The Investigation (16 page)

Sugiyama walked into the new season, his eyes squinting. Autumn smelled of sunlight and pungent fallen leaves. The small, square sky above the prison looked like a piece of
blue cloth, framed by solid walls sprouting sharp thorns. Caught in the barbed wire, the afternoon sunlight flashed like the scales of a fish in a net. Prisoners continued to arrive; many others
left, some limping, others covered by a straw mat. The eyes of the surviving prisoners turned chilly, reflecting the season.

Sugiyama walked up to Hiranuma, who was leaning against a poplar tree. ‘What is it about poems that brought an intellectual like you to prison?’

Hiranuma stared up at the sky without answering. After a long time he said, ‘Poetry is a temple of words.’

A temple? That made no sense. A temple was for pure and holy souls, where sinners asked for forgiveness, the downtrodden were consoled and people prayed for eternal life. So poetry consoled the
soul and allowed you to dream of eternity? It sounded romantic.
Who believes in romance these days?
Sugiyama hawked and spat out his disdain.

‘Poetry is reflective of your soul,’ Hiranuma went on quietly. ‘It is casting a bucket into a dark well and drawing up the truth. We’re reassured by poetry. We learn from
it, and ultimately it saves us.’

‘A temple is there to help people who are beaten down by life. How can a stupid poem do that?’ Sugiyama raised his voice. ‘You’re the only one who can help yourself. A
cruddy poem that conceals its true purpose behind shiny words can’t do that. I’m just on this side of literacy, but I won’t be fooled by the crazy talk you people
spout.’

‘You may have only recently become literate, but you’re already a skilled writer. You understand metaphor and symbolism. You appreciate the significance of language. Even your curses
are poetic, you know. Even when you insult someone, you freely employ symbolism and metaphor.’

‘Symbolism and metaphors? You’re making shit-waves! A lie’s still a lie even when you use crafty wordplay. It’s the same crap as waging war for peace, and parting ways
because you love each other.’ Sugiyama huffed like an enraged bull.

Hiranuma smiled faintly, fatigued. ‘See, you just did what I was talking about. Making shit-waves. You used a metaphor to describe useless words. You blew life into that sentence. You
helped me see an ordinary concept in a completely different way.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Cursing can’t be poetic!’

‘Sure it can. Your curses are rooted in truth. Sometimes illogical lies can become the truth. So that’s when it would make sense to say a beautiful war or a sweet
farewell.’

‘A beautiful war? Someone like you doesn’t know anything about war! You can’t even imagine how a man gets destroyed on the battlefield, how he dies. Have you ever slept in a
bloody puddle, covered by flies? Have you ever been caught by the enemy and, not knowing whether you were dreaming or awake, told them where your fellow soldiers were hiding? That’s war.
Filthy.’ His voice broke and dropped. Sugiyama had always known he was damaged. But perhaps things could be different. Maybe he still had a soul somewhere, small and desiccated.

Hiranuma gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You’re right. I don’t know much about war. But I’m the same as you. I hate it.’

Sugiyama grimaced. ‘So if swear words from an illiterate man can be poetry, everything I write must be a poem.’

He looked up at the mass of white clouds surrounding the poplar trees.

‘Of course. You’ve already written them.’

‘I’m no poet.’

‘A poet doesn’t make poems. The writing of poetry makes the poet.’

Sugiyama looked down at his worn boots as birds flew up from the trees. They had tramped through bloody battlefields and prison-yard dust; they had kicked and stomped on others. They were old
and scratched, just like his life.

Sugiyama murmured penitently, ‘I’m not a pure man, like you,’ then froze. The words locked inside his body tore at his face. He wasn’t a pure man, he wasn’t even a
man. He was a monster that had destroyed the innocent.

‘Life is poetry,’ Hiranuma said. ‘You write poems the way you live your life.’

Sugiyama wished the young poet’s words were true. If speaking the truth was calling beautiful something beautiful and throwing curses at dirty things, he might already be a poet. At least
his curses were true in their rage. Sugiyama suddenly regretted learning how to read and write, as it had made him read Hiranuma’s poems. He could sense his former self falling away; he was
no longer a cold guard or a strict censor. He was now an excitable boy who couldn’t wait to become a poet.

A few weeks later, Hiranuma stood leaning on a poplar tree, whistling a tune.

‘Yun Dong-ju!’

