“What were you doing with my fiancé? Seducing her with your Western talk?” Xavier assumes that Reizo is playing a role and isn’t quite sure if he believes in it himself.
“I’ve only just arrived in the city,” he says. “I met Yori on the street. She gave me some tips, that’s all. I’m Belgian.” If Yori was telling the truth, Reizo is an extreme nationalist. Xavier doesn’t want him thinking he’s an American. Reizo ignores the information, grabs Xavier’s nose and pinches it hard. “Tips? On how better to fuck her?” Another bad sign. The Japanese don’t talk about sex in public, except when they’re drunk.
Reizo’s companion pulls out a hard plastic container from between his feet. He opens it. Xavier can’t see the contents. His nose hurts. He has to stay calm. He tries his old trick again. “Why would I do that? I’m gay.”
Did Reizo even hear him in the state he’s in? He surprises Xavier by pointing at the print on Xavier’s T-shirt: speaking is NOT communication. “I don’t believe you. I was watching you. You wanted to stick your pale chinko into her, you dirty yarichin.”
Now that Reizo has called him a male slut in the presence of his companion, Xavier knows there’s no way back. Reizo has to take revenge on Xavier to save his honour. Xavier tries not to panic.
“Not at all, I...”
He’s suddenly blinded by a punch to the face. He can feel his lips swell up and his nose start to bleed. He tries not to groan or whimper. Luckily, Reizo is already taken by a new thought. Xavier can see the muscles of his jaw contracting.
“Has the baita told you I’m a writer?” Harlot? Yori can expect to share in Reizo’s aggression. Xavier tries flattery again. “Yes. You’re working on a novel that’s going to create uproar in Japan.” Xavier can tell by Reizo’s face that he’s gone too far, and quickly adds: “A visionary novel that’ll cause controversy the world over.”
Reizo seems to relax a little. “That’s right. It’ll be convincing. Conviction, that’s what other writers lack, even Mishima. I break all the conventional rules. Mishima spent his whole life practising for death. But times have changed. I’m going to practise on others, to perfect the art of a beautiful, dramatic death before my turn comes. I’m the writer who’s set to assert the superiority of Japanese youth. The older generation shall bow down to us!”
Xavier doesn’t know what to make of this ranting young man. They’re both roughly the same age, but Reizo has no work and no future. He’s starting to realise that his “innocent charm” is having no effect on the aspiring Japanese writer. The frustration is showing on Reizo’s face. Wiping the sweat from it with his forearm, he suddenly looks ill. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol is probably making him nauseous. His narrow face and his hair, bleached almost white and brushed into spikes, makes him look a little like a doll. The full, pouting lips, the delicate forehead, the small nose and dainty nostrils; Xavier has always been able to pick up subtle signs of homosexuality. It wouldn’t surprise him if Reizo was gay, just like his idol Mishima. Mishima was married with children, but couldn’t survive without the love of men.
“The success that this American Ellis is having with his American Psycho,” Reizo continues contemptuously, “Crap! Hacking, stabbing, vaporising – anyone can do that. Not a single original murder in the whole book.”
Xavier is still trying to humour Reizo: “I agree. It’s a worthless novel. Flimsy... nihilistic.” Xavier hasn’t even read American Psycho; he’s only read about it. Reizo pulls down the corners of his mouth. He’s trying to give his face the determined expression of a Japanese warrior. Xavier would usually laugh at such a cliché, but he’s growing increasingly concerned. He can’t figure this young man. Is it an act, or does Reizo really believe in his worldview, loosely constructed around half-understood role models and his own death-wish?
“One of the characters in my novel gets bitten by an Irukandji. I want to write an accurate description of the long death-struggle that follows.” Now he’s sounding sober. His gaze travels to Xavier’s stomach. Before Xavier can react, or even fully understand the meaning of the words, Reizo nods to his companion, who carefully removes a water-filled plastic bag from the container. He hands it to Reizo, who slowly lifts it close to Xavier’s face. A small jellyfish is floating in the bag, its four tentacles about five centimetres long. The light-green creature is so pale that Xavier can hardly see it. It looks weak and fragile, like a glob of snot in water.
