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Prologue
I read somewhere that prisoners on death row got a cigarette and a bean-jam bun just before their execution.
Tadaharu Mishima was lounging by himself, eating a bean-jam bun. Someone must have doled them out to the work crew at the three o’clock break, and Mishima had either saved his or pocketed a second one. It was white and powdery on the outside with smooth, creamy paste on the inside.
I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I turned and stared out the window. Work had ended for the day, and the sun was streaming straight into the building. We were up on the ninth floor, level with the late-afternoon sun.
The building was like a great black shadow: a huge gravestone in the vast graveyard of Tokyo. But I could hear the song of the cicadas.… Or is my memory playing tricks on me?
I turned away from the window and looked back at the room. Because of the sudden contrast, everything seemed to have fused together in one dark mass—the bare concrete walls, the burlap sacks crammed with rubble, the profile of Mishima as he perched on top of them.
All I could see was the silhouette of a face eating the silhouette of a bun—wordlessly and slowly.
I lit a cigarette to get my courage up. I felt a tiny burst of heat at the end of my nose. I inhaled, then expelled the smoke.
“Is there … like … nothing you can do?” I asked.
The jaw stopped moving. An instant later, it resumed its chewing motion, as if Mishima had had an idea, then changed his mind. His face was calm and emotionless. His eyes were unfocused. His gaze drifted around the empty room, then out into the corridor and off somewhere far, far away.
“No. It’s hopeless.”
He didn’t speak the words so much as sigh them.
“But there’s got to be something you can do. How about personal bankruptcy? I’m happy to go and speak to Mr. Tobe for you.”
Mishima took another leisurely bite of his bun.
“Personal bankruptcy? I tried that already … ages ago. It didn’t work. I needed money and just ended up borrowing more.… Look, the kind of people I was dealing with, I knew what I was getting into … I mean, whatever, man. It’s not a big deal.”
Mishima looked straight at me. His face was covered in dirt and grime. The sweat on his forehead had almost dried.
“Have you got any idea how it feels? My boy’s hungry, and the best I can manage is, ‘Sorry, kid, there’s nothing in the house to eat today.’ The boy’s so hungry he picks the straw out of the tatami mats and tries to eat that shit—until I smack him, that is. I smack his hands, punch his head, kick him in the legs and back.” Mishima paused and looked down at his feet. After a moment, he shook his head and looked back up at me. “One thing I never do, though, is hit him in the face. Never. Hit a kid in the face and you get visible bruising. Then someone raises a stink about child abuse and, next thing you know, they’ve taken your kid away from you. I keep telling myself, ‘If you’ve got to hit your kid, then hit him in the face. It’ll be better for him that way.’ But I can’t. I always end up stroking his damn face when I mean to smash it.…”
Mishima lowered his eyes and stared at the round, white, half-eaten bun in his hand.
“Children’s cheeks are so soft and smooth. They have this sweet smell. When I hug my boy and rub my face against his, it’s got to hurt. There’s my stubble, plus my face is always filthy.… And you know what the kid says to me? ‘Daddy, why are you crying?’ What can I do? I just tell him, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a shit dad.’”
My cigarette had burned all the way down to the filter. I tossed the butt out the window, pulled the pack out, and gestured for Mishima to help himself. When he said no, I took one.
He looked up at me and hesitated a moment before asking, “When did you find out about me?”
“Pretty much from when you got here.”
“You knew, huh?”
I nodded. The cloud of smoke floating in front of me quivered and began to break up.
“Yeah. I couldn’t really help it. I mean, it’s unusual to be working as a scaffold builder at your age. I just heard rumors. Vague stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” sighed Mishima. “If you know so much, how come you think I’ve got any choice?”
I tried to reply, but the words wouldn’t come.
A great jumble of memories welled up inside of me, like a physical weight inside my chest. But I couldn’t talk to Mishima about my own past. I had no right.
Have you thought about the effect this will have on your little boy? I wanted to ask him. Damn stupid question. Of course he’d thought about his kid. He must’ve tied himself in mental knots before making the decision. God knows, I knew the thought process he’d been through—probably better than anyone.
“I’m just trying to help, man.”
In the end, that was the best I could come up with.
Mishima snorted derisively.
I felt bitterly ashamed. What I’d said sounded so cheap and facile. But what else could I say, for fuck’s sake?
“All right, then, you’d better go,” I murmured.
Mishima got to his feet, cramming what was left of the bun into his mouth. Patting the dust off the seat of his pants, he picked up a battered hard hat from the floor.
“Listen, man, I’m really sorry for getting you into this mess in the first place,” I said. “Anyway, you’d better go.”
The floor joists creaked as Mishima trudged out of the room. When he got to the corridor, the sound changed; I could hear sand scrunching on cement as he forced himself reluctantly forward.
I just stood there, watching my cigarette burn.
There was an empty soda can at my feet. I dropped my cigarette butt into it and listened as the butt went out with a sad fizzle.
