by Ryu Murakami
‘Are you going overseas?’
‘Here’s what I was thinking. I’d like to stay in one of the major hotels downtown. You don’t get a chance to do that when you live in the city, right? I’d like to stay in the sort of place where your average salarymen from smaller cities stay when they come to Tokyo.’
‘What are you going to do in a place like that?’
‘This might sound silly, but I want to get a better understanding of the true salaryman. Like, when I have a meeting in a coffee shop or bar in one of those hotels? I’m always fascinated by what the salarymen around me are talking about. You’d be surprised — a lot of times you hear some pretty poignant, heartfelt stuff. I’d like to make, you know, a serious study of that sort of thing, because beginning the year after next we’re going to be in charge of all the graphics on a new campaign. It’s for an imported car, a new model targeting salarymen in their thirties. And the fact is, I don’t really know that much about your average salaryman.’
He needed a solid chunk of time in order to hone and execute his plan. But if he made up some story about having to stay near the office for days at a time to meet a deadline, for example, one phone call from Yoko to the office and he’d be busted. It was unlikely that anyone might connect that lie with a crime that took place somewhere across town, but he didn’t need to complicate things by giving Yoko or the company any reason to think he was up to something fishy. Of course, staying a week at a hotel in the city for ‘research’ would normally be read as an affair, or a gambling problem. But he knew that Yoko would never doubt him. She wasn’t the jealous or suspicious type in the first place, and in the six years they’d known each other, though he may have kept certain things from her, he’d never told her a lie. Not because he was adhering to some abstract moral principle, but simply because he didn’t want to be dishonest with someone who meant so much to him. Besides, if she should suspect him of having an affair — well, so what?
Arranged neatly on the L-shaped table that dominated the room were all the implements Yoko needed to teach the day’s classes.
‘We’ll have to get you packed, then,’ she said with a natural, unforced smile. ‘Just be sure to keep in touch. I mean, don’t forget to call.’
I won’t forget, Kawashima said, nodding. He walked into the bedroom and bent over the crib to peer at the baby. Lightly touching her downy cheek, he whispered, so Yoko wouldn’t hear:
Everything’s going to be all right.
5
FOUR DAYS LATER, KAWASHIMA was checking in at the Akasaka Prince Hotel. He used his JCB card and registered under his real name. It was a twin room with a view of Tokyo Tower in the distance, and he’d reserved it for a week. He’d never taken any serious vacation time before, and for that reason — and in recognition of his just having won the jazz festival account — the firm had immediately agreed to his request and even presented him with nearly nine hundred thousand yen in cash for expenses. His boss had joked, in typically poor taste, that the idea of observing salarymen was brilliant, but not to fall in love with one and end up with AIDS.
Kawashima checked in shortly after noon and gave Yoko a call first thing. He could hear the babble of middle-aged women in the background and could almost smell the freshly baked bread. Neither Yoko nor anyone at the office had seemed the least bit suspicious of his motives. Come to think of it, he reflected as he sat back on the sofa and gazed out at the heart of the city settling into dusk. . Come to think of it, somewhere along the line I became a man who never does anything people consider suspicious. Maybe something fundamental had changed since the old days — since parting with the stripper. He’d gone back to school, taken up drawing again, found a job and met Yoko, and he often felt as if he wasn’t even the same person he’d been as a teenager. But if he was someone different now, which of the two was the real him? They’re both the real you, some part of him whispered, but the rest of him wasn’t so sure. Sometimes the old and new selves seemed completely unrelated.
Inspired by a magazine article he’d read and photocopied in the library, Kawashima had decided to buy a knife as well as an ice pick. The article was about a thirty-two-year-old ‘soap tart’ who’d been found murdered in a hotel room, with her Achilles tendons severed. An anonymous police detective had volunteered this explanation: ‘When you cut the Achilles tendon, the sound it makes is as loud and sharp as a gunshot. The killer must have known that and taken pleasure in it.’ Kawashima decided that before stabbing the victim’s stomach with an ice pick — or afterwards, if need be — he’d slice her Achilles tendons. He was curious what it would sound like exactly. And he wanted to see the expression on the woman’s face when it happened.
