Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  How often did you see your brother, sir?

  I saw him regularly, almost every week. Depending on his work and mine, of course. But I saw him often, yes.

  And so when did you last see him?

  About a week ago.

  And how was he? How did he seem?

  Tsuneo Shimoyama turned his head slightly to his right. He sighed, then said, Well, he was under a lot of stress. I knew that. We all did. Everybody did. But my brother always made a great effort to be cheerful. A tremendous effort, Mister Sweeney. But I knew he wasn’t sleeping very well, that he also had an upset stomach. But then he often did at this time of year. But still he was always so cheerful. He always was.

  Aside from the stress of his position, were there any other worries, financial or personal, that your brother had?

  No, Mister Sweeney. Not that I’m aware of, no.

  And you think you would have been aware if he’d had any other worries? You were close, right?

  Yes, said Tsuneo Shimoyama. We were very close, and so, no, I don’t believe he had any other concerns, any other worries. Just his work, particularly the dismissals.

  I’m sorry to be blunt, sir, said Harry Sweeney, but did you ever hear your brother talk of suicide?

  No. Never.

  So just so we are very clear, you do not believe your brother would have killed himself, sir?

  No, said Tsuneo Shimoyama again. But I know it is what people are thinking, what people are saying. But no, my brother would never take his own life. Furthermore, his wife and sons have said he was in particularly good spirits yesterday morning before he left here. My brother was looking forward to the visit of his eldest son, Sadahiko. He was returning from Nagoya last night. If my brother had had any intention of committing suicide, it would surely have been after seeing his eldest son, would it not?

  Harry Sweeney nodded. Yes. I guess so.

  It would have been natural, too, to have arranged his affairs so they were all in order, to spare his wife and sons and our family such work. But he had not even straightened his desk upstairs before he left the house. So despite what people are thinking, what people are saying, I am absolutely certain my brother did not kill himself, Mister Sweeney.

  Thank you, said Harry Sweeney. I appreciate you being so forthright, so adamant, sir. That’s a great help to us.

  Tsuneo Shimoyama sighed. He shook his head, then said, Well, I’m sorry, Mister Sweeney. Maybe I am being too forthright, too adamant. But we are all so shocked. Utterly shocked. And for people to suggest my brother…

  I know. I am sorry we have to ask –

  No, no, Mister Sweeney. Not you, not the police. You are only doing your job. I know that, we know that. But we’ve had people, my brother’s so-called friends even, calling on us, suggesting we should say that my brother had taken his own life. Even urging us to release a statement to that effect.

  Really? Who? When?

  Only a moment ago. Two gentlemen called, wishing to pay their respects, but then suggested we should write a suicide note and have it printed in the newspapers.

  Saying what?

  That my brother had not wanted to fire ninety-five thousand employees. That he would apologize with his death for the benefit of everybody concerned. For the good of Japan.

  Who were these two men, sir?

  A Mister Maki and a Mister Hashimoto. Mister Maki is a member of the Upper House, and Mister Hashimoto is a former director of the railroads. Mister Hashimoto is retired now, but my brother even lodged with him and his wife when they both worked in Hokkaido. I cannot believe they would even suggest such a thing. It’s unbearable. Unbearable.

  Why did they say that, sir? What were their reasons?

  Tsuneo Shimoyama sighed again, then said, If we printed such a notice in the newspapers, and with a photograph of the note, then the union and the employees would all feel sorry, and then all the disputes with the Corporation would be settled. And then Japan and the world would remember my brother as a martyr and a great man. Or so they said.

  And what did you say, sir?

  I didn’t say anything. I just kept picturing my brother’s face, and his wife and his sons. I could not speak.

  Well, thank you for speaking with us, sir, said Harry Sweeney. I’m afraid, though, I need to impose upon you further, to ask if we may speak briefly with Missus Shimoyama now. We spoke with her yesterday, and we would like to express our condolences, if we may, sir.