Hearing the clanking of metal, I stuck my head out the window. Mishima was standing on the scaffolding three windows down. He had placed his hard hat onto his head without bothering to do up the chin strap. He looked up at a length of scaffolding above his head, stretched out his arm, and applied his wrench to a joint clamp.
He stayed in that position for a while, quite motionless. He wasn’t actually tightening anything, just staring up at his hand.
A gust of warm wind swept across the evening sky.
Eventually, Mishima’s right foot began to edge silently forward. One centimeter. Two centimeters. Now, just a millimeter or two.
I knew that if I kept watching, chances were I’d yell out before he’d done what he had to do. Which was the last thing I should do—for his sake, more than anyone’s.
The moment the heel of his right foot finally slid into the air, I felt a shiver of horror go through me, and I clasped my hands to my mouth.
His back slowly tilted forward. His hard hat came off his head and tumbled straight down. As his body angled forward, he finally lost his footing completely and plunged from the ninth floor.
&n
bsp; It was only a matter of seconds. It felt long and short at the same time.
Gravity had some fun with him on the way down: he hit the scaffolding once, bounced, did a midair somersault, and kept on falling.
Just before he hit the ground, there was a loud splat, then a heavy thump, like when you drop a bag of cement.
His body lay sprawling on the dusty ground.
“Oh my God!”
The site foreman, the security guard, and a handful of construction workers ran over to him.
“He fell,” I yelled down. “There. He fell from there.”
I was three rooms away from where it had happened. No one had any reason to suspect me of anything. It had all gone exactly as planned.
* * *
Despite the accident, work resumed on schedule the very next day. The inspection or investigation or whatever they call it was all over and done with in less than twenty-four hours.
Two or three days later, I was gazing out the same window, thinking that the sunset was the same as on that day, when I noticed a tiny figure at the gate of the construction site.
* * *
I don’t remember anything about my mother. Dad told me she got sick and died. I never believed it. My guess is that she ran away. Given the kind of person Dad was, running away would be the sensible thing to do.
My dad was a complete loser, addicted to gambling though he never won a red cent. Most days we didn’t have so much as a grain of rice in the house. On the rare occasions when Dad came up with dinner, the best he could manage was a can of chicken. He made a big song and dance about it, but I knew he’d won it from a pachinko parlor. Some of those places aren’t allowed to give out cash prizes, so they hand out stuff instead.
My dad mostly worked in construction. He probably did odd jobs—taking the trash out, carrying stuff up to people, or, at a stretch, site security. Whatever it was, I doubt he had any special know-how or was a qualified construction worker.
I was only a kid then, but it was clear to me that my dad was physically weak and morally spineless. He was a loser who could never make up his mind about anything. The man had no backbone, no balls.
He wasn’t too bad when I was in nursery school. Things only really went to shit when I moved on to grade school. The guy couldn’t even afford to buy me a decent pencil case. A couple of pencils, an eraser, and a notebook—that was enough to wipe out my dad’s whole budget.
He wasn’t a store clerk’s idea of the dream customer either. He had on a filthy running shirt and ripped-up work pants. He was unshaven and gave off this sour smell of grime and sweat—plus a touch of cheap booze whenever he opened his mouth.
The store clerk looked disgusted, and even though I was just a kid, I felt desperately embarrassed.
“This one is three hundred yen,” the clerk said. “It’s the cheapest pencil case we stock.”
In the end, my dad just gave up on the idea. I used an elastic band to keep my pencils together.
In second and third grade, life became halfway decent. I don’t know why. Perhaps Dad lucked into money—or someone lent him some. Either way, he always had my lunch money waiting for me, and I had new clothes instead of ragged old ones. There was enough rice in the house, plus some meat and fish to go with it too!
That didn’t last. By the time I was in fourth grade, we were short of food again. Dad was usually able to give me money for my school lunch, but all there was at home were scraps of bread for breakfast and dried squid for dinner.
Not surprisingly, I got bullied at school.
The other kids called me “poor,” “smelly,” and “dirty.” I was like, Thanks, guys, I don’t need you to tell me that.
Still, I did my best to fight back.
“Come on, then. Calling me names doesn’t hurt me. But if I punch you, you’ll feel it all right.”
Being called names actually hurt me a lot. I was just trying to be a smartass, the way kids do.
I wasn’t big, but I was quick on my feet and had guts, so getting into a fight was no big deal. Still, I was careful not to overdo it. That wasn’t about being nice to the other kids; I was being nice to me: I simply didn’t have the energy.
After school, I’d go back to the shoddy two-story timber-frame apartment block where we lived and try and get Dad to make me something to eat. When he was out, I’d try and fix something for myself. Of course, whether my dad was there or not, it didn’t mean there was anything to eat.
“Sorry, buddy … I had a good look around, but there’s nothing in the house.… Sorry, buddy.”
