Yoshimura turned around and smiled at him. “Hi. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
Imanishi looked at the man, but he didn’t know him. He seemed to be about Yoshimura’s age.
“How’ve you been?” Yoshimura asked.
“All right.”
“What are you up to now?”
“I’m in insurance sales, but I’m not doing that great.”
Yoshimura whispered to Imanishi, “He’s a friend of mine from grade school. Would you excuse me for five minutes or so while I talk to him?”
“Sure, I don’t mind. Take your time,” Imanishi said.
Yoshimura went off to talk to his friend. Imanishi sat alone. He must have looked slightly forlorn, because the shop owner reached over and handed him a newspaper.
“Thanks.”
It was the evening paper. Imanishi opened it up. There weren’t any major stories, but he glanced at the headlines to pass the time. The arts and culture section had columns on music and art events.
As Imanishi was looking at these columns, his eyes rested on a familiar name: Sekigawa Shigeo. Imanishi put down his sake and squinted at the article. The title of the piece was “The Work of Waga Eiryo.”
Imanishi could no longer read small print without reading glasses. He hurriedly drew a pair of glasses out of his pocket and put them on.
In the world of avant-garde music, Waga Eiryo can no longer be called an up-and-coming composer. Those critics who glanced curiously at “musique concrete” and electronic music a few years ago saw Waga Eiryo’s efforts as merely a direct translation of foreign trends.
Now, however, Waga has graduated from direct translation and has become a creator of original compositions. Naturally, individual pieces have certain shortcomings, which critics have pointed out. In fact, I, too, have criticized his works quite sharply.
When an art form is a direct import from abroad, the first examples of it will naturally be a translation of the foreign technique. This limitation does not discredit Waga Eiryo. Most of the paintings of the early twentieth century were merely copies of Cezanne’s style. The paintings of the seventh-century mid-Asuka period in Japan were nothing more than imitations of China’s Sui and Tang Dynasty works. Even music cannot avoid the fate of imitation. The issue is how to internalize new, foreign techniques, and how individual creativity can emerge from this process.
Gradually, yet in a definitive way, Waga has gone beyond the influence of the West and is in the process of giving form to his own inherent creativity.
Many are struck by his new art form and rush to follow in his wake. But they have no hope of reaching the level of this composer who has based his work on a solid foundation. I am impressed at what he has achieved in such a short time. I anticipate further great rewards from Waga Eiryo’s rich talent and his ceaseless efforts.
Imanishi was perplexed. He didn’t understand a thing about music. Still, it seemed to him that this piece was written in quite a different tone from Sekigawa’s previous criticisms of Waga’s work.
Imanishi had just started to go over the column from the beginning to reconfirm his impression when Yoshimura rejoined him.
“Forgive me,” he said as he sat down beside Imanishi.
“Look.” Imanishi showed the newspaper to Yoshimura.
“Hm, it’s Sekigawa Shigeo, is it?” As Yoshimura finished the piece he said, “I see,” and rested his elbow on the counter.
“What do you think? I can’t follow the arguments too well, but wouldn’t you say he’s praising Waga Eiryo?”
“Of course he is,” Yoshimura stated unequivocally. “He’s showering him with praise.”
“Hm.” Imanishi thought for a moment. Then he muttered, “I wonder why critics change their opinions so quickly. I read something before that Sekigawa had written about Waga Eiryo’s music. He didn’t praise him like this.”
“Really?”
“I can’t remember the wording, but he didn’t sound that impressed. This is completely different from that other piece.”
“Critics sometimes change their minds,” Yoshimura said. “I have a friend who is a journalist who told me that there is a lot of behind-the-scenes politics. Critics are human, too.”
“I wonder.” Imanishi’s face looked as if he couldn’t quite understand.
Imanishi had finally reached the point where he was about to tell Yoshimura that Sekigawa might be a likely suspect, but he changed his mind after reading the newspaper piece. He decided to wait.
