Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  Ages ago now, said Yokogawa Jirō, after another pull, another sip. But it still sometimes feels like yesterday.

  Murota Hideki nodded again, sipped again, and waited.

  I’ll never forget this one time, it was that summer, the summer of Shimoyama, Mitaka, and Matsukawa, must have been the August, I think. We called a meeting of the Mystery Writers of Japan, at the Tōyōken, up on the seventh floor of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, where we always held our meetings back then. But we called it specifically to debate the Shimoyama Case, invited the press, asked certain writers to give their opinions, their theories on the Shimoyama Case, and then, at the end, we were to hold a vote on whether it was suicide or murder, whether President Shimoyama had killed himself or been murdered. It was all people were talking about – suicide or murder – back then, if you remember…?

  Murota Hideki nodded and said, I remember.

  I’ll never forget, said Yokogawa Jirō again. Right at the end of the meeting, after we’d had the vote, the doors burst open and in flies Kuroda Roman. You should have seen the state of the man! His yukata hanging open, underwear on display, holding his geta in his hands, his bare feet all cut and bloody, his hair all messed up, eyes wide and wild, he was almost foaming at the mouth, babbling and raving about how he’d cracked the case, solved the mystery of Shimoyama.

  Murota Hideki asked, What was he saying?

  I was at the other end of the room, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head. So I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but apparently, I heard later, he was just babbling and raving on about time, about how time was “the mystery to the solution.”

  Murota Hideki said, The solution to the mystery?

  No, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head again. The other way around, “the mystery to the solution.” I remember that, people repeating that later. But then he just started haranguing everyone, the writers and the journalists, as they were leaving, saying it was all just a game to us, another puzzle, that no one really cared. And he had a point, you know, but pretty soon after that he was committed, I think. It wasn’t the first time either, or the last, from what I’ve heard.

  But you’ve seen him since then, Sensei…?

  Another one, said Yokogawa Jirō, gesturing with his empty glass at his personalized bottle of whisky, standing next to the ice bucket on the cherrywood table between them.

  Thank you very much, said Murota Hideki, nodding. He leaned over the table, picked up the whisky bottle, unscrewed the top, and poured them both another drink, then used the tongs to drop two cubes of ice into each of their glasses.

  Yokogawa Jirō took another long pull on his fat cigar, then picked up his fresh glass, took a big sip, swallowed, then nodded and said, Maybe two or three times, I think. But not for a long time now. That’s why I was quite surprised when you called, surprised he had my number. Because we were never very close. Not sure he was close to anyone.

  May I ask you when these two or three other occasions were, when and where you did see him?

  Well now, let me think, said Yokogawa Jirō, looking up at one of the chandeliers, puckering his thick, wet lips, then looking back across the glass-topped cherrywood table at Murota Hideki, nodding to himself as he said, Yes, once was soon after he came out of hospital. I remember because I was so surprised to see him. I didn’t realize he was out. So that must have been late 1955, I think.

  Murota Hideki asked, And where was that then?

  The Imperial Hotel, at the Shinpi Shōbō bōnenkai, said Yokogawa Jirō, laughing to himself. Only way they could get people to go was if they held the party there.

  Did you speak with him?

  Oh yes, said Yokogawa Jirō, still laughing to himself but shaking his head now. Well, I mean, I listened to him…

  And what was he talking about, do you remember?

  What do you think, said Yokogawa Jirō, not laughing now. What did he ever talk about? The Shimoyama Case.

  And what was he saying about it, Sensei…?

  He was just going on about the oil, the oil that had been found on the clothing of President Shimoyama, about the tests on the oil, about different types of oil, about factories where it could have come from, possible locations for these factories, but speaking so quietly, so quickly, faster than you could follow. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t keep up with him.

  In the lounge of the Yama-no-Ue Hotel, on this slow, hungover lunchtime on the second day of the Rainy Season, Murota Hideki said, But you didn’t want to…?

  Look, I liked him, and not a lot of people did, said Yokogawa Jirō, looking down at the end of his fat cigar, then back up at Murota Hideki, nodding to himself again. That’s why I agreed to meet you, why we’re talking now.

