He tries to concentrate on the confrontation with Takamatsu. The chief commissioner is keeping his options open, he’s sure of that. Takeda has his duty weapon with him. He’s not sure if it will be enough if he’s forced to use it. He figures they’ll try to kidnap him in the restaurant. They won’t use a sniper to take him out because they want the documents and they’re in a safe place. He just has to wait and see what happens. He stuck his neck into the rope of fate and it became a noose. Only detachment can help in such a situation. Is he capable of detachment? He’s surprised at the amount of sadness and fear that have invaded him. Sadness at the death of his wife, more profound than he could ever have imagined. Fear of failure, kept at bay for as long as he can remember. He asks himself if it was jealousy, greed or just sheer badness that had turned Takamatsu into a corrupt cop. He remembers a conversation with the chief commissioner a couple of years back when the man had just been promoted to Keishi-sei, chief commissioner. His face flushed and red from alcohol, Takamatsu had made an allusion to colleagues who had climbed the career ladder faster than him because they knew “which buttons to push”. Takamatsu was the stiff and proud type and wasn’t prone to such outbursts so the remark had stayed with Takeda. Takeda had been inspector for more than ten years. He took part in exams for Keishi, commissioner, a couple of times and was rejected on both occasions. He’s convinced that it had to do with him not being 100% Japanese, not having pure Japanese blood. There were always hundreds of candidates for promotion, whatever the rank, and competition was stiff to say the least, but with his record of service he should have been promoted.
Abuse is rampant in the ranks. Unions are forbidden and the force is divided into prefectures. A Commission for Public Safety is supposed, in theory, to exercise a control function, but in practice it counts for little. In recent months, the cops on the beat have been complaining about the power of the “desk samurai”, and there’s a clear need for unions, but in the meantime nothing has changed. A small group of bureaucrats rules the roost in the prefectures. Takeda’s heard incredible stories about violent feuds inside the force that have been swept under the carpet. The police big wigs seem to be able to do what they want.
Killing the inspector’s wife to try to discredit him seems extreme, incomprehensible perhaps, but since Takeda heard about the identity of the man behind the name Rokurobei he knows he can’t win this fight. Where was his infamous intuition when confusion and arrogance were his only response to Takamatsu’s gibes about his Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank theory? He should have guessed that something wasn’t right when the chief commissioner overreacted as he did. He should have apologised a thousand times and thanked Takamatsu profusely for preventing him from making an error of judgement that would ruin his career. Instead he had answered back. From that moment onwards he was a marked man.
“The stakes are high,” he says to break the awkward silence in the taxi. “With the information we received from Yori we’ve been able to piece together an outline of the facts. But does it all tally?”
Beate Becht clears her throat. “When I was a teenager I put together a picture of the life of my uncle on the basis of stories I’d heard from family members. He was an SS officer, involved in the death camps. It was only years later that I managed to persuade my father to tell me the whole story. Then I realised that the picture I had in my mind was pretty close to reality.”
Takeda takes a moment to digest what the German photographer has just told him. He figures it’s a mark of confidence on her part, but decides not to pursue it given the circumstances.
“If my interpretation is correct,” he says, “we’re dealing with a criminal fraternity that calls itself the Yuzonsha, which has links with powerful people in different social circles. The leader’s called Rokurobei, and they venerate him because he...”
The taxi driver interrupts. He’s from Pakistan and he’s tired and losing patience. “Wasn’t I supposed to drop the lady here?”
Takeda looks outside. As a precaution he had decided to drop Becht a couple of streets away from the agreed rendezvous with Takamatsu. Beate Becht nods and grabs her bag.
Takeda bites the bullet: “I’m honoured by what you said back there, miss Becht, but I think...”
“I know.” She glances at him and looks away, shy, bashful... “It’s because...”
“I understand. You’re a ravishing young woman with exceptional talents.”
Why all the politeness, Takeda asks himself. This isn’t his usual style.
“Thank you.”
“And very courageous,” says Takeda when Becht gets out of the taxi. “When all this is over...”
The taxi driver hits the accelerator.