“Imanishi-san, shall we call it a day?”
They had drunk four or five orders of sake.
“Sure. I’ve had enough. Shall we go?” Imanishi was still thinking about Sekigawa’s review. “Could we have our bill?”
When Imanishi said this, Yoshimura hurriedly offered, “No, no, I’ll get it this time. You’re always treating me.”
Imanishi stopped him. “You’re supposed to let your elders take care of these things.”
The shop owner pulled an unwieldy large abacus toward her and began figuring their bill. Watching her, Imanishi remembered the Kamedake abacus in his coat pocket.
“Yoshimura, let me show you something interesting.”
“What is it?”
Imanishi pulled his coat toward him. “This.”
“So, it’s a Kamedake abacus,” Yoshimura said reading the label on the box.
“Your total comes to 750 yen. Thank you very much.” The owner presented the bill.
“Hey, Ma’am, look at this.” Imanishi pointed his chin at the abacus Yoshimura was holding.
The glossy back beads reflected the light. Yoshimura was flicking the beads in a comfortable way.
“They slide very smoothly.”
“They told me they make the best abacuses in Japan. That’s the advertising slogan of the local manufacturer. When you see the real thing, it doesn’t seem to be empty boasting.”
“Where are they made?” The shop owner leaned over to look.
“In the mountains near Izumo in Shimane Prefecture.”
“May I see it, too?” The shop owner flicked the beads as if to test them, just as Yoshimura had done.
“This is a wonderful abacus,” she said, looking at Imanishi.
“This summer I went to the part of the country where they make these. Someone I met there sent it to me,” Imanishi explained.
“Is that so.”
“Oh, did it come recently?” Yoshimura asked.
“Yes. It came today. The old man I met, Kirihara, sent this to me as a present. He said it was made in his son’s factory.”
“I remember hearing you talk about him,” Yoshimura nodded. “People in the countryside are sincere, aren’t they?”
“They really are. It surprised me to receive this; I had only met him briefly.”
Imanishi paid the bill.
“Thank you very much.” The owner bowed her head.
Sticking the abacus back into his coat pocket, Imanishi left the oden shop with Yoshimura.
“It’s funny,” Imanishi said as he walked along with Yoshimura “this abacus came just when I had forgotten all about Kamedake.”
“You went there full of anticipation, didn’t you?”
“I went thinking ‘this time for sure.’ It was during the peak of the heat. I’ll probably never go to that mountain area again.”
They walked along the raised tracks.
“Oh, yes, Kirihara-san enclosed a haiku he had written. ‘The palm of the hand holding the abacus feels the autumn village cold.’ ”
“I see. I can’t tell whether a haiku is good or bad, but this one makes you feel the scene. Speaking of haiku, you haven’t shown me any of yours recently.”
“I’ve been too busy to write any.”
What Imanishi said was true. These days the pages of his haiku notebook remained blank.
“I’m glad I could see you tonight,” Imanishi confided.
“Really? You didn’t say much.”
“Just seei
ng you has made me feel a little better.”
“You’re still working on that case, aren’t you? And I suppose you’ve come up against a stumbling block.”
“That’s about it.” Imanishi rubbed his face with his hands. “I’d like to talk to you, but, to be honest, right now I’m confused.”
“I understand,” Yoshimura smiled. “Knowing you, I’m sure things will start falling into place soon. I’ll look forward to hearing about it then.”
It was ten o’clock when Imanishi returned home.
“I’d like some rice with green tea poured over it,” he told Yoshiko. “I stopped off to have a drink with young Yoshimura.”
“How is he?” she asked as she helped Imanishi off with his jacket.
“Fine.”
“He should come visit us some time.”
“Look what I was given.” He took the abacus out of his coat pocket.
“Oh, my.” She took it out of the box. “It’s a beautiful abacus. Who gave it to you?”
“An old gentleman that I met last summer who owns an abacus factory in Shimane.”
