by David Peace
“I know what time they say it is,” snorted I, plonking myself down on his beautiful velvet chaise longue. “But I say to them, ‘You don’t fool me! I know it’s too late, too late!’ ”
“Or perhaps a little too early,” said Mr. Shiozawa with a smile, as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, then adjusted his gown.
“Just you read this,” exclaimed I, springing up from the chaise longue, throwing my papers in his direction, the sheets of paper falling over the low table between us. “Then you tell me if it’s perhaps a little too early or, in fact, MUCH TOO LATE!”
“Of course,” said Mr. Shiozawa, still smiling, gathering up my papers. “It’s always a privilege and a delight to read your work, Sensei, even at an unexpected hour such as this, before the dawn. But please, dear Sensei, please do sit back down and please do calm down – you do seem to have a touch of the Russian.”
“Russian! Ha,” laughed I. “Why not, why ever not! And if not Russian, why not Chinese? Anyone red will surely do!”
“My dear, dear Sensei, please,” said Mr. Shiozawa, in a soft and gentle, soothing voice, placing my papers in a pile on the table between us, then walking over to his well-stocked cabinet of drink. “Perhaps I might suggest, if I may, a little brandy for breakfast to steady your nerves, while I sit and read your words?”
“I never say no, as you know,” said I.
“A quality we publishers admire in any writer,” said Mr. Shiozawa, as he handed me a large glass of brandy, then sat down across from me, picking up the papers from the table between us.
“You’ll be needing a large one of these yourself,” said I, raising my glass of brandy in thanks, “after you’ve read –”
“The Assassination Club,” read aloud Mr. Shiozawa from the title page in his hand, nodding. “A fine title, Sensei…”
“A fine title for a tale of foul deeds,” declared I. “A tale that spits the truth in the faces of our gods old and new, our leaders and invaders, into all our faces, our guilty faces!”
“Then please, my dear Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, turning to the opening page. “Please relax with your brandy, and another, if you wish, and let me read of this truth in silence…”
“Say no more,” said I, a finger to my lips, then the glass to those lips, reclining on the chaise longue, then rising from the chaise longue to freshen up my drink, then pacing around his large study as he read, admiring the books on his shelves, the scrolls on his walls, the quality of his brandy, the quantity of his brandy, idly wondering how on earth it could be that one such as he, a publisher who published such junk, including junk of my own, could afford all these books, all these scrolls, such a large study in such a beautiful home, testing again the consistency of the quality of his brandy, not finding it wanting, amazed our invaders, our occupiers had not requisitioned this house, his beautiful home, vainly pondering what on earth he must have said or done, what price he must have paid to keep our invaders, our occupiers, those foreign wolves from his door –
“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Shiozawa, putting my papers down on the table, then looking up from his chair. “That’s quite a tale indeed, Sensei, and my compliments to you indeed, Sensei.”
“I come not for your compliments, just as I write not for compliments,” slurred I, aware I was now a little light of head, collapsing back down upon his chaise longue, aware, too, I was now a little unsteady on my pegs. “I come to challenge you to publish this, to print this, if you dare…”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “But forgive me, Sensei dear, forgive me, please, for as a publisher, your publisher, dear Sensei, I’m forced to ask you for proof – what proof do you have for that to which your fingers point?”
I inhaled, then exhaled and exclaimed, “Proof? You ask me for proof? It is in the very air we breathe – can you not taste it in the air, smell it and feel it? This is nineteen hundred and forty-nine, they say, and the gas, the sleeping gas is rising thick and rising fast – wake up, man, wake up!”
“Rest assured, dear Sensei, thanks to you I have awoken,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “But as you are aware, only too aware, as a publisher I’m legally obliged to submit all materials I might wish to publish first to the censors at GHQ. However –”
“You dare not,” snorted I. “I knew it, I knew it!”
“Sensei, please let me finish,” said Mr. Shiozawa, leaning forward in his chair, picking up my papers once again. “For there is a way, if you’ll please just hear me out…”
“All ears am I,” said I, my fingers to my ears, pulling out my ears. “All ears…”
“Then perhaps you might consider changing the names, rewriting the piece as fiction, a work of fiction, perhaps?”
“Fiction,” said I, letting go of my sore ears, sitting upright on the chaise longue, contemplating. “Fiction…”
“May still the censor’s red pen,” said Mr. Shiozawa, nodding. “And then we could publish…”
“Why not, why not,” said I, declared I. “After all, as Cao Xueqin says, ‘Truth becomes fiction when the fiction is true.’ ”
“ ‘And the real becomes not-real when the unreal is real,’ ” said Mr. Shiozawa, nodding again, patting my papers.
“Exactement,” laughed I.
“But,” said Mr. Shiozawa, lowering his voice, “as in The Story of the Stone, be aware, dear Sensei, that less-than-gentle readers may still inquire after the origins of your tale…”
“Have no fear,” laughed I again. “For I have no fear!”
“My only fear is fear for you, my dear Sensei dear,” said Mr. Shiozawa. “Remember, please remember, not for nothing do they say he who speaks feels the cold on his lips…”
“Pah,” laughed I again, and then exclaimed, “Rather the cold upon my lips than swallow the tooth with the blood!”
