by Unknown
Just like everywhere else, the stable had its rules. If you were there to observe, that was all you did. No photography, no questions or commentary, and definitely no snickering at the loose rows of giant, half-naked baby-men as they performed their warm-up stretches in a flabby Fosse number. I wasn’t laughing. Watching the same movement—slap thigh, lift leg, stamp down, repeat—for so long zoned me out, and I only snapped back when I heard the sound of colliding mountains.
For all its Shinto-infused horseshit, sumo is a simple martial art that boils down to two angry fat men mashing flab at speed. They then try to shove each other out of the ring, or else put their opponent to the ground. Bouts rarely last more than a minute; most only last a few seconds. Performed with skill, sumo is an explosion, and you bear witness to two men crashing into each other—their bodies, sometimes their skulls—with an unholy velocity. The wrestlers dialed it back for the practice bouts—these were mostly of a survival nature, one wrestler in the middle of the ring pounded by his stable mates until one of them won and took his place. By the time Nakahara entered, most of the juniors were caked with dirt and sweat and already puffing hard.
Nakahara was the ogre king of Wakamatsu, the only wrestler I’d seen in Yamashiro’s stable to sport the coveted white mawashi. He carried himself like he ground bones to make his bread and went on to demolish the junior wrestlers without breaking a sweat, though I began to suspect that many of them were taking gentleman dives. He was attended by a junior with welts on his back, bruises both old and new peeking out from under the mud, and whose arms were peppered with what could have been a rash, but which looked more like cigarette burns. When practice ended, Nakahara and the other senior wrestlers went outside to hose each other off. The juniors repaired to the kitchen to make lunch.
I sat alone. A tremor in my gut. Another in my cheek. The smell of dirt and sweat, mingled with the miso broth scent that wafted into the practice area nauseated me.
There were no yakuza here. But there was something arguably more interesting.
I looked up to see Nakahara’s attendant. He bowed and told me chanko was ready.
“Thank you.” I got to my feet, and rubbed my sleeping leg. “What’s your name?”
“Kouta.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Where are you from?”
“Osaka,” he said. And then, as if caught in a lie, “Near Osaka.”
“You came here to learn sumo?”
Bowed head. “I did not like school.”
Kid like him, built big and not too bright, wouldn’t make it in corporate so his parents had shipped him off to the dirt ring. If you became a junior, you didn’t have to finish high school, and stables these days were desperate for applicants. As long as you looked the part, you were in, even if you didn’t have an ounce of talent for the sport. One glance at Kouta, and I saw someone trapped and frightened. Hated it here, but had nowhere else to go. It was a look I knew only too well.
“And where’d you get those burns, Kouta?”
The junior’s face smoothed. He swallowed. He repeated that food was ready.
“I can help you, you know. I can tell your story.”
He looked at me. Wavering. Wanting to speak.
“It’s okay.” I gave him my best concerned expression. “Someone hurting you here, Kouta?”
A creak. Yamashiro had entered the room. Kouta stiffened, bowed once more and left.
I beamed at Yamashiro. “Yamashiro-san, I must say, your wrestlers are very talented.”
He wasn’t buying it. “You must leave.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I spoke to your editor. He said you are not authorized to be here.”
“There must be a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding.”
“He told me to come here.”
“Then you must deal with him. Goodbye.”
And he turned away. A couple of wrestlers appeared in the doorway, there to make sure I left the building. I took the hint and made for the door. I didn’t want to stay for lunch, anyway. Just the thought of food made my stomach curl in on itself.
Instead, I hit the pipe and the dive bar in short order. Checked my phone and, sure enough, there was a message from Shima, politely informing me that due to my increasingly erratic and unstable behavior my services as expat correspondent were no longer required. Which meant my work visa was about to go down the toilet.
Good. Couldn’t get me out of this country quick enough.
