The Gate of Sorrows

by Miyuki Miyabe

  He began examining it closely. It was certainly the sketch Kenji had seen. The long hair was easier to see, and the fact that the figure was facing away.

  “You’re devouring that picture with your eyes just like your friend did,” Masao said.

  “This is supposed to be hair, isn’t it? A human with the wings of a bird. The lines in the background are probably the wind blowing by.”

  “I think it’s rain.”

  Kotaro looked up from the sketch. “Is that what the artist said?”

  “No, that was Kenji’s theory. He thought it looked like a downpour.”

  As though he realized he didn’t have to keep standing, Masao pulled up a chair and clasped his hands in his lap. He peered at Kotaro.

  “Let me ask you something. Are you and your friend really students?”

  What’s this, all of a sudden?

  “Sure—I mean, of course we are.”

  “Is that all you are? Kenji said he worked at Kumar.”

  Kotaro was surprised that Kenji would have disclosed that much. “You’ve heard of Kumar?”

  “It’s well-known in its industry. The president is a woman. That’s unusual.”

  “Yes. Kenji was there when I joined.”

  Masao kept staring at Kotaro thoughtfully. “What is your real purpose here? Are you sure someone didn’t ask you to get information about us?”

  Kotaro blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Masao lowered his gaze and frowned. “If you two really have the skills to work at Kumar, you could dig up anything if you really wanted. Couldn’t you?” His tone implied that Kotaro knew exactly what he was talking about. “We work with a company like Kumar. They monitor what people say about us on the web. Religious organizations are easily misunderstood. We try to be careful, but if someone with an ax to grind wants to spread lies, there’s not a lot we can do.”

  “I think you misunderstand, Mr. Ohba. Kenji and I do work for Kumar. Kenji’s specialty is unofficial school websites. We’re part-timers, but we get the same strict training as full-time employees.”

  Masao was silent.

  “I’m not surprised you’re suspicious about the way we suddenly showed up here, but neither of us are looking for skeletons in your closet. We’re not that kind of people.”

  Masao’s expression was still wary. “I wonder why your friend is missing?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m looking for him.”

  “Maybe because he had something juicy and took off with it? Took it to a higher bidder?”

  “Something … juicy?”

  Kotaro was stuck. This was not going well. He’d have to tell Masao everything. If Kenji gave him a hard time later for being loose-lipped, he’d just have to deal with it. He’d had enough of going in circles trying to gain this man’s trust.

  “Mr. Ohba, I’m going to tell you everything. Could you just listen?”

  Kotaro told Masao everything that had happened so far. The office was quiet. The phone didn’t ring. No one came to the door.

  “I don’t know …”

  Masao drew his hand slowly down over his face and looked at it for a long moment, as if he were expecting to find something there. Finally he dropped it into his lap. “All those people vanishing … it’s eerie, isn’t it?” He looked genuinely unsettled. “I hope nothing’s happened to your friend.”

  He finally seemed to understand. He was more in tune with Kotaro’s feelings than Seigo or Narita had been.

  “I apologize for being so suspicious. It’s just that I have my own reasons for being cautious. Religious organizations often find it difficult to gain people’s trust. If we step out of line for any reason, the media is right there to beat us up. House of Light is not a big organization, and we do have some internal differences of opinion.”

  “Still, you seem pretty open,” Kotaro said. “You had that exhibit at the post office. And that greengrocer just now. You’re having an open house for the neighborhood.”

  Masao laughed wryly. “We try. We have to stay very close to the local community.” He scratched his head awkwardly. “So when your friend Kenji came to the door, he seemed very sincere. Lots of students live around here. I thought he might’ve had an apartment in the neighborhood.”

  Masao had been friendly to Kotaro from the start, too. He was trying to be friendly to everyone.

  “I understand why you’d be suspicious, with me and Kenji showing up like this, asking strange questions about this picture. This was done by a child of one of your members, I guess. Could I meet this child? If I can’t talk to him directly, could you introduce me to his guardian? I really need to get more information. It may give me a hint, even a small one, about where Kenji is. Please.” Kotaro placed his palms flat on the table and bowed deeply.

  “I’m sorry,” Masao said, nonplussed by this request. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Kotaro looked up. Masao’s face was contorted into an expression of genuine discomfort. “The artist is a little girl. She’s only five.”

  So the sketch was by a preschooler after all.

  “She lived with her mother, just the two of them. They were very poor. The mother died of pneumonia without ever seeing a doctor. To make things worse, their utilities were cut off. The girl didn’t even know her mother had died. They found her hungry and cold in an apartment without gas, electricity, or water.”

  Kotaro was stunned. “When did this happen?”

  “They found her on December 6. They think her mother passed away sometime early on the fifth.”

  The little girl had spent the night of the fifth huddled next to her mother, not realizing she was dead, in a room without light or heat.

  “The power was off. The meter reader was worried about them. When he went round to check, no one answered the door.”

  The meter reader contacted the landlord. When they entered the apartment, they found the little girl.

