by David Peace
Murota Hideki stubbed out his cigarette: I didn’t say that. But it would be negligent of me if I didn’t warn you of the difficulty in finding missing persons.
I appreciate your honesty, said the young man. But we’re well aware of the difficulty involved in finding him.
Murota Hideki stared at the man again, smiling at the man now: You aware of the expense involved, too?
Yes, said the man, nodding. And we’re prepared to pay whatever it takes, pay whatever you ask.
Still smiling, Murota Hideki said, Well, I take my pay in US dollars. Fifty of them a day, plus expenses.
Expenses in yen, asked the young man.
Murota Hideki nodded: All in cash.
Of course, said the man. But you should also be aware that there will be a substantial bonus if this matter can be resolved by midnight on the Fourth of July.
How substantial?
Five thousand US dollars, said the young man. Cash.
Murota Hideki stared across his desk at this man again, this young man, this man who said his name was Hasegawa, and he whistled, then said, You really want him found.
Our owners do, said the man. Yes.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar on his desk, then looked back up at the young man: Why the rush?
The contract for the manuscript, for which the advances were made, expires at midnight on the Fourth of July.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar again, then looked back up again: And if it’s not resolved by then?
Then we’d no longer require your services.
Murota Hideki nodded, then nodded again, then said, Of course, there is one other possibility, one I’m sure your owners must have considered: he may be dead.
Of course, said the young man. But dead or alive, the monies still need to be repaid, either by the man himself or from his estate if, in fact, he is deceased. So if you do find proof he’s dead, you’ll still receive your bonus.
Before the Fourth of July?
Before midnight on the Fourth of July, yes.
Murota Hideki glanced at the calendar again, reached for his notebook and pen, opened his notebook, looked up at the young man, and said, Okay, first I’ll need some basic –
I do apologize, said the man. But we’ve been dancing for rather longer than I imagined, and I have another –
It was you who asked me to dance…
And I do apologize, said the young man again, placing the large brown envelope down on the desk in front of Murota Hideki. Then, reaching back into his attaché case, he took out another envelope, opened up this envelope, and began to count out two hundred and fifty US dollars in various denominations. He placed the notes down in a pile on the desk next to the large brown envelope, then began to count out eighteen thousand yen, again in various denominations, again putting the notes down in a pile on the desk in front of Murota Hideki, as he said, In that envelope you will find all the pertinent information we have about Kuroda Roman. The money I am giving you is for five days’ work, plus some yen on account for expenses.
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Thanks.
You’re welcome, said the man. I’ll call again in five days, at ten o’clock on Thursday, the twenty-fifth, to see how you’re progressing and to give you more money.
Murota Hideki nodded again: Thanks.
The young man smiled, reached inside his attaché case again, and took out a typewritten document. He placed it on the desk, on top of the envelope and the money, in front of Murota Hideki and said, I’d be grateful if you’d just write your name and address in the space provided and then add your seal. Just to acknowledge receipt of the money. I’ll bring a copy for you when I come again on Thursday.
Murota Hideki filled in the form with his name and address, then took out his hanko from the top drawer of the desk and did as he was told.
Thank you, said the man, taking the piece of paper from Murota Hideki. He put it inside his attaché case, then closed and locked the case, smiled, and said, Until Thursday.
Murota Hideki did not get up, he just smiled back and nodded, then watched the young man in his tight, gray-shiny suit walk toward the door, watched him open the door, then turn back in the doorway to bow and to thank him –
One last thing, said Murota Hideki.
Yes, said the man, glancing down at his left wrist, at the cuffs of his jacket and shirt, the face of his watch. Yes?
This manuscript? This manuscript you say one of your predecessors foolishly advanced so much money for…
Yes, said the young man again.
What’s it about?
The Shimoyama Case, I think it was, said the man, sighing, then saying, I’m sure you must remember…
Yes, said Murota Hideki. I remember.
But to be honest with you, said the man, no one believes he’s actually written it, least not finished it. And that suits us just fine. We’d rather have our money back.
I see, said Murota Hideki, nodding, watching the young man bow again, thank him again, then turn again and step out of the office, closing the door behind him –
And then the man was gone –
The man was gone, and Murota Hideki was on his feet, out from behind his desk and to the door, and by the door, his ear to the glass of the door, Murota Hideki was listening: the man walking away, down the corridor, down the stairs.
Murota Hideki opened the door. He went down the corridor, to the end of the corridor, the stairs to his left, the toilet to his right. He went into the toilet, past the basin, past the stall, past the urinal to the window. The window already open, always open, Murota Hideki opened it wider, peering out, staring down, down to the street –
Down at the guy –
The guy who called himself Hasegawa, the guy walking out of the building toward an old gray car parked out front, possibly a Toyopet Master, but definitely not a taxi. The guy opened the rear passenger door, but he didn’t get in. He just leaned in, leaned in for a minute, two minutes. Then he closed the door and the car pulled away, past the shrine and under the tracks. The guy who called himself Hasegawa watched it go, taking out a packet of cigarettes, lighting a cigarette, then the guy crossed the road, toward the tracks, and headed south, toward the station, just the cigarette in his fingers, no attaché case in his hand, the guy disappearing, out of sight.
