Tokyo Redux
Page 29
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Darling, darling, what are you doing…
He washed and washed and washed his hands, again and again and again, he washed and washed and washed his hands, shook his head, he shook his head, shook his head then squeezed his head, he squeezed and squeezed the temples of his head. He cupped the water in his hands again, drenched his face, his head and hair again, then turned off the faucet, ran his hands across his face, through his hair, wiped them down his shirt, and left the toilet once again. He went back down the corridor, into his office and back to his desk. He picked up the manuscript off the top of the desk, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, stuck the manuscript in the drawer under the envelope of dollars, then closed the drawer. He looked at his watch, his watch running slow, then picked up a pen from the desk, tore a piece of paper from his notebook. He scribbled a note to that guy Hasegawa, then picked up his still-damp jacket off the back of his chair, his keys and his cigarettes from the top of the desk. He put on his jacket as he walked to the door and out of the office. He closed and locked the door, folded and stuck the note to that guy Hasegawa in the frame of the door, then walked down the corridor, down the one, two, three, four flights of stairs and out of the building –
It’ll end in tears, in tears…
Under a low and heavy morning sky of gray, through the damp and filthy city air, he crossed the river to the station, queued and bought a ticket, climbed the stairs to the platform, then queued again to board the train. Pressed and crushed among the bodies, the yellow metal carriage carried him west across the city, following the river he could not see, past buildings and palaces he could not see, pressed and crushed among the bodies, their limbs, their flesh, and their bones, all wrapped in clothes, in skins he could feel, he could smell, their secrets, their lies pressed and crushed and packed so tight, beneath their clothes, under their skins, these secrets and lies, all these secrets and lies, they stank, they stank, beneath his clothes, under his skin, he stank –
Darling, please stop…
Pressed and crushed, he fell from the train onto the platform, down the stairs, and through the ticket gates. He came out of the station, still carried with the crowds, these columns of workers, an army of ants, in their white shirts, their dark pants, all marching as one, marching to their companies, their offices, their chairs at their desks. He found the company he was looking for, walked through the door and up to reception. He gave the name of the man he was looking for to the girl on the desk, the pretty girl on the desk who was reluctant, suspicious. He told her it was an urgent matter, an urgent, personal matter, so she asked him his name, and he gave her a name that was not his name, a name that was a lie. The pretty, reluctant, and suspicious girl asked him to take a seat and to wait, to please have a seat and to wait. He thanked her and walked over to the seats, but he did not sit down. He took out a cigarette and lit it as he watched her pick up the phone and make the call, smoking the cigarette as he waited for the man to jump up from his chair at his desk, to leave his office as fast as he could, to take the elevator down to reception as quick as he could, to step out of the elevator into reception, as white as the shirt stuck to his skin, the man nodding nervously at the girl on reception, the man walking straight up to Murota Hideki, the man pleading, whispering, What the hell are you doing here?
What did you say to her, said Murota Hideki.
The man shook his head, struggling to breathe, to whisper: Nothing. I’ve not heard from her…
Murota Hideki stared at the man, this anxious, fearful man in his white shirt and dark pants in the reception area of his successful company, his precious little son at school, his pretty pregnant wife at home in their lovely little house, this man shaking, trembling before him, and Murota Hideki smiled and said, Well, I’ve got good news for you then, loverman: you’re never going to hear from her again.
How do you know that, spluttered the man, shaking his head again. How can you be sure…?
Murota Hideki smiled again, put a hand around the shoulders of the man, pulled him close toward him, and squeezed his shoulder as he said, Nemuro Kazuko is dead.
No, no, said the air in the man, said the soul of the man, exiting, fleeing the body, the shell of this man. No, no…
Yes, yes, yes, yes, said Murota Hideki, holding up the man, what was left of this man, telling the man, what was left of this man, Last night she fell from her balcony, landed on a car, bounced off its roof, onto the ground, and died.
Excuse me, said the pretty receptionist, no longer behind her desk, coming toward them, other people in the reception area stopping to stare at them. Is everything okay?
