Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  He stopped writing, closed his notebook over his pen, and put them back inside his jacket. He lit another cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke up into the sky, Murota Hideki looking up into the sky, the sky over to the east, cast-over and dull, over Kitazawa, the clouds over Kitazawa, its old wooden row houses cast-over and gone, long gone, long gone, they were all long gone, cast-over and gone. He dropped the cigarette into the dirt at his feet, stubbed it out under his shoe, then rubbed and wiped his eyes. He stood up, picked up the empty cake box from the bench, walked over to a concrete trash bin, and dropped the box inside. He walked out of the small park, turned left, and went north up another narrow, quiet road, following more walls and trees, the walls and trees on the eastern edge of the hospital grounds. He turned right when he reached another park, another small park, and followed the Keiō line tracks east to Kami-Kitazawa station. He bought a ticket and went onto the platform, waited for a train, then boarded the train when it came. He sat in the carriage and closed his eyes, not looking out of the windows, not watching the houses disappear, the apartments rise up, in towers, in blocks, as the train headed to Shinjuku –

  Furimukanaide onegai…

  He walked out of the station, walked through the crowds, the movie and pachinko crowds, the milk-hall and the jazz-club crowds. He climbed the stairs to a second-floor coffee shop. He drank a cup of coffee, ate a thick slice of buttered toast, then ordered a glass of beer and a plate of Napolitan. He ate the spaghetti, drank the beer, ordered another beer and then a highball, drinking and smoking, checking his watch, his watch running slow, time going slow, killing time until time was dead and he was standing in front of the mirror in the cramped, dank toilet of the coffee shop, looking at himself, telling himself, Shikata nai…

  * * *

  —

  He got off another train at another station in another suburb west of Shinjuku. But he did not put on his necktie and spectacles, he did not buy any cakes. He took out his notebook to double-check the address, the address and the route. He put the notebook back inside his jacket and began to walk, to walk the way he had come last Friday night, last Friday night when he had followed the man, followed the man back to his home, his family home, his happy home. Maybe because it had been a little later then, a little darker then, or maybe because it had been a Friday and not a Sunday, but it had seemed a much nicer place then, a much better area then. Now it was just another ugly little concrete hutch in another ugly sprawling suburban development, with its silly little fence and its patch of yellow grass, so much better in the dark, so much nicer in the night.

  Murota Hideki took out his sunglasses and put them on, took out a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. Then he opened the stupid little gate and walked up the stupid little path. The lights were on in the living room, the television on, the baseball on, the faint smells of dinner, the soft sounds of voices, the smells of a family, the sounds of a family. He pressed the stupid doorbell of the stupid glass door, holding it down a little too long, just a little too long, listening to it ringing through their little family home, hearing little feet running to the door. Little hands opened the door and a little face looked up at Murota Hideki. He took his finger off the bell, the toothpick from his mouth, put a big hand on the little head of this little child, looked down through his sunglasses, and said, Is Papa home?

  Of course Papa was home, he could see him now, see him coming down the little hallway, anxious and fearful. He could see Mama, too, see her standing in a doorframe down the hallway, anxious and fearful, too. Both anxious and fearful because they could see Murota Hideki, see him standing at the door to their house, on the threshold of their home, their little family home, their little happy house, with his sunglasses and his toothpick and a hand upon the head of their firstborn, their precious little boy, the boy turning his head, looking for his father, the father pulling him away from the man at their door, pushing his precious little boy back down the hall, back to his mother, into her arms, as his father turned to Murota Hideki, asking Murota Hideki, What do you want…?

  Murota Hideki stared past his face, over his shoulder into his house, down the corridor, straight at his wife as he told the man his own name and the name of his company. Then he smiled and said, That’s you, isn’t it?

  Who are you, said the man. What do you want?

  Looking through his sunglasses, still staring at the wife, Murota Hideki licked his lips, then smiled again and said, A little chat in your little garden.

  The man glanced back at his wife, his anxious, fearful, pregnant wife, her arms around her firstborn, then the man turned back, stepped outside, closed the glass door behind him, and followed Murota Hideki down the little path to the little gate, where he stopped and said, A little chat about what?

  A little chat about your little wife.

  What about my wife?

  Very pretty, your wife, said Murota Hideki, staring at the house, rubbing his crotch. A very beautiful woman.

  The man was a little taller and quite a lot younger than Murota Hideki, but he was not a hard man, just a salaryman. But the man was already balling his fists, already adjusting his stance, already thinking thoughts it was best to stop –

  More beautiful than Nemuro Kazuko, said Murota Hideki, turning from the house to stare at the man, to smile at the man. In my opinion, but, of course, you’ve seen more of them than I have. Much more of them both.

  The man was not balling his fists, not adjusting his stance anymore. All his weight was in his feet now, his heart in his mouth now as he struggled for air, as he spluttered to say, to repeat again, What do you want?