I watched a red-faced man start to sing “American Pie.” About two minutes in, he suddenly realized he had another seven to go, and hadn’t prepared to be up there that long. But rather than drop the mike, he bulled it out like a true American.
Didn’t matter how dark the situation, you had to push through, right? Get the job done.
And I had the story, didn’t I? Something much better than yakuza, which had become white noise news, quaint in its familiarity. Abuse at a sumo stable might not have looked much better, but it spoke to a central hypocrisy and plucked a nerve too seldom molested. The Japanese hated their reputation for coldness, for cruelty. That this cruelty was taking place in service of their national sport could be incendiary. I imagined the international agencies would want a piece of it.
So I had Kouta’s story. All I needed now was evidence.
I tweaked in the bathroom, cleared the liquor haze from my skull, and headed back out to Wakamatsu. On the way, I pushed through preparations for the Obon Festival, Japanese Halloween with religious bells and whistles. The lanterns and bright colors made my head hurt, so I ducked into the shadows and followed the darkness back to the stable.
I couldn’t see through the dirty windows, so I went round and slithered in through the kitchen. Kept my breath shallow and my footsteps light, following the sound of the evening practice until I reached the door to the dirt room.
Then I heard Yamashiro scream and a sharp slap echoed out into the corridor.
I chanced a peek. Under the harsh strips, the assembled wrestlers looked like a medical exhibition. This was butsukari practice—one wrestler was supposed to slam into another in a running charge and drive him through the dirt to the other side of the room. Yamashiro stood in the middle of the ring and yelled, “Charge me!”
Kouta stood opposite, reluctant. He shuffled forward, but didn’t commit.
Yamashiro punched Kouta’s chest, then his own. “Charge me.”
Kouta charged. Yamashiro caught him, shoved him upright and slapped his face pink. Kouta apologized.
“Again!”
Kouta charged. Yamashiro charged back, slammed his full weight into the kid and sent him sprawling backward across the ring. Kouta floundered, rolled, tried to get upright. Yamashiro planted a heavy foot into the boy’s gut. “Like a pig in the dirt.Get up.”
Kouta didn’t move. Frozen in a ball, braced for the next blow.
“Get up.” Yamashiro gestured to the other wrestlers, who hauled Kouta to his feet. Yamashiro snatched a bamboo cane from the corner of the room, paused to take a drink of my bourbon, then returned to Kouta, who was busy blubbering apologies. Yamashiro cut him short with a swipe to the belly. “Why do we have no foreigners in this heya?”
I took video on my phone. It was beautiful.
“Because the sumo champion must be Japanese,” said the wrestlers.
Yamashiro crossed behind Kouta. “And how do you become champion?”
“Through discipline,” said the wrestlers.
“And how do you learn discipline?”
“Through pain.”
“Through pain.” Yamashiro brought the cane down across Kouta’s back. Kouta screamed, then sobbed.
Yamashiro flicked his wrist. The wrestlers dropped Kouta to his hands and knees.
Yamash
iro crossed back to the bottle of bourbon. He poured the last of it into a glass, took a hefty swallow—looked like it didn’t touch the sides—then brought the bottle back with him as he began to circle Kouta. “They say there will never be another Japanese champion. They say the Mongolians, the Chinese, the Koreans, they all have the advantage. They have training in other martial arts, the breadth of experience. More than that, they have the hunger and the discipline. They have strength. The Japanese are too soft, too entitled. They think they have hunger, but they don’t. What they have is an absence of soul, of tradition, no inner life. Nothing but a useless husk.”
Kouta started to his feet. Yamashiro brought the bottle down on the back of his head. Kouta let out the kind of embarrassing, high-pitched yelp that spoke of loose bowels and blackout terror.
Then he hit the dirt facedown, bloody, staring and still.
“Fuck.” It came out loud and panicked.
And caught Yamashiro’s attention. I dropped my phone. Bent to snatch it up again and felt the air displace. I looked up to see a glimpse of belly, felt something crack in my head, then I hit the floor. Rolled to see a deep, dark red mark on the wall above me before the world snapped off.
