Yours sincerely,
Nozomi Iwata
Mr Kuroki leapt up from his desk and burst out of his office. Startled, the secretary looked up. He waved the envelope that had contained The Mannequins at her.
‘Who delivered this?’
‘A young woman, about an hour ago.’
‘Did she leave her contact details?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call her right away. She’s going to win us the Noma Prize.’
18. The Material
Dusk. The Mazda stopped outside a tall reinforced gate. A handsome sign proclaimed the Valle Dorado Luxury Complex. To look the part, Iwata had bought a suit from the tailor near the hotel. There was nothing he could do about the car. He had a spiel prepared but, to his shock, the gate quietly rumbled open. Beyond it, an enormous housing complex stretched out. Iwata hadn’t expected to get in, and he certainly didn’t know what he’d find. Only that what he’d discovered in Los Angeles and Ciudad Cabral seemed to knot together in this housing complex.
The security guard emerged from the sentry box, frowned at the Mazda and directed Iwata to visitor parking. A short man in a tan suit was waiting. He offered his hand eagerly.
‘Mr Siew?’
‘That’s right.’ Iwata smiled for all he was worth and shook it.
‘You’re a little early.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Oh no, please don’t apologize.’ His smile was toilet white. ‘I’m Gustavo Garza. I’m the principal broker here. How was your flight?’
‘Ah, fine.’
‘Singapore is a long way to come. Can I get you anything?’
‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you.’
‘You want to get straight down to it. I understand.’ Garza gave a puzzled smile. ‘We are ready to proceed but, Mr Siew, if you don’t mind me asking, will your daughter be arriving soon?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your daughter. She is with you, yes?’
‘She’s at the hotel.’
‘Ah. Of course. It’s a long flight.’
‘She’s very tired.’
‘Completely understandable. Unfortunately, we are on a tight timeframe here. We want to care for her as soon as possible. She’ll be able to come first thing tomorrow?’
‘Absolutely. That’s what I wanted to tell you.’
‘Very good. Now, Mr Siew. Before we go any further, I want to assure you that your daughter will receive the best care. It’s a solemn guarantee from my organization.’
Iwata placed his hand over his heart in appreciation and Garza nodded, as if their business was concluded. ‘Very good, Mr Siew.’
‘Has your organization been here a long time?’ Iwata looked around the complex. The villas were all identical, large and modernistic. There were no people, no animals, no cars. Little parks were empty, swings were still.
‘This particular facility is fairly recent but, yes, we’ve been doing this a long time.’ Garza smiled. ‘Since you’re here, I imagine you’d like to view the material?’
‘If possible, I’d appreciate that.’
‘Of course. You’ve paid a lot of money. Unit 2234 isn’t far, but you’ll have to give me a moment. We don’t usually do this.’ Garza took out his phone and dialled. ‘Listen, I’ll need ten minutes, the client wants to see the merch—’ He eyed Iwata now. ‘… But that’s not possible, I’m looking at him … Are you sure? … All right, I’ll be there in thirty seconds.’
‘Everything all right?’ Despite the churning in his stomach, Iwata kept his voice even.
Garza gave a strange grin. ‘Seems there’s been a misunderstanding. Please wait here.’
As soon as he was out of sight Iwata broke into a sprint. He turned left and right at random, his running stamina having seemingly abandoned him. There were voices now, small but angry on the night. He hid behind a tree, panting, fumbling for calm. Which way is out?
And then he saw it. Unit 2234. Iwata approached the front door and tried the handle. It fell open. Inside, it was dark and still. There was total silence; no dull buzz of a refrigerator. There was no refrigerator, no furniture. The kitchen too was empty. The dining room was completely bare, as were the study, the utility room and the garden.
In the downstairs bathroom Iwata found streaks of old blood in the sink, brown at the outer edges, pink near the drain. In the bin underneath there were latex gloves crumpled up and the faint smell of overripe meat.
