Occupied City (25 page)

‘So you’ve heard about the change in the course of the investigation, the Tokumu Kikan theory, then?’

‘They’ve already been here.’

‘Is it a problem?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with the Metro Detectives. But I’d like you to deal with the newspapers …’

‘The newspapers?’

‘Yes,’ he smiles. ‘The newspapers. It’s a promotion. A step up for you. A fresh opportunity …’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Congratulations,’ laughs the Big Boss, pulling my strings and making me rise and making me bow, making me walk backwards.

‘Thank you,’ I say again, rising and bowing, walking backwards out of the brand-new office. ‘Thank you, Boss.’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a brand-new factory, I am its brand-new owner. I wake. I rise. Floor by floor. I take old parts. I turn old parts into new parts. I sell new parts. I make money. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I take from them all and I sell to the rich and I get money –

I take from the Japanese, his goods and his labour. And I sell to the Americans, his people and his military –

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, over the Korean War and over the Cold War, on and on, across the Vietnam War and across the Gulf War, on and on, from hand into wallet, wallet into banks, big banks / little banks, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #5: dog buys two dogs.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in a suburb, down a lane, outside a two-storey house, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Are you Mr XXXX of the XXXX newspaper?’

‘Yes, I am,’ says the puppet in the doorway.

I step back into the shadows. My best puppet steps out of the shadows. My puppet strikes Mr XXXX of the XXXX newspaper.

Mr XXXX of the XXXX newspaper is stunned. He touches his plaster forehead. He stares at his wooden hand. At the blood.

I step back out of the shadows. I pull a string to lift up the chin of Mr XXXX of the XXXX newspaper, to look into his eyes –

His blinking and his bloody eyes –

I say, ‘No more stories.’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a firm, I am its managing director. I wake. I rise. Floor by floor. I buy. I sell. I make companies. I buy companies. I sell companies. I make money. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I recruit from them all and I pick their brains and I use them –

The graduates of the Tokyo and Kyoto Imperial Universities. The alumni of Ping Fan. I buy blood. I manufacture blood. I process blood. I sell blood.
Black Blood and White Genes …

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the little company and across the big company, on and on, over the successful company and over the unsuccessful company, on and on, and from hand into wallet, wallet into bank, bank into loans, cheap, cheap loans at low, low interest, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #6: dog breeds dogs.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a wooden building, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Boss, boss! At the Kanda Myōjin Shrine, there’s a man there, looks exactly like the drawing of the Teikoku killer, wearing the same clothes and everything. It’s him! It’s got to be him!’

I look up from the flowers. I look up from the spots. I ask, ‘Where is he now, this man? Is he still at the shrine?’

‘Yes,’ says my puppet. ‘He’s still there.’

‘Then let’s go …’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In the boardroom of a company, I am its president. I wake. I rise. To the top floor. I buy. I sell. I make shares. I buy shares. I sell shares. I make money. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I have sold to them all and they thank me and they admire me –

For I have given them nice houses to live in and nice offices to work in, nice cars to drive and nice clothes to wear, I have given them the healthiest economy and the most stable government, the best technology and the safest streets in the world, I have given them comfort and security, good food and sound sleep –

But the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across empires and across democracies, on and on, over the well-fed and over the ill-fed, on and on, and, all the while, from hand to hand, hand into wallet, wallet into bank, bank into loan, loan to stocks and shares, my stocks and my shares, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #7: dog sells more dogs.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, to Kanda, to the Myōjin Shrine, to the Setsubun crowds, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi! Oni wa soto…’

‘Him!’ points my puppet. ‘Over there. That’s him!’

Aged between forty-four and fifty. About five feet three inches tall. Thin build with an oval face. A high nose and a pale complexion. Two distinctive brown spots on his left cheek. Hair cut short and flecked with grey. He is dressed in a brown lounge suit, wearing brown rubber boots. He has a white armband on his left arm on which is written ‘LEADER OF THE DISINFECTING TEAM’. He has a raincoat over one arm and is carrying a doctor’s bag –

‘It’s him, Boss!’ say all my puppets. ‘It’s him!’

I nod. I say. ‘Yes, it’s him. Take him …’

‘Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a backroom, I am a politician. I wake. I rise. Floor by floor. I buy. I sell. I buy people and I sell people. I buy votes and I sell votes. I make deals and I sell deals. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you. For me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I smile at you all and I laugh at you all, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha –

In my department stores and in my advertisements, in my newspaper columns and in my television shows, in my education acts and in my sound-trucks, in the history I teach you and the news I give you, in every piece of legislation, from every loudspeaker, I lie to you and I laugh at you, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha –

For my War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, my War Machine rolls on, across the rich and across the poor, on and on, over the bad and over the good, on and on, from hand to hand, hand into wallet, wallet into bank, bank into loan, loan into stocks and shares, stocks and shares into budgets, budgets and power, power, power, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night, money grows, money blossoms and money blooms –

Lesson #8: dog is always hungry for more dog.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a deserted factory, in a dark space, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s you!’ screams the beaten, bruised and naked puppet on the concrete floor. ‘You are the killer! Not me …’

‘Just confess,’ I say again, ‘and then the fear will stop, the pain will stop, and we’ll tend to your wounds, we’ll deliver you to the
police, and everything will be all right. If you just confess …’

‘Be gone from this place!’ he screams. ‘Be gone from this city, this Occult City, for this is not your city, this is my city!’