“Fine words, Sensei,” said Mr. Shiozawa, tapping my papers. “As are the words in your story, fine and brave words, dear Sensei. But either way, the cold on your lips or the tooth in your belly, let us pray we won’t need to call you a doctor…”
* * *
—
He had found the house, to the north of the hospital, in a nice part of town, on the top of a hill, the hill he was climbing –
Stop! Stop, she was whispering. Turn back…
There’s no turning back, he muttered, as he climbed the hill, another big hill, not a concrete hill, a pretty, wooded hill of big, monied houses. No turning back on a one-way ride.
Please, she said. This is the Path of Error…
But he had reached the top of the hill, the biggest house of biggest money. Before its tall wooden fence, its traditional gate, he took out his handkerchief. He wiped his face, he wiped his neck. He put away his handkerchief, took out his necktie from the pocket of his jacket and put it on –
A noose around your neck…
We’ll see, we’ll see, he laughed to himself, taking out his spectacles from another pocket, putting them on. He opened the gate, stepped under its eaves, into the garden and onto the stones of its path, another path of stones through another garden of trees, leading to another traditional, beautiful house. He slid open the door of the house, stepped into the darkness of its genkan, and called out, I’m sorry, excuse me…?
A middle-aged woman in an austere kimono shuffled toward him down the dim hallway: Yes?
Is Doctor Nomura home, asked Murota Hideki, adjusting his spectacles, smiling at the woman.
Her face pale and pinched, eyes black and cold, she stared at Murota Hideki: Who are you?
I’m Horikawa, said Murota Hideki.
There was a spark, the brief spark of flint on flint in the caves of her eyes: What do you want?
I’d like to speak with Doctor Nomura, said Murota Hideki, smiling again. About my uncle, Horikawa Tamotsu.
The woman lowered her dark eyes,
her pale face in the slightest of bows: I’m sorry. My father is retired now.
I know, said Murota Hideki. And I’m very sorry to call unannounced, very sorry to trouble him in his retirement. But you see, I’m afraid my uncle has gone missing.
The woman looked up, a terrible contempt in the corners of her mouth: Well, your uncle is not here.
I didn’t think he would be, said Murota Hideki, smiling still, standing still, looking past the woman, looking down the hall, looking past a carved bird of prey on a table in the hall, glancing at a telephone on another table down the hall, still smiling, still saying, But I’d like to speak with your father.
The daughter lowered her eyes, her face again, and tried again: My father is retired now. He would have no idea where your uncle might be, and so good day to you.
Still standing but not smiling now, Murota Hideki took off his spectacles, put them back inside the pocket of his jacket, then stared at her and said, I’d like to ask him myself.
That won’t be possible, said the woman, a slight, slight tremor in her voice. My father is not a well man.
Neither is my uncle, Uncle Tamotsu.
He does not receive visitors.
Then you should bar your gate and lock your door, said Murota Hideki, leaning forward toward her. Otherwise, a man like me, he might get the wrong impression.
In her dim hall of old wealth, with no rings on her fingers, no husband or son in this house or her life, this dutiful daughter took a slight, slight step back, thinking about turning, but turning to where, turning to whom, knowing there was nowhere, knowing there was no one, nowhere but here, no one but him, her mouth dry, her voice cracked: Who are you?
I told you, he told her again. I’m just a man who wants to speak with your father, Doctor Nomura.
And I told you, she told him again, but not a statement, now a plea. That’s not possible.
We can do this all day, said Murota Hideki, taking a step toward her, toward the next step, the step up into her house. But I am going to speak with him.
She steeled herself, to slow her breathing, to steady her voice, one last try, one last time: If you don’t leave now, I’m going to call the police…
No, you’re not, said Murota Hideki, as he took the next step, up into her house, as she turned, but turned too late, slipping, falling onto her face and the wood of the floor with a dull slap that echoed –
Stop! Stop…
Echoed through the house, the silence of the house, as he reached down, grabbed the back of her kimono by its collar, turning her over, gripping the collar as he dragged her down the hallway, her hands to the collar and his fingers, struggling to free her throat from the grip of the cloth, the grip of his hand, her white socks, her white legs kicking up the skirts of her kimono as he pulled her along, down the hallway, toward the telephone, using his free hand to snatch at the phone, rip its cord from the wall –
Stop, please stop, the choking woman tried to scream, but Murota Hideki would not stop, he did not stop, pulling her, dragging her from one room to the next, sliding open one door then the next, until he slid open the last door and found the room, he’d found the room he was looking for, found the doctor he was looking for, lying on a futon on the mats of this room, his face on a pillow, his eyes turned to the door, the sight in the doorway, Murota Hideki standing in the doorway, throwing the woman, spinning the daughter across the room, over the mats, toward the doctor, toward her father, the woman sprawling over the mats, across the mats, scrambling toward the futon, toward her father, spluttering then coughing, shouting and screaming, Leave us alone, please leave us alone.
