by Kōji Suzuki
It was a woman, startled from having been yelled at out of nowhere.
“Oh, sorry. Wrong number.” Asakawa started to hang up.
“Are you calling for Professor Takayama?”
“Well, ah, yes, as a matter of fact I am.”
“He’s not back yet.”
Asakawa couldn’t help but wonder who this young, attractive voice belonged to. He figured it was a safe bet she wasn’t a relative, since she’d called him “Professor”. A lover? Couldn’t be. What girl in her right mind would fall for Ryuji?
“I see. My name is Asakawa.”
“When Professor Takayama returns, I’ll have him call you. That’s Mr Asakawa, right?”
Even after he had replaced the receiver, the woman’s soft voice continued to ring pleasantly in his ears.
Futons were usually only used in Japanese-style rooms, with tatami-mat floors. Their bedroom was carpeted, and had originally had a Western-style bed in it, but when Yoko was born they took it out. They couldn’t have a baby sleeping on a bed, but the room was too small for a crib and a bed. So they were forced to get rid of their double bed and switch to futons, rolling them up every morning and spreading them out again every night. They laid two futons side-by-side and the three of them slept together. Now Asakawa crawled into the open space on the futons. When the three of them went to bed at the same time, they always slept in the same positions. But Shizu and Yoko were restless sleepers, so when they went to bed before Asakawa, it was less than an hour before they had rolled around and sprawled all over. As a result, Asakawa ended up having to fit himself into whatever space was left. If he was gone, how long would it take for that space to be filled, Asakawa wondered. It wasn’t that he was worried about Shizu remarrying, necessarily. It was just that some people were never able to fill the space left behind by the loss of a spouse. Three years? Three years would be about right. Shizu would move back home and let her parents take care of the baby while she went to work. Asakawa forced himself to imagine her face, shining with as much vitality as could be expected. He wanted her to be strong. He couldn’t stand to imagine the kind of hell his wife and child would have to live through with him gone.
Asakawa had met Shizu five years ago. He had just been transferred back to the main Tokyo office from the Chiba bureau; she was working in a travel agency connected with the Daily News conglomerate. She worked on the third floor, he worked on the seventh, and they sometimes saw each other on the elevator, but that was the extent of it until one day when he’d gone to the travel agency to pick up some tickets. He was traveling for a story, and as the person handling his arrangements wasn’t in Shizu had taken care of him. She was just twenty-five and loved to travel, and her gaze told how much she envied Asakawa being able to go all over the country on assignments. In that gaze, he also saw a reflection of the first girl he’d ever loved. Now that they knew each other’s names, they started to make small talk when they ran into each other on the elevator, and their relationship rapidly deepened. Two years later they married, after an easy courtship with no objections from either set of parents. About six months before their wedding they had bought the three-room condo in Kita Shinagawa—their parents had helped with the down payment. It wasn’t that they’d anticipated the spike in land value and had therefore rushed to buy even before the wedding. It was simply that they wanted to get the mortgage paid off as quickly as possible. But if they hadn’t bought when they did, they might never have been able to afford to live in the city like this. Within a year, their condo had tripled in value. And their monthly mortgage payments were less than half of what they would have been paying to rent. They were constantly complaining that the place was too small, but in truth it constituted quite an asset for the couple. Now Asakawa was glad he had something to leave them. If Shizu used his life insurance to pay off the mortgage, then the condo would belong to her and Yoko free and clear.
I think my policy pays twenty million yen, but I’d better check, just to be sure.
His mind was clouded, but he mentally divided up the money in different ways, telling himself that he must write down any financial advice that might occur to him. He wondered how they’d rule his death. Death by illness? Accident? Homicide?
In any case, I’d better reread my insurance policy.
Every night for the past three days he had gone to bed in a pessimistic mood. He pondered how to influence a world he would have disappeared from, and thought about leaving a sort of last testament.
October 14—Sunday
The next morning, Sunday, Asakawa dialed Ryuji’s number as soon as he woke up.
