by David Peace
Sweeney, asks Terauchi, reading your scrawl.
Yeah, you nod. A police investigator, Public Safety. Man’s famous, broke up the markets and gangs.
But what the hell should I say?
Tell him President Shimoyama has been abducted, kidnapped at Nihonbashi Mitsukoshi.
We don’t know that…
Yes, we do, you say. I fucking do, so just make the goddamn call, then wait for me there, you hiss, turning to start looking again, around the store, the first floor of the store, your hat still low, but still looking, looking this way and that, that way and this, walking through the Cosmetics section, Miscellaneous Goods, then the section selling shoes: past display cases, glass counters, the endless reflections, the tricks of the light: twice, twice you think you see him, spot him walking up ahead: sure, so sure it’s him as you quicken your pace, pass and overtake, then turn to find, to see you’re wrong, twice you’re wrong: whispering over and over, It’s gone wrong, gone wrong, then again and again, Where’s he gone, he gone, as you check the toilets, the empty toilets, then take the stairs down, Staircase H down, down to the basement, still looking this way and that, then that way and this: past the customer service desk, then out through the doors, the underground doors, into the corridor, the underground passage, knowing he’s here, somewhere he’s here, still goddamn here –
I’ve found him, I’ve found him, says Terauchi, walking down the corridor, coming toward you –
You grab him, say, Where?
In the coffee shop…
Who’s he with?
Shiozawa…
Fuck, you say, then, They see you?
He shakes his head, says, No, I don’t think so. I was on the phone when they came in…
You spoke to Sweeney then?
He shakes his head again, says, No, I was waiting to, just about to, when in they come, Shimoyama and Shiozawa, so I hung up. Didn’t know what else I should do, just didn’t want them to see me, did I, so I just hung up…
But they’re still in there?
He nods, says, I guess so – they’ve just ordered something to drink, look pretty deep in conversation, not like they’re going anywhere…
You see anyone else, you say, looking around you, up and down the corridor, the passage. Recognize anyone else?
He shakes his head, says, No. Just them two.
Okay, you say, looking around you again, up and down the corridor, the passage again, thinking, wondering –
What we going to do, says Terauchi.
We wait and we watch.
What about Mary?
You see Mary?
He shakes his head again, says, No.
Right then, you say. Then you do what I say: you stand over there, by that column over there, and you watch the door of the Hong Kong and you wait, while I watch from here.
And when they come out, then what?
You do what I say, you tell him again. Okay?
Fuck, he mutters as he walks off, still shaking his head, off behind the column, to stand behind the column, to watch the door to the coffee shop and wait, and watch, and wait –
And watch, and wait, and watch: you keep checking your watch, watching the door, waiting and watching: thinking and wondering, The fuck you will do, do when –
The door to the coffee shop opens: Shimoyama and this man who must be Shiozawa step out, they shake hands, then part ways: Shimoyama heads for the gate to the subway, Shiozawa toward the stairs to the street –
Fuck, you say, running over to Terauchi, grabbing Terauchi, hissing, Quick, gimme the list!
He takes an envelope from inside his jacket, hands it to you, and says, What we going to do?
Just follow Shiozawa!
