The Japanese Corpse

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Do you like the scroll?" a soft voice asked. He looked down into a smiling face. A Japanese woman, some forty years old, the smile brought out her buck teeth, filled with an abundance of gold. She spoke English as he had expected. This woman was also dressed in a kimono, but the color was more sedate than its counterpart in the restaurant. The cold politeness of the smile softened somewhat when she noticed Grijpstra's discomfort. There was a small hole in his left sock and a toe peeped through; he was trying to hide it with his other foot.

  "Sit down, please," the lady said, pointing at a low table. There were three cushions on the floor, which was made of thick mats, each mat six-by-two feet and bordered with a strip of printed cotton showing a simple flower motive. "Tatamis," she said. "We imported the mats from my country, like everything else in this room. In the restaurant we worked with local materials but here everything is true Japanese."

  There was a quiet pride in her voice and Grijpstra was impressed. "Very beautiful," he said and she smiled again, the smile still softening.

  He lowered himself till his knees came to rest on the cushion. He felt the mat under the cushion, it was springy. "Nice and bouncy," he said.

  She nodded. "In my country everybody lives on these mats, they are the right size for sleeping, see?" She pointed at the mat next to Grijpstra's cushion and when she saw that he didn't understand, quickly dropped to the floor and stretched out, folding her hands under her head and closing her eyes. She made a snoring sound and Grijpstra laughed.

  She got up and her eyes twinkled. "My husband is in the kitchen," she said, and made a gesture at the girl who had come in holding a tray with two beer bottles and glasses. The girl knelt in one smooth movement and put the tray on the table. She raised herself again and left the room, kneeling at the door, sliding it open, and shuffling quickly through it.

  Grijpstra had watched the girl and turned to his hostess. "They always go through doors like that?" he asked.

  "It is the custom, but modern Japanese girls often forget to do it now," she said, and opened a bottle, pouring the beer carefully into his glass. He did the same for her and they held the glasses up and drank.

  He wiped his mouth and mustache. "What does that mean?" he asked, pointing at the scroll in the niche.

  She smiled again, and the smile wasn't as ugly as before; he was getting used to her teeth. She had evidently warmed up to him and there was less formality in their contact. "A poem," she said, "a Chinese poem, it says Step step step, the fresh morning breeze."

  Grijpstra repeated the words. He liked the sound and tried to feel the meaning. She was looking at him over her glass.

  "You climb some steps and enjoy the cool wind?" he asked.

  "Could be," she said, and swallowed. "Could be something else."

  "Hmm," Grijpstra said, and felt for his cigars. She leaned over and flicked a lighter. "Step step step," Grijpstra said, "like moving slowly, enjoying every step."

  She nodded. "Yes, like that. You looked at the menu?"

  Grijpstra grinned. "I did but I did not understand."

  "Shall I recommend something?"

  "Please. Maybe it could have a raw fish in it. I saw one of your men cutting up a fish at the bar."

  "Sushi," she said. "We could try a platter of assorted sushi and have some soup with it. Are you very hungry?"

  "It's a hot evening, maybe I am not so hungry, but the fresh fish would be nice."

  She called and the girl came in, kneeling at the door, waiting for the order. The lady spoke in Japanese and the girl said "Hai hai" in a high voice and left.

  "'Hai' means "yes'?" Grijpstra asked.

  She shook her head as if in doubt. "Not quite. It means 'I am here, at your service.'"

  "And will do as I am told," Grijpstra said.

  She tittered. "Yes, like that, but then they often do something entirely different."

  "Not bring the fish?" Grijpstra asked, and looked worried.

  She laughed and bent over and touched his shoulder. "No, she will bring the fish. You really fancy the fish, don't you?"

  He had brought out his notebook and looked serious again. "I am a police detective," he said, and took a visiting card out of his notebook. "There are some questions; I hope you don't mind."

  The head with the elaborate hairdo dressing the jet-black thick strands into an intricate knot, bobbed. "Yes, my name is Mrs. Fujitani. My husband and I manage this restaurant. He will be up in a few minutes, but there is a special dish to prepare and he can't leave it alone just now. I assume that you are inquiring into Joanne Andrews' complaint about her missing fianceT'

  "Yes, madam," Grijpstra said. She spelled her name and he carefully wrote it down.

