Seventeen

by Hideo Yokoyama

  “So why does he have nothing to say to us about this subject?”

  “I think he’s purposely waiting to see what we’re going to do.”

  It was Oimura who had answered. He seemed to have perked up on hearing Iikura’s name—his eyes showed signs the Firecracker was back.

  “Purposely waiting?” Kasuya repeated. “Why?”

  “He’s going to find a way to use it against us somehow,” continued Oimura. He was on a roll now. “If we lead with the story, he’ll complain that we’re buttering up Nakasone. If we put it as second lead, he’ll say we’re protecting him. Iikura is waiting for us to make a move. Without a doubt, that’s the Clever Yakuza’s MO.”

  Kasuya nodded gloomily. He was probably imagining how next month’s executive meeting was going to go.

  “Right, well, we’ll do our best not to get dragged into his game. Oimura, what’s your conclusion?”

  “Well, we can’t make it anything but the lead. As Moriya suggested, we print the opposition parties’ criticisms, add a commentary piece.”

  “Commentary piece? Are we going to use Kyodo?”

  “Kyodo’s articles are too harsh. Better to get Aoki to write something lighter.”

  “No, I think commentaries are too dangerous. Everything in there is considered the opinion of the newspaper company. Best to go with something without a hint of subjectivity.”

  “Yes, I believe you’re right, but—”

  Oimura began to speak but broke off and looked pensive.

  Everyone was silent. No one was really expecting him to come up with a solution. Not being able to read Iikura’s thought processes was weakening their ability to decide on a course of action. Kasuya leaned back in his armchair and scanned the room.

  “What do you think is the best plan of action?”

  “Keep the JAL crash on the front page.”

  It was Kamejima who had spoken. Kasuya looked at him in surprise.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “If you look at our newsroom, you’d feel the same way. Everyone is completely absorbed by the disaster. If you tell them now that we’re going to focus on Prime Minister Nakasone today, you’ll never get them energized about it.”

  Kamejima’s comment may have completely missed the substance of the discussion, but it was easy for Kasuya to go along with.

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Right? A newspaper is made up of living beings. We have to care about what we print.”

  Kasuya nodded and looked over in Yuuki’s direction.

  “What do you think?”

  Yuuki returned the look in total silence. This is how he’d expected the conversation to go, but he hadn’t prepared a response. Until yesterday, he wouldn’t have hesitated to say, Go with the crash. But since then they’d killed one of his best reporters’ articles, and last night he’d been forced to give in. The seeds of powerlessness had been planted in his heart, and they were steadily growing. His enthusiasm for the JAL crash had been seriously eroded. The frosty expressions of Oimura and Todoroki also made him afraid to come up with an opinion on the spot. He’d already lost the confidence of the JAL crash desk anyway. He was all too aware of that.

  “What’s wrong with you? I’m asking for your opinion.”

  Both Kasuya’s expression and his voice betrayed his high expectations. Depending on Yuuki’s response, he’d be able to go along with Kamejima’s suggestion, or not. Yuuki realized that Kasuya was leaving the final decision up to him. He felt trapped. There was only one answer he could give.

  “I don’t care which one we go with.”

  Kasuya’s disappointment was obvious. He sighed, not for the first time that morning, and, with no decision in sight, put an end to the meeting.

  “We’ll meet again this evening. Right now I’m going to see Iikura-san.”

  17

  The newsroom was deserted. As they all left the editor in chief’s office, Yuuki hurried to catch up with Kamejima. He intended to apologize for the previous evening, when he’d yelled at him to remove the Japan Airlines apology ad from the newspaper. He’d taken his anger and frustration out on Kamejima and, no matter what the provocation, he’d deviated from the normal protocol of keeping good working relations in the newsroom.

  “Kaku-san!”

  Kamejima turned, his moonlike face severe.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” Yuuki said, bowing his head.

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Kamejima snorted rudely.

  “Look. I told you I don’t care about that. I’m more bothered by what happened just now. What the hell was that?”

  “Huh?”

  “At the meeting. How can you say, ‘I don’t care which one we go with’? You’re the one responsible for the crash coverage. It’s been you from the start. Don’t you even care anymore?”

  Yuuki returned to his desk with a bad aftertaste in his mouth.

  “Don’t you even care anymore?”

  He was envious of Kamejima for being able to say that. Actually, he found it surprising. How did he manage to be so properly sensitive to other people’s feelings? Ever since he had started at the company, Kamejima had worked exclusively in the copy section. He’d never had the chance to work out in the field like the reporters. He was always there in the newsroom, forever stuck in “today,” creating the layout for the next day. That might be the reason—he never had a chance to meet up with real flesh-and-blood people outside the office, so he became good at assessing all the news that came into the office. It meant he was constantly sharpening his senses.

  “I don’t care which one we go with—”

  His chest felt tight. He exhaled quickly and began to tidy up the papers on his desk. It wasn’t yet eleven in the morning and already there was an impressive pile of wires from Kyodo related to the crash. His eye was drawn to a large photograph half buried under it. It was an interior shot of the Fujioka High School gymnasium, which was being used as a temporary morgue. The gym had been opened up to the press yesterday evening, but the negatives had been slow to arrive here at the head office, and the pictures hadn’t made the morning edition.