But what are –
You run toward the ticket gate, push through the gate, and fly down the stairs, almost tripping, almost falling, onto the platform: a train heading east to Asakusa and a train heading west to Shibuya, both pulling in, in at the same time, the platform already busy, already crowded: you push your way up the platform, through the crowd, bumping, jostling the people, the people getting off, the people getting on, scanning the crowd, searching their faces, their hair, and their clothes: you see a pale summer suit, a hatless head, the side of a face, the temple of a spectacle frame, a Harold Lloyd-style frame: you see the back of this man boarding the train, the train heading east, east to Asakusa: you jump on this train, this same train, two cars down, down from this man, the doors almost catching, trapping your arm: you pull your jacket loose from the door and walk down the car, your car, into the next car, to the end of that car: you stand by the door which connects the two cars, your car and his, and you watch the man: the Man Who Loves Trains, Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama, standing in the car, holding onto a handle, swaying, rocking, back and forward, with the motion of the train, his head down, face in shadow, lost in thought, in shadow: you put the envelope, the list inside your jacket pocket for now, then take out your handkerchief, wipe your face, then your neck: you put your handkerchief back in the pocket of your pants, then glance again through the door, into the next car, at the man in the next car, this Man Who Loves Trains, as the train goes on through Kanda, Suehirochō, Hirokōji, then Ueno, this train stopping at each station, but this man staying on: on through Inarichō, Tawaramachi to Asakusa and the end of the line: you wipe your face, your neck again, quickly, quickly, put away your handkerchief again, take out the envelope, the list and follow this man, this man Shimoyama as he gets off the train, onto the platform, along the platform and up the stairs: at the top of the stairs, as he passes through the gate, you give a coin, an apology to the staff on the gate, then follow this man, this man Shimoyama, up the sloping passageway: your eyes on his head, the back of his head, his suit, his pale suit, glancing behind you, back behind you, every now and then, every now and every then, to check and check again, no one is watching you, no eyes on the back of your head, the back of your suit as you follow this man, this man Shimoyama, past the basement entrance to Matsuya, another department store, with the envelope, the list in your hand: you are waiting for the moment, the right moment, to tap this man, this man Shimoyama on his shoulder, then to hand him the list: but he sticks to the crowds, the crowds of people, as he walks up the steps to the Tōbu line station, then buys a ticket, another ticket, then heads up more stairs, a second flight of stairs, up to the platforms, the Tōbu line platforms: Fuck, you think, fuck again, the fuck is he going, as you buy a ticket, then follow him up, quickly, quickly, up the stairs, two at time, then pass through the gates, onto the platform: see this man among the crowds, the crowds of people, see him waiting to board, then boarding a train: Fuck, you think, fuck again, as you glance behind you, behind you again, looking for eyes, eyes watching you as you board the train, another train again, two cars down again as the doors close again: again you walk down the car, your car, into the next car, to the end of that car: again you stand by the door which connects the two cars, your car and his, and again you watch the man on the train, this Man Who Loves Trains, Sadanori “Lucky Boy” Shimoyama, this time sitting down in the car, but again his head’s turned away, staring out of the window, as the doors close, the train pulls away, out of the station, away from Asakusa, lost in thought, in shadow: again you put the envelope, the list back inside your jacket pocket, for now: But when, you think, then when, as again you take out your handkerchief, again wipe your face, then your neck: again you put your handkerchief back in the pocket of your pants, then glance again through the door, into the next car, the man in the next car, this Man Who Loves Trains, still turned to the window, staring out of the window as the train crosses the river, the Sumida River, and goes on, on and on, through Narihirabashi, Hikifune, Tamanoi, Kanegafuchi, Horikiri, Ushida, then Kita-Senju, again this train stops at each station, but again this man, this Man Who Loves Trains he stays on, on as the train, this train crosses anothe
r bridge, another river, the Arakawa River, on and on it goes as he stays, on through Kosuge, on past the prison, over the Jōban line, the Jōban line tracks, on to Gotanno: suddenly, quickly he gets up and off –
Fuck, you think, fuck, as you follow him off, off the train, onto the platform, down the platform: Fuck is he doing here, why here, you wonder as you watch him wander: with the people, through the gates, where he stops, briefly stops to say something to the staff on the gate: you hang back, glancing back, back behind you, to check, check again, no one is watching you: watching you watching him as you follow him now, now through the gates, out of the station, Gotanno station: he turns left and begins to walk, walk south down a street, a wide, main street, past closed-up bars, closed-up restaurants, then a sweetshop, a hardware store, a tobacconist, and grocer’s, until he comes to a crossroads, a crossroads and stops –
Fuck, you think, think again, as you stop, turn, and glance back: see the street almost empty, no one around, about, not a soul about: Now, you think, now is your chance, turning back round, taking out the envelope, the list: you quicken your pace, catch up with this man, this man Shimoyama as he starts to turn left, to walk east: you reach out, touch his sleeve, the sleeve of his suit, his pale summer suit, and you say, breathless you say, President Shimoyama…?
