Yuuki felt a sharp ache in his temples.
“When did I ever talk to you about Okubo or the Red Army?”
Hanazawa looked away.
“They’re always talking about it—Nozawa and the rest. How, at the end, you all went up to that lodge on Mount Asama? You were all just observers, right? Slurping your instant noodles?”
“That’s true.”
“What I saw was nothing like that. That was a real honest-to-God accident scene.”
“So that’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you wrote an article like this.”
“Like what?”
Yuuki flicked through Hanazawa’s article. There it was, on page seven. He pointed to a word—“entrails.” Then he looked Hanazawa straight in the eye.
“Put yourself in the readers’ place—how do you think they’re going to feel when they read about the corpses’ entrails? What they looked like, what state they were in.”
Hanazawa didn’t flinch.
“Yeah. I gave that a lot of thought. Their relatives won’t be reading this. Nearly everyone on that plane was from another prefecture.”
“What if they did read it?”
“They won’t. Anyway, I’m sure they’re too busy to read newspapers right now.”
“Okay, and what about the regular readers, then?” Yuuki demanded, his hand curling into a fist. “Here at the office we check over the news late at night, but remember, most people read the paper in the morning, over breakfast.”
“That’s too bad. I was just writing what really happened.”
“You—”
“Okay, that’s enough. First of all, you don’t have any right to lecture me. Second of all, that article that Sayama and I risked our lives to send—you bumped it down to the second page. And now that great plan you told us about has been sidelined into something completely insignificant. Do you have some sort of grudge against us or something?”
“No.”
“So, then, please tell me why it’s ended up like that.”
“You’ll get it when you’ve been at this company another ten years.”
“Another ten years? Are you fucking kidding me? I can see what you’re doing. You’re jealous. Because only Sayama and I were able to climb that mountain. That’s what it comes down to. I’ve had incredible, terrible experiences. It doesn’t matter how much you all go on acting so self-important—that just won’t do anymore. Five hundred and twenty people—five hundred and twenty!”
Hanazawa seemed unable to stop himself. That peculiar gleam was in his eyes again.
“Wajima’s account is fake. What I described—that’s the true accident scene. The corpses, the entrails, shouldn’t we write about everything? Isn’t it a newspaper’s mission to make sure this never happens again? If we don’t paint a true picture of the full fucking misery, then what’s the point? If you say you won’t publish my article, I’ll take it somewhere else. I can’t do this anymore. It was horrendous. There were corpses everywhere. Literally as far as the eye could see. There was not one decent, normal thing about it. Scattered all over—”
His voice was cut off by Yuuki’s hands around his throat. Yuuki pushed until Hanazawa’s head touched the wall behind him. Even then the man was still trying to speak.
“Just remember this,” Yuuki said through clenched teeth. “Those five hundred and twenty people didn’t lose their lives for you to get off on it.”
Hanazawa stared back at Yuuki with bloodshot eyes. Then, suddenly, those eyes began to pour tears; big, fat tears that wouldn’t stop coming. Yuuki shuddered. It was just like that mother—the one who had brought her young son to the office with her to buy copies of the newspaper. She had cried just the same way.
He let go of Hanazawa’s throat. The young reporter continued to sob. It was as if he had no idea why he was crying. As if there was nothing else he could do but hang his head and weep. Something inside had connected, and something else had begun to dissolve.
Yuuki stayed where he was on the sofa.
“It was only a true accident scene that first day.” That was the reality of it. And Hanazawa had seen it—the true accident scene of the crash of a Japan Airlines jumbo jet that had caused the deaths of five hundred and twenty people.
22
Midnight had passed. It was now August 16.
There were very few people left in the newsroom; it was even quiet enough to be able to hear the TV.
The North Kanto Times had put together their fourth morning edition since the crash. Any moment now the rotary press was about to roar into action.
Yuuki was going through the remaining wires on his desk. He picked up Kamejima’s cheery tones as he arrived back from the printing room.
