Sima Qian [c.140–c.86 BC], author of the Shiji [Records of the Grand Historian], was a man who remained to live on in shame. Whereas any man of high rank would not have cared to survive, this man did. Completely driven to bay, fully aware of the base and disgusting impression he gave others, even after his castration, he brazenly went about the task of living on in our world of red dust, feeding and sleeping on a grief that day and night penetrated his entire body, tenaciously persisting in writing the Shiji, writing it to erase his shame, but the more he wrote, the greater was the shame that he felt. Yet perhaps it is easier to go on living in shame than we might imagine, for I, too, am living on in shame …
After the defeat, the surrender, then occupation, as the days became weeks became months became years – already my heart in peaceful times had cracked / now I walked a road more desolate each day – the holes in my roof, nests of moonlight and rain, the clothes on my back, the skin on my bones, bed and breakfast for fleas and for lice. Still, as the ghostly genius counsels: stay drunken till the end of your days, for none pour wine on the earth over Liu Ling’s grave. And so I would powder my face, paint a smile upon my lips, don my least-worst suit and, blowing on my imagined dragon flute, beating on my made-up drum of lizard skin, stride out into the city.
Though it is perhaps hard to believe or even imagine now, in those occupied days that occupied city was filled with a hunger for books, a thirst for words, and thus had the air of a boom town in a gold rush for writers and translators. But while my brothers of the brush, my pals of the pen seemed to discover nugget after nugget, strike vein after vein, as ever I dug up only gravel, washed only sand, my prose rejected, my poetry even mocked. Fortunately, GHQ had to approve every single word before it could be published, thus every single word had to be translated into English, and so though no publishers would commission me to write articles for their magazines, they would on occasion – no doubt having exhausted all other options – call upon me to translate the words of my contemporaries into English; such were the dry bones on which I was forced to suck, the stale crumbs on which I had to subsist. Still, suck and subsist I did, and those occupied days, that occupied city were debauched and decadent, if one knew which stone to look under, which hole to go down, particularly if one did not pay much heed to what or with whom one drank; beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers. And so, having panhandled some meager advance on a commission for a translation from some publisher or other, with my powdered face, my painted smile, I would immediately begin looking under the stones of the street, going down the holes of the city, seeking to turn bones and crumbs into tobacco and drink, drink, drink …
Yet those among us who follow the Way of the Cup know its currents and tides can carry us on streams and down rivers sometimes strange and often dark. So it was one night in the early summer of their year nineteen hundred and forty-nine, so it was my empty little cup and I washed up in a place much stranger and darker than I had ever been or seen before …
The day had started out blandly enough, even quite fortuitously. I had recently taken to dashing off “true-crime” books at the insistence of a certain Mr. Shiozawa, the owner of the publishing house Shinpi Shōbō. The first of the books had done reasonably well and, that afternoon, I had submitted the manuscript of a second such book. Mr. Shiozawa seemed in a celebratory mood, first proposing we toast delivery of the manuscript with a whisky or two from the bottle he kept in his office, then, encouraged by me, I admit, we adjourned to Bar Bordeaux in Ginza. From there, having become both drunk and hungry, he extended his largesse to dinner at Hachimaki Okada, and, of course, I was only too happy to partake of all that venerable old establishment had to offer, savoring as much of their fine sake as I could before it was time for them to close. Yet though the night, as they say, was still quite young, by now Mr. Shiozawa could barely stand and, had he not been in such a state, had he not been egged on by me, no doubt he would never have invited me to join him in one last drink …
So it was we staggered through the streets of Ginza, their traffic and their lights, toward Hibiya Park, then weaved our way along the paths of the park, among their trees and their shadows, through the park, then out onto the street, across the street to the government buildings, those ministries of finance, construction, and justice, where, somewhere among there, we came to a flight of stone steps at the side of one building, steps descending down to a door, a gray metal door with no handle or sign. Here at the foot of these steps, here before the door, Mr. Shiozawa fumbled through his pockets, found and opened his wallet, and took out what appeared to be a piece of metal, the size of a name card, yet blank and razor thin. First glancing back up the steps, then winking at me, he turned back to the door, bent down, and slid the piece of metal under the door. Moments later, the door opened inward and two smartly dressed, well-built men – Asian, but not Japanese, I thought – greeted us, handing back the metal card to Mr. Shiozawa, who then led the way down a bare, concrete corridor to another flight of steps descending down to another door, this one made of polished wood and which opened as we approached. Once again, two smartly dressed, well-built men – one man Japanese, the other Eurasian – greeted us, along with the sounds of music and conversation, the smells of tobacco and drink, and the sight of another room at the end of another, but much shorter, corridor. Again, Mr. Shiozawa led the way down this short corridor, this one softly carpeted and lit, toward the room of music and conversation, tobacco and drink. At its threshold, Mr. Shiozawa stopped, turned, put a hand over his mouth, and whispered, “Welcome, welcome to the Shikinjō, Sensei …”
The Shikinjō – the aptly named Forbidden City – was more than a club, more than one room, being many rooms of many things; an underground labyrinth of low-lit nooks and alcoves, all branching out, off from a large central cavern with a long, well-stocked bar running the length of one wall, its floor space filled with tables and chairs, a stage at the end, the far end, the style a curious collision of an English hotel bar and a Bavarian bierkeller, with the ambience of a Chicago speakeasy in old Shanghai, a mood accentuated by the Zhou Xuan lookalike up on the stage, backed by her Japanese band, singing “Crazy World” as waiters in stiff white jackets went from table to table, hostesses in kimonos or gowns fluttering from patron to patron –
Ah yes, the patrons! For, yes, it was the patrons – the mix of members and their guests – that were the sight which almost stopped one in one’s tracks to the bar. For in those occupied days in that occupied city, East only ever met West on her knees or her back, but here … well, here they mingled toe to toe, sat cheek by jowl, whispering mouth to ear, slapping backs and shaking hands, with a nod and a wink, in a society of … well, yes, rogues: former Imperial Army officers, bureaucrats, politicians, businessmen, and yakuza – men I’d thought purged, imprisoned, some even dead – all rubbing shoulders with American officers and civilians, all swapping stories and name cards, sharing jokes and contacts, raising glasses, proposing toasts to the New Japan, same as the Old Japan, their underground lair, its smoke-filled air crackling and hissing with electricity, yes, black electricity …
“Do try not to stare, Sensei,” whispered Mr. Shiozawa at the bar, handing me a glass of fine old American whisky. “This is, after all, a place not to think but to drink …”
“How right you are,” said I. “How very right you are.”
And so drink we did, we did, straight whiskies then Sazerac cocktails, we drank and we drank, first with rye whisky then mixed with cognac, mixed as they should be, drunk as they should be. And as we drank, we drank, the waves of whisky, the currents of cognac, carried our cups down different streams, on diverging tides, and so it was, it was, I found myself lost in a nook, an alcove, at a table of men, four serious men, men and their cards, their cards and their cash, their packs of cards, their stacks of cash, sipping my Sazerac, watching them play –
“Join us,” said the man who was the bank, a respectable-looking Japanese man of about sixty, offering me a deck of cards. “We’re playing Faro. Anyone can play …”
“Anyone but a writer such as I,” said I. “For I am as poor as the proverbial church mouse …”
“Church mouse, my ass,” laughed the only American at the table, dressed in his army uniform, his captain’s hat pushed back on his head. Between the hands, while he waited, he’d take his pistol from its holster and twirl it around in his fingers. When he had his fresh deck, then he’d tilt his chair back on two legs, chewing on his cigar as he studied his cards. He appeared to have stepped straight from a Hollywood western, but for one detail: he did not drink. “Hell,” he laughed. “I thought all you Japanese writers lived in big old fancy houses down Kamakura way.”
“Regrettably, sadly, not I,” regrettably, sadly said I.
“Hell, pal,” laughed the American again. “Then you must be the last goddamn poor writer left in Tokyo, my friend.”
“If only I were,” said I. “Were the last writer …”
And it was then, yes, then, an evil, vicious plan began to congeal in the dregs of my intoxicated, poisoned brain. Perhaps it was his reference to Kamakura; yes, yes, it was the mere mention of Kamakura which conjured up a vision of my contemporaries, my rivals, in their Kamakura homes, their beautiful houses, swanning up to Tokyo to further feather their nests, their already soft and silky Kamakura nests, with yet another commission, another advance, then strutting around town, peacocks in a wasteland, preening and posturing, their pockets bulging, wallets too fat to close, eating and drinking, bellies ballooning, bladders bloated, then taking the last train, the last train of the night, the Yokosuka line, back to Kamakura, all sat together, in the last car, in their little social club, drinking and laughing, bitching and gossiping, counting their lolly, their loot, in their so-called little Last Club, in the last car of the last train of the night –
“If only that last train, its last car,” slurred I with an evil, vicious burp, “if only it were derailed, overturned, they would all be annihilated, all be erased, then truly I would be the last writer, all my troubles, my sorrows at an end, an end …”
“Say no more,” said the American with a nod, with a wink, gesturing with his thumb to the two Japanese men sat to his right. “These pals of mine, they’re old hands at bombs on the tracks, the derailment of trains. There’d be no slip-ups with the cops.”
“Really,” whispered I, as wide-eyed I peered into the shadows to his right, at the two Japanese men – one with a patch for an eye, the other with a scar across his cheek – resurrected rōnin, spectral spies, puffing on their cigarettes, their cards to their chests. I coughed, cleared my throat, then said, “Forgive me, for I do not wish to appear ungrateful, but surely a bomb on the tracks would attract too much speculation, no?”
