Malice: A Mystery

by Keigo Higashino

  “I’ll let you look at the finished report.”

  “I know, but indulge me. If I’m to confess, I’d like to do it in my own words.”

  Detective Kaga was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he asked, “You mean you’d like to write your own confession?”

  “If you’ll allow it, yes.”

  “Very well. That works out better for us anyway. How long will it take?”

  “A full day, I should think.”

  Detective Kaga looked at his watch. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” He stood up and they left the room.

  * * *

  That is how I came to write my own confession. I’m working under the assumption that this will be the last full piece I write. You might call it my final opus. When I think of it in this way, I find myself not wanting to waste a single word; yet unfortunately, I lack the time to labor over every turn of phrase.

  My reunion with Kunihiko Hidaka came, as I’ve said, seven years ago. At the time, Hidaka had already made his authorial debut. He had received a small publisher’s new-author award two years prior to our meeting. By the time our paths crossed again, he’d published one collection of short stories and three novels. I believe the publisher lauded him as “a brilliant new voice.” Of course, they always say that.

  I’d had my eye on him ever since his books started hitting the shelves. Half of me was proud that my childhood friend had made it, while the other half was envious of his success. We’d often talked about becoming writers when we were kids. We both loved books and were constantly recommending our favorites to each other, reading and swapping them when we were finished. Hidaka turned me on to Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin. In return, I gave him Jules Verne.

  Hidaka often boasted he would become a better writer than any of them. He was never one for modesty. Though I might never have said it quite as loudly, I shared his dream. So you can see why I was a little jealous of him for having made it out of the gate first, while I hadn’t even taken the first step.

  I did genuinely want to congratulate him on his success. More selfishly, I also thought connecting with him would offer me a chance. Through Hidaka, I could reach out to publishers, accessing the publishing industry in a way I’d only dreamed of.

  I wanted to contact him immediately, but worried that, so soon after his debut, even words of encouragement from an old friend would be nothing more than a nuisance. So, I cheered him on in silence, reading his stories in the magazines and buying his books whenever a new one came out. In the meantime, inspired by his success, I returned to writing in earnest for the first time since a little bit of light fiction I’d written back in college.

  I’d been incubating several ideas for years. I chose one and began to write—a story about a fireworks maker, based on an old man who lived near my house when I was growing up. I visited him several times in the last two years of elementary school and never forgot the fascinating story of how he’d discovered his craft late in life—a salaryman who became enchanted with fireworks after watching a display while on a business trip. It occurred to me that I could expand on that story and make it into a longer work. This became a novel I entitled A Circle of Fire.

  Two years had passed when I finally decided to write to Hidaka, telling him I’d read everything he’d written and was a strong supporter of his work. I ended by saying I’d like to meet up with him sometime. To my surprise, his response came right away. He called me.

  He remembered our childhood days with fondness. Thinking about it now, I realize that was the first time I’d spoken with him at any length since we went off to separate high schools.

  “I heard from my mom you’d taken up teaching. Sounds like a nice, steady job. Better than me. I don’t get a salary or bonuses. I never know what tomorrow’s going to bring.” He laughed an easy laugh. Easy because he knew inside he’d gotten the better deal. Still, I didn’t hold that against him.

  We made plans to meet. We picked the place: a café in Shinjuku; and after that, dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I went to our reunion straight from work, still wearing my suit. He was in jeans and a bomber jacket. I remember thinking, So that’s what it’s like to be self-employed, and for some reason, at the time, it impressed me.

  We talked about old times and mutual friends, and gradually the conversation turned to Hidaka’s novels. When he found out that I really had read everything he’d written, he was genuinely surprised. According to him, not even the editors who badgered him to write more had read half of his stuff. Now it was my turn to be surprised.

  He was in great spirits and talked nonstop, but his face clouded over a little when I asked about sales.

  “Sadly, winning the new-author award from a literary magazine isn’t a free ticket to success. You need people talking about your books to really move them off the shelves. Of course, a more prestigious award might have a little more pull. It’s hard to say.”

  It must be tough, I thought, making it as a writer only to realize your struggle is just beginning. I believe that even then Hidaka was up against a kind of wall in his career. You might call it a slump. I don’t think he had a clear path out of it, either. Of course, at the time, I had no inkling of any of this.

  Then I confessed to him that I, too, was writing a novel and hoped to make my own debut soon.

  “What, you’ve got a finished novel?” he asked.

  “No, embarrassingly, I’m still working on my first. Soon, though. I’ll be done soon.”

  “Well, bring it by when you finish up! I’ll read it, and if I like it, maybe I can introduce you to some editors.”

  “Really? That’s really great of you. Puts the ink in my pen, if you know what I mean. I was worried that without any real connections in publishing, I’d have to start sending in submissions blindly and hope for my own new-author award.”

  “Oh, don’t bother with those. They’re a pain in the ass. Half of those things are just luck. If what you wrote doesn’t suit the tastes of the underlings reading the slush pile, your novel will simply get cut in the early stages and never even see the light of day.”

  “I’ve heard the horror stories.”