  "Perhaps nothing is the matter," Mrs. Fujitani said hopefully. "Perhaps Mr. Nagai is enjoying himself somewhere and will show up soon."

  "We thought so too," Grijpstra said, "but we don't anymore. We found his car, you see, and there is blood in the car and a fragment of human skull with black hair attached to it. Somebody was shot in the car."

  He looked at her carefully. The fright reaction seemed genuine. He didn't think Mrs. Fujitani expected the man to be dead. Her eyes were staring at him, she had sucked in her breath sharply and her hands were clasping each other with such force that the knuckles showed white centers.

  "Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Mr. Nagai?" Grijpstra asked gently.

  "So that's why Joanne didn't show up today," Mrs. Fujitani said. "I telephoned her landlady. She said Joanne had been nervous the last few days, very nervous."

  Grijpstra repeated his question. She shook her head, but there were tears in the small dark eyes.

  "Did you like Mr. Nagai?"

  She nodded. "Yes, he was such a nice quiet man. Once, a year ago, I think, he drank too much in the restaurant here and bothered people. You know, went up to their tables and tried to talk to them. My husband had to show him the door but he didn't make a fuss. He just went and then he didn't dare to come here again. I went to his hotel and he was almost crying with embarrassment."

  "Did he come back again?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Yes. He brought me flowers and he gave us a little statue, very valuable, I believe. It's over there."

  She pointed at a low lacquered table. Grijpstra got up from his cushions, rubbed his legs which had gone to sleep under him and stumbled toward the table. The statue depicted a stocky old man with a large bald head, bushy eyebrows which pointed aggressively forward and enormous eyes, bulging ferociously. The small, hunched-up body seemed to exhale tremendous strength. "Hey," Grijpstra said, and stepped back.

  Mrs. Fujitani giggled. "Daruma-san," she said, "the first Zen master, very powerful."

  "A priest?" Grijpstra asked doubtfully. "Aren't priests supposed to look holy?"

  "Very holy," Mrs. Fujitani said, and bowed reverently toward the statue. "Daruma means 'teaching,' san means 'mister, Mister Teaching.'"

  "So what did he teach?" Grijpstra asked, looking at the fury on the old man's face.

  "Buddhism," Mrs. Fujitani said. "But I don't know about Buddhism. My husband and I are Christians, Methodists, but I like to look at this statue. It was very good of Mr. Nagai to give it to us; it is the center of this room now."

  The girl brought in a large tray with the sushi, and Grijpstra was told how to mix a sauce in a small dish and dip the raw fish and rice into the dish, using chopsticks. He had no trouble with the chopsticks; he had used them many times before, in the cheap Chinese restaurants of the old city. After the sushi she offered a bowl of hot noodles topped with fried vegetables and poured sake, the Japanese rice wine, from a small heated bottle.

  Mr. Fujitani came in twice, but excused himself each time after a few minutes. The restaurant had filled up and he was kept busy behind the counter, preparing special dishes and supervising. He was a small man, in his forties, glancing nervously through his steamed-up spectacles.

  "Very good girl," he kept on saying when Grijpstra questioned him
about Joanne Andrews. "She won't come back, you think? Very good hostess, quiet and efficient." He spoke quickly, firing the words as if from a gun, and keeping the tone of his voice on the same high pitch.

  "No," Grijpstra said. "I don't think she will come back. She is very unhappy about the death of her boyfriend. She seems sure that he has been killed, although so far we haven't found his body yet. Who would want to kill him, do you think, Mr. Fujitani?"

  But Mr. Fujitani only bowed and said "Saaaaah," shaking his head and looking utterly bewildered.

  "When did you see Mr. Nagai last?"

  But Mr. Fujitani went on saying "Saaaaah" and shaking his head.

  Grijpstra looked at Mrs. Fujitani, but she was imitating her husband's behavior. They looked like two toys, moved by clockwork.