“But obviously,” said the man who was the bank, “people would assume it to be the work of the Reds.”
“Hell,” laughed the American. “Bases loaded the way they are now, might be just the home run we been looking for, hit those goddamn Commie bastards right out of the park – BOOM!”
I coughed again, cleared my throat, and said again, “Forgive me, gentlemen, please, I fear my drunken, idle –”
“Or perhaps start with something more subtle,” said the man with a scar from the shadows to our right. “One by one?”
“Can be done, yes,” said his pal with the patch.
“Yeah,” said the American, nodding and smiling. “Yeah, sow seeds of anxiety, reap fear and paranoia …”
“Tell us,” said the man who was the bank, looking at me. “If you had to name just one of your contemporaries, your rivals, one writer you wished would cease to exist, then what name would you tell us, whose name would you give us?”
“What a question,” exclaimed I, attempting to rise from my chair at this table in this nook, this alcove in hell, this ugly hell, that selfsame ugly hell which once gaped before Doctor Faustus himself. But as with the poor doctor, so with foul me, for it was too late, too late, much, much too late –
“Tough question, right,” cackled the American devil, gripping my arm, pinning me back down to my seat in this hell. “But come on, man, spit it out – spill!”
“Yokogawa Jirō,” whispered, whimpered I.
“An excellent choice,” said the man who was the bank, nodding at the American. “The man is degenerate and perverse, Jack, and would serve as a lesson to all.”
Captain Jack had his pistol in his hand again, tapping its barrel on the edge of the table, musing aloud, “But how?”
“Stage it as a suicide,” said the man with the scar from the shadows to our right. “A very public suicide …”
“We lure him, we abduct him,” said his pal with the patch. “Then inject him and sedate him …”
“We wait until it’s night, for the last train of the night,” said the scar in the shadows. “We lay his body across the tracks, then let the train do the rest …”
“Hell, yeah,” said Captain Jack, his head nodding, his pistol nodding, gesturing to the other three men, the other three men and I, foul and evil, vicious I, gesturing for us to raise our glasses, our glasses in a toast: “TO BLOOD ON THE TRACKS!”
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
His heart pounding, his breath trapped, Murota Hideki twitched, he jumped, he swallowed, he spluttered, and he coughed. He opened his eyes, raised his head from its manuscript pillow on the desk, he wiped his mouth, wiped his chin, then the manuscript, the dribbles and the drool, and he blinked and looked up and –
Quite some dream you were having there.
Murota Hideki blinked again and stared up at the two men standing in his office: one was a little younger and a little thinner than him, the other a lot younger and a lot thinner, both wearing similar raincoats, haircuts, and expressions. Murota Hideki shook his head, reached for his cigarettes, and smiled: Only cops don’t knock …
Yeah, and only a jack-of-all-trades, nandemo-ya like you sleeps at their desk stinking of drink, said the younger of the two men.
Late night, said Murota Hideki, turning the manuscript face down on his desk. That a crime, is it?
The older man smiled and said, Maybe, depending on what you were doing so late, keeping you up all night.
I was drinking in a bar.
Which bar, where?
Place in Yūrakuchō, Rabbit-o Hole.
You drinking alone, were you?
Nope.
So who were you with?
Murota Hideki leaned forward, stubbed out his cigarette, looked up at these two cops, from the one to the other, then smiled again and said, My old friend Hattori Kansuke, Detective Hattori Kansuke of the First Investigative Division.
The younger man glanced at the older man, raising his eyebrows. The older man kept his stare fixed on Murota Hideki: And so what time did you two old friends say goodbye?
Well, you know, we’d drunk a lot, said Murota Hideki, still smiling at the two cops. So I couldn’t tell you exactly, precisely, but maybe you can ask Detective Hattori …
Don’t worry, said the older cop. I’ll be asking him, but now I’m asking you what time – not exactly, not precisely; imprecisely will do – what time you said goodbye?
Murota Hideki blew out the air from his cheeks, shrugged, and said, After the last train, so maybe one-ish?
Then what did you do?
I walked back here, said Murota Hideki, gesturing to the office, to the desk. Did a bit of reading, fell asleep.
Alone, yeah?
Yeah, said Murota Hideki, smiling as he shrugged again. Unfortunately, my secretary, she don’t exist.
Nor your cleaner, said the younger cop, laughing at his own joke, pointing around the office in case no one got it.
The older cop didn’t smile, his stare on Murota Hideki: Raining pretty damn hard around one-ish last night.
Don’t I know, said Murota Hideki, pulling at his damp shirt with his fingers. Soaked through to the skin …
So why’d you walk, not get a taxi?
You know how it is, said Murota Hideki. A walk, some air, clear the head, seemed like a good idea at the time.
And now, said the older cop, the crumb of a sneer in the corner of his mouth, you still think it was a good idea?
Murota Hideki sighed, held up his hands, and said, Look, you going to tell me why you’re here? Or …
Or what, asked the older cop.
Murota Hideki shrugged again, laughed, and said, Or you just going to keep standing there while I keep sitting here, trying to imagine what it is you think I’ve done which I ain’t? Or maybe to save us all some time, maybe I just call up my old friend Detective Hattori right now …
This your name card, said the older cop, taking a small evidence bag out of his pocket, handing the bagged name card across the desk to Murota Hideki. Your office?
Murota Hideki took the bag and the card, the card creased and rumpled, turned it over in his hand, then looked back up at the older cop and said, Well, seeing how you’re standing in my office, talking to me, then I’m sure even you two wise guys have worked that out, no?
You’re the only one playing the wise guy here, said the older cop. Just answer the question: Is it your name card?
Yes, said Murota Hideki, handing the bag and the card back to the older cop, nodding, and smiling. Obviously.
Obviously, yeah, said the older cop, looking down at the card in the bag in his fingers, tapping it against the palm of his other hand, nodding and smiling, too, as he looked back up from the bag and the card, then back over at Murota Hideki, saying, So maybe you’d like to explain how come this name card – this name card which is obviously yours, as you say – how come we found it crushed in the hand of a dead woman?
Murota Hideki swallowed, staring at the creased and rumpled card in the evidence bag, shaking his head.
Actually, to be precise, said the older cop, crushed in the hand of a dead and naked woman …
Murota Hideki swallowed again, still staring at the creased and rumpled card in the evidence bag in the hands of this cop, and he shook his head again.
In the hand of a dead and naked woman lying on the ground beneath the balcony of her fourth-floor apartment?
Murota Hideki looked up at the cop –
Yeah, said the older cop, staring at Murota Hideki, nodding. Lying on the ground beneath the balcony of her fourth-floor apartment in Higashi-Nakano …
Nemuro Kazuko, said Hideki Murota. She’s dead?
Yeah, said the older cop again. Eventually.
What do you mean, “eventually”?
When she fell from her fourth-floor balcony, she landed on the top of a parked car, bounced off the roof of the car onto the ground, then died sometime later, never having regained consciousness, perhaps fortunately for you.
Murota Hideki swallowed again, shook his head again, then asked, Why “perhaps fortunately for me” …?
Because obviously – among many other questions – she might’ve been able to answer why she either jumped or was pushed naked from her fourth-floor balcony clutching your fucking name card, Murota-san, right …?
What does her husband say?
Hey, hey, hey, said the older cop. You ain’t a policeman anymore, you’re a suspect in a possible murder, is what you are, so you don’t get to ask us a thing, okay?
Murota Hideki shook his head: I ain’t a murder suspect, and you know it. Otherwise, you’d be talking to me on the judo mats in Nakano or whichever station you’re from.
The younger cop stepped forward, closer to the desk, saying, Who the fuck you think you are –
Listen, wise guy, said the older cop, his hand on the arm of his partner but still looking down, staring at Murota Hideki. The only reason we’re not hauling you in for questioning is your alibi, so you better hope your old buddy in First Division remembers last night the way you remember last night, or your feet won’t touch the ground, we’ll have you in so fast. But you still ain’t told us how come your name card is in her dead fucking hand, so, alibi or no alibi, you better start telling us here and now – okay?
Murota Hideki had his hands up again, speaking as softly, as calmly and slowly as he could: Okay. Look, the only reason I mentioned her husband is I gave him my name card, not her. I never met, never spoke with her. Her husband is the person who had my name card, not her, that’s all.
So go on, how come he had your card?
He called me up, couple of weeks ago, asked for an appointment, came here, I gave him a name card.
So he was your client then, yeah?
Murota Hideki sighed, smiled, and said, Come on, you know I can’t say yes or no – right of privacy, you know that.
Fuck you and your right of privacy, Murota.
Not mine, his, said Murota Hideki. Up to me, I’d tell you everything I know, I got nothing to hide, but then he could sue my ass, and, as you can see, I can’t be paying any legal fees, plus my reputation would be trashed, I’d never work again.
You work much, do you, laughed the younger cop.
Listen, said Murota Hideki, looking at the older cop. I’m not trying to tell you and your kid brother here how to do your jobs, but you speak to the husband, see if he’ll tell you why he called on me, how come his wife has my card.
Gee, thanks for that, said the younger cop. Like we’d have never thought of doing that ourselves –
So what did he say?
