. You heard of this guy …?
Murota Hideki nodded again and said, Vaguely, I think. Read his name in some articles …
Yep, said Yokogawa Jirō. That’s where you’ll find him, if you’re interested. But I’m not going to sit here talking about him now, wouldn’t waste my breath, except to say I think he’s a complete fraud, a fantasist and a charlatan. But Kuroda-sensei, he seemed to fall under his spell –
Excuse me, Sensei, whispered a young man in a gray suit, another skinny young man in another flashy gray suit, crouching down at the side of Yokogawa Jirō. Your room is ready for you now, Sensei.
Yes, yes, said Yokogawa Jirō, waving the young man away, picking up and then draining his glass of whisky.
You’re staying here, asked Murota Hideki.
Yokogawa Jirō put down his glass, wiped his thick, wet lips, and shook his head and said, I’m just writing here. You heard of “canning,” Murota-san?
Murota Hideki shook his head.
It’s when publishers imprison their writers in hotel rooms, cutting them off from the outside world, all distractions and temptations, so they can deliver their latest work on time.
I can think of a lot worse prisons, said Murota Hideki, looking around at the plush lobby, the obsequious staff.
Yokogawa Jirō sighed, pushing himself up from the black leather sofa, then said, If you really want to find Kuroda Roman, then you’ll find him in the Shimoyama Case.
I understand, said Murota Hideki, putting down his glass, getting to his feet, and bowing. Thank you, Sensei.
Yokogawa Jirō put a hand on the shoulder of Murota Hideki. Murota Hideki looked up at Yokogawa Jirō –
You told me you were a policeman, said Yokogawa Jirō, staring at Murota Hideki. And you say you’re working as a private investigator now, and so I don’t doubt you know how a case can sink its teeth into a man. But this case, this is different. Yes, it sinks its teeth into you, but then it sucks and drains the blood from you, takes away your perspective, your senses, and your reason. That’s why they call it “the Shimoyama Disease,” because it infects you, occupies and possesses you.
Murota Hideki swallowed, nodded, and then said, And so that’s what you think happened to Kuroda-sensei …
I know it was, said Yokogawa Jirō, squeezing the shoulder of Murota Hideki. And he wasn’t playing with a full deck to begin with, as they say, if you know what I mean?
Murota Hideki nodded again and said, Yes.
Well, I hope you do, said Yokogawa Jirō, releasing his shoulder, then turning away from Murota Hideki, walking away from Murota Hideki as he said, So you take care now, Murotasan, out there, and in there, in the Shimoyama Case, because he didn’t. That was the tragedy of Kuroda Roman.
He went down the hill, down through the drizzle, back into Jimbōchō, back to its bookstores, their shelves and their stacks, from store to shop, the stores selling new books to the shops selling used books, through their shelves and their stacks he went, searching for all the books he could find on the Shimoyama Case, then buying all the books he found on the Shimoyama Case – Black Tide by Inoue Yasushi (1950); To Solve the Mystery of the Shimoyama Case by Dōba Hajime (1952); Conspiracy: Postwar Inside Stories by Ōno Tatsuzō and Okazaki Masuhide (1960); Trap by Natsubori Masamoto (1960); The Black Mist Over Japan by Matsumoto Seichō (1962); The Case of the Mysterious Death of President Shimoyama by Miyagi Otoya and Miyagi Fumiko (1963) – and then, with his bags of books, he went back out into the drizzle, back down the side streets, onto Hakusan-dōri, into Sankōen, and with the bags of books at his feet, he sat down at the counter and ordered a plate of gyōza, a plate of fried noodles, and a bottle of beer, eating and drinking and reading the paper; not the books in his bag, but the paper from the rack, reading about pickpockets and suicides, gang busts and baseball, the Giants beating the Swallows, the Kokutetsu Swallows, the team owned by the National Railways, no escape from the railways –
Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po …
He finished the gyōza, the noodles, and the beer, picked up the bags of books, put the paper back in the rack, paid his bill, and left the restaurant. He walked through the drizzle and the showers, back along Yasukuni-dōri, through Ogawamachi and Kanda-Sudachō, over the roads and the streetcar tracks, then under the railroad tracks, the railroad and its tracks, along Yanagihara-dōri, past the Yanagimori shrine, along the street and back to his building, the Yanagi building –
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ton-ton …
