Tokyo Year Zero (10 page)

‘You want to transfer? To transfer to Room #6?’

‘Yes,’ I say and then, ‘But it’s not just that…’

‘You know Kanehara and Adachi think I am too soft with you? They think I indulge you when I should reprimand you?’

I bow my head. I apologize –

‘And I know they are right,’ he says. ‘But I knew your father and your father was a good friend to me and so I have obligations to his memory and thus to his son…’

I apologize again –

‘And in times such as these,’ he continues, ‘I believe honouring one’s obligations is more important than anything else, that by honouring our obligations we will be able to survive these times and rebuild our country…’

I glance up at the scroll on the wall behind his desk, that blood-flecked scroll on which is written,
‘It is time to reveal the true essence of the nation.’

‘Now is not the time to forget our obligations,’ he says. ‘They are who we are.’

‘I am very sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I have made unreasonable demands on you…’

‘Your eyes are red,’ says the chief. ‘Be careful how you go.’

*

The day is still unbearably hot and I need a drink. I need a meal and I need a cigarette. I take a different route back to Shiba Park through one of the many makeshift markets where street vendors have set up their stalls and stands with their straw mats and reed screens. They
squat in what shade there is and shout out their wares, their faces red and their tempers short, fans in their hands and towels on their heads, the men might be women and the women might be men –

But there is drink here. Food and cigarettes –

Here among the shrieks of the vendors and the clatter of their plates, as open-mouthed customers stagger from stall to stall staring with bloodshot eyes at the goods and the food, clutching their crumpled old notes and misshapen bellies –

Drink and food and cigarettes –

I watch a vendor slap putrid sardines on a corrugated grill. I smell the oil on the metal and I listen as the hungry come running with their notes and their bellies –

I can’t eat this food.

I turn away. I keep walking. I come to a woman who is selling rice-balls, each one wrapped in a thin piece of seaweed –

‘Three yen,’ says the woman. ‘Polished rice…’

But there are ten or twenty flies on each rice-ball, the seaweed torn and the rice old. I turn away from the stall and stare up and down the marketplace, looking and listening out for drink or cigarettes –

I watch the man on the next stand but one. I watch him sell candies and sweets from a kerosene drum. I watch him reach inside that metal drum and also bring out packs of American cigarettes –

I walk over to the stand. ‘How much for just one pack?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says the man –

The man wears an undershirt, shorts and army boots –

‘Please?’ I ask him. ‘How much for just a pack…?’

The man stares at me and says, ‘One hundred yen.’

‘How about two packs for one hundred yen?’

The man laughs. ‘Get lost, you bum…’

I look around. I take out my police notebook. I hold it in front of me so that he can see it but no one else. I say, ‘Four packs.’

‘Say what?’ says the man. ‘You’re joking…’

I shake my head. I say again, ‘Four packs.’

The man sighs. The man reaches down inside the kerosene drum. The man brings out four packs of Lucky Strike –

‘There you are, officer,’ he says.

I take the cigarettes. I turn –

‘Stop! Put that back now you thieving little bastard…’

I turn back. The woman at the rice-ball stall has a young boy
by his wrist. The boy has a rice-ball in his hand –

I have seen this boy somewhere before
…

The young boy is caked black in rags and filth which the heat and his sweat have stuck one to the other, the dirt to the cloth, the cloth to his skin, his face and hands covered in blisters and boils which weep fresh pus in the market sun –

I have seen this boy before
…

‘Let go,’ the woman shouts –

But the boy will not let go and he leans in towards her and bites down into her hand and the woman jumps back in pain as she pushes the young boy away –

Back into me –

Banzai!

Biting into the rice-ball as he falls, swallowing it whole as he goes, the boy sends me sprawling back into a stall and onto the ground but before I can hold him, before I can stand, the boy is up and away, into the crowd which now stands and stares down at me –

Among them the man in the undershirt, the shorts and the army boots who shakes his head and says, ‘The thieving bastard.’