What, he says, in Japanese, looking at you, staring at you through his Harold Lloyd frames, then again, What?
Excuse me, you say, in Japanese, too, looking at him, staring at him, this man in his Harold Lloyd frames, his pale summer suit, then say, I thought you were someone else.
He sneers, says, We all look the same, right?
If you want to, you say, if you try.
Still looking, staring at you through his Harold Lloyd frames, now he smiles, then he says, Of course, when we try. But remember: we’re all on the same side now – right?
Who the hell are you, you say.
Just someone you thought you knew, he says, then turns, walks away, away to the east, crossing the road, then over a narrow ditch, and disappears through the wooden gate of a gloomy, shabby, two-storied inn –
Fuck, you say, aloud you say, Fuck, fuck, fuck, at this crossroads, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, under the sun, this burning afternoon sun: you put the envelope, the list back inside your jacket, then take off your jacket, take out your handkerchief, wipe your face, your neck, then look at your watch: Fuck, fuck, again you say as you turn back, to walk back, back from the crossroads, the middle of nowhere, under the sun, the burning sun, back toward the station, all the fucking stations, and the trains, the fucking trains, back down the line, both fucking lines: first to Asakusa, then on down the line, the Ginza line, back to Mitsukoshimae and where you came in: thinking, wondering, What the fuck’s going on, hoping, praying something’s being done, praying and pleading it’s not gone wrong, not all gone wrong, as you go up the stairs and through the gates, walk past the coffee shop, the Coffee Shop Hong Kong, then along the corridor, the underground passage, back to the stairs, up to the street, onto the street, Ginza Street: again you look at your watch, again you think, Fuck, fuck, and turn left, along the street, Ginza Street: back toward the Mitsui building, your cramped, tiny office, thinking, wondering if you should’ve gone to Ochanomizu, should still go to see Kaz, glancing, looking again at your watch, thinking, knowing there might still be time, just enough time, deciding yes, yes, you should go, keep walking on, walking on: past your building, your office, you are walking away, when you feel a hand grab, grip your arm, and you turn, spin round: What –
You Don Reichenbach, says a hard, rough-looking young Korean man, in his gangster shirt and shades.
What you want?
Mary wants you to come with us, he says.
And what if I don’t want to?
His grip still tight on your arm, he raises his shirt with his other hand, shows you the pistol tucked in his pants, his military pants, and says, That’d be dumb, Don, Mary says, even for you, Don, very dumb, Don.
You nod, you smile, then say, Please, after you…
No, he says. After you, Don, I insist, we insist –
And he turns you to the curb, the big, black car parked at the curb, its back door already open, open and waiting, and he moves, bundles you into the back, the back of the car, then climbs in after you, on the back seat beside you, closing, slamming the door behind him, and on you –
Step on it, he tells the big man up front, a big man in a big winter coat. We’re already late…
May I ask where we’re going, you say, turning to the window, watching the Mitsui building, your office, and Nihonbashi disappear as the car speeds down Ginza Street.
Not far enough, he says.
I see, you say, and blink, then blink again as you stare out of the window as the car speeds on: on through Kanda, on into Ueno, then left at Hirokōji, up Avenue N, then right down a side street, up a back road, a slight slope, the car slowing down now, before a set of gates, the gates opening now, the car passing through the gates, past a sign, the sign which reads: OFF LIMITS: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.