“The JAL crash has made the top story four days in a row. It’s a new record.”
“Care for a quick one?” said Kishi, miming sipping from a sake cup.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Yuuki replied, without hesitating. He’d been weighing whether to go home or not, and now Kishi’s suggestion had tipped the scales in favor of the latter.
He’d done a respectable job with his pages. The thought put him in good spirits. Until last night, he’d been overwhelmed, trying to find his bearings. He’d been swallowed up by this huge accident that had come out of nowhere, and he’d been out of his depth. He’d begun to feel how insignificant he was and had lost sight of why he was even in the business of making newspapers.
Today had been different. Ever since he’d met that mother and child, things had changed inside him. Here and there throughout the paper were signs of Yuuki’s hand, his opinion. He wasn’t vain enough to think that he had managed to tame the story of the accident completely, but he’d gotten just a fingertip on the reins. He was feeling a modest amount of self-confidence and a definite sense of accomplishment.
“Yuuki, you ready to leave now?”
“Sure.”
The two men descended the semi-lit staircase.
“By the way, what happened to Hanazawa?” Kishi asked.
“He went to the on-call room. I think he’s been asleep there.”
“Did he talk to you about it?”
“Yes. Well, bits and pieces.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so.”
“I heard he hasn’t eaten anything for two days.”
“Seems not.”
“So the crash site was that bad…”
“I guess so.”
As Yuuki carefully made his way in the dark, he thought about Hanazawa. Mount Osutaka was the first time in his life that he’d ever seen a dead body. He’d finally confessed as much to Yuuki in the on-call room, once he’d calmed down. He’d spoken haltingly, his face expressionless, about how he’d never had any previous encounters with death. His parents and grandparents were all in good health. He’d been three years on the police beat and had seen his fair share of accident and crime scenes, but for some reason he’d never crossed paths with any dead bodies. He’d always wanted to see one, he admitted. What kind of a police reporter didn’t? He’d felt that, without having seen one, he was a poor role model for younger reporters. They say you should be careful what you wish for. Mount Osutaka had fulfilled his wishes in a way he had never imagined …
Outside, the heat wrapped itself around Yuuki’s face.
“Ugh! Even at this time of night!” said Kishi.
The two men automatically crossed the Annaka prefectural route and headed toward a little yakiniku barbecued-beef restaurant on the opposite corner. Sojahanten was run by a South Korean couple who had lived in Japan all their lives. If you were going drinking in this neighborhood at this time of night, this was the first place you’d think of.
“Yuuki-san, you’re quite the samurai, I hear,” said the master, his eyes crinkling when he saw them come in. He must have overheard that Yuuki had been made the JAL crash desk chief. He seemed impressed that Yuuki had found the time, in the midst of everything,
to come out for a drink.
Yuuki didn’t respond to the remark. Over to his right, he’d just spotted Todoroki sitting in the Japanese-style tatami room. He was sitting on a zabuton floor cushion across from Nozawa, sharing a beer.
This irritated Yuuki immensely. Just yesterday, he and the chief local news editor had had a very public altercation in the middle of the newsroom. Kishi must have heard it and, without letting on, he had brought Yuuki here. Typical Kishi—he was attempting to bring about a reconciliation.
“Let’s sit down.”
Kishi was all innocence as he led Yuuki to the tatami room.
“What kind of shit are you pulling here?” said Yuuki through gritted teeth. He felt like leaving right there and then. But that would be the coward’s way out.
Todoroki looked just as surprised to see Yuuki, but Nozawa appeared to be in on the plan. Kishi had probably asked him to bring the section chief here. He was clearly an accomplice, but Yuuki knew Nozawa too well. He was sure he had no intention of encouraging him to shake hands with Todoroki. Nozawa was much more likely to hope that their relationship would sour even further, fueled by a generous dose of alcohol.
