Tetsuo stepped in front of me. “It is never easy to punish a brother,” he said sincerely. “But as always, we will carry out our sacred duty with tears in our eyes and resolve in our hearts. When we are done, Haruki will rejoin his mother school."
Tetsuo turned on me then, the light catching as a sparkle in his eyes. The first clenched fist met my face, and I felt the hot explosion of blood from my nose. The next fist slammed into my gut, doubling me over. The third buried itself in my kidneys, making me wet myself uncontrollably. I fell to my knees.
Tetsuo stepped away and let the next member of the Mainstream Society take his place. He waited until I had regained my footing and hit me again and again and again. Then the next member stepped forward, and the next, and the next. When the pain was so blinding I could no longer see to stand, they kicked me where I lay.
The Mainstream Society finally finished their work, and I fought the darkness that threatened to swallow me. With my last ounce of energy, I raised my head to glare at Tetsuo. I wanted him to see my eyes, to know that not even a clenched-fist punishment was going to sway me.
I knew he had committed murder, and I was going to prove it.
"Now,” Tetsuo announced, “I call forth the eleven members of the Executive Council to deliver their punishments."
* * * *
I awoke to the sound of a crackling, popping fire. The stone floor below me was cold and hard, but it was nothing compared to the thousand places on my body that screamed in agony. I shifted and let out an audible moan.
"Oh, Haruki! Haruki, are you awake?"
I recognized the voice of my friend Kenji. He placed a palm to my face, and I winced.
"The bath is almost ready. It was all I could think to do—"
I worked my eyes open and saw Kenji stuffing more kindling into the stone oven underneath one of the baths. He scrambled to find something more to feed the fire and perfunctorily patted his robes, finding a scrap of paper, which he wadded into a ball and stuffed in among the glowing embers.
Kenji helped me off with my bloodstained uniform and lowered me into the bath. It was hard to tell where the scalding water began and my flaming bruises ended, but soon the hot bath was working its magic on my sore body.
Beside me, Kenji was on the verge of tears.
"I'm so sorry,” Kenji whispered. “This has all been a huge mistake."
"No,” I told him. “I did go to a brothel two nights ago."
"Haruki!"
"I went to a brothel,” I interrupted, “but not for the reason Tetsuo would have the Mainstream Society believe. I went for information about Nakamura's death."
Kenji looked to the ground. “But ... Nakamura committed suicide."
"No. I didn't think so from the start, and now I'm sure."
I grunted, trying to straighten my right arm. Something popped, and I screwed my eyes shut against the pain.
Kenji dabbed a wet cloth on my forehead. “What makes you think Nakamura's death was not seppuku?” he asked.
"Someone wanted it to look like ritual suicide, but it wasn't ... it wasn't right. There were little things. He pitched backward, not forward."
"Does that matter?"
The throbbing in my arm subsided, back to the general level of the excruciating pain everywhere else.
"When my father committed seppuku, he fell forward after cutting himself open. He collapsed on his empty belly."
Kenji's ministrations paused, and we let the matter of my father's suicide pass without further comment.
"Is that all?” Kenji asked.
I shook my head. “The cut was jagged, as though he had hacked his way across his stomach and up into his chest. When my father killed himself, he was only able to cut half as much, and he was a grown man, a trained samurai. Nakamura was a boy of sixteen, and a frail one at that."
"Frail but fierce,” Kenji reminded me. “And he was using a kitchen knife, not a wakizashi."
I nodded at both points, though it literally pained me to do so. Kenji was right—in the short time Nakamura had been at Ichiko, the first-year boy had proven his fighting spirit again and again. And the knife that was used was hardly a samurai short-sword. But there was something else, another reason why I was sure Nakamura hadn't committed seppuku. I saved that for later.
"His death poem,” I told Kenji, “it made it sound like he killed himself over the guilt he felt for visiting brothels. Like he could no longer live with his shame."
"That's what the police said. They checked registers at brothels throughout Yoshiwara. They found his name everywhere."