  “Yeah, it’s brutal. No, going straight to the editors is the only way.”

  Before we parted that night, I promised I’d let him know when I was done.

  With a concrete goal in my sights, my entire attitude toward writing changed overnight. I’d spent more than a year working on the first half of the novel, but it only took me another month to finish it. It ended up being a medium-length work, just under two hundred pages.

  I got a hold of Hidaka and told him I’d finished my book. He told me to send it to him, so I made a photocopy and dropped it in the mail. Then all I had to do was wait. I remember going to work that day entirely unable to focus on my lesson plan.

  However, no word came from Hidaka. I figured he was busy and didn’t bother him right away. But a part of my mind started to worry that the manuscript I’d sent him was so bad he didn’t know what to say. Bleaker and bleaker scenarios began to form in my imagination.

  A full month after I’d sent him my book, I finally decided to call. His response was disappointing, but not in the way I’d feared: He hadn’t read it yet.

  “Sorry. I’m working on a really tough assignment right now and just don’t have the time.”

  What could I say to that? He was a professional author. The man needed to eat.

  “Well, that’s fine. I’m not in any hurry. You do what you need to do,” I said, unsure even as I said it why I was encouraging him to delay even further.

  “Sorry. As soon as this is done, I promise to get right to it. I looked over the beginning, it’s about a fireworks maker, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m guessing you based it on that old guy who lived next to the shrine?”

  I told him he was right.

  “It brought back memories! Anyway, I really want to read it, I just haven’t had the time.”

 
“How long do you think that assignment’s going to take?”

  “Probably another month. At any rate, your book’s next on the list. I’ll call you right away once I’ve read it.”

  I thanked him and hung up, my head full of the responsibilities of a full-time writer. I didn’t have a shred of doubt in my mind about Hidaka’s good intentions.

  Another month passed without word. I didn’t want to become a nuisance, but I did want to hear what he thought of my writing. Eventually I gave in to the temptation and called again.

  “I’m sorry, I still haven’t gotten to it.” My heart sank. “This job is taking longer than I thought it would. Can you wait? I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Well, sure.” Frankly, though, it was going to be hard for me to wait any longer. Then I had an idea. “If you’re too busy, maybe you could suggest another reader? Maybe an editor?”

  His tone suddenly turned dark. “Editors are busy people. I can’t go sending them something before I know whether it’s good or not. Believe me, they’re sick of getting every crappy manuscript making the rounds thrown on their desk. If I’m going to bring anybody to them, I have to read it first. Unless you don’t want my opinion? Hey, I’m happy to send it back.”

  What was I supposed to say to that? “That’s not what I meant. I just—it seemed like you were pretty busy, and I thought maybe there was someone else.”

  “Sorry, but nobody I work with has the time to spend reading some amateur’s novel. Hey, but don’t worry. I will read it, I promise.”

  “Okay … well, it’s in your hands.” I hung up.

  As I feared, another two weeks passed without any word from him. Steeling myself for another disappointment, I dialed his number.

  “Hey, I was just about to phone you.” Something a little aloof in his tone worried me immediately.

  “Did you read it?”

  “Yeah, just finished it a couple of days ago.”

  I resisted the urge to ask him why he hadn’t then called me a couple of days earlier and instead asked, “What did you think?”

  “Well, about that…” The silence on the line lasted more than a few seconds. “It’s hard to talk about over the phone,” he said finally. “Why don’t you come over. We can chat.”

  This completely threw me. All I wanted to know was if he liked the book or not. I half felt that I was being led on—except, if he was going to the trouble of inviting me over, that must mean he had taken the time to give it an honest reading and had something of substance in the way of feedback. A little nervously, I agreed.

  This is how I first came to visit the Hidakas. I had no idea how that visit would change my life.

  He’d just bought the house he would live in until his death. Apparently he’d stashed away quite a bit of money during his time as a salaryman, but I also think an inheritance from his father had a lot to do with it. Still, it was lucky for him that he became a bestselling author soon after that, or I suspect that he wouldn’t have been able to make his mortgage payments.

  I brought a bottle of scotch with me as a present.

  Hidaka greeted me at the door in sweats. Standing next to him was Hatsumi.

  Thinking back on it, I realize it was love at first sight. The moment I saw her, I felt something akin to inspiration. Almost a kind of déjà vu. It was as though I were meeting someone I’d always been meant to meet. For a moment I just stared at her, unable to speak.

  Hidaka didn’t seem to notice my momentary disorientation. He told Hatsumi to make coffee and invited me in to his office.

  I was expecting him to launch right into what he thought about my book, but he seemed to be avoiding the topic. We discussed current events, and he asked about my teaching work. Even after Hatsumi brought the coffee, he kept the conversation on different topics until, unable to bear it any longer, I blurted out, “What about my story? If it’s no good, please tell it to me straight.”

  His smile faded. “It’s not bad. I like the theme.”

  “You mean it’s not bad, but it’s not good?”

  “Well, yes. That’s what I mean. Good books grab the reader, pull you in. Maybe it’s a case of having the right ingredients but lacking the right recipe.”