“Oh, from that trip?”
“I’d like to give it to you,” Imanishi said. “Use it to keep the family accounts so that we won’t waste any money.”
“This elegant abacus would cry if we used it for our meager household finances,” Yoshiko said as she put it carefully away in a drawer.
Imanishi had taken out his stationery and was thinking about how to word his thank-you letter to Kirihara Kojuro when Yoshiko called him saying, “Your food is ready.”
On the dining table were plates of simmered radish and some dried fish.
“It’s getting to be the season for radishes,” Yoshiko said as she poured hot tea over Imanishi’s rice.
“Mm.”
Imanishi put his lips to the bowl and slurped the rice into his mouth.
“So it’s Kamata…” Imanishi muttered.
“What’s that?” Yoshiko looked over at him and asked.
“No, it’s nothing.”
Imanishi chewed the dried fish and ate the radishes. He hadn’t meant to say Kamata out loud. He had a habit of concentrating on what was on his mind while he ate his meal. As he put his food into his mouth he would meditate on one thought. The meal would give a certain rhythm to his thoughts. At these times he would mutter things out of context. This helped to clarify his thinking process. He had muttered “Kamata” because he was ruminating about the case.
The late meal ended. Imanishi moved to his desk and started writing his thank-you letter.
I am sorry I have taken so long to write to you. Thank you very much for an unexpected gift of such superb quality. In looking at the abacus, I can tell, even though I am unfamiliar with such pieces, that it is of exquisite make. I hope to preserve it for a long time. I only regret that I have no use that will do justice to such a piece.
I will, however, inform people whenever the opportunity arises that these precious abacuses are made in your district.
When I look at the Kamedake abacus, memories of my visit there come back to me. Thank you so much for all you did for me at that time. I also read with fond memories the wonderful haiku you wrote for the abacus.
I recall the mountains surrounding your town, which must now be beautiful in their autumn colors…
Having written this much, Imanishi paused to read the letter over. How should he continue? He could close here, but it was too short for a proper thank-you letter.
He wondered if he should take the old gentleman’s lead and enclose a haiku of his own. But no good ideas came to mind. Since he hadn’t written any poems recently, his brain seemed to have grown dull. As he was going over these thoughts, Yoshiko brought in some tea.
“A thank-you letter?” She peered at his desk.
Imanishi lit a cigarette.
“Shouldn’t we send him something in return?” Yoshiko asked.
“I guess so. What would be good?”
“There isn’t anything very special we can send from Tokyo. Asakusa seaweed is probably a safe gift.”
“Could you go to the department store and have them send some tomorrow? Won’t it be expensive?”
“Even if it is, for a thousand yen we should be able to get something appropriate.”
“Then go ahead and do it.”
Imanishi thought he would write at the end of the letter, “I have taken the liberty of sending something to you by separate post. I would be happy if you would accept this token of my gratitude.”
Although his cigarette ash grew long, no poem came to him. The memory of Kirihara Kojuro’s expression as he spoke was the only image in his thoughts.
It was at that instant Imanishi felt as if he had been hit by an electric current, jolting his brain into awareness. He sat still while the ashes from his cigarette fell on his knees. He didn’t move for some ten minutes. Then, suddenly, as if he had awakened from a dream, he continued his letter in a flurry. The ending was completely different from the one he had intended to write.
Waking early the next morning, Imanishi realized there was another person he should write to as well.
Miki Ken’ichi had come to Tokyo immediately after making a pilgrimage to Ise Shrine. This was what his adopted son, Shokichi, had stated when he had come to Tokyo police headquarters. At that time Imanishi had thought that Miki had simply decided to come to Tokyo to see the sights before returning home. But perhaps there had been something that had made Miki change his plans. There may have been a pressing reason that couldn’t be explained as a mere change of heart. It could be that Miki’s change of plans, his coming to Tokyo after Ise, had been connected to his murder.
Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, Imanishi got out of bed, washed his face, and sat at his desk. The letter he had written the night before to Kirihara Kojuro had been left there inside its envelope. He began to write a letter to Miki Shokichi.
I hope you have been well.
You may not remember me, but I am the detective you spoke to when you came to Tokyo to inquire about your father’s whereabouts.
As you know, we have been unable to locate the person who killed your father. I feel a deep sympathy for the memory of your father. Even though the investigation team has been disbanded, that does not mean we have stopped searching for the criminal. We are determined to find this despicable killer to appease your father’s soul. We intend to pursue every lead, to take any measure to arrest the murderer. We will not allow this case to remain unsolved.
The case has reached a very difficult crossroads. In order for any progress to be made toward a solution, we feel we need your cooperation.
Toward this end, would you please inform me of the places your father visited from the time he left on his pilgrimage to the Ise Shrine until the time his body was discovered at the Kamata railroad yard?
It would be most helpful if, for example, you knew which days he spent at which inns. When I asked you about this matter, you mentioned that you had received a few picture postcards from his trip. If you have any further information, I would greatly appreciate hearing any details.”
Five days passed. During those five days, Imanishi was involved in a few new cases, which were easily solved. On the fifth he found an envelope on his desk. Turning it over, he read the carefully written return address “Miki Shokichi, xx Street, Emi-machi, Okayama Prefecture.”
Imanishi had been waiting for this reply. He opened it at once.
Thank you very much for your letter. I am sorry to cause you so much trouble on account of my late father.
I was deeply grateful to learn from your letter that you and others are working incessantly to apprehend my late father’s killer. As a member of the family of the deceased, I would like to help in the investigation as much as possible, but regret that my incompetence does not allow me to be of much assistance.
It may be presumptuous for me to say this, but my late father was a person who had great compassion for others, and never
incurred the hate of anyone. As I said before, he was a virtuous man. There is no reason that his killer should not be found, and I believe that Heaven will not let this case go unsolved. Each morning and evening we burn incense at the family altar and pray for the arrest of his killer.
In reply to your questions, here are my answers.
My father sent us a total of eight postcards during his trip.
• April 10: Omiya Inn, in front of Okayama Station
• April 12: Sanuki Inn, Kotohira-cho, Shikoku Island
• April 18: Gosho Inn, in front of Kyoto Station
• April 25: at Mt. Hiei, outside Kyoto
• April 27: Yamada Inn, Aburakoji, Nara City
• May 1: at the Yoshino mountains
• May 4: Matsumura Inn, in front of Nagoya Station
• May 9: Futami Inn, Ise City
These are all of the postcards we received. He wrote about how he was enjoying his trip.
My father had planned to return home as soon as he finished his Ise Shrine pilgrimage. In fact, in his postcard from Nagoya, he wrote that he would be able to come home in four or five days. There was no word about going to Tokyo.
Imanishi received another letter the following day.
It was from Kirihara Kojuro. This was written with a brush in bold strokes on stationery of elegant handmade Japanese paper that made the black characters stand out in contrast. Imanishi read the contents of the five-page letter that was the response to his questions about Miki Ken’ichi.
Imanishi read the letter over several times. It was a detailed account of former policeman Miki’s good deeds. Kirihara’s letter gave more concrete information about the deeds Imanishi had heard about on his visit to Kamedake.
Imanishi spent the whole day deep in thought. Even while at work, his thoughts of the Kamata murder stayed with him. He sent off another letter of inquiry. In the evening, he went to see his supervisor to ask for two days off.
“That’s unusual.” The supervisor looked at Imanishi’s face and smiled. “I don’t think you’ve ever asked for a two-day leave.”
“No.” Imanishi rubbed his head. “I’m feeling a bit tired.”
“Take care of yourself. You can take three or four days if you like.”
“No, two days will be enough.”
Inspector Imanishi Investigates Page 22