“Such a sensitive animal,” Reizo says. “So delicate, it dies if you carry it around in a glass tank. One bump against a hard glass wall and it falls apart. But the poison in those tiny tentacles will probably kill you. You can’t be certain, it depends on the circumstances. But there’s no doubt you’ll suffer horribly. You’ll feel as if your body is bursting, your guts exploding. It’ll be a struggle between life and death. That struggle is your task. Mine, to observe it, and write what I see.”
Xavier barely grasps the torrent of words coming from the young madman’s mouth. His brain refuses to believe that this is real.
“If you survive, I grant you the right to avenge yourself,” Reizo continues in all seriousness. “You know my name. You know what I look like. I wish you luck.”
“Wait, I…”
Reizo rips open Xavier’s shirt. He carefully pours the water with the jellyfish onto his chest. Xavier tries to wriggle free, but his hands are tied with tape. He feels a slight sting. He braces himself for the pain, but it doesn’t come.
It was a lie, after all. Xavier has never heard of an Irukandji. It must have been a tasteless prank. In a minute, Yori will pop her head around the door and they’ll laugh about it together.
Reizo stands, smiling: “I forgot to tell you that the symptoms only start setting in after about an hour. We’ll leave you alone until then, to give you time to fool yourself into thinking you can beat the poison. Should be interesting.”
The young men head towards the back of the van. With the deliberation of a film noir actor, Reizo turns his head and says: “In the time you have left to think, before your brains are fried, reflect on this: you thought you could have her, but she’s had you. She spent days looking for a suitable victim for my literary experiment. Such an obedient woman, Yori, very loyal to my ideals – she will never love anyone more than me.”
25
Hiroshima – the Suicide Club squat – Kabe-cho –
Mitsuko’s sleepless night – night, March 13th/14th 1995
I remember my blood running cold when the miniature camera was disconnected. I left the room, not quite sure what to do next, and made my way down the crumbling staircase. The red lamps that had marked the way for the Yuzonsha members were still lit. The dark silhouettes of the Hashima buildings reminded me of an old story by the imperial lady in waiting Murasaki Shikibu, who wrote almost 1,000 years ago about houses absorbing gloom and hatred more easily than happiness and love. This had never been a beautiful island, just a lump of rock on top of a subterranean world of coal. The companies that erected these apartment blocks had been driven by the brute force of profit, and the whole island reflected this.
I wandered through the ruins in a strange stupor. I’d talk my way out, this wasn’t the first trick I’d played on him – my father seemed to enjoy this cat and mouse game between us, albeit secretly. But the tricks and games weren’t my biggest concern. What worried me most was that he had developed some, if not all, of the characteristics of Rokurobei. The snake-necked demon Rokurobei is also called the King of Lies. His speech had been nothing more than a carefully formulated distortion of reality. Under certain circumstances, Rokurobei has the ability to read the thoughts of anyone within his range of influence, something the Ancients described as “seeing into the soul”. Had my father just reached inside my soul?
I heard a fluttering sound behind me, the sound crows make when they fight over a piece of garbage, or out of boredom.
Someone was standi
ng behind me on the path I had followed without thinking. He was shorter than me, by a head at least, and was standing still. I turned and walked towards him without stopping to think, my hands concealed in my wide sleeves.
I had almost reached him when the man bowed low, in the way expected of underlings. I knew then he wasn’t a Yuzonsha. “Ohimesama, it is an honour to meet you.” From this distance I noticed to my surprise that he was quite young, probably younger than me. He had an open face, and there was a hint of sensitivity in his eyes, or so I thought.
“Who are you?” I asked abruptly, unable to hide my self-consciousness. He had addressed me as Ohimesama – Princess – without even a trace of sarcasm. Though shorter than me, he was tall for a Japanese man. Long legs, a short trunk, sinewy arms. His eyes drew my attention: the usual Japanese skin fold was less obvious and it made him appear more Korean than Japanese.
