100 Years of Vicissitude

by Andrez Bergen

  ‘How was your German?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘So, instead, you caught the notice of this O-tee-san character? He likes his cross-dressing women?’

  ‘Actually, he does. O-tee-san is a big fan of the Takarazuka Revue, a famous all-female musical theatre troupe. I was waiting for Franz in a café in the Ginza, dolled up in a grey suit and hat, with a pencil-thin moustache that I’d perfected, using my eyeliner. The customer at the next table kept on stealing peeks, and scribbled something into a sketchbook. Franz never showed up, so I asked to join this other man. He was sheepish, at first, about the undercover pet project he’d been doing, but I was charmed when I finally saw the picture he’d drawn—a caricature of me, dressed as a Renaissance European male aristocrat. The big, ribboned hat was particularly striking.’

  We hit a pothole, and the taxi lurched—along with my stomach.

  ‘God, I hate this,’ I mumbled.

  ‘The story, or the ride?’

  I hadn’t intended Kohana to hear. ‘The ride, my dear. I’m not at my best inside any wheeled contraptions.’

  ‘Car sickness? You should talk to O-tee-san about it; he can probably recommend some medicine. He acts like my doctor, always telling me to get proper bed rest and take a regular dose of vitamin C. Though he’s a year older than me, he feels like an overactive younger brother sometimes. But he’s a sweetheart.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll hear my complaints,’ I reminded her.

  ‘I’ll mention it to him anyway. No harm.’

  I looked for a long time at Tomeko, seated between us. I could feel the girl’s hip poking into my side. So, I could touch her? I raised my hand to her face.

  ‘Don’t, Wolram. Let her sleep.’

  The drive finally came to a stop in a dead-end street, where makeshift wooden apartment blocks loomed around us. There were some children nearby—the girls skipping rope, the boys playing baseball, and never the twain shall meet. The light here had an amber, dusty hue.

  Kohana waved at two grubby boys of about ten or eleven. ‘Shotaro-kun, Fujio-kun, could you come over here?’

  They walked to the cab and stared at the two girls on the seat. I noticed that the younger lad carried with him a blue bucket, in which oversized beetles were crawling.

  ‘Kohana-chan, what happened?’ asked the oldest boy in a slow, deliberate voice.

  ‘A long story, Fujio-kun, not necessary now. Is O-tee-san about?’

  ‘He’s upstairs, working.’

  ‘Fetch him for me?’

  ‘He won’t be happy. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk. Tell him Kohana needs him—quickly now.’

  The boy raced straight into the entrance of a flat, his legs faster than his tongue. While we waited, our cab driver lit himself a foul-smelling cigarette.

  ‘What kind of tobacco is that?’

  ‘I doubt it’s tobacco.’

  The other boy—what was his name? Shotaro?—stood motionless nearby, with that pail full of creepy crawlies. His mouth was wide open, and I wondered if he used that pose to catch unsuspecting flying insects.

  ‘Shotaro-kun loves his bugs as much as his comics,’ Kohana said. ‘O-tee-san thinks he’ll either become an entomologist or will one day create a superhero team of insect people.’

  ‘How is Tomeko? Is she all right?’

  Kohana didn’t answer.

  I saw someone approaching with the other boy Fujio-kun. This man somewhat comically resembled a Frenchman, with a beret, heavy-framed glasses, and a horizontally striped T-shirt. He was carrying a half-chewed baguette.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, as he leaned over the taxi-cycle.

  ‘Rape.’

  ‘I can see that.’ The man mixed and matched concern with anger. He tossed the breadstick aside. ‘Who did this? Who is responsible? I’ll kill them.’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  I leaned close. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Either he’ll follow through with his threat—and get himself hurt—or he’ll call the police. Shashin-san is my responsibility. It’s the way it was then, and the way it will be now.’

  ‘We need to go straight to a hospital,’ the man said. ‘I’m not qualified for this.’

  Kohana shook her head. ‘No hospital. Please.’

  ‘Kohana, I am not a doctor.’

  ‘Please.’

  Without further argument, and with surprising vigour, O-teesan lifted Tomeko and carried her toward the same building the boy had entered earlier. We followed him, past a wooden plaque with ‘Tokiwa-sō’ on it, and went upstairs to the second floor.

