Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  * * *

  Just before lunchtime, Iwata paid Cleo’s overdue Nakamura Institute bills, covering her in advance until the new year. He then asked if he might make a donation. Taken aback, the nurse agreed. But when Iwata led her out to the cardboard boxes stacked by his car, she turned to him.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “My wife owned a record store in California. I want to give this music to the institute. I’d like it if she could hear her own music every once in a while.”

  The nurse smiled uncertainly.

  “Of course.”

  Iwata filled out a form and borrowed one of the better wheelchairs. He found Cleo in the garden, in her usual place. He lowered her in, trying not to hurt her weak muscles. Getting her comfortable in the car was no easy task, but Iwata managed it by moving the passenger seat all the way back and lodging her head in place with a folded pillow.

  The drive to Chōshi was long and slow, with frequent stops for Cleo to vomit. They arrived a little before sunset. Passing through the city, though quake damage was visible everywhere, Iwata noticed how little had changed since they had lived here. It was still just a simple little city built on soy production and fishing. As he drove alongside the Tone River, he thought about the past. With his foreign police studies, only Chōshi had been prepared to take Iwata back then. Cleo joined him a few months later. She had joked about the city at first, not expecting anything more than just a backdrop to their new life. But then she had seen the coastline. Looking up at the lighthouse, she smiled.

  It’s home.

  Cleo’s eyes were closed now. In this light, she might have just shut her eyes momentarily, tired after the long drive. It struck Iwata then that, while he could picture her smile vividly, he couldn’t recall her voice with certainty. He remembered its quality, its color. The lilting between enthusiasm and playfulness. But he had gone so long without it, without a single word. It was inevitable he would lose it in time. Maybe that was the only way.

  Inubōsaki Lighthouse came into view, piercing the orange fringe of the sunset.

  Iwata stopped the car in its shadow and turned to Cleo. The absence of motion woke her. He unfolded the wheelchair and lowered her in again. When he maneuvered her to face the lighthouse, she began to squirm in her chair, whimpering loudly. Iwata ignored it and pushed her to a nearby bench. The ocean sighed.

  All around them, it was that perfect light—existing only at early morning or late dusk. It was at its most desperate and golden, casting shadows as long as they can be, so beautiful it seemed unlikely ever to return.

  Iwata kissed Cleo on her cheek and she blinked. She used to have her own smell. Now it was wet wipe lemon. He brought his face level with hers, but there was no expression. He missed her concentration face. Even reading a newspaper she looked majestic. Or, if she were putting on mascara, she would make an O with her lips. Lips he wished he could kiss.

  “All right,” Iwata said. “Enough.”

  He walked to the cliff’s edge and threw flowers over. He counted to three, then forced himself to look at the rocks below.

  Finally, he saw them.

  They were only rocks.

  He went back to his wife, knelt before her and took her hands.

  “I need to talk to you now, Cleo. I have this dream. A falling dream. Of you and the baby. And I can’t have it anymore. I just can’t.”

  He bowed his head.

  “I still love you very much. I still love Nina very much. I will always love you both. More than life itself. But I have to start again, do you understand? If I don’t, I’ll always be stuck here. So I hope you can forgive me. For this. And for everything else. I’m very sorry. I truly am.”

  Cleo closed her eyes. She seemed tired. Iwata sat back against her shins to watch the sunset.

  The lighthouse looked down over them.

  * * *

  A chilly dawn, somewhere west of Miyama. Blue light was creeping over the mountainous horizon.

  Iwata stopped the car. He didn’t know what time it was but it didn’t matter. He was accustomed to exhaustion by now. The road gave way to an overgrown field, which sloped down to a deep valley.

  All around Iwata, hills stretched out like green pyramids. There was a river cutting through them, silver in this light.

  Iwata got out of the car, taking a bag with him. He made his way down to the river and followed it until he came to an old, familiar copse. He picked through the branches and emerged into the field he was looking for. But it had changed. There were no tall gates, no walls, no chapel. Iwata realized Sakuza Orphanage was no longer there, just some old foundations left in the grass. Bellflowers grew among the crumbled bricks. Sakuza was gone, like so much else.