  Of course, said Tsuneo Shimoyama, getting to his feet. She is upstairs. I will show you up, Mister Sweeney.

  Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda followed Tsuneo Shimoyama out of the room, back into the crowded hallway. Through the tears and through the accusations. Up the stairs and into the room. The same room as yesterday afternoon: the same wooden desk, the same large wardrobe. Now devoid of hope, without a prayer, now soaked with grief, drenched in mourning. In her somber kimono, with her pale face, a framed portrait of her late husband on the low table before her, Missus Shimoyama looked up at Harry Sweeney, stared up at Harry Sweeney. But her eyes did not accuse, her eyes only pleading –

  That this was not happening, no…

  That none of this was true.

  But Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda knelt down at the low table, and Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda bowed before the low table, before Missus Shimoyama, before the portrait of her husband, the portrait between them –

  Please excuse us for disturbing you, ma’am, said Harry Sweeney. And forgive us for intruding at such a time, but please accept our sincerest condolences at this time, ma’am.

  Thank you, said Missus Shimoyama, turning away from Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda, looking down at the portrait of her husband on the table. Her fingers on the frame, her fingers to the glass, she said, she whispered, You know, when I heard that the car had been found at Mitsukoshi, but that my husband was still missing, when you were here, when you were leaving, I knew then he was dead. I knew then. In my heart.

  Harry Sweeney nodded, silent, waiting –

  I know my husband sometimes stops off at the bank on his way to the office. I know he sometimes goes shopping at Mitsukoshi. But I knew he would not have gone shopping yesterday morning. Not yesterday morning, not without saying. He would never just go without saying, and not when he was so busy. He was so extremely busy, Mister Sweeney.

  I know, said Harry Sweeney.

  So I knew, you see? I knew something was wrong. The car at the store, my husband not there. When you were here, when you were leaving, I already knew, I just knew. But then there was that call, that telephone call. And so then there was hope, I had hope again.

  Harry Sweeney leaned forward at the low table. Before the portrait, the portrait between them. And Harry Sweeney asked, What call was that, ma’am?

  You don’t know? They didn’t tell you?

  No, ma’am. I’m afraid they didn’t.

  Someone telephoned here yesterday evening. They said they had heard the news about my husband on the radio, but he’d dropped into their place and he was fine, and so there was no need to be worried about him. No need for us to worry.

  What time was this, ma’am?

  I’m not sure exactly. I did not take the call myself. It was Missus Nakajima, our maid. She lives with us. She took the call downstairs. But it was just after nine o’clock, I believe.

  Did the caller identify himself? Give a name, ma’am?

  He did, yes. He said his name was Arima.

  Do you know anyone called Arima, ma’am?

  Not personally, no. But some time later, after the call, I did remember that my husband had once mentioned a Mister Arima. I can’t remember in what context, but I’m certain he did. And there’s one other thing, Mister Sweeney…

  Yes, ma’am. Go on…

  Well, yesterday morning, about ten o’clock, I took a c
all myself from someone who said his name was either Arima or Onodera. In fact, I’m certain he used both names.

  And what did he say?

  He asked me if my husband had left for work as usual.

  And you say this was about ten o’clock, ma’am?

  I think so, yes. But there were so many calls yesterday, yesterday morning, Mister Sweeney. All asking the same question: Had my husband left for work as usual? Calls from his office, calls from different colleagues. They kept calling…

  Did this man say anything else, ma’am?

  No, he just asked if my husband had left for work as usual. That was all. So I said yes, my husband had left by car for his office, at twenty past eight as usual. But then I asked the man’s name as I did not catch it when I first answered the telephone. But I think the name he had said was Arima. And then when I asked him again, I am sure he said Onodera.

  Did you recognize his voice, ma’am?

  No, Mister Sweeney. I did not.

  And later, when this second call came in the evening, did your maid recognize the caller’s voice?

  No, said Missus Shimoyama. But you see, for a moment then, after that call, I did believe my husband might be coming home again. I started to hope again. That’s the worst of it.