  The white coffins were neatly lined up with nameplates and bunches of flowers placed on top. Of the fifty-one bodies that had already been identified back at the municipal sports hall, forty-three were being kept here. As he examined the photo, Yuuki did a double take. He hadn’t noticed it the night before, but on either side of the main door was a wreath. The photo was a blown-up, file-folder-sized photograph, so it was possible to read the name of the donors attached to the wreaths. The one on the right of the door read FORMER PRIME MINISTER TAKEO FUKUDA; on the left, PRIME MINISTER YASUHIRO NAKASONE.

  It suddenly made sense—this was their constituency. Gunma’s Third District was made up of Takasaki City and all the prefecture’s western region. Uenomura in the Tano District, where the Japan Airlines plane had come down, as well as Fujioka City, where the deceased had been taken, were both part of that Third District.

  It was an odd photo. He felt its strangeness all the more as he looked at it again. The wreaths hadn’t been placed outside the gym; they were inside, leaning against the wall—deliberately in the view of the mass media, in the exact location where they had been given the go-ahead to take photographs. Again, that bile rose up in his throat.

  “Good morning!”

  Along with the cheerful voice came a hot cup of tea. But before he had time to say thank you, Chizuko Yorita was already on her way, a tray crammed full of tea and coffee in her hands. This must mean the newsroom was beginning to fill up.

  Yuuki raised the cup to his lips. The tea washed away the nasty taste in his mouth, but he had no desire yet to start in on the pile of papers on his desk. Instead, he opened up the morning edition of the newspaper. Without even checking the page numbers, he was able to open it right at the sports pages. It was times li
ke this when he felt as if he’d been in this job too long.

  The Hanshin Tigers baseball team had lost again. This time it was 3–4 to the Yomiuri Giants. Mayumi had one hit from four times at bat.

  “They might really win the championship.”

  He looked up at the sound of the voice. Kishi had just returned to his desk, carrying a large mug that he’d taken from Chizuko’s tray.

  “They lost. Yesterday, too.”

  “So, two losses after five wins in a row,” said Kishi, pulling a face as if he were a Tigers fan. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “And from then on, they’ll plummet right down the league. Isn’t that their usual style?”

  “You closet Giants fan!”

  Kishi impersonated Oimura, then laughed. Gunma was one of the places that was being subjected to a blitz marketing campaign by the Yomiuri Shimbun newspaper. At the North Kanto Times, if you dared to mention you were a fan of the Giants, the baseball team owned by the Yomiuri, you’d be denounced as a traitor.

  “But didn’t you say your youngest … what’s her name … Yuka, was a Hanshin Tigers fan?”

  “She’s an Akinobu Mayumi fan, though not because of his base-hitting, I don’t think.”

  “That’s right. All the wives and daughters throughout Japan are Mayumi fans!”

  Kishi laughed again. But then he put his mug down on his desk and lowered his voice.

  “Tell me, how’s it going with Yuka?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does she say you’re yucky and all that kind of stuff?”

  “Well, that came out of nowhere!” Yuuki said in shock.

  “No, well…” Kishi frowned and clicked his tongue. “You know, you hear about it. I’m not sure if it’s when they start getting their period, or what causes it, but when girls are in about the fifth or sixth grade at primary school they start to hate their fathers.”

  “Was Kaz like that?”

  Yuuki had only met Kishi’s daughter once, but he’d been shown an impressive number of photos of her.

  “Yep. My younger, Fumiko, too.”

  “How old are they now?”

  “First year of middle school and sixth year of primary. It’s miserable—they treat me like some kind of germ. I get home from work and, as soon as I step foot in the door, it’s like some magic disappearing act. Poof! They’re gone.”

  Kishi spoke jokingly but, behind his laughter, the political editor looked depressed.

  “I’m sure they’ll grow out of it, won’t they?” said Yuuki, partly out of concern, but also hoping for more information.

  “I hear there’s no guarantee. I couldn’t bear it if they treated me like that forever. Seriously, I feel like crying sometimes.”

  Yuuki made a sympathetic noise.

  “And I was so affectionate to them when they were growing up … You know, I wish I’d had boys. I’ve got to admit, I’m envious of you.”

  Yuuki desperately tried to think of another topic, but Kishi was too quick for him.

  “Your Jun is the same age as Kaz, isn’t he? He must have grown up.”

  “Yes, well, physically, maybe,” said Yuuki, looking down at the floor.

  “Well, you probably won’t have any trouble with your Yuka, she’s such a good girl.”

  “Oh, not really.”

  “No, she’s a good girl. But that said, my Kaz and Fumi were just fine when they were still that age…”

  As Kishi spoke, Yuuki noticed Oimura heading in their direction.

  “Hey, Kishi!” Oimura said, plopping down on the corner of Kishi’s desk. “I missed the chance to get your opinion back there. Just in case, let’s hear it.”