  And I’m grateful for your time, Sensei, said Murota Hideki. I didn’t mean to accuse or insult you…

  No, no, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head, waving his cigar across his face. I didn’t think you were. What I mean to say is, and to give him his due, Kuroda-sensei was the first person to start talking about the Americans, about GHQ, saying some unit within GHQ had had a hand in the death of President Shimoyama. Of course, a lot of people think that now, but Kuroda Roman was the first person to say so, and to say so publicly, and then to write about it.

  Murota Hideki looked across the glass-topped cherrywood table and asked, Is that what you think, Sensei…?

  Me, said Yokogawa Jirō, shaking his head as he stubbed out his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray. I long since gave up thinking about the Shimoyama Case.

  Murota Hideki nodded and said, I see. So when were the other times, or the last time you saw Kuroda-sensei?

  Probably around the time I stopped thinking about the Shimoyama Case, said Yokogawa Jirō, nodding to himself, smiling to himself. Would have been the ten-year anniversary of the death of President Shimoyama, so July 5, 1959, six years ago now. There was a sort of memorial service up at Ayase, at the scene of the crime, as they say. And he was there.

  Did you speak to him again that time?

  Nope, not that time, said Yokogawa Jirō, then he picked up his whisky again and took another big sip.

  Murota Hideki nodded, waiting.

  He was there with this guy, Terauchi Kōji. I mean, that was bad enough. You heard of this guy…?

  Murota Hideki nodded again and said, Vaguely, I think. Read his name in some articles…

  Yep, said Yokogawa Jirō. That’s where you’ll find him, if you’re interested. But I’m not going to sit here talking about him now, wouldn’t waste my breath, except to say I think he’s a complete fraud, a fantasist and a charlatan. But Kuroda-sensei, he seemed to fall under his spell –

  Excuse me, Sensei, whispered a young man in a gray suit, another skinny young man in another flashy gray suit, crouching down at the side of Yokogawa Jirō. Your room is ready for you now, Sensei.

  Yes, yes, said Yokogawa Jirō, waving the young man away, picking up and then draining his glass of whisky.

  You’re staying here, asked Murota Hideki.

  Yokogawa Jirō put down his glass, wiped his thick, wet lips, and shook his head and said, I’m just writing here. You heard of “canning,” Murota-san?

  Murota Hideki shook his head.

  It’s when publishers imprison their writers in hotel rooms, cutting them off from the outside world, all distractions and temptations, so they can deliver their latest work on time.

  I can think of a lot worse prisons, said Murota Hideki, looking around at the plush lobby, the obsequious staff.

  Yokogawa Jirō sighed, pushing himself up from the black leather sofa, then said, If you really want to find Kuroda Roman, then you’ll find him in the Shimoyama Case.

  I understand, said Murota Hideki, putting down his glass, getting to his feet, and bowing. Thank you, Sensei.

  Yokogawa Jirō put a han
d on the shoulder of Murota Hideki. Murota Hideki looked up at Yokogawa Jirō –

  You told me you were a policeman, said Yokogawa Jirō, staring at Murota Hideki. And you say you’re working as a private investigator now, and so I don’t doubt you know how a case can sink its teeth into a man. But this case, this is different. Yes, it sinks its teeth into you, but then it sucks and drains the blood from you, takes away your perspective, your senses, and your reason. That’s why they call it “the Shimoyama Disease,” because it infects you, occupies and possesses you.

  Murota Hideki swallowed, nodded, and then said, And so that’s what you think happened to Kuroda-sensei…

  I know it was, said Yokogawa Jirō, squeezing the shoulder of Murota Hideki. And he wasn’t playing with a full deck to begin with, as they say, if you know what I mean?

  Murota Hideki nodded again and said, Yes.

  Well, I hope you do, said Yokogawa Jirō, releasing his shoulder, then turning away from Murota Hideki, walking away from Murota Hideki as he said, So you take care now, Murota-san, out there, and in there, in the Shimoyama Case, because he didn’t. That was the tragedy of Kuroda Roman.