“Yeah?” answered Ryuji, sounding for all the world like he’d just woken up. Asakawa immediately remembered his frustration of the night before, and barked into the receiver.
“Where were you last night?”
“Huh? Oh. Asakawa?”
“You were supposed to call, weren’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. I was drunk. College girls these days sure can drink. Sure can do other stuff, too, if you know what I mean. Whoo-whee. I’m exhausted.”
Asakawa was momentarily at a loss: it was like the past three days were just a dream. He felt foolish for having taken everything so seriously.
“Well, I’m on my way over. Wait for me,” said Asakawa, hanging up the phone.
To get to Ryuji’s place Asakawa rode the train to East Nakano and then walked for ten minutes in the direction of Kami Ochiai. As he walked Asakawa reflected hopefully that even though Ryuji had been out drinking the night before, he was still Ryuji. Surely he’d found something. Maybe he’d even solved the riddle, and he’d gone out drinking and carousing to celebrate. The closer he drew to Ryuji’s apartment the more upbeat he became, and he began to walk faster. Asakawa’s emotions were wearing him out, bouncing back and forth between fear and hope, pessimism and optimism.
Ryuji opened the door in his pajamas. Unkempt and unshaven, he’d obviously just got out of bed. Asakawa couldn’t take his shoes off fast enough; he was still in the entryway when he asked, “Have you learned anything?”
“No, not really. But come in,” said Ryuji, scratching his head vigorously. His eyes were unfocused and Asakawa knew at a glance that his brain cells weren’t awake yet.
“Come on, wake up. Drink some coffee or something.” Feeling like his hopes had been betrayed, Asakawa put the kettle on the stove with a loud clatter. Suddenly he was obsessed with the time.
The two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the front room. Books were stacked all along one wall.
“So tell me what you’ve turned up,” said Ryuji, jiggling his knee. There was no time to waste. Asakawa collected everything he’d learned the day before and laid it out chronologically. First he informed Ryuji that the video had been recorded from the television in the cabin beginning at 8 p.m. on August 26th.
“Really?” Ryuji looked surprised. He, too, had assumed it had been made on a video camera and then brought in later.
“Now, that’s interesting. But if the airwaves were hijacked as you say, there should be others who saw the same thing …”
“Well, I called our bureaus in Atami and Mishima and asked about that. But they say they haven’t received any reports of suspicious transmissions flying around South Hakone on the night of August 26th.”
“I see, I see …” Ryuji folded his arms and thought for a while. “Two possibilities come to mind. First, everybody who saw the transmission is dead. But hold on—when it was broadcast, the charm should have been intact. So … And, anyway, the local papers haven’t picked up on anything, right?”
“Right. I’ve already checked that out. You mean whether or not there were any other victims, right? There weren’t. None at all. If it was broadcast, then other people should have seen it, but there haven’t been any other victims. Not even any rumors.”
“But remember when AIDS started to appear in the civilized world? At first doctors in America had no idea what was going on. All they knew was that they
were seeing people die from symptoms they’d never encountered before. All they had was a suspicion of some strange disease. They only started calling it AIDS two years after it had appeared. That kind of thing happens.”
The mountainous valleys west of the Tanna Ridge only contained a few scattered farmhouses, on the lower reaches of the Atami-Kannami Highway. If you gazed south, all you could see was South Hakone Pacific Land, isolated in its dreamy alpine meadows. Was something invisible at work in that land? Maybe lots of people were dying suddenly, but it just hadn’t made it into the news yet. It wasn’t just AIDS: Kawasaki Disease, first discovered in Japan, had been around for ten years before it was officially recognized as a new disease. It was still only a month and a half since the phantom broadcast had been accidentally caught on videotape. It was quite possible that the syndrome hadn’t yet been recognized. If Asakawa hadn’t discovered the common factor in four deaths—if his niece hadn’t been among them—this “illness” would probably still be sleeping underground. That was even scarier. It usually took hundreds, thousands, of deaths before something was officially recognized as a “disease”.