  Iwata crossed the field, into the denser forest. He was searching for the sound. The sound from his dreams. Sun pierced through the canopy. Birds chirped. A soft insect buzzing could be heard. He carried on along the ridge, tracing the stony spine from memory. The shape of the rocks, the rich smell of the leaves, the sound of the water—it all sparked old images in him—childhood echoes Iwata couldn’t define. He couldn’t grasp them firmly, but they were unmistakably there.

  And then he found the rock. The memory of Kei climbing it and preaching as Uesugi was vivid. He saw the tree he had fallen against laughing, all those years ago. He closed his eyes and remembered the words.

  “Let us not fear the bear,” he whispered.

  Iwata tried to remember a time before the orphanage. There were only snatches. His mother putting on her perfume. Being left in the bus station. The first time he took the subway in Tokyo. That was a good, strong image. He loved that shabby Yamanote Line, rising up high over the city, the tracks running right past bedroom windows. The streets turned to scenery; blurry but sharp, with the melancholy of a child. Iwata remembered streaking past all that life he’d never know, all the life he’d never live himself. But Tokyo was never home. Not then, not now. Iwata looked around the forest. If anywhere had ever been home, it was here.

  The ridge had narrowed and Iwata had to hold on to branches for balance. The sun cut white patches on the brown-golden carpet below. And then he heard the sound. The sound of the whirlpool. A crashing sound with a murmuring underneath that.

  Ug.

  Ug.

  Ug.

  Iwata followed it, feeling the temperature drop. The end of the ridge was very narrow, just wide enough for him to stand. He reached the end—a forlorn and wintry bluff. Iwata took a breath and looked down at it.

  The eye of the whirlpool blinked up at him, the revolutions gleaming.

  He opened the bag and took out the Blue Light Yokohama LP Kei had given him all those years ago. He ran his finger over the faded stickers on the sleeve.

  25TH DECEMBER 1968. EVERGREEN STANDARD. NUMBER ONE BEST SELLER.

  First, Iwata tossed the sleeve, and Ayumi Ishida’s beautiful smile went spiraling downward.

  Then she was gone.

  He broke the record over his knee and threw it down too. Black fragments that glittered for a moment, then disappeared.

  “I love you too,” Iwata said quietly. Then he walked away.

  The whirlpool swirled.

  It swirled.

  It smiled.

  CHAPTER 40: PAVILIONS OF THE SUN

  KOSUKE IWATA WAS SITTING OUT on the terrace across from Kyoto University’s old camphor tree. It was a sunny, languid afternoon. Sipping iced tea, he listened to snippets of conversation. The first few students had returned after the long summer break. Frisbees zipped over the lawn. The skipping rope team was out practicing. A circle of students sat on the warm concrete, playing cards. A young man rubbed sunscreen into his girlfriend’s shoulders. The KU newspaper editorial team were busy discussing their front page—the Fukushima nightmare, students still missing in the tsunami, and a young Japanese woman swept over Niagara Falls. Iwata felt like talking to someone. On a whim, he dialed Professor Igarashi’s number.

  “Hello?”

&n
bsp; “Professor. It’s me.”

  “Ah, Inspector. Congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you. Are you in Kyoto?”

  “No, my classes begin next week. Why? You don’t have another murder with an Aztec slant, do you?”

  Iwata smiled.

  “No. Although there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Something that has bugged me this whole time. When we first met and I shook your hand, you left a black mark…”

  “Yes?”

  “Professor, the killer was leaving behind sooty marks at the crime scene.”

  Igarashi laughed.

  “So that’s why you suspected me?”

  “… The thought crossed my mind.”

  “Well, I suppose that is what you get paid for.” Igarashi was more amused than irritated. “My indigestion, Inspector. I told you about it back in my office if you’ll recall. The reality is pretty unexciting, I’m afraid. My doctor prescribes me charcoal tablets.”

