But it wasn’t.
Ayako Mochizuki had completely exposed herself. Her name, her address, her age, even that she was a second-year student at Gunma Prefectural University—all that information was included in her submission.
She hadn’t released an arrow under cover of darkness. There was no pseudonym. She was prepared to take full responsibility. She wanted her letter to be published and would deal with any reactions and repercussions it invoked.
A twenty-year-old girl.
He couldn’t throw this letter away. He’d reached that conclusion more than an hour ago, but he still couldn’t …
He got out of his seat.
He could think of many reasons not to print it, but if he peeled them away one by one, like the skin of an onion, there at the core was self-preservation.
He grabbed the telephone. He checked her number, and dialed.
After five rings, she picked up.
“Hello. This is Mochizuki.”
“This is Yuuki from the North Kanto Times. Thank you for coming in today.”
“Oh … right. What do you want?” she said in a firm voice.
“That letter. Do you really want us to print it?”
“Are you going to?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Please do.”
Yuuki moved his mouth closer to the receiver.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
He heard a sound that might have been a slight chuckle.
“Aren’t you the one who’s afraid, Yuuki-san?”
“Yes, I am.”
This time it was Yuuki who chuckled.
He replaced the receiver, stood up, rearranged his features, and headed over to the central island of desks. Inaoka, the man in charge of Heartfelt, saw him coming and raised a hand.
“The JAL crash special feature is all nicely put together.” Yuuki produced the piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and placed it in the middle of Inaoka’s desk for him to read.
“If you’ve got something similar in content, could you replace it with this one?”
“Hmm. A twenty-year-old female university student. Yuuki, you dark horse!”
But that was the end of any joking around. Inaoka’s eyes grew wide when he got to the end of the letter. He turned them on Yuuki.
“Wha— Are you … This?”
“Yes, this.”
Inaoka physically recoiled for a moment, then recovered and looked defiant.
“Come on. You’re kidding, right? Are you trying to get my retirement brought forward a year?”
“I promise I won’t make trouble for you, Inaoka-san. Just include it. Please?”
“It’s awful! Why do you want to publish such a horrible letter? It’s disrespectful to the victims of the crash and their bereaved family members.”
“It’s the opinion of a respectable, upstanding citizen. Common wisdom dictates that the media shouldn’t stifle opinion.”
“But—”
Noticing the commotion, people from the copy island and beyond had started to gather around. Ayako Mochizuki’s letter was being passed among them.
“Whoa!” came the rather loud reaction from Kamejima. “Yuuki, ignoring how unpleasant this letter is, in a way it really hits the nail on the head. But our paper isn’t some little private newsletter! It’s going to be read by all sorts of people.”
A number of voices were raised in opposition.
“This is suicide! If we publish this, tomorrow morning there’ll be a shitstorm of protest calls!”
“Mochizuki…? She’s not related to Ryota Mochizuki, by any chance?”
Everyone turned to look at Yuuki.
“She’s his cousin.”
An eruption of sighs and jeers.
“So what?” Yuuki looked around defiantly.
Kishi leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Yuuki, I don’t know what’s happened here, but stop. This is too much.”
“If you don’t know what’s happened here, then keep out of it.”
Yuuki met Nozawa’s eye. Normally, each would have broken eye contact with the other immediately, but now they held each other’s gaze.
“Yuuki!”
The familiar angry tones of Oimura came from somewhere behind him. The managing editor was holding the letter.
“Have you lost your mind? The families of the dead read this newspaper! Wasn’t it your idea to deliver copies for free to the families waiting in Fujioka? More than a thousand grieving relatives are going to read this anonymous defamatory smear! Have you forgotten that?”
“Defamatory smear?”
“It’s libelous! The families won’t stay silent. They’ll come complaining to the newspaper. What are we going to do if that happens? What are you going to do when the NKT ends up the subject of someone else’s media coverage?”
“The relatives aren’t going to complain.”
“Hey, we’re not going to escape scot-free just because the letter was written by a private citizen. If we publish it, we’ll be held responsible.”
“Well, obviously.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” yelled Oimura, grabbing him by the collar. “Are you trying to destroy the NKT? Do you think it’s fun to offend the victims’ grieving families?”
Yuuki grabbed Oimura’s collar in turn and pulled it as tight as he could.
“What makes you so sure that the victims’ families are going to react that way? Don’t you think that people who have lost their own flesh and blood will understand how that young woman feels?”
You could have heard a pin drop in the newsroom.
“I’m printing the letter. Got it?”
Yuuki’s face was right up in Oimura’s. It looked as if the Firecracker had already finished exploding. There were even signs of fear running through the muscles of his pallid face.