  ‘Fujio, the door.’

  The boy opened it for him, and O-tee-san hauled Tomeko to a couch, setting her down in gentle fashion. She didn’t stir. The man then cautiously started to investigate the damage.

  I looked around a small living area, packed with books and boxes. Pictures completely covered the walls, mostly kids’ comic puff like robots and humanized animals, but also darker, more striking images.

  ‘Gekiga,’ Kohana said. ‘Dramatic pictures. A lot of the mangaka did them—they weren’t only interested in cuteness. The cute ones, however, paid the bills.’

  ‘Fujio,’ O-tee-san called out, ‘be a good boy: go get Fujimoto and Abiko next door. Tell them to bring boiling hot water and clean cloths. Clean, I say! And tell them to leave their stupid cat at home this time.’

  He started to unravel Tomeko’s kimono, but then produced a pair of scissors to cut off the material he couldn’t undo without overly moving the girl.

  The taxi driver was hovering in the open doorway, his hand out. He noisily cleared his throat.

  ‘I think the man wants to be paid his fare,’ I said.

  ‘Get out!’ O-tee-san shouted, as he jumped up, slammed the door, and whizzed back to his patient. ‘I’m begging you, let me work!’

  I stood back as far as I could in that cramped space. ‘So, Kohana, what’s the plan?’

  My companion looked at me with an icy expression. ‘You’ll find out. But you have to remember—you’re a spectator here. That’s all.’

  ‘I understand. What about Tomeko? Will she be all right?’

  ‘No.’ Kohana stared down at her hands. ‘She dies tonight.’

  ‘What? Just like that?’

  ‘Sometimes death is a cheap and nasty creature. Haven’t you noticed?’

  26 | 二十六

  Ten days passed.

  At least, this is what Kohana told me when we arrived. For all I knew, it could have been ten years, although the war-damaged street was a recurring clue.

  We were standing at the base of a rickety wooden staircase that looked like it ought to be condemned, post-haste, and we were waiting for a man. Katsudo Shashin, the gangster.

  Kohana had gotten her tattoo four days before, and she inferred it still hadn’t healed properly. The girl was fitted out in a long black coat, with gloves. Her hair hung loose, trailing down past her waist, and it slightly veiled one eye. Most striking was her wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘Les gave it to me, before he left Japan, as a kind of present,’ she had said earlier. ‘Told his superiors he lost the thing.’

  ‘Pop’s army slouch hat?’

  ‘Mmm. I reshaped it—gave it a good beating with one of my okobo—and dyed it black. Part of my disguise, you see, just for this occasion.’

  Otherwise, Kohana had on geisha makeup, and beneath the coat her kimono and the other familiar courtesan’s trappings. It was a warm evening—she must have been overheated, wrapped up in all that baggage.

  Two cigarettes came out and were lit. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re okay with this?’

  ‘After what this monster did to your sister, I’d be up for anything.’

  ‘Remember, tonight I am Tomeko. Promise you won’t try to interfere?’

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘I strongly doubt it.’ Kohana exhaled one
of her virtuoso smoke-rings. ‘But I do have your word?’

  ‘I believe I gave it to you earlier.’ The ring dissolved.

  ‘Tomeko!’

  It was Shashin, striding with his short legs along the footpath, dressed in another pale linen suit, and there were dark sweat-marks around the armpits. No bodyguards were with him.

  My companion flicked away her cigarette, and a folding fan replaced it.

  Like before, the man took Kohana’s hand and swept it to his lips. His stare, however, remained glued on her face. ‘Wonderful to see you—I never expected a return visit, but I am happy. Why the geisha paint tonight?’

  ‘I needed to cover some of the prizes from our last encounter.’

  ‘Ahh, yes. A glutton for punishment perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s all your doing. You have such effervescent charms,’ Kohana said coyly, in a childish tone, the fan fluttering.

  ‘I always wanted to have you as a geisha, but you were a class above me—another elusive trophy.’

  I took a long puff from my cigarette. I had been incorrect. I was not okay with this.