  I’m sorry, ma’am. So very sorry.

  I’m just sorry they didn’t tell you, Mister Sweeney.

  So am I, ma’am, said Harry Sweeney. So am I.

  Tsuneo Shimoyama coughed. Tsuneo Shimoyama said, After that telephone call, the one in the evening, my brother’s secretary and I did search the desk and drawers, looking for any name card or address for either an Arima or an Onodera, but we were unable to find anything.

  Harry Sweeney nodded. Harry Sweeney looked down at the table. At the portrait on the table, at the face of Sadanori Shimoyama. The thin smile, the raised eyebrows. The plaintive eyes and the round glasses. Harry Sweeney looked up again. Harry Sweeney asked Missus Shimoyama, Did your husband always wear his glasses, ma’am?

  Always, nodded Missus Shimoyama. He couldn’t see without them. Couldn’t see anything at all.

  Thank you, ma’am, said Harry Sweeney, starting to get to his feet, saying again, Thank you, ma’am. We’ve taken up too much of your time already. We will leave you now.

  Missus Shimoyama looked up from the portrait on the table, from the face of her husband. And Missus Shimoyama asked, Mister Sweeney, when will I be able to see my husband? When will they let him come home?

  I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney. I don’t know. Not precisely. But as soon as they’ve completed certain formalities, I am sure they will then return him to you, ma’am.

  Thank you, whispered Missus Shimoyama, turning back to the portrait on the table, staring down at the face of her husband. Her fingers on the frame, her fingers on the glass. Her eyes searching, still pleading, still hoping –

  That this was not happening…

  That none of this was true.

  Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda followed Tsuneo Shimoyama out of the room. Back down the stairs, back through the people. Still filling the rooms, still filling the hallway. Their eyes still filled with tears, their eyes still filled with accusations. Blaming all Americans, blaming their Occupation.

  In the genkan, by the door, Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda bowed to Tsuneo Shimoyama, Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda thanked Tsuneo Shimoyama. Then they turned away, then they walked away. From the house of grief, from that house of mourning. Back down the drive, back through the gates. Through the journalists and cameramen, through the neighbors and spectators. Back down the hill, back to their car. And beside their car, standing in the road, Harry Sweeney took off his hat, Harry Sweeney took out his handkerchief. He wiped his face, he wiped his neck. He put away his handkerchief, he took out his cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, he took a pull. And beside their car, standing in the road, Harry Sweeney looked back up the hill, looked back at the house. The house of grief, that house of mourning, the smoke in his eyes, the sting in his eyes. He blinked, turned, dropped and crushed his cigarette. He took out his notebook and pencil. He opened his notebook and wrote down three names and two times. Then he put away his notebook and pencil, and opened the passenger door.

  What do you think, Harry, asked Toda.

  I think you should go up to Tokyo University. Find out what’s happening with the autopsy. Drop me off on the way.

  Drop you off where, Harry?

  * * *

  —

  Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon looked up from his desk. His uniform stained, his face unshaven. His eyes red and ringed in black. He closed the file on his desk. He gestured at the empty chair before his desk: Sit down, Mister Sweeney.

  Thank you, sir, said Harry Sweeney.

  Colonel Channon put his hands to his face. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head, then said, I still can’t believe it, Mister Sweeney. Jesus Christ. I can’t believe it.

  Harry Sweeney nodded.

  You been out there, Mister Sweeney? To the place?

  Yes, sir. I was there first thing. Have you, sir?

  Colonel Channon rubbed his eyes again, shook his head again, and said, No. Not yet. Not sure I will now. No point, not now. So you saw the body, yeah?

  Yes, sir. I did.

  As bad as they say it was? In the papers?

  Yes, sir. It was.

  Jesus Christ, Sweeney. The poor man.

  Yes, sir.

  Where is he now?

  The body’s been taken to Tokyo University, sir. For the autopsy. Should be getting the results very soon now, sir.

  Well, he didn’t kill himself, Mister Sweeney. I can tell you that. I don’t need to wait for no goddamn autopsy.