  Well now, said Murota Hideki, chewing on the toothpick. That’s the question, isn’t it? What do I want? See, I could want many things, couldn’t I? Many things from you: information from you, information about your company, information that could be beneficial, beneficial to me and my friends, if we were interested in stocks and shares, if we were so inclined. Or I could just want money, couldn’t I?

  How much, sighed the man.

  How much what?

  Money.

  Murota Hideki smiled, he laughed and put a hand on the shoulder of the man, squeezed the shoulder of this man, and said, I don’t want your money.

  His face full of fear, his eyes filled with dread, the man looked at Murota Hideki and said, Then what do you want?

  Murota Hideki smiled again, squeezed the shoulder of the man again, leaned in close, and said, Your word.

  My word to do what, asked the man.

  Your word that you will go back into your house, your lovely little house, and tell your wife, your pretty pregnant wife, that everything’s all right, everything is fine, that I was just some guy who had heard from a friend that you were looking to buy a car, a car on the cheap, some guy who was just passing by, just in the neighborhood. But you told me you weren’t interested, told me not to call again. You think you can tell her that, you think you can remember that?

  Yes, said the man. But –

  But this is the important part, said Murota Hideki, gripping the shoulder of the man, holding it tight. The part you don’t tell her, the part you never say, but the part you always remember, you never forget…

  What, what…?

  You give me your word you will never see Nemuro Kazuko again, understood?

  The man started to nod, to nod and to say, Yes, yes, of course, of course. But then he started to think, to think and to say, But she’ll contact me, I know she will, she always does. It’s her, not me, it’s always her. Then what do I say?

  Tell her what happened, the truth: tell her this ugly big guy in sunglasses showed up at your house, your family home, on Sunday night. Tell her this ugly big guy in sunglasses had seen you both going in and coming out of your favorite little love inn in Yoyogi last Friday. That this big ugly guy knows who you are, knows both of your names, that he followed
you home, knows where both of you live. That he banged on your door and asked you for money, lots of money.

  But what if she doesn’t believe me, asked the man, shaking his head. What if she won’t leave me alone?

  Then I won’t leave you alone and I won’t leave her alone, said Murota Hideki. Your money and her pussy, because that’s what I’ll want, what I’ll take. And if you won’t give it, or she won’t give it, then I’ll tell your wife and tell her husband. Is that what you want, loverman?

  No, no, said the man, wide-eyed and shaking.

  Murota Hideki patted the shoulder of the man, smiled at the man, and said, But she’ll believe you, because you’ll make her believe you. And then she’ll leave you alone, and then I’ll leave you alone, you and your family. Okay?

  Yes, said the man, nodding.

  Good, said Murota Hideki. Now you take one last look at me, then you turn around, walk back up your little path, through your little door, into your little house, and you go back to your little wife, your little boy, and your happy little life.

  * * *

  —

  By the time he got back to Kita-Senju, the time he got to his apartment building, time he ran up the rusted metal stairs stuck to the side of the old wooden building, went down the damp and humid corridor, unlocked and opened his door, tore off and slung his jacket into his room, picked up the plastic bowl, the flannel cloth, and ancient razor from the top of the shoebox in the thin strip of a genkan, closed and locked the door again, went back down the corridor and stairs again, ran around the corner, up the road and stuck his head through the curtains hanging in the doorway, it was almost closing time at the public bathhouse. But the old granny on the counter laughed and waved him in: Quickly, in with you then, you sweaty old git.

  Murota Hideki laughed, thanked the old bag, and stepped out of his shoes, up into the bathhouse. He undressed, dropped his clothes in the basket, then took his bowl, cloth, and razor into the large communal bathroom. He walked through the steam to the side of the room, ran a faucet and rinsed a stool, crouched down on the stool and soaped his hands, then his face, and began to shave. He shaved his face, then rinsed his face. He soaped his hands again, then his body, and began to wash. He washed and washed his body, cleaned and cleaned his body. The sweat, the dirt, and the grime from his skin, the sweat, the dirt, and the grime of the city. Then he filled and refilled the bowl three or four times, rinsing his body clean of the soap and its suds, clean of the sweat, the dirt, and the grime. And then he wrung out the cloth, rinsed off the stool, and walked over to the big bath. He climbed into the bath, sat down in the bath, nodded to the last of the men still soaking in the bath, then he sank down deeper, deeper into the water, closing his eyes.

  Come on, let’s be having you, shouted the old granny from the door. I want to go home, even if you don’t.

  Yeah, yeah, laughed Murota Hideki, opening his eyes, the last man in the bath, pulling himself up, climbing out of the bath. He slopped back over to the stools and the faucets, ran a faucet and filled his bowl again, rinsed himself down again, then wiped himself down with his cloth. He rinsed and wrung out his cloth again, picked up his bowl and razor, then went out of the bathroom back into the changing room. He picked up a towel from the pile by the door. He dried himself, dressed, and then combed his hair. He picked up his bowl, his cloth, and his razor, and dropped the towel into the basket by the door. He stepped down, back into his shoes, said thanks and goodnight to the old granny closing up, then went back out through the curtains, out of the public bathhouse and onto the street.