Thinking about these things didn’t set his pulse racing or leave him staring into space, grinning and drooling. He experienced, rather, a sort of creative calm similar to his state of mind when pondering which photo to use for a poster. His heartbeat had been a problem during the ten days he’d lived in fear of stabbing the baby, but not since that night in the convenience store. Between the man who was coolly deciding to cut his victim’s Achilles tendons and wondering what it would sound like, and the man who’d smiled at his wife that very morning in a room saturated with the fragrance of freshly baked bread, there was clearly a gap. Exactly what the gap consisted of he couldn’t have said, but he knew there was one.
He got up and closed the curtains. From his briefcase he took the magazine article, an S&M magazine, a weekly sex-industry guide, and a notebook. He sat down at the desk and began making notes in an attempt to marshal his thoughts.
First of all, the victim would have to be a prostitute — it was the only logical choice. But what type of prostitute should he choose? That was important, as was the question of where the killing was to take place. He’d been hauled in by the cops once years ago for sniffing thinner, but they’d never taken his fingerprints. The cops were at a big disadvantage when a murderer wasn’t acquainted with the victim and had no previous record. He’d already determined that he couldn’t just stab the woman — he had to be sure and kill her. Naturally it would be best if her body were never discovered, but trying to dispose of the corpse would involve unacceptable risks. She’d have to be a freelancer, with no pimp or office or syndicate to report to. Stab her in some dark, deserted alley, maybe? Luring a streetwalker into an alley under the pretence of negotiating a price would be simple enough, but in such a dimly lit place he wouldn’t have a clear view of the ice pick puncturing her stomach, and he probably wouldn’t have time to slash her Achilles tendons.
Walking through the Kabuki-cho district of Shinjuku two nights ago, he’d confirmed that most of the freelance streetwalkers were from overseas, particularly South-East Asia. Among the advantages of choosing such a woman was the fact that any search for her would be half-hearted at best, since she was unlikely even to be in Japan legally. But it was essential that the flesh he pierced with the ice-pick be as white as possible. And now that he thought about it, not even a fair-skinned foreigner would do. If the victim didn’t speak Japanese well, it would be difficult to set things up properly, and, besides, it was imperative that her expressions of terror and anguish be in Japanese. Why? He wondered about that for a moment but stopped when an image of his mother threatened to form in his mind. He must concentrate only on the business at hand.
No, it would be insane to do it in an alley or park or vacant lot, or anywhere outdoors. He’d have to get a separate room somewhere. The sex businesses that would send girls to a customer’s hotel room were limited to soap-tart services, erotic massage operations, and S&M clubs. As soon as the ice pick made its appearance, the woman was likely to try to flee. And to scream. She’d have to be restrained, and for an extended period of time, since she wouldn’t die right away — after all, he wasn’t going to be stabbing her in the heart. It would be best to watch her expire slowly, from loss of blood, but of course you couldn’t get that much blood-flow from ice-pick wounds. You could cause death by internal b
leeding, puncturing certain organs, but what good was that if you couldn’t watch it happening?
In any case, the first step would be to get the woman tied up and gagged. That meant S&M. Apparently most S&M clubs wouldn’t send their girls to ‘love hotels’. The advantage of a love hotel was the shutter at the front desk that prevents the attendant from seeing your face. But the staff at places like that were always on the lookout for trouble, understandably enough, and Kawashima had read somewhere that occasionally, if a call girl’s office grew concerned about a situation and phoned the hotel, someone would actually go up to the room to check on her. Besides, if anything did go wrong, the narrow little entrance and reception area would only make escape more difficult. And love hotels tended to be on quieter streets, with only scattered couples strolling discreetly up and down, so it wasn’t as if you could run out and melt seamlessly into the crowd.
At a regular hotel, on the other hand, they’d see his face at the front desk, and he’d have to leave his handwriting on a registration card. But he could reserve a room using a fake name and telephone number and they’d never know the difference, as long as he checked in on time. He’d confirmed this today, here at the Akasaka Prince. He’d given them his work number and a check-in time of two o’clock in the afternoon when making the reservation, and though he waited at the office until one-forty-five, no one called from the hotel. Nor had they asked for ID. His normal handwriting was so generic that it shouldn’t be a problem — provided he didn’t make some idiotic mistake like leaving behind his driver’s licence or business card or address book, or an envelope or sheet of paper with his company’s letterhead.