Several people rushed over and separated Yuuki and Oimura.
“The last four lines are the problem,” began Inaoka, looking at Yuuki, then Oimura. “If we could cut those lines, it’d be fine. It’d be more of a general observation.”
“No cuts!”
Inaoka looked panicked.
“Cutting isn’t uncommon. We always have to edit the letters because of special restrictions. There isn’t a letter we print that hasn’t somehow been altered.”
“I don’t want you to alter anything except perhaps the name. Publish it just with initials.”
“But—”
“Is a letter that’s been edited a true letter? Call yourself an ex-reporter?”
Lost for words, Inaoka just stared into space.
“Yuuki-san?”
Sayama now stood in front of Yuuki.
“I know how much you’re still affected by the Mochizuki case. But you don’t need to feel obliged. He killed himself. It’s not your fault.”
Yuuki closed his eyes.
“Don’t say it.”
But Sayama wasn’t put off that easily. His tone of voice was now the same as when he talked about his own father’s suicide.
“I can never forgive anyone who makes another feel responsible for their death. It’s unforgivable to put it on the living and cause them to suffer after you’re gone. That’s the most cowardly way to die.”
“I told you not to say it!”
Yuuki opened his eyes again and scanned the room.
“All I want is to make a newspaper. A real newspaper, not just pages of newsprint. We’ve all gotten so busy that we’re missing the signs. The North Kanto Times is on its last legs. We’ve all become the playthings of the executives, and the rot has set in. If we fail to print this letter, you all will spend the rest of your whole working lives just churning out more pages of newsprint.”
The newsroom was filled with the sound of breathing, nothing else.
“Let’s publish the letter in its entirety,” Yuuki continued. “An hour from now, anyone who doesn’t want to be involved had better go out and get themselves a cup of coffee.”
49
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There was no time to scream.
He lost any sense of a foothold, and his body suddenly plummeted. What was surely only a moment felt like eternity. The rope made a zipping sound and then went taut. His body jerked violently to a stop.
First overhang, Tsuitate rock face. Yuuki found himself dangling in midair under the giant roof.
He heard a worried voice calling down from above.
“Are you okay?”
He couldn’t see Rintaro, up there above the eaves of the roof, keeping Yuuki’s rope secure.
“Are you hurt?”
Yuuki couldn’t reply right away. The shock of falling had completely robbed him of his ability to think. All he could see was the ground, far below him. He realized that he was hanging upside down.
“Yuuki-san, stay calm. Please tell me what your situation is right now.”
Now he recalled what he’d been doing just before he’d fallen. He’d almost cleared the first overhang, mounted the final rung of his aider, reached up as far as he could with his right hand to hook another aider to one of the many pitons covering the rock wall. He was going to make it. But just as that thought had crossed his mind, his leg had begun to wobble. His knee unlocked, and his foot had slipped off the aider’s rung.
But he hadn’t fallen more than about a meter. Rintaro had stopped his fall. And yet, even in his relief, Yuuki was still in a desperate state.
“Yuuki-san! Can you hear me?”
Yuuki called out into the void.
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Do you have any injuries?”
“I’m all right … I think.”
“Are you completely suspended? Did you get separated from the aider?”
“No…”
He realized he wasn’t totally in midair. His right leg was tangled in the lowest rung of his aider, and bent to an angle of approximately forty-five degrees. That was what was holding him in his upside-down position.
“My leg’s caught in the aider. I’m hanging upside down.”
“Got it. Right, let’s try to pull you up a bit and get you upright again. Grip the rope with both hands. Brace your leg so that it doesn’t get separated from the aider.”
“Okay.”
“Here we go.”
The rope began to move with impressive force. His upper body was pulled steadily upright. He felt all the blood that had pooled in his head begin to flow back down.
“How is it? Are you back up again?”
“Yes.”
“Grab hold of the aider and steady yourself.”
“Got it.”
“Now rest for a moment. Take some deep breaths and try to get as calm as possible.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
His words sounded weak to his own ears.
He looked up. This giant dark rock was blocking his way. It seemed to be looking down on him, sneering. His mouth was completely dry. His hands and legs were trembling. His stamina and willpower were all completely used up. But worse than anything, terror had entered the core of his being and was eating away at his mind.
I can’t do it. I can’t climb this thing.
Just as he was about to lose his nerve completely, Rintaro called down to him again.
“Are you ready to go for it?”
Yuuki didn’t reply.
“One of the aiders is still usable, right?”
Rintaro was talking about the one he’d had in his hand right before he’d fallen. One end of it had been attached to his waist to prevent it from falling.
“It’s fine.”
“Great. So, let’s go.”
Silence.
