Virus: The Day of Resurrection (26 page)

In these mostly empty rush-hour cars, people remained as silent as the dead, as if they were afraid of looking at one another’s faces. Tibetan flu was already spreading its wings over these people as an unmistakably sinister omen, and when they looked up into a bright and clear May sky, they saw inauspicious signs of impending disaster. Even so, it wasn’t impossible to find the cheerful chatter that was a part of city life here and there. Yet in that chatter there was a note of emptiness somehow, and a single sigh or a single sneeze would immediately change the conversation into uneasy whispers. But although this ashen sense of unease gradually continued to unfold in the bottoms of the people’s hearts, the tendency to make light of these circumstances remained strong within them.

Influenza? Why, there’s vaccine for that, isn’t there? There’s a cold medicine called
XX
that works wonders. Chinese medicine is good. Drink some water boiled with kudzu root. No, boil some earthworms that have been dried in the shade. I’ve heard that antibiotics hardly work at all. What’re you talking about? Eat some healthy food and put a hot water bottle in your bed—you’ll turn right around. Nothing works better than egg sake. Steam some pickled apricots until they turn black, then put them in
shochu
 … The hospital? You’re overreacting. This is just a cold, isn’t it?

This is just a cold … or flu, right?

Somewhere deep in their hearts, the word “just” was slowly changing into the words “it can’t be.” In a deep, deep place that had not yet risen to consciousness, the meaning of the symbol that was the word
influenza
was slowly changing in its gravity.

“No, this can’t be influenza!”

A postscript to this change in thinking was where in the newspaper articles related to influenza could be found. Beginning in April, influenza articles were located in the bottom left corner of the newspaper’s society page, but gradually they began to creep toward the upper right. Lower left to upper right … from three-paragraph filler pieces to the top of the society page. Along the way, these articles leapt like sparks from a flame to the living page and culture page, and at last to the international news on page two. Then, in the form of feature reporting on the worldwide tragedy, the articles quickly began to take over the entire international page, dotting it like a hideous outbreak of spotted fever.

TIBETAN FLU RAVAGES PACIFIC ISLANDS
:
ENTIRE POPULATION OF FIJI FACING
‘
POSSIBLE EXTINCTION
’

NATO COMMANDER SPEAKS ON FLU-CAUSED STRATEGIC CRISIS
—
40% OF GROUND
,
AIR FORCES PARALYZED

FRENCH PRESIDENT ORDERS SPECIAL EMERGENCY MEASURES FOR THREAT OF TIBETAN FLU
—
SYSTEM PROPOSED FOR EEC NATIONS TO SHARE DOCTORS
,
HOSPITALS
,
VACCINE POOL

GOYA
’
S TIBETAN FLU DEATHS REACH 200,000
—
CHOLERA OUTBREAK ALSO SUSPECTED

No, these disgusting Gothic-faced sores didn’t stop on the international page, but rather spread to the economy, sports, and entertainment pages as well.

For example …

—The tenth game of the season, between the Giants and Hiroshima, was called off. Many players on both teams are sick with influenza. The chairmen of the Central and Pacific Leagues met with VIPs from each ball club for an emergency meeting about the schedule from the eleventh game onward. Does this hint that a portion of this season’s schedule will be changed in accordance with the Ministry of Health and Welfare’s measures for stopping the spread of the disease?

—The entire pitching squad of Toei is down with Tibetan flu. Every player in their lineup for facing Hankyuu is flat on his back.

—There were barely two thousand spectators at Kourakuen Stadium.

—Third Baseman Hendrick of Nishitetsu died during the game. The strain of forcing himself to play while ill was to blame.

—Sumo: Starting from the third day of the tournament, two
yokozuna
and three
ozeki
will withdraw due to Tibetan flu. Does the director of the Japan Sumo Association intend to call off the remainder of the summer tournament?

—S Theater’s musical has been canceled due to multiple absences among the main cast, supporting cast, and dancers. The outlook is bleak for June performances.

—Production of films continue to be halted. The sudden deaths of big stars have dealt blows to productions that could not be covered for in time.

—The index numbers for manufacturing dropped by 22 percent in May. Reduction of operation in steel and machinery production is certain. Shortages of skilled on-site workers continue.

—The Dow plunged to a record low. In June, will it drop another seven hundred yen? Only volumes of chemical and pharmaceutical stocks are rising sharply. The average is 12 percent lower compared to last month.

—Prices for fresh foods continue to explode. Outlook dim for a reopening of egg trading. The Ministry of Health and Welfare calls for strict punishments for anyone selling the meat of chickens that died of illness.

—Both wholesale and retail prices climbed dramatically in May. The danger of “Tibetan flu inflation” increases.

Then at the end of May came the big news that sent shock waves around the world:
SOVIET PREMIER DIES SUDDENLY OF INFLUENZA
. Once this news hit, the Tibetan flu stories suddenly jumped to the front page. They would never disappear.

It was on the front page, at the top of the political page, with the large headlines used for international stories. Other articles quickly appeared, such as “Government Convenes Emergency Cabinet Meeting to Discuss Tibetan Flu Problem,” “Temporary Administrative Measures for Combating Tibetan Flu,” “Prime Minister Calls on Citizenry to Fight Domestic Tibetan Flu Crisis,” “WHO Asks Security Council for Peacekeeping Police Cooperation in Tibetan Flu Measures,” and “Rome, Benelux Declare Martial Law,” one after another, on the front page.