  "Try to remember," Grijpstra said gently.

  "No," Mrs. Fujitani said. "I don't know. Some days ago, I think, he came in here, but we are always so busy and so short of staff and the food takes so much time to prepare and there are only two young boys in the kitchen for the washing up and they never catch up so we have to help out. Many Japanese come here, we know most of them and we say a few words but then we forget again. Too much work."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. He was thinking of the drug-brigade detectives who would be having a lot of Japanese meals soon, while they looked for the Dutch and Japanese ship's officers Joanne Andrews would have described to them. They would have to set some sort of trap to catch the heroin smugglers. He wondered what detectives would be chosen, wishing he could be one of them. The food was excellent, he thought, as he looked at his bowl, fishing out a large mushroom with his lacquered chopsticks.

  One of the serving girls came in, speaking rapidly to Mrs. Fujitani.

  "You have a telephone call," she said. "Will you take it in here?"

  "Please," Grijpstra said, and took the telephone, which she had taken from a side table, pushing one of its buttons for him.

  "De Gier," the voice said. "How is the food? Enjoying yourself?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "This is a beautiful place. I can't believe I am in Amsterdam. This must be the perfect Japanese room. You should come and see it." He looked at Mrs. Fujitani who was smiling, although her eyes were still moist. He wondered whether she had any special attachment to Mr. Nagai? Or to Joanne Andrews?

  "We have those two jokers," de Gier was saying. "They were sitting in their hotel room watching television. They say they don't know what the hell we are talking about. One of them speaks a little English; maybe we can get an interpreter tomorrow. There was nothing in their room, no firearms, no paintings or sculptures, no drugs. Their papers are in order, they say they are on holiday, two weeks in Amsterdam."

  "And their jobs? What do they do?"

  "Salesmen," de Gier said. "They sell chemicals in Kobe, work for some large company, I've written the name down. They were given the trip as a sort of prize, sold more than they were supposed to, or something."

  "Did you arrest them?"

  "Sure," de Gier said cheerfully. "The State Police found a little evidence. A Japanese man bought a shovel in a store close to the speedway to Utrecht. He was driving a white BMW; the storekeeper noticed the car. And some people in the same village noticed that a Japanese man was trying to clean the upholstery of a white BMW. He had parked the car on a field near a pond and was rubbing the front passenger seat with a towel or a large dustcloth. He had dipped it in the water of the pond."

  "They only saw one man?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Yes, but the other one was around, I suppose. Maybe waiting in the car. The witnesses aren't too clear. They are coming in tomorrow to see the suspects. I have the jokers here in Headquarters."

  "Are they upset?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Not very. They want to see their consul. I have phoned him. He is out but I'll phone again tomorrow morning. They smile and nod a lot and say 'Saaaaah.'"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "I have heard the word. I wonder if it means something."

  "'Don't know' probably," de Gier said. "Are you finished up there? Want to meet me for a drink?"

  "No," Grijpstra said heavily. "I am going to walk home and nothing is going to disturb me."

  'Thanks," de Gier said.

  "A little further down this street there is somebody playing Bach on a clavichord," Grypstra said happily. "Something sad, but there is a lovely gliding rhythm in it. It starts up and dies out and starts up again. Very fresh, I think you can play it. You have it on a record, but I can't have been listening properly when you played the record. The music is delicate, starting off with a tee-táá pom pom and then some sadness comes into it, played with the left hand, a sort of slide, I think I can do it on the middle drum."

  "Yes," de Gier said. "I remember, a prelude it was. You said you liked it at the time. But later on it gets intricate you know. I maybe could play some of it but I would have to be able to read it."

  "Balls. I listened carefully just now. We don't have to do that intricate part, as long as we get the slide right and some of the tee-táá pom pom. I'll sing it for you, maybe it will come back to you." Grijpstra hummed.

  Mrs. Fujitani was watching him. The smile had gone, but she looked peaceful.

