by David Peace
Well, you could try using facts, sighed Susumu Toda. You could start by telling us dates and times, how often you and your “friend” the President saw each other?
Harry Sweeney nodded, smiled at Missus Nobu Morishita: My friend is right, it would help us…
Then of course, said the pale, thin woman, nodding at Harry Sweeney, smiling at Harry Sweeney. I do believe, have believed for a long time, that my purpose on earth, the only reason I’m here, is to help people, help men, Mister Sweeney.
Harry Sweeney nodded and smiled again: Then you could help us, help me, by telling us how often you saw President Shimoyama. Once a week, once a month?
Of course, said Missus Nobu Morishita, not smiling now, but sighing now. So, as I’ve already said, already told the police, when he was a minister, I would see Mister Shimoyama almost every day. He’d come by car, just after noon, then stay all afternoon, stay until six, but no later than six.
Always by car and always alone?
Yes, said the pale, thin woman. Always by car, the same car, the black Buick; I can still remember its number, 41173, and the face of his chauffeur, Mister Ōnishi.
So the driver Ōnishi, said Susumu Toda, he’d be waiting outside in the car then, all afternoon?
Except on Sundays, whispered Missus Nobu Morishita, looking at Harry Sweeney, blinking back tears. On Sundays, Mister Shimoyama would come on foot.
In the small room, on the square cushion, Harry Sweeney put his hand in his pocket, took out his handkerchief, and offered it to the pale, thin woman: And why was that?
Thank you, she said, taking the handkerchief, clutching the handkerchief. But I’m sorry, I can’t tell you why.
Maybe he was worried the neighbors would start to talk, said Susumu Toda. Him coming every day…
This was when he’s a minister, cut in Harry Sweeney. But when he was appointed president –
Things changed, yes, nodded Missus Nobu Morishita. Like they always do, don’t you think, Mister Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney nodded and said, But how?
Well, he could not come so often, only once or twice a month, and he could not stay so long, only five or ten minutes, just a cup of tea, a sweet he often left, he did not touch.
Harry Sweeney nodded again: He’d changed, too?
Yes, nodded the pale, thin woman, staring at Harry Sweeney, blinking through her tears, clutching his handkerchief tighter, twisting it in her hands, and whispering, Like they always do, don’t they, Mister Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney nodded, glanced away, looked away as he asked, How had he changed, ma’am?
The job had changed him, the work he knew he had to do, she said. It had made him afraid, frightened for his life.
He told you that, did he?
Yes, said Missus Nobu Morishita, staring at Harry Sweeney. The last time…
Harry Sweeney looked back at Missus Nobu Morishita and said, I’m sorry, but when was this, ma’am?
Just two weeks ago, she said. Twenty-eighth of June, though it feels like a lifetime ago. But you know, Mister Sweeney, I just knew, knew then it would be the last time.
Harry Sweeney nodded, and waited –
You see, Mister Sweeney, he took me for lunch, like he used to do, to the place we used to go, an eel restaurant in Shibamata, a place called Kawajin; it was “our place,” as they say, the place we always used to go, used to go before, but had not been, we had not been for months, you see…
Harry Sweeney nodded again.
And that was when he said he feared for his life, when he told me he thought he’d be killed…
And what did you say?
I laughed, Mister Sweeney. I laughed and said, Such things don’t happen anymore, not in the “New Japan,” not like before the war, when there were assassinations, the murders of officials and ministers; I said that was in the “Old Japan,” and I laughed, Not in the “New Japan,” Mister Sweeney.
I’m sorry, whispered Harry Sweeney.
So you see, Mister Sweeney, I knew, knew it would be the last time, he told me so himself.
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney again.
Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Mister Sweeney, said Missus Nobu Morishita. You’re the only person to come into my house, and to sit upon my mats, and to tell me that you’re sorry, only you have said you’re sorry, Mister Sweeney. But you’re not the one he told, you’re not the one who knew. You’re not the one who did not help your friend, you’re not the one who did not save your friend; that’s me, Mister Sweeney, me.