  That is the way of the world. No matter how much you might worry about someone, without the right or the qualifications to help them, you can’t go breaking down the locked doors of cheap apartments. Yet without the formalities that stand in the way of rescuing someone, people can’t be safe. That’s life in the city.

  “Where’s the child now? Is someone taking care of her?”

  Masao looked uncomfortable again. “Fortunately they were able to contact her father. But he’s unwilling to take the child back. It’s not surprising. He runs a busy bar—” As if it sufficed to answer Kotaro’s question, Masao finished the sentence by scrunching up his round nose.

  “If things end there, the child will end up in an orphanage. But the landlord took pity on her. He probably feels guilty that he didn’t realize what was going on. He could’ve done something.” The only thing to do was for the landlord to care for the little girl until her father could be persuaded to take responsibility for her. “The apartment is in Ida, but the landlord lives near here. He’s one of our members.”

  So that’s why you know so much about the little girl.

  “So if I ask the landlord, can I meet her?”

  “I’m sorry, I told you. It’s impossible.” His face darkened. “You see, she hasn’t uttered a word since she was found.”

  The little girl was being taken care of and her health had improved. But she was mute—and most of the time, expressionless.

  “Is that because of the shock of losing her mother?”

  “Well, that has to be part of it, but apparently that’s not the only reason. She never attended nursery school or kindergarten. She had no contact at all with the outside world, so her communication skills never developed. She should be much more communicative for a five-year-old. But she loves to draw. Give her crayons and a sketchbook and she’ll draw all day.”

  Kotaro looked at the sketch of the birdm
an with its long hair and imagined the little girl drawing.

  “She keeps drawing the same thing, over and over.”

  “What?” Kotaro looked up.

  “It’s all she draws. I’ve seen four or five of these pictures myself.”

  “She must’ve seen something that made an impression on her. Or something that frightened her. She’s only five. Something on television, or in a picture book.”

  “No one knows. She won’t say a word.”

  The children’s association was working with the landlord to get the child to start speaking, but so far nothing they’d tried had been successful.

  “Did you tell all this to Kenji?”

  “He was very inquisitive, but no, I didn’t tell him. All I said was that a child of one of our members had drawn it.”

  So Kenji had left empty-handed.

  “He said something interesting, though.” Masao touched the edge of the sketch gently with a fingertip. “He said he thought this was a straightforward depiction of something the girl had actually seen.”

  Kotaro’s eyes opened wide. “She saw this?”

  “I was surprised too. But once he mentioned it, I have to say I tend to agree. Look at the pose. Five-year-old children always draw facing figures.”

  “But don’t they say that if children suffer some kind of trauma, it might be reflected in what they draw? A child like that might draw anything.”

  Masao looked at him with surprise. “I see you know a lot about this. You’re absolutely right. But traumatized children don’t draw accurately proportioned human figures in this sort of pose. They draw distorted figures, or people without faces, like a Japanese monster.”

  “Is this well done, for a five-year-old?”

  “Extremely. That’s why I think there’s something to be said for Kenji’s opinion. The girl saw it and it made a strong impression on her. That’s why she was able to draw it so well.”

  Was that what Kenji meant when he’d said the sketch was fascinating? But where was the connection with Kozaburo Ino and the others who were missing? Such creatures didn’t actually exist. She had obviously seen it somewhere, in a painting or as a sculpture. Was the place where such artwork could be found the key to solving the mystery?

  “Her name is Mana.” Masao traced the Chinese characters on the tabletop. “Ma” from the character for true. “Na” from the character for blossom.

  “Mother and child lived in desperate poverty, but they seem to have been very close. Even now, Mana sometimes seems to be searching for her mother. She doesn’t understand that her mother is dead.”

  “That’s so sad,” Kotaro murmured.

  The phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. It was Seigo. Not a mail; a voice call.

  “Hello, it’s Kotaro.” He waved “sorry” to Masao and went outside to take the call. It was lucky that he did. Seigo got right to the point.

  “They found his phone. It wasn’t off—it was smashed. That’s why we couldn’t get through to him.”

  “Where did they find it?”

  “At the bottom of a gap between an apartment house and another building in Ida. The gap was only about a foot wide. There’s a gas meter back there. The meter reader found it and turned it in at a police box.

  “It was completely crushed. Not working at all. But the police were able to read the data. They called his parents and the office.”

  “I’m surprised they were able to do that.”

  “Some of the younger cops are pretty handy at that kind of thing. Apparently it didn’t look like it was just dropped. And it was found in a strange place. That’s probably why they investigated. Anyway, we’ll be filing a missing-persons report today. I contacted his parents and they asked us to proceed. His father’s coming to Tokyo.”

  “Okay. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

  “Listen Ko-Prime, I don’t know where you are right now, but—”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash. I’m leaving it to the police.” He pressed END and went back inside.

  “Is Ida nearby?” he asked Masao.

  He looked puzzled. “No, it’s a subway stop away from here. I think Ida is near the west exit of Shinjuku Station.”

  “They found Kenji’s smartphone there.” As Kotaro gave him the details, Masao went pale.

