The Man With The Red Tattoo

by Benson, Raymond

  Bond checked out of the Imperial, had a quick dinner with Tiger, then met Reiko at the station half an hour before departure time. Bond had the “Cassiopeia Suite,” the only one of its type on the train. It was located at the very front of the lower floor and had all the amenities of a hotel room: two double beds, a private bathroom and a small sitting area by the front windows that could be used for work or dining. The suite took up the entire width of the train. Reiko got the slightly less luxurious “Deluxe Suite” just down the corridor from Bond. It contained two single beds, a private bathroom and fold-up tables. The beds could be turned into day-seats and the room was on one side of the train.

  “Why did you get me the most expensive compartment on the train?” Bond asked her.

  “Because you are our special guest in Japan,” she said. “You said that you adored trains, so I provided you with the best.”

  “You know, we could have shared one room and saved the Koan-Chosa-Cho some money.”

  She wagged her finger and gave him one of those looks that suggested that he was a naughty boy. “James-san, you know that if we did that, the people who process our expense reports would spread rumours about us!”

  Bond shrugged and smiled.

  The train departed precisely on time, something that Japan Rail advertised proudly. Bond had to admit that the country’s rail service was indeed the best in the world.

  Bond spent a half-hour in his suite enjoying the view of the landscape rushing at him. It was after dark, so there wasn’t much to see in terms of scenery but there was something hypnotic and soothing about watching the parallel lines of train tracks, illuminated by the engine’s headlamps, whipping towards him. The train was steadily shooting toward its destination, northward to the upper tip of Honshu, where it would go through the Seikan Tunnel to the island of Hokkaido. The tunnel would be interesting, Bond thought, as it was the longest rail tunnel in the world at over fifty kilometres between the two ends and had taken twenty-four years to build. Bond had always been interested in architecture and structural engineering but more from a practical point of view than an artistic one. He appreciated the thought that went into the way buildings, bridges and tunnels were designed and constructed and admired the men who could do it.

  He opened one of the small bottles of sake that Tiger had given to him as a parting gift and poured a glass. He thought that perhaps he should ask Reiko to join him but at this point he wasn’t sure how she really felt about him. It was true that she had allowed him to kiss her but it was sometimes difficult to discern whether a Japanese girl was serious in her flirting or not. Reiko was a professional and she would probably behave like one until the assignment was over. But they were all alone on an overnight train! How much more romantic could life get? Bond wondered if she might be willing to entertain such notions. Should he get up, go and rap on her door?

  A knock at his compartment answered his query.

  Reiko stood in the corridor, having changed into a yukata. She, too, held a bottle of sake.

  “I thought you might be lonely,” she said. “I know I was.”

  “Come in!”

  She went past him into the suite, walked straight to the sitting area and placed the bottle next to Bond’s.

  “I see you started without me,” she said. “I have some catching up to do. Sugoi, what a view!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I have an idea. How about we order room service and stay here?” She swallowed and batted her eyelashes at him. He could see that she was a little nervous. He walked to her and stroked her smooth black hair.

  “I think that’s a lovely idea,” he whispered. He leaned in to kiss her and she hungrily embraced him.

  It was nearly midnight.

  Reiko’s skin felt warm and smooth as she wrapped a slender leg around him and snuggled into his chest. She playfully rubbed at the hair there.

  “I like this stuff,” she said, almost giggling. “We Japanese women don’t see that very often.”

  “Are we so different from Japanese men?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, you have hair in places that Japanese men don’t, and you obviously look different. You’re very tall, so you’re a bit of a giant compared to most Japanese men. What about us?”

  “You mean Japanese women? Possibly the most beautiful in the world.”

  She hit him lightly on the shoulder. “You know how to flatter. Will we really go to Hawaii?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “We could lie on the beach all day and make love all night.”

  “We could pick a different beach each day.”

  Reiko laughed. She was ready for him. The gentle rocking of the train added to their pleasure. Reiko wrapped her legs around his waist and locked him against her, allowing the motion of the train to do all the work.

  Bond was sleeping soundly when Reiko awoke a couple of hours later. The wound on her side hurt; she must have rubbed it accidentally during the lovemaking, which at one point had become rather turbulent.

  Damn, she thought. The painkillers were in her suite. She didn’t really want to have to get dressed and leave, but she was afraid that she would be unable to go back to sleep if she didn’t. She quietly got out of the bed, put on her yukata and slippers and trod softly toward the door.

  “Reiko?” Bond mumbled as he stirred.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m going back to my room for a minute. I’ll be back.”

  “Take my key,” he said. “There on the counter.”

  She found it, blew him a kiss and went out of the room.

  The train corridor was quiet and dark. As it was probably two o’clock in the morning, everyone with any sense was asleep. She walked down to her room, unlocked the door and went inside. Once there, she found her pills and looked for something to take them with.

  Oh no, she thought. Nothing to drink. The restaurant car was closed at this hour but the lounge had a vending machine. Come to think of it, there were snacks in the machines there, too. She was a little hungry. The room service box dinner had been tasty but not very filling. Bond had complained that he had still felt hungry after they had eaten, too. Reiko decided that she’d make a quick trip to the lounge and bring back some sweets and drinks to share with him and then perhaps they would be energised for another round of passion.