“A bottle?” the master called out from behind the counter.
“Make it a mug,” Yuuki replied. He had no intention of staying any longer than necessary.
The atmosphere in the room was just as Nozawa must have hoped. Wordlessly, Yuuki plopped down on the zabuton diagonally opposite, or as far away as he could get from, Todoroki.
In the past, this group would often drink together after work. Back when Todoroki was deputy lead reporter at the police press club, Yuuki, Kishi, and Nozawa had all still been rookie reporters. They were yelled at daily by Todoroki and his boss, the then–lead police beat reporter, Oimura.
The master brought Kishi and Yuuki mugs of beer.
“Do you want any barbecue?”
“Yes, please,” said Kishi.
Todoroki looked at Kishi.
“This was a very good idea of yours.”
“Sorry?”
Kishi smiled politely. He had no idea what Todoroki was talking about, but Todoroki looked back at him with a serious expression.
“With zabuton, at least he’s already down on his knees ready to apologize.”
Yuuki looked up sharply. Todoroki was looking away from him, his face rather flushed, but he couldn’t be drunk. He and Nozawa had been here since about ten—in other words, they’d already been drinking for a couple of hours—but Todoroki had always been able to hold his liquor.
Yuuki had had no intention of saying anything, but now that Todoroki had insisted on dragging up the whole thing again, he decided to stand his ground.
“I’ve nothing to apologize for,” he said brusquely.
Todoroki removed his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Oh, yes, you have. Your abusive language yesterday.”
“Okay, everyone, cheers!” said Kishi, trying to be upbeat as he raised his mug of beer. But Todoroki ignored him.
“Yuuki, what was it you said to me? Do you remember?”
“More or less.”
The two glared at each other across the table. Oblivious, the master arrived and began arranging marinated meat on the hot griddle.
“There’s no more or less about it,” said Todoroki from behind the cloud of smoke rising from the griddle. He sounded perfectly calm. “Managing editor Oimura dropped your Mount Osutaka article from the front page. You thought I’d done it and you laid into me. You insulted me and used offensive language in front of a group of junior reporters. That’s pretty much an accurate summary of what happened, wouldn’t you say?”
Yuuki’s gaze dropped to the meat browning on the grill.
“So why aren’t you apologizing? You’re the guilty party.”
“Hey, Yuuki?” Kishi interrupted. “It’s true—you did jump to conclusions there.”
“Shut up!”
Todoroki scowled at Kishi, then turned his attention straight back to Yuuki.
“‘I’ve had enough of your pathetic games.’ That’s what you said yesterday. What did you mean by that?”
Yuuki raised his mug to his lips.
“Exactly what I said.” He took a sip. “The day before, you dropped Sayama’s eyewitness article. You were jealous because of the world’s biggest airline disaster. It made you feel inferior.”
“Why would I feel inferior?” asked Todoroki, as Nozawa poured him another mug of beer. How he must be enjoying this …
“Because Okubo/Red Army is everything to you.”
“Of course it is.”
“But the JAL crash is so big, it eclipses them completely.”
Both men took a large gulp of beer. Todoroki was the first to put down his mug.
“So you’re saying that’s the reason I killed Sayama’s article?”
“You didn’t tell me that the rotary press was broken.”
“I already told you, that was your misunderstanding.”
“What exactly did I misunderstand?”
“Even if I’d told you about the broken printer earlier, how would that have changed things? At that time, Sayama and Hanazawa were still up the mountain. Our paper doesn’t have any wireless phones. You wouldn’t have had any way of telling them that we couldn’t extend the deadline.”
“True. I wouldn’t.” Yuuki drained his beer. “But you’re not being logical.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Let’s think about it—say I’d been told that evening that the printer was broken. I could have begged Kyodo News to let me borrow their wireless system for a few seconds. I could have gotten them to contact their reporters up on Osutaka to give a message to Sayama and Hanazawa—No extended deadline today. If I could just have let Sayama know that, then he could have calculated how fast he could get down the mountain. He could have gotten me his report before midnight, and the next morning Sayama and Hanazawa’s names would have been in print on the front page of the North Kanto Times.”