A small but important detail: should he let the bellboy help with whatever luggage he might have? The bellboy would offer to carry any type of bag, even a briefcase. Today he’d observed that Japanese guests seemed to enjoy having the boy take their bags, while most of the foreigners, perhaps because they’re accustomed to having to tip everyone, tended to decline help if they could manage the luggage themselves. Well, the bellboy question was one he could resolve later. Kawashima wrote Bellboy issue pending and turned to a new page. He’d already filled several with crabbed, dense writing.
What sort of luggage should he carry, though? One smallish travel bag ought to do. He could leave the Prince carrying a paper shopping bag stuffed with everything he’d need and buy a travel bag on the way to the second hotel, where the actual ritual would be performed. He’d stop at one of the major train stations, or Haneda Airport for that matter, and purchase the most ubiquitous sort of bag possible at one of the little shops or stands. Preferably something cheap and mass-produced, but even a popular designer bag — a Louis Vuitton, say — would work well enough.
All things considered, one of the larger hotels would probably be best. And when it came to interacting with the front desk, a simple disguise might be in order. But the operative word was ‘simple’ — it mustn’t be anything that served to make him stand out in any way. Sunglasses, for example, might be effective, but he’d noticed here at the Prince that people who wore shades while checking in only drew attention to themselves. You got the impression they were trying to conceal their identities. Once the woman’s body was discovered, the police would probably have nothing more than a rough composite sketch of the killer to go by. That shouldn’t be too much of a threat, unless while at the hotel he were to bump into or be seen by someone who knew him. How best to minimise any danger of that happening? First of all, one ironclad rule: if while checking in he were to meet up with or even catch sight of a colleague from work, say, or one of Yoko’s students — anyone whom it would be impossible to fool with a simple disguise — then the whole operation was off.
But what, specifically, would the simple disguise consist of? Parting his hair differently and wearing eyeglasses with thick lenses ought to be sufficient for the neck up. But he also had to think about clothing. After meeting someone a few times you can often recognise them even from behind, just by their body language and style of clothes. Best to buy a navy-blue or grey salaryman-style suit, of the type he never wore. And maybe a cheap overcoat. He’d have to hurry on the suit — it would take some time just to have the trousers hemmed. Shoes with insoles might be a good idea, too, to add a few centimetres to his height.
Of course, we’ll need a change of clothes as well, he wrote, since there’s bound to be a good deal of blood. Taking off all our own clothes is a possibility, but it would be risky in the event of some form of active resistance on the woman’s part. Besides, getting naked as the ritual was reaching a climax might be interpreted as having some sort of sexual meaning. We don’t want the woman to think we’re slicing through her Achilles’ tendons just to satisfy a perverted sexual need. She must remain uncertain as to what significance her own bloodshed and agony hold. It’s vital that those on the receiving end of violence ponder its meaning. A sad and bitter but important truth.
Kawashima was writing thoughts down as they occurred to him, but now he stopped himself. He went back and erased everything after ‘need a change of clothes as well’. In large, bold characters he wrote: THOUGHTS IRRELEVANT TO PLANNING AND PREPARATION HAVE NO PLACE IN THIS NOTEBOOK!!
The sun had long since set, and he looked at his watch: eight o’clock already. It’s been hours, he thought, and it feels like minutes. Had he ever been this engrossed in anything before? He took a Cola from the minibar, popped it open, and had a sip. He was beginning to feel as if any number of things he’d done and experienced in the past had helped prepare him for this mission. And to wonder, in fact, if this wasn’t the end to which all the events of his life had been leading him.
He was already beginning to forget, in other words, the original motive behind the plan — to relieve his fear of stabbing the baby.
Plain jeans and a sweatshirt for the change of clothes. Nothing too baggy or bulky, however. Choose a sweatshirt of thin material. Same with the jeans. Two pairs of well-fitting leather gloves. Great care must be taken in use of gloves. Most natural to remove right-hand glove when checking in.