“Hidetoshi Inaba, madam.”
“Where are you from?” I sounded like a policewoman. I was tense, on my guard, keeping my hands up my sleeves. But I couldn’t avoid the impression that the boy was sincere, cheerful, I don’t know why.
His “madam” brought home my elevated and cloistered existence. It made me feel uneasy, as if my best years were already behind me.
“Nagasaki.”
“What brings you here?” I knew it was a stupid question. Hashima was officially deserted. Only the boats of my father’s organisation moored here, and always at night.
“I’m a sailor,” he announced with pride.
“On one of my father’s boats?”
He nodded, smiling radiantly, like a child seeing its first butterfly.
It didn’t take me long to find out he was sixteen. He’d run away from his parents six months ago, but remained vague about the reason. Nothing he said about it has stuck in my memory, except for one sentence: “I was living as if in a deep sleep or trance, now I’m awake.”
What a strange boy. But from the first, there was something about him I can only describe as “romantic”, a quality that seemed to be shining down on him from above like a beacon of light. His smile was surprisingly frank and open. He soon appeared at his ease, and there was no sign of that sidelong look of reverential awe I would get from the other seamen on the rare occasions we met. He talked a lot and with great enthusiasm. Before I knew it, we were sitting together in the rubble. Grinning with pride, he produced a flask of spirits from his back pocket and cautiously offered me a drink. The stuff scorched my stomach like sunburn, then a comforting glow took its place. He said he didn’t want to live like his parents, working in the shipyards of Nagasaki. “I love music. When I hear a certain kind of music, something in me changes, I grow, and the world gets smaller.” Later, when I used his name, he said: “I’d prefer if you called me “Crow”, that’s what my shipmates call me. What may I call you?” His smile was so inviting that I allowed him without hesitation to call me Mitsuko. He was hoping to save enough money to go to a conservatory. “I like rap and all that, it’s not that I’m not modern, but the classical composers… Wow. It’s not just their music, though that’s impressive enough. But their lives; they were so –” he cast around for the right word – “exalted”. I was watching him closely, thinking he had also found the right word to describe his own inner life. By “classical”, I assumed he meant Western composers, but didn’t ask, afraid of appearing ignorant. I felt comfortable with him, something that never happened with other people. I found myself wondering if he thought I was ugly, but the way he looked at me didn’t seem to suggest it. I sensed something like admiration in him; or, more accurately perhaps, respect. Strangely enough, our age difference – his sixteen years, my twenty – wasn’t a problem. Doggedly independent from his early youth, he told me he’d always gone his own way, spending hours at the public library. “Libraries calm me down. Quite an achievement, in my case.” His mercurial energy was captivating. In his company I felt normal.
I can’t recall the reason he gave for leaving, but I do remember the way we said goodbye. He bent down and kissed my hand like an eighteenth-century composer would have done. Before I knew it, we’d agreed to meet again two days later, when the boat he was working on would be back.
I’d only walked a dozen steps or so when a shadow fell over me. I knew who it was.
I stopped, head bowed.
The noise the shadow uttered was like the mocking screech of a crow.
26
Hiroshima – the canal behind the Genbaku Dome –
Beate Becht and Xavier Douterloigne – night, March 13th/14th 1995
Beate Becht always carries a camera, even when she’s out for a stroll at night. She’s marching along the canal behind the Genbaku Dome at a speed even she thinks is slightly Teutonic. Going for a walk in the middle of the night seemed like a good idea at first. A powerful wind is lashing the river. Beate is on her guard. Is that down to her upbringing, her personality, her genes? She’s read that Japan is one of the safest countries on earth for foreigners. From the canal she can see the boulevards, the rivers and the city’s industrial zone. It’s very different from the densely populated city centre she walked through yesterday, full of neon, noise and smells. Near the ruins of the Genbaku Dome, a grim reminder of Hiroshima’s war history, all is quiet. Pools of shadow drift underneath the willows lining the river bank. The benches along the canal, occupied late into the evening by courting young couples not bothered by the dome’s grim perimeter fence, are deserted at this hour. Beate looks to the right. The water of the Aioi River is black. She remembers reading descriptions of the river from shortly after the atom bomb, when it was littered with corpses as brittle as burnt wood. A large firefly, pale as moonlight, skims over the water’s surface. Beate aims her lens and shoots, even though the half-light and the ghostly insect’s abrupt changes of direction have almost certainly rendered the result useless. The firefly makes her think of the genbaku obake, the spirits of the nuclear victims: unmistakably present, difficult to capture.
