by David Peace
Shit, he said, stepping back from the fence and the wall, out of the shrubs and the weeds, into the dirt of the lane, flapping his handkerchief around his face, rubbing the bites, checking for blood, and cursing again, Fucking mosquitoes.
He put away his handkerchief, took out his notebook and pen again, and began to walk the length of the fence to map the boundary of the place, taking five steps, six steps, seven, then turning a corner, still following the low wall and bamboo fence, sketching the border, tracing its outline, until he came to a gap in the wall, a space in the fence, the gap filled with taller shrubs, the space thick with giant weeds, the shrubs and the weeds hiding a gate, the gate to the house. He stepped into the shrubs and the weeds, waded through their stems and stalks, parting and pulling at the shrubs and the weeds, their stems and their stalks, two steps, three steps, four, until he reached the gate, could touch the gate. The gate was made of wood, of old, thick wood, higher than his head, taller than a man, covered with a roof, a roof of thatch and twigs. Under this roof, its sloping eaves, among the shrubs and the weeds, through their stems and their stalks, their flowers and their leaves, he fumbled blindly at the wood, the wood of the gate, groped for a handle, a handle to the gate. But there was no handle, no handle to the gate. He cursed and pushed at the wood of the gate, but there was no give, no give in the wood, no give in the gate. He cursed again and pushed again, then made a fist and knocked on the wood of the gate, then knocked again, he knocked and knocked again, and cursed and cursed again –
Fuck was the point of this, he said, stepping back through the shrubs and the weeds, back into the lane, its shadows and its silence. He put away his notebook and pen again, took out his handkerchief again, waving away the mosquitoes again, wiping the sweat from his neck again as he looked at the gate, shaking his head as he stared at the gate, cursing the gate and cursing himself, Dumb, dumb, dumb.
He coughed and spat in the dirt of the lane, then turned and walked back around the corner, back along the fence, turning at another corner, down another lane, walking past another low wall, another bamboo fence, both tended and weeded, the sound of birdsong from within, a whistle within, the whistle of a man whistling to the birds. Murota Hideki stopped, stopped before the gate to this house, this gate, this house not hidden, not hiding. He slid open the gate, stepped over its threshold, and said, I’m sorry, excuse me…
Yes, said an old, bald man, dressed in a summer kimono, standing on the veranda of his house, four or five birdcages hanging from its eaves.
Murota Hideki took two or three steps up the large stones of the garden path, saying again, Excuse me, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping to speak with your neighbor, Horikawa-san, the writer Kuroda Roman?
Good luck with that, said the old, bald man, raising his eyebrows, smiling as he closed one of the cages.
He doesn’t seem to be home, said Murota Hideki. Don’t suppose you know where is…?
I wish I did, said the old man, shaking his head. My son’s been trying to speak to him for months.
Oh yeah? Why’s that?
We got an offer on this land, said the man, gesturing at his house and his garden. Real-estate company wants to build some apartments and a car park. It’s a good offer, but they want his land, too, Horikawa’s land, or else they’re not interested.
The company can’t find him then?
No one can, said the old, bald man, shaking his head again. You must be the third or fourth person been round here in the last year, asking about him.
Popular guy.
Not him, laughed the old man. Just his land. He’s mad. Last time I saw him, he was eating the flowers in his garden.
Really…?
Yeah, said the man, nodding and turning, pointing over to the back of his garden. Used to be a hole in the fence back there, between the two gardens. The wife made me get it fixed up, she thinks there’s foxes in his garden. I told her, the only fox in there is that crazy old fox Horikawa-san.
But you saw him then?
Oh yes, said the old, bald man. Saw him on his hands and knees, eating the petals off flowers, drinking the water from his pond, he was, talking to his teddy bear…
His teddy bear?
You know, said the old man, smiling at the birds in their cages, waving at the birds in their cages. One of them stuffed animals, stuffed toys kids have?
Murota Hideki nodded and said, Yeah, I know what you mean. But you say he was talking to this teddy bear?