  She put on a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt and went back into the corridor. The lounge car was on the top floor of the train, all the way at the back. She made her way out of their car and into the second one, then up the steps to the next level. A conductor was walking her way and greeted her. She asked him if there was any food left in the vending machines and the man replied that there was. Reiko thanked him and went on.

  She went through several cars, past the many regular twin suites that filled the train, until she came to car eleven. She was about to open the sliding metal door to car twelve, the lounge car, when she saw something that sent a chill up her spine.

  Through the window, she could see a small man in the lounge car putting money into a vending machine. He was a dwarf with a bald, misshapen head.

  It was Kappa.

  What was he doing on the train? Did he know they were on it? She had to go and inform James immediately!

  But wait, she thought, perhaps she should find out what sleeper he was in.

  Kappa retrieved a can of juice from the machine and began to walk towards her. Reiko ducked and squeezed herself into a cranny that held a pay telephone. Thinking quickly, she turned her back to the corridor, picked up the receiver, and began to talk to a non-existent party. The door opened behind her and she heard the man leave the lounge car and walk past her. Reiko waited a few seconds, then hung up the phone. She peered into the corridor and saw Kappa opening the opposite door and going into the next car.

  She ran to follow him, waited a moment, and then opened the door. She went into the car and watched him unlock one of the compartments and step inside. Once she was certain that he had c
losed and locked the door, she crept down to see what number it was. Car 10, compartment 22.

  All thoughts of hunger had vanished and her heart was pounding with excitement. Without returning to the lounge car, Reiko went back to Bond’s suite and let herself in with his key. He was still in bed, breathing deeply. She took some of the unfinished sake and swallowed her pill, then sat on the bed beside him. She ran her fingers through his hair until he stirred.

  “Hey wake up, mister,” she said.

  “Hey.” He turned and smiled at her. “You’re dressed.”

  “I have some news. Guess who is aboard the train.”

  “The Emperor.”

  “No. Kappa. Junji Kon himself.”

  Bond sat up. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “I just saw him. And … I know what compartment he is in.”

  “Good girl.” Bond thought a moment and said, “So, is he on this train because we’re on it, or is he simply travelling to Sapporo with no idea that we’re here? Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I would love to get into his compartment and take a look around. What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “He’ll have to come out in the morning. Do you think he’ll go to the restaurant car for breakfast?”

  “Hard to say,” she said. “Since he looks the way he does, he may try to avoid people. He might order room service, like we did last night.”

  “We have to think of something.”

  “Let’s go talk to the conductor. I saw him walking through the train earlier.”

  Bond quickly put on some clothes and the two of them went out into the corridor. They made their way through the car to the stairwell, then up to the second floor. They caught up with the conductor in car 7.

  Reiko showed him her identification card. “Excuse me, we are with the Public Security Investigation Agency. We have learned that there is a dangerous criminal aboard the train.”

  The conductor looked alarmed.

  “Don’t be frightened. We could use your help. He’s a dwarf and he’s in compartment twenty-two, car ten. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes,” the conductor said. “Strange fellow. Gives me the creeps.”

  “Will you be up the rest of the night?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m on night duty until we reach Hokkaido.”

  “Could you possibly keep an eye on his compartment? We would like to have a look around his room should he happen to leave. Would you do that for us?”

  “That’s not exactly legal, madam.”

  “Please? It might mean the safety of your passengers.” She batted her eyelashes at him and gently placed a hand on his upper arm.

  The conductor blushed and bowed. “Yes. I will try.”

  She gave him hers and Bond’s compartment numbers, bowed, and left with Bond to go back to his suite.

  The conductor smiled as he walked through the train to his own compartment, which happened to be in the same car that contained Bond and Reiko’s suites. What a pretty girl! he thought. Sometimes it really paid to work for Japan Rail.

  He unlocked the door to his little room. Inside there was a place to sit down and not much more. An emergency pull-cord was located in every conductor’s compartment, and this could be used to stop the train if he had to do it. There were also communication phones to the other posts on the train and to the engineer and control panels for the lights and doors. The conductor opened a cabinet and pulled out his carry-on bag. He dug inside for the sandwich his wife had packed for him.

  There was a knock on the door.

  He put down the bag and opened the door. At first he didn’t see anyone. It was only when he looked down that he gasped.

  The butterfly knife in Kappa’s hand whipped viciously back and forth without making a sound.

  FIFTEEN

  THE DESIRE FOR DEATH

  IT HAD HAPPENED AGAIN.

  Goro Yoshida awoke in his bunker and had to shake off the remnants of another nightmare. It was a recurring one, something that normally wouldn’t have disturbed him if it hadn’t been for Yukio Mishima’s role in it.

  In the dream, Yoshida was kneeling on the floor, naked to the waist, and was prepared to commit ritual seppuku. Mishima, his mentor, stood over him with a sword, ready to cut off Yoshida’s head. The problem was that when Yoshida attempted to plunge the dagger into his belly, the skin wouldn’t budge. The blade just wouldn’t penetrate. Mishima would get angry and yell that Yoshida was a coward. And just as Mishima raised the sword to lop off Yoshida’s head, Goro would wake up.

