Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  There was no trace of the dusk now, only a cold night and a thin nail of moon high above it.

  “You also asked me what it is. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Schultz puffed the air out of his cheeks. “Fuck, it’s like asking a mathematician what the significance of the zero is. I mean, where do you want me to start?”

  “Wherever makes sense.”

  “Okay. You’re looking for a murderer, I guess. One possibly obsessed with this dark symbol. So look, maybe it could be read as an absence of light that is driving him—the black sun as the end of all life, eternal darkness, Satan, blah blah blah. The black sun has a rich tradition in the occult, not to mention esoteric Nazism.”

  “Esoteric Nazism?”

  “We should have gone somewhere that serves beer. Look, I don’t know how much detail you want here, but basically you’re talking about a semireligious and mystical interpretation of Nazism starting around the 1950s. The black sun was seen as a kind of a mystical source of energy capable of regenerating the Aryan race. There’s a long-standing literature connecting the Aryan race with this black sun, or mystical sun. Helena Blavatsky’s Theosophy talks of a ‘central sun.’ Thule or Hyperborea, for the ancient Greeks, was a place where the ‘people beyond the North Wind’ lived. Other interpretations see it as the ancient seat of the original Aryan race. Oh, and Himmler was a big fan of the Oera Linda, which is sometimes referred to as the ‘Nordic Bible,’ and frequently referenced when discussing esotericism and ‘Atlantis’ literature. Anyway, Himmler was alleged to have commissioned an old ‘Aryan symbol’ for Wewelsburg Castle. You can guess what he chose. This is all academic, though.”

  Schultz did up the last button on his coat, looking out at the horizon without blinking.

  “You mentioned this family was ethnic Korean, Zainichi, so you must have considered some sort of racial hatred or purity complex at play here? I mean I couldn’t tell you explicitly what the connection with the black sun is, but it’s certainly worth thinking about it if you make a Nazi link. That said, your killer could just as easily turn out to be some kind of satanic nut job or fundamentalist.”

  Schultz scratched his stubble before continuing.

  “Now Kos, we’ve just been speaking last century here. You should know that the black sun symbol crops up in pretty much every ancient culture there is, all over the world, essentially from day one. The Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Aztecs … It was a sacred symbol connected to creation stories, apocalyptic legends, and the like. But you’d need historians to go down that route. Anyway, that’s about all I can tell you. But I can do some reading for next time.”

  “David Schultz, you’re luminous.”

  Back in the car, they wound down the shadowy hills, mostly in silence, half-listening to a radio report on Japan’s booming elderly care industry and dwindling birthrate. Iwata drove at a languid speed, his thoughts caught up in dark symbols. At the campus gates, Schultz opened the passenger door and the interior light came on.

  “I’ll call you if I think of anything else, all right? Next time just come without dead bodies.”

  They embraced briefly. Schultz got out, turned, and ducked his head into view.

  “Max Weber once said, ‘Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun.’ My gut feeling? Whoever it is you’re looking for is suspended in that black sun. It’s not a calling card. I think it’s his whole web. He lives and breathes it.”

  Schultz patted the roof of the car and tossed the door shut with a metallic clunk.

  CHAPTER 8: HONEY

  IWATA LEFT THE MEISHIN EXPRESSWAY, switching on to the Tomei for Tokyo. He kept his eyes on his lane, not looking beyond the cones of light on either side of the road. Though his head ached badly and he needed sleep, Iwata sensed a change coming. He turned on the radio and heard a young man laughing modestly.

  “No, of course I don’t see myself that way. I don’t even see myself as a particularly worthy man. I’m only interested in personal growth. If I have started something which helps people to achieve their own growth, then I’m very happy. But guru? No, certainly not. I’m just a man conscious of the emptiness inside people. The uncertainty that gnaws away. The doubt that presses down. And I’m interested in talking about that. I’m interested in clarity and well-being. And, above all, I’m interested in people.”

  “If you’re just joining us, tonight’s guest is Akira Anzai, interim leader of controversial and much-discussed spirituality group, Theta. As ever, we want to hear from you. Mr. Anzai is happy to take questions. Our number is—”

  Iwata switched the radio off and, on a whim, dialed the number for the Shibuya Police Station armory. After a long while, an old voice answered uncertainly.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Nakata, it’s Iwata from this morning.”

  “Yes, I remember you. I don’t get many phone calls down here.”

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a favor. I need the address of a colleague.”

  “I have access to those records. Who are you looking for?”

  “Inspector Akashi.” Iwata said the name casually.

  Nakata paused and Iwata could hear Mahler softly playing in the background.

  “Hideo Akashi?”

  “That’s right.”

  “… One moment, please.”

  Iwata heard a metallic clank of a filing cabinet before the old man came back on the line.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  Iwata jotted down the address and thanked Nakata warmly. He programmed it into his satellite navigation system and saw that Akashi had lived almost an hour outside of Tokyo, in Chiba.

  Iwata made the turning and a few moments later, his phone started to ring.

  “Are you at home?”

  “I’m driving, Sakai.”

  “Where?”

  “Just going for a drive.”