  "Yes," de Gier said. "I remember. It made me think of a man crossing a lake in a small boat. He is leaving everything behind and it saddens him, but there is also some great love being born; he is going to it."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "Death. The man is dying, or he has died already. The lake is black, but there is a glimmer of light, silver light. Tell you what, I'll meet you at Headquarters. You've got your flute?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Don't take too long. I'll try to remember as much as I can. There's another bit coming back to me now, the end. Beautiful. I can play it, I think, and if you use brushes you can get the left hand in. It's the man's final statement before he meets whatever he meets."

  "I'll take the streetcar," Grijpstra said, "be there in fifteen, twenty, minutes."

  "Can't make it too late," de Gier said. "Esther said she was coming to my apartment around eleven. She had to give an evening class tonight."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said, and rang off.

  "You were singing very nicely," Mrs. Fujitani said. "Would you like coffee before you go?"

  "Singing? Ah yes, I was. But it is impossible, I can't sing Bach. Do you like music, Mrs. Fujitani?"

  "Koto," she said. "It is a type of guitar. But I am not good at it. I took classes as a child and I sometimes play for my husband now, when he is very tired, or upset about something. Here, in this room."

  "I would like to hear it sometime," Grijpstra said, and tried to get up, but his legs were cramped again and he couldn't stand on them. He was frantically rubbing his calves and trying to push himself up, but there was nothing to hold on to and he grunted and fell back.

  "I am sorry," Mrs. Fujitani said, "but there are no chairs in this room, they wouldn't look right. I should have served you downstairs, but the restaurant is so noisy now."

  "It's all right," Grijpstra said, finally managing to stand up, "and I won't have time for the coffee. We have some suspects at Headquarters; perhaps I'll talk to them tonight. You may be invited to come to the police station tomorrow. I believe the two men used to eat here, maybe you can give us some information."

  "Saaaaah," Mrs. Fujitani said, shaking her head.

  \\ 5 /////

  "LOOKS LIKE A GROCER," THE COMMISSARIS THOUGHT, when he sat down opposite the ambassador at a comer table in what was probably the most expensive restaurant in The Hague. The room was quiet, and the waiters, impeccably dressed in dress coats and starched shirts and flowing striped trousers, glided around them, anxiously peering at the guests, and almost falling forward in their eagerness to serve. They were old men; one of them seemed to totter under the weight of a small silver tray loaded with two tulip-shaped glasses on high stems and holding jenever that was so cold that it was frosting the glass into opaqueness. Graybeards, the commissaris tho
ught, dying out. Soon there will be a new generation of waiters who won't come when you call them and who'll point at the self-service counter and inquire if there is anything wrong with your legs when you insist.

  He sighed and looked at the ambassador, who was raising his glass. He mumbled, the ambassador mumbled, and they both nipped and set the glasses down. The ambassador was a big man with a bald head and goldrimmed glasses. His face looked bland, but there seemed to be some intelligence in the calm green eyes that were studying the commissaris.

  They approached each other carefully, finishing their drinks and calling for more and studying the menu, which ran into some twelve pages of handwritten specialties. There were no prices on the menu which the commissaris was holding, but he glanced at the ambassador's copy and his back quivered. They would spend more on this meal than the commissaris' youngest son was taking to France that day and the boy was planning to stay away for three weeks. To eat, the commissaris thought, an old man's pleasure, but he shrugged imperceptibly.

  He had always doubted the value of money, and neither wealth nor poverty had impressed him much. He had known both. The war years had taught him how it feels to starve, and an uncle's inheritance had once given him some bizarre weeks in Paris where he drove a rented white sports car and lived in a hotel suite where the lavatory was bigger than his apartment in Amsterdam at that time. He had willfully wasted the money, blowing it all in three weeks' leave. His brother, who had inherited the same amount, had invested the money wisely and was now a rich man, living in a large house in Switzerland, worrying about his health and drinking too much wine.

  "Your health," the commissaris said, and smiled at the ambassador. "Your very good health."

  The eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles twinkled. "Thank you. Same to you. So we have a Japanese corpse, it seems, and the death is tied up with the yakusa and stolen art and maybe drugs. Your case interests me; we might use it to create some good will."