  “Mana and her mother lived in Ida. It’s an old section of town. Years and years ago it was nothing but low-rent apartments and little shops, but it’s mostly built up now. There are still a few old apartment houses that for one reason or another were never torn down. There are pockets of the past all around the west side of Shinjuku Station.”

  “Mr. Ohba.” Kotaro sat up straight. “My request still stands. Please let me talk to Mana. I promise not to say anything to frighten her. I give you my word.”

  Masao looked at Kotaro for a long time and said nothing. He stood up.

  The landlord of Asahi House lived in a rambling old mansion that was rare in modern Tokyo, especially so close to Shinjuku’s Imperial Gardens.

  “Kotaro, this is Mr. Nagasaki and his sister, Hatsuko.”

  The landlord was a small, silver-haired old man. He and his sister shared a strong family likeness. Hatsuko’s hair was frosted light purple.

  “Somehow we just can’t seem to turn down a request from you, Mr. Ohba,” Hatsuko Nagasaki said in a slightly sharp tone. She scrutinized Kotaro from behind lenses tinted the color of her hair. “If this means Mana-chan might actually speak, then I suppose there’s nothing we can do but try.”

  “Thank you. I’m grateful,” Masao sounded just as eager as Kotaro to find out if something could be done, if not more.

  “Our little angel artist is drawing right now,” Hatsuko said.

  They left the entryway and walked down a long, winding corridor past a bank of windows that looked out over a sere winter garden. The landlord led the way, slippers flapping on the wood floor.

  If these people are this rich, why didn’t they do something for an impoverished young mother and her child before it was too late? She was your tenant. She was in trouble. Aren’t landlords obliged to do more than just collect rent?

  Kotaro struggled to swallow his anger before it burst into the open. The corridor snaked on interminably, making him feel even worse.

  He knew it wasn’t simple. There was a limit to how much one person can help another. Once you start, you can’t stop. Whom do you help and whom do you abandon? The whole purpose of a social welfare system was to relieve individuals of the need to make those decisions.

  At the end of the corridor was a small room, bright with sunshine. As Nagasaki entered, he clapped his hands lightly and said, “Mana-chan, you have visitors.”

  It was the ideal room for a child, like something out of a childcare magazine. Mana sat on the floor at a little round table, gripping a crayon. The table was scattered with sheets of drawing paper. A woman dressed casually in sweater and jeans sat next to her, also holding a crayon. They were both drawing flowers. The pictures were colorful and full of life.

  “This is Ms. Sato. She’s a childcare specialist.”

  Kotaro bowed slightly to the woman, who acknowledged him with a nod. She looked about thirty. She was plump and gentle-looking, but her eyes followed Kotaro with watchful alertness.

  Kotaro knew that the only reason someone as green as he was had gotten this far was the landlord’s trust in Masao. That trust was based on a special relationship between an officer of a religious organization and a believer. The smallest misstep would put an end to the visit. He had to proceed carefully.

  “Hello,” he said to Mana. The little girl showed no sign of having heard him. She kept drawing. Her fine, bowl-cut hair was pretty. She had an angel’s whorl on the top of her head.

  Her body was tiny. Kotaro wasn’t used to being around children this young, but even he cou
ld see she was smaller than the average five-year-old. She wore a pastel pink sweater and soft jeans with the cuffs rolled up. Her socks were white with red polka dots.

  “This is how she always is,” Nagasaki said. “We can’t even get her attention.”

  “But Mana can hear you just fine.” Ms. Sato smiled.

  Mana had her own room and a dedicated caregiver. Maybe this drastic change in her situation had actually been stressful for her.

  “Will she be going to kindergarten?”

  Kotaro’s question was for Ms. Sato, but Nagasaki answered.

  “She doesn’t seem to be taking to it, and the school said they can’t admit her until she starts talking.”

  “There’s no need to rush her,” Masao said. Perhaps because he didn’t want to crowd the girl, he motioned Nagasaki to join him on the sofa against the wall. It was a small sofa, low to the floor, built for a child.

  Kotaro learned forward and spoke quietly. “Hello, Mana-chan.”

  Mana was drawing leaves with a red crayon and carefully filling them in. She kept her eyes on the paper.

  “Sorry to bother her while she’s drawing,” he said to Ms. Sato in a friendly tone. “Those pictures are very colorful.” Ms. Sato nodded but said nothing.

  “The picture I saw used fewer colors. They were colder colors. If she’s drawing this kind of picture, does that mean she’s starting to recover?”

  “Excuse me. You’re a college student, aren’t you?” The woman addressed him directly for the first time.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you majoring in child psychology?”

  “No. Education.”

  Masao chimed in supportively. “Mr. Mishima isn’t here to do research. He simply wants to know where Mana got the inspiration for those drawings of hers.”

  Ms. Sato raised an eyebrow primly. “And what drawings might those be?”

  Masao had the picture with him. He rose from the sofa and quietly handed it to Ms. Sato. She knitted her brows with a studied expression. “Oh, this …”