Unbelievable, I know, said the man. But I’ll never forget it, can still hear his voice now: Sada-chan, Sada-chan, he was saying. Must be thirsty, have some water, Sada-chan.
That was the name of the bear then, said Murota Hideki. No one else living there with him then?
Not these days, said the old, bald man. Least not as far as I know. He was married, though, long time ago now.
I heard that, said Murota Hideki, nodding. You know what happened to the wife, do you?
Killed herself, said the old man, lowering his voice, turning to the birds in their cages, nodding to himself.
In the shadows, in the silence, the shadows and the silence again, Murota Hideki swallowed and blinked, blinked and swallowed again, then said, Poor woman.
Yep, said the man.
Murota Hideki blinked again and asked, Did you ever see her, ever meet her?
Nope, said the old, bald man. Heard her, though, sometimes, practicing the samisen. She was a geisha, see, ex-geisha. His family disowned him when he married her, cut him off, never saw him again, that’s what I heard.
I heard that, said Murota Hideki again, nodding again. So when was that, when you last saw him then?
In his garden, you mean?
Yeah, that time.
A year, maybe two years ago now.
You’ve not seen him since?
No, said the old, bald man, tapping on the bars of one of the cages. Thought they must have taken him away again. Been in and out of the asylum since as long as I can remember.
You know which one?
No, said the old man, shaking his head, smiling at the bird in the cage. If we did, my son would’ve been over there like a shot, getting him to sign and sell up.
He might not want to, said Murota Hideki, looking up at the house, looking round at the garden, this beautiful old house, this beautiful old garden.
Might not, said the man. But I reckon he would when he hears what they’re offering, how much they’re offering.
Must be a good offer, said Murota Hideki.
It is, said the old, bald man in his summer kimono on the veranda of his house, looking at Murota Hideki, asking Murota Hideki, So why you looking for him?
Murota Hideki reached inside his jacket, took out his wallet, took a name card from his wallet, and stepped toward the veranda, holding out his name card, saying, He owes his publisher some money, that’s all.
I see, said the old man, taking the name card, reading the name on the card. That’s interesting, very interesting.
Why do you say that?
Because it means he’ll be even more likely to sell, said the man. If you find him…
Maybe, laughed Murota Hideki. If I find him.
Wait there, will you, said the old, bald man, disappearing into his house, his beautiful old house.
Murota Hideki nodded, then waited in the shadows, the silence, turning to look at the back of the garden, the fence at the back, the fence which separated this house from the garden and house next door, the house of Kuroda Roman.
Here’s my son’s name card, said the old man, coming back out onto the veranda, handing the card, together with a narrow, thin, weather-stained notebook, to Murota Hideki. You might as well take this as well…
Murota Hideki nodded, looking down at the book, then back up at the old, bald man. Thank you, but what is it?
>
His address book, said the man, smiling to himself, shaking his head. Least that’s what we think it is.
Murota Hideki nodded again, opening the book, flicking through the pages, asking, How come…?
He used to throw stuff over the fence sometimes, into our garden, laughed the old, bald man. Can you believe it? Course, we’d try and give the stuff back, but it was like raising the dead, trying to get him to open his gate.
I know what you mean, said Murota Hideki.
That’s if he was even home, said the old man. But my son had a look through it, even tried a few of the numbers, seeing if he could track him down.
No luck, though?
First few numbers he tried, said the man. They’d never heard of him, so he gave up. Thought you might have better luck, you being a professional. You never know?
You’re right, said Murota Hideki, nodding to himself. You never know. Thank you.
Just make sure you let us know, said the old, bald man. If you do find him.
Will do, said Murota Hideki, holding up the name card, then turning to go, saying again, Thank you.
From the veranda, among the birdcages, the old man called out, Where you heading now?
The asylum, said Murota Hideki, not turning back, not looking back, stepping through the gate, out into the lane.