  “Charcoal tablets.” Iwata smiled ruefully.

  “Another mystery solved, eh?”

  “Someone once told me that if I hear hooves outside my window, I think zebras before horses.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re good at what you do.”

  “I’ll leave you alone now, Professor. I promise.”

  “Not at all. Please call me if anything ever comes up.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to ask. What does ‘ma’taali’teeni’ mean?”

  “That’s Mayan Yucatec, I think. It’s an apology.”

  “And what about ‘hach k’as, eek’?”

  “Something along the lines of ‘filth, you disgusting filth.’”

  Iwata nodded.

  “Well, then. Thank you for your help. Take care of yourself, Yohei.”

  “Kosuke.”

  Iwata hung up and a distant buzzer sounded. Students collected backpacks, bills were settled, and good-byes were said.

  See you later on.

  See you tomorrow.

  See you again sometime.

  * * *

  In the cool gloom of a narrow hallway, Iwata stopped outside the door marked:

  FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGY / SEMIOTICS

  Inside, quiet music that Iwata had never heard before was playing. He knocked timidly.

  “Come in,” a woman called.

  He opened the door and Emi Hayashi looked up from her papers.

  “Hello again,” he said.

  “Hello,” she replied.

  Warm sunshine and silence between them.

  “You’re looking for David?” Hayashi prompted.

  Iwata shook his head.

  “Oh, I see.” Her face flushed slightly. She looked down at her papers. “Shall we go for a walk?”

  “I would like that.”

  * * *

  Iwata and Hayashi ambled along the Philosopher’s Path, passing a bag of sunflower seeds between them. Tourists took photographs of the beautiful stream that flowed by the path and the overhanging trees. Hayashi was gesticulating enthusiastically as she spoke.

  “Akashi was on a special brief, deep infiltration in the Children of the Black Sun. Sure enough, he worked his way up to become Takashi Anzai’s most trusted soldier. But he was in too far, he got himself converted. He began to believe the doomsday myths. But trouble was brewing for the sect—they had already been stripped of their official legal religious entity status, and they were close to bankruptcy. Akashi was especially tasked by Anzai with tracking down Keiko and anyone who might flip for state prosecution.”

  “And now?”

  “He’s never let go of his mission. He’s convinced that Anzai will rise again, and he absolutely believes the god Tezcatlipoca will destroy the world without payment of blood debt.”

  Iwata stopped at the vending machine and bought two cans of iced coffee.

  “How can he live like that? Inhabiting the present day and some ancient mythology at the same time?”

  Hayashi curled down both sides of her mouth like a shrug.

  “Mythology has always been a way for people to explain the unexplainable.”

  “Will we ever know what caused his break with reality?”

  “It’s hard to say. But he has been using LSD for a long time. It’s not a drug you can easily form a dependency on, but he is certainly suffering from HPPD. Hallucinogen persisting perception disorder. Essentially, the trips never really end. Information floods the cerebral cortex, the past and the present bleed together, things shimmer, appear or disappear. Akashi probably interprets reality rather than it being a fixed exterior world that you and I take for granted. It must be terrifying.”

  “‘Reality to survive, fantasy to live,’” Iwata said to himself.

  A dog was barking in the distance. He pictured Akashi’s face above him and felt the ripping of his own flesh. The memory caused Iwata no displeasure. He merely wanted to touch his own scars beneath his clothes.

  They skirted a cluster of elderly tourists swarming around a particularly photogenic row of cherry trees. Hayashi crushed her empty can and put it in her pocket.

  “Emi, I wanted to thank you. Your report really packed a punch in court.”

  “I’m just glad they didn’t put you in jail.” She smiled.

  They walked in silence for a time.

  “Can I ask you something personal?” She glanced at him. “When you caught him … what did you feel?”

  “I … don’t really know. I just remember I was sitting in a hospital room, crying for no real reason. It was the strangest thing.”

  “I don’t think it’s so strange. If you don’t mind my saying.”