Drawing his gun, Iwata crept upstairs. He smelled the next room before he saw it – an antiseptic stench. Switching on the light, he saw an operating table in the middle of the room, mobile lamps, metallic carts with drawers, a video tower. There were refrigerators containing various fluids and IV bags. A sideboard held rolls of paper towels, forceps, scalpels, boxes of anti-rejection medications.
Instinct told Iwata to get the hell out. It also told him there were answers in this place.
He returned to the corridor. The final door was closed. Taking a breath, Iwata swung it open. It stank of the same kind of antiseptic, but stronger, an intense mothball putrescence. And then his eyes adjusted. There was a young girl on a gurney, maybe nine years old. Her skin was dark, her eyes were closed. Several large straps had her tightly restrained. The man sitting in the seat next to her stood up, his newspaper dropping to the floor. He was wearing the same uniform as the security guard in the sentry box.
Iwata raised his gun. ‘Don’t move.’
Tentative compliance. ‘The fuck are you?’
‘The one holding the gun. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m the babysitter.’ He said this as if it were evident.
‘Who’s the girl?’
‘The baby.’
Iwata’s head was swimming. He didn’t understand this place, its reason for existing, but he felt it. Since you’re here, I imagine you’d like to view the material? Bile began to rise in his throat. And now there were voices downstairs.
Iwata turned to lock the door. Babysitter rushed him. Iwata span and snapped the butt of the gun into his nose. Babysitter dropped.
Boots thundered up the stairs, Garza’s voice clear over the sound of them.
Iwata hurried over to the girl, his trembling hands fumbling with her restraints. ‘Okay, honey. Let’s get out of here.’
Her eyes lolled open but they had no focus. She moaned something small.
Outside, Garza barked orders and there was a shoulder smash at the door. Iwata had only one hand free, her other limbs were still secured. Another slam, the door convulsing in its frame. He looked hopelessly down at the girl. ‘I’m sorry,’ Iwata bleated. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He picked up a metal stool, smashed the window and climbed into its frame. The door collapsed. Iwata jumped as the gunshots roared.
He landed badly and staggered out of sight. Dragging himself over the garden fence, Iwata was now in the alleyway between houses. Limping past five of them, he hefted himself over another fence. Landing in the soil with a yelp, he hunkered down in a bush and waited. Seconds later, there were boots on concrete. Iwata held his breath.
‘See anything?’
‘Don’t see shit.’
‘You take the south quadrant, I’ll take this path.’
The footsteps thudded out of earshot. Iwata closed his eyes and tried to contain his panic. The pain in his ankle was bad but he knew he couldn’t stay here.
Catching his breath as best he could, Iwata scrambled around the side of the house and saw Garza in the middle of the street, standing by a car. He was facing away, talking on the phone. Limping over, Iwata pistol-whipped him. Garza fell. But now Iwata was being wrenched away by a guard, locked in a chokehold from behind, almost lifting him off his feet. Planting both feet on the car, Iwata pushed backwards, sending them both to the tarmac. The gun went flying. But the guard still had the hold in place; Iwata’s face was reddening, his struggle floundering. He saw a finger in his peripheral vision and bit down hard. The guard screamed and let
go. Before Iwata could think he snatched up the gun from the floor.
‘Get back!’ His hand was shaking violently, his words wet with blood.
‘What, you gonna shoot me, Chino?’
Iwata heard voices. At the end of the street, more guards were running towards them.
‘See?’ The man smiled. ‘You’re not shooting anyone.’ With a snarl, he charged.
Iwata fired twice. Like make-believe, the guard span, a hefty ballerina falling to the ground. The sound was like a receding tide, then there was a throbbing silence. Blinking, Iwata got into the car. He spat out blood and smashed the car into reverse. There were two loud pops, then three, the glass of the rear windshield shattering.
In less than a minute Iwata was back on the road to Ciudad Cabral, the calm night wind whistling through the broken window.
Iwata parked the stolen car on the edge of Cuauhtémoc market. With his torn suit, bruises and limp, he cut an amusing figure to the night crowd, who figured him for a city sort who had come downmarket to cut loose.