He closed the gate behind him, put the name card inside his wallet, his wallet back inside his jacket, and then opened the notebook, this address book again, flicking through the pages, turning through the syllables – A, KA, SA, TA, NA, MA – stopping when he came to MA, reading down the list of names, the names beginning MA, MI, MU…
Murota – 291-3131.
In Negishi, in this lane, in the middle of the maze, at the heart of this labyrinth, in the address book of Kuroda Roman, on a narrow and weather-stained page of this book, he read his own name, he saw his own number, and then he turned the page back, and back again, back through NA to TA, and he looked down the page, read down through the list, the list of names beginning TA, TI, TU, TE, TO…
Tominaga – 291-3131.
And in the shadows, and in the silence, in this place of retreat, retreat and exile, he read her name, her name and his own number, a line through his number, a line through her name, in the silence, in the shadows…
Come for you again.
* * *
—
He got off the Keiō train at Hachimanyama station. He went into the toilet on the platform. He took a piss, then went over to the basin. He took out a necktie from the pocket of his jacket and put it on, took out his spectacles from another pocket, then put them on. He ran the faucet and rinsed his hands, then dried his hands on the front of his jacket and shirt. He left the toilet, he left the station. He found a cake shop and he bought the two cheapest, smallest cakes they had on display. He crossed over the tracks, went south down a quiet, narrow road, then turned left and passed through the West Gate of the Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital, formerly known as the Matsuzawa Hospital for the Insane, with the box of cakes in his hand, smiling and nodding to the guard-man at his post, who nodded, smiled back, and said, Good afternoon. He walked along the driveway to the main entrance to the Main Clinical Building. He walked up the steps, went into the lobby, and made a big show of standing there, the box of cakes in one hand, scratching his head with the other, turning one way then the other, screwing up his eyes, squinting through his spectacles –
You looking for reception, asked a young nurse.
He nodded, he smiled: Yes, I am. Could you –
It’s this way, she nodded, and she guided Murota Hideki down a corridor, up to a counter, and left him there, in front of a stern-faced, much older lady.
Good afternoon, said Murota Hideki, placing the box of cakes on the counter between them.
She gave the box of cakes an irritated glance, looked back up, and snapped, Yes?
Excuse me, said Murota Hideki. I’m not from Tokyo. I’m from Yamanashi. This is my first time. Not my first time in Tokyo, but my first time here, here at this hospital. You see, I’m here on business. Not at your hospital, I mean here in Tokyo. But because I’m here, here in Tokyo on business, my mother and my aunt, they asked me if I would try to come to visit my uncle. That is, if I had time, because I wasn’t really sure I would have time, because I wasn’t sure how the business would go. But as it turns out –
Name, she said, through gritted teeth, teeth flecked with specks of lipstick that had long since left her lips.
Murota Hideki, he said, bowing.
Not your name, she spat. The name of the patient, this uncle you are here to see?
Tamotsu, said Murota Hideki. Uncle Tamotsu.
Full name, she sighed. His family name?
Ah, so sorry, he said. Horikawa. Horikawa Tamotsu.
The stern-faced nurse looked at Murota Hideki, stared at Murota Hideki, his creased suit and shirt, his necktie and his spectacles, his puffy and unshaven face. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. He touched the box of cakes on the counter, and she glanced at the box again, then back up at Murota Hideki again. He smiled at her again, again she did not smile back, but then she sighed again and said, Horikawa Tamotsu? Just a minute…
She got up from her chair behind the counter and went into an office set back from the counter, leaving him standing there, touching the box of cakes, tapping the box.
I thought so, she said, returning to her chair behind the counter, smiling now, gloating now, an open file in her hands. Your Uncle Tamotsu is not here.
Really, said Murota Hideki, scratching his head, pulling at the lobe of his ear.
Yes. Really.
Sorry, said Murota Hideki, but are you sure?
Yes, she said. I am sure, very sure.