Please, said Harry Sweeney. You shouldn’t…
Shouldn’t what, Mister Sweeney? I am the one he told, I am the one who knew. I am the one who did not help my friend, the one who could not save my friend…
Please, said Harry Sweeney again, trying to smile, trying to say, I’m sure you helped him –
There, she said, the pale, thin woman in the pale, thin yukata said. You did it again, Mister Sweeney.
Did what again, ma’am?
You smiled again, the way he used to smile, so fleetingly, so briefly, as though you’d both forgotten.
Forgotten what?
Forgotten you were sad, Mister Sweeney, forgotten who you were, forgotten who you are.
* * *
—
They were riding the elevator back up to the fourth floor of the NYK building, Susumu Toda still going on about the lady at the Narita-ya, still saying, You believe a word of that shit? Old fucking geisha, giving us a performance, wringing her hands, dabbing her eyes, telling us how sorry she feels for Missus Shimoyama. Not sorry enough to stop her pawning the poor woman’s kimonos and rings, yeah? You know who she reminded me of? That woman at the Suehiro Ryokan, that’s who, like they were reading from a script, the pair of them. The same script.
Sorry, Susumu, said Harry Sweeney, stepping out of the elevator on the third floor. I’ll catch you up –
And Harry Sweeney walked away from the closing doors of the elevator, the muffled protestations of Susumu Toda, and along the corridors of the third floor of the NYK building, the corridors of the Historical Branch, FEC, SCAP, the whole of the third floor given over to this section, reading the numbers and the names on the signs on the doors as he went – American names and Japanese names – the doors all closed, the rooms all silent behind them, until he came to the sign on the door he’d been looking for, the number and the name which read: Room 330, Library. Harry Sweeney tapped softly on the wood, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The library of the Historical Branch was a large high-ceilinged room of three walls and many rows of bookshelves. In its middle were three long, high desks arranged in a U-shape to form a counter, in the center of which sat a middle-aged, aristocratic-looking Japanese lady talking quietly into a telephone. The lady looked up, saw Harry Sweeney walking toward the counter, hung up the receiver, and stared at Harry Sweeney: This is the library of the Historical Branch.
I had a hunch, said Harry Sweeney, smiling.
The lady did not smile back: So…?
So I was hoping to speak to Miss Wilson, said Harry Sweeney, still smiling. I believe she works here?
She did, but not anymore.
Oh, said Harry Sweeney. I see.
The lady gave a brief, closing bow: Good day.
Er, sorry, said Harry Sweeney. Do you know where Miss Wilson has gone? Where she’s been transferred?
The lady nodded: She left, she went home.
Home, said Harry Sweeney. America?
The lady nodded again: I believe so.
That was mighty sudden, said Harry Sweeney. I only saw her a few days ago. She never said anything…
The lady sighed: Family trouble, I think. But I don’t know anything more, so please don’t ask me anything more.
Hey there, said a tall, thin man dressed in a
dark, well-cut civilian suit, stepping out from one of the alcoves with a book in his hands. It’s Sweeney, isn’t it?
Yes, said Harry Sweeney.
Dick Gutterman, said the man, walking toward Harry Sweeney with his right hand outstretched. We met last week, General Willoughby’s office?
I remember, said Harry Sweeney, shaking the man’s hand. Didn’t realize you were one of the History Boys?
Me, laughed the man. Hell, no. I just pop in every now and again, bother Miss Araki here, get her to lend me a book.
You planning on visiting Formosa, are you, said Harry Sweeney, nodding at the map book in the man’s left hand.
The man glanced down at the book in his hand, then back up at Harry Sweeney, and smiled: I’m impressed. Didn’t know you could read Japanese, Mister Sweeney.
Why would you, said Harry Sweeney.
You know what I mean…
Yeah, I know what you mean, said Harry Sweeney.
Sorry, said the man. Didn’t mean to offend you.