*

My trousers are coated in dust. My back aches from the fall. It is 4 p.m. now. I find some of my team sat on the slopes of Shiba Park; Hattori, Takeda, Sanada and Shimoda slumped in the shade with their hats in their hands, swatting at flies and mosquitoes. They struggle to their feet as they see me approach, bowing and apologizing, making their excuses and their reports. I give them cigarettes. I don’t care. I’m not listening. I’m looking for the others. For Detective Fujita –

Hattori, Takeda, Sanada and Shimoda scratch their skulls and suck in air, they shake their heads and say, ‘Detective Fujita was here before. He was definitely here before. But now he’s not…’

‘How about Nishi? Kimura? Ishida?’ I ask them –

Hattori, Takeda, Sanada and Shimoda peer into the sun and shield their eyes, they point up the hill and say, ‘Detectives Nishi and Kimura went up there with the woodcutter…’

‘And where’s Ishida?’ I ask them –

Now Hattori, Takeda, Sanada and Shimoda have a think before they say, ‘With Detective Fujita.’

I turn to go, to walk away, but turn instead to face Adachi –

‘Hard at work as usual,’ says Chief Inspector Adachi –

I bow. I apologize. I make my excuses. My report –

But Adachi doesn’t care. He’s not listening. Adachi is not looking for the others. He’s looking for Detective Fujita –

No one is who they say they are
…

I scratch my skull and suck in air. I shake my head and I say, ‘Detective Fujita has gone back to Atago police station, sir.’

*

Back at Atago, one hour later, and Chief Inspector Adachi is staring at me.
No Fujita
. The First Team, the Second Team and all the uniforms from the other stations are gathered in the First Team’s room at Atago. Adachi is staring at me.
No Fujita
. I am stood up at the front of the room beside Adachi, Kanehara and Kai, the four of us facing the First Team, the Second Team and the uniforms. But Adachi’s eyes are turned to the side and fixed on me –

No Fujita. No Fujita. No Fujita. No Fujita
…

‘Attention!’ shouts the sergeant –

‘Bow!’ he shouts. ‘At ease!’

Everyone stands at ease now or sits down except Inspector Kai and me. Kai has a piece of paper in his hand; Kai reads out the findings from Dr. Nakadate’s preliminary autopsy report on the first body; the physical description of the victim and her estimated age, the time of her death and the cause of her death. But I am not listening. I am looking for the face of Detective Fujita in the faces at the back and sides of this room –

‘Inspector Minami!’ says Adachi again. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving us your report…’

I bow. I apologize. I begin to read aloud the findings of the preliminary autopsy report on the second body; the physical description of the victim and her estimated age, the time of her death and the cause of her death. But I am not listening to my own words. I am still looking for the face of Fujita in the faces at the back and sides of this room, still looking for Fujita when I see Ishida –

‘Attention!’ shouts the sergeant again –

Ishida here, his face to the floor
…

‘Bow!’ the sergeant shouts –

His back bent
…

‘Dismissed!’

He runs
…

I run.

*

Down the Atago stairs, through the uniforms, to the doors, but I am too late.
Too late. Too late. Too late
. The hand on my arm.
I jump. I jump. I jump
. I spin round but it’s not Ishida. Not Fujita –

The desk sergeant asks, ‘Did you speak to Detective Fujita?’

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Where is Detective Fujita?’

‘Hayashi of the
Minpo
paper…’

‘What about him?’ I ask –

‘He was here…’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon,’ says the sergeant. ‘Hayashi was looking for you, but you were up at Keiō, so he asked to see Detective Fujita…’

‘And was Detective Fujita here?’

‘Yes,’ says the desk sergeant. ‘He was waiting to see you too, kept asking me what time you were due back from Keiō…’

‘And so when did you last see Detective Fujita?’

‘I haven’t seen him since he met Hayashi…’

‘When?’ I ask him. ‘When was that?’

‘It must have been about 3 p.m….’

‘Where? Where did they meet?’

‘They were here first,’ says the sergeant. ‘In reception, but then they stepped outside and…’

‘And what?’ I ask –

‘And I haven’t seen Detective Fujita since he stepped outside with Mr. Hayashi.’