  The stream below gurgled. Three cats were balanced on exposed tree roots by the water’s surface, trying to fish for carp. Iwata and Hayashi paused for a moment to watch the cats.

  “Kosuke?” She tried the name out for size.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

  “How do you feel toward Hideo Akashi?”

  The cats abandoned their hunt, made nervous by observation.

  “Not much. A sort of strange connection. Or just pity, perhaps.”

  “Those on the precipice rarely judge the fallen.”

  “Old proverb?”

  “I just made it up, actually.”

  “You mean it takes a screwball to catch a screwball?”

  She threw a sunflower seed at him.

  “You’re not a screwball.”

  They paused for a moment to stay out of a tourist’s photograph and smiled at each other. Iwata thought about photographs. He remembered taking them. Taking photographs meant living, it meant continuing, it meant things mattered enough to record them.

  “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s just your job that’s screwed up?” Hayashi asked.

  Iwata’s laugh was makeshift.

  “I quit, anyway.”

  She looked at him, surprised.

  “What will you do now?”

  “Something else.”

  “Good for you.”

  They reached the end of the path as it met an old, cobbled hill leading back down to the city. Kyoto sprawled in black shadow and peach light.

  “The lights of the city…” Iwata whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Just a song I can’t get out of my head.”

  An old lady swept fallen leaves from her doorstep. Her house stood next to an old stone bridge that had been enveloped by thick moss. Low-hanging branches dozed over the stream, their leaves painting the water a fir green.

  Iwata and Hayashi saw children letting off firecrackers for Obon, the Buddhist day of the dead. Gunpowder drifted past them like perfume. Parents hung lanterns on their houses to guide the spirits of their ancestors home. Graves would be cleaned, families would be reunited, and food offerings would be made. When it was over, lit lanterns would be sent down the rivers, toward Lake Biwa. Huge bonfires would be set up in
the mountains surrounding the city. Then the dead would go back to their world and the living would carry on living.

  “Emi, do you remember when we met?”

  “Yes.”

  “You offered me coffee, which I declined.”

  “Very rudely too.”

  “Can I buy you one now?”

  She smiled.

  “You already bought me one.”

  “Dinner, then.”

  Emi Hayashi checked her Mickey Mouse watch. The wind picked up and the cherry trees bled their leaves over the Philosopher’s Path. The setting sun was at its most desperate, the horizon hungry for its light. Iwata closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Kei handing him half an orange.

  Our glories float between earth and heaven like clouds which seem pavilions of the sun.

  Iwata looked up.

  There was hardly any light left on the horizon now.

  The sun blazed on silently, in an ocean of emptiness, slowly dying alone.

  THE STORY OF THE STORY OF BLUE LIGHT YOKOHAMA

  The beginning of my fascination with Japan is easy to determine—Captain Tsubasa—an anime series focusing on a soccer prodigy living in the shadow of Mount Fuji. For a star-gazing six-year-old growing up in a satellite town near Madrid, Spain, he was Doctor Doolittle, Robinson Crusoe, and Captain Nemo all rolled into one. Aside from the fantastical on-field action, each episode would explore his friendships, his bitter rivalries, and a sometimes tricky relationship with his parents (mother = concerned housewife, father = jovial, mustachioed seafaring captain). But what I loved most about his world was the mise-en-scène. Strange haircuts. Raw fish. Futuristic trains. Buildings with clean angles. The way people would become embarrassed at the most trivial things. Even the strange alphabet looked like a secret code. And, though the show was dubbed into Spanish, they couldn’t fool me. I knew Captain Tsubasa’s world existed a million miles away from mine. And that’s precisely why it was so wonderful to me. Every episode was like a glimpse into another dimension where they looked and moved like us but in a place so completely other.

  Naturally, I wanted to find out more. I went to the library to ask about Japan. The librarian came back with a book about tall buildings and big bridges. Sure enough, I came to a double-page spread of Rainbow Bridge, all lit up at night.