Murota Hideki let go of the man, let him fall to the chairs, fall in a heap, a broken, sorry heap in a chair, then Murota Hideki looked from the man to the girl, the pretty girl and to the people, the other people staring, and Murota Hideki shook his head and said, No, everything is not okay…
And Murota Hideki turned and walked away from the man, the broken, sorry man, all that was left of that man, away from the girl and the people, still pretty and still staring, walked away and out, out of reception, out through the doors of the company, this successful company, out and back onto the street, another prosperous street, out and into the city, this successful, prosperous, and resurrected city –
In tears, in tears…
He did not go back to the station, did not take another train, another metal fucking train, pressed and crushed among bodies of secrets, bodies of lies. He did not take a streetcar, a bus, or a taxi, just walked, he walked, away from the big companies, their offices, the shops and the stores, the department stores and the movie theaters, walking north, north and then west, through streets where there were little houses, little wooden houses in rows, still in rows with pots of flowers, flowers and wind chimes, though there was no sun today, no breeze today, walking under the still low and heavy sky of gray, walking through the still damp and filthy air, still the noise of construction, always construction, into the sky and on the air, walking, he walked until he came to the hill, the foot of the hill, and began to walk, walk up the hill. He did not look up, he looked down, down to the ground as he walked, up the hill, its rough-textured concrete, up this hill of narrow grooves. Halfway up he stopped to wipe his face, to wipe his neck, as a taxi and a mortuary ambulance slowly passed him going the other way, down the incline, down the hill –
Darling, please…
He put away his handkerchief, took out and lit a cigarette. He sat on the low guardrail and smoked the cigarette. He could hear the sound of children, the laughter, the shouts, the screams and cries of their play coming down the hill or maybe going up, he could not tell. He could hear the sound of crows, too, somewhere near, near here, but where, where, again he could not tell. He dropped the stub of the cigarette onto the ground, kicked it into one of the narrow grooves in the rough-textured concrete, then he started to walk again, walk up the hill again until he came to the top, the top of the hill, and then he looked up, up at the buildings –
Please stop…
The four-storied concrete buildings, the blocks and blocks of identical four-storied concrete buildings on the top of this concrete hill in the suburbs of this concrete city, each block the same height, the same color, the same two shades of gray and green, the same number of doors on each of the floors, four doors on each of the four floors. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and neck again, then walked toward the buildings, round the buildings to the back. He passed children on bicycles, children on roller skates, women with prams and women without. He came to the back of one of the buildings, walked along the back of this building, through a car park that was empty, empty of cars and empty of kids and their mums. He did not look up, did not look down, just walked along the back of this building until he came to the place, came to the spot, then he looked up, up to the fourth floor, up at the balcony, then he looked down
, down at the ground, the stain on the ground, the concrete ground –
Darling…
He wiped his face again, then once again, then walked back around the building, back toward the entrance to the building, a concrete hole with no door, past the mailboxes to the stairs, the sixteen metal mailboxes in two rows of eight beside the stairs, then up the stairs, the concrete stairs he climbed, the one, two, three, four flights of stairs he climbed. At the top of the stairs he wiped his face again, then put away his handkerchief and walked along the passageway, the open, concrete passageway. At the end of the passageway he stopped before a white steel door framed in green. He swallowed, swallowed again, then pressed the white plastic buzzer and waited. Then he heard a lock turn, saw the door begin to open, open out toward him, smelt the incense from within, now saw the face of a man, and now heard the man ask, Yes…?
Murota Hideki took a step back from the door and the man, this man in a black suit and black tie, his face unshaven, his eyes bloodshot. Murota Hideki bowed slightly, then said, Excuse me, may I speak to Nemuro Hiroshi please?
Yes, said the man in the black suit and black tie, with his unshaven face and bloodshot eyes, this man Murota Hideki had never met, never seen before. I am Nemuro.
On the fourth floor of this concrete block, on this open concrete passageway, before this open metal door, the smell of incense from within, before this man he’d never met or seen before, Murota Hideki blinked, blinked again, swallowed, and then stammered, Excuse me, I made a mistake…
What do you mean, said the man.
I’m sorry, said Murota Hideki with another bow, short and quick, then he turned to go, to walk away…
Wait, said the man, reaching out from the doorway to try to grab Murota Hideki, to stop –
Murota Hideki too quick for the man, not stopping for the man, walking away from the man…
But the man was in his shoes, coming after him, shouting, I know who you are! You’re him, you’re him! The man the police told me about, the name on the card –
Murota Hideki started to run, down the stairs, down the one, two, three, four flights of stairs…
Stop, stop, called the man after him, shouted after him. You’re him, you’re him. The man –
Down the stairs and out past the mailboxes, out of the building and back down the hill…
Who killed my wife –
As fast as he could, as quick as he could, his face as red as the blood on his hands…
Murderer!
