Occupied City (21 page)

She bows. She takes the flowers. She says, ‘Thank you.’

The door to her house closes now, locked again.

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, among the stained-suits and the bad-skins, beneath the swing band and the reflecting lights, he hisses, ‘I
was taking a big risk telling you the things I did, showing the documents I did. A big, big risk. And what for? For nothing. I read your so-called newspaper every day and every day I see nothing. Nothing about the SCAP connection, nothing about the Tsudanuma Arsenal. So it seems to me I took a big, big risk for nothing …’

‘Not exactly nothing,’ I tell him. ‘Yes, you took a risk, but you also took my cash. I paid you …’

‘Not enough. Not enough for the risk I took. So I want to know what’s happening, why I took a risk for nothing …’

‘I wrote the story,’ I tell him. ‘I gave it to my boss, he read it in front of me and he liked it, liked it very much …’

‘So where is it then, this story of yours, this story your editor says he liked, liked so very much?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

He stands up. He says, ‘Well, find out. Or you can forget about any more help, any more stories from me.’

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I stand before my editor’s desk at the head of the long, long table and I say, ‘Excuse me, Boss …’

‘Takeuchi,’ mutters Ono, not smiling. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I say. ‘But I was wondering what had happened to that piece I wrote on the Poison School? You’d seemed very happy with it, you’d said you liked it, but…’

‘Yes,’ nods Ono. ‘I did like it. Very much …’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But it hasn’t run yet…’

‘Not yet,’ says Ono. ‘Not been the time, not yet. Thought we’d wait and see if there was any statement from the MPB first. Maybe then get some quotes from them, flesh it out.’

‘I see,’ I say.

‘I’ve told you before,’ he tells me again. ‘In our business, you have to choose your time, pick your moment carefully. Don’t get me wrong, I like the story, like it very much and I’ll run it, I will. But in our business, there’s always a right time, always a wrong time to run a story. But that’s my job, my worry, not yours. So you just leave it with me, forget about it now, now you’ve done your bit, and you just get after the next one. Because there’s always a next one, isn’t there? Always another story, out there somewhere …’

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, in a restaurant far from Shiinamachi, far from the scene of the crime, I ask her, ‘How is work? It must feel strange being back there at the bank now, after everything …’

‘Are you asking me as a reporter,’ she whispers, ‘or as a … As a what? What are you? Who are you, Mr Takeuchi?’

I look down at the table, the glass jar of toothpicks, the white bottle of soy sauce, and I say, ‘A friend, I hope …’

‘Then thank you,’ says Murata Masako. ‘I hope so, too.’

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, a telephone rings, a voice whispers, along the wires, down the cables, with a time and with a place –

Down an alley, in a room, another room of shadows, another room of stares, another man hands me another envelope –

I open the envelope. I read its contents:

I stop reading. I put the document back in its envelope. I hand him back the envelope. I take out my wallet. I hand him the cash.

The man counts the cash. The man puts it in his jacket pocket. The man smiles and says, ‘Didn’t think you’d like it, but thought you should see it. Explains a lot doesn’t it?’

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, days pass and stories pass; days of snow, days of wind, days of rain and days of sun, stories of food poisoning, stories of strikes, stories of cabinets resigning and stories of cabinets forming, the end of Katayama and the beginning of Ashida, as winter turns to spring, spring to summer, the sky falling and the temperature rising, as censorship turns to coercion, coercion to complicity in the Fictional City, where days pass and stories pass, days and stories passing in complicity and in columns until Sunday 22 August 1948, and a story, a story not in my paper, not in the
Yomiuri –

A story in our rival paper, in the
Mainichi:

OTARU,
Aug. 22 – A well-known water-colour artist residing at Shinkinaimachi, Otaru City, Hokkaido, yesterday morning was arrested by detectives of the Metropolitan Police Board as a highly important suspect in the Teikoku Bank ‘mass poison murder’ case
.

The arrival of the Tokyo detectives specifically for the purpose of arresting Hirasawa Sadamichi, 57, and taking him to Tokyo for questioning has given strong reason for believing that the police may finally have nabbed the long-sought-for Teikoku Bank criminal
.

It is understood that Hirasawa previously had been listed by the manhunt headquarters in Tokyo as a likely suspect
.

The arrested man was reported closely to fit the description of the diabolic Teikoku Bank murderer
.

On April 16, last year, Hirasawa is said to have secured a name-card from Dr Matsui Shigeru, Welfare Ministry employee, when he met the doctor aboard an Aomori-Hokkaido ferryboat
.

He is suspected of having used the name-card in holding-up the Teikoku Bank on January 26, this year. It is known that Hirasawa left Yokohama for Otaru aboard the
Hikawa Maru
on February 10, this year, shortly after the Teikoku Bank case
.

Furthermore, suspicion has been heightened against the suspect by information obtained by the police that he transmitted a sum of ¥80,000 to his wife Masako, 55. Besides, the letter once sent to him by his wife said: ‘Please don’t do such a bad thing again.’

Hirasawa is well known in Tokyo art circles as a member of a water-colour artists’ association. He is said to have presented his paintings to the Bunten Art Exhibition numerous times
.

