Content
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chaoter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Looking out from the hall on the top floor of the high-rise hotel, one could see the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office glowing like a candle in the fading evening light. Although it wasn’t the best view, there was never a shortage of people who complimented its beauty with breathless awe.
For Yu Kisaragi, who had grown weary of the sight, it was meaningless.
Kisaragi crossed the hall, with its faint strains of Vivaldi playing, before entering the clinic.
The clinic, located on the twenty-fifth floor of Shinjuku Crest Hotel, specialized in comprehensive physical examinations. It was a satellite clinic of T. Medical School next to the hotel, and had been established to provide services to the ultra-VIPs. Patients reserved a room at the hotel and stayed there while they underwent a variety of examinations at the clinic. Doctors came around to do calls through the specialized underground passage connected to T. Medical School. Patients included politicians, entrepreneurs, and those in the entertainment business-people who wouldn’t put a limit on their budget if it meant protecting their privacy.
Kisaragi was a doctor who specialized in gastrointestinal medicine, and doubled as the director of this satellite clinic. He had been hand-picked for the role by his professor, who credited him for his mild personality, refined looks, and clinical prowess.
Kisaragi slipped past the clinic reception desk toward the director’s office. Once he was seated at his desk, he began to read through the medical records of the patients who had appointments for the day.
“Mr. Arima is here,” announced the intercom at his desk. Kisaragi headed toward Consultation Room No. 1. Despite its name, the room was outfitted more like a deluxe hotel suite. One could probably never tell it was a consultation room, save for the X-ray light box and electrocardiograph next to the consultation desk. A well-built man in Japanese traditional clothing was seated in an armchair in the middle of the room.
Soukichi Arima. He was the chairman of Arima Group, one of the largest conglomerate companies around. He also happened to be a so-called “fixer” in the political realm. He amassed enormous assets from special procurements throughout the turmoil following World War II as well as the Korean War, making full use of his strong connections with political parties and power to take control of the political realm. Kisaragi, like many others, also knew about him. Although the man was well past seventy, his skin was still healthy and taut. Although what he had left of his greying hair was thinning, his big, bulging eyes were clear. Rumour had it that he had three mistresses under his wing. Apparently his libido was even stronger than his lust for money and fame.
But none of that mean anything to Kisaragi. To him, Arima was just another patient.
“It’s time for your full checkup already, Mr. Arima. One year seems to fly by, doesn’t it?” Kisaragi said quietly, brushing his chestnut hair up and flipping the examination sheet. He seated himself in the chair in front of the man and compared the screening results from the surgery department to the previous values.
“Your serum amylase is within the normal range as[m1] well. The doctor from the surgical department tells me you don’t have any problems. How far would you like to go with exams this year?”
Arima had undergone surgery for pancreatic cancer two years prior. Kisaragi had happened to be in charge of his abdominal ultrasound examination at the time, and he had found a small shadow in the pancreatic body. Once it was found to be pancreatic cancer in its early stages, Arima had undergone surgery for its removal.
Arima made a relaxed, sweeping motion with his large palm.
“Actually, doc, I’m not here for a physical. I’d like to be admitted your internal medicine department for a while for medical examinations. Starting tomorrow.”
“I can’t arrange for that on such short notice?”
Unless it was for an emergency, the wait list to be admitted to T. Medical School’s internal medicine department was at least one month long. Arima once again waved his hand languidly.
“I wouldn’t mind being put into a special room. Anywhere is fine.”
“A special room, you say.” Kisaragi wasted no time in turning to the computer at his desk to contact the person in charge of reservations.
“There’s a room available that’s 350,000* after insurance deductions.”
“Does it have its own elevator?” When Kisaragi said yes, Arima nodded and said he would take the room.
“A royal suite here would cost seven, eight hundred thousand. This is nothing compared to that.” Arima glanced over at the door and yelled, “Hey!”
A secretary hurried into the room.
“I’m being admitted. Get the paperwork done.”
The secretary bowed her head deeply and assented.
“Doc here will be in charge of me. I’ve already talked to the professor.”
“I am, am I?” said Kisaragi. He was used to the whimsy of the rich - and also the fact that being admitted on such short notice meant that something was going on.
“It’s to shut out the noisy flies, doc. You’ll make sure I can’t take visitors, right?”