He traipsed up the steps into his building, the bags of books in his hand. He checked his mailbox in the wall of metal mailboxes. He sifted through the advertising sheets and the utility bills, stuffed them back inside the mailbox, and slammed it shut again. Then he trudged up the one, two, three, four flights of stairs, the bags of books in his hand. He went into the toilet at the top of the stairs, dropped the bags of books down beside the basin. He plodded over to the urinal, undid his flies, and took a piss, a long piss. Then he did up his flies, picked up the bags of books, and left the toilet. He lumbered down the corridor to the end of the corridor, took out his key, unlocked and opened the door, then stepped inside his office –
Don-don, ka-chunk …
He closed the door, then the window on the noise and the stench, the noise of construction, the stench from the river. He dumped the bags of books on top of his desk, then slumped down in the chair at his desk and lit a cigarette. He finished the cigarette, sighed, and began to open the bags of books, taking out the books, one by one, flicking through the books, one by one, turning their pages, scanning their pages, these pages of suicide, these pages of murder, murder or suicide, suicide or murder, back and forth they went, back and forth he went, over these pages, through these pages, these pages of murder, these pages of suicide, with their descriptions of the scene, the scene of a crime or the scene of a suicide, their descriptions of the body, the body of a suicide or the victim of a murder, back and forth they went, back and forth he went, through police reports and autopsy reports, reports of a murder, reports of a suicide, back and forth, back and forth, they went and he went, over pages of statements, statements by witnesses, through the many statements by so many witnesses, witnesses to a suicide or witnesses to a murder, back and forth through the conspiracies and theories, the theories and conspiracies, through conspiracies of murder, the theories of suicide, suicide due to stress, stress or insanity, or murdered by Communists, Communists or Americans, murder or suicide, suicide or murder, back and forth, back and forth he went, until the light had gone and the room was dark, and all he could hear was the sound of a train, over and over, over the tracks and over the body, the sound of that train –
Shu-shu pop-po …
In the darkness of his office, he got up from his desk, up from these books, walked over to the wall, and switched on the light. In the electric light, in the middle of the room, he stared around the office, its yellow walls and dirty floor, its dusty shelves and empty cabinet. He sighed again and walked back over to his desk, slumped back down again into his chair, and lit another cigarette. He picked up the books again, one by one, flicked through the books again, one by one, turning their pages again, scanning their pages again, with all their names, their many names, but no mention of Kuroda Roman, no trace of Kuroda; yet some names he recognized, some names he knew, the names of policemen, the names of detectives, men he had known, once personally knew. He took another cigarette from the pack on the desk and glanced at the phone. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, and looked again at the phone, then exhaled as he stared at the phone. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out, sighed, and took out his own address book. He turned the pages, found the name and the number. He stared down at the name and the number, then up at the telephone again. He swallowed, reached for the phone, picked up the handset, and began to dial the number, Shikata nai …
Never thought I’d ever fucking say it, slurred Hattori Kansuke, but thank fuck for the Olympics.
They’d been drinking for three, four damp and sticky hours at the damp and sticky counter of a damp and sticky bar, a hole-in-the-wall bar, under the tracks at Yūrakuchō. The first hour had been all beers and cheers, all slaps on the back and how long it had been, it had been too long, much too long, and you shouldn’t be a stranger, never be a stranger, no matter what happened, it was all long ago, a long time ago now; and here, you remember thingy and what-was-his-name, from back when we were recruits, dick-swinging pair of recruits we were, eh? Hell, not like that now, I tell you, hell, not like that now, all fucking college boys, rich little mama’s boys, heaviest thing they ever lifted were their own fucking chopsticks, yeah, all fucking textbooks and manuals and fucking exams, hell, that’s what it is now, pair of country cunts like us, we’d have no fucking chance, pair of know-nothing bumpkins like us, hell, I mean, I could barely write my own fucking name when I joined, tell you, I tell you, you’re well out of it, Hideki, well out of it, not the way you went out, nah, nah, that was wrong, fucking wrong, mean who ain’t had a bit on the side, eh? Not like you was married or nothing, she was married or nothing, was it? Where was the harm, the fucking harm, that’s what I said, said so at the time I did, no fucking harm done, but it was all that fucking Kodaira shit, wasn’t it? Fucking psycho, he was, eh? That fucker couldn’t keep it in his fucking pants for ten fucking seconds, could he? Sex fucking maniac, he was, eh? Always wanted to know, wanted to ask, ask him how many women he’d fucked, must have been fucking hundreds, eh? Fucking maniac, eh? Always wonder what happened to his missus, eh, you ever see her? She was fucking lovely, she was, very pretty, and she must’ve been used to it five, six, seven times a day from that fucker, I bet, bet she fucking missed it then, when he’d gone, fucking waste, fucking shame, a fine-looking woman like that, wanting it and not getting it. Fuck, it’s good to see you, Hideki! Hell, so fucking good to see you, hell, I can’t tell you …