  “A drive. Sure. With no particular destination, I presume.”

  “Why, are you lonely or something?”

  “Dream on, dickhead. Anyway, I already have a man in my life.”

  Iwata leaned forward.

  “Kiyota?”

  “The very same. Well, I have a good lead at least. Nippon Kumiai hadn’t seen him in weeks but the asshole has a fourteen-year-old girlfriend—Asako Ozaki. I’m betting that’s the girl Tsunemasa Kaneshiro’s colleague was talking about harassing him. We find her, we find Kiyota.”

  “Great work, Sakai.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  * * *

  A bleak, foggy day was dawning as Iwata reached Chiba. The GPS had guided him to a large, empty space strewn with litter. Building sites in the distance had been abandoned. A half-completed highway overpass ran south. To the east, several derelict structures stood isolated. The wind blew through a silent pachinko parlor. An empty business center was falling apart, unsold houses were being consumed by weeds. Life had been intended here but it had not taken root. To the north, a few kilometers away, Iwata saw rusty train tracks. The land was flat and brown, stretching out into a prosaic distance. Crows flapped up from the mud into the thick fog.

  Iwata double-checked the address. He got out of the car and noticed a dirt track leading away from the road to the center of a desolate field. Squinting through the mist, he saw a jagged shape. Iwata walked toward it uncertainly. At the end of the path, the fog relented and he saw the burned-out wreckage of a small cottage. A simple brick foundation was still standing but the wood and plaster had been devoured by flame. Only a spindly black framework remained like scorched bones in a pyre. Iwata smelled the burning—a stench that would never fade. Local police had erected a sign warning off passersby. Iwata knew they would have figured this for a simple delinquency.

  He went through the space where the door would have been, and the house caught its breath.

  Pillars of light stabbed through the destroyed roof and rainwater leaked down the walls. Charred household objects quaked under Iwata. The merest of touches s
ent puffs of ash flaking up into the air. Strange objects made up the floor—twisted and distorted shapes, having lost all form trying to escape from the flames.

  Iwata looked for improbable points of ignition at the front door and the exterior walls. He checked the plug sockets and sniffed surfaces for flammable liquids. He could not make out the origin of the fire. He looked for signs of drug use but found nothing.

  He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.

  There was a sadness to this place. The house creaked quietly in the wind, glad to have been burned down. Iwata tried to picture a home here, he tried to see a life in this place—among the abandoned, the residuum, and the half-formed. He could not see Hideo Akashi living in such a place, beneath the highway overpass, in an old hut built on a muddy desolation. He tried to gauge the man’s frame of mind at the end.

  Did the fog seep through your thin walls? Did it soak through your house and absorb your mind in the days before death? Did you go through the motions, saying what you were required to say? Did you feel relief as you jumped?

  Iwata felt the loneliness of the dead man and a cutting sympathy for him. He had to crouch to get his breath back.

  Whomever is delighted in solitude is a wild beast or a god.

  Iwata filled his lungs resolutely and stood back up. And as he did, deep in the char, he saw something. Beneath drooping nails, burned wood, and twisted plastic, it glinted up at him. Iwata sunk his arm into the detritus and plucked it up. It was a small, glassy glob of amber—honey-like and hard. He blew ash from its surface and held it up to the light. Golden bubbles were captured inside it, minuscule termites and flecks of dirt preserved forever.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Iwata closed his eyes. Outside, he could hear something was coming.

  When the wicked came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and they fell.

  He pocketed the stone and stepped outside into the swirling gray fog. A rumbling grew near.

  Iwata took several steps forward and heard a whining squeal.

  The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?

  The fog turned pink now and headlights pierced the mist. A black car broke into view, traveling fast, already on him. Iwata reacted, struggling for balance as he dashed back to the house. The car was in touching distance but Iwata leaped through the window frame of the house. He heard a simultaneous metallic crunch into the bricks.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Iwata was on the floor, blood from his reopened head wound seeping into his eyes—a jagged pipe cutting into his ribs. He scrambled to his feet and fell back down hard, a shooting pain in his ankle drawing a yelp from his throat. Iwata forced his head up and saw the car had crashed into the foundation of the house. Blood dripped loudly from his nose into his lap. It sounded like applause. Stark headlights bathed the wreck of the house and exhaust mixed in with the fog. A car trying to get into a house, it seemed almost comical. The car’s gears were grinding violently now. Iwata drew his gun and forced himself to stay on his feet. He squinted through the pungent smoke, trying to see the driver.

  “Get out of the car with your back to me and your hands up!”

  A moment of stillness and trembling. A silhouette through the smoke, watching Iwata.

  Then the car shot off in reverse, the red lights shrinking in the gray. Iwata struggled out from the filth and hobbled away from the wreckage. He felt blood streaming down his ribs and face, his ankle was pounding—an interminable distance to the Isuzu. A brief sequence of blackouts punctuated his journey to the car. Then he was on the backseat, struggling with his phone. Iwata dialed Sakai’s number but she didn’t pick up. Gasping for breath, he called the emergency line and gave his ID.