  “Well, what part in particular doesn’t work?”

  “The characters just aren’t compelling. And I think it’s because the story’s a little too … pat, tidy even.”

  “Do you mean it feels contrived? The story and the characters lack dimension?”

  “Something like that. Don’t get me wrong, for an amateur novel I think it’s quite good. The writing’s fine, and the story elements are all there. It’s just the way those elements are put together isn’t compelling enough to grab the reader’s attention. Or to get published. Technical skill alone doesn’t make a salable product, you know.”

  I was ready for criticism, but this crushed me. If my story had a specific failing, I could try to fix it, but what did “it’s fine, but not compelling” mean? It sounded to me like another way of saying I didn’t have talent.

  “So maybe I should play around with the story line some more? Try to approach it from a different angle?” I asked, trying to keep my spirits up by focusing on the future.

  Hidaka shook his head. “I don’t see any point in clinging to the same story. If I were you, I’d give yourself a blank slate. Otherwise you might end up making the same mistake again. My recommendation is you write something completely different.”

  It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but his advice made sense.

  I asked whether, if I wrote another story, he would be willing to read it.

  “With pleasure,” he said.

  I started in on my next novel right away. However, my pen seemed reluctant to write. The first time around, I’d completely lost myself in the writing, but this time, I found every little detail bothered me. Sometimes I would spend an entire hour at my desk torturing myself over a single turn of phrase, trying to make it work. Maybe it was because, this time, I had an audience: Hidaka. In a way, that robbed me of my courage. Maybe this was the difference between an amateur and a professional.

  Still, I struggled on. In the meantime, I started visiting Hidaka more frequently. You might say our friendship was revived after having lain dormant for so many years. For me, it was fascinating to hear about his life as a working author, and I think Hidaka enjoyed spending time with someone outside his regular circle of editors. He told me once that ever since he’d become an author, he’d felt increasingly isolated from the world around him.

  However, I confess I also had an entirely different reason for wanting to visit. I couldn’t wait to see Hatsumi again. In many ways, she was my ideal woman. She always had a warm smile for me, and she looked radiant even in her everyday clothes. I’d never seen her all done up, and she might actually have been a knockout. That, after all, would be more Hidaka’s style. To me, however, she had a simple charm, something much closer to home: an everyday kind of beauty that other women could only dream of.

  On one occasion, I visited without calling ahead. My excuse was that I was in the neighborhood and just dropped by. But in truth, I’d been working at home when I was overcome with a sudden desire to see that smile again. I arrived to find that Hidaka wasn’t there. I told myself I was just going to say hello and then go home, since my cover story was that I’d come to see him.

  However, to my great surprise, Hatsumi asked me to come in and visit. She said she’d just finished baking a cake and wanted me to taste it for her. I mumbled something about not imposing on her, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I practically fell over myself to accept her invitation.

  The following two hours were some of the happiest of my life. I was euphoric and must have talked up a storm. She never frowned at my exuberance, but instead laughed in that bright, girlish way of hers, which sent me even further over the moon. I must have been flushed with excitement because, once I finally left and started to make my way home, I remember how good the
cool air felt against my skin.

  I continued to drop by, under the pretext of getting writing advice from Hidaka, just to see Hatsumi. Hidaka didn’t seem to notice a thing. He had his own reasons for wanting to see me, but I didn’t learn of those until a while later.

  Finally, I finished my second novel. Again, I wanted Hidaka to read it and give me his opinion. Again, I was disappointed. He didn’t like it.

  “It just feels like the same old love story,” he told me. “Stories about young men falling for older women are a dime a dozen. You need a new twist to make it work. Also, the woman he’s supposed to be falling in love with doesn’t really work. The character just doesn’t feel real. I’m mean, it’s obvious you’re not writing from personal experience.”

  I think that’s what you’d call a harsh review. I was in shock. The worst part was what he said about the woman. The model for my unreal heroine was none other than Hatsumi herself.

  I asked Hidaka if he thought I just didn’t have what it took to be a professional writer.

  He thought for a moment before saying, “What’s the rush? You have a day job. Keep writing as a hobby. Don’t worry about getting your first book published so fast.”

  His advice did little to console me. I was quite fond of what I’d created with my second novel. Now I was worried about what I might be lacking as a writer. Even Hatsumi’s kind words of encouragement were not the salve I needed.

  For several days I had difficulty sleeping, and as a result my health quickly deteriorated. I caught a cold and eventually got so sick I couldn’t get out of bed. At times like these one really feels the harshness of living alone. I curled up in bed, wrapped in a cold blanket of misery.

  Then I had the most unexpected turn of fortune, as I have already told Detective Kaga. Hatsumi came to visit me at my apartment. When I looked through the peephole in my apartment door, I thought for a moment that my fever had peaked and I was hallucinating.

  “I heard from my husband that you’d caught a cold and couldn’t even go in to work,” she told me.

  She hardly seemed to notice my excitement at seeing her and went straight into the kitchen, where she began preparing a meal. She’d brought all the ingredients with her. I felt as if I were walking on clouds, and not because of the fever.