  There was no morning sun in the bunker. That had been the most difficult thing about going into exile and having to live underground. Yoshida used to enjoy rising with the sun. It was said that dawn was the ideal time to commit seppuku. At the end of one of Yoshida’s favourite books by Mishima, the hero gallantly commits ritual seppuku on a mountaintop, plunging the dagger into his belly just as the “bright disk of the sun soared up and exploded behind his eyelids.”

  The digital clock indicated that it was indeed morning. It was time to get up. There was much work to be done, but instead Yoshida lay there wallowing in memories of the man he admired so much.

  Yoshida had been a part of Mishima’s Shield Society, the private army that the poet and novelist had formed in the late 1960s as a token of his dedication to the emperor and to the traditional values of Japan. Yoshida had looked up to Mishima-san and revered the sensei’s every word. He volunteered to be a cadet in the Shield Society and trained along with Mishima and the rest of the students. He worked to improve his body and mind with kendo and other martial arts. He read the doctrines prescribed by his mentor. He was prepared to follow Mishima in whatever the sensei chose to do.

  Then Mishima learned that Yoshida was involved with the yakuza. Even though he was an intelligent and freethinking individual, Mishima did not approve. It was true that Mishima had right-wing tendencies and believed in many of the same principles as the yakuza did, such as the purification of Japan, but he drew the line at organised crime. Mishima told Yoshida that he must leave the Shield Society.

  Yoshida had never felt so disgraced in his life. The man he looked up to had dismissed him. Yoshida had wanted to commit seppuku then and there, but his friends in the yakuza convinced him not to. He was persuaded to use his knowledge and skills for the good of the Ryujin-kai, where he could someday become a kaicho.

  And so Yoshida turned his back on the Shield Society and tried to forget about Yukio Mishima until that fateful day in November of 1970, when Mishima and his four most trusted cadets boldly walked into the army’s command headquarters and held General Kanetoshi Mashita hostage. Then, as twelve hundred soldiers gathered on the parade ground, Mishima stepped onto the balcony and delivered a rousing, impassioned speech that most of the men heckled. He questioned the troops’ motivation for guarding the constitution that, he claimed, denied them the true essence of what was once Imperial Japan. He pleaded with the men to “stand up and fight” or “die together” for the sake of nationalism.

  But his words fell on cynical ears. Finally giving up the cause, Mishima shouted, “Tenno Heika Banzai!”—“Long live the Emperor!” He stepped back from the balcony and proceeded to perform in precise detail the traditional seppuku ceremony. He went into the office where the general was being held, stripped to the waist and knelt on the floor. He probed the left side of his abdomen and put the ceremonial dagger in place. Then he thrust it deep into his flesh. Standing behind him, Morita, his most trusted cadet, raised his sword to cut off Mishima’s head. He missed the first time, gravely wounding Mishima. It took two more tries and the help of another cadet before Mishima’s head rolled onto the floor. To complete the ceremony, Morita plunged a dagger into his own stomach and yet another cadet lopped off Morita’s head. Shedding tears, the three surviving cadets saluted the two dead men and surrendered to the general’s aides. It was reported later t
hat Mishima’s seventeen-centimetre incision displayed a “degree of mastery over physical reflex, and over pain itself, unparalleled in modern records of this ritual.”

  Goro Yoshida’s admiration of Mishima increased ten-fold after the incident. What a brave and noble thing to do! Mishima had been serious about his convictions all along. He had made the ritual act of seppuku a part of his art. While many critics might have thought that what Mishima did was insane, Yoshida felt that he was a man who never forgot his wartime catechism: the doctrine of Japan as a ritually ordered state, the samurai way of life characterised by manly courage and feminine grace and the vision of imminent death as the catalyst of life.

  Yoshida finally got up off of the futon and walked away, leaving his woman sleeping. Naked, he walked across the tatami and took the ceremonial dagger from a drawer in his desk. He knelt on the floor in the correct position and placed the point of the dagger against his skin, touching the bright red tail of a tattooed dragon that wrapped around his waist. He pressed the blade, ever so slightly, feeling the sharp tip’s desire to penetrate his body and wondered if his blood would be distinguishable from the crimson artwork adorning his belly.

  When the time came, would he be able to do what Mishima had done? If everything that he and his followers had worked for ended up failing completely, then he would have no other choice.

  “What are you doing?”

  The woman had awoken and looked at him in horror.

  Yoshida answered, “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  She frowned but after a moment finally turned over and put her head down.

  Yoshida could see her bare shoulders and back. For many men, such beauty would be enough, but he was reminded of Mishima’s words: “A man’s determination to become a beautiful person is very different from the same desire in a woman; in a man it is always the desire for death.”

  How true, Yoshida thought. How true.

  Bond finished the natto Reiko had insisted on his trying. The bloody stuff was awful. This putrid concoction created from fermented soybeans nearly made him gag. It had an atrocious nutty flavour, a disturbing aroma and stickiness, all held together like a spider web by gooey strands.