As three unfamiliar clunky consonants – the name that had been taken away, destroyed and covered in dust, the name that didn’t exist any more – hit his ears, Dong-ju stopped
whistling. The answer, ‘Yes’, was stuck in his throat like a fish bone; his throat ached.

After a long time he spat out, ‘Yes!’ in a voice that wasn’t Hiranuma Tochu’s. It was Yun Dong-ju’s.

‘Don’t you know any other song?’ Sugiyama asked.

Dong-ju stared at the guard.

‘Even I know that song now, since all you do is whistle that same tune. I don’t even know what it’s called.’

‘It’s a Negro spiritual called “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny”,’ Dong-ju finally replied. ‘The American Negro slaves sang it, longing for home.’ He
smiled bitterly. The world was unkind and time was cruel; they each betrayed hopes and dashed dreams.

Sugiyama looked over at the prisoners who were mumbling among themselves and changed the subject. ‘Why are Koreans so talkative, anyway? All they do is sit around and yak.’

‘Everyone has stories,’ Dong-ju murmured. ‘From where does the wind come and where does it go—’

Without realizing what he was doing, Sugiyama uttered the rest of Dong-ju’s poem. ‘The wind blows / and my suffering has no reason. // Why does my suffering have no reason? // Never
loved a woman. / Never sad about the times. // The wind keeps blowing / and my feet are planted on a flat rock // The river keeps flowing / and my feet are planted on a hill.’ Dismayed that
he’d recited the poem, Sugiyama snapped, ‘Only a scientist would know where the wind comes from and where it goes. How would a stupid poet like you know that?’

Dong-ju bowed his head at this irrefutable truth. Poetry couldn’t shed light on the origins of the universe or about life and death. A poem bound by logic became meaningless.

He said drily, ‘You might not know how, but you can feel it. The sensation of the wind tickling your skin, the small grains of sand floating along with the breeze, and the scent of the
seasons.’

‘And what’s the point of feeling all that?’ Sugiyama asked, swallowing the rest of his sentence:
when the world is engulfed in flames and young men are dying like
ants
.

Dong-ju wasn’t sure. He had an inkling that language was the only tool with which to reveal the barbarism of war. Only the purest language could testify about the most brutal era. Dong-ju
looked beyond the walls. Multicoloured kites were flying in the sky near the harbour far away. They glistened like a school of grey mullet swimming against the current. At that moment a blue kite
soared up from the other side of the wall, bobbing in large, bold movements, like a shark chasing all the other kites. Dong-ju shaded his eyes to watch.

‘What are you staring at?’ Sugiyama huffed. ‘They’re just kids playing with kites.’

‘Well, every detail is revealing. You can tell what kind of person is controlling any given kite. What their personality is, how old they are.’ He pointed upwards. ‘This
one’s a girl, about thirteen or fourteen. When you look at the speed of the kite when she runs, it’s not an adult’s gait. But she’s not very young, either. When you consider
the intricate movement of the kite, it’s clear she’s not a boy. She’s fearless and curious and competitive. She’s also lonely.’

‘How can you tell all that?’

‘The other kites fly up around the shore, so far away that we can barely see them. Everyone goes there because the sea breeze can carry the kites higher. This blue kite was over there a
week ago, too. But then over the last week it kept drifting closer to us. When you consider that the girl’s flying a kite where the other kids don’t play, it’s clear she
doesn’t get along with them. But she’s really good at flying the kite.’

‘Not bad,’ Sugiyama said, smirking. ‘All that from the position and movement of the kite, huh?’

Dong-ju’s eyes sparkled. ‘There are so many things you can understand, even if you don’t see it yet. You could see the wind if you wanted to.’

‘Nonsense! I’d believe you if you said you could show me a ghost. Some guards have seen dead prisoners haunting this hill. But the wind?’

Dong-ju smiled.

The next day a loud siren blared through the work area. Sugiyama stopped in the middle of the yard; he noticed that everyone was still. Nobody was cursing or fighting; the
prisoners looked peaceful. Their eyes were glued to a dot in the sky, wriggling in the afternoon sunlight. A red, diamond-shaped kite wagged its long tail. The prisoners let out a shout.
Sugiyama’s blood froze. He reflexively turned to look up at the poplar hill – Dong-ju was standing there, busily handling the spool. Sugiyama whipped around to look up at the
watchtower. The barrel of the machine gun, which should have been placed parallel to the wall, was arcing towards the hill. Sugiyama sprinted across the yard, panting, his blood now boiling. The
wind was whipping the hill and Dong-ju’s eyes were fixed on the kite, his hands busy with the lines. His expression was peaceful. Sugiyama’s club rammed into the young man’s
shoulder. The resulting thud reverberated through Dong-ju’s body as it crumpled like a poorly hammered nail. Dong-ju heard his bones snap.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ Sugiyama shouted. ‘Are you trying to get shot?’