Liar, muttered Murota Hideki as he pulled his head in, turning to the urinal. He undid his flies and he took a piss. He did up his flies, then turned to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his face, he washed his neck. He caught a glimpse of himself in the grime, in the grime of the mirror above the basin: fifty-two, balding, fat, and gone-to-shit. He smiled and said, Not gone-to-shit, always shit.
He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his trousers, taking out his handkerchief, finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He wiped and dried his face, put his handkerchief back in his pocket, took out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, one last, bent cigarette. He put the cigarette between his lips, crushed the empty pack of cigarettes in his hand, tossed it in the wire basket underneath the basin, then patted himself down: front trouser pockets, back trouser pockets, shirt pocket – nothing. He glanced back up at himself in the grime, the bent, unlit cigarette between his lips. He smiled again, took the cigarette from his lips, and said, Fucking liar.
He said goodbye to the mirror, bye to the toilet, and he went back down the corridor, back into the office, back to his desk and his chair. He lifted up the money, he lifted up the envelope. He moved his notebook, he moved his pen. He looked under the calendar, looked under the ashtrays. He sifted through all the other pens and pencils, all the scraps of paper and other bits of shit on his desk. He opened the top drawer of his desk, rummaged through the drawer, picked up a bunch of name cards, flicked through the name cards one by one, shaking his head. He stuck the name cards
back in the drawer and closed the drawer. He pushed back his chair, looked under his chair, looked under his desk. He stood up again, walked around his desk, and looked under the other chair, on the other side of the desk, looking on the floor, picking up magazines, picking up newspapers, putting them back down again, down on the floor again, over the dirt and over the stains, saying, Dumb, dumb, dumb.
He shook his head again, cursed himself again, then walked over to the shelves. He picked up the phone book. He carried it back to his desk. He sat down and opened the directory. He turned the pages, found the name of the publishing house, the number for the publishing house. He picked up the handset of the phone on his desk, stuck his finger in the first hole, and began to dial the number. He heard the ringing down the line, heard a girl on the switchboard give the name of the publishing house, then he said, Hasegawa-san, please. Not sure which section he’s in these days, sorry.
And who shall I say is calling, asked the girl.
Murota Hideki said, It’s Murota.
Thank you, said the girl. Please hold –
And Murota Hideki held, cradling the handset between his ear and his shoulder, putting the bent cigarette back between his lips, reaching for his lighter –
I’m sorry, said the girl, Hasegawa-kachō is not at his desk, maybe not in the office today. But if you’d like to leave your number, then I’ll be sure to pass it on.
It’s okay, thanks. I’ll try again on Monday, said Murota Hideki, and he put down the handset. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke across the desk, over the money. He stared down at the money, then picked up the dollars. He counted the notes once, then once again, one by one, holding the dollars up, up to the light, the light from the window, the light from the river. Then he put them back down on the desk, stubbed out the cigarette, then reached down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk. He took out an envelope and put the dollars inside the envelope. He sealed the envelope, dropped it in the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. He picked up the yen from the top of his desk and counted out the notes. Then he reached behind himself, taking out his wallet from his jacket on the back of his chair, opened up his wallet, and put most of the yen inside. He put the wallet back in his jacket pocket, then folded the rest of the notes in half and stuck them in his trouser pocket. He took another cigarette from the packet on his desk, lit the cigarette, and stared down at the large brown envelope on top of his desk, a long morning shadow falling across the large brown envelope, the long morning shadow of a half-full bottle of cheap Chinese wine. He looked at the half-full bottle of cheap Chinese wine standing on his desk in the light from the window, the light from the river, and he smiled to himself, he nodded to himself, and then he said to himself, Well, why not?
Murota Hideki reached over to the bottle, picked it up, and unscrewed its top. He held it over the glass, the empty glass, then tilted the bottle and filled the glass. He put down the bottle and picked up the glass. He held the glass up to the light, the light from the window, the light from the river, and he looked at the wine, the golden-brown wine, smiled at the wine, the golden-brown wine, then he put the glass to his lips and put the wine to his lips, tilting the glass, sipping the wine, the wine on his lips, in his mouth, down his throat, golden brown and mellow, down it went, down it went, then filling the glass again and tilting the glass again, sipping the wine, drinking the wine, the golden-brown and mellow wine, the room, this office golden brown and mellow, the world, this life golden brown and mellow, drinking and smoking and saying to himself, saying to her, Well, he may or may not be who he says he is, be who he claims to be, but his money, his dollars are real enough, real enough for you and me, for me and you to celebrate, my Nori-chan, yeah, we’ll celebrate tonight, my Nori-chan…
And then smiling to himself, laughing at himself, Murota Hideki put the empty glass down beside the empty bottle and picked up the large brown envelope from the top of his desk. He opened the envelope, stuck his hand inside, and pulled out the papers, a thick, fat sheaf of them. He shifted the papers from hand to hand, turning through the pages, the densely packed, typewritten pages, with all of their characters and numbers, all their dates and their names, histories, and biographies, lists of book titles and photostats of articles, shifting and turning them from hand to hand, back and forth, one by one, from hand to hand, all these papers, these pages, back and forth, all their characters, their numbers, one by one, the past of a man, the ghost of a man, from hand to hand, all the pasts and ghosts of this man, this man, Kuroda Roman –
Fuck, you must be in here somewhere, said Murota Hideki, throwing down the thick, fat sheaf of papers back onto the top of his desk, screwing up his eyes, massaging both temples, then opening his eyes, looking back down at the papers, shaking his head, saying, But where are you?