He tossed his jacket in a gutter and stuck to the packed stalls, ‘Gangnam Style’ blaring out of the speakers. Young couples sat on a low brick wall above the river with fermented agave-sap drinks. Trios of mariachis passed through them, trying to agree romantic ballads for a fee. A group of young men wearing ranchero hats were leaning against a brand-new Escalade and drinking Herradura tequila. All of them had tattoos – secret numbers, clown markings, Santa Muerte symbols. They were arguing about the match earlier: Monarcas had lost at home 0–1 to Santos Laguna. Iwata glanced at them and they stopped talking now.
Reaching the end of the market, Iwata entered the tenement block. He gripped the railing and dragged himself up the stairs, checking over his shoulder every few paces. He knocked on the same door he had come to before.
The neighbour opened up and death wafted out. It was familiar to Iwata by now.
The woman led him to the kitchen and poured him a glass of Coca-Cola. They both noticed his hands shaking and he put them under the table. From the next room, they could hear a throaty moaning. Iwata sipped his drink but tasted nothing. He tried not to dwell on the absurdity of reality, that he had shot a man, the weight of the gun recoiling in his hand as it fired.
‘I don’t have anything else to offer you,’ the neighbour said, as if life’s own narrator. She nodded at the next room. ‘They don’t eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
They sat in silence. The TV was on, the news on mute. Iwata spent a long time watching the shadows of cars passing across the wall like children’s theatre. He was breathing hard. He needed to focus on something, on anything else. And as ever, his lifebelt was his case.
‘I spoke to the priest,’ he said. ‘He told me about Evelyn. About Adelmo Contreras.’
The neighbour’s face screwed up. ‘That fucking boy is the reason Evelyn is dead.’
‘They were cousins?’
She was going to say something more, but there was shouting in the courtyard outside. The neighbour went over to the window. Men in ranchero hats were hammering on doors, shouting for the Chinese man in the white shirt.
The neighbour turned to look at him. Without a word, Iwata stood up and walked past her. He slipped out of the tenement block by the back and headed for the river. He knew he had to get out of the city.
Late night. A desolate road cutting through dark, empty lots. Iwata was walking with his head down against the hard wind, his hand curled around his empty gun. It was cold in his pocket, as though it had never been fired before. Somewhere far away, Iwata could hear coyotes. Their howls seemed painful, as if stalking the desert night were a burden.
Nearing the old power station, he cut through a plot, empty except for rubble, dead batteries and plastic bottles. To the west, further out in the desert, he saw the floodlit car plant. Hulking freighters came and went, coming to give, coming to take.
Iwata wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew this direction would take him back to the hotel. He had no choice: his passport was there. He passed an abandoned factory, then a closed gas station, emerging underneath a motorway flyover. He saw no one. Behind the slick sound of his footsteps a distant, slooshing drone of traffic could be heard in the wet night. Iwata scanned the parked cars for watchful passengers, or the glimmer of a gun barrel in the dark. There was nothing.
Winding through the old districts of the city, Iwata ignored the pain in his ankle, in his face. Though he had washed his mouth thoroughly, he could still taste the blood from the guard’s finger. Iwata crossed the pedestrian walkway of a flyover, dark and wet as a whale. Each time a car passed, he tensed up.
At the other end of the flyover Ciudad Cabral became denser, apartment blocks and old restaurants glutted together on a once-grand boulevard. He cut through a filthy alley and recognized the street sign. The hotel was on the corner. Relief flooded through him.
Iwata glanced to the left and the right but saw nobody. Half expecting it not to be there, he felt the key in his pocket. Head lowered, he crossed the road. A dark BMW drifted quietly down the street towards him. He froze. The car stopped. There was a silent face-off until the driver’s door opened. It was Detective Valentín who got out. She approached him, her smile lopsided. ‘Iwata. Thank God you’re all right.’
He stepped towards her, then stopped. There were three other figures inside the car. From the corner of his eye Iwata saw the dark blur of a rifle butt.