‘Leave this place?’ I laugh. ‘This city? This Occult City? This is not your city! This is my city!’

‘This is not your city,’ the puppet mumbles now, through his broken teeth and bloody lips. ‘This city, this city is a séance …’

‘A séance?’ I laugh. ‘This city is no séance.’

Now two of my good puppets lay this bad puppet down and they stretch it out upon a door which lies upon the concrete floor.

I take a mirror from my pocket. I crouch down beside it. I hold the mirror to its plaster face. I say, ‘This city is a mirror. Look!’

But the puppet upon the door upon the floor does not look. The puppet does not move. The puppet does not breathe.

‘It’s dead, Boss,’ say my own puppets.

I look up from the mirror. I say, ‘That’s a great pity’

‘What if it really was him?’ ask my puppets. ‘What if it really was the Teikoku killer? What are we going to do, Boss?’

‘There’s always another puppet,’ I say. ‘Next!’

Beneath the Black Gate
, in its upper chamber, spinning and spinning, in this now-enormous room, on this now-thick carpet, spinning and spinning, high above the city, the man still-beside you shouting, ‘Look outside this window, Mister Writer! Look at the breadth of this city, the height of its buildings, the speed of its trains, and the wealth of its people. This city that was once ash, that was then wood, fields of ash and forests of wood, that is now concrete, steel and glass, mile upon mile of concrete, steel and glass.

‘In less than twenty years, this city rose from ash to become an Olympic City. Did you know that, Mister Writer? Mister Puppet?

‘Of course not! How could you? You’ll never know it, you’ll never see it. Because it’s too late, too late for you, Mister Writer –

‘But not for me! Not me! This is my time! This is my city!

‘I run this city. I rule this city. I walk where I want. I sit where I want. I eat what I want. I buy what I want. Who I want. I build what I want, where I want and when I want. I take what I want. I say what I want. I do what I want. Because this is my city. My city! And in my city, everything is mine. Everybody mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

‘Soldier, war criminal, gangster, strike-breaker, factory-owner, managing director, company president and politician, they are all me and this is all mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! In my city! My city!’

And now beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult circle of the six candles, he blows out one more candle –

‘But it’s too late, too late for you, Mister Writer …

‘For you are out of time, Mister Puppet…

‘Out of time, little puppet…’

In the light of now-five candles, in their occult circle, in the upper chamber, beneath the Black Gate, you thrash and you shout –

‘I am not a puppet! I am not a puppet!’

Hands above your head, you dance in the light of the circle, chopping and cutting at the strings and at the webs –

‘I will cut all strings. I will cut all ties –

‘I will smash all clocks, all time!’

But now you stop. You lower your head. You close your eyes. For you want to rest. You want to sleep. To never –

‘Wake up, decadent!’ now shouts a thick and heavy-accented voice and so you try to open your eyes, to open your eyes to the gloom of the five candles, still in the upper chamber,

still beneath this Black, Black Gate –

‘Wake up, degenerate!’

The medium upright, taut and still, her mouth opening, opening and speaking, speaking and saying, ‘I am
Homo Sovieticus –
’I am Comrade Andrei Kaidanovsky –

‘And this is my journal –

‘My martyr-log …

Tokyo, January 9, 1947

This city, this country, is a wilderness to me and so these words, these pages, will document my temptations, my trials. Hence there are words for reports, for the tops of desks, the desks of others,
and then there are words for diaries, the drawers of memories
.

I finally arrived here in Tokyo from Khabarovsk two days ago. Yesterday I met with Comrade Maj. Gen. A. N. Vasiliev, one of our Associate Prosecutors at the International Military Tribunal for the Far East. I had been told in Khabarovsk that it was Comrade Vasiliev who had personally requested my presence in Tokyo.
However, it was clear from our first meeting that Comrade Vasiliev had made no such request.
Comrade Vasiliev was aware, though, that it had been I who had conducted the interrogations of Major Karasawa Tomio and Maj. Gen. Kawashima Kiyoshi in Khabarovsk last year. Comrade Vasiliev had read the transcripts of my interrogations of the prisoners and my report and its conclusions on the Japanese Bacteriological Warfare programme as it pertained to possible prosecutions for war crimes, both in Tokyo at the IMTFE, and in Khabarovsk at our own proposed trials of former servicemen of the Japanese army.