Seventeen

by Hideo Yokoyama

  “What kind of book are you thinking of publishing?”

  “Something like a document of the Japan Airlines crash.”

  “Something like a document?”

  Moro spoke scornfully. He sat down opposite Yuuki and crossed his arms and legs exaggeratedly. His body language let Yuuki know he was waiting for a better explanation.

  Yuuki wasn’t going to let any of this get to him.

  “I’ve come to find out whether the NKT would be able to publish a book of this kind.”

  “But what kind of a book are you talking about?”

  “The kind of book that sums up the JAL crash in North Kanto Times style. Made up of memoranda and photos from our reporters. A record of the accident.”

  “A record? If that’s what you want, why don’t you make a scrapbook out of old newspaper articles?”

  “Because I want to leave a proper record, an official one. Because the world’s biggest plane crash happened here in our prefecture.”

  “How many copies do you plan to print?”

  “Well, I haven’t…”

  Yuuki didn’t know how to reply. He hadn’t yet turned his thoughts to the practical side of things.

  Moro’s know-it-all expression evolved into a triumphant one.

  “Who are you planning to sell this book to?”

  This was a question Yuuki had expected. Most of the publications put out by the North Kanto Times were privately printed, self-funded books. For example, if a former school principal wanted to put out his memoirs, he’d first research how many pupils he had taught over the years. If an instructor of ikebana or the tea ceremony wanted to publish her book, she’d work out how many students she had, and they’d print that number.

  This was the system that Moro himself had put in place. In his younger days, he’d made a bit of extra pocket money writing the “autobiography” of a politician to hand out during an election, as well as the success story of an enigmatic entrepreneur. He wasn’t a particularly skilled ghostwriter, but his reputation had somehow spread and these days more than a dozen requests “for Moro-san to write my book” were received every year.

  Yuuki decided to go all out.

  “I’m hoping to sell it in the regular bookstores to the general public. I believe they would be happy to stock it.”

  “I’m sure that, if I were to ask them, they’d agree to put it in their local publications section, but I don’t think it’ll sell. Not something of that sort.”

  “On the contrary, I think there’d be a lot of interest.”

  “But I heard there were hardly any passengers on board from Gunma.”

  Hardly any?

  Yuuki was startled. Well, no. He’d been aware of it from the moment he’d walked into the room. There was something missing from both Moro’s desk and the table in front of him. There wasn’t a copy of today’s North Kanto Times anywhere in the room. He looked Moro straight in the eyes.

  “There was one passenger on board from Gunma Prefecture.”

  Moro was completely taken aback. He looked away.

  “So, it’s hopeless. Out of the question.”

  He’d had no idea.

  Suddenly there was a movement at Yuuki’s side, as the clearly uncomfortable Kaizuka leaned forward.

  “How about the people who like to read photo magazines?”

  “What are you talking—” Moro said in a low, measured tone. His eyes were filled with contempt; it was clear he enjoyed intimidating his direct subordinate. Kaizuka shrank back a little, but he’d apparently decided that, having worked for a while in the Editorial Department, he ought to back Yuuki up. He spoke rapidly.

  “If you print it on cheaper paper, mostly in black-and-white, then the cost and the number of days spent producing it can be kept to a minimum. We can pay for the project by taking preorders from the police, members of the Self-Defense Forces, and the fire department. And if it’s in the form of a magazine the bookshops’ll sell quite a few, I imagine.”

  “Are you a complete idiot? It’ll be in direct competition with Jomo’s Illustrated Gunma. They got money from the prefecture to print that; we’ll be funding the whole thing ourselves. If it doesn’t sell, we’ll lose money.”

  “But the prefecture funded that book because it’s about the prefecture’s activities; it’s completely different from something like the crash. In our case, from what I understand from Yuuki, we’ll be digging much deeper into the subject. And its style will be newspaper journalism. It’ll set us apart from what the Jomo book is doing.”