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Darkness covered Tokyo, covered Tokyo again, an old and hidden darkness that had never gone away, that had stayed, silent, round corners, waiting in rooms, under floors and under stairs, silent and waiting, behind screens, behind doors, in the wood of a shrine, the pocket of a uniform, on the other side of sunshine, in the damp of a handshake, the space between words, the blank and empty spaces, of promises and toasts, behind the smile, behind the teeth, in the hollows of laughter, the cold black pupil of an eye, that in the blink of an eye was back again, all black again, that darkness back again, rolling over Tokyo, pouring over Tokyo, in clouds and in waves, so thick and so tall, with the clap of its thunder, the whistle of its train, which shook the night, which pierced the night, waking, it is said, MacArthur in his bed, in fright in the night, pale and deathly white, he screamed, Old soldiers never die, never die, Blackie and Uki, Brownie and Koko, howling with their master’s voice, the terror in his voice, the Emperor, too, his other dog, the living dead, is said, is said, that night it’s said he rose in dread, in robes of red, to light the lanterns for the dead, the obon lanterns for the spirits of the dead, the restless spirits of the dead, in whispered chants by lantern-light, the dead they said, In shades we fade, we fade away, but never, never go away, silent and waiting, we come again, we come again, so thick and tall, in cloud and waves, rolling over Tokyo, pouring over Tokyo, torrents of darkness, torrents of rain, over the tracks and over the cops, the darkness and the rain, so ferocious and strong it knocked the policemen from their feet, picking up the parts of his body from the tracks, the pieces of his flesh from the rails, they slipped and they fell, in the dirt and the mud, dropped the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, tumbling down the embankment, splattered here and there, the cops and the corpse, akimbo, akimbo, the cops and the corpse, dancing akimbo, divided and splayed, the cops and the corpse, forever akimbo, in their ankoku dance, dancing in the dark, the darkness over Tokyo, over Tokyo again, over Tokyo and me again, yes, me again, for there was I, yes, there was I, in the torrents of darkness, the torrents of rain, at the scene of the crime, the author of the crime, drenched and soaked, with his blood on my hands, dark to the bone, cowering in the shadows, weeping in the weeds, in blood drops and teardrops, cried I and said, Would I could raise the dead, resurrect the man from these tracks, the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, steal his body from this scene, save his flesh from this crime; yes, then and there, it was then and there, in the torrents of darkness, in the torrents of rain, yes, then and there, it was then and there, in the shadows and the weeds, vowed I and said, I will take the parts of his body, the pieces of his flesh, I will put them together again, stitch them back together again, word by word, sentence by sentence, put him together again, make this man whole again, line by line and page by page, I will raise the dead, resurrect the man, chapter by chapter, chapter and verse, I will write this crime –
I will right this wrong!
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Fuck, fuck, fuck, he shouted, slamming down the receiver on the dead tone and disconnected number written on the name card of the man he thought had been Nemuro Hiroshi. You dumb, dumb, dumb and stupid fuck, fuck, fuck –
Darling, please don’t, she said…
Don’t tell me don’t, he said, picking up the bottle again, pouring another glass again. Please, not today –
But it will do you no good…
So what, he said again, waving the glass in his hand, spilling the drink across his desk. Nothing does me no good!
Darling, just let it go…
Let it go, he laughed. How can I let it fucking go, when it don’t let me fucking go, they never let me go –
He used you, like they always use you…
I know he used me, he said, then he drained his glass, picked up the bottle, refilled the glass, shaking his head as he said, You don’t have to fucking tell me, I know he fucking did, know they always fucking do, like it’s the only fucking thing I’m good for, being fucking used, only fucking here to be used, people like me, to be fucking used, people like us –
They see you coming, darling, they…
See me coming, yeah, yeah, he said, nodding his head, sipping his drink, staring down at his desk, the manuscript there on his desk, looking back up at him, staring back at him as he whispered, You’re right, they saw me coming –
They set you up, she said…
Putting down his glass, picking up the manuscript, and nodding again, Murota Hideki said, Just like they set him up.
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I banged and banged upon the door of his house in Den-en-chōfu, banged and banged until my knuckles were red and bloody raw, till at last, at last Mr. Shiozawa opened his door just a crack, a crack through which he said, “Why, Sensei – whatever is the matter? You’ll wake the dead!”
“Exactement,” said I, thrusting my papers and self through the crack in his door, stepping into his genkan, out of my geta and up into his house. “That’s why I’m here!”
“By all means, please do come in, Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, following me down his wide hallway and into his large study. “Though you do know what time it is, Sensei?”