The older of the two men sighed, shook his head, and said, You hard of hearing or just plain fucking dumb? I told you, you don’t ask the fucking questions –
Hey, look, said Murota Hideki. I’m sorry. I just mean, if he’s spoken to you, or speaks to you about me, and you tell me what he says, then I can tell you everything I know, that’s all I’m trying to say because I want to help.
Don’t worry, said the older cop, putting the evidence bag and the creased and rumpled name card back inside the pocket of his raincoat, taking out a name card of his own from inside his coat and jacket, flicking it down onto the top of the manuscript on the desk. You’re going to get plenty of opportunity to help us find out how come your name card ends up in the hand of the dead and naked Missus Nemuro Kazuko, lots of opportunities, believe me …
Murota Hideki nodded, picking up the name card from the top of the manuscript on his desk.
In the meantime, said the older cop, staring down at Murota Hideki, why don’t you think about Nemuro Kazuko, think about her falling naked from the fourth-floor balcony of her apartment, think about her bouncing off the top of a parked car and onto the ground, clutching your name card in her hand, and you think about her “right of privacy,” lying dead and naked on the ground, clutching your fucking name card, and you think about if you might just want to start helping her, helping us to help her, and how then you might want to pick up that there phone of yours and call my number on that card, think about doing that before we come calling on you again, because next time we might well take you and your fucking rights of privacy for a tumble on those judo mats …
Murota Hideki nodded again, putting down the name card by his telephone.
Lot for you to think about, said the older cop, turning toward the door. And I’m guessing thinking ain’t your strong point, so we’ll let you get started, leave you alone for now, alone with your thoughts, your thoughts of Nemuro Kazuko.
Murota Hideki watched the two policemen file out of his office, leaving the door open behind them, one of them whistling the Funeral March as they walked away, down the corridor, down the stairs –
Murota Hideki got to his feet, up from his desk. He walked toward the door, out the door. He went down the corridor to the end of the corridor as quick as he could. Into the toilet, into the stall, and he fell to his knees, crouched over the toilet, and vomited and he vomited, retched and vomited again, retching and heaving, heaving and retching, he reached for paper but there was no paper. He wiped his mouth, his chin on the back of his hand, then coughed and spat, wiped his mouth again, on the back of his hand again, on the cuff of his shirt, and coughed and spat again. He pushed himself up from the floor of the stall, reached for the chain, and pulled the chain. He turned, stepped out of the stall, and walked over to the sink, the basin and ran the faucet. He cupped the water in his hands, brought the water to his lips, his mouth. He rinsed his mouth and spat, rinsed again and spat again, rinsed and spat once more, then cupped the water once again and rinsed and washed his face, his hands. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands down the front of his shirt, ran his damp hands through his hair, his thinning hair, but he did not look up into the mirror, did not look into the grime of the mirror, not look at the grime in the mirror today, not today.
He left the toilet, went back down the corridor, back toward his door at the end of the corridor. He could hear the telephone ringing on his desk, but he did not quicken his pace. He went back inside his office, slammed the door shut behind him, the telephone on his desk still ringing. He walked over to the cabinet, pulled open the drawer, the telephone still ringing. He took out a bottle of cheap Chinese wine and slammed the drawer shut again, still ringing. He walked with the bottle back to his desk, back to his chair, the telephone on the desk still ringing and ringing. He slumped down in the chair at his desk, put the bottle of cheap Chinese wine on top of the manuscript on his desk, the telephone still ringing. He looked at the bottle, stared at the bottle, then glanced at the telephone, then back to the bottle, and the telephone stopped ringing. He picked up the bottle, unscrewed its top. He put down the top of the bottle, picked up the dirty, empty glass on his desk. He held the bottle over the glass, tilted and filled the glass. He put down the bottle, held up the glass to the light, the light from the window, the light from the river, the gray, damp light from the window, from the river, gray, damp raindrop light on the window, down the window, and he looked at the wine, the wine in the glass, the muddy brown wine in the glass, and blinked and he blinked. He sniffed and he swallowed, then put the glass to his lips, the wine to his lips, tilting the glass, tasting the wine, on his lips and in his mouth, down his throat, muddy brown and thick, down it went, down it went, glass after glass, tilting and filling, gulping and gulping, down and down, glass after glass, the room, this office muddy brown and thick, the smell of the river, the drains and the toilets, the stench and the stink, the clothes on his back, his skin and his flesh, the man beneath, muddy brown and thick, the world, this life, the world and the life of this man, muddy brown and thick, inside and out, the blood cold in his veins, the blood fresh on his hands, muddy brown and thick, the blood on his hands, fresh on his hands, drinking and smoking, blinking and swallowing, drink after drink, swallowing and blinking, cigarette after cigarette, blinking and swallowing, the wine and the tears, in the gray, damp raindrop light, the tears down his face, the blood on his hands, fresh on his hands, his hands again, the blood on his hands, on his hands again, his hands again.
I blamed myself, I blame myself, from then to now, that moment to this, from that moment, split moment, it came across the waves, over the waves, with a roll on the drums and the crash of a cymbal, over the waves, the radio waves, through the crackle and the hiss, the voice, that voice, it spoke, it said, in black electricity said, The President Is Missing, and I knew, just knew, and know, still know, I’d done, have done, a terrible, terrible, terrible thing, and I sprung up from my desk, grabbed my hat, found my wings, leaped from my house, out to the street, flew down the street, down street after street, through the twilight I flew, I flew, I flew to the store, but the store was closed, so I ran round the building, to the lions I ran, and I spoke to the lions, but the lions would not speak, I begged and I pleaded, but the lions would not speak, no matter how I begged, no matter how I pleaded, so I jumped from the lions, down from the lions, ran down the street, flew down the streets, my feet and my wings, down the streets, street after street to the park and its paths, through the trees and their shadows I ran and I flew, down the flight of stone steps to the gray metal door, and I banged on the door and I banged on the door, I bloodied that door with the fists of my hands, but the door would not open, the door would not open, so up the steps, back up the steps, I ran and I flew, my feet and my wings, round the corner, up the street, to tell the police, to beg the police to listen to me, please listen to me: They have lured him, they’ve abducted him, injected and sedated him, I know they have, just know they have, Japanese money and American guns, a man with a scar and his pal with a patch, they’re waiting for night, the last train of the night, I know they are, just know they are, to lay his body across the tracks, then let the train, the last train do the rest, that’s their plan, I know their plan, but there’s time, there’s time, still time, I know, so please stop the trains, the trains in their tracks, to stop the blood, his blood on the tracks, please, I beg you, beg you, please, to stop the trains and save the man, for there’s time, there’s time, I know there’s time, but the police did not listen, they just would not listen, the police only laughed, they laughed and laughed, then threw me out, out onto the street, back into the night, with a punch to my ribs and a kick up my ass, onto the street, into the night, but I would not give up, I could not give up, so I picked myself up, back up on my feet, dusted myself down, the feathers of my wings, and off again I ran, I flew, for there was time, still time, I knew, as I ran down the street, flew past the palace, to the station, to Tokyo station, across the concourse, into the station, begging the staff, pleading with the staff, to stop, to stop, to please stop the trains, shouting and screaming, PLEASE STOP THE TRAINS! But again they did not listen, again they would not listen, the staff they either turned away or threatened me – me, me, me – threatened to call the police on me, to have me arrested, for what, for what, said I, for causing a scene, for disturbing the peace, what peace, what peace, said I, WHAT PEACE IS THIS, asked I, the man has been lured and abducted, injected and sedated, the man who is your president, they are only waiting now, waiting for the train, the last train of the night, waiting to place his body on the tracks, then for the train, the last train of the night, then for the blood, his blood on the tracks, please, please, PLEASE STOP THE TRAINS! But still they did not listen, would not, could not listen, deaf or dumb, I knew, I know not which, for still they turned away, again they threatened me, so out onto the streets again, back into the night again I went, too tired to run, too tired to fly, through the city of the deaf, the city of the dumb, I wandered here, I wandered there, where somewhere, somewhere near, in this city of the deaf, this city of the dumb, they were carrying his body onto the tracks, they were laying his body down on the tracks, I knew, I knew, as I took out my watch, there was no time, as I looked at my watch, no time left now, as I heard the whistles, the whistles of the trains, the last trains of the night, north, south, east, and west they went, the last trains of the night, through the city, the city of the deaf, the city of the dumb, down the tracks, their tracks they went, toward the body, his body on the tracks, somewhere near, somewhere here in this city of the deaf, this city of the dumb, somewhere in this city, somewhere in this night, as I looked again at my watch, my watch now stopped, the time now gone, the time now lost, TOO LATE, TOO LATE, the rain, the rain, in drops, in drops, falling on the city, this city of the deaf, this city of the dumb, in drops, in drops, falling in the night, this night of tears, this night of blood, teardrops and blood-drops, falling on me, down my cheeks, the tears down my cheeks, falling on me, onto my hands, the blood on my hands, for I’d come to the bridge, the Bridge of Tears, of tears and farewell, forever farewell, and here, it was here, on the Bridge of Tears, with the tears down my cheeks, by the execution grounds, the old killing grounds, the blood on my hands, fresh on my hands, here, it was here I heard the sirens, the sirens in the night, across the city, through the night, they were coming toward me, then passing me by, over the bridge, the Bridge of Tears, across the grounds, the killing grounds, too late, too late, heading north and east, of course, of course, where the compass points, north and east, it points to demons, to demons and death, to death, to death, TO DEATH, with the tears down my cheeks and the blood on my hands, too late, too late, I know, I knew, I ran, I flew, through the night and through the rain, north and east, I ran, I flew, across the river, the Sumida River, following the sirens, the wailing of the sirens, north and east, to death, to death, I ran, I flew, across another river, the Arakawa River, night turning to dawn, with the light from the east, I came at last, too late, too late, at last I came, I saw, through the tears in my eyes, the fingers of my hand, the bloody fingers of my bloody hand, I saw, I saw, in pieces did I see, saw the pieces of the man, on the tracks, on the tracks, in pieces on the tracks, the pieces of the man, on the tracks, on the tracks, the pieces but no blood, no blood, no blood upon the tracks, the blood upon my hands, my hands, his blood upon my hands, then and now, I knew, I know: HIS BLOOD IS ON MY HANDS.
