There was a suggestion that the first postwar meeting should be a memorial service for the members who had died, but that idea was rejected, because the country was still in turmoil and many people remained unaccounted for. Also, it seemed more upbeat to have a friendly get-together to see old faces (and familiar tattoos) and to celebrate the miracle of survival.
As an afterthought it was decided to include a tattoo competition, to liven things up. The usual meeting place, Nanushi Waterfall in Oji, had been badly damaged in the war, so the organizers arranged to rent a garden restaurant that was housed in a former nobleman’s estate near Kichijoji. The date was set, and advertising flyers were printed in the basement of a society member who owned a rusty old mimeograph machine.
As August 20 approached, excitement about the contest mounted, particularly when it was announced that there would be a first prize of ten thousand yen for the best tattoos, male and female. Even with spiraling inflation, ten thousand yen was a sizable sum. The members of the society, being true children of Edo, tended to be relatively unconcerned about cash, but times were hard and they couldn’t very well eat their tattoos. Besides, everyone secretly believed that his or her tattoo was the most magnificent in Japan.
With the lures of artistic pride, prize money, and sociability, the meeting managed to attract most of the surviving members of the society and some outside participants. There were more than a hundred men and women entered in the competition. The eye-catching flyers, posted all over town, attracted a good deal of attention, and a large number of newspaper reporters and spectators showed up, including Kenzo Matsushita.
Kenzo had found his haven in the depths of the garden when someone placed a hand on his arm. He turned and found himself looking into the face of a bespectacled stranger, a short, slight, middle-aged man with wispy yellowish-white hair crowned by an unseasonal beret of thick black wool. The man wore a summer kimono of dark green cotton, and he was smoking an old-fashioned kiseru pipe, shaped like a long cigarette holder with a brass bowl at the end. Kenzo’s suspicion that his accoster would turn out to be a fatuous academic type was confirmed when the man opened his mouth. “There’s nothing quite so lonely as a crowd, is there?” he said.
Kenzo nodded, and before he could reply the man said, “Have you seen the ridiculous Americans strutting about, showing off their pathetic ‘sushi’ tattoos?” He pointed toward a small clump of G.I.s who were chatting with two young Japanese women in identical short red dresses. “Unlike the Japanese tattoo, which flows over the contours of the body like a river over stones, the Americans cover their arms with a hodgepodge of unsightly, obvious designs—hearts, anchors, flags, and the like. I suppose an upstart country like the United States doesn’t have any folklore or tradition to draw upon, but still, there’s no excuse for the total lack of artistry. No imagination. And the shading techniques are appallingly primitive, like something from the Stone Age! The subtle shadowing that sets the Japanese tattoo apart is achieved by the use of natural pigments which are applied with immeasurable skill by a true artist manipulating a variety of needles, with each bundle of needles encased in a wooden handle. But the Americans! They use a single needle, which is why their designs are as thin as a bowl of milk that’s been left out in the rain.”
As a physician, Kenzo had taken the required courses in psychology, and he recognized the pipe-smoker’s tirade as the most transparent sort of jingoistic overcompensation. Kenzo had no grudge against the American victors, and he thought of saying, “Their appalling tattoos didn’t keep them from winning the war.” But he knew that would prolong the conversation, and turn it into an argument. So he just said, “Thank you very much for the edifying lecture, but I really must go meet someone now.” As he walked away, Kenzo wished he had thought to ask what the man had meant by “sushi tattoos,” but it didn’t seem worth the trouble to turn back.
The aroma of the talkative stranger’s pipe tobacco had made Kenzo crave a lungful of nicotine, and as soon as he reached the safety of the far garden wall he took a hand-rolled cigarette from his stainless-steel cigarette case. After a moment’s blissful, smoky silence, another strange voice spoke into his ear, causing him to levitate in surprise.
3
“Excuse me, kind sir, could you please lend me a match?”
Kenzo turned in alarm and saw that the question had come from a young woman standing behind him. She was tall and slender, yet voluptuous, and she wore a high-collared, white, Western-style dress with flowing sleeves. The woman had a long oval face, and her hair was piled on top of her head to show off her swanlike neck and delicate features. Her enchanting profile reminded Kenzo of an aristocratic cat, or an Egyptian goddess.
“Oh, a match? Here you are.” Kenzo spoke playfully, in the overblown style of an advertising poster: “Thanks to the progress of twentieth-century science, these matches are guaranteed to strike a light the very first time.” He handed over the box.
The woman lit an Asahi cigarette and blew a cloud of lavender smoke. “Thank you,” she said with a coquettish laugh. “That’s delicious.”
That laugh, combined with the woman’s elegant yet slightly dissolute appearance, had a bewitching effect on an unsophisticated country boy like Kenzo. When the woman lifted her arm to light her cigarette, the sleeve of her dress slid back and Kenzo caught a glimpse of pattern and color, of darkness and light. He thought it was odd that she was wearing a dress of such thick material on such a hot evening. Unable to control his curiosity, he ventured a casual-sounding inquiry.
“There certainly are a lot of people here tonight,” he said. “Of course I suppose the majority came as I did, just to observe, but I’m still amazed by the turnout.”