Murota Hideki took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and wiped his neck. He put away his handkerchief, took out his cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, put the packet back inside his pocket. He smoked the cigarette, looking around the room, the large room with the large windows which looked out upon the large garden of large trees. He came to the end of his cigarette, walked over to a vase of flowers in an alcove. He bent down, took the flowers from the vase, lay them on the wood of the alcove, then dropped the end of his cigarette into the vase. He stood up, turned back to the man on the futon, the daughter holding the man, both looking up at him, staring up at him as he said, I’ll leave when you tell me what I need to know. But if you don’t, or you won’t, then I’ll start to do things to you, to both of you, to make you tell me what I need to know.
But I told you, he’s ill, he’s retired, pleaded the woman, holding her father tighter. He doesn’t know anything.
Murota Hideki walked across the mats, squatted down beside the futon, beside the man and his daughter, and he looked down into the eyes of the old man and said, That’s not true, is it, Doctor Nomura? You know many things.
His eyes blinking, watering, his voice parched with age, with cancer, the old man looked up at Murota Hideki and whispered, What do you want to know?
I want to know the truth about Kuroda Roman, said Murota Hideki, calmly and softly. I want to know what happened to him and where he is.
If he’s not back in the hospital, if he’s not at his house, said the doctor, coughing, then I don’t know where he is.
Murota Hideki reached for a jug and a glass. He poured water into the glass. He handed the glass to the daughter, then raised the head of the man from the pillow so he could drink from the water in the glass in the hand of his daughter.
Thank you, said the old man, as Murota Hideki lowered his head back down to the pillow.
Murota Hideki took the glass out of the hand of the daughter, then turned back to her father and said, calmly and softly again, he said, The last time Horikawa was discharged, it was you who discharged him. Just like the last time he was admitted, it was you who admitted him. Just like each time he was admitted, each time he was discharged, it was you, always you, Doctor Nomura, signing him in and signing him out.
So many times, whispered the old man, his eyes closing, tears in their corners. I don’t remember.
Please, said the woman, touching the arm of Murota Hideki. He really doesn’t remember…
Murota Hideki patted the woman’s hand on his arm, then wiped the tears from the corners of her father’s eyes and said, It doesn’t matter if he remembers or not, it’s all in the file, in his own hand, isn’t it, doctor?
But I don’t know where he is now, said the old man again, opening his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling.
But you do know who brought him to the hospital, said Murota Hideki. And who picked him up, don’t you?
The old man turned his head on the pillow, his dying eyes looking up at Murota Hideki, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, whispering, It’s not what you think…
Then tell me, what should I think?
Papa, Papa, said the daughter, reaching out toward her father again, trying to stop him –
Murota Hideki grabbing her again, hauling her back and away again.
What does it matter now, said the old man, closing his eyes again. I’m dying, I know…
Papa, Papa, no…
Tell me.
I wasn’t his doctor, I was never his doctor.
Papa, please don’t, please…
Who was his doctor?
An American…
Don’t, Papa…
Who?
His name was Morgan, said the old man, opening his eyes, staring up at Murota Hideki. Doctor Morgan.
You won’t get away with this, screamed the daughter, the woman with the glass in her hand –
I know, said Murota Hideki, waiting for the glass in her hand, the glass to smash into his head. I know I won’t.
* * *
—
Telephones ring in rented rooms, the rented rooms of rented men, the rented men with rented hands and eyes and tongues; yes, my plan to beat the ground, to startle the snakes, had worked, and worked
rather well, even if I say so, do say so myself; I had stated in the press that this was a crime, a murder most foul; I had boasted to the press that I had knowledge, knowledge of the crime; I had sworn in public that I would solve this crime, the Crime of the Century; I had published The Assassination Club as fiction, a fiction that was true; and then I had waited, waited for the snakes to come out of the grass, and come they had come, out of the grass, on their bellies, from the long grass they’d come –
“Just a moment…yes, you, sir.”
Late and dark it was, still hot and damp, one summer night it was, less than a month after the crime, when this cold voice ran down the length of my spine, freezing my feet, stopping me dead. From the foot of the hill I had seen them creeping down the hill from Yanaka toward me, disappearing then appearing again, through the huddles of humid mist, floating up then sinking down again, but I had not heard the sound of their feet, only then, as they passed, that voice, that command –
“Just a moment…”
Like the cry of a crow in the dark, like the scream of a heron in the night; the stranger on the train who stares at you with contempt and hate, raw yet crisp –
“Yes, you, sir…”
That voice spoke to me, that command was for me, freezing my feet and stopping me dead. From out of the black summer mist, from the cemetery on the hill, one, two, three, four of them, four grave markers, in single file they passed me by: the first was a man tall and gaunt, dressed in a coat the color of this night, spun and woven from the shades of its mists; the second was short with a paunch, giggling and whispering into his hands, talking to himself; the third was a proud man in his middle years, his hair already white, his limbs lost in the long sleeves and skirts of an old kimono which brushed the ground as he passed, his face turned from mine; the fourth and last man, muscular and of military bearing, gripped the tails of the third man, hidden in his shadow, the most obscure of the four, yet I knew it was his voice which had frozen my feet, whose command stopped me dead, and I turned as they passed to look back and ask –
