by David Peace
Murota Hideki said, Hakujitsumu.
Enjoy it, did you, snorted Nemuro Hiroshi.
Murota Hideki shook his head and said, Not really, I was in and out. I went for a coffee.
And so then, said Nemuro Hiroshi, after they’d spent the afternoon watching pornography, I suppose they…
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Yes.
Where, asked Nemuro Hiroshi.
An inn in the Yoyogi area.
For how long?
They said goodbye outside the inn at five o’clock, so they were there less than two hours.
Less than two hours, laughed Nemuro Hiroshi. So she could still be back home to prepare my dinner, to greet me in the genkan, telling me she had run me a bath, urging me to relax in that bath, then to pour me a beer and serve my meal, asking after my day, hoping it hadn’t been too stressful, while lying about her own day, her uneventful day, yet stinking of him, dreaming of him, talking in her sleep, moaning in her sleep.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki again, as he always did, closing his notebook, as he always did, waiting for the next question, as he always did, the question they always asked, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but which they always asked, sooner or later, they always ask –
Who is he?
I can’t tell you that, said Murota Hideki, as he always did, as he always had, since that one time he did say, the one and only time he had said.
Nemuro Hiroshi turned to look at Murota Hideki, the worry and fear all bled from him, drained from him, replaced by that predictable, corrosive cocktail of humiliation and anger: Can’t say or won’t say?
Won’t say.
So you do know?
Yes, said Murota Hideki. But you don’t need to.
Why not?
Because it’ll do you no good.
He half said, half shouted, That’s for me to decide.
No, said Murota Hideki, as calmly and as gently as he possibly could. That’s for me to decide, and I’ve decided you don’t need to know. Please, trust me, you really don’t.
He was almost out of his seat, almost off the bench, almost touching Murota Hideki: So it is someone I know.
No, said Murota Hideki again, as calmly and as gently as he possibly could again. It’s no one you know.
So just tell me then, said Nemuro Hiroshi, reaching inside his jacket, taking out his wallet. I’ll pay you more –
Murota Hideki slowly raised his hand, slowly moved the wallet out of his face, and said, It’s not about money, it’s about you, Mister Nemuro, about what you might go and do if I was dumb enough to tell you the name of this man.
What do you mean?
I mean, you might decide to go visit this man, might then do something which wouldn’t help you and which wouldn’t help me, me being the person who’d been dumb enough to tell you the name of this man. That’s what I mean.
I see, said Nemuro Hiroshi. I see.
Murota Hideki nodded: Good.
Yes, I see, said Nemuro Hiroshi, turning to Murota Hideki again, looking up into his face, turning on Murota Hideki now, as they often did, so many did, looking into his eyes and spitting, See, it’s not about me, is it? It’s about you, Murota, about you protecting yourself, isn’t it? Well, what about me? How do I protect myself, Murota-san, protect myself, my wife, and my marriage from this man? This man I don’t know, but my wife knows, yes, she knows, and you know, yeah, you know. Yeah, you know, you know so much, so you tell me what I should do. Go on, go on, you tell this cuckold what the hell he should do then.
Murota Hideki rubbed his eyes, his cheeks, his face, then sighed: You finished?
Nemuro Hiroshi looked away, down at his shoes, down at the gravel, the cat looking up at him, watching him.
Murota Hideki leaned forward, put his hand as gently and as softly as he could on the leg of this angry, broken man beside him, and said, Look, like I told you the first time we spoke, when a man or a woman thinks their spouse is cheating on them, ninety-nine percent of the time they’re usually right. But most of the time it’s a short-term thing; five minutes of fireworks, then finished forever.
Most of the time, said Nemuro Hiroshi, squeezing his wallet in his fist, staring at the cat. But not all of the time.
Not all of the time, no. But this time, yes.
How can you know that, said Nemuro Hiroshi, turning to look at Murota Hideki again, to search his face, his eyes for deception, for a lie. How can you be certain?
Murota Hideki shrugged, then said, I’m never going to tell you his name, but I will tell you this: he has a good job, a nice place, just like you, but he has a pregnant wife and one young son. He ain’t going to be giving up all that, not for your wife.