Likewise, Murota Hideki had said, nodding and smiling along, pacing himself, pacing his drinks but keeping them coming, coming for Hattori Kansuke, smiling and nodding along, moving him on from the beer to the shōchū, keeping it flowing, flowing for Detective Hattori –
How much I need this, Hideki, night like this, with you, someone like you, from the old days, who knows what it’s like, knows how it is, someone like you, because I tell you: this fucking case is driving me mad, it’s sending me nuts, over fourteen fucking months of it now, fourteen fucking months of it, that’s what I’ve had, and not a single fucking break, not a single fucking one. Poor little Yoshinobu-kun …
That poor little lad, Murota Hideki had said as he’d ordered them more shōchū, nodding and listening to Detective Hattori Kansuke go on and on, on and on about this case – the case of Murakoshi Yoshinobu, four-year-old Yoshinobu-kun, who’d been kidnapped from a park close to his home in Taitō Ward in the March of last year, this case that had transfixed the nation, this case that had stretched the police to breaking point – this case that was still going on and on, this case still unsolved, poor little Yoshinobu-kun still missing –
I dream about him, you know? Dream I can hear him, hear his voice, his little voice, calling to me, calling for me, but only his voice, just his voice, his little voice, never his face, never the place where he is, only his voice, just his voice, his little voice, calling out to me, that’s all I can hear, just his voice, his little voice, calling out to me, you know? And sometimes, in my dreams, in these dreams, I’m getting closer, closer to his voice, his little voice, so close I can almost feel him, almost touch him, almost fucking save him, but then, just as I’m there, as I’m almost there, almost where his voice is, almost where he is, where he is, then I wake up, that’s when I wake up, fucking wake up, sweating and panting like a fucking madman I am, wake up, yeah, wake up to then fucking read in the fucking papers, yeah, how fucking inept we all are, like we don’t fucking know, already fucking know, know it in our hearts, feel it in our hearts, like we don’t want to fucking find the poor little lad, like it ain’t all we ever fucking think about, every fucking minute of every fucking day, every fucking day of our fucking lives, all we ever fucking think about, all we ever fucking talk about, ever fucking dream about, I mean, hell, never thought I’d ever fucking say it, but thank fuck for the Olympics! If it wasn’t for the fucking Olympics, they’d never fucking leave us alone, them fucking bastards in the press, fucking …
Worse than Teigin or Shimoyama then, said Murota Hideki now, now it was time –
Seven months, laughed Hattori Kansuke. That’s all Teigin was. From crime to confession, just seven fucking months. Nothing compared to this …
But Shimoyama?
Like I could give a fuck about Shimoyama, snorted Hattori Kansuke. Then or now. Politics and bullshit, that’s all that was, then and still now, politics and bullshit. Man fucking killed himself, everyone knows, case fucking closed.
Must be annoying, people still going on about it, then, said Murota Hideki, nodding again as he poured a dash more shōchū into his own glass, then a big splash more into the glass of Hattori Kansuke. When you were so certain, yeah?
Certain, laughed Hattori Kansuke, picking up his glass. Certain? Fucking proved it was suicide, I did.
Oh yeah, asked Murota Hideki.
Hattori Kansuke turned on his stool at the counter, switching his glass from his right hand to his left. He held up the fingers and thumb of his right hand in the face of Murota Hideki, then began to fold them down, one by –
One: family knows best. I was up at the house, day he went missing. First thing wife says to me is, He might’ve killed himself. I just hope he hasn’t killed himself, she said. I mean, I told her not to say such things, course I did. But that’s my biggest regret, that whole fucking business, that we didn’t listen to her, what she first said.
Two: he had a mistress, or an ex-mistress, whatever you like. But this woman, she was bleeding him dry, asking him for money, making him sell stuff, pawn stuff. Even selling and pawning his wife’s rings and kimonos to keep this woman, this ex-geisha sweet, sweet and quiet, until he had nothing left.