88
Hiroshima – Suicide Club squat – Kabe-cho –
Reizo and Rokurobei – night, March 15th 1995
Reizo Shiga involuntarily drops the mask when he sees Rokurobei’s face. The man in front of him has monkey-like features, thick skin and heavy stubble all the way up to his eyes. Reizo has never seen eyes blacker than these or ears so enormous. Without the mask the long neck seems even longer. But in spite of his rugged lips, forehead, nose and jaws, the expression on his face is almost gentle. He smiles. His polished teeth glisten in the lamplight.
“Ah? So you want to look the demon I embody in the eye, boy? Courageous of you.” A pair of unnaturally large hands come to rest on Reizo’s shoulders. “But young Japanese men like you know that demons don’t exist. Am I right? You’re convinced that what you see looks like acromegaly, a metabolic disorder caused by a problem birth.”
Reizo doesn’t answer. The hands hold him motionless. The man’s heavy forehead comes closer. He whispers: “But if you look deep into my eyes you begin to have doubts, don’t you, Reizo Shiga?”
Reizo looks Rokurobei in the eye. He nods.
Rokurobei makes a gesture of appreciation and returns his hefty hand to Reizo’s right shoulder. “A warrior must wake up every morning with the idea that this is his last day. Have you done that, Reizo Shiga?”
Shiga’s voice is hoarse: “No. But I always wanted to.”
“Just like the rest. Plenty of good intentions, but no follow through.” There’s sarcasm in the voice. The man seems to be enjoying his role, but Reizo has a feeling he also means what he says. He’s reminded of a psychiatrist his father forced him to visit a number of years back when he was suffering from extreme fear of failure: split personalities think they’re playing a role and do so with great conviction and pleasure. They don’t realise that they’re playing their role so seriously they can no longer distinguish between their own personality and the one they are playing.
Reizo Shiga doesn’t understand how it’s possible that Mitsuko’s father wants to kill him for a completely different reason than the kidnapping of his daughter. He accepts, not without a little pride, that he is a plaything in the hands of fate. The realisation allows an inner energy to rise to the surface, an energy he had always suspected was present deep inside him. In the limp and deceitful society Japan had become, he had never been given the chance to develop it. A sudden insight makes him hold his breath, tells him how to revenge himself against this man and his insult who is about to rob him of his life. Rokurobei looks at his watch, an absurd everyday gesture that doesn’t square with his fearsome appearance: “The question is: has a black sheep among the present generation ever heard of eiyo? Or is a sense of honour too old fashioned?”
“I repeat: I spoke the truth as a man of honour: I know nothing about my uncle,” says Shiga. “I severed contact with my family years ago.”
“This changes nothing, you understand, even if it is the truth. You’ve seen my face. You can identify me.” The man smiles, his voice melodious like an actor in a mugen no play full of ghosts and spirits: “This is the moment at which the supernatural world interferes with everyday reality. Take a look at the imagined reality flourishing between
us.”
Reizo hangs his head. He knows that the man’s words are meaningful, but in reality he knows nothing about Noh theatre, he just likes the masks. In his imagined reality he’s a sensitive artist, a great writer, but in truth he’s just a sick young man with limited horizons. He looks up and grits his teeth: “If you plan to kill me I demand an honourable death.” A feeble smile: “In honour of the real emperor of Japan.”
“Oh? Are we that old fashioned?”
Reizo looks the giant in the eye and manages a crooked smile.
“An honourable death. To give a little lustre to that lustreless life of yours?”
Reizo refuses to look away.
“Do you have the courage to follow your teacher Mishima?”
Reizo doesn’t answer but takes off his shirt and gets to his knees. Rokurobei sizes him up. He stands upright, pulls a long steel knife from a sheath under his coat. Reizo notices the western clothing for the first time. It seems inappropriate for a man like this, a ghost of Japan’s feudal past. In his mind’s eye, Reizo Shiga pictures Mishima in full military uniform. How many times has he wanted to die this way after coming down from a bad trip with so much adrenaline in his body his heart could barely cope? In those moments of torture he prayed not to have to die the death of an insignificant junky, foaming at the mouth.
Reizo Shiga realises that his prayers have been answered. “Mishima committed seppuku because his coup d’état was a failure. I choose to do so because it is the better death,” he says softly.