Darling, darling, what are you doing …
He washed and washed and washed his hands, again and again and again, he washed and washed and washed his hands, shook his head, he shook his head, shook his head then squeezed his head, he squeezed and squeezed the temples of his head. He cupped the water in his hands again, drenched his face, his head and hair again, then turned off the faucet, ran his hands across his face, through his hair, wiped them down his shirt, and left the toilet once again. He went back down the corridor, into his office and back to his desk. He picked up the manuscript off the top of the desk, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, stuck the manuscript in the drawer under the envelope of dollars, then closed the drawer. He looked at his watch, his watch running slow, then picked up a pen from the desk, tore a piece of paper from his notebook. He scribbled a note to that guy Hasegawa, then picked up his still-damp jacket off the back of his chair, his keys and his cigarettes from the top of the desk. He put on his jacket as he walked to the door and out of the office. He closed and locked the door, folded and stuck the note to that guy Hasegawa in the frame of the door, then walked down the corridor, down the one, two, three, four flights of stairs and out of the building –
It’ll end in tears, in tears …
Under a low and heavy morning sky of gray, through the damp and filthy city air, he crossed the river to the station, queued and bought a ticket, climbed the stairs to the platform, then queued again to board the train. Pressed and crushed among the bodies, the yellow metal carriage carried him west across the city, following the river he could not see, past buildings and palaces he could not see, pressed and crushed among the bodies, their limbs, their flesh, and their bones, all wrapped in clothes, in skins he could feel, he could smell, their secrets, their lies pressed and crushed and packed so tight, beneath their clothes, under their skins, these secrets and lies, all these secrets and lies, they stank, they stank, beneath his clothes, under his skin, he stank –
Darling, please stop …
Pressed and crushed, he fell from the train onto the platform, down the stairs, and through the ticket gates. He came out of the station, still carried with the crowds, these columns of workers, an army of ants, in their white shirts, their dark pants, all marching as one, marching to their companies, their offices, their chairs at their desks. He found the company he was looking for, walked through the door and up to reception. He gave the name of the man he was looking for to the girl on the desk, the pretty girl on the desk who was reluctant, suspicious. He told her it was an urgent matter, an urgent, personal matter, so she asked him his name, and he gave her a name that was not his name, a name that was a lie. The pretty, reluctant, and suspicious girl asked him to take a seat and to wait, to please have a seat and to wait. He thanked her and walked over to the seats, but he did not sit down. He took out a cigarette and lit it as he watched her pick up the phone and make the call, smoking the cigarette as he waited for the man to jump up from his chair at his desk, to leave his office as fast as he could, to take the elevator down to reception as quick as he could, to step out of the elevator into reception, as white as the shirt stuck to his skin, the man nodding nervously at the girl on reception, the man walking straight up to Murota Hideki, the man pleading, whispering, What the hell are you doing here?
What did you say to her, said Murota Hideki.
The man shook his head, struggling to breathe, to whisper: Nothing. I’ve not heard from her …
Murota Hideki stared at the man, this anxious, fearful man in his white shirt and dark pants in the reception area of his successful company, his precious little son at school, his pretty pregnant wife at home in their lovely little house, this man shaking, trembling before him, and Murota Hideki smiled and said, Well, I’ve got good news for you then, loverman: you’re never going to hear from her again.
How do you know that, spluttered the man, shaking his head again. How can you be sure …?
Murota Hideki smiled again, put a hand around the shoulders of the man, pulled him close toward him, and squeezed his shoulder as he said, Nemuro Kazuko is dead.
No, no, said the air in the man, said the soul of the man, exiting, fleeing the body, the shell of this man. No, no …
Yes, yes, yes, yes, said Murota Hideki, holding up the man, what was left of this man, telling the man, what was left of this man, Last night she fell from her balcony, landed on a car, bounced off its roof, onto the ground, and died.
Excuse me, said the pretty receptionist, no longer behind her desk, coming toward them, other people in the reception area stopping to stare at them. Is everything okay?
Murota Hideki let go of the man, let him fall to the chairs, fall in a heap, a broken, sorry heap in a chair, then Murota Hideki looked from the man to the girl, the pretty girl and to the people, the other people staring, and Murota Hideki shook his head and said, No, everything is not okay …
And Murota Hideki turned and walked away from the man, the broken, sorry man, all that was left of that man, away from the girl and the people, still pretty and still staring, walked away and out, out of reception, out through the doors of the company, this successful company, out and back onto the street, another prosperous street, out and into the city, this successful, prosperous, and resurrected city –
In tears, in tears …
He did not go back to the station, did not take another train, another metal fucking train, pressed and crushed among bodies of secrets, bodies of lies. He did not take a streetcar, a bus, or a taxi, just walked, he walked, away from the big companies, their offices, the shops and the stores, the department stores and the movie theaters, walking north, north and then west, through streets where there were little houses, little wooden houses in rows, still in rows with pots of flowers, flowers and wind chimes, though there was no sun today, no breeze today, walking under the still low and heavy sky of gray, walking through the still damp and filthy air, still the noise of construction, always construction, into the sky and on the air, walking, he walked until he came to the hill, the foot of the hill, and began to walk, walk up the hill. He did not look up, he looked down, down to the ground as he walked, up the hill, its rough-textured concrete, up this hill of narrow grooves. Halfway up he stopped to wipe his face, to wipe his neck, as a taxi and a mortuary ambulance slowly passed him going the other way, down the incline, down the hill –
Darling, please …
He put away his handkerchief, took out and lit a cigarette. He sat on the low guardrail and smoked the cigarette. He could hear the sound of children, the laughter, the shouts, the screams and cries of their play coming down the hill or maybe going up, he could not tell. He could hear the sound of crows, too, somewhere near, near here, but where, where, again he could not tell. He dropped the stub of the cigarette onto the ground, kicked it into one of the narrow grooves in the rough-textured concrete, then he started to walk again, walk up the hill again until he came to the top, the top of the hill, and then he looked up, up at the buildings –
Please stop …
The four-storied concrete buildings, the blocks and blocks of identical four-storied concrete buildings on the top of this concrete hill in the suburbs of this concrete city, each block the same height, the same color, the same two shades of gray and green, the same number of doors on each of the floors, four doors on each of the four floors. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and neck again, then walked toward the buildings, round the buildings to the back. He passed children on bicycles, children on roller skates, women with prams and women without. He came to the back of one of the buildings, walked along the back of this building, through a car park that was empty, empty of cars and empty of kids and their mums. He did not look up, did not look down, just walked along the back of this building until he came to the place, came to the spot, then he looked up, up to the fourth floor, up at the balcony, then he looked down, down at the ground, the stain on the ground, the concrete ground –
Darling …
He wiped his face again, then once again, then walked back around the building, back toward the entrance to the building, a concrete hole with no door, past the mailboxes to the stairs, the sixteen metal mailboxes in two rows of eight beside the stairs, then up the stairs, the concrete stairs he climbed, the one, two, three, four flights of stairs he climbed. At the top of the stairs he wiped his face again, then put away his handkerchief and walked along the passageway, the open, concrete passageway. At the end of the passageway he stopped before a white steel door framed in green. He swallowed, swallowed again, then pressed the white plastic buzzer and waited. Then he heard a lock turn, saw the door begin to open, open out toward him, smelt the incense from within, now saw the face of a man, and now heard the man ask, Yes …?
Murota Hideki took a step back from the door and the man, this man in a black suit and black tie, his face unshaven, his eyes bloodshot. Murota Hideki bowed slightly, then said, Excuse me, may I speak to Nemuro Hiroshi please?
Yes, said the man in the black suit and black tie, with his unshaven face and bloodshot eyes, this man Murota Hideki had never met, never seen before. I am Nemuro.
On the fourth floor of this concrete block, on this open concrete passageway, before this open metal door, the smell of incense from within, before this man he’d never met or seen before, Murota Hideki blinked, blinked again, swallowed, and then stammered, Excuse me, I made a mistake …
What do you mean, said the man.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki with another bow, short and quick, then he turned to go, to walk away …
Wait, said the man, reaching out from the doorway to try to grab Murota Hideki, to stop –
Murota Hideki too quick for the man, not stopping for the man, walking away from the man …
But the man was in his shoes, coming after him, shouting, I know who you are! You’re him, you’re him! The man the police told me about, the name on the card –
Murota Hideki started to run, down the stairs, down the one, two, three, four flights of stairs …
Stop, stop, called the man after him, shouted after him. You’re him, you’re him. The man –
Down the stairs and out past the mailboxes, out of the building and back down the hill …
Who killed my wife –
As fast as he could, as quick as he could, his face as red as the blood on his hands …
Murderer!