“We don’t have time to go door-to-door down there talking to residents. But, Ryuji, you mentioned a second possibility.”
“Right. Second, the only people who saw it are us and the four young people. Hey, do you think the grade-school brat who recorded this knew that broadcast frequencies are different from region to region? What they’re showing on Channel 4 in Tokyo might be broadcast on a completely different channel out in the country. A dumb kid wouldn’t know that—maybe he set it to record according to the channel he watches in Tokyo.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Think about it. Do people like us, who live in Tokyo, ever turn to Channel 2? It’s not used here.”
Ah-ha. So the boy had set the VCR to a channel a local would never have used. Since they were recording while watching something else, he hadn’t actually seen what was being recorded. In any event, with the population so sparse in those mountains, there couldn’t be too many viewers in the first place.
“Either way, the real question is, where did the broadcast originate from?” It sounded so simple when Ryuji said it. But only an organized, scientific investigation would be able to determine the transmission’s point of origin.
“W-wait a minute. We’re not even sure your basic premise is right. It’s only a guess that the boy accidentally recorded phantom airwaves.”
“I know that. But if we wait for hundred-percent proof before proceeding, we’ll never get anywhere. This is our only lead.”
Airwaves. Asakawa’s knowledge of science was paltry. He didn’t even really know what airwaves were: he’d have to start his investigation there. There was nothing to do but check it out. The broadcast’s point of origin. That meant he’d have to go back there. And after today, there were only four days left.
The next question was: who had erased the charm? If they allowed that the tape had been recorded on-site, it couldn’t have been anybody but the four victims. Asakawa had checked with the TV network and found out when the young storyteller, Shinraku Sanyutei, had been a guest on The Night Show. They’d been right. The answer that came back was August 29th. It was almost certain that the four young people had erased the charm.
Asakawa took several photocopies from his briefcase. They were photographs of Mt Mihara, on Izu Oshima Island. “What do you think?” he asked, showing them to Ryuji.
“Mt Mihara, eh? I’d say this is definitely the one.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Yesterday afternoon, I asked an ethnologist at the university about Granny’s dialect. He said it wasn’t used much anymore, but that it was probably one found on Izu Oshima. In fact, it contained features traceable to the Sashikiji region on the southern tip of the island. He’s pretty cautious, so he wouldn’t swear that that was it, but combined with this photo I think we’re safe in assuming that the dialect is Izu Oshima’s, and the mountain is Mt Mihara. By the way, did you do any research into Mt Mihara’s eruptions?”
“Of course. Since the war—and I think we’re probably okay in limiting ourselves to eruptions since the war …” Considering developments in film technology, this seemed a safe assumption.
“Right.”
“Now, are you with me? Since the war, Mt Mihara has erupted four times. The first time was in 1950–1951. The second was in ’57, and the third was in ’74. The fourth time I’m sure we both remember well: the autumn of 1986. The ’57 eruption produced a new crater; one person died and fifty-three were injured.”
“Considering when video cameras came out, I’d guess we’re looking at the ’86 eruption, but I don’t think we can be sure yet.”
At this point Ryuji seemed to remember something, and started rummaging around in his bag. He pulled out a slip of paper. “Oh, yes. Evidently this is what she’s saying. The gentleman kindly translated it into standard Japanese for me.”
Asakawa looked at the scrap of paper, on which was written:
How has your health been since then? If you spend all your time playing in the water, monsters are bound to get you. Understand? Be careful of strangers. Next year you’re going to give birth to a child. You listen to granny now, because you’re just a girl. There’s no need to worry about local people.
Asakawa read through it twice, carefully, and then looked up.
“What is this? What does it mean?”
“How should I know? That’s what you’re going to have to find out.”
“We’ve only got four days left!”
Asakawa had too many things to do. He didn’t know where to start. His nerves were on edge and he’d begun to lash out.