Three: the wife, four sons, the mistress, and no fucking money, not to mention his job and all that bullshit, course the man’s worried, he’s stressed, not thinking right, not thinking straight. So I went up to the hospital, their own railroad hospital they have, spoke with his doctor, his own doctor, saw the man’s records with my own fucking eyes, and there it was, in black and white: June 1, 1949, diagnosed with a nervous fucking breakdown he was. Doctor had prescribed him Brobalin, to help him sleep, to calm him down. But the guy got addicted to it, didn’t he? Doctor told me so himself, the man was in and out every other fucking day, asking for more. Bags of it he was taking, that’s why his wife is thinking he’s killed himself, right? Said so herself, said to me she thought he might’ve taken an overdose. Suicidal, she knew.
Four: witnesses, twenty-fucking-three of them, I think it was, we had, all the way from Mitsukoshi up to Gotanno and Ayase. Two of them alone, though, they were good enough for me, and should’ve been enough for any-fucking-one. This old granny, she saw him standing by the tracks, then sitting by the tracks, pulling up the weeds he was. She took me to the place, showed me the spot, and there they were, these fucking weeds with their heads all pulled off, and guess what? The heads of them weeds, them very same weeds, we found them in his fucking pockets, didn’t we? Pockets of his corpse. Hell, there and then that’s case fucking closed for me. I mean, what more do you want, what more do you need? But if you wanted more, there was more, loads fucking more. This other guy, local guy, good job, respectable guy, he saw him, too, described his suit, described his shoes. See, the man was wearing these chocolate-colored shoes with expensive rubber soles. So we took this guy, this witness to headquarters and we showed him the shoes, showed him the suit, and of course he says, That there’s the suit I saw, them there are the shoes I saw.
Five: the fucking forensics. All them fuckers who go on about the science, about how it all proves he was murdered, they don’t know shit. Ain’t going into all that now, can’t be fucking bothered but the shorthand is this: Doctor Nakadate, up at Keiō, he knew and he proved it was just another suicide, and as for them blood tests, all them fucking luminol tests, traces of blood, tracks of blood, up and down the tracks, here, there, and every-fucking-where, all that fucking bullshit, know what that was? Menstrual fucking blood from the toilets of the trains, that’s all that ever fucking was –
Detective Hattori Kansuke had folded up his fingers and thumb, made a fist of his hand. He held the fist up in the face of Murota Hideki, held it up for a moment, a long moment, a moment too long in the face of Murota Hideki, then Detective Hattori Kansuke slowly opened his fist into four fingers and a thumb again, held the four fingers and thumb up in the face of Murota Hideki, and slowly said, These five fucking fingers mean that man killed himself, mean case fucking closed.
Fuck, said Murota Hideki, raising his glass in a toast and nodding. You nailed it pretty fucking good, yeah?
Hattori Kansuke shook his head, turned back to his drink, and said, Fat lot of fucking good it did me. I was just a leg of the fucking horse, you know, no one listened …
They all thought it was the Reds, yeah?
Fucking wished it was, yeah. Especially the fucking Yanks, yeah, some of our own government, too. MacArthur and Yoshida, suited them, didn’t it, or would’ve done, if the Reds had fucking done it, and we could’ve proved it …
Pressure from above must’ve been …
Like you wouldn’t fucking believe, said Detective Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head again. Hell, I tell you, almost ended up like you, I did, talking of booting me out, they were. Because you know me, I’m not going to just sit there, just suck it up. Kept telling them and telling them it was suicide, suicide, so they moved me, yeah, to silence me, shut me fucking up, moved a lot of us – you remember Chief Kanehara?
Murota Hideki shook his head: No …?
Head of First Division he was, my boss he was, great boss, great detective. He knew what he saw, knew what it was, knew it was a suicide, just another fucking suicide. Well, they moved him out, didn’t they, moved him out to fucking Sanya, some old fucking shabby station out there. No way to treat a man, a fine, loyal man like that, a great fucking detective.
Murota Hideki nodded: You’re right …
Yeah, said Hattori Kansuke, nodding, patting the arm of Murota Hideki. Don’t need to tell you …
Nope, said Murota Hideki, sighing then smiling, smiling then saying, It’s funny really, isn’t it …?
What is, said Hattori Kansuke, reaching for the bottle, filling both their glasses, emptying the bottle.
Well, you know, like now, these days, everything you read about Shimoyama, read about the case, they’re always blaming the Americans, all accusing GHQ, right …?