  He walked back down the road, bought a bottle of beer, three packs of cigarettes, and some dried squid from the store on the corner, then went back around the corner, back to his building. He climbed the rusted metal stairs again, went back down the damp, humid corridor again, the stench from the single, communal toilet on the ground floor tart and rank. He unlocked and opened his door, put down the bowl, the cloth, and the razor on top of the shoebox, closed the door, stepped out of his shoes into the room, and said, Tadaima.

  He found and pulled the cord, switched on the bulb, put the beer, the cigarettes, and the squid down on the low table under the dim bulb in the middle of the tiny room. He turned back to the genkan, took the cloth from the bowl, and picked up his jacket from the floor. He walked over to the tattered, torn paper of the shōji screen which covered the single window on the opposite wall. He draped the damp cloth over a coat hanger, hung it from one of the lattices of the screen, then hung his jacket on a nail in the wall. He took off his shirt, his trousers, his socks, and his underwear again. He hung the trousers on another nail, then put on clean underwear. He screwed up his dirty underwear, his socks, and his shirt in a ball and stuffed them in a corner on a pile of old underwear, socks, and shirts. He walked back around the low table to the sink next to the genkan, picked up a glass from the rack, and slumped down on the floor at the low table. He opened the beer, poured and drank a glass, chewing on a piece of squid. He leaned over, across the dirty mats, and picked up a thin towel from the floor. He wiped his face and neck, then wrapped and tied the towel around his neck. He poured another glass, listening to the sound of radios and voices, radios and voices from the rooms next door, the rooms below. He took another gulp of beer, the beer already warm, and cursed himself. He got back to his feet, went back over to his jacket on its nail. He took his lighter, the address book of Kuroda Roman, and his own notebook and pen from the pockets of his jacket. He carried them back over to the low table and sat back down on the floor. He drank the beer, chewed squid, and smoked cigarettes as he went through the address book of Kuroda Roman, looking for the last names and numbers on each page of the book. He copied out these names and numbers into his own notebook, drinking the beer, chewing on squid, smoking his cigarettes, then finishing the beer and drinking a glass of shōchū from a bottle under the sink, mixed with pickled sour plums from a jar under the sink, stirring the drink with a pair of chopsticks from the sink, making a second list of names and numbers from the address book of Kuroda Roman, a list of older names and numbers, stirring then drinking more glasses of shōchū and pickled sour plums –

  Darling, she whispered, what are you doing?

  He said, I want to find this man.

  Please don’t, she said, please stop.

  But he poured another glass of shōchū, mashed the pickled plum into even smaller bits with the chopsticks, then took a long drink and said, No, no. I want to find who blabbed, the bigmouth who talked about us, who gave us up.

  Long ago, she said, it’s so long ago now.

  He poured again, he mashed again, he drank and drank again, then said, Maybe to you, but not to me.

  In tears, she said, it’ll end in tears.

  So what, he said, reaching for the bottle again, pouring again. It began in tears, it’s always tears –

  My tears, she said, not yours.

  He picked up the chopsticks, smashed them down into the remains of the plums in the glass, again and again as he said, I need to know, I need to know, I NEED TO KNOW.

  Darling, please, it will do you no good.

  He looked up from the broken plums, the snapped chopsticks, the cracked glass, from the pools of shōchū, the splinters of wood and the spots of blood, looked up at the filthy, stinking sink, the single grease-coated ring, at the piles of dirty old clothes on the dusty, frayed mats, his soiled jacket and grubby trousers hanging by their nails on the grimy yellow walls, the dim, naked bulb dangling from the stained, warped ceiling, in the thick and foul, dank and insect air, looking for things that were not there, searching for people who were not here, talking to their shadows, speaking to their silence, he said, he said again, So what, so what? Is this some kind of good?

  * * *

  —

  The Shimoyama Case, said Yokogawa Jirō, in the Yama-no-Ue Hotel in Ochanomizu. He was sitting on one of the black-lea
ther-and-cherrywood sofas in the lounge of the lobby, filling his seat like it was some kind of throne, the pair of thick, red velvet curtains behind him adding a further regal touch to the scene. But instead of a jeweled crown, he was wearing a black beret with his brow-line glasses and his stiff, dark-green kimono, the beret giving him the appearance of a successful manga artist rather than the founder and chairman of the Mystery Writers of Japan. His face was even rounder, his lips even thicker than in his photographs, and he looked every one of his sixty-three years. He took another pull on his fat cigar, another sip from his whisky, then Yokogawa Jirō swallowed and said, Yes, I’m afraid that’s what did for poor old Kuroda-sensei.

  In the court of the Emperor of Mysteries, Murota Hideki nodded, sipped his own whisky, and waited. It was a slow, hungover lunchtime on the second day of the Rainy Season, Monday, June 22, 1964.