Further down the riverbank she notices a van, a VW, more hidden than parked between the willows. The colourful painting on its side attracts her attention. She approaches it slowly, her curiosity more powerful than her sense of caution. The manga painting depicts a white-haired girl with the face of a child and large, innocent eyes, dressed in a pleated school skirt and thigh length boots. Her underpants are down around her knees. Her breasts dotted with droplets of sweat dangle from her schoolgirl blouse. She’s being taken from behind by a red-skinned demon with a white, spongy head, lumpy and misshapen like an enormous turnip, and eyes that look both wild and sad. The demon’s massive penis has been painted over with metallic squares, but the girl’s vagina is depicted in great detail, with an exaggerated bulge and fluid dripping in abundance. The van seems abandoned. Reassured, Beate searches for the best angle to take pictures of the scene. The camera flashes twice.
She’s startled by a thud. She turns and walks away. Two thuds. A third. A drumming sound against metal.
Then she hears shouting, in Japanese. The voice sounds desperate.
She quickens her pace.
The voice switches to Dutch. Beate worked with a female midget from Amsterdam once, a highly intelligent and charming model who’d overcome the fact that she – as she put it – was imprisoned in a body not much taller than a metre. One evening, after an exhausting photo session in which Beate had locked her in a cage among the stray cats and dogs at a local kennel, the woman hit the bottle and had one drink too many. At three o’clock in the morning, she peered down at Beate from an attic bar, fixed her with bleary eyes and whispered: “Help. Help me.” Beate hears the same words now.
* * *
Xavier has managed to crawl to the side of the van and is kicking against it with both feet. Again, and again. He’s shouting, without even knowing what. The urge for life that he seemed to have lost for a while after Anna has come back with a ve
ngeance. His mind is deflating like a balloon, focusing down on that one desire. It feels like drowning. Is he imagining things, or did he hear something? He takes a deep breath, his throat raw from yelling.
“Wie sind Sie, bitte?” A woman’s voice.
It sounds distant, as if a stretch of water is in the way. No time to think.
“Hilfe!”
* * *
Looking back later, Beate will marvel at her own decisiveness. Now, she’s acting on instinct. She can hear a man’s voice with a Dutch accent screaming for help in her native German. She tugs at the back door. It’s locked. She looks in through the window on the driver’s side. Something’s moving behind the seat. The riverbank is covered with smooth stones. She grabs one, and then on second thoughts grabs another. She hurls a stone at the driver’s window. Nothing. She lifts the heavier one, takes a few steps backwards this time, and throws it with all her strength. A crack. She runs back to the shore, pumped with adrenalin. She’s not thinking of the consequences of her actions, convinced that the man in the van needs help. She grabs the heaviest stone she can find, and this one smashes the glass. Reaching inside carefully she pushes the handle of the door. It swings open. She gets in, wriggles to the back of the van between the two front seats. It’s empty, except for a strapped figure on the floor.
27
Hiroshima – the Suicide Club squat – Kabe-cho –
Mitsuko’s sleepless night – night, March 13th/14th 1995
My father used to say: we are the future, they are the past.
My father used to say: of course you’re not human, you’re more than human. Cloaked in his protective armour of fevered activity and revenge, he made me feel invisible. I thought no one could see me – me, Mitsuko, the woman inside this shell.
Return to Hiroshima Page 8