These disturbing changes appeared to have exposed the face of a cold, hard fear that lurked one level below people’s sense of “It can’t be!”

It can’t be! But what if it is … ?

It was true—arrayed on that grayish, coarse paper were blunt Mincho- and Gothic-type characters, printed with neither color nor grace, news that could be read drily, mechanically, which allowed you to peer into the events of the world around you as though there were a single plate of glass separating you from them. It took the direct meaning of the events that happened near you and the things you yourself experienced and reduced them to “the events of the world”—to public events owned by no one—and in so doing served to dull their poisonous colors. If it did not, there would be no way we could casually read about traffic accidents and murders and forget them as quickly as we do. Even so, there also come times when the reality eclipses the reporting, when from beyond that fresh-ink aroma of the newspaper, or from the back of that radio or television receiver, it surges across and spills over onto your side. At such times, the tragedy is no longer someone else’s; it is yours and yours alone.

You can read, “Seventy thousand died instantly in the atom bomb blast at Hiroshima, but the number climbs to 239,000 when you include those who died over the following five years,” but you were not in Hiroshima at just past eight on the morning of August 6 in the twentieth year of the Showa Emperor’s reign. As far as you’re concerned, it could have said ten or twenty or thirty thousand just as easily. These are common numbers. As numbers go, the strings of zeroes are hardly unbelievable. You can write them down with just four or five strokes of the pen—fewer than it would take to transcribe a new movie’s weekend box office. They’re hardly shocking. And because of that, you’ll forget them right away. It’s already been quite some time ago, so the fact that you’re here reading about Hiroshima now means that you’re not included in that number.

That really was a frightening thing
, you might think.
Man, that war was really terrible. Well, enough of that. We were very lucky. I never want to remember that kind of thing again. In the first place, I just don’t have that kind of time …

So now you read an expository piece. It says that in 1918, fifty million people—roughly a third of the world’s population at the time—came down with Spanish flu, and twenty million of them died from it. Fifty million? That’s about the same as the number of television sets that have been made. One fifth of the entire population of Japan—yet compared to the worldwide population, isn’t that just a handful? This is already half a century in the past, but viewed from that time, medical science has made tremendous progress.

What’re you talking about? I feel fine. I’m still young, and my body is still in great shape. I’ve got a ton of things I want to do, and I should still have plenty of time to do them.

Except … what about when you read an article that says there are thirty million people who have come down with Tibetan flu, the mortality rate is about to exceed twenty-five percent, and you realistically, specifically, feel those numbers bearing down on you personally? When you hear that a third of the population of Japan has already contracted it and realize that a quarter of those people are going to die? That out of a group of a dozen people, four will catch it, and one of those will die? The puffiness around your eyes, your runny nose, the hot, vacant unpleasantness of the fog in your head, the sluggishness of your whole body, the dull aching of the joints in your arms and legs … all signs that you’ve already become one of the four. You take your temperature, and it’s sitting right at 37.5 degrees. Your nose is stopped up, you feel warmer than is comfortable, and the pain in your head is getting stronger and stronger. Which means you have a one in four chance of …

It can’t be! But what if it is?

Gripped with unease, you try to run to the pharmacy. Then at the door, you remember that you’ve already taken quite a lot of over-the-counter cold medicine. Or perhaps you remember someone you knew who died of acute symptoms even as they were taking cold medicine. Because of that, you are wracked with terror and call your doctor at home or at the hospital. No matter who you call, all you’re likely to get is a busy signal. Annoyed, you open the yellow pages to the Doctors, Clinics, and Hospitals section and start dialing numbers one after another. All busy—even the main numbers for large hospitals. So now it’s become a matter of principle: you double down and keep on dialing, and then several dozen numbers later, you finally get ahold of a doctor’s home, terribly far away. However, at just the moment when you’re about to tell him what you want, you hear the voice of a terribly hoarse woman telling you bluntly between clearings of her throat, “I’m sorry, but I’m very busy right now. The doctor has just recently passed away. Yes. Overwork and influenza!”

The clack of the receiver being slammed down as she hangs up.

Unable to stand it any longer, you take off running for your neighborhood clinic. And what will you find when you get there?

For the past two weeks, people had come thronging into the blue-collar neighborhood around K Hospital at six o’clock every morning in the hopes of seeing a doctor. By ten o’clock, the people who couldn’t get into the waiting rooms had formed lines of people—
walls
of people—crushed together with uneasy expressions on their faces. There was a dangerous tension there, as if just by casting a small stone in their direction you could trigger a sudden, panicked stampede for the hospital doors, with everyone fighting to get out first. Even so, the people were actually being more orderly and well behaved than at regular times. That orderliness seemed to be something that emerged naturally from within the multitude as a whole. When a mother with a small child came to the end of a line, those in front of her immediately yielded their places one after another until she was conveyed to the very front. When another young mother came running, out of breath, carrying a limp baby in her arms, the line parted right away and someone in the back shouted, “You in front! Switch places with her! Tell the doctor it’s a baby!”