  Yuuki swiveled his office chair around so that it seemed he was trying to stay out of the private conversation. In reality, he couldn’t bear to look at the face of the ringleader in the killing of Sayama’s article.

  Kishi was expressing an opinion close to Nakasone’s. It was natural that he would. Kishi had once been dispatched as a special correspondent accompanying Nakasone on one of his overseas trips. He even had a photograph of him posing with Nakasone on display in his living room. It had been taken on board the private government jet. It was obviously a photo op the government side offered to all the representatives of the press, so when Yuuki had seen the photo he’d been secretly scornful of a man who was so impressed by people in authority he would show off a photo like that with so much pride.

  But now, following the discussion he’d just had with Kishi about his daughters, he’d changed his opinion of the man. The photo with Nakasone was above the TV, arranged in a row with photos of Kishi’s daughters. It might not have been placed there for visitors to see. More likely he wanted his family to see it every day. That was what any man would want—to earn the respect of his wife and children—

  “Well, we are getting a bit sick and tired of the whole JAL crash thing.”

  His attention was caught by Oimura’s parting words to Kishi. Sick and tired? What an unpleasant phrase to use.

  The Editorial Department staff began to arrive for the day. Soon the timer would be set for the evening deadline.

  “I don’t care which one we go with.”

  Yuuki couldn’t settle down. He’d never approached an edition with such mixed feelings.

  18

  After lunch at the staff cafeteria, Yuuki returned to his desk and paged Sayama and Hanazawa. While he waited for their reply, he read over the crash-related articles in the morning’s paper.

  The top headline was 121 BODIES RECOVERED, 51 IDENTIFIED. The subhead was CAUSE WAS DAMAGE TO TAIL AREA. He flipped through the pages. Part one of the series that ought to have been the lead story, SITE OF A TRAGEDY: MOUNT OSUTAKA, looked a little sad, relegated to its inconspicuous position on the second local news page. His feelings of anger and self-reproach returned. He knew that, at this late stage, he was never going to get his feature series back on the front page. The whole idea was, so to speak, dead in the water.

  Sayama called back first.

  “You were trying to reach me?”

  Sayama’s tone was deliberately cold, stressing the distance between them. Yuuki kept it businesslike, too.

  “Got anything for me?”

  “The prefectural police have officially met with the assistant cabin crew manager now. I can give you about fifty lines on that.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Because Japan Airlines made the first move. The authorities were pretty mad about it.”

  “I can imagine. It amounts to obstruction of a police investigation.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Sayama’s use of formal language was making Yuuki very uncomfortable.

  “Are you with the police now?”

  “Yes. In the pressroom.”

  “Is Wajima with you?”

  “No, he went out.”

  “If you see him, can you ask him to call me? He never answers his pager.”

  “Understood.”

  After he hung up, Yuuki sat and stared at the phone for a while.

  It was obvious that Sayama had lost all enthusiasm. He wasn’t even trying anymore. He’d poured his soul into that eyewitness piece and his bosses had trampled all over it.

  The TV was showing the government-organized national memorial service for the victims of the Second World War. It was just as the ceremony was drawing to a close that Yuuki finally heard from Wajima.

  “This is Wajima…” he began, in his usual faltering voice.

  “What time can I expect your draft?”

  “Eh?”

  “Part two of the series. It doesn’t matter that it’s not quite what we’d hoped, we’re still going ahead.”

  “Oh, okay, then Hanazawa’ll write it.”

  For a moment Yuuki thought he’d misheard.

  “What are you talking about? I told you to write it!”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “You’re the deputy chief reporter at pol
ice headquarters, Wajima! Why would you ask Hanazawa, the number three, to write an article for you?”

  “Well, I…”

  Wajima searched for words, but Yuuki didn’t need to hear his explanation. He could imagine what was going on. It was Hanazawa, along with Sayama, who’d been the first to climb Osutaka. Wajima, on the other hand, had attempted to climb it but had given up, exhausted. The result had been a switch in the balance of power between the number-two and number-three reporters.

  “Wajima! You write it.”

  Again, there was no reply.

  “I want it by five. Got it?”

  Yuuki didn’t wait for a response. He hung up. He wondered whether Wajima was thinking of leaving the paper. It wasn’t just the work. When a reporter begins to be upstaged by the people below him, it’s hard to survive.

  He looked up. There was a throng of people in front of the TV set. He recognized scenes from Yasukuni Shrine. Prime Minister Nakasone, solemn in his morning suit, was climbing the steps to the inner sanctuary. Reaching the top, he paused and bowed deeply.

  The editor in chief watched, a stern expression on his face. He still hadn’t made the final call on whether to lead with Yasukuni Shrine or the JAL crash.

  Yuuki’s desk phone rang. It was Tamaki, the only reporter at the North Kanto Times with a degree in engineering. He’d been posted to the Fujioka branch office in place of Totsuka, and was under orders to follow the Ministry of Transport’s Aircraft Accident Investigation Committee. That said, Tamaki wasn’t a graduate in aeronautical engineering specifically. NKT’s hope wasn’t to score a scoop; it was more to avoid being the only paper to miss out on everyone else’s. However, Tamaki had some surprising news.