  You sound very certain, sir?

  You bet I am. Like I told you yesterday, Sweeney, I knew the man. I worked with him every goddamn day. The last time I saw him, the night I went to his house, that night I told you about, when I left him, he was in good spirits. But he knew the risks, of course he did. He even said, just as I was leaving, said he would carry out the readjustments at the risk of his own life. That was his exact phrase, Mister Sweeney: even at the risk of his own life. That was the kind of man he was. So he didn’t commit suicide. No goddamn way did he kill himself.

  So you believe he was murdered, sir?

  You bet I do. Obviously.

  Then by whom?

  Colonel Channon leaned forward. His elbows on his desk, his fingers locked together. He sighed. He closed his eyes. He swallowed. He opened his eyes again. He stared across his desk at Harry Sweeney. He sighed again, shook his head, then he said, Look, he’d received threats to his life. Not only him, we all have. Katayama. Me, too. Why do you think I wear this goddamn pistol, why you think I only travel in an MP jeep?

  So who are these threats coming from, sir?

  Who the hell you think they’re coming from, Sweeney? From inside their own damn union, from the goddamn Reds.

  You have some specific information, sir? Names? Organizations? Anything? Anything at all?

  Course not. They’re always anonymous. But for Chrissake, Sweeney, who else, where else would they be coming from. Jesus Christ. That’s your fucking job!

  Actually, sir, with all due respect, it was not my job. But it is now, and any help you can –

  Yeah, right, laughed Colonel Channon. I forgot: you were too busy busting gangs, getting your face in the papers. Meanwhile, schmucks like old Shimoyama, schmucks like me, we’re getting death threats, just for doing our goddamn jobs!

  I’m sorry about that, sir. But the Japanese police, they knew about these threats, yeah? They know, right?

  Sure they do, Sweeney. They stuck a plainclothes guy outside Shimoyama’s house, another in his office, one in his car. Fat fucking lot of good it did the poor bastard.

  I don’t believe
they did, sir.

  Bullshit, they didn’t.

  Sir, as far as I’m aware, with all due respect, there was no plainclothes detail assigned to President Shimoyama. Least not yesterday morning, not when he left his house.

  Well, you’ll have to go ask them about that, Sweeney. All I know is there was supposed to be. That’s what I was told. There should have been someone.

  Yes, sir. I agree. There should have been someone.

  Colonel Channon shook his head again. He put his hands out, his palms up. He looked down at the papers on his desk. He sighed again. He stood up. And he said, Jesus Christ. This goddamn country, Sweeney, I tell you. The fuck am I doing here? The fuck any of us are doing here?

  Harry Sweeney nodded. He put his pencil back inside his notebook. He stood up and he asked, Just one other thing, sir. You’re certain it was Monday night you went out to the Shimoyama house? You’re sure?

  You bet I am, yeah. The Fourth of July. Why?

  Just double-checking, sir. I’m sorry.

  Well, if you’re all done double-checking, Mister Sweeney, I’ve still got a railroad to run and now a new president to appoint. And you’ve a goddamn murderer to catch.

  * * *

  —

  Again in the shadow of Tokyo station, again in the echoes of the train tracks. In another building, in another office. The headquarters of the National Railways Corporation, the office of Sadanori Shimoyama. The office he shared with his deputy. Before his deputy, before his desk, Harry Sweeney sat down, Harry Sweeney took out his notebook, and Harry Sweeney said, Thank you for seeing me at this time, Mister Katayama.

  Yukio Katayama glanced past Harry Sweeney. Over his shoulder, across the room. At the other desk, at the empty chair. Yukio Katayama looked down at his own desk, his hands together on his desk, and nodded. Then he looked back up at Harry Sweeney and asked, You’ve just come from the Chōsen building, from the CTS, Mister Sweeney? So you’ve spoken with Lieutenant Colonel Channon then?

  I have, sir. Yes, said Harry Sweeney.