  ‘I have something, Tomeko. A gift.’ From inside his jacket, Shashin produced a small bottle, in a brown paper bag. ‘Much better than last time. American bourbon. To celebrate the reunion.’

  ‘Are we going to stand out here all night? I’d prefer somewhere quieter, where you can relax. And a geisha has her reputation to uphold.’ The fan fluttered. She peered upward. ‘Your apartment, perhaps?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Follow me.’

  Kohana followed Shashin up the stairs, with me on her tail, all of us silent.

  At a door numbered 17, the gangster took out a key, unlocked it, and—in an ill-mannered gesture—went through first, allowing the door to swing back in his guest’s face.

  Kohana didn’t care.

  She gave the door a discreet shove, and we entered a humid, boxy-looking abode, with very little in the way of furnishings. It was a dreary, untidy place in which a steel-framed bed took precedence. Kohana stepped out of her okobo shoes, but I resolved to leave my slippers on. My tiny protest.

  A lamp clicked into use, just as we heard the crackle, pop, and hiss of vinyl, on a turntable in a cabinet by the entrance.

  When I checked the black label in the middle of the rotating record, I could only decipher the bold, white words ‘Nippon Columbia’, and ‘Made in Kawasaki’. The rest escaped me, it was spinning so quickly.

  ‘Shizuko Kasagi,’ Kohana informed me, as she slipped off her outer clothes. ‘You remember her.’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘This one is “Rappa To Musume”, “Trumpet and a Girl”. Written by a famous composer, Ryōichi Hattori, and restrained for Kasagi-san. I revered the song—up till this very moment.’

  Once the music kicked in, it reminded me of Billie Holiday messing around with Desi Arnaz. Not bad at all.

  Shashin had his back to us. He was busy pouring drinks, into dirty glasses.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ I whispered. ‘I have the gun.’

  ‘Not now. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve been here before.’

  After giving a sofa-chair a careful wipe, Kohana placed her coat, gloves, and hat there. She remained clad in kimono, obi, and white socks.

  Perhaps conscious of the tattoo of the dragon Orochi that now distinguished her from Tomeko, Kohana extinguished the lamp. A streetlight outside cast through the grubby window, giving enough luminance to see by.

  When Kohana put her arms around the man from behind, I could feel my hands curl up into fists.

  When she pulled him around, kissed his chin, and then unwrapped her obi and dropped it to the floor, I felt the need to scream. She drew him down to the bed on top of her, with her gown slipping open around the knees. His hand darted in and pushed right up over her hips.

  I wanted to dash the man’s brains out, to choke a confession and an apology from his good-for-nothing lungs.

  But in my impotent state, I could do none of these things—were I still breathing, I doubt I would have been any more persuasive. Shashin may have been short, but he was a third of my age and twice my width. There was no doubt he’d know a thing or two about the Marquess of Queensberry rules, and could probably juggle razors if provided—which would account for the scar.

  My lasting aptitude was for a two-step of chicanery and commerce.

  I fingered the gun in my pocket. I remembered the feel of Tomeko’s hip in the taxi-cycle. Perhaps I wasn’t as impotent as I thought. Was it possible I could make a difference?

  Right then, a knife came into play.

  It was a long kitchen number that caught the light—with the brand name ‘Béroul’ etched into the surface of the blade. In absolute silence, Kohana had acquired the tool from some place—God knows where—beneath her slip.

  The man was rutting her, making animal noises as he did so. I could hear them above Kasagi’s crooning. I covered my ears with my hands to try to blot them both out. This was awful. It was the worst sound I’d heard in seventy-one years of life, plus the lukewarm existence eked out since.

  Kohana’s face had no expression whatsoever.

  I’d seen her hone a sphinx-like demeanour, in combination with the mask the makeup offered, but this rang different. This was bloody-minded focus.

  ‘I’ve never had a lover as rough as you,’ she groaned.

  The hand with the knife rose into the air, and then lashed sideways into the man’s throat.

  Seconds passed before Shashin noticed.

  When he did, he slowly arched back, his hands around his neck, dark liquid gushing out of somewhere. His body rutted in reverse now—he was gasping and shrieking—and then he fell off the bed. Kohana, however, hadn’t finished. She wiped a rose-red streak across her pale cheek, lifted herself up, stood above him, and leaned over with the knife.