19. Amongst Friends and Colleagues
The announcement for the Sōbu Main Line train to Tokyo can be heard through the hotel window. Iwata sits hunched over the edge of the mattress, holding his head in his hands. He can smell the redolence of Hoshiko’s body mixed in with his. He hates their joint smell. This week of October 2009 the hotel celebrates its sixtieth anniversary, and Iwata has booked the room at a greatly discounted rate. He hasn’t planned the rendezvous, he never does, but he’s glad for the discount – money is tight.
From the window, he can see Chōshi Station below. The Tone River in the distance. The convenience store where he bought the condoms. All three are now on the floor, shrivelled like dead animals.
‘Kosuke, you know what I’ve learned about you?’ Hoshiko runs a finger down his spine and he flinches.
‘What?’ His voice is low and thick.
‘That you’re very quiet. Whenever we would go out as couples, I always thought you were so fun and talkative. But the real you is actually very quiet.’
‘Hm.’
‘Does your wife mind that you’re quiet?’ Since they have started sleeping together, Hoshiko never refers to her by name.
‘I guess not.’
‘Do you believe in fate?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither, but sometimes I have this funny feeling’ – her voice becomes a whisper – ‘that maybe things are playing out in the present, even though they’ve happened in my dreams beforehand. I know that sounds a little crazy.’ She laughs. ‘But then I wonder if the whole world is just my imagination’s handiwork.’
Iwata looks at the magazine on the bedside table. It’s full of information about local attractions. The aquarium. The lighthouse. The old blue train. An exhibition showcasing the work of local artists. Iwata thinks he and Hoshiko in this room could be painted in grey, something that would make the viewer pensive and sad.
‘Lately, I get that feeling more often. That my dreams are real.’ Aware that she is losing him with her honesty, Hoshiko changes tack. ‘Are you going to go to the party tonight?’
‘Party?’
‘The important new detective’s birthday. Taba told me to dress up for it.’
Iwata is not listening to her. He has two layers of thought these days. The outer layer is thick, as though trying to experience the world through bathwater. The inner layer is fixated on death – thoughts of escape. Or starting again, like his mother. He thinks back to when she left him in the bus station. He remembers it clearly. The smell of the gas. The rip-r
ip of his backpack zip. His mother walking away briskly.
‘Kosuke?’
‘What?’
‘The party?’
‘No. It’s hard to get babysitting.’ Iwata has noticed that she never mentions her own little girl. He wonders if Hoshiko is mentally unwell.
‘Well, maybe my sister could –’
‘I need to shower.’
He gets up and goes to the bathroom. He hears Hoshiko singing to herself in bed, ‘Farewell One Cedar’, a song he has always hated. His mother hates it too. Iwata suspects Hoshiko fancies herself a good singer. There are so many things she is wrong about, he finds himself unable to resist feeding his silent contempt – as though it were a hungry pet and her shortcomings little meaty morsels.
For him, Hoshiko is emptiness itself. She is all the futility in his life crafted into a skin mirror. She is the richest indulgence of self-loathing he has ever known.
Iwata moves around the bathroom fluently. He knows the shower well by now, how to get just the right temperature. Showering off her smell is his favourite part of meeting Hoshiko.
Iwata returns home that afternoon. Cleo is singing in a whisper to the baby, Nina Simone to Nina, ‘Do What You Gotta Do’. Iwata explains it’s crucial he attend the birthday party to make a good impression on the new senior inspector. Cleo says she understands. Iwata asks if she wants to come, knowing she will say no. She says no.
*
That night, at the police station – a beige two-storey building that could just as easily have been the headquarters of a fishing company– everyone is packed into the briefing room. The lights are off and the new senior inspector is blowing out his candles. The heating is on high and the air is thick with cigarette smoke. The cake is decorated with the Chiba Police mascot design – a blue dolphin wearing yellow boots, doing the V-sign with his fin.
As the senior inspector tells everyone how welcome he already feels Iwata’s body begins to shake. He does not know the new man but he knows enough to dislike him. After all, his face fits; his career obviously will not end here in Chōshi.
Sins As Scarlet Page 19