* * *
—
They walked, side by side, in silence, through the gates of the Kyū-Iwasaki-tei Gardens, then up, slowly up the curving gravel slope, which led up, parallel to Muen-zaka, the Slope of the Dead, up and round to the old Iwasaki house, side by side, in silence still, they walked, slowly walked, until at the curve, the bend in the slope, he stopped, caught his breath, then said, At one time, you know, not so long ago, if one wished to visit these gardens, this house, then one had to apply to the Ministry of Justice for permission and an appointment, since it was their property, used to train Supreme Court judges, I believe.
She smiled, she said, Having first been confiscated by us, of course, these high walls and tall trees being perfect protection from prying eyes and awkward questions, hiding, keeping all the secrets, the black secrets of Hongō House.
I do wish you wouldn’t keep using that name, he said with a sigh. No one calls it that now, if they ever did.
She smiled again, then said, But they did, you know they did, and so did you.
He sighed again, stared up the slope, through the gloom, the early-winter, late-afternoon gloom, up toward the weak yellow light of the ticket booth at its top, unfortunately still open, it appeared. He sighed yet again, then swallowed, then said, You asked me to show you the Iwasaki house, and, most reluctantly, I agreed. But if you do want to see it, and see inside it, then we should hurry – it’ll be closing time soon.
She smiled, she said, That’s why we’re here.
Very well, he said as off he set, slowly set again. But we’ll have no more talk of Hongō House then, please. This is now, and almost always was, the Iwasaki house, built for the founders of Mitsubishi, designed by Josiah Conder…
Who also designed your beloved Holy Resurrection Cathedral, the Nikorai-dō, did he not?
He stopped again, caught his breath again, then said, Not entirely, no, but in a manner of speaking, yes; the original plans were actually drawn up by a certain Mikhail Schurupov, a Russian architect and doctor of engineering. However, it is true to say Josiah Conder executed the original plans, yes.
And true to say, too, you do love the Holy Resurrection Cathedral, and spent many hours there, too, have you not?
In my younger days, perhaps, he said, setting off, off again, almost at the top now. But as you will see, if we’re not too late, and there is still time, the Iwasaki house is essentially Jacobean but bears the trace and touch of many other Western, Eastern and Japanese styles, and thus serves as a monument to architectural syncretism, and all things Meiji…
But he was not looking, would not look at the house; no, he was looking, staring up, up through the trees, the bare winter branches of the trees, looking, staring at the white walls of his apartment building, beyond the trees, through their branches, the ba
lcony, the windows of his home. He blinked, he swallowed, and said, It’s getting late. Grete will be fretting, she’ll be worried, she’ll be hungry. I think I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.
She smiled, she said, One of the mysteries to me, the mysteries of you, is why you chose to live where you do, so close to here, overlooking here, the scene of the crime…
What crime, he said, then shouted, There was no crime, no crime here, nothing happened here.
She nodded, she said, I mean, you could have lived anywhere, anywhere in Tokyo, in Japan, in the world. But no; no, you chose to live here, even waited until the right apartment became available, one with a balcony and a view, a view of these gardens, this house, and the scene of the crime…
What crime, he said again. There was no –
She smiled, she said, Yes, I see you, yes, I do, see you: on your little balcony, at your little windows, always looking out, already staring out, watching out, yes, yes: keeping watch, that was you, was it not? The Look-Out, the Watcher, making sure he didn’t come back, they didn’t come back, it all come back, yes, yes: that was you, your penance, your sentence.
No, he said, still not looking at the house, no.
She smiled, she said, But he has, they have, it’s all come back, is back, returns, always, already returned…
Please, he pleaded. Please, not now, not yet.
She nodded, she said, It’s too late, it’s time. Look, listen, it’s closing time –
* * *
—
The hell have you been, says Mary, running out from between the columns of the entrance of a big, old, British-style house as you climb out of the back of the big, black car –
Tailing his goddamn doppelgänger into the middle of fucking nowhere, you say, then, Is he here?
Is who here, Don?