Darkness covered Tokyo, covered Tokyo again, an old and hidden darkness that had never gone away, that had stayed, silent, round corners, waiting in rooms, under floors and under stairs, silent and waiting, behind screens, behind doors, in the wood of a shrine, the pocket of a uniform, on the other side of sunshine, in the damp of a handshake, the space between words, the blank and empty spaces, of promises and toasts, behind the smile, behind the teeth, in the hollows of laughter, the cold black pupil of an eye, that in the blink of an eye was back again, all black again, that darkness back again, rolling over Tokyo, pouring over Tokyo, in clouds and in waves, so thick and so tall, with the clap of its thunder, the whistle of its train, which shook the night, which pierced the night, waking, it is said, MacArthur in his bed, in fright in the night, pale and deathly white, he screamed, Old soldiers never die, never die, Blackie and Uki, Brownie and Koko, howling with their master’s voice, the terror in his voice, the Emperor, too, his other dog, the living dead, is said, is said, that night it’s said he rose in dread, in robes of red, to light the lanterns for the dead, the obon lanterns for the spirits of the dead, the restless spirits of the dead, in whispered chants by lantern-light, the dead they said, In shades we fade, we fade away, but never, never go away, silent and waiting, we come again, we come again, so thick and tall, in cloud and waves, rolling over Tokyo, pouring over Tokyo, torrents of darkness, torrents of rain, over the tracks and over the cops, the darkness and the rain, so ferocious and strong it knocked the policemen from their feet, picking up the parts of his body from the tracks, the pieces of his flesh from the rails, they slipped and they fell, in the dirt and the mud, dropped the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, tumbling down the embankment, splattered here and there, the cops and the corpse, akimbo, akimbo, the cops and the corpse, dancing akimbo, divided and splayed, the cops and the corpse, forever akimbo, in their ankoku dance, dancing in the dark, the darkness over Tokyo, over Tokyo again, over Tokyo and me again, yes, me again, for there was I, yes, there was I, in the torrents of darkness, the torrents of rain, at the scene of the crime, the author of the crime, drenched and soaked, with his blood on my hands, dark to the bone, cowering in the shadows, weeping in the weeds, in blood drops and teardrops, cried I and said, Would I could raise the dead, resurrect the man from these tracks, the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, steal his body from this scene, save his flesh from this crime; yes, then and there, it was then and there, in the torrents of darkness, in the torrents of rain, yes, then and there, it was then and there, in the shadows and the weeds, vowed I and said, I will take the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, I will put them together again, stitch them back together again, word by word, sentence by sentence, put him together again, make this man whole again, line by line and page by page, I will raise the dead, resurrect the man, chapter by chapter, chapter and verse, I will write this crime –
I will right this wrong!
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouted, slamming down the receiver on the dead tone and disconnected number written on the name card of the man he thought had been Nemuro Hiroshi. You dumb, dumb, dumb and stupid fuck, fuck, fuck –
Darling, please don’t, she said …
Don’t tell me don’t, he said, picking up the bottle again, pouring another glass again. Please, not today –
But it will do you no good …
So what, he said again, waving the glass in his hand, spilling the drink across his desk. Nothing does me no good!
Darling, just let it go …
Let it go, he laughed. How can I let it fucking go, when it don’t let me fucking go, they never let me go –
He used you, like they always use you …
I know he used me, he said, then he drained his glass, picked up the bottle, refilled the glass, shaking his head as he said, You don’t have to fucking tell me, I know he fucking did, know they always fucking do, like it’s the only fucking thing I’m good for, being fucking used, only fucking here to be used, people like me, to be fucking used, people like us –
They see you coming, darling, they …
See me coming, yeah, yeah, he said, nodding his head, sipping his drink, staring down at his desk, the manuscript there on his desk, looking back up at him, staring back at him as he whispered, You’re right, they saw me coming –
They set you up, she said …
Putting down his glass, picking up the manuscript, and nodding again, Murota Hideki said, Just like they set him up.
I banged and banged upon the door of his house in Den-en-chōfu, banged and banged until my knuckles were red and bloody raw, till at last, at last Mr. Shiozawa opened his door just a crack, a crack through which he said, “Why, Sensei – whatever is the matter? You’ll wake the dead!”
“Exactement,” said I, thrusting my papers and self through the crack in his door, stepping into his genkan, out of my geta and up into his house. “That’s why I’m here!”
“By all means, please do come in, Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, following me down his wide hallway and into his large study. “Though you do know what time it is, Sensei?”
“I know what time they say it is,” snorted I, plonking myself down on his beautiful velvet chaise longue. “But I say to them, ‘You don’t fool me! I know it’s too late, too late!’”
“Or perhaps a little too early,” said Mr. Shiozawa with a smile, as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, then adjusted his gown.
“Just you read this,” exclaimed I, springing up from the chaise longue, throwing my papers in his direction, the sheets of paper falling over the low table between us. “Then you tell me if it’s perhaps a little too early or, in fact, MUCH TOO LATE!”
“Of course,” said Mr. Shiozawa, still smiling, gathering up my papers. “It’s always a privilege and a delight to read your work, Sensei, even at an unexpected hour such as this, before the dawn. But please, dear Sensei, please do sit back down and please do calm down – you do seem to have a touch of the Russian.”
“Russian! Ha,” laughed I. “Why not, why ever not! And if not Russian, why not Chinese? Anyone red will surely do!”
“My dear, dear Sensei, please,” said Mr. Shiozawa, in a soft and gentle, soothing voice, placing my papers in a pile on the table between us, then walking over to his well-stocked cabinet of drink. “Perhaps I might suggest, if I may, a little brandy for breakfast to steady your nerves, while I sit and read your words?”
“I never say no, as you know,” said I.
“A quality we publishers admire in any writer,” said Mr. Shiozawa, as he handed me a large glass of brandy, then sat down across from me, picking up the papers from the table between us.
“You’ll be needing a large one of these yourself,” said I, raising my glass of brandy in thanks, “after you’ve read –”
“The Assassination Club,” read aloud Mr. Shiozawa from the title page in his hand, nodding. “A fine title, Sensei …”
“A fine title for a tale of foul deeds,” declared I. “A tale that spits the truth in the faces of our gods old and new, our leaders and invaders, into all our faces, our guilty faces!”
“Then please, my dear Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, turning to the opening page. “Please relax with your brandy, and another, if you wish, and let me read of this truth in silence …”
“Say no more,” said I, a finger to my lips, then the glass to those lips, reclining on the chaise longue, then rising from the chaise longue to freshen up my drink, then pacing around his large study as he read, admiring the books on his shelves, the scrolls on his walls, the quality of his brandy, the quantity of his brandy, idly wondering how on earth it could be that one such as he, a publisher who published such junk, including junk of my own, could afford all these books, all these scrolls, such a large study in such a beautiful home, testing again the consistency of the quality of his brandy, not finding it wanting, amazed our invaders, our occupiers had not requisitioned this house, his beautiful home, vainly pondering what on earth he must have said or done, what price he must have paid to keep our invaders, our occupiers, those foreign wolves from his door –
“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Shiozawa, putting my papers down on the table, then looking up from his chair. “That’s quite a tale indeed, Sensei, and my compliments to you indeed, Sensei.”
“I come not for your compliments, just as I write not for compliments,” slurred I, aware I was now a little light of head, collapsing back down upon his chaise longue, aware, too, I was now a little unsteady on my pegs. “I come to challenge you to publish this, to print this, if you dare …”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “But forgive me, Sensei dear, forgive me, please, for as a publisher, your publisher, dear Sensei, I’m forced to ask you for proof – what proof do you have for that to which your fingers point?”
I inhaled, then exhaled and exclaimed, “Proof? You ask me for proof? It is in the very air we breathe – can you not taste it in the air, smell it and feel it? This is nineteen hundred and forty-nine, they say, and the gas, the sleeping gas is rising thick and rising fast – wake up, man, wake up!”
“Rest assured, dear Sensei, thanks to you I have awoken,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “But as you are aware, only too aware, as a publisher I’m legally obliged to submit all materials I might wish to publish first to the censors at GHQ. However –”
“You dare not,” snorted I. “I knew it, I knew it!”
“Sensei, please let me finish,” said Mr. Shiozawa, leaning forward in his chair, picking up my papers once again. “For there is a way, if you’ll please just hear me out …”
“All ears am I,” said I, my fingers to my ears, pulling out my ears. “All ears …”
“Then perhaps you might consider changing the names, rewriting the piece as fiction, a work of fiction, perhaps?”
“Fiction,” said I, letting go of my sore ears, sitting upright on the chaise longue, contemplating. “Fiction …”
“May still the censor’s red pen,” said Mr. Shiozawa, nodding. “And then we could publish …”
“Why not, why not,” said I, declared I. “After all, as Cao Xueqin says, ‘Truth becomes fiction when the fiction is true.’”
“‘And the real becomes not-real when the unreal is real,’” said Mr. Shiozawa, nodding again, patting my papers.
“Exactement,” laughed I.
“But,” said Mr. Shiozawa, lowering his voice, “as in The Story of the Stone, be aware, dear Sensei, that less-than-gentle readers may still inquire after the origins of your tale …”
“Have no fear,” laughed I again. “For I have no fear!”