Detective Hattori Kansuke turned in his stool at the counter, turned to look over his glass at Murota Hideki as he said, You read a lot about Shimoyama, do you?
Me, laughed Murota Hideki. Read a book? I’m from fucking Yamanashi, remember? I mean, everything you hear, hear all them fucking lefties blabbing on about …
Hattori Kansuke was nodding, laughing now, holding up the empty bottle, gesturing to the Mama-san for another, then lowering his voice, still laughing, he said, Actually, you know where all that bullshit started, all that American conspiracy shit? Comes from this Kuroda Roman guy, this fucking writer guy – you ever hear of him?
I’m from Yamanashi, said Murota Hideki again, shaking his head. What do you think …?
Well, he’s the one started it all, this Kuroda Roman guy, going on about GHQ, about Zed Unit, was it? But the guy was insane, stark-raving, completely fucking mad. Talk about loose screws, hell, his screws were long, long fucking gone!
Really, said Murota Hideki.
Yeah, laughed Hattori Kansuke. And I should fucking know, I fucking met him, didn’t I? Few fucking times …
Murota Hideki turned in his stool at the counter to look at Hattori Kansuke, at his face, maroon and dark with drink, at his mouth, open and wet, his big fucking mouth, wide open and wet, and Murota Hideki said, said again, Really …?
Yeah, said Hattori Kansuke again, pouring more drink down his throat, then wiping his lips, his lips and his mouth, his big fucking mouth. A few fucking times …
Never thought my old bumpkin buddy would be hanging around with writers, laughed Murota Hideki, shaking his head, picking up his cigarettes, then lighting a cigarette, then picking up his glass, then taking a sip as he waited, waited for that big mouth, that big fucking mouth to open again –
Nah, nah, he was the one who was hanging around with us, always hanging around headquarters, wasn’t he, bugging the fuck out of us, you know? So one day, Chief Kanehara, he tells me to go fucking talk to him, set him fucking straight, shut him the fuck up, yeah? So me and him, me and Kuroda, we go have lunch one day, he’s paying, right, so he takes me to one of them fancy restaurants they got in Hibiya Park, the Matsumotoro it was, you know the one I mean …?
Hideki Murota shook his head again.
Curry rice, they got, but not like any curry rice your mama ever made you, I tell you. Anyway, I lay it all out for him, the Shimoyama Case, just like I did for you, right? Explaining all the evidence, proving it was suicide, and he’s nodding along, fucking agreeing he is, saying, Yeah, yeah, yeah, it must’ve been suicide, has to have been suicide, so I thought that was it, right, job done, last I’d ever see of the fucker.
No such luck, eh, laughed Murota Hideki.
You’re not fucking joking. See, now the old fool thinks we’re best fucking friends, bosom fucking buddies, like we’re fucking partners or something, me and him. Never fucking leaves me alone, does he? Calling headquarters, dropping in unannounced, telling me he’s got this new evidence, that new evidence, never fucking shuts up, does he? Unbelievable …
So what the fuck did you do then …?
Well, what the fuck could I do? See, we couldn’t have him keep coming into headquarters, calling headquarters, could we? So I start to meet him every now and then, you know, agree to meet him every now and then, like to humor him, yeah? And, like, he might’ve been mad, right, but he had money, you know? So it was usually someplace nice, yeah? Good food, good drink, but I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was still a pain in the fucking ass, you know, listening to him, all his fucking theories, all his bullshit fucking conspiracy theories …
Murota Hideki shook his head, lighting another cigarette, taking another sip of his drink, laughing as he said, So how long did this go on for then …?
Until I went to his house, said Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head, sighing to himself.
You went to his house?
Yep, up past Ueno, Uguisudani way, said Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head again, sighing to himself again. Should see the place, creepy old fucking place it is, I tell you. And that’s just the outside, the garden, right? Hell, I mean, I knew he was fucking mad, yeah, but when I got in there, inside his house, yeah, fuck –
What?
One of the rooms, yeah, it was just wall to wall Shimoyama, like a fucking cave to the case. Photographs, maps, diagrams – hell, I couldn’t fucking believe it. I mean, I’d never seen anything like it, you had to see it to believe it. And hell, that’s just the walls, right, the fucking decoration, see, then he starts … Ah, fuck it, and fuck him! The fuck we have to talk about him for, yeah? So long ago now, who fucking cares?