So I just sit it out, asked Nemuro Hiroshi. Wait for the fireworks to finish, that what you’re saying?
Murota Hideki nodded again: If you’re not going to divorce her, if you still love her, and you obviously do, then yeah. Makes you feel any better, maybe go even things out.
Even things out? What do you mean?
Murota Hideki glanced at his watch, his watch running slow. Maybe go get yourself a turko. But if you’re going, you’d best go quick. They’re clamping down, with the Olympics –
Hardly the same, is it, snorted Nemuro Hiroshi. Paying for it, paying some old fucking whore…
It was beginning to spit, to rain on Murota Hideki, his stomach starting to rumble, to growl. He stood up and said, Wise up, will you? He’s paying for it, you’re already paying for it. We’re always paying for it.
Murota Hideki started to walk away, away up the steps and out of the shrine, away from this man, this pathetic, shameless little man, his big fucking voice –
That what you’d do, is it, Murota? Your wife was cheating on you, fucking another man? You’d go get a turko, that’s what you’d do, is it? Is it…?
Murota Hideki stopped, turned back, back down the steps, back into the shrine, back to the man, walked back to the man, and looked down at the man, this pathetic, shameless little man looking up at Murota Hideki, this pathetic, shameless little man with a smirk, a sneer on his pathetic, shameless little face, and Murota Hideki said, he said, My wife is dead.
Nemuro Hiroshi did not look away. He did not even blink. He just kept on looking up at Murota Hideki, looking up at him, staring up at him, tears welling in his eyes, blinking then, blinking now, tears rolling down his cheeks as he said, Please, I just don’t want to lose her…
Murota Hideki did not tell him she was already lost, she was already gone, didn’t tell him that he didn’t blame her, didn’t blame her one bit. Murota Hideki just stood there, looking down on him, stood there and lied to him: You won’t.
But you can make sure, can’t you, said the man, wiping his eyes, wiping his cheeks, opening up his wallet, taking out three ten-thousand-yen notes. He held the notes up to Murota Hideki, held the notes out to Murota Hideki, raindrops falling on the notes, falling on his hand, down on the man and down on Murota Hideki, on the shrine and on the city –
Old city, new city, same city –
I want you to make sure.
* * *
—
It was still raining and he was still hungry, so he walked quickly, following the tracks, sheltered by the tracks, down to Yasukuni-dōri, then under the tracks and along Yasukuni-dōri, over the crossroads and the streetcar tracks, through Kanda-Sudachō and Ogawamachi, along Yasukuni-dōri and into Jimbōchō. Still raining, still hungry, very wet and very hungry, he went from bookshop to bookshop, used-bookshop to used-bookshop, from stack to stack, from shelf to shelf, until off Yasukuni-dōri, down a side street, up an alley, in a bookshop called Gen’ei-dō, in a stack by the door, he found the book he was looking for. He took the book and two other books from the stack by the door, then walked to the back of the store, put the three books down on the cou
nter, and said, How much?
The old man behind the counter looked up from the book he was reading, pushed his glasses back up his nose, then looked back down at the three pocket-sized paperbacks on the counter, picking up Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon, then Teigin Monogatari: Winter of the Demon, then Whereabouts Unknown, opening up each book, turning to the back page of each book, reading the price on the back page of each book, the prices scribbled in pencil at the back of each book. The old man looked up from the books, pushed his glasses back up his nose again, then smiled and said, Ninety yen, please.
Here you go, said Murota Hideki, handing over the exact amount, smiling at the old man.
The old man reached down behind the counter, taking out a paper bag, putting the books inside the bag, and said, Is there some kind of Kuroda Roman revival going on?
What do you mean, asked Murota Hideki.
Well, you’re the second person this month buying his books, said the old man, handing the bag to Murota Hideki.
Murota Hideki smiled again and said, Let me guess: it was a skinny young guy in a flashy new suit.
Hard luck, Holmes-san, laughed the old man, shaking his head. It was a foreigner.
You’re joking?
Nope, said the old man, shaking his head again, pushing his glasses back up his nose again. I was surprised.