Kisaragi remembered hearing that Tokyo District Public Procecutors office had begun to stir about some issue concerning corruption and bribery with a politician belonging to the party in power. He personally thought nothing of it. He had not a single interest in politics.
“Understood,” Kisaragi said without asking any questions. Arima strode breezily out the door with his secretary in tow.
350,000* About $3,500.
Chapter 2
“Excuse me, Mr. Arima. I’m coming in,” Kisaragi knocked as he spoke to the door. He counted to twenty in his head and opened the door to the special room.
The special room was located on the top floor, and had a 356-square-foot parlor, with 267-square-foot room for the patient, and two small bedrooms. Apart from the elevators located at the hospital entrance, the room also had its own elevator that connected directly to the underground parking lot. One did not even have to pass the nurse’s station to get to this room.
Kisaragi had counted to twenty out of consideration for any visitors. It had been one week since Arima had been admitted. The number of visitors he had every day was more than you could count on two hands. The “No Visitors Allowed” placard served no purpose. More than once he would see a visitor whose face he recognized from television.
On one occasion, the nurse had checked up on him at nighttime and reacted with a cry, having walked into the midst of a lovemaking session.
By waiting, Kisaragi meant to give Arima time to go to the adjoining bedroom if he was in the midst of something he would rather not be seen doing.
Kisaragi stepped carefully into the room to find Arima reclining in the parlor armchair. His secretary attended beside him. The sofa in front of Arima was occupied by a man in a black suit.
The professor’s medical certificate indicated the diagnosis as “hypertension, post-surgery for pancreatic cancer, diabetes, pancreatic insufficiency.” Treatment would take one month.
Of course,
Arima had undergone no such treatment at all. Although he was being provided with 1,800 kilocalories’ worth of low-fat meals by the hospital, Arima ordered room service through his secretary.
Today, just like any other, Arima had a Japanese kaiseki course meal laid out before him and was sipping from a sake cup although it was still daytime.
“Ah, doc,” he nodded as when he saw Kisaragi. “Sorry to bother you. Would you be able to look at this guy’s hand?” He jerked his chin toward the man sitting in front of him. Kisaragi shifted his gaze to the man.
He had never seen this man before. The man’s jawline was square and set, his lips full but taut. His nose was slightly crooked, perhaps from being broken once. Beneath his thick, dark eyebrows were a pair of dark eyes that were reminiscent of fathomless darkness.
Those dark eyes glinted as soon as they landed on Kisaragi. Kisaragi felt himself shrink back at his menacing demeanor. Arima laughed loudly.
“Kanesaki, don’t scare him. He’s my precious doctor. Doc, meet Daiki Kanesaki.”
Kanesaki said nothing as his eyes shifted away. Kisaragi let out a breath and approached the sofa. The man’s hands were resting on his knees. Both of them were scarred on the back and looked like the skin had broken.
“I’m Yu Kisaragi. What’s the matter?” he asked quietly. The man fixed him again with a sharp look.
“Surprising,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“You sure have a pretty face like an actor, but I didn’t think your name would sound like one, too.”
Kisaragi did not know how to answer that. “What’s the matter?” he asked again, finally. The man silently held out his right hand.
“It hurts.”
Kisaragi sat down beside him and took the man’s right hand. He turned it over, bothered by the scars on the back, and found the same small scar on the other side.
“My middle knuckle,” Kanesaki said. Kisaragi probed the man’s thick palm with his slender finger.
“It looks like a ganglion cyst. It’s quite big. You must have had trouble moving your finger.”
“What do I need to do?”
“It’ll be hard to remove with surgery, since there are tendons and nerves going through it. It might be best to drain the contents.”
“Do it,” Arima said as he picked up a slice of sashimi with his chopsticks. “He’d have to wait if he goes into the outpatient ward, wouldn’t he? He’s a busy guy.”
Kisaragi nodded and said it was possible. “I just have to disinfect it and drain it with a syringe. It’ll be over quickly. Over here, please.” Kisaragi stood up to lead Kanesaki. They passed in front of the nurse’s station toward the treatment room. Kanesaki stared at his surroundings with his sharp gaze.
“Nice floor. I can see why they call it the special room,” he muttered. “Are visitors turned away there?”
There was a glass door that led into the elevator lobby and hospital ward, with an intercom to connect the two spaces.
“Do you doctors have to go through that, too?”
“We get in with our key cards,” Kisaragi replied, pointing at the card embedded into his name plaque. “The private elevator can only be accessed from the patient’s room’s side.”