  “That’s already been done by Friday and Focus magazines. Do you really think that readers who’ve already seen those shocking photos are going to want to look at some well-mannered, illustrated book put out by a newspaper company?”

  “That may be true, but—”

  Never mind. Don’t worry about it.

  The words got as far as Yuuki’s throat.

  Moro turned his irritation on Yuuki.

  “It’s the same with regular books, too. The Asahi or the Yomiuri can produce them at lightning speed. We can never hope to compete with them in terms of content or production.”

  “I can say with all certainty that no other company has spent anything like as much time as our reporters have at that crash site on Mount Osutaka.”

  Yuuki had answered on reflex, but Moro turned a deaf ear and spoke even more vehemently.

  “You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you? So conceited. A local newspaper has to do things the local way. In other words, economically. You editorial staff get all carried away about an accident. I think you need to tell your bosses it’s time to calm down.”

  “I haven’t spoken to my bosses about this yet,” Yuuki said, getting to his feet. Moro’s loathsome voice followed him out of the room.

  “It’s ridiculous. Knowing we’re already in the red, the Editorial Department wants to put out a book to brag about what they do.”

  So that was what he was really thinking. Yuuki didn’t bother to stop and respond.

  This time, no one in the outer office met his eye. En masse, as if they had an urgent deadline, they sat with their red pens, poring over privately funded manuscripts and what looked like thick piles of galley proofs.

  He supposed it was better not to make a profit out of the JAL crash. Telling himself this, he stomped off along the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly.

  45

  Yuuki ate lunch alone in the basement cafeteria, then headed back up to the Editorial Department. The newsroom was still sparsely populated. Yoshii at the copy section island called out a “Good morning!” with a vague bob of the head. He looked half asleep. Yuuki recalled his tense expression on the night they’d chased the bulkhead scoop; it already felt like the distant past.

  There were three mountains of documents on his desk. It had become a familiar sight. The central mountain was the highest, consisting of thick article drafts, all contenders for today’s top news. The remains of the Nodai Niko High School baseball player’s father had been identified in the predawn hours. Early that morning Yuuki had gotten a call at home from Sayama, who was working at the prefectural police headquarters. He was heading out to try to get some background.

  Yuuki took his seat and picked up the phone. He dialed the extension of Kaizuka in the Book Publishing Division, and he answered right away.

  “This is Yuuki. Sorry about all the trouble I caused you back there.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. You might try getting your managing editor, Oimura-san, to give him a push. Way back, it was Oimura who introduced Moro to his wife.”

  As Yuuki thanked him and hung up, a coffee cup appeared next to the phone. He looked up to see Chizuko Yorita smiling at him.

  “Sorry I lost it with you the other day.”

  “Looks like you’re feeling much better. You working here today?”

  “I’m to go back there at three.”

  “Where do you prefer?”


  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You’ll pick it up. You’ll be writing front-page articles in no time.”

  “I hope so.”

  Chizuko’s hair swung as she moved on to the administrative affairs island. She didn’t seem to be in the best spirits yet, Yuuki reflected as he watched her leave. He turned his attention back to his own desk and once more picked up the phone. This time he dialed the extension of the Advertising Department. He wasn’t going to give his name, just in case, but luckily it was fellow hiking club member Miyata who answered.

  “It’s Yuuki. And, again, can we keep this between us? Any news of Kurasaka?”

  “He took today off, too. At the last minute.”

  “Did he give a reason?” Yuuki asked, feeling a little worried. Would he say he was taking the day off because he’d been beaten up by Hanazawa on Mount Osutaka? He hoped that wasn’t the rumor going around the company.

  “It seems he slipped on his way down Mount Osutaka and took quite a painful fall. I guess he just wasn’t used to climbing.”

  “Right, I see.”

  Yuuki heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to hang up when he suddenly thought of something.

  “Miyata? Have you been to see Anzai recently?”

  “Yes. I went last night.”