A long period of darkness. Deep. Impossible.
Then:
Taiko drums. The Obon Festival battering its way out of my head. My temples pounded. I felt blood in my hair, and broke a scab when I touched my scalp. I pressed one hand to my head, used the other to haul myself upright.
They’d dropped me somewhere by the river. A good couple of hours’ walk from my apartment in Roppongi Hills, but I could make it. I patted my pockets, found my phone—cracked but working—and my pipe. Fatigue threatened to put me down, so I took a hit to stay sharp. A knock to the head, no telling what damage they’d done. I’d vomited on myself at some point, which meant concussion. I needed to stay upright and conscious. And I needed to move. I needed to get home and write this up. I had my B-29.
I staggered toward the main road to get my bearings, and stumbled straight into a bon odori. They danced slowly, precisely; I flailed as I tried to keep my balance. I collided with a young man who wore a Pikachu mask on the top of his head, and I thought for a moment that he had a second face. I reeled, dodged a couple of fat tourists in cheap kimonos and made for the curb. A dancer stepped in front of me. I couldn’t stop. I toppled into her, brought her down with me. She squealed—it hurt my head. I clamped a hand over her mouth and tried to push myself to my feet.
A hand skated my arm, then clung on. It was heavy and cold. I pulled away, swinging wildly at its owner. My fist glanced off a stab vest, then my head took a rap from a baton and before I knew it I was at the mercy of Tokyo Metro’s finest, which was worse than it sounded. As they dragged me to the nearest full station—no koban for me, not with the blood and vomit and propensity for violence—I remembered that Japanese police are internationally famous for getting their man. How they do this is they wear you down. They can detain for forty-eight hours without bail. You have the right to hire a lawyer, but legal aid doesn’t exist. There are no Miranda rights. And if they don’t get you on the first charge, they’ll get you on something else.
Like drugs. This is the kind of country where they can pick you up for carrying Sudafed, never mind what I had in my pockets.
“What is this?”
Fucking ice. Should’ve dumped it the moment I saw a cop, but I couldn’t think straight and they moved too fast. Probably couldn’t have denied those charges anyway. Got to have pupils like periods here, especially in this room, all this harsh light. Unforgiving. Hospital light. Morgue light.
The cop slammed the table to get my attention. “Where?”
“Huh?” I felt woozy. Disconnected. Something shoved out of place.
He jabbed the bag of ice. “Where from?”
“They killed him.”
“What?”
“This is more important. They killed Kouta.”
“Who is Kouta? He your dealer?”
I shook my head. I needed a doctor. “Sumo. He … sumo.”
The cop straightened up. I felt other hands on me, escorting me out of the light. As soon as we hit the corridor, I remembered:
“Check my phone! I took video. They killed him. Yamashiro killed Kouta.”
They bundled me away down a long corridor with unbarred windows on one side. I glanced at myself as I passed. My limbs had withered, my neck looked warped and long, my belly painfully distended. My face had almost disappeared, two dark holes above an expanse of mummified skin. Beyond my reflection, I thought I could see lanterns flickering on the Sumida River, but I knew it was probably just traffic.
On the other side, there were offices. I saw Yamashiro there, talking to the cop who’d just interviewed me. I couldn’t understand why he was in the building already.
And I couldn’t understand why Kouta stood next to him.
I dug my heels, braked the officer holding my arm. “Wait.”
“You move on.”
I stared at Kouta. He was pale. Quiet. Dressed traditionally.
The officer tried to move me on. I stayed put. He made threats.
Something moved under Kouta’s collar. I lurched forward to get a better look. Heard the officer call for help. Heard footsteps coming my way.
Kouta turned to look at me.
As he did, a maggot appeared at his collar and dropped to the floor.
I screamed. Went weak. Two cops on me, one more going for my legs as I started kicking. Yamashiro glared at me as they took me away.