With that, Kisaragi opened the door to the treatment room and ushered Kanesaki in. After sitting the man down on the bed, he began to take out the necessary instruments from the treatment stand. He disinfected the puncture point with a cotton swab soaked in isotonic iodine. Even after showing Kanesaki the 18-gauge needle he would inject, the man showed no signs of asking for anesthesia.
“Would you like me to give you a local anesthetic?” Kisaragi offered.
“I’d rather it be finished quickly.”
Kisaragi nodded and inserted the syringe without anesthetic. The man not so much as twitched his hand. Only when Kisaragi announced that it was finished did he say his first words.
“Alright,” he said. “Thanks.”
When they returned to Arima’s room, he had already emptied his second small bottle of sake.
“Doc, I’d advise you to get Kanesaki’s business card. In the entertainment district, it’d come in much more handy than mine.”
At Arima’s words, Kanesaki took out a black leather wallet from his inner pocket. The business card read, “Ostrocia Trading Company.”
“You’re Representative Director, I see.”
“On the outside,” Arima chimed in. “But yakuza is his trade.” After his bald statement, the man burst into loud laughter. “He comes in handy. He arranges for all of my dirty work to be done.”
Kisaragi looked at the business card with unease.
“Are you sure you want to tell me that?”
Arima stared at him with his beady eyes. “You’re not interested in anything. Not in money, in fame, or in women. That’s why I can trust you.”
Arima had nailed him. Kisaragi unwittingly looked away. The man burst into loud laughter again.
“One of these days I’d like to see what you look like in ecstasy.”
Kisaragi put the business card away in his pocket without answering. Once Kanesaki had left, Arima continued where he had left off.
“That guy,” he said, “is someone I picked up at a club in Roppongi. He was a gopher for some penny-pinching yakuza. But that guy is smart. I took him under my wing, raised him, and let him have his own company.”
“…Right.”
Arima picked up a slice of horsemeat sashimi and swallowed it in one gulp. He proceeded to devour the tempura. Kisaragi watched quietly as Arima polished off dish after dish.
Once he had finished his luxurious lunch, Arima glanced over at Kisaragi again.
“So? How was it?”
“No abnormalities in your test results so far.”
“I’d have thought so.”
After Arima was finished eating, he turned to study Kisaragi.
“I hear the first few years after birth determines whether or not you become obese. If you’re malnourished, those - what do you call them - mast cells - don’t multiply.”
“That’s what they say.”
“I was the son of a poor farmer in the Tohoku region. When I couldn’t feed myself anymore, I joined the army. I went through hell in Manchuria and almost died of starvation. I was past forty before I had my first decent filling meal.”
Although it was a story he had heard a number of times before, Kisaragi silently listened. Arima wiped his mouth with a napkin and directed his small eyes at Kisaragi again.
“I paid about 3,000,000*to the professor for being admitted this time. How much do you want?”
When Kisaragi slowly shook his head, Arima shrugged. “I knew you’d say that. I looked you up, and you’re from a good family. Family owns a hospital. Eldest son’s inherited the family business. You have nothing to want for.”
“I wouldn’t say so.”
“But there’s nothing that you would want that I have.”
“That’s right,” Kisaragi answered.
“Honest, aren’t you?” said Arima with an agreeable smile. “No matter. Maybe sometime down the road you’ll find something you want.”
350,000* About 30,000 dollars.
Chapter 3
Kisaragi left the satellite clinic at six o’clock sharp and headed for the hotel lobby. He was scheduled to meet a colleague, a doctor of the same cohort. Satoshi Hasunuma. He was a psychiatrist. Three years ago, the man had returned to Chiba to take after his family’s hospital. Today he was back in Tokyo to receive
training to renew his license as a designated psychiatrist.
Although he lived in Chiba, it was in the Sotobo area on the coastline of the Pacific Ocean, and wasn’t too far from Tokyo. In his first year back home, Hasunuma had visited Tokyo whenever he had the chance, but in his second year he had expanded his business and had not had the chance to visit as often. For Kisaragi, it had been about a year since they had last seen each other.
Hasunuma arrived spectacularly late. His fearless-looking face was tanned, and his outfit of a contrast-collar button-down shirt and double-breasted suit made him look more like the president of some company rather than a doctor.
They got a seat in the hotel lounge and ordered coffee.
The Sundered Page 1