Fortunately no scars remained from when he’d burned his hand ten years before. No need to be too concerned about fingerprints when he checked in, either. It was unlikely anyone would remember which counter or which pen he’d used, and they’d all be covered with prints anyway. Leaving the glove on — especially while writing something — would, like sunglasses, only invite attention. It had been Kawashima’s experience that whenever you were trying to hide something, others would somehow pick up on that, and surely any desk clerk would take notice of someone wearing gloves when filling out the registration card. Hotel workers were trained to be observant and adept at pretending not to be.
Assuming he declined the bellboy’s help, he should take the key with his gloved hand and wear both gloves when opening the door and at all times after entering the room. He mustn’t leave any fingerprints at the scene, if only to make it seem like the work of a man with a lot of experience. The police would be inclined to search for someone who had a record, and make lists of known deviants and sex offenders.
But of course he couldn’t wear gloves from the time the woman arrived until he had her immobilised, for fear of arousing her suspicions. After tying her up, he’d put them back on. Poker-faced, naturally, slowly adjusting the black leather fingers, one at a time. Then the ball gag. Not one that would completely seal her mouth; she must be allowed to vocalise in a limited way. The bloodied gloves and the jeans and sweatshirt he’d stuff in separate vinyl bags, remembering first to put on the spare pair of gloves. He’d best double- or triple-bag everything, which meant he’d need to collect a number of bags from convenience stores. Cloth duct tape. Cardboard and thick paper with which to wrap the tip of the ice pick and the blade of the knife. And he’d need something to weigh the bags down when he threw them in the river — divers’ weights would be ideal. Add them to the packages with the ice pick and knife as well. Once everything had been disposed of, it might be saf
est to leave his travel bag near a group of homeless men in a park somewhere. In which case, of course, a Louis Vuitton was out of the question.
The knife and the ice pick he’d buy at separate supermarkets in the suburbs. Preferably on Saturday afternoon or Sunday, when they were at their busiest. Did he need to do a dry run — order up a woman from a different S&M club one time before the big night, to acquaint himself with the procedure? The experience might prove useful, but there was also a slight possibility of danger. What if the first woman and the one to be sacrificed happened to be friends, for example? A long shot, maybe, but why risk it? After all, if any sort of trouble were to occur as a result of his not being familiar with S&M play, he could simply abort.
He had skipped dinner but didn’t feel the least bit hungry, and was wondering why when the telephone rang. It was room service, checking to make sure he didn’t want his bedcovers turned down in spite of the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door. He said he was working and would take care of the bedding himself; to which the clerk replied, in the most courteous tones, that bed service was available around the clock and he should feel free to request it at any time. Kawashima found himself thanking the man for his kindness, and meaning it. It felt as if even people in no way involved in his mission were cheering him on.
Turning back to his notebook, he wrote: In addition to a simple disguise, a bit of misdirection might help. For the hotel workers he’d interact with, maybe something basic like noisily chewing a stick of gum. Speaking with a Kansai accent, coughing frequently, limping slightly — but nothing that might prove counter-productive by leaving too distinct an impression. He’d better think this out carefully. The misdirection was an important point, and not to be ignored when it came to the final stages of the ritual either. He still hadn’t decided upon a cause of death. The most orthodox method would be to strangle her. Strangling held little appeal for him; but if it came to that, he’d prefer to use a wire of thin stainless steel. Cutting her wrists or throat would be a problem in terms of the volume of blood splattered, but on the other hand a gory crime scene would help with the misdirection by pointing the police towards drug addicts or amphetamine users or the mentally ill. He could reinforce that by leaving a note with some sort of incoherent message. According to a magazine article he’d read concerning an actual incident, you could count on such communications employing words like God, Divine Will, radio waves, control, orders, commands, Heaven. He’d combine some of these into a short note. I must do as They command, or, as the radio transmissions command. Behold His Divine Will, or, God spoke to me, or, I dare not disobey my orders, or, I have opened wide the portals of Heaven. One of these, or some combination, would do. He could use the stationery and pen provided by the hotel. Again, no particular need to write with his left hand or otherwise disguise his writing. Just wad the note up and leave it lying in a corner of the room.