“Look. I’ve got one more day to spare than you. You’re the point man on this. Act like it. Give it your all.”
Suddenly misgivings began to well up in Asakawa’s heart. Ryuji could abuse his extra day. If, for example, he came up with two guesses as to the nature of the charm, he could tell Asakawa about one, and wait for Asakawa’s survival or death to tell him which one was right. That single day could turn into a powerful weapon.
“It doesn’t really matter to you if I live or die, does it, Ryuji? Sitting there calmly like that, laughing …” Asakawa wailed, knowing as he did that he was becoming shamefully hysterical.
“You’re talking like a woman now. If you’ve got time to bitch and whine like that you ought to use your head a bit more.”
Asakawa still glared at him resentfully.
“I mean, how would you prefer I put it? You’re my best friend. I don’t want you to die. I’m doing my best. I want you to do your best, too. We both have to do our best, for each other. Happy now?” Midway through his speech Ryuji’s tone suddenly became childish, and he finished with an obscene laugh.
As he laughed, the front door opened. Startled, Asakawa leaned over and peered through the kitchen at the entry hall. A young woman was bending over to remove a pair of white pumps. Her hair was cut short, brushing the tops of her ears, and her earrings gleamed white. She took her shoes off and raised her gaze, her eyes meeting Asakawa’s.
“Oh, pardon me. I thought the Professor was alone,” said the woman, covering her mouth with her hand. Her elegant body language and her pure white outfit clashed utterly with the apartment. Her legs below her skirt were slim and willowy, her face slender and intelligent; she looked like a certain female novelist who appeared in TV commercials.
“Come in.” Ryuji’s tone had changed. The vulgarity was concealed beneath a newfound dignity. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Miss Mai Takano from the philosophy department at Fukuzawa University. She’s one of the department’s star pupils, and always pays close attention in my classes. She’s probably the only one who really understands my lectures. This is Kazuyuki Asakawa, from the Daily News. He’s my … best friend.”
Mai Takano looked at Asakawa with some surprise. At this point he still didn’t know why she should be surp
rised. “Pleased to meet you,” said Mai, with a thrilling little smile and bow. The kind of smile that made any onlooker feel refreshed. Asakawa had never met such a beautiful woman. The fine texture of her skin, the way her eyes glowed, the perfect balance of her figure—not to mention the intelligence, class, and kindness she radiated from within. There was literally nothing to find fault with in this woman. Asakawa shrank back like a frog from a snake. Words failed him.
“Hey, say something.” Ryuji elbowed him in the ribs.
“Hello,” he said finally, awkwardly, but his gaze was still transfixed.
“Professor, were you out last night?” asked Mai, gracefully sliding her stockinged feet two or three steps closer.
“Actually, Takabayashi and Yagi invited me out with them, so …”
Now that they were standing next to each other, Asakawa could see that Mai was a good ten centimeters taller than Ryuji. She probably only weighed half as much as he did, though.
“I wish you’d tell me if you’re not coming home. I waited up for you.”
Asakawa suddenly returned to his senses. This was the voice he’d spoken to last night. This was the woman who’d answered the phone when he’d called.
Meanwhile, Ryuji was hanging his head like a boy scolded by his mother.
“Well, never mind. I’ll forgive you this time. Here, I brought you something.” She held out a paper bag. “I washed your underwear for you. I was going to straighten up here, too, but you get angry when I move your books.”
From this exchange Asakawa couldn’t help but guess the nature of their relationship. It was obvious that they were not only teacher and student, but lovers as well. On top of that, she’d waited here alone for him last night! Were they that close? He felt the kind of annoyance he sometimes felt when he saw a badly mismatched couple, but this went far beyond that. Everything to do with Ryuji was crazy. Then there was the love in Ryuji’s eyes as he gazed at Mai. He was like a chameleon, changing his expression, even his speech patterns. For an instant, Asakawa was mad enough to want to open Mai’s eyes by exposing Ryuji’s crimes.