  “How was he?”

  Miyata’s voice took on a sad note.

  “No change. Anzai-san was just lying on the bed … His eyes are wide open. He looks completely awake. But the doctor says that he’s going to have to diagnose persistent vegetative state. That’s what his wife told me.”

  “How does she seem?”

  “Actually … oddly cheerful … Though I think she must be putting up a front.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And their son, I feel really sorry for him. He was sitting in the corner of the room looking very depressed. At this time of year he should be out enjoying the school holidays, but…”

  These distressing words weighed on Yuuki’s heart. He thought of Rintaro’s crooked smile and high-pitched laughter when they’d played catch in the hospital courtyard. Of course—his voice hadn’t even broken yet. After hanging up, Yuuki couldn’t shake the gloomy feeling left by this insignificant realization.

  Oimura and Todoroki were at their desks. Yuuki checked the clock on the wall above their heads. Half past one. Still thirty minutes to go before the meeting to decide today’s JAL crash coverage.

  Yuuki paged Tamaki and skimmed a couple of pages from the central mountain of papers.

  One week since the nightmare accident; search continues under the blazing sun

  Analysis of voice recorder; interim report due this week

  More goodbye messages discovered

  Executive vice president of JAL offers 1.5 million yen condolence money to bereaved families

  Seventh-day memorial service; flowers and incense at the crash site

  Ministry of Transport Aircraft Accident Investigation Committee finishes reconstruction of bulkhead

  Haneda and Narita airports to inspect all bulkheads

  Same class aircraft as crashed JAL plane suffers engine trouble in Hong Kong

  The tail-strike accident in Osaka; repairs were carried out by Boeing

  A sound nearby broke his concentration. Kishi had just arrived.

  He looked like he was dying to say something.

  “What are you smirking about?” Yuuki asked.

  “I turned forty yesterday.”

  “And I turned forty last month,” Yuuki snorted. “It wasn’t all that happy or amusing.”

  “There was a truce—a birthday truce.”

  Kishi looked even more pleased with himself.

  Yuuki suddenly understood what he meant. Kishi’s two daughters, who usually treated him like “some kind of germ,” had been kind to him last night.

  “Kaz and Fumi?”

  “It was the first time in ages. The whole family celebrated together. In fact, I thought I was going to cry.”

  “Do you think this means an end to hostilities?”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to see what happens when I go home tonight. But I have to say, I think there may be signs of a permanent cease-fire. What do you think?”

  Yuuki nodded a little too enthusiastically, then reapplied himself to his work in order to banish Jun’s face from his mind. The telephone rang.

  “Tamaki here. Did you page me?”

  His voice sounded relatively calm. Yuuki spun his chair around so that he had his back to Kishi.

  “I’m sorry for what happened, Tamaki. We couldn’t get your story into print.”

  No reply.

  “I’d like you to stick with the investigation team. I hear they’ve rebuilt the bulkhead up at the crash site.”

  There was a long pause before Yuuki heard Tamaki’s strained voice in his ear.

  “Yuuki-san, I won’t bring this up again, I promise, but can I ask you one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  For a while there was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Go ahead. It’s okay.”

  “If it hadn’t been you on the crash desk, Yuuki-san, would my article have gone to press?”

  Yuuki considered the question.

  “Yes. It probably would.”

  “I understand. Sorry for asking.”

  “If anyone’s going to apologize, it should be me. Just don’t forget, you have a long future ahead of you.”

  Empty words. No matter how long Tamaki did this job, he would never again encounter an accident of this magnitude. Yuuki already understood this, and a young reporter like Tamaki wouldn’t need much imagination to understand, too. But this was all he could say. Still, as recently as one week ago Yuuki himself had never imagined that anything bigger than Okubo/Red Army would ever again take place in Gunma Prefecture.

  Over by the wall, Oimura and Todoroki stood up and headed off to editor in chief Kasuya’s office. It was exactly two o’clock.