The kite, taut with the wind, snatched the spool out of Dong-ju’s hands. The spool rolled along the barren ground. The kite wagged its tail dispiritedly before sinking.

‘Did you see the wind?’ Dong-ju moaned. ‘Did you see how the wind lifted the kite?’ He grinned, his white teeth stark against the blood trickling down his forehead.

Sugiyama let go of his club. He did see the wind. It blew in from the valley, pregnant with the scent of the forest and the eerie silence of the cemetery and the movements of the poplar
branches, and tossed the kite high into the sky. He kneeled and glanced at the watchtower; the guard manning the machine gun, seeing that the prisoner was under control, returned to his original
position. Sugiyama heaved a sigh and sprawled on the ground. The kite that had soared in the vast sky was nowhere to be seen. Instead it was on the ground, made not of paper, but undergarments.
Scraps of fabric stitched together made up the tail; poplar branches, not bamboo, formed the shaft; unravelled threads from the seams of a prisoner uniform had been twisted together to make the
lines. Sugiyama pulled at Dong-ju’s uniform and saw that he wasn’t wearing underwear. His sleeves and trousers were much shorter than before. He realized that Dong-ju had used the rice
from his meal to glue together the kite. ‘You almost got yourself killed for that damn wind!’

‘Thanks for saving me.’

‘No need to get a big head. I’m just doing my job, suppressing a problem prisoner.’

Dong-ju just looked down. Otherwise Sugiyama wouldn’t have sprinted up the hill and pushed him behind the poplar tree, or clubbed him so viciously, forcing him into a ball. He
wouldn’t have stood over Dong-ju to block the gun-sight with his wide back.

Back in the censor’s office, Sugiyama filled out a medical treatment form for Dong-ju. It was the first time he’d done such a thing.

Sugiyama was called into the warden’s office. Hasegawa pushed up his round glasses and stared out of the window. Maeda sprang to his feet, brushing away Sugiyama’s
salute. ‘Sugiyama! What the hell were you doing? Where were you when that prisoner was inciting the others?’

Instead of answering, Sugiyama looked down at his boots. Truncated images flashed through his head. Men gazing up at the blue sky; the red kite floating up with the wind; the young man winding
up the lines on the hill; the gun barrel moving upwards; the splattering of blood; the interrogation room where he dragged the poet. None of that felt real now.

‘Today, around 4 p.m., Prisoner 645 violated the rules,’ he reported. ‘He flew a kite within the prison yard for about ten minutes. Thankfully the prisoners were not agitated
and the incident ended upon my suppression.’

Maeda glared at him. ‘Thankfully? He flouted the rules in full view of all the Koreans!’

‘He did, but I had previously given him permission. Prisoner 645 had requested permission to fly a handmade kite.’

‘What were you thinking? How could you allow that kind of behaviour?’ Maeda shouted. ‘Have you gone mad?’

Sugiyama swallowed hard.

Hasegawa cut in. ‘I thought it was fun to watch.’

Maeda wiped his brow, reassured by the warden’s mild reaction.

Sugiyama jumped in to explain. ‘I thought it would be a good way to control the prisoners. When they’re outside, they’re scattered in a wide area and they fight. I figured if
they were concentrated in one area, it would be easier to watch them and keep them under control. When the kite was flying there were no fights. Everyone was focused on the kite.’

Hasegawa knew that hunger, anxiety and extreme weather aggravated the prisoners, who swung their fists at the smallest perceived insult. Neither torture nor solitary confinement did much to
deter them. But this tactic had made them submissive. He smiled approvingly. ‘So if we let them fly kites, we’ll be able to handle them more effectively.’

Maeda appeared unconvinced. ‘But these animals become violent the moment you look away. If their kite ventures beyond the walls, it would just provoke them further.’

‘No, it’ll be fine.’ Hasegawa shook his head. ‘No matter what the kite does, the prisoners are still inside the prison. If it becomes a problem we’ll just cut the
kite lines.’