Murota Hideki glanced around the cramped and tiny store, lined and piled back to front, top to bottom with shelves and shelves, stacks and stacks of books and books, and asked, You get a lot of foreigners in here, do you?
We used to, said the old man. After the war, during the Occupation. But not these days, not yet.
Murota Hideki smiled again and asked, Not yet?
The Olympics, said the old man, nodding to himself. You never know…
You’re right, said Murota Hideki, nodding himself, turning to go. You never know.
Just hope they’re all wanting Kuroda Roman books, laughed the old man. We got a box of them upstairs.
The bag of books tucked under his left arm, Murota Hideki opened the door, saying, Popular guy.
Briefly, a long time ago now.
So they tell me, said Murota Hideki, stepping out of the shop, closing the door behind him, walking back down the alley, back through the rain.
He went down the side street, along and up another, then found himself on Suzuran-dōri. He crossed the road, went inside the Yangtze restaurant, picked up a newspaper from the rack by the door, then sat down at a table at the back. He ordered a bowl of cold Chinese noodles, a plate of fried rice, six gyōza dumplings, a glass of beer, and a half-bottle of Chinese wine. He ate the gyōza and drank the beer, reading the evening paper, reading about the capture of the Hokkaidō Cabbie Killer, of the Zengakuren and their demonstrations, of Sawako Ariyoshi and her divorce, skipping yet more Olympic crap about another new highway here, another new trainline there. Then, when he’d finished the gyōza and the beer, when he’d finished with the evening paper, he folded the paper back up, stood up, walked over to put it back in the rack, then returned to his table, and sat back down. He took out his packet of cigarettes and lit one, then he picked up the paper bag and took out one of the three pocket-sized books, the tatty, worn copy of Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon. He ate the fried rice, drank the Chinese wine, smoking more cigarettes, ordering more wine, another half-bottle, as he flicked through the pages, scanned the paragraphs, searching for his name, until he found his name, and then he began to read the page, the paragraph beginning: Murota Hideki is originally from Yamanashi Prefecture. But after he was fired from the police for his inappropriate behavior, after he was left without a job, Murota Hideki did not go back to his family’s home in Yamanashi. Murota Hideki stayed on in Tokyo. And so Murota Hideki still lives in an old wooden row house in Kitazawa, not far from the Shimo-Kitazawa station, the same old wooden row house that Detective Nishi found listed as his address in his personal records, the same old wooden row house…
Lighting another cigarette, drinking another glass, reading ahead now, scanning ahead now, through all of the names, all of these ghosts – Detectives Nishi and Minami, Inspectors Mori and Adachi, the girls, the murdered girls, Abe Yoshiko and Midorikawa Ryuko, and the killer, their killer, Kodaira Yoshio – through all of these names, all of these ghosts, searching for her, looking for her, until he found her, there on the page, until he saw her, in black and white, he saw her again step out of the shadows and through the shabby curtain, dressed in a yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress, he saw her again and he heard her, heard her again, saying again, I won’t pretend to be dead. I’m not a ghost.