  “Black Honda 2010 Odyssey model … damage on the rear of vehicle…”

  “Hello? Inspector? Hello?”

  “Just attempted to run over a police inspector…”

  “Hello? Inspector? Hello? Are you there, Iwata?”

  Iwata could only see the dashboard clock, darkness and fireflies spreading across his vision.

  Faltering breaths slowed.

  His eyes closed.

  Atomization.

  CHAPTER 9: GALATIANS 6:9

  COLD.

  It is the first day of 1986.

  The bus station is big and very busy.

  The clock face shows 8:20 A.M., which is an easy one to work out.

  Kosuke holds his mother’s hand tight, though he cannot keep up with her.

  She is looking in all directions and there is sweat on her forehead.

  Kosuke has never seen that before.

  He looks in all directions too, though he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

  “What you’re looking for? I’ll help you look,” he says up to the black tangle of her hair.

  She doesn’t hear him.

  Her jaw is moving as she grinds her teeth.

  Kosuke knows he has to be careful when she is like this, he knows he shouldn’t ask questions. Buses come in and out of the station.

  Families are waiting to be put together with their missing parts.

  Kosuke knows he has no missing parts.

  His mother takes him to the back end of the station, where the parked buses wait.

  There is a strong smell of petrol.

  She sits him down on a bench next to a drinks machine that doesn’t work.

  She puts his Captain Tsubasa backpack next to him.

  She looks around, her eyes moving quickly.

  The tiny pink strings in the corners are shiny and wet.

  “Kosuke, your mother needs to go and do something, do you understand?”

  Kosuke’s mother never says I.

  He nods yes, though he feels sick without knowing why.

  “Look after your bag, you hear?”

  Kosuke nods yes.

  His mother turns to go.

  She pauses.

  She turns.

  She comes back.

  She crouches in front of him now, and he can smell her sweat.

  “… Kosuke, you stay in plain sight. You remember the rhyme?”

  Kosuke nods yes.

  “Go on,” she says.

  “One for sorrow … two for joy…”

  “Good boy, carry on.”

  She smiles and bites her lip at the same time.

  She is very beautiful and Kosuke has noticed that people find it hard to look away from her.

  It’s the same when people see an accident on the road.

  Or if they see a crazy person in the street.

  She takes out some money from her bra and puts it in the back pocket of Kosuke’s jeans.

  “Do good things, boy. Good things.”

  Then she stands and leaves, her head down.

  He watches her mix in with the people until he can’t see her anymore.

  Kosuke plays with the zip on his bag, making rip-rip sounds.

  He looks inside and sees sandwiches and clothes.

  He swings and swishes his feet and waits for his mother to come back.

  They had to wake up early and Kosuke is tired.

  It was still dark when she shook him awake.

  “Three for a girl, four for a boy…”

  He rubs his eyes now and lays his head on the backpack.

  He can’t help it and he falls asleep.

  When Kosuke wakes, he knows something is wrong.

  Too much time has passed and there are hardly any families at the other end of the bus station.

  His mother told him to stay in plain sight.

  Nobody can see him here.

  Kosuke picks up his bag and wanders to the other end of the bus station.

  People look at him and smile but he tries not to look at them.

  Outside the station, it is getting dark even though the clock only shows four o’clock.

  It’s very cold and Kosuke wishes he had brought his mittens
.

  A man in a long, dark jacket stoops down in front of Kosuke now.

  “Hello.” He pats Kosuke’s head. “You look like you’re hungry. Do you like plums?”

  Kosuke does not look at the man and he says nothing.

  His mother has told him about that before.

  The man looks around and then leaves.

  Kosuke goes back to his bench.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have wandered off.

  What if she had come back while he was away?

  Kosuke knows he has to be careful with her.

  Now that he has realized it’s cold, he can’t stop thinking about it.

  Kosuke lays his head back down on his bag and closes his eyes again.

  After a long time, a man nudges Kosuke.

  He is tall and old and wearing a uniform.

  This is a policeman.

  Kosuke has always trusted policemen but now that he is looking at one, he just sees a man.

  “What’s your name?”

  Kosuke mumbles his name.

  “You’re lost, right?”

  “My mother said I should wait here.”

  “When was that?”

  “The clock said 8:20 A.M.”

  The policeman hides his lips for a second.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m ten.”

  “Is that true?”

  Kosuke doesn’t say anything.

  “You ever ride in a police car before?”

  Kosuke shakes his head no.

  The policeman takes his hand and leads him out of the station.

  The police car smells like lemons and cigarettes.

  The policeman straps Kosuke in and then makes a call on his radio.

  It’s chilly but the policeman turns on the heating.

  Warm air blows out with a loud moaning.

  Kosuke sees the bus station get smaller in the mirror as they go faster.

  The roads are very dark and the trees are white in the headlights as they flash by.

  They are driving higher up a mountain.

  The radio crackles and a fuzzy voice talks very quickly.

  Then the policeman picks up the receiver and just says: “Understood.”

  Kosuke looks at the ocean of stubbly trees crawling down the mountain.

  Watching them swish by silently makes him sleepy.