“My only fear is fear for you, my dear Sensei dear,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “Remember, please remember, not for nothing do they say he who speaks feels the cold on his lips …”
“Pah,” laughed I again, and then exclaimed, “Rather the cold upon my lips than swallow the tooth with the blood!”
“Fine words, Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, tapping my papers. “As are the words in your story, fine and brave words, dear Sensei. But either way, the cold on your lips or the tooth in your belly, let us pray we won’t need to call you a doctor …”
He had found the house, to the north of the hospital, in a nice part of town, on the top of a hill, the hill he was climbing –
Stop! Stop, she was whispering. Turn back …
There’s no turning back, he muttered, as he climbed the hill, another big hill, not a concrete hill, a pretty, wooded hill of big, monied houses. No turning back on a one-way ride.
Please, she said. This is the Path of Error …
But he had reached the top of the hill, the biggest house of biggest money. Before its tall wooden fence, its traditional gate, he took out his handkerchief. He wiped his face, he wiped his neck. He put away his handkerchief, took out his necktie from the pocket of his jacket and put it on –
A noose around your neck …
We’ll see, we’ll see, he laughed to himself, taking out his spectacles from another pocket, putting them on. He opened the gate, stepped under its eaves, into the garden and onto the stones of its path, another path of stones through another garden of trees, leading to another traditional, beautiful house. He slid open the door of the house, stepped into the darkness of its genkan, and called out, I’m sorry, excuse me …?
A middle-aged woman in an austere kimono shuffled toward him down the dim hallway: Yes?
Is Doctor Nomura home, asked Murota Hideki, adjusting his spectacles, smiling at the woman.
Her face pale and pinched, eyes black and cold, she stared at Murota Hideki: Who are you?
I’m Horikawa, said Murota Hideki.
There was a spark, the brief spark of flint on flint in the caves of her eyes: What do you want?
I’d like to speak with Doctor Nomura, said Murota Hideki, smiling again. About my uncle, Horikawa Tamotsu.
The woman lowered her dark eyes, her pale face in the slightest of bows: I’m sorry. My father is retired now.
I know, said Murota Hideki. And I’m very sorry to call unannounced, very sorry to trouble him in his retirement. But you see, I’m afraid my uncle has gone missing.
The woman looked up, a terrible contempt in the corners of her mouth: Well, your uncle is not here.
I didn’t think he would be, said Murota Hideki, smiling still, standing still, looking past the woman, looking down the hall, looking past a carved bird of prey on a table in the hall, glancing at a telephone on another table down the hall, still smiling, still saying, But I’d like to speak with your father.
The daughter lowered her eyes, her face again, and tried again: My father is retired now. He would have no idea where your uncle might be, and so good day to you.
Still standing but not smiling now, Murota Hideki took off his spectacles, put them back inside the pocket of his jacket, then stared at her and said, I’d like to ask him myself.
That won’t be possible, said the woman, a slight, slight tremor in her voice. My father is not a well man.
Neither is my uncle, Uncle Tamotsu.
He does not receive visitors.
Then you should bar your gate and lock your door, said Murota Hideki, leaning forward toward her. Otherwise, a man like me, he might get the wrong impression.
In her dim hall of old wealth, with no rings on her fingers, no husband or son in this house or her life, this dutiful daughter took a slight, slight step back, thinking about turning, but turning to where, turning to whom, knowing there was nowhere, knowing there was no one, nowhere but here, no one but him, her mouth dry, her voice cracked: Who are you?
I told you, he told her again. I’m just a man who wants to speak with your father, Doctor Nomura.
And I told you, she told him again, but not a statement, now a plea. That’s not possible.
We can do this all day, said Murota Hideki, taking a step toward her, toward the next step, the step up into her house. But I am going to speak with him.
She steeled herself, to slow her breathing, to steady her voice, one last try, one last time: If you don’t leave now, I’m going to call the police …
No, you’re not, said Murota Hideki, as he took the next step, up into her house, as she turned, but turned too late, slipping, falling onto her face and the wood of the floor with a dull slap that echoed –
Stop! Stop …
Echoed through the house, the silence of the house, as he reached down, grabbed the back of her kimono by its collar, turning her over, gripping the collar as he dragged her down the hallway, her hands to the collar and his fingers, struggling to free her throat from the grip of the cloth, the grip of his hand, her white socks, her white legs kicking up the skirts of her kimono as he pulled her along, down the hallway, toward the telephone, using his free hand to snatch at the phone, rip its cord from the wall –
Stop, please stop, the choking woman tried to scream, but Murota Hideki would not stop, he did not stop, pulling her, dragging her from one room to the next, sliding open one door then the next, until he slid open the last door and found the room, he’d found the room he was looking for, found the doctor he was looking for, lying on a futon on the mats of this room, his face on a pillow, his eyes turned to the door, the sight in the doorway, Murota Hideki standing in the doorway, throwing the woman, spinning the daughter across the room, over the mats, toward the doctor, toward her father, the woman sprawling over the mats, across the mats, scrambling toward the futon, toward her father, spluttering then coughing, shouting and screaming, Leave us alone, please leave us alone.
Murota Hideki took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and wiped his neck. He put away his handkerchief, took out his cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, put the packet back inside his pocket. He smoked the cigarette, looking around the room, the large room with the large windows which looked out upon the large garden of large trees. He came to the end of his cigarette, walked over to a vase of flowers in an alcove. He bent down, took the flowers from the vase, lay them on the wood of the alcove, then dropped the end of his cigarette into the vase. He stood up, turned back to the man on the futon, the daughter holding the man, both looking up at him, staring up at him as he said, I’ll leave when you tell me what I need to know. But if you don’t, or you won’t, then I’ll start to do things to you, to both of you, to make you tell me what I need to know.
But I told you, he’s ill, he’s retired, pleaded the woman, holding her father tighter. He doesn’t know anything.
Murota Hideki walked across the mats, squatted down beside the futon, beside the man and his daughter, and he looked down into the eyes of the old man and said, That’s not true, is it, Doctor Nomura? You know many things.
His eyes blinking, watering, his voice parched with age, with cancer, the old man looked up at Murota Hideki and whispered, What do you want to know?
I want to know the truth about Kuroda Roman, said Murota Hideki, calmly and softly. I want to know what happened to him and where he is.
If he’s not back in the hospital, if he’s not at his house, said the doctor, coughing, then I don’t know where he is.
Murota Hideki reached for a jug and a glass. He poured water into the glass. He handed the glass to the daughter, then raised the head of the man from the pillow so he could drink from the water in the glass in the hand of his daughter.
Thank you, said the old man, as Murota Hideki lowered his head back down to the pillow.
Murota Hideki took the glass out of the hand of the daughter, then turned back to her father and said, calmly and softly again, he said, The last time Horikawa was discharged, it was you who discharged him. Just like the last time he was admitted, it was you who admitted him. Just like each time he was admitted, each time he was discharged, it was you, always you, Doctor Nomura, signing him in and signing him out.
So many times, whispered the old man, his eyes closing, tears in their corners. I don’t remember.
Please, said the woman, touching the arm of Murota Hideki. He really doesn’t remember …
Murota Hideki patted the woman’s hand on his arm, then wiped the tears from the corners of her father’s eyes and said, It doesn’t matter if he remembers or not, it’s all in the file, in his own hand, isn’t it, doctor?
But I don’t know where he is now, said the old man again, opening his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling.
But you do know who brought him to the hospital, said Murota Hideki. And who picked him up, don’t you?
The old man turned his head on the pillow, his dying eyes looking up at Murota Hideki, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, whispering, It’s not what you think …
Then tell me, what should I think?
Papa, Papa, said the daughter, reaching out toward her father again, trying to stop him –
Murota Hideki grabbing her again, hauling her back and away again.
What does it matter now, said the old man, closing his eyes again. I’m dying, I know …
Papa, Papa, no …
Tell me.
I wasn’t his doctor, I was never his doctor.
Papa, please don’t, please …
Who was his doctor?
An American …
Don’t, Papa …
Who?
His name was Morgan, said the old man, opening his eyes, staring up at Murota Hideki. Doctor Morgan.
You won’t get away with this, screamed the daughter, the woman with the glass in her hand –
I know, said Murota Hideki, waiting for the glass in her hand, the glass to smash into his head. I know I won’t.
Telephones ring in rented rooms, the rented rooms of rented men, the rented men with rented hands and eyes and tongues; yes, my plan to beat the ground, to startle the snakes, had worked, and worked rather well, even if I say so, do say so myself; I had stated in the press that this was a crime, a murder most foul; I had boasted to the press that I had knowledge, knowledge of the crime; I had sworn in public that I would solve this crime, the Crime of the Century; I had published The Assassination Club as fiction, a fiction that was true; and then I had waited, waited for the snakes to come out of the grass, and come they had come, out of the grass, on their bellies, from the long grass they’d come –
“Just a moment … yes, you, sir.”