Rokurobei snaps his fingers. One of the men hands him a sheath containing a katana that belonged to Shiga’s grandfather, the handsome shiny sword he had used earlier that day to make an impression on Mitsuko. Rokurobei tests its balance. Reizo Shiga monitors his expert movements. “I’m ready to be your attendant,” says the mafia boss. The man hands him the knife. He takes no risks: the ceremonial sword blade is pointed at Reizo’s throat. He steps back and to the side. His bodyguards are nearby, their weapons cocked and pointing at Reizo. It would be very hard to attempt to kill the man with a throw of the knife.
Reizo isn’t planning to do that. His thoughts are elsewhere. He remembers all those times in his life meditating with a knife against his navel, imagining the instant of suicide, glorying in it.
A final moment of hesitation takes hold of him, a perplexing knot deep inside.
He concentrates on the blade and on his hatred of the world that has had him in a stranglehold for so long. Reizo Shiga accumulates that hatred in every cell of his body. He breathes it out with a hissing sound as he drives the blade into his belly. It’s less painful than he had imagined. It feels cold, like an ice pick. Rokurobei moves closer and lifts up the sword to decapitate him. Reizo’s hands are warm and wet from the blood. He feels dizzy, then a ringing like tiny silver bells fills his ears .
“I lied,” says Rokurobei. “That’s all part of the theatre of life, neh? I take your life, Reizo Shiga, to punish your father.”
Reizo Shiga looks up at the giant figure leaning over him. His eyes glisten as if they’re made of metal: “I didn’t tell you the truth either. That’s all part of the way I am. I’ve hidden your daughter in a secret place. When I die, she shall die. By killing me, you have killed her. That is your unmei.”
He sees the surprise in Rokurobei’s face. The giant lowers the sword that – according to the classical rules of ritual suicide – should have delivered the final blow to the neck. He leans closer, intent on pulling the knife from the young man’s belly. Reizo beats him to it, yanks the blade from the wound and thrusts it, this time without hesitation, into his own heart.
89
Hiroshima – on the way to Adachi’s apartment –
Yori and Adachi – night, March 15th 1995
In the car Yori won’t shut up. Perhaps she thinks that Dr Adachi is good at listening to women because he’s gay. But Adachi isn’t comfortable in the presence of women. He hides his distrust behind old fashioned politeness. He listens to Yori’s monologue about her “miserable life” with apparent patience. Yori considers herself to be part of the “underground Japan” that for decades has had nothing to do with the economic miracle the world gets to see. The underground Japan is the Japan that exists outside the beehive mentality, Yori rattles. Both her parents were children when they dropped the bomb. They didn’t live far from the epicentre of the explosion. They survived a ridiculously heavy dose of radiation, but struggled to get by after that and died of cancer within weeks of each other. Her sister wanted to be a singer for as long as she could remember. She was sure she had talent. To prepare herself for her career, in which she believed with all her heart, in spite of opposition from her parents who insisted that they were just ordinary people trying to make ends meet, Yori’s sister developed anorexia. She kept it secret until her sixteenth birthday when her periods stopped and osteoporosis set it. They put her in an institution for the mentally disturbed where she managed to defeat her anorexia with heavy medication, although she cut it fine. She now works at a local supermarket. “We don’t talk,” says Yori as Adachi’s apartment appears in the distance. “She lives the existence of a bee.”
The police doctor nods. He’s tired. He tries to run over the draft of their plan in his head. It all seemed so clear back in the bar, but now all he can think about is the deformed baby in cold storage in the basement of police headquarters and the chrysanthemum on its heel.
The imperial sign. Adachi shakes his head. Apparently, there’s more to “underground Japan” than just the poor and the simple. Yori misinterprets his head movement: “But she’s happy now, has a couple of kids. And you know what?” Yori laughs. “She’s fat as a pig. And look at skinny me.” She starts to talk faster and faster, her eyes fixed on the road ahead: “Did I show you my tattoos? They’re...”
Yori suddenly covers her eyes with her hand. Adachi turns into his street. “I lied,” she sighs. “Mitsuko didn’t give me the documents. I’m always skulking around, ready to strike if there’s a profit to be made. I saw where she hid her things. When I woke up in the Suicide Club and she wasn’t there I wanted to run because I knew Reizo would be intent on revenge for the humiliation we had dealt him. I stole her money and snatched the documents in the process. From what she had told me I figured they might bring in a bit of cash. I’m a thief and a coward for leaving her behind. But you don’t know Reizo, all the things he can... The rest is true, I swear. She really did tell me who her father is!”