  Yuuki picked up the notepad on which he’d scribbled his ideas for articles and headlines, and followed. His phone call with Tamaki had felt almost like a purification ritual. Now he was prepared to face the management who wanted to move away from the JAL crash coverage on to something new. Yuuki was ready to motivate them to continue to fill the pages with detailed, informative articles. He was one hundred percent convinced that this was the single most important task left for the JAL crash desk chief.

  46

  “So, Yuuki, what’s on the menu today?” Kasuya asked.

  Yuuki checked his notes.

  “The body of the sole victim from Gunma Prefecture was ID’d, so I want to have that as the front-page headline. Related articles on the first and second local news pages to make a full spread.”

  Kasuya and Todoroki nodded. Yuuki looked at Oimura. He was looking over some documents that he’d brought in with him, and there was no sign of any reaction. Yesterday, they’d almost come to blows, so Yuuki wondered if that was influencing his behavior.

  Kasuya turned to Oimura a little anxiously.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve no objection to that. Just…”

  Oimura threw a quick glance in Yuuki’s direction, then slipped one of the documents he’d brought onto the table.

  “These four need to go on the front page.”

  Yuuki picked it up. There were four tentative headlines in list form.

  FUJIMIMURA MAYORAL ELECTION TO BE ANNOUNCHED TOMORROW

  AKAGIMURA ASSEMBLY VOTE TO BE ANNOUNCED TOMORROW

  CURTAIN UP ON KUTSATSU MUSIC ACADEMY

  FINALS OF GUNMA PREFECTURAL YOUTH BASEBALL TOURNAMENT

  “Of course, we’ll have to include head shots of both of the Fujimimura mayoral candidates, photos from the opening concert at the music academy, and, for the baseball, obviously we need a shot of the winning team’s celebrations. Got it?”

  Oimura’s tone was condescending. He was leaving no room for negotiation.r />
  “Well, the elections for sure—”

  Yuuki pointed to the other items on the list.

  “But the music academy can go on the second page of local and the youth baseball will be fine on the sports page.”

  “Impossible,” Oimura replied in his most serious voice. “The Kusatsu Music Academy is sponsored by the Agency for Cultural Affairs and Gunma Prefecture. You wouldn’t understand these things, but it was a star-studded lineup. The master cellist Pierre Fournier, the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s first French horn player Alan Civil, and the conductor David Shallon were all invited to participate. A prefectural newspaper is obligated to lead with a story like that.”

  “But that kind of story really doesn’t mesh with ones about the JAL crash. It’s just too cheery. And the youth baseball tournament definitely shouldn’t be on the front page.”

  Oimura pulled out another piece of paper and handed it to Yuuki. It was a photocopy of a preview announcement from the Kusatsu Music Academy that had appeared in the arts and culture section a few days earlier. In celebration of the three hundredth anniversary of the birth of Bach, there was going to be a fortnight of events with the theme “Bach and Sons.” In the mornings there would be a series of master classes, and in the afternoons lessons open to the general public, as well as concerts and a whole array of different events.

  “Can you imagine how much work went into arranging something on this scale? Schedule planning, negotiating with the overseas musicians, arranging accommodation, rehearsals, PR. It took them a whole year. All with the goal of creating today’s opening event. The sweat and tears of a lot of citizens of this prefecture went into this. Don’t force them to sacrifice all that. Flight 123 went down. Five hundred and twenty people died. But that and this are completely separate things. This music festival is unique; it’s attracted interest from overseas. Don’t you think it has as much news value as the Japan Airlines crash?”

  It was difficult to know how to respond. Yuuki had to admit that Oimura had made some very good points. And Yuuki knew that, just as he had prayed on that first day, if the jumbo jet had crashed on the Nagano Prefecture side of the border, even he would have had the attitude that it was someone else’s accident. He would probably be relaxing on the sofa at this very moment, watching the coverage on TV.