The cops dropped me into a dog cage with a tatami mat floor and a semi-open squat toilet at the back. A thin futon propped against the wall. Two wool blankets, no pillow. I sat in the middle of the floor and stared at my hands. Blood hit my knuckle. I touched my temple. I needed a doctor, but I didn’t want one. I heard them talk about psychosis and it was all I could do not to start screaming again. Instead I put my hands to my ears, screwed my eyes shut and tried to stop my thoughts running to dead men walking.
The smell of senko incense wafted in the air.
“I’m sorry.”
I opened my eyes. Kouta stood in my peripheral vision.
“Yamashiro-san tells us we are his. We cannot die unless he allows it. We must learn discipline through pain.”
“He killed you.”
“Shut up, English!” yelled the duty officer.
Kouta sighed. “There must be a Japanese champion.”
I leaned forward, closed my eyes. Felt blood hit the back of my hand.
“You must tell them.”
I kept my voice down. “Tell them what?”
“My story. What happened.”
“They won’t listen to me.”
“Make them.”
Another drop of blood startled me upright.
They wouldn’t listen to me. They wouldn’t read what I wrote. I was an outsider. But Kouta wouldn’t listen either. All we had was each other, he said, and he wouldn’t leave until I’d told his story. I’d promised.
“We will make them listen,” he said.
And so he guided my hand. A finger to the blood spot, the first slow smear from right to left, and another to cross it vertically. Soon I had the kanji for “Truth.” I stared at it and found my way.
“There,” said Kouta. “Like that.”
I wrote in Japanese, told the story as simply and as elegantly as I could, because that was the way Kouta wanted it. I grew weaker as I bled, but Kouta taught me discipline. I managed to cover the wall as Kouta whispered in my ear, guiding me through every nuance of every stroke. And soon the cops noticed and grew worried and watched me and then grew even more worried. Maybe it was the blood. Maybe they caught the meaning of the words.
Whatever it was, it’s shaken them to the point where a small crowd of police has gathered,
chattering quietly. I can hear them now plotting to remove me from the cell.
But not yet. They want to see me finish. Their curiosity outweighs their concern.
When I’m done, I’ll let them see. They can understand then. The whole story will come together, and its bold simplicity will give it layers of meaning beyond my reckoning. They’ll talk among themselves, the story creeping through their family and friends and communities and maybe even nationally and beyond. And maybe the video still works, and maybe it doesn’t. It won’t matter. The story will have a power and longevity beyond a soon-to-be-obsolete video file. Realism isn’t necessary for lore.
Future generations will wonder about Kouta, about me. And they’ll have no answers, just the story.
The way it should be.
Not long ago, the Young Master slowly opened his eyes, gazed up at the sky, where pale moonlight hollowed out the darkness, then fell back asleep. Two days earlier, he looked at me and whispered,
I must admit that when he spoke to me then, I swelled with the unbecoming hope that he had, on some level, finally come to realize what I am. Alas, he has made no further inquiry. But what else can I expect? Even if he had questions for me, I am incapable of offering any answers. Please, go ahead and laugh at my folly.
My sincere apologies for not introducing myself sooner. Under approval of the Director of the Geographical Survey Institute of the Ministry of Construction, and printed thereof, I am a humble atlas, comprising 197 street and topographical maps of the Tokyo Metropolitan Area, projected to a Universal Transverse Mercator coordinate system. As for my particulars, I contain five maps of the city’s center at an enlarged 1:5,000 scale, a further 168 maps at 1:10,000 scale, twelve at 1:100,000 scale, and eleven at 1:200,000 scale, in addition to comprehensive maps of rail transit lines and the Metropolitan Expressway. And, in a measure of considerable extravagance for a mere collection of local street maps, I also include a single 1:10,000,000 representation of Tokyo’s outlying islands. All this and I can still fit in a reader’s hands. Your obedient servant.