90
Hiroshima – Suicide Club squat –
Kabe-cho – Rokurobei – night, March 15th 1995
Rokurobei spits on Reizo Shiga’s corpse: “Search the place from top to bottom.” The sweat on his forehead glistens like mercury. His bodyguards notice that their leader is rambling to himself, nothing unusual when he’s under great pressure. “I don’t believe that lunatic. But I can’t deny he was a member of Aum Shinrikyo. And I gave the sect members orders to look out for my daughter. The proximity of death cleared his mind. He thought he could hurt me. But I want to be sure. Track down the other members of the Suicide Club. On the double. I want to hear what they have to say. I want to know if Mitsuko was here.”
Rukorobei’s mobile phone rings. He pulls out the clumsy contrivance’s antenna.
“Moshi moshi … The connection is poor, Takamatsu… What? When?… He has the documents? Make sure he’s still there when I arrive... No, don’t argue, I’m not in the mood.”
“Heika,” says one of his ex-military associates. He still refers to the mafia boss with the unofficial term for his majesty. Rokurobei forbad it, but old habits die hard. The man is pointing his torch at the right hand wall of the room. “Look.”
The words Deep in our hearts we all want to be like Reizo Shiga are spray-painted on the wall in large letters.
91
Hiroshima – Funairi Hospital – Xavier Douterloigne
–
night, March 15th 1995
He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel on the hospital stairs.
He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel in the hospital corridors.
He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel on the corridor that leads to his room.
He keeps his eyes closed, as he has done for the last few days.
The guardian angel opens the door to his room.
The guardian angel approaches his bed.
His heart is fit to burst. Tears stream from his closed eyelids.
He wants to ask where she has been all this time.
He wants to ask her why everything happened as it did.
He wants to know the origins of suffering.
And the meaning of the future.
He wants to take one of her feathers and tickle himself, so that he can laugh, in spite of everything, in defiance of himself and this world.
To do that he has to open his eyes.
And see who she is.
92
Hiroshima – Denny’s Diner – Takeda, Takamatsu
and Rokurobei – night, March 15th 1995
Denny’s Diner stays open late into the night. At this hour the place is full of youngsters stuffing themselves after a night on the town. They’re wearing every colour of the rainbow; some are unnaturally quiet and shiftless, others are over-excited and noisy.
By arriving too early, Takeda is taking a risk. What if Takamatsu sticks his neck out and sends an arrest squad to keep an eye on the diner? The inspector is counting on the documents he has in his possession being sufficient bait to prevent Takamatsu from doing anything of the sort. He catches sight of Beate Becht in a booth in the non-smoking area – as agreed – and opts for a booth diagonally opposite without making eye contact. The restaurant’s half-moon shape and the semi-open booths make it easy for them to keep an eye on one another. They don’t exchange glances. Becht has just been served a portion of saimin, a soup with noodles, ham and fishcakes, originally a Hawaiian plate, but en vogue with the young crowd. The waiter is a young man with straight hair and sparkling glasses. He’s exaggeratedly jovial. Takeda orders a simple grilled chicken , tsukemono as a side-dish. He realises that he’s hungry, in spite of everything. He’s about to finish his pickled vegetables and chicken when Takamatsu walks into the restaurant. Takeda watches the chief commissioner look round, take note of the interior and the customers. He seems self-assured. He walks towards Takeda, his pace measured. Takeda has spent most of the evening trying to work out how to appear angry at the death of his wife in an effort to convince Takamatsu that he’s confused, upset, scared. Now that his chubby superior is standing in front of him with that familiar arrogant look on his face, anger comes easy. He looks Takamatsu in the eye. The chief commissioner stares back unruffled, as if he demands respect for his rank even in this situation. Takeda hunts for a crack in his armour but finds none. For one reason or another, Takamatsu still considers himself master of the situation, in spite of being forced onto the defensive. At the last moment the inspector changes strategy. Takeda gives his sorrow free reign and hopes that the commissioner will notice: “Was it necessary to get my wife involved in this? She’s never harmed a fly.”
Return to Hiroshima Page 22