“You think things would have gone that smoothly, do you? Kyodo might have refused to let you use their wireless. And, even if they’d agreed, there’s no guarantee that the Kyodo reporters would have met up with Sayama and Hanazawa on Mount Osutaka. And then, say they had, hurrying down a mountain like that in the black of night? You had no way of knowing whether they’d make it by midnight. It’d have taken nothing short of a miracle for that article to have made it into the next day’s edition.”
“You’ve given yourself away.”
Yuuki had meant to say it in his head, but somehow he had spoken the words aloud.
“What’s that? What do you mean, given myself away?”
Yuuki had no intention of backing down.
“Nothing you just said made any sense. It’s the same way you were thinking that night. You thought, if you didn’t tell me about the broken printer, you’d be able to make up some kind of excuse later.”
“That’s enough!”
“You’re right that it would have taken a miracle to get Sayama’s article in the paper. But there was still a chance that miracle might have happened. And you—”
“I said, that’s enough!”
“You started the fight. You’d better see it through to the end.”
“Don’t you dare yell at me, you—”
“You nipped that miracle in the bud. Because of all your Okubo/Red Army shit, you killed Sayama’s article!”
“Yuuki!”
Todoroki slammed his fist down on the table and, in response, Yuuki squared his shoulders.
“Why did you get in their way? Was it so you weren’t outdone by a couple of young reporters? Was it because for you all—I s’pose I mean for us—the Okubo/Red Army was a crushing defeat?”
Todoroki’s eyes widened to twice their usual size. Kishi’s, too. Nozawa turned around to stare. Then Todoroki tried to speak.
“We … we lost? Lost to who?”
Everyone knew Yuuki had crossed a line. No
one had ever before dared to put “Okubo/Red Army” and “lost” together in the same sentence.
“Tell us, Yuuki. Who did we lose to?” Kishi looked as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“Isn’t it obvious? All the national newspapers—the Asahi, Mainichi, Yomiuri, and even the Sankei.”
“But we beat them, didn’t we…?”
“That’s just how you prefer to remember it.”
“But we won! We destroyed them!”
Nozawa had joined the conversation. There was a blue vein visible at his temples.
“We may have, a few times. But we were beaten many times over.”
“Surely it was the other way around?” said Kishi. “I guess we were beaten a few times, but still—”
“Have you really forgotten?”
Yuuki glanced back and forth between Kishi and Nozawa. He’d long assumed that the word “lost” was simply taboo. But he’d been mistaken. Both of these men genuinely believed that they’d “won.”
“You two are talking about the early days of the Okubo case. I’ll admit, back at the beginning, we were running circles around the rest. But as the case grew bigger, and the head offices of all those other papers started sending their reporters, everything was turned upside down. They were all writing amazing stories. But the Okubo case still went better than the Red Army one. In that one, we were totally extinguished. The National Police Agency in Tokyo released one story after another, and we were helpless. We were completely outplayed. North Kanto lost to Tokyo.”
Total silence enveloped the room.
It was just as Hanazawa had said during his rant earlier that evening. In the final stages of the Red Army siege, the North Kanto Times’s police beat reporters had been in high spirits as they’d entered the lodge on Mount Asama. But they’d ended up being forced to stay far away from the action—distant observers. The only thing they’d gotten out of the experience was an appreciation for the taste of cup noodles, the previous year’s new culinary sensation. Hanazawa had seen through the whole thing.
Nozawa was the first to speak.
“It’s true that there was nothing we could do at the lodge, but that case was Nagano Prefecture’s. Of course we were outdone. Our hands were tied. But the executions at the hideouts on Mount Haruna and Myogi, we were the winners there.”
Seventeen Page 18