  * * *

  —

  He went down the hill, down through the drizzle, back into Jimbōchō, back to its bookstores, their shelves and their stacks, from store to shop, the stores selling new books to the shops selling used books, through their shelves and their stacks he went, searching for all the books he could find on the Shimoyama Case, then buying all the books he found on the Shimoyama Case – Black Tide by Inoue Yasushi (1950); To Solve the Mystery of the Shimoyama Case by Dōba Hajime (1952); Conspiracy: Postwar Inside Stories by Ōno Tatsuzō and Okazaki Masuhide (1960); Trap by Natsubori Masamoto (1960); The Black Mist Over Japan by Matsumoto Seichō (1962); The Case of the Mysterious Death of President Shimoyama by Miyagi Otoya and Miyagi Fumiko (1963) – and then, with his bags of books, he went back out into the drizzle, back down the side streets, onto Hakusan-dōri, into Sankōen, and with the bags of books at his feet, he sat down at the counter and ordered a plate of gyōza, a plate of fried noodles, and a bottle of beer, eating and drinking and reading the paper; not the books in his bag, but the paper from the rack, reading about pickpockets and suicides, gang busts and baseball, the Giants beating the Swallows, the Kokutetsu Swallows, the team owned by the National Railways, no escape from the railways –

  Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po…

  He finished the gyōza, the noodles, and the beer, picked up the bags of books, put the paper back in the rack, paid his bill, and left the restaurant. He walked through the drizzle and the showers, back along Yasukuni-dōri, through Ogawamachi and Kanda-Sudachō, over the roads and the streetcar tracks, then under the railroad tracks, the railroad and its tracks, along Yanagihara-dōri, past the Yanagimori shrine, along the street and back to his building, the Yanagi building –

  Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ton-ton…

  He traipsed up the steps into his building, the bags of books in his hand. He checked his mailbox in the wall of metal mailboxes. He sifted through the advertising sheets and the utility bills, stuffed them back inside the mailbox, and slammed it shut again. Then he trudged up the one, two, three, four flights of stairs, the bags of books in his hand. He went into the toilet at the top of the stairs, dropped the bags of books down beside the basin. He plodded over to the urinal, undid his flies, and took a piss, a long piss. Then he did up his flies, picked up the bags of books, and left the toilet. He lumbered down the corridor to the end of the corridor, took out his key, unlocked and opened the door, then stepped inside his office –

  Don-don, ka-chunk…

  He closed the door, then the window on the noise and the stench, the noise of construction, the stench from the river. He dumped the bags of books on top of his desk, then slumped down in the chair at his desk and lit a cigarette. He finished the cigarette, sighed, and began to open the bags of books, taking out the books, one by one, flicking through the books, one by one, turning their pages, scanning their pages, these pages of suicide, these pages of murder, murder or suicide, suicide or murder, back and forth they went, back and forth he went, over these pages, through these pages, these pages of murder, these pages of suicide, with their descriptions of the scene, the scene of a crime or the scene of a suicide, their descriptions of the body, the body of a suicide or the victim of a murder, back and forth they went, back and forth he went, through police reports and autopsy reports, reports of a murder, reports of a suicide, back and forth, back and forth, they went and he went, over pages of statements, statements by witnesses, through the many statements by so many witnesses, witnesses to a suicide or witnesses to a murder, back and forth through the conspiracies and theories, the theories and conspiracies, through conspiracies of murder, the theories of suicide, suicide due to stress, stress or insanity, or murdered by Communists, Communists or Americans, murder or suicide, suicide or murder, back and forth, back and forth he went, until the light had gone and the room was dark, and all he could hear was the sound of a train, over and over, over the tracks and over the body, the sound of that train –

  Shu-shu pop-po…

  In the darkness of his office, he got up from his desk, up from these books, walked over to the wall, and switched on the light. In the electric light, in the middle of the room, he stared around the office, its yellow walls and dirty floor, its dusty shelves and empty cabinet. He sighed again and walked back over to his desk, slumped back down again into his chair, and lit another cigarette. He picked up the books again, one by one, flicked through the books again, one by one, turning their pages again, scanning their pages again, with all their names, their many names, but no mention of Kuroda Roman, no trace of Kuroda; yet some names he recognized, some names he knew, the names of policemen, the names of detectives, men he had known, once personally knew. He took another cigarette from the pack on the desk and glanced at the phone. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, and looked again at the phone, then exhaled as he stared at the phone. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out, sighed, and took out his own address book. He turned the pages, found the name and the number. He stared down at the name and the number, then up at the telephone again. He swallowed, reached for the phone, picked up the handset, and began to dial the number, Shikata nai…

  * * *

  —

  Never thought I’d ever fucking say it, slurred Hattori Kansuke, but thank fuck for the Olympics.