Don’t worry about it, said Harry Sweeney.
The man nodded, smiled again, and said, So how’s it going then? The Shimoyama Case? Any progress?
Reckon I should be asking you, said Harry Sweeney. That information of a somewhat confidential nature you were mentioning to the General last week?
Hell, said the man, you should be thanking me for that. Got the General off your ass for you, didn’t I?
Is that all that was about then, said Harry Sweeney, smiling. You trying to save my ass?
Hey, look, said the man. Hongō heard a whisper, I didn’t reckon it was worth much – turns out I was right – but I don’t like to sit there and watch the General dressing down a man like that, not unless it’s another general. I’d pay good money to see that any day of the week. But not a regular Joe like you, a civilian. You ain’t done nothing to deserve that, right? So I thought, Hell, I’ll cut in here.
Thank you, then, said Harry Sweeney.
Forget it, said the man. You’d have done the same. I can see how you are.
Well, thanks anyway, said Harry Sweeney again. Better get back to it, but good to meet you properly.
Likewise, said the man. But hey, what brought you down here anyway? The Shimoyama Case?
No, laughed Harry Sweeney. I was just looking for someone, someone who used to work here.
A friend, was it?
Don’t know, said Harry Sweeney, smiling at the man, then turning toward the door. Might have been, could have been. Not sure what “friend” means these days.
Well, hell, you gotta friend in me, said the man after him. Anything you need, Mister Sweeney, you just call Hongō House and ask for Dick Gutterman, yeah?
* * *
—
The call came, like he knew it would, like it always did, and so he went, like he knew he would, like he always did: in the big car, down the wide avenues, across the river, the Sumida River, to a warehouse he’d not seen before and would never see again, among low factories and barrack houses, in a place that could be here, there, or anywhere, a place that was nowhere today, today and evermore, forevermore this place was nowhere; and here in nowhere, before the warehouse, he got out of the back of the car, like he knew he would, like he always did, and he looked up at the warehouse, made of concrete, iron, and wood, grays and rusts and browns, stained black against the same grays and rusts and browns, and he breathed in the stench of the salt and the stench of the shit, and he breathed out the stench of cowardice, the stench of pride, then he walked toward the warehouse door, through the warehouse door, like he knew he would, like he always did, he walked between the metal drums, the iron pillars and the hanging chains, walked through the pools of oil, the discarded parts and broken glass, until he came to the back of the warehouse, until he came to the half-circle of men, in their shirtsleeves or their undershirts, with their tools or with their fists, until he came to the chair in their midst, until he saw the man on the chair, like he knew he would, like he knew he would, the man tied to the chair, stripped and naked, beaten and broken, like he knew they would, like they always did, like he knew Senju would, Senju always did, and Harry Sweeney stood there, in the back of the warehouse, in the middle of nowhere, among the men, before the man, and Harry Sweeney said nothing, like Harry Sweeney knew he would, Harry Sweeney always did, because Harry Sweeney always said nothing, Harry Sweeney always did nothing –
Took your time, said Akira Senju. But Akira Senju did not turn to look at Harry Sweeney, Akira Senju kept his eyes fixed on the man on the chair: Two, three more hours, not sure he would have been with us anymore. And that’d have been a shame, the things he’s been telling us…
Harry Sweeney stared at the man on the chair, the man tied to the chair, the cable round his chest and his arms and the back of the chair, the cable tight into his chest and arms, his naked chest and arms, his stripped and naked body, painted in the colors of bruises and wounds, the strokes of beatings and tortures, his head bowed and his face hidden, blood dripping onto his chest, blood upon blood, and Harry Sweeney swallowed and whispered, He’s no good to me dead.
That’s what I thought, said Akira Senju. Thought to myself, then said to the boys, I said, He’s no good to anyone dead, boys. Ease up, boys, ease up. But it’s like the war never ended, like they never heard the news. They were not defeated, not this lot, my lot; you know what I mean, Harry?