Late and dark it was, still hot and damp, one summer night it was, less than a month after the crime, when this cold voice ran down the length of my spine, freezing my feet, stopping me dead. From the foot of the hill I had seen them creeping down the hill from Yanaka toward me, disappearing then appearing again, through the huddles of humid mist, floating up then sinking down again, but I had not heard the sound of their feet, only then, as they passed, that voice, that command –
“Just a moment …”
Like the cry of a crow in the dark, like the scream of a heron in the night; the stranger on the train who stares at you with contempt and hate, raw yet crisp –
“Yes, you, sir …”
That voice spoke to me, that command was for me, freezing my feet and stopping me dead. From out of the black summer mist, from the cemetery on the hill, one, two, three, four of them, four grave markers, in single file they passed me by: the first was a man tall and gaunt, dressed in a coat the color of this night, spun and woven from the shades of its mists; the second was short with a paunch, giggling and whispering into his hands, talking to himself; the third was a proud man in his middle years, his hair already white, his limbs lost in the long sleeves and skirts of an old kimono which brushed the ground as he passed, his face turned from mine; the fourth and last man, muscular and of military bearing, gripped the tails of the third man, hidden in his shadow, the most obscure of the four, yet I knew it was his voice which had frozen my feet, whose command stopped me dead, and I turned as they passed to look back and ask –
“Are you speaking to me?”
The one, two, three, four of them, in their single file, they stopped, two, three, four paces down the slope from me, but they did not turn to look at me, to look back up at me, yet the man at the rear, the fourth and last man, he let go of the tails of the third man and straightened to attention –
“I am speaking to you.”
A curse flung at a barking dog, his answer both scolded and threatened me, the breath of hell itself, it mocked and frightened me, stopped the night and chilled the air, yet captured and tempted me to ask –
“What do you want?”
Still he did not turn, turn to look back up at me, but stared straight ahead, down the hill, as he said –
“I wish to speak with you.”
“About what?”
Down the slope, on the tracks, a train was coming from Ueno, the last train of the night, heading toward Nippori, its wheels all fire and steam, on through the night, it whistles and screams, blind and into the night –
“It’s closing time,” he said, through the steam, through the screams, the ringing of a telephone, the whisper down the line. “But Zed Unit are not to be blamed for nothing.”
Were you followed?
No.
Under a twilit sky, on a bench, hidden by trees, in Hibiya Park, two men were sat together. One man was dressed in the white robes of a war veteran, a cane in his hand, a cap on his head, dark amber spectacles hiding his eyes; the other man had a dirty bandage wrapped around his head, specks of dried blood on his jacket and shirt. Terauchi Kōji glanced at Murota Hideki, then away again, and said, What happened to your head?
People don’t like the questions I ask.
But still you keep asking them.
Yes, said Murota Hideki.
That’s why you tracked me down, you called me up; to ask me questions I won’t like.
Your name and number were in the address book of Kuroda Roman, said Murota Hideki. You’ve been in the papers, in magazines. You seem to like to talk.
Terauchi Kōji turned the top of his cane in the fingers of his hand, laughed, and then said, I choose to hide in plain sight, Murota-san. Makes it harder for them, that little bit harder. But for fifteen years now I’ve been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the push in the back on the crowded station platform, at the top of a steep flight of stairs, or off the curb of a busy street. For fifteen years, Murota-san, fifteen years I’ve been living in this nightmare, hiding in plain sight, seeming “to like to talk.” But if that’s what you think?
I try not to think, said Murota Hideki. I just want to find Kuroda Roman, ask him a question, listen to his answer, then get the fuck out of this city, away from all this.
The air thick and still, darkening and more stifling by the minute, Terauchi Kōji laughed again, into the gloom again, then said, That’s very candid of you, Murota-san. And so if I may be equally candid, I would suggest you forget about Kuroda-sensei, forget about your questions, and get the fuck out now, away now, while you still can.
Murota Hideki turned to look at the man beside him on the bench, this pale figure in the dark park, and said, That sounds like a threat – are you threatening me, Terauchi-san?
No, said Terauchi Kōji, his peaked cap and tinted spectacles turning to face Murota Hideki. Not at all.
Murota Hideki patted the top of the thigh of the pale figure on the bench beside him, smiled, then said, That’s good. Because I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found Kuroda Roman, until I’ve asked him my question, and nor are you, Terauchi-san, until you’ve answered my questions.
That’s why I’m here, why I came, said Terauchi Kōji. But I don’t hear any questions, just a lot of –
Where is he – where’s Kuroda?
Terauchi Kōji turned his peaked cap, his tinted spectacles back to the dark of the park, the shadows of its trees, smiled again, then said, I don’t know, and I’m glad I don’t.
Is that right? And why’s that then?
Because maybe he’s someplace you, me, we – all of us – someplace we cannot reach, someplace, then, they cannot reach, someplace far from them, out of their reach, that’s why.
They, them, their reach, said Murota Hideki, gripping the thigh of the man, gripping it tight. You’re them.
The pale man did not flinch, he just laughed again, into the dark, and said again, Is that what you think?
I told you, Murota Hideki told him again. I don’t think. But I see and I see you, and you’re either one of them, working for them, or a fraud, a fantasist, and a charlatan.
The air thicker still and still more still, pitch black and suffocating, Terauchi Kōji said, I am not one of them, have never worked for them, nor am I a fraud, a fantasist, or a charlatan. But I had the misfortune to know some of them and for one of them to tell me what they had done that night, that terrible night in July 1949, that night that changed the course of history. I am not a Communist, nor even slightly sympathetic, Murota-san, but they had disobeyed orders and murdered an innocent man, a good and decent Japanese man. And so I made a choice, for it was my choice and mine alone, to share what I’d been told, the truth that I’d been told.
But why choose Kuroda Roman, hissed Murota Hideki. Why drag him into all this, him of all people?
I gave him a choice, I warned him. And he made his choice. But he was already fucked, already rotting – just like you’re already fucked, already rotting, Murota-san, just like I’m already fucked and rotting, too – but fifteen years ago, almost fifteen years ago to the day, to the night, we sat on this bench, this very bench in this park, and I warned him –
“Too late, it’s too late …”
“No, no,” shouted I, springing up from the bench, running as quick as I could through the shadows of the trees, to the gates of the park, muttering and vowing, “It’s never too late, too late …”
But I was going to be late, was going to be late, I knew, stuffing my pocket watch back up inside the sleeve of my yukata, up there along with the rolled-up papers, my notes on the crime, the things he had said, the truth he had told, as I ran through the gates to the curb and looked left then right, but there were no buses, were no taxis, only cars and only trucks. “Just my luck!”
The lights at the crossing about to change, I started to run across the road, but halfway across, with the lights now green and the traffic advancing, the thong of my left geta tore –
I stepped out of both geta, bent down, picked them up, then sprinted barefoot for dear life, dear life, toward the other side, where, narrowly, and ironically, just missed by a taxi, I collapsed on the curb to a chorus of motor horns and whistles, police whistles and yells –
“You there – yes, you there, there on the curb: STOP!”
Heavens, no, not now, thought I, and I jumped up, bowed deeply in the direction of the police box on the other side, then turned and set off, with my geta in one hand and the hem of my yukata hitched up in my other, sprinting barefoot again, down side roads and up back alleys, first to Ginza, past department stores and street stalls, then to Kyōbashi, all the while humming the finale to the William Tell Overture, just to keep up my spirits and chin, to stop me from thinking, “Too late, it’s too late …”
Until at last, at last, devoid of breath and hum, I hobbled on my bruised and bloody feet up the steps and through the revolving doors, into the foyer of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building, where I fair flung myself onto the sign board, which announced that the monthly meeting of the Mystery Writers of Japan was taking place in the Tōyōken on the seventh floor, clinging thankfully to the board, relieved it had yet to be taken down, that the meeting was still in session. But there was no time, no time to rest, was no moment, not a moment to lose, so I peeled myself from the board and limped over to the wall of elevators, only to find they were all out of order: “Typical, bloody typical.”
I stared up, up, up, up, up, up, up at the stained-glass ceiling in the roof of the building, sighed, then staggered over to the staircase, hitched up the skirts of my yukata once again, and began to whistle the “Flight of the Bumblebee” as I climbed up, up, up, up, up, up, up the one, two, three, four, five, six, seven flights of stairs to the imposing, grand, and closed double doors of the Tōyōken up, up, up, up, up, up, up on the seventh floor, where, heaving open the heavy doors with the very last ounce of my strength, I stumbled inside with a loud, “DA-DAA!”
But there at the back of the meeting room, through a thick fog of cigarette smoke, I was greeted by the words of the much-lauded and best-selling founder and chairman of the Mystery Writers of Japan, as he announced, “That concludes our special meeting to debate the death of the late Mr. Shimoyama Sadanori, President of the Japanese National Railways …”
“No,” cried I from the back. “No!”
“Thank you all for your attendance and for your many contributions to our most lively debate …”
“Wait,” exclaimed I. “Wait!”
“Until next month …”
“I know who did it!”
“Otsukaresama.”
“Exactly who did it, who killed President Shimoyama,” shouted I, banging together my geta. “You have to listen –”
But the members of the Mystery Writers of Japan would not listen to me, they were not listening to me –
“For they are planning to kill again, and kill again soon, but there’s time, still time, it’s not too late, too late, for there’s time, still time, for I am the Mystery –”
But the members of the Mystery Writers of Japan were not interested, were not interested in –
“The Mystery to the Solution!”
The Mystery Writers of Japan were packing up their things, heading to the doors –
“Stop, stop,” shrieked and cried I. “Don’t any of you care? Is it all just a game –”
Looking forward to their dinner and drinks, lots of drinks, pushing straight past me –
“A puzzle for the train, a quiz before bed?”