I’d nod sympathetically, while thinking, Yeah, right. The way you smell, there must have been plenty of booze in the house.
As I drifted off into the comforting world of daydreams, I’d start picking at the tatami mats.
Suddenly, Mom was back with us, rustling up a hamburger and a steaming bowl of rice for me. Delicious! “You should come and live with me,” Mom would say in my dreams. I had no idea what she looked like in reality, so I’d give her the face of actresses I’d seen on TV. I didn’t need her to look sweet and pretty. I wanted someone who looked tough enough to deal with whatever life threw her way.
Then, a hand reached out and smacked me, bringing my daydream to an abrupt end.
“What the fuck you doing, kid?”
I opened my eyes. Without realizing it, I’d ripped a lump out of the tatami mat and was about to put it in my mouth.
“Oh,” I stammered. “Sorry, Dad.”
“You’re so hungry, you’ll eat tatami?”
“No, Dad.”
“Are you really that hungry?”
Actually, yes, I really am that hungry.
“No, I’m fine,” I answered after a moment. “I had seconds at lunch at school.”
“Don’t lie.”
Oh, come on. Do you really have to hit me?
“I’m fine. Honest, I am.”
“Shut up, kid.”
And off we went again. My broke, crappy old dad taking out his frustrations with the world on poor little me. He was a loser who went crazy whenever he had to face the fact that he was a loser. I knew what was coming and steeled myself.
My best strategy was to pull my knees up to my chest, curl up in a ball, protect my face, make myself as small as possible. My drunken dad was such a total failure he couldn’t even do a decent job of beating up his grade-school-age son.
Like a rain squall, his rage would quickly pass, and my dad would pick me up and hug me.
“I’m sorry, Kosuke. I’m sorry for being such a lousy father.”
You loser! The only thing you can teach me is to be as unlike you as possible. You’re weak and gutless. You can’t even follow through: if you’re gonna hit me, don’t start hugging me halfway through the beating.
“Why are you crying, Daddy?”
You were the one who was hitting me! I’m the one who should be crying here, Dad!
“Kosuke.”
Must you hug me? You stink. I don’t want your stink rubbing off on me.
I’d have preferred being rolled up in a gym mat and jumped on by the other kids in school to being hugged by him.
* * *
Anyway, this dad of mine died the summer after I finished fifth grade. He fell at work from the ninth floor of an apartment block.
Our phone had been disconnected ages ago, so I got the news in person from a detective who showed up at the door. When I heard him out dry-eyed, he patted me on the head and complimented me on being a tough little guy.
Being tough had nothing to do with it. I felt stunned and stupefied. That’s how pitifully weak I was.
Sure, you were a crap dad, but you tried to work so we could buy food. Sure, you lost it every three days and beat me up, but we always made up by bedtime. How am I meant to make it without you? A schoolkid like me can’t play the slots. I can’t work construction. How about delivering papers? Is a fifth grader allowed to do that?
I assumed they’d stick me in an orphanage. An or
phanage would probably be better than this shitty apartment without a stick of food in it. Sure it would. How did I get into one? Who was going to take me? Should I ask someone at school to set it up? Would the detective take care of it?
Right at that moment, I didn’t need to worry about that. They took me to a sort of hospital in Otsuka. It wasn’t a normal hospital. I didn’t see any nurses, and the place was crawling with police.
“You’re the only family your father’s got, kid,” said someone. “I’m sorry, but we need you to identify him for us.”
I said okay. What else could I do? They led me into this bare white room and took me over to a bed covered with a white sheet.
All of a sudden, I was afraid.
The detective who’d come to the house said that Dad had fallen from the ninth floor. The ninth floor! That was three times taller than my school!
“His face is a bit … well … so I’m going to have you look at his tummy and his chest. Is that all right?”
I was wondering what exactly was meant by his face being “a bit, well…,” when the sheet was pulled back.
I retched, gasping for air.
My dad’s body had this greenish tinge. That’s how I remember it. There were several sets of black stitches on the body. How am I supposed to identify this? was my first thought. Then I took a good look and recognized the chest hair as my dad’s, and the round, sticking-out belly button, which was undamaged.
“Yes, that’s him,” I whispered. “That’s my daddy.”
That was all I could manage before a second wave of nausea hit me.
* * *
A message came for me at the school two days later.
It was from Kinoshita Construction, the company Dad worked for. They wanted me to come and pick up his things.
“Will you be all right? Can you get there all by yourself?”
My teacher, Mr. Masuoka, was a very nice man. He photocopied a map for me and lent me money for the train fare. I thanked him and headed for Kinoshita Construction. I’m not proud of it, but even as a kid, I was kind of hoping that there might be some money in it for me.
The directions they’d given me were for the construction site where Dad had died. I was pacing anxiously in front of the big metal security shutter at the entrance when the security guard came out of his little prefab cabin.
Soul Cage--A Mystery Page 1