  They’d been drinking for three, four damp and sticky hours at the damp and sticky counter of a damp and sticky bar, a hole-in-the-wall bar, under the tracks at Yūrakuchō. The first hour had been all beers and cheers, all slaps on the back and how long it had been, it had been too long, much too long, and you shouldn’t be a stranger, never be a stranger, no matter what happened, it was all long ago, a long time ago now; and here, you remember thingy and what-was-his-name, from back when we were recruits, dick-swinging pair of recruits we were, eh? Hell, not like that now, I tell you, hell, not like that now, all fucking college boys, rich little mama’s boys, heaviest thing they ever lifted were their own fucking chopsticks, yeah, all fucking textbooks and manuals and fucking exams, hell, that’s what it is now, pair of country cunts like us, we’d have no fucking chance, pair of know-nothing bumpkins like us, hell, I mean, I could barely write my own fucking name when I joined, tell you, I tell you, you’re well out of it, Hideki, well out of it, not the way you went out, nah, nah, that was wrong, fucking wrong, mean who ain’t had a bit on the side, eh? Not like you was married or nothing, she was married or nothing, was it? Where was the harm, the fucking harm, that’s what I said, said so at the time I did, no fucking harm done, but it was all that fucking Kodaira shit, wasn’t it? Fucking psycho, he was, eh? That fucker couldn’t keep it in his fucking pants for ten fucking seconds, could he? Sex fucking maniac, he was, eh? Always wanted to know, wanted to ask, ask him how many women he’d fucked, must have been fucking hundr
eds, eh? Fucking maniac, eh? Always wonder what happened to his missus, eh, you ever see her? She was fucking lovely, she was, very pretty, and she must’ve been used to it five, six, seven times a day from that fucker, I bet, bet she fucking missed it then, when he’d gone, fucking waste, fucking shame, a fine-looking woman like that, wanting it and not getting it. Fuck, it’s good to see you, Hideki! Hell, so fucking good to see you, hell, I can’t tell you…

  Likewise, Murota Hideki had said, nodding and smiling along, pacing himself, pacing his drinks but keeping them coming, coming for Hattori Kansuke, smiling and nodding along, moving him on from the beer to the shōchū, keeping it flowing, flowing for Detective Hattori –

  How much I need this, Hideki, night like this, with you, someone like you, from the old days, who knows what it’s like, knows how it is, someone like you, because I tell you: this fucking case is driving me mad, it’s sending me nuts, over fourteen fucking months of it now, fourteen fucking months of it, that’s what I’ve had, and not a single fucking break, not a single fucking one. Poor little Yoshinobu-kun…

  That poor little lad, Murota Hideki had said as he’d ordered them more shōchū, nodding and listening to Detective Hattori Kansuke go on and on, on and on about this case – the case of Murakoshi Yoshinobu, four-year-old Yoshinobu-kun, who’d been kidnapped from a park close to his home in Taitō Ward in the March of last year, this case that had transfixed the nation, this case that had stretched the police to breaking point – this case that was still going on and on, this case still unsolved, poor little Yoshinobu-kun still missing –

  I dream about him, you know? Dream I can hear him, hear his voice, his little voice, calling to me, calling for me, but only his voice, just his voice, his little voice, never his face, never the place where he is, only his voice, just his voice, his little voice, calling out to me, that’s all I can hear, just his voice, his little voice, calling out to me, you know? And sometimes, in my dreams, in these dreams, I’m getting closer, closer to his voice, his little voice, so close I can almost feel him, almost touch him, almost fucking save him, but then, just as I’m there, as I’m almost there, almost where his voice is, almost where he is, where he is, then I wake up, that’s when I wake up, fucking wake up, sweating and panting like a fucking madman I am, wake up, yeah, wake up to then fucking read in the fucking papers, yeah, how fucking inept we all are, like we don’t fucking know, already fucking know, know it in our hearts, feel it in our hearts, like we don’t want to fucking find the poor little lad, like it ain’t all we ever fucking think about, every fucking minute of every fucking day, every fucking day of our fucking lives, all we ever fucking think about, all we ever fucking talk about, ever fucking dream about, I mean, hell, never thought I’d ever fucking say it, but thank fuck for the Olympics! If it wasn’t for the fucking Olympics, they’d never fucking leave us alone, them fucking bastards in the press, fucking…