Harry Sweeney stepped inside the half-circle of men, stepped toward the man tied to the chair. Harry Sweeney crouched down beside the man tied to the chair, raised his hands toward the man tied to the chair. Harry Sweeney lifted up the face of the man tied to the chair, the swollen face of the man, wet with blood, and wet with tears, and wet with sweat. Harry Sweeney looked into the face of the man tied to the chair, the broken nose and cheeks, the eyes swollen and shut, the ears twisted and torn, saw the mouth of pulped lips and broken teeth, and Harry Sweeney saw the mouth, open in bubbles of blood and bits of teeth, and heard it whisper –
Help me, please.
Harry Sweeney let go of the face of the man, watched it fall forward again, then Harry Sweeney stood back up, turned around, looked at Akira Senju, swallowed again, and then said, Clean him up, then bring him out to the car, please.
You heard the man, boys, said Akira Senju, as Harry Sweeney walked through the circle of men, past Akira Senju, through the pools of oil, the discarded parts and the broken glass, between the metal drums, the iron pillars, and the hanging chains, past the stacked-up packing cases of God-knows-what – guns and bombs for someone, drugs and alcohol for everyone – and through the warehouse door, back outside to the grays and rusts and browns, the stench of salt and the stench of shit, back to stand and wait beside the car, to smoke one cigarette and then another, and another, like he always did, like he always did, until he heard the boots, he heard the voice –
Here you go, said Akira Senju. Meet Lee Jung-Hwan. He’s all yours, Harry-san, all yours…
No longer tied to a chair, no longer stripped and naked, Lee Jung-Hwan hung on the arms of two men, dressed in clothes torn and stained with blood and oil, his shoes barely on his feet, with his head still bowed and his face still hidden.
Harry Sweeney flicked his cigarette into the dirt, looked at Akira Senju, nodded, and said, Thank you.
My pleasure, Harry, said Akira Senju, smiling. Told you, I’m here to help. So what now, boss…?
Harry Sweeney opened the back door of the car: Put him in here. I want to talk to him. Alone.
Sure thing, boss, said Akira Senju, clicking his fingers, gesturing to the two men carrying Lee Jung-Hwan. And the two men dragged him through the dirt, half lifting, half pushing him into the car, propping him up on the back seat of the car.
Harry Sweeney closed the door, went round the back of the car, opened the door on the other side, then got into the back seat next to Lee Jung-Hwa
n and closed the door.
In the middle of nowhere, on the back seat of the parked car, Harry Sweeney stared out through the front windshield, out at the grays and the rusts and the browns, and waited.
Thank you, said Lee Jung-Hwan, not raising his head, not showing his face, his voice dry and cracking.
Harry Sweeney kept staring straight ahead, straight out and into the grays and the rusts and the browns, as he said, Save your thanks until we’re out of here –
Until we’re out of here…
The words hanging in the trapped, damp air of the car, hanging between them –
Where’s my little brother, asked Lee Jung-Hwan, the question choking in his throat.
Harry Sweeney looked away from the windshield, away from the grays and the rusts and the browns, looked away to stare at the beaten and bloody, bowed and broken man beside him, to stare and say, I don’t know.
Is he still alive?
As far as I know, but the only way to be sure, the only way to save him and to save yourself, is to tell me everything you know about the death of President Shimoyama.
It won’t save me, said Lee Jung-Hwan, raising his head, then showing his face, the remains of his face, to look at Harry Sweeney and say, And it won’t help you.
Might help your little brother.
Might, whispered Lee Jung-Hwan, turning his face away, lowering his head again.
Harry Sweeney turned, too, back to the windshield, back to the grays and the rusts and the browns, and waited.
Are you CIC, asked Lee Jung-Hwan, not raising his head again, not showing his face again.
Public Safety. Why?
CIC won’t like what I say.
He was staring into the grays and the rusts and the browns, losing himself in the grays and the rusts and the browns, as Harry Sweeney said, CIC don’t like a lot of things people say. That’s their job, not to like the things people say.