* * *
—
Murota Hideki twitched again, jumped again, and opened his eyes. His heart pounding again, his breath trapped again, he spluttered and coughed, then reached for the phone, picked up the handset, and said, Hello, hello…Noriko?
He heard a coin drop, the sound of a station, then a voice saying, Murota-san? It’s Nemuro. I’m at Kanda station. If you’ve got any news for me, I can stop by your office.
Yeah, said Murota Hideki, wiping his mouth, wiping his chin. But let’s meet at the shrine next door.
When, asked Nemuro. Now…?
Ten minutes, said Murota Hideki, and he hung up. He rubbed his eyes, rubbed, then slapped his cheeks, and sighed. He leaned forward, looked down at his notebook lying open on his desk, scanned the brief notes he’d made on Kuroda Roman; he’d left all the literary bullshit for the critics, just tried to find the man, the facts of his life – dates and places, family and friends, places of interest, people of interest – some flesh for the facts, some skin for that flesh. He closed the notebook over the pen, then picked up the Kuroda Roman papers and stuffed them back inside their large brown envelope. He reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, dropped the large brown envelope on top of the envelope of dollars, then closed the drawer. He stood up, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and put it on. He picked up the notebook and his cigarettes, put them into different pockets of his jacket, and walked over to the door. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor, turned back, took his keys from his trouser pocket, and locked the door. He went down the corridor and into the toilet. He undid his flies and took a piss in the urinal. He did up his flies as he walked over to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his face, he washed his neck. He cupped more water, rinsed his mouth, and spat. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his jacket, took out his handkerchief, and wiped and dried his face. He looked at himself in the grime of the mirror, smoothing his hair with his hand, sighing to himself, Shikata nai…It’s who you are…It’s what you do…
He turned away from the mirror, went out of the toilet, down the stairs, out through the lobby and onto the street. In the sticky, gray Saturday afternoon – the sort of Saturday afternoon, he said to himself, that makes you wish you were dead, muttering, wonder if you aren’t already – turning right he walked along the street, then right again, under the stone torii and down the steps he went, into the shrine, the Yanagimori shrine.
Nemuro Hiroshi was already there. Aged and thin with worry and fear, he was standing with his head bowed in front of one of the smaller shrines. He finished his prayer, bowed deeply, then turned and saw Murota Hideki.
Murota Hideki nodded, then walked toward the two stone benches beneath the wooden kagura stage. He sat down on the edge of one, and Nemuro Hiroshi sat down on the edge of the other, their backs to the tall wooden stage which towered behind them, over them. There was a space of less than a meter between them, between the edges of the two stone benches, between the two men; no one else in the grounds of the shrine, just the occasional sound of the passing traffic on Yanagihara-dōri, above th
em to their right, the more regular sound of the trains going over the bridge behind them, over them, the stage, and the shrine, white gulls falling from the somber sky into the Kanda River to their left, the cats of the shrine sleepwalking here and there, here and there through the sultry afternoon air.
So then, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki, leaning forward, bending down to stroke one of the cats, which was moving between his calves, rubbing itself against his trouser legs. Three, four times he ran his hand down the length of the back of the cat, the cat quivering, the cat purring, then he glanced up at Nemuro Hiroshi, the man chewing the insides of his mouth, his hands gripping his knees, rocking back and forward ever so slightly on the bench. Murota Hideki stopped stroking the cat, sat up straight again on the bench, listening to the trains passing over the bridge behind them, watching the gulls rising and falling over them, and he waited –
He waited for Nemuro Hiroshi to ask, to ask as they always did, ask for the details, details they never needed to know, that would do them no good, no good at all, but which they thought they needed to know, they always wanted to know, always insisting, Please. Tell me, I want to know…
And so, as he always did, Murota Hideki took out his notebook, turned back through the pages, then reading from his notes he told him the time she had left their apartment complex, the streetcar she had taken, the department store she had waited outside, the time the man had finally arrived –
She waited so long for him, said Nemuro Hiroshi.
And as he always did, Murota Hideki neither agreed nor disagreed, he just kept on reading from his notes: the name of the cinema, how long they had spent inside the theater –
What was the movie, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