   In the Fictional City, I run down the long, long, long, long table to my editor’s desk, the
Mainichi
in my hand –

‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ says Ono. ‘Though that’s not the story I wanted to see, least not in that paper!’

I say, ‘We’ve been scooped …’

‘No time for tears now,’ sighs Ono, tapping his watch. ‘This suspect, this Hirasawa, he’ll be arriving at Ueno Station first thing tomorrow morning and I want you there with your girlfriend …’

I start to say, ‘She’s not my girlfriend …’

‘No time for denials now,’ laughs Ono. ‘You’ve got a busy day and night ahead of you, a lot of ground to make up. Before that
train pulls into Ueno Station, I want an interview with this Hirasawa’s wife. Here’s her address …’

I take the address from him and I ask, ‘How did they get all that information, the
Mainichi?
Who are they talking to and why are they not talking to us? We’ve sat back, done what we’ve been told, played the game, been good little boys. It’s not fair …’

‘I’ve told you before,’ he tells me again. ‘You think too much. In our business, there’s no time for thoughts, no time for theories. In our business, we’ve just got to get on and get after the next story. And your next story is Hirasawa Masako …’

The next story, the next story …

In the Fictional City, I’m expecting the worst; expecting crowds of reporters and their photographers outside Number 32, 2-chōme, Miyazono-dōri, Nakano-ku, the wife and children of Hirasawa Sadamichi already in hiding or already waiting at the Mejiro Police Station, waiting for the arrival of Hirasawa Sadamichi. But in the Fictional City, there are no reporters and their photographers outside Number 32, 2-chōme, Miyazono-dōri, Nakano-ku, just a woman tending to some flowers, some poppies –

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Are you Hirasawa Masako?’

The woman looks up from the flowers, the poppies, and wipes her face on a towel and says, ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘My name is Takeuchi Riichi,’ I tell her. ‘I’m a journalist for the
Yomiuri
newspaper. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your husband, Hirasawa Sadamichi? Please?’

‘My husband?’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m very sorry to tell you that he’s been arrested …’

‘Arrested?’ she says. ‘What’s he been arrested for?’

‘The Teikoku Bank murder case.’

‘What?’ she laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous …’

But now another car is pulling up outside Number 32, 2-chōme, Miyazono-dōri, Nakano-ku, another journalist jumping out of the car, another journalist shouting ‘Mrs Hirasawa? Please …’

I say, ‘I’m afraid it’s true. But I think we should go inside, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll tell you everything I know …’

The wife of Hirasawa Sadamichi is still laughing, but she is nodding now, ushering me up her path and into her house, calling her daughter out of their kitchen as I turn back now, closing their front door in the face of the other journalist with an, ‘Excuse me …’

‘They’ve arrested Father,’ Mrs Hirasawa is telling her daughter. ‘For the Teikoku Bank murders!’

‘What? Father?’ says her daughter, looking at me, then at her mother, and now she is laughing, too –

‘It must be a joke …’

Laughing but looking at the front door to their house, listening to the banging on the door, the tapping on the window –

‘A joke…’

In the Fictional City, back in my office, back at my desk, I am writing another story:

Tokyo, Aug. 23 – Mrs Hirasawa Masako, wife of the latest Teikoku Bank ‘poison holdup case’ suspect, yesterday denied as ‘ridiculous’ reports that her husband was the long-sought diabolic criminal on being interviewed at her residence in Nakano here
.

Mrs Hirasawa said that her husband left Tokyo for Otaru, Hokkaido, on February 10 for the purpose of paying a visit to his ailing brother
.

She said that whereas her husband’s age and greying hair may fit the description of the wanted man, it was unbelievable that he committed such a diabolic crime
.

Mrs Hirasawa added that there was no reason for her husband to commit such a crime to obtain money, as her three daughters were earning a total of ¥15,000 monthly, which is quite enough to support them
.

She hoped that the survivors of the Teikoku Bank murder case swiftly would be given an opportunity to see her husband, as she was confident that their judgment would clear her husband of all suspicion
.

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, it is not yet dawn but it is already hot as I knock on her door. Again and again I knock on her door, banging and banging, until she says from behind the door, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Takeuchi.’

‘What do you want?’

‘The police have arrested a man in Otaru,’ I tell her. ‘The police believe this is the man. The train bringing him to Tokyo will arrive at Ueno at 5 a.m. I’ve got a car to take you to Ueno.’

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘Well, I thought you’d want to see him,’ I say. ‘To see if it really is him, really is the man you saw that day …’

‘Wait then,’ she says now and I wait, I wait in the street outside her house.
Is she afraid?
Her house still dark.
Or is she excited?
The lights still off.
Hoping?
The curtains still closed–

Praying it is that man, that man again?

The door opens now. Miss Murata Masako stares at me. Murata Masako says, ‘Are you here as a reporter or as a friend?’

‘Both,’ I say. ‘But mainly as a friend, I hope.’

‘I hope so, too,’ says Murata Masako. ‘Come on, then.’

In the Fictional City, we sit in silence in the back of the
Yomiuri
car, in silence as she stares out of the window at the city, the city rising, in silence as we are driven through the heat, the heat rising, in silence until we arrive at Ueno Station, at Ueno Station where she turns to me and whispers, ‘In due time, in due time …’