Brushing me off, walking right through me, as if I didn’t exist, wasn’t even there –
“But I know you can see me, know you can hear me, and I know what you think –”
Laughing and joking, gossiping and bitching: Has-been, never-was, drunk again, drunk and mad again, not even a mystery writer, nor even a writer, can’t call that writing, what we would deem writing, that’s what they thought, what they said –
“I know, I know, don’t think I don’t know –”
Leaving me alone, alone in that room, my yukata shamefully gaping undone, my battered, broken geta in my bloody, ink-stained hands, alone, alone, alone again –
“Go on then, ignore me then,” whispered I, struggling to hold back my tears, my tears of rage and sorrow, of guilt and grief. “But I’ll show you all, all of you, you’ll see –
“I’ll publish and be damned. I’ll be damned, but so will you, all of you – we’ll all be damned –
“Damn ………”
Most unfortunately, by the time I had dried the tears from my eyes and my cheeks, pulled myself and my yukata together, and limped back down the seven, six, five, four, three, two, one flights of stairs to the foyer, the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building was lit only by stained-glass moonlight, its revolving glass doors and two side doors all padlocked and chained for the night. “Just my luck …”
I tugged on the chains and rattled the doors to confirm my sentence, then leaned my forehead against one of the panels of the revolving doors and stared out at the deserted night streets of the now seemingly abandoned capital, waiting for a passer-by to pass by, but who never passed by. “Typical, bloody typical.”
After who knows how long, and having decided the entire city must have gone to bed early, but still cursing my ill luck and its repetitions, I stopped staring out at the forsaken streets and decided to find another way out of the building.
Over on the front desk there was a telephone; a stroke of luck for a change, thought I, as I picked up the receiver –
“What number, please,” asked a female operator.
“Excuse me,” whispered I, “but I don’t need a number. I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, and so I would be extremely grateful if you could please inform the appropriate authorities of my situation, thank you.”
“Hello? You’ll have to speak up, please.”
“I’m sorry,” said I, in my most normal voice. “But I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, and so please, please could you let the appropriate people know of my predicament – this pretty pickle I find myself in.”
“Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted I, “I’m here!”
But the line went dead.
I placed the receiver back down in its cradle, then picked it up again –
“What number, please,” asked the same female voice.
“My name is Kuroda Roman,” shouted I down the line. “And I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi! Could you please, please, PLEASE inform the appropriate authorities, and do so immediately!”
“This isn’t funny,” said the operator.
“I know that,” laughed I.
But the line went dead again.
And so off I set, down the corridors of the ground floor of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building, along all the corridors, trying all the doors, the handles of every door I came to, only to find them locked, all locked. “Just my luck, just my luck …”
Back at the front desk, I glanced at the telephone, but thought better of it. I picked up my geta, looked down at my feet, my bruised and bloody and very dirty feet, and I sighed and said, “I’m sorry, dear feet, so sorry …”
And then slowly this time, I hobbled back up the first flight of stairs, then along the corridors of the mezzanine, past the closed-up restaurants, trying all the doors, and some of them twice, just in case, until –
“Eureka!”
– the handle of the door to the ladies’ bathroom moved and I could open the door. No lights were on and all was quiet inside, but, just to be on the safe side, always best to be on the safe side, I called out, “Excuse me …? Emergency …”
There was no answer.
I found the switch on the wall, turned on the lights, stepped inside, and, straight ahead, saw an outside wall with a window, a big window, and a big window which opened. I leaned out of the window, looked down at an alleyway some twelve or so feet down below, and said, “Could be worse.”
I looked left along the outside ledge of the window, and there, at its corner, spied a thick and most solid-looking drainpipe running down the length of the wall, right down to the ground. “Could be a lot, lot worse, in fact.”
I turned back to the sink. I ran the faucets, washed my hands, washed my face, and smoothed down my hair. Then I unthreaded both the broken and unbroken thongs from my geta and used the material to secure the sleeves of my yukata and their contents. Then I pulled up both corners of my yukata, knotted them together, and stuck the knot inside the belt of my obi. Then I clambered up onto the sill, through the window, and out onto the narrow ledge, where, clinging to the painted metal frame of the window, I turned myself around so I faced back into the bathroom and began to edge along the ledge, inch by inch, toward its corner and the drainpipe. Then, with the fingers of my left hand still gripping the last of the frame of the window, I stretched out the fingers of my right hand toward the drainpipe. Then, as the fingers of my right hand clutched the drainpipe, I leaned slightly back, let go of the window frame, and in a missed beat of my heart had the pipe in both hands. “Praise be! Hallelujah!”
Just below the window ledge, running parallel, a horizontal pipe met the main drainpipe, and so, still clutching that main pipe in both hands, I crouched down, taking my right foot off the ledge, searching for the junction where the two pipes met. Mission accomplished, my left foot then joined my right foot, so I was now off the ledge, completely attached to the main drainpipe. Then I hooked my poor, sore right foot around the main pipe, then my equally poor and sore left one, and began to tentatively, inch by inch again, descend the drainpipe, thinking how most fortunate it was, indeed and in fact, that I had spent so many hours of my days clambering up and down the myrtle tree in my garden; far from being a waste of time, it turned out now to have been very good and valuable practice –
“Sensei …”
“What the –” said I, looking up for the source of the voice from above, to find a very round and most peculiar, brown and furry face looking down at me from the window of the bathroom, waving some pieces of paper in both of its paws –
“You’ve forgotten these,” said the face at the window, “with your mystery to the solution.”
“What the –” said I again, but, at that very moment, I felt the drainpipe begin to move, to detach itself from the wall, to come and then to fall away …
Fuck, said Murota Hideki. He put down the phone, looked at his watch, his watch running slow. He picked up the glass from his desk, drained the last of the wine from the glass. He put down the glass, picked up the manuscript, stuck it back in the drawer. He closed the drawer with his foot and stood up –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
He looked at his watch again, his watch still running slow. He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on, then his keys and his cigarettes from the top of his desk. He walked over to the door of his office, then turned –
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ton-ton …
He stared round the room, the tiny office and its yellow walls, at the dusty shelves and empty cabinet, the sticky desk with its brown rings, the glass and the bottle both empty and finished. He blinked, blinked again, tried to smile, to laugh, but turned back to the door. He opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, closed but did not lock the door –
Ton-ton, don-don, ton-ton …
He walked down to the end of the corridor and into the toilet, past the basin, the stall and the urinal. He opened the window wider, peering out, staring down, down to the street. He pulled his head in, then looked at his watch, his watch running slow. He turned to the urinal, undid his flies, and took a piss, a long piss. He did up his flies as he walked to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his hands, washed and washed his hands, then looked up into the grime, the grime of the mirror above the basin: fifty-two, balding and bandaged, fat and gone-to-shit, always, forever shit –
Don-don, ka-chunk …
He cupped the water once again, washed his face and washed his neck. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his trousers, down the front of his shirt. He put his hand in his pocket and took out his handkerchief, his handkerchief stained with dry blood, his own dry blood. He wiped and dried his face in the stains of his own dry blood, then put his handkerchief back in his pocket and took out his cigarettes. He put a cigarette to his lips, lit the cigarette and inhaled, then exhaled, blew the smoke at the mirror, the smoke over the mirror, the grime in the mirror, his face in the grime, hidden in the mirror, lost in the smoke. He tried to smile, to laugh again, but failed again and blinked, then blinked again and said, Fucking liars –
But you knew that, darling, know they’re …
Cunts, he spat through the smoke, into the mirror, then turned from the mirror, away from the smoke, glanced at his watch, his watch running slow, then dropped the cigarette butt into the sink, down the plughole, and walked out of the toilet, into the corridor and down the stairs, the four flights of stairs, out of the building, onto the street, across the street, into the shadows, the shadows of the morning, in the shadows of the alleyway, across from his building, to watch –
Don’t, darling, please, please …
From the shadows of the alleyway, in the shadows of the morning, under a damp and rodent sky, all fur and teeth, amid the stench from the river, the river and fumes, the noise of construction, construction and trains –
Shu-shu, pop-po, shu-shu …
He watched and he waited, watched for the car, waited for the car, an old gray car to come down the street, slowly, slowly down the street. He watched the car pull up outside his building, saw a passenger door open and a man get out, a thin young man in a tight, shiny suit. He watched the young man close the passenger door, saw the young man go up the steps, into his building, and then –
Don’t, darling …
Murota Hideki stepped out of the shadows, ran across the street to the car and its door, its passenger door. He opened the door, climbed into the back, over the seat, toward a man, an old, old man in a white double-breasted suit, shouting, I know who you are –
This old, old man in his white double-breasted suit, in his round, tinted spectacles and Panama hat, nodding at Murota Hideki, smiling at Murota Hideki, as the driver reached into the back of the car, grabbing and pulling Murota Hideki –
You set me up, shouted Murota Hideki into the face of this old, old man. You set Kuroda up and –
That guy who called himself Hasegawa back out of the building and down the steps, joining the driver, grabbing and pulling Murota Hideki away from the man, out of the car, onto the street, hard into the ground, pinning him down, holding him down, ripping open the collar of his shirt as this old, old man stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, Murota Hideki pinned down, held down on the ground as the old, old man crouched down, down beside Murota Hideki, reached inside his white double-breasted suit, and took out a narrow velvet case, opened the case and took a syringe from the case –
I know, I know, screamed Murota Hideki, pinned to the ground, held down by their arms, their hands gripping his face, twisting his neck, the veins of his neck throbbing and bare, bare and exposed, exposed to the syringe, the needle of the syringe. You set up Shimoyama. You murdered Shimoyama.