Yeah, right, said Murota Hideki, nodding, nodding but then asking, But what did you do, when you were …
In his mad house, snorted Hattori Kansuke. What the fuck you think I fucking did? Got the fuck out of there as quick as I fucking could, made sure I never saw the cunt again.
What happened to him?
Why the fuck you care what happened to him?
Murota Hideki laughed, patting the back of Hattori Kansuke, and said, Hey, come on! You’re the one telling the story, painting the picture, like some fucking rakugo master, then you suddenly stop, clam the fuck up, leaving me hanging. Just wondered what happened to the man, is all …
Know what should’ve happened to him, I hope happened to him – the fucking grave.
Hey, come on, laughed Murota Hideki again, his arm round the shoulder of Hattori Kansuke, squeezing his shoulder. Can’t be wishing a man dead …
You never met him, didn’t know him, said Hattori Kansuke. If you had, if you did, and you had a heart, maybe you might say the same …
Oh yeah?
Yeah, sighed Hattori Kansuke, looking down at the drink in his hand, swirling the shōchū round in the glass. Last I heard, they were running five hundred volts through his skull every day, up at the Matsuzawa Hospital for the mad.
Fuck …
Yeah, fucking waste of electricity, is what that is. You know what they say, say’s the only cure for the mad, yeah?
No, said Murota Hideki. What do they say …?
Hattori Kansuke looked up from the drink in his glass, turned to look at Murota Hideki. His face still maroon and dark, but not with drink, no more drunk than the stool on which he was sat, he stared at Murota Hideki, reached up to the face of Murota Hideki, held the face of Murota Hideki in both his hands, and said, The only cure for madness is death.
He was drunk and the rain was drunk. He’d missed the last train, the last train of the night. He had enough money, money in his wallet, money for a taxi back to his office, even back to his room. But he didn’t, he didn’t. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. Falling along the sidewalks, wading through the puddles, the man and the rain dashed over crossroads, splashed across streetcar tracks, splattered under railroad bridges, sprayed alongside tracks. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. They hammered on through the city, on through the night, on and on, they poured north through the city, north through the night, on and on, the man and the rain, bucketing down side streets, tippling down backstreets, through the valleys of the city, the low parts of the night. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. The city becoming darker, the night becoming quieter, coming darker, coming quieter, the city and the night, sopping and slopping, the man and the rain, his head starting to clear, her clouds starting to drift, but still drunk, still drunk, the man and the rain, until they had come to the place, had come again to the place, the place of shadows, the place of silence, the place again, of shadows again, of silence again, sodden and soaked. He was drunk and the rain was drunk.
In the middle of the maze, drenched and wringing, at the heart of its labyrinth, he staggered and he stumbled, through the tall shrubs, through the giant weeds, stumbled back and staggered back, into the lane, into its mud, then staggered forward, stumbled forward, forward again, through the shrubs and through the weeds, into the wood, the wood of the gate, stumbling and staggering, back and then forward, forward again, into the wood, the wood of the gate, back again then forward, forward again, his weight in his shoulder, all his weight to his shoulder, his shoulder to the wood, all his weight in his shoulder, into the wood, the wood of the gate, his weight and his shoulder, into the wood and through the gate –
Darling, darling, what are you doing …?