"Yes, he visited many brothels only once, but there was one he visited again and again. The police didn't interview the girl he visited there, but I did. I paid for a night with her, and a few questions was all it took to understand. The girl he was visiting was a prostitute, but she wasn't his lover, Kenji. She was his sister."
Kenji looked shocked. “She told you that?"
I nodded. “Her family sold her to the house many years ago, before Nakamura came to school here. He knew she was in Tokyo, and after tracking her down, he began to visit her regularly."
Kenji sat back, his eyes wide. “Did she tell you anything else?"
"Nothing. But whoever murdered him knew he went to the Floating World frequently—and used that as an excuse for his suicide."
"You really think someone at Ichiko killed Nakamura?"
"Yes. And I think I know who. Tetsuo."
"The head of the Mainstream Society?"
"The clenched fist is almost proof. I came too close to the truth."
Kenji sat back on his heels. “Well, I hope it worked. I hope this punishment puts you off this silly inquiry for good."
"On the contrary,” I said, pulling myself up out of the water. “It has only strengthened my resolve."
Kenji moved to help me. “You can't be serious! Haruki, don't be a fool. Tetsuo could ... He could kill you too! And why should you care so much anyway? Nakamura was a baka."
My body cried out again as I lowered it to the ground. I knew Nakamura had been unpopular, even among the boys in his year. His “fighting spirit” had gotten him into brawls with half a dozen boys, seniors and first-years alike. Kenji was right—Nakamura was a fool. That made it even more difficult to explain, so I didn't try.
"I don't know. I just do."
Kenji wrapped me in a towel. “It was lucky you were the one who found the body, then,” he said, although from his tone he meant just the opposite. Kenji had been my best friend since our middle-school days, and I knew it hurt him almost as much as me to see me in pain. Almost.
"I'll get him, Kenji,” I promised, wincing as I tried to stand. “I'll get him."
* * * *
At dawn I skipped the optional morning baseball practice and went instead to the school doctor. Under the circumstances, I thought the team would understand. The doctor, a timid, sickly looking man named Otoka, was ready and waiting when I arrived. He wore large round glasses, and as he saw to my injuries, not once did he ask how I had covered half my body with bruises, sprained my left arm, and broken two ribs, a nose, and a finger. Together we pretended I had come to him with nothing more troubling than a cold, and our quiet conspiracy continued as he wrapped, splinted, and bandaged me. As Headmaster Kinoshita reminded us again and again, we at Ichiko, the First Higher School of Tokyo, were the future leaders of Japan. Our dorm was a training ground for statehood. We students were responsible for disciplining ourselves—no matter how far we went.
Otoka-san dismissed me with a nervous, wordless bow, and I found myself in the courtyard, with half an hour left before the first bell. The team would still be practicing, but I didn't feel like facing the baseball field again just yet. It wasn't just last night's clenched-fist ceremony; three days ago I had been the first to morning baseball practice, and the first to discover the eviscerated body of Toshihiro Nakamura in that gruesome mockery of seppuku.
But why the baseball field? If Nakamura didn't d
ie by his own hand, why had his killer left him there? Was it just so he would be found early the next day?
An idea occurred, and I checked the clock tower. Just enough time to visit the dining hall that bordered the baseball field.
The students assigned to breakfast duty were busy cleaning up the kitchen when I arrived.
"It's too late for food!” one of them said testily. No one liked cafeteria duty. When the students had demanded better food, the headmaster had fired the cooks and handed control of the kitchen over to us. Another “training ground for statehood.” Now each of us worked four shifts a month, cooking, serving, or cleaning.
"I'm just here to check the schedule,” I told them. They grumbled and got back to work.
The schedule for the next day was already posted, but what I wanted was the duty roster for four nights ago—the night before Nakamura was found sliced open on the baseball field behind the cafeteria. I flipped back through the pages until I found the dinner shift I wanted. Three students had been assigned dinner clean-up duty, the last shift of the night, but one of the names was crossed out.
And in its place was written the name of Toshihiro Nakamura.