*

Past the pots and the pans, the kettles and the cans. Down the alleys and the lanes, the shadows and the arches. Up the stairs and through the doors. I kneel down on his tatami mats. I bow. I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

Senju Akira selects a new toothpick. Senju slips it between his
teeth and chews. He spins his new electric fan my way and says, ‘You always smell of corpses, always stink of death, detective.’

I say again, ‘I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry…’

‘They tell me you’ve got yourself another dead body,’ says Senju. ‘They tell me you’re all camped out at Atago police station.’

I say, ‘Yes. Two young women were found in Shiba Park.’

‘Were these two young women prostitutes?’ he asks.

I say, ‘Maybe not. We haven’t identified them yet.’

‘It’s no wonder you smell like shit then, is it?’ he laughs. ‘They work you hard, don’t they? How many hours a day is it?’

I tell him, ‘Twenty-four on a murder investigation.’

‘Twenty-four hours?’ he laughs again. ‘That’s nearly as many as I work, detective! But at least I work for me and at least I get well paid and at least my kids get to eat and my mistresses get to wear silk stockings and I don’t smell of fucking corpses…’

Now Senju Akira stops laughing. Now Senju spits out his toothpick. Now he says, ‘So tell me, officer, how many detectives have they got working on these two dead girls?’

I tell him, ‘About twenty detectives.’

‘Twenty? For two dead whores?’

I start to say, ‘I don’t know…’

‘So tell me this, detective, how many men then have you got out there looking for the killer of my boss? For the real killer? For the man who paid Nodera to pull the trigger? How many, detective?’

I bow. I apologize. I tell him, ‘It’s not my decision…’

‘So what use are you to me? What use, detective?’

I bow again. I start to say again, ‘I’m sorry…’

‘Shut up!’ shouts Senju and he gets to his feet and he says, ‘Let’s take a walk, just you and me, detective.’

I stand up. I follow him. Down his stairs. To his two goons –

In their pale suits, their patterned shirts and their shades
…

The two goons and us stepping out into the market –

His market; the Shimbashi New Life Market
…

Each stall-keeper bowing and thanking Senju as he ambles past them, past the fresh sardines and second-hand suits, past the coffee and the silk, each stall offering him free this and free that, bowing and thanking him as he acknowledges them all with an imperial nod or a military salute, these people on their knees, bowing and thanking him, on their worn-out knees at his leather-shod feet –

Emperor Senju, Banzai! Emperor Senju, Banzai! Banzai!

Then he turns to me and asks, ‘You got a name for me?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry,’ I say. I bow my head –

‘So why do you come around here, detective?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’m very sorry…’

‘Stop apologizing,’ says Senju. ‘And start looking around you, looking where you are. This is a market, officer, where people come to buy and sell. This is the future –

‘This is the New Japan!’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’
laughs Senju. ‘But you’ve got nothing to sell and no money to buy, detective.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘You’re the past, Detective Inspector Minami,’ he laughs again. ‘With your stench of death and your one hundred yen a month, your shrieking kids and your starving mistress…’

I bow my head.

Now Senju stops at a
kakigōri
stall. Senju asks for two strawberry flavoured cups. The stall-owner bows. The owner hands them to Senju. He thanks Senju again and again –

Senju hands one of the cups to me –

I bow. I apologize. I thank him –

I curse him. I curse him
…

‘What is it you really want?’ he asks me. ‘More money, is that what you need, detective?’

I shake my head. I apologize again. Then finally I tell him, ‘Please, I really need some Calmotin.’

‘Calmotin?’ laughs Senju. ‘Why would you want to sleep? I wouldn’t want your dreams…’

‘Please,’ I beg him again. ‘I really need some Calmotin.’

Senju stops laughing. ‘And I really need some names.’

Fujita. Hayashi. Fujita. Hayashi. Fujita. Hayashi
…

‘You give me a name and I’ll give you your Calmotin.’

‘But how much can you get me?’ I ask him. ‘I really need as much as you can give me. Please…’

‘Don’t worry,’ laughs Senju again. ‘You give me a name and you need never wake again.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, over and over. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

‘Red apple to my lips, blue sky silently watching…’

‘But don’t dare come back here without a name.’

Hayashi. Fujita. Hayashi. Fujita. Hayashi
…

‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Or I promise you, you won’t wake again.’