With a crack in the wood, with a crack from the sky, through splinters, in splinters, of wood and of rain, through gourds and through vines, through leaves of plants onto leaves from trees, falling and fallen, Murota Hideki fell through the gate, into the garden and the past of a man –
Long ago, it’s so long ago now …
In the garden, the past of a man, in its shadows and its silence, its shifting tones, its shifting shades, pale then gray again, dim then dark again, he pushed himself up, he picked himself up, wiping the leaves and the dirt from his clothes and his hands, as he felt for the stones, overgrown with weeds, found the stones of the path, grown over with moss, the path to the house, the house of the man –
My tears, not yours …
Through the leaves, the leaves of the trees, onto more leaves, the leaves of the plants, the rain fell, through the shadows and through the silence, drip-drip-dropping, plip-plip-popping, onto the leaves, from the leaves, to his right in the shadows, into old stone basins, an ornamental pond, to his left in the silence, as he followed the path, overgrown with weeds, grown over with moss, step by unsteady step, by unsure step, under a trellis of woven twigs, the low branches of a pine, he weaved and he ducked until –
It’ll end in tears …
In the shadows of the garden, the silence of the garden, from out of these shadows, out of this silence, the house, the house of the man loomed –
In tears …
Darker than shadow, deeper than silence, draped in vines, shrouded in weeds, the ancient wooden house, its rickety, rotten veranda, knelt, bowed before him, waiting for him, welcoming him –
In tears …
From the last stone of the path he stepped up, up onto the veranda, the warped planks of the veranda, and he trod, gently, softly, unsteady step by unsure step, along the veranda, across the veranda, the planks of the veranda, warped and loose, loose and moving under his tread, under his steps, gently and softly, he reached the shutters, the shutters of the house, reached out to the shutters, touched and tried each shutter, gripping one of the shutters, he prized, forced open one of the shutters, the shutters of the house, the house of the man –
Darling, please don’t, darling, please stop …
Prizing back the shutter, forcing open the shutter, with a crack in its wood, another crack from the sky, he pulled open the shutter, then Murota Hideki stepped into the house –
Darling, please, it will do you no good …
In the house of the man, he stood and he listened, in its shadows, to its silence, the shadows of the man, the silence of the man, standing and listening, the rain falling on the roof, the roof of the house, rain dripping, dropping somewhere in the house, and then he groped, began to grope and to search, through the shadows, through the silence, along walls and over furniture, groping and searching until he found a candle, a candle in a stand. He put his hand in his pocket, took his lighter from his pocket, and he lit the candle, picked up and held up the candle, its flame flickering, wavering as he turned around the room, the candle in its stand in his hand, illuminating the room and its walls, its walls and furniture, a western table and two chairs, a dust-coated bottle of wine and a glass, an unfinished meal on the table, the food on the plate, too bone hard, rock dry even for the roaches now, the cockroaches which scuttled among the centipedes in the traffic of the matting, lizards twitching on the walls, fleeing from his own shadow, the monster of his own shadow, moving along the walls, moving toward the door, sliding open the door –
Please, it will do you no good …
Moving from one room to another, through one empty, musty room to the next, shielding the candle and its flame with the fingers of his other hand, looking into the farthest corners, all of the closets, he went from room to room, the rain falling on the roof, the roof of the house, rain dripping, dropping somewhere in the house, the house of the man, dripping, dropping behind a door, the wooden door –
It will do you no good …
The wooden door at the end of the corridor, the wooden door to a detached wing of the house, he slid open this last wooden door, the smell of camphor so strong it stung his nose, made his eyes smart as he held up the candle, the flame of the candle, his eyes blinking, blinking then wide as he looked into the room, stepped into the room, staring around the room, its walls of photographs, its walls of maps, its walls of diagrams, around and across the room he stared and he moved, this once spacious room made small by stacks and stacks of books, books and documents, piles and piles of documents, books and documents and a diorama, on a large piece of wood which lay on top of legs of books and documents, the diorama a scale model of a river and an embankment, a bridge and tunnel, a railroad bridge and tunnel, railroad tracks passing over and under each other, across the bridge and through the tunnel, a black, die-cast model of a D51 steam locomotive coming through the tunnel, pulling a train of freight cars, through the tunnel and down the tracks, down the tracks toward a man, a little model man lying on the tracks, dead on the tracks –
Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu …
In the smoke from the candle, the smell of the camphor, Murota Hideki stepped back from the diorama, away from the model, the model of the crime scene, and turned to the desk, the desk of the man, a rosewood Chinese desk, spartan and bare but for a chipped and cracked celadon vase of dead, dry flowers and a bookstand of teak, a sheaf of manuscript paper open on the stand, open and waiting, waiting for him –
Potsu-potsu, potsu-potsu …
The rain coming in through the roof of this room, the rain dripping in a corner of this room, Murota Hideki held the candle over the bookstand, over the manuscript, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses lying on the papers, one thick brow of their frames pointing up, waiting for the man, the author to return, return to his desk, return to his work –
Zā-zā, zā-zā, zā-zā …
The rain pouring in through the roof of this room, the summer rain in the corner, falling in the corner, running down the walls, Murota Hideki put down the candle, down on the desk, he picked up the glasses, laid them down to one side, the candle flickering, its flame guttering, Murota Hideki picked up the sheaf of papers, up from the stand, in the guttering of the flame, the dying of its light, Murota Hideki held the pages in his hands, turned the pages one by one, one by one he turned them back, back, back to the title, and at the death of the light, at the edge of utter darkness, Murota Hideki read the title of the work, the title and its authors –
Natsuame Monogatari, or Tales of the Summer Rains, by Kuroda Roman, with Shimoyama Sadanori.