* * * *
"Who are you?” Tetsuo demanded.
The boy got tongue-tied, and Tetsuo cuffed him.
"Who are you?"
"I am a son of Ichiko,” the boy warbled. Tetsuo was harassing a first-year in the bathroom, and I slipped in quietly behind them.
"What is your name?"
"My name is Ichiko."
"Where do you come from?"
"My body and soul were formed in the womb of Ichiko."
"Why are you here?"
"To go to the bathroom,” the first-year said, cowering even as he uttered the line. He wasn't quick enough, and Tetsuo's rap caught him hard on the ear. The senior raised a fist to strike again.
"Reminds you of Nakamura, doesn't he?” I interrupted.
Tetsuo froze, then slapped the boy in the face. “Don't ever insult Ichiko like that again,” he warned the first-year. The boy took that as dismissal, half bowing and half dashing out the door.
"What is your name?” Tetsuo asked me.
"Don't pull that stuff with me, Tetsuo. I'm not some first-year you can push around anymore. Second-years and third-years are equals."
Tetsuo harrumphed and went to the sinks to wash up.
"Ever since Nakamura talked back, these first-years have gotten uppity,” he said.
"Bothers you, does it?"
Tetsuo stared at me in the mirror. “Yes. It should bother you too. Every boy at Ichiko should take pride in his school."
"Or else?"
"Or else."
I grunted in pain as I pushed myself off the wall where I leaned. “Or else you'll do to them what you did to Nakamura?"
Tetsuo dried his hands and turned. “And just what did I do to Nakamura?"
"Well, to start with, you bullied him."
"So? I bully everybody. I picked on Nakamura for the same reasons I picked on you and everyone else. You were first-years. You had to be taught respect."
"Nakamura was your pet project,” I said, drawing close. “After he showed you up that day in the bathroom, you beat him senseless. That should have been enough, but even after that you tormented him. You never let him have a moment's peace. Why?"
Tetsuo looked down at my bruised and bandaged body, then stepped around me.
"Maybe it was the essay he wrote in the school paper condemning athletes as barbarians,” he said. “Maybe it was the way he asked for seconds in the cafeteria, when first-years don't get seconds. Maybe it was the way he always made fun of the school song, gave funny answers to the Ichiko questions. I kept torturing Nakamura because he kept deserving it."
"Did he deserve to die too? Is that why you killed him?"
I expected Tetsuo to lunge for me. Instead, he laughed. He laughed long and hard.
"Me? Kill Nakamura? That's rich.” I waited while he calmed down. “No, Nakamura was in line for a clenched fist, not a murder. Besides, didn't he kill himself?"
"No. If he did, it wouldn't have been like that."
"No? Why not?"
There was no point in keeping Nakamura's secret any longer. “He wasn't samurai. Nakamura was born a commoner. He never told anyone—except me."
From the look on his face it was news to Tetsuo, but he shrugged it off.
"So?” he asked. “Maybe he wanted to be one."
"His grandfather was killed by a samurai, for no good reason. He hated them, and he hated all of us for being the children of samurai."
Tetsuo casually stretched out his back, hanging by one arm from a low ceiling beam. “Aren't we all commoners now? Didn't the Emperor elevate the heimin and lower the samurai? Besides,” he said, dropping to the floor, “like the questions remind us, we're all reborn in the womb of Ichiko when we come here. What we were before doesn't matter. It's what we do here, now, that matters. We're sons of Ichiko, and that makes us brothers. He might not have believed that, but I do."
Tetsuo straightened his school uniform and walked toward the door. “Nakamura had a clenched fist coming—not a sword in the belly. It would have fixed him too. Like you. Girls can get you into trouble. You see that now, don't you?"
"Yeah,” I said. “Right."
* * * *
"You were among the last to see him alive. Did you know that?"
Kenji looked shocked. “What? Oh, you mean—of course. We had cleanup duty together that night in the cafeteria."
Kenji and I sat together in our dorm room that night, bent low over a candle and paper.