“Yes,” the woman replied through a cloud of smoke, “there are a lot of people in this world who like strange things.”
“I read somewhere that there were a hundred entrants in the men’s division and about twenty in the women’s,” Kenzo said. “I wonder if there really are that many tattooed women here tonight.”
“Oh, absolutely. I know at least ten personally.”
“And are you going to participate as well?”
Kenzo immediately regretted the boldness of his question, for the woman seemed annoyed by his lack of subtlety. Furrowing her pale brow with its crescent-shaped eyebrows, she shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in an exaggerated manner, like an actress in a foreign movie.
“Hey, mister,” she said feistily, “do I really look like a tattooed hussy?”
Totally taken aback, Kenzo stammered an incoherent reply. “No, really, I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me. I didn’t mean to pry or anything, it’s just that you look so stylish, and after all this is a tattoo society meeting, and I just sort of thought you might have a couple of tattoos, it was just a weird feeling I had. What I said was totally inappropriate, and I’m very sorry if I offended you.”
The woman gave a heedless laugh “That’s really funny,” she said, still chuckling. “There’s no need to take everything so seriously. Besides, I’m sure you could tell just by looking at me that I’m in the business of entertaining men.”
“So I was right! What do your tattoos look like?”
“On my arms I have a few men’s names, and some calligraphed poems—you know, the one by Akiko Yosano, where she says that her naked body looks like a white lily submerged in the bathtub.”
“I see.” Kenzo assumed the woman was telling the truth, and he was filled with admiration for her candor. She stared at his credulous face in astonishment, then began to laugh again.
“What’s so funny?” Kenzo asked.
“You’re really gullible, aren’t you? You’re just like a child. Do you really think I could hold my own at this competition with a couple of measly tattoos like that?”
Kenzo blushed. “In that case, you must have some really serious tattoos,” he said.
“I know it’s not very becoming for a woman, but the truth is I’m tattooed all over, down to m
y knees and my elbows, and everywhere in between.”
Kenzo stood stunned and speechless, as if he had been hit on the head with a cudgel. With a seductive sidelong glance, the woman added, “You would have found out in any case when the meeting started. The unveiling will take place any minute, so there’s no point in trying to hide it. If you’ll excuse me.…”
She turned and headed toward what had been the main house of the estate. Kenzo peered intently at the back of her white dress, wishing he had X-ray vision. No trace of color or pattern was visible through the thick fibers, and Kenzo thought that the woman must have been joking about being tattooed all over.
4
Feeling disoriented and overstimulated, Kenzo headed for the meeting hall in a daze. As he passed a thicket of trees, a young man in a dark blue shirt brushed past him. The man glanced at Kenzo’s face and stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief.
“If I’m mistaken, please forgive my rudeness,” he said, “but are you by any chance Kenzo Matsushita?”
“Yes.” Kenzo stared into the startlingly handsome face, trying in vain to recall where he might have seen it before. There was something slightly contemptuous about the way the man’s mouth turned up at the corners, and his sculpted, sensual lips were so naturally rosy that Kenzo wondered for a moment whether he might be an actor who had neglected to remove his stage makeup The man had a long, well-shaped nose and a deep vertical furrow between his thick, straight brows. His brooding black eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his hair was combed straight back from his face. He had broad shoulders and an athletic build, and he carried himself with a self-assured, almost cocky air, as if he knew very well that he was a type that men find intimidating and women find irresistible.
Flustered, Kenzo searched his memory, but he still had no idea who this charismatic person might be. “I’m sorry, you are. . . ?” he ventured.
“Have you forgotten? I’m Hisashi Mogami.” The man’s tone was incredulous, as if he were not accustomed to being unremembered.
“Oh, that’s right, of course.” Suddenly a memory from long ago swam into the front of Kenzo’s mind. “Forgive me, I had a pretty rough time in the Philippines and I’m afraid I’m still not thinking too clearly.”
Hisashi Mogami had been a friend in middle school, but they hadn’t seen each other in over ten years, so it was no wonder Kenzo hadn’t recognized him. Although Hisashi was three years older than Kenzo, he had taken two years off from school due to heart trouble and they had ended up in the same class, sitting at adjacent desks.
It might have been sexual precocity or a naturally wild nature, but at that time Hisashi Mogami had already begun to acquire a reputation as the black sheep of the school. On one occasion he copied a love letter word for word from a famous foreign novel, audaciously substituted his own name for that of the dead writer, and sent copies to ten different female students.
Hisashi Mogami studied judo, and by the third year of middle school he was already a black belt. While he was out of school, recuperating from his illness, he had become very good at playing shogi, Japanese chess, and he used to brag that he would have no trouble earning a first-grade certification, which was reserved for the most accomplished players. Hisashi did have a remarkable aptitude for mathematics so it was possible that he really had mastered the complex and sophisticated board game.
The two boys graduated. Kenzo managed by a once-in-a-lifetime fluke to get into Ikko Academy, the premier feeder-school for prestigious Tokyo University. Hisashi went to a less illustrious high school and from there to the engineering department of a small private college, where he majored in applied chemistry. The two men drifted apart.