Just a minute, said Murota Hideki, reaching into a pocket, then another pocket, then another, patting himself down. But my mother and my aunt, they told me this was the name of the hospital. I even wrote it down somewhere. I’m sure this is the right hospital, I’m sure this is the right place…
He was here, she said. But he’s not here now. You have the right hospital; he’s just not here, not anymore.
But they gave me the name of the doctor, the name of his doctor, said Murota Hideki, still going through his pockets. They wanted me to speak with his doctor…Doctor, Doctor…oh, what was his name? Where’s the letter…?
He is not here, she said again. You’re too late.
But that can’t be right, said Murota Hideki. We would have been told, someone would have said. Where would he go, what would he do? He’s not a well man, he’s a very sick man. Poor old Uncle Tamotsu…
There were people behind Murota Hideki now, queuing up behind Murota Hideki now, impatient and annoyed people, looking at the receptionist, the receptionist looking at them, gritting her teeth again, shaking her head.
…Are you really, really sure?
LOOK, she snapped and spat, slamming down the open file onto the top of the counter, next to the box of the cakes. Then she turned to the people stood behind Murota Hideki, smiling at the first people in the queue, asking them, Yes…?
Murota Hideki blinked his eyes, scratched his head, and looked down at the file, turning it around, staring down at the page, reading the names and the dates, his lips moving as he blinked his eyes again, scratched his head again, then shook his head and shook his head again as he closed the file and turned it back around again, waiting for the receptionist to deal with the people in the queue, just standing there, waiting there, waiting for her to pick up the file and triumphantly say, See.
Yes, said Murota Hideki, quietly and sadly, reaching into his pockets again, searching through his pockets again. But I wonder if it would be possible just to speak with his doctor? Just to have a quick word with Doctor Nomura, please?
No, it would not be possible,
said the receptionist, getting up from her chair again, taking the file away.
How about if I came back tomorrow?
She got to the door of the office set back behind the counter. She turned around, she looked at him and sighed, No. He retired in March. He’s not here either.
Murota Hideki nodded, then nodded once again and turned and walked away from the counter –
Just a minute, she shouted.
Murota Hideki turned back, smiled, and said, Yes?
You forgot your cakes.
He smiled again, smiled at her and said, You keep them. They were for Uncle Tamotsu. Please, you have them.
She looked down at the box, then back up at Murota Hideki, shook her head, and said, No, thanks. You take them, take them back to Yamanashi, to your mother and your aunt.
Murota Hideki walked back over to the counter, picked up the box of cakes, nodded at the woman, bowed to the woman, and said, You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.
You’re welcome, she said. Goodbye.
He bowed once more, then turned and walked away from the desk, back down the corridor, back through the lobby and back down the steps of the Main Clinical Building, then back down the long driveway and back through the gates, smiling and nodding again at the guard-man at his post, who nodded, smiled back again, and said, Otsukaresama desu…
Murota Hideki nodded again, then turned left and walked south down the narrow, quiet road, following the walls and the trees which hid the grounds of the Matsuzawa Hospital, those high walls and tall trees which screened the lawns and the ponds of the hospital, shrouded the patients, the inmates inside. He turned left again at the corner where the Hachimanyama police box stood and walked up a path of dirt and stones, following a high wire fence which marked the southern boundary of the Matsuzawa Hospital, looking through the links of the fence, staring across a baseball field at the tall trees, at more tall trees, at more screens and more shrouds. He turned left again at another corner and then came to a park, a very small park. He sat down on a bench in the park, this very small and empty park, and opened the box of cakes. He took out the first cake and stuffed it in his mouth, swallowed the cake and then ate the other, his first food of the day. He wiped the cream from his mouth and his lips, licked his fingers, and then took out his cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, and inhaled, then exhaled. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out in the dirt at his feet, then took off his spectacles and necktie, put them back in the pockets of his jacket. He took out his notebook and pen from inside his jacket. He opened the notebook and began to write down names and dates, his lips moving as he wrote, whispering other names and other dates as he wrote: Chief Inspector Mori, June 1946, purged and gone insane, committed to the Matsuzawa Hospital for the Insane…