"I saw your name on the duty roster,” I told him. “Moriyama was supposed to work with you that night, but his name was marked through and replaced with Nakamura's."
"Moriyama,” Kenji whispered. “You don't think he—"
I shook my head. “He doesn't have anything to do with it. Nakamura came to him that day and asked to swap a cooking shift next week for cleanup duty that night. Moriyama was happy to trade."
The candlelight played on Kenji's face as he considered the new evidence.
"Nakamura changed his shift to be there that night. Why? To meet someone afterward?"
"That's what I think. The kitchen cleanup crew are the last students to return to the dorm at night. What better way to meet with someone in secret than to be gone for a real reason? All his roommates would think he was just running late in the dining hall."
"But who did he meet?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
Kenji shook his head. “I don't remember anyone else coming by. Now that I think about it, he said he would finish up with the mopping. He sent us back to Independence Hall early."
I frowned. “Did he seem preoccupied at all? Nervous? Did you notice a knife was missing when you were cleaning up?"
Kenji looked pained as he searched his memory. “No. I'm sorry. I don't remember anything unusual. I wish I could help."
"I'm chasing sparrows,” I confessed. “But at least this places Nakamura near the baseball field that night. The only question now is who was he there to meet?"
"You don't think it was Tetsuo?"
I wanted to, but I had begun to have my doubts. Tetsuo hadn't risen to my accusation, but that didn't mean anything. It was the other things he said that were making too much sense. If he knew Nakamura was visiting a brothel, he would have just used that as an excuse to put him through the clenched fist. And there was no denying that Tetsuo believed wholeheartedly in the Mainstream Society. He had been one of its founding members. If anyone believed that stuff about being reborn at Ichiko, it was Tetsuo.
But if not Tetsuo, then who?
"I don't know. Let's go over what we have.” I spread out a few notes, and all the newspaper articles I had clipped since the incident. “Nakamura switches shifts so he can work late at the kitchen. He sends everyone else back to the dorm early, presumably so he can meet someone. Let's say it's Tetsuo. Besides
being enemies at school, the only thing that connects them is that they both visit the Floating World."
"Exactly!” said Kenji. “How would Tetsuo know Nakamura had been going to brothels unless he was visiting one himself?"
"So,” I said, dipping my brush in the ink, “Nakamura sees Tetsuo visiting Yoshiwara. He sends word to Tetsuo to meet him in the kitchen the next night after everyone else is gone. Nakamura tells him that he'll reveal what he knows unless Tetsuo stops torturing him at school. It was blackmail!"
"Now that you mention it, I do remember Nakamura being happy that night. Like he had a fox by the tail! But wait, if he told everyone about the visits to the brothel wouldn't they both be in trouble?"
"Don't forget—Nakamura was just visiting his sister. I doubt Tetsuo could say the same. Nakamura would still be punished, but think how much worse it would be for a founding member of the Mainstream Society."
"Tetsuo couldn't take that chance."
"Exactly. He picks up a knife from the kitchen and stabs Nakamura—"
The rest of the room suddenly got quiet, and I realized I was practically shouting. I bowed my apologies to my other roommates and returned to a whisper.
"He stabs Nakamura in a fit of passion. But now what can he do? He can't leave an Ichiko boy there, dead, in the kitchen. There will be an investigation. He decides to cover it up by staging a seppuku, which means a dangerous dragging of the body somewhere a little more believable, but still close by."
"Under the cherry trees that line the baseball field."
"Right. He finishes the job, hacking Nakamura up in the best imitation of a seppuku he can, making lots of mistakes that are overlooked as Nakamura's own untrained mistakes—"
I stopped short.
"What?"
"The suicide note. What would he have used for that?"
"The duty rosters in the dining hall."
"No. No one would believe he decided to kill himself on the spur of the moment. Especially if he had been in a good mood. The roster on the back would give it away as a fake."
I pulled out the Asahi Shimbun with the picture of the suicide note on the front page and spread it on the desk. “Look, here! The bottom of the note is torn!"
AHMM, June 2007 Page 4