  ‘Shinde moraimasu,’ she said. ‘You will do me the favour of dying.’

  From my vantage point, I could not properly see her follow-through, but I have my suspicions—the man wailed like a castrato, until he ceased about ten seconds later.

  Kohana got up and took out the packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket.

  I sat down on the bed, astonished.

  The woman eased herself next to me, wiping away blood. She removed one of the cigarettes with her mouth, taking care not to touch it with her hands. ‘Light me up, will you?’

  ‘Certainly.’ I found some matches and flicked one across the sole of my slipper. It lit straight away—I’d always wanted to try non-safety matches. I held it out to her. ‘He’s dead?’ I asked, more for the sake of making conversation.

  ‘As a doornail.’ A plume of smoke spiralled heavenward.

  ‘So. What shall we do now?’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m enjoying the song and this cigarette.’

  ‘You don’t mind sharing them with a man you just murdered?’

  ‘Well, I’d say he’s far more functional in this state.’ She took off her socks and placed her bare feet on the corpse’s back, wriggling her toes, and then leaned back to relax. ‘That’s better. Who needs a footstool?’

  ‘We’re not going to bump into him back in the land of the lost, are we?’

  ‘God, I hope not.’

  The apartment dissolved.

  Next up, we were on our feet, wandering a narrow, quiet street as the occasional person passed by.

  Kohana had scrubbed herself clean.

  For starters, the red smudge on her cheek was gone, as was most of the makeup, and her hair was tied into a bun. She wore a conservative-looking brown cotton kimono, and had a newspaper tucked under one arm.

  A sticky, summer evening surrounded us.

  ‘The same night?’ I inquired, doubtful.

  ‘No, it’s a few days later.’

  ‘What happened regarding Shashin?’

  ‘That was interesting.’

  ‘Fill me in.’

  ‘Of cours
e, the major dailies didn’t touch it, but the second-rate newspapers went into a tailspin, splashing about the murder in lurid detail—and, to make things more exciting, there was an eyewitness.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, fear not. He saw only me enter the apartment—you were lucky!—and he missed the actual murder. A twelve-year-old boy, identified as “Shinohara-kun”, described a woman dressed in a black Fedora and cloak. He dubbed her the Scorpion Lady.’

  ‘A catchy name.’

  ‘I liked it too.’ Kohana unfolded the newspaper as she walked, to show me a black-and-white caricature that took precedence on the front page. ‘Now they’re printing up wild stories about a female yakuza assassin, one who’s on the prowl for rival gangsters.’

  Her tone was more matter-of-fact than concerned, and the drawing didn’t look at all like the woman.

  ‘Did this boy see your face?’

  ‘It would seem, well, not so clearly—or he has a fertile imagination. Either way, I was lucky.’

  ‘You said this is a few days later. What did you do afterward?’

  ‘I went up to Lake Nasu for two days with my writer friend Kawabata-san, but he was in a peevish mood and hardly fun. I remember when I woke up at dawn, there he stood at the window of the inn, staring at a white-tipped Mt Fuji. “Can you hear the sound of the mountain?” he asked me. “I can’t hear a thing,” I said. “Even the crows are asleep.” It was true. “I must be getting old,” was his verdict. That was the kind of disagreeable getaway we had. Not surprisingly, I was glad to return to Tokyo. Today.’

  When we arrived at Kohana’s housing block, there was a middle-aged man lingering on the steps. He had on a tired-looking kimono, baggy trousers, and an inappropriate derby hat.

  He stamped out a cigarette, and after a brief introduction, bowed and handed my accomplice a card.

  ‘It is with tremendous regret that I am disturbing you, m-m-madam,’ he stuttered. As he did so, he removed the derby and scratched at tousled hair. ‘I realize the impertinence of my visit, but—’

  ‘A private detective,’ Kohana cut him off, holding the business card up closer to me, in order that I could view the single name ‘Kindaichi’ printed on its surface. ‘Wanting information about the night of the murder. I don’t think he had been commissioned to investigate, but he was curious.’