* * *
—
But they’ll come for you again…
Murota Hideki twitched, he jerked, then peeled his cheek, his ear, and hair off the paper bag of paperbacks. He sat up in the chair, opened his eyes, and rubbed his cheek, his eyes, then both his cheeks, he rubbed them hard, then slapped them hard. He looked down at the desk, the bag of books on the desk, the handset lying next to the bag, droning on the desk, on the top of his desk. He picked up the handset, held it up to his ear and he heard the drone, the drone of the missing, the missing and the dead. He swallowed, he blinked, sniffed up, and said, Now, now, no, no. Don’t be starting with them waterfalls again. He shook his head, he shook his head, blinked and swallowed and sniffed again, then placed the handset back down on the phone, down in its cradle, back in its bed. He pulled himself up out of the chair, and round the desk he went. He picked up his shirt and jacket from the floor, his creased shirt and damp jacket, and put them on. He checked the pockets of his jacket, patting his notebook then his wallet, and he smiled to himself and said to himself, Could be worse, things could always be worse. He walked over to the window, over to the light, pushed open the window just a bit, the morning just a crack –
Ton-ton, ton-ton. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk…
Even on a Sunday, he said to himself, walking to the door and out of the office. He closed and locked the door, then walked along the corridor and down the stairs, the four flights of stairs. In the narrow entrance, he checked his metal mailbox in the wall of metal mailboxes. He sifted through the advertising sheets and utility bills, stuffed them all back inside the mailbox, and slammed its metal shut again. Then he went out of the building, down the steps and onto the street, into the morning, the cast-over morning, noisy and dull –
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, don-don…
But he did not go right, past the shrine and under the tracks. He did not go to Manseibashi to take a streetcar, did not go to Kanda to take a train. He went east to the corner and then turned north, over the Izumibashi Bridge, over the Kanda River, the river darker than ever, its Edo stench worse than ever. North through Akihabara he went, north into Okachimachi, through the crowds and through the noise, the pachinko crowds and the Olympic noise, even on a Sunday, a country mining for gold: pachinko gold vs. Olympic gold –
Don-don, ka-chunk…
He skirted Ueno, avoided Ueno – the movie and the zoo crowds, the park and exhibition crowds – down the side streets, the backstreets he went, through Shitaya and on through Inari-chō, but north, still north, crossing over Shōwa-dōri, passing through Sakamoto-chō, the city getting darker, wooden and more green, the city growing quieter, hushed and more muted, until he was walking under Uguisudani, coming to a place of shadows, he was coming to a place of silence, coming closer and closer, the shadows and the silence –
They’ll come for you again…
Until he had come to the place of shadows, the place of silence, he was in the place of shadows, the place of silence; Murota Hideki was in Negishi.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck, pulled his jacket from his shirt, his shirt from his vest, his vest from his skin, then wiped his neck again. He put away his handkerchief and took out his notebook. He opened the notebook and turned through the pages until he cam
e to the address. He repeated it out loud twice to himself. He closed the notebook, put it back inside his jacket, and walked along the main road, Kototoi-dōri, looking for a map board, a guide to this quarter. In front of a temple, he found a map board, a faded, ink-drawn plan laid out on a battered old wooden board, the tiny handwritten numbers of the addresses etched inside little black squares in a labyrinth of hundreds of little black squares on the decrepit, rotting board. He found the address, the little black square he was looking for, and he took out his notebook again, and his pen this time, and he made a rough sketch of the area around the address, the little black square he was searching for. The notebook still open in his hand, he set off down the main road again, then turned right off Kototoi-dōri into a side road, more of a lane than a road. He went down the lane, dark and narrow, into a maze of lanes, the scent of incense in the shadows, a sense of mourning in the silence, somber and meandering, among temples of moldering tombstones, past houses with weed-grown gardens, isolated and secluded, deeper and deeper he went, into the maze, its labyrinth of lanes, sullen and winding, until he stopped, stopped before a house even more isolated than all of the others, and he stood, stood before this house more secluded than the rest, in the middle of the maze, at the heart of this labyrinth, for he had found, found the house of Kuroda Roman, hidden and hiding.
In this place protected by shadow, guarded in silence, this place of retreat, retreat and exile, he stared at a low wall, masked by shrubs, buried by weeds, at the bamboo fence which rose up, out from behind the wall, the shrubs and the weeds, the fence which screened the garden and house behind its bamboo, shielded whatever, whoever within from the lane and the world, the eyes of the world, the eyes of Murota Hideki. He put his notebook back inside his jacket, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his neck, then stepped closer to the fence, trying to look through the fence, to peek between bits of broken bamboo, splintered and fallen, through gourds and vines, between plants and trunks, thickets and copses of pomegranate and myrtle, plum and pine, gazing into this garden, through its tones and shades, trying to see where the house should be, to glimpse its silhouette in this garden of shadows, this garden of silence, peering, then squinting through its shifting tones, its shifting shades, pale then gray, dim then dark, where lizards darted and centipedes crawled, in the shadows, in the silence, the silence through which mosquitoes now rang, ringing in his ears, piercing his skin, finding the blood in his vessels, sucking the blood from his neck, his ear, his cheek, his –