Kenzo had heard rumors that Hisashi was living an unconventional, rootless life as a freelance experimental chemist and womanizer, with financial support from his prosperous older brother.
“Well, well,” Hisashi was saying. “Fancy meeting you here! I never dreamed you were interested in tattoos.”
“No, it’s not that I’m interested,” Kenzo stammered. “I’m just here to do some scientific research.”
“That’s fine—whatever the nature of your interest. You never even used to look at girls. I guess you’ve grown up. Come on, you don’t need to hide it. I know you came to ogle the tattooed women!”
“You always did try to make sex the underlying motive for everything, didn’t you? You really are a Freudian at heart.” Kenzo didn’t appreciate being reminded of his lifelong lack of success with women. Besides, it wasn’t so much that he didn’t look at them. They usually didn’t look back.
“So I’m a Freudian. Is that a problem?” Hisashi’s tone was mock-belligerent. “As far as human behavior goes, if you strip away the thin veneer of appearances, there’s nothing left but the desire for food, sex, material goods, and power. Why do you suppose all these spectators have flocked to this meeting? For most of them the motivation is purely sexual. Putting aside the artistic merit of the tattoos, there’s nothing particularly unusual about seeing men who are tattooed all over. There’s no way all these spectators would take the time and trouble, and spend money on train fare, just to see a bunch of tattooed dolts milling around in their skivvies. But if you have the chance to see twenty tattooed women in the same place, that would be well worth taking a day off from work.”
“Do you really think there are that many tattooed women in Japan nowadays?”
“Oh, they’re out there, for sure. If you look at the women who hang out with members of the underworld, you’d be hard pressed to find a single one with undecorated skin. Getting tattooed is almost a prerequisite to being accepted in that world, but no one forces them into that idiotic life. They choose it by themselves. It’s a distorted underground society, where going to prison is like a badge of honor. By getting tattooed all over and cutting themselves off from normal society, the women show their commitment to a particular man and to the renegade-outlaw life in general.”
“That makes sense,” Kenzo said slowly. “Yes, I can see your point. There certainly could be ten or twenty such women out of the millions living in Tokyo. But I’m still amazed that so many have shown up here.”
“These days, ten thousand yen has an undeniable appeal,” Hisashi said, making the Japanese hand-symbol for money: thumb and forefinger joined to form a circle. “So the women are here out of greed, and we’re here out of lust. Any way you look at it, it all comes down to pnmal instincts.” His sophistry was as glib and flawless as ever.
“So then you, too. . . ?” Kenzo raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
“No, I personally don’t have the slightest interest in such barbaric customs. I did some research into the tattoo subculture a while ago, but I just ended up feeling contempt for that whole way of life. The truth is I was forced to come here on my older brother’s orders, to keep an eye on his tattooed moll. He really is absurdly jealous.”
“Your brother?” Kenzo started to add, Oh, the one who pays your bills? but decided that might be less than tactful.
“Yes,” Hisashi said, “he runs a civil engineering and construction firm called the Mogami Group. If you ask me, though, he’s a kind of war criminal. During the war, he collaborated with the army and made pots of money. After the war ended, he turned to funneling hoarded goods into the black market in collusion with the Army of Occupation. I must admit it, though, he’s really got a good thing going, the slimy bastard.” Hisashi apparently felt a pang of conscience after this scathing attack on his brother’s character, because he added, “Not that it’s my place to criticize anyone else; I’m not exactly Albert Schweitzer myself. Let’s just say that my brother has a good business sense, and leave it at that. On the persona] front, he has been greatly influenced by our uncle, Professor Hayakawa. So when he got tired of dating normal women, he went out and found the most beautiful tattooed woman in Japan, and made her his mistress.”
To illustrate this point, Hisashi Mogami held up the little finger on his left hand, a gesture that
denotes an intimate male-female relationship. “She isn’t my type at all, but I have to admit she’s a real looker, and she’s got quite a figure.” Hisashi leered and sketched an exaggerated hourglass shape in the air. “Her name is Kinue Nomura. She’s the daughter of a tattoo artist named Horiyasu, and she has a bizarre design, called Orochimaru, tattooed on her back. But the thing is, she isn’t educated or cultured at all, and her interests are very superficial. I swear, if you talked to her for an hour you’d be bored to tears. Like I always say, give me a woman with large breasts and a big brain, and I’ll be happy as a clam.”
It suddenly occurred to Kenzo that Hisashi was talking about the intriguing woman in the garden. “Is she still young, this Kinue Nomura?” he asked.
“Of course she’s young. She’s in her early to mid-twenties, just the age when women start to fill out, and since she got her tattoos when she was eighteen, they’re only five or six years old. You’re a physician. You know that when you put pigment into human skin, the color will eventually be absorbed, the images will start to migrate, and the tattoo will fade and become discolored. But right now this woman is in her prime, and her tattoo is at its best. I must say, I’m really amazed that my brother would allow her to strut around practically naked in front of strangers like this. We may have the same blood in our veins, but I don’t understand him at all.”
“Do you suppose she’s an exhibitionist, that woman?”
Tattoo Murder Case Page 2