“Yuuki-san, let’s go. While you’re still feeling it.”
It wasn’t only his words—Yuuki could feel Rintaro’s message of encouragement through the tension of the rope. If you wait too long, then you really won’t be able to climb anymore.
But he just couldn’t get that fire started in his mind. The urge to climb simply wasn’t there anymore. It felt shameful, but he had to admit it.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s any way I’m going to get over this roof.”
“No, you’re fine. You can do it.”
“It’s impossible. The piton is too far away. I can’t reach it.”
“No way. It can’t be.”
Rintaro was so matter-of-fact, it made Yuuki a little angry.
“I tried it just now and it was hopeless. I stood on the very top rung of my aider but I still couldn’t get there. Even the closest piton is out of my reach.”
“You should be able to reach it, because…” Rintaro’s voice suddenly grew more forceful. “Because it was Jun who placed that piton there.”
What?
Yuuki looked up, and it finally registered—all the metal pitons hammered into the rock—most of them were ancient and covered with rust. But one of them, the one closest to him now, still had a faint silvery sheen.
“I’m sorry I kept it from you until now. The thing is, last month we climbed together.”
Yuuki’s mouth was hanging open. Together…? Jun and Rintaro…?
“We came to check out the route. I’m sorry to be rude, but because it was going to be your first-ever real climb.”
Rintaro’s voice became more cheerful.
“Jun was saying, ‘My dad’s not so young anymore. He’s not going to be able to get over this roof.’ And so he added one more piton.”
Perhaps because Yuuki couldn’t see Rintaro’s face, the words carried an impressive strength of their own.
Jun left it here for me.
That fire was lit.
He curled his fingers into a fist and pulled with all his strength. This was one of those moments when you truly understand that human beings are almost entirely ruled by their emotions.
He raised his head and began to ascend the aider. Step by step, carefully, so as to keep the shaking to a minimum, he climbed up to the very top rung. The silver-colored piton seemed much closer this time.
He reached over his head with the other aider. Reprimanding his leg for shaking in fear, he stretched out his knee and arm as far as they would go. Every muscle in his body groaned. He thought his arm was going to be pulled out of its socket. Five more centimeters … three … he knew he could reach it. It was because he believed he could that he was able to hold this extreme pose for ten, twenty seconds.
The tip of the aider touched the piton. He wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or tears that got in his way, but he missed seeing that crucial moment.
Click.
That beautiful metallic sound reached his ears. It seemed to echo through the mountain.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to interrupt this father-son dialogue, but Rintaro stayed quiet, wordlessly working the rope as Yuuki climbed, and doubtlessly offering a silent prayer of thanks. Yuuki thought about how this rope connected him to Jun, now far away in Tokyo. And also to the Jun of that other day, seventeen years before.
50
Yuuki left the office just before ten in the evening.
He drove out of the parking lot with Ayako Mochizuki’s hoarse voice still haunting him.
“People’s lives. There are big lives and little lives, aren’t there?
“Heavy lives and lightweight lives; important lives, and lives that are … not. Those people who died in the JAL crash—their lives were extremely important to everyone in the mass media.”
He’d been so moved by these words that he’d vowed to ensure by any means possible that her letter would be printed on the readers’ letters page.
The final four lines were burned into his retina.
To all those who didn’t cry at the deaths of my father and my cousin: I won’t cry for you either. Not even for you who lost your lives in the world’s greatest, most heartbreaking accident—I have no tears.
He gripped the steering wheel with all his might.
He had to publish that letter. He couldn’t back out of it. As he thought about the possible reactio
n from the victims’ families, his stomach seemed to have detached itself from the rest of his insides and was rolling around. Would the newspaper be inundated with calls? They would be reading the North Kanto Times up in Fujioka City as they waited for their loved ones’ remains to be identified. Yuuki supposed that, if there was so much as one single protest from a family member, he would be forced to leave the paper.
He was almost home. This would be the first time since the crash that he had arrived home before Yumiko had gone to bed. Today Inaoka, as the man in charge of Heartfelt, had taken over the job of seeing the next day’s edition go to press. His attitude had been one of chivalry mixed with a kind of desperate abandonment.
“Yuuki, this page is my job. I’ll be responsible for the final layout. You go home.”
Yuuki took him up on his offer. He was longing to see Yumiko’s face. It was very possible that he was going to lose his job, and he felt that he needed to talk this over with his wife tonight.
Of course, Inaoka had stayed in the newsroom. But not a single other person had left, either, despite Yuuki’s offer for them to distance themselves from the publication of the letter. Even Oimura had stayed at his desk, making a whole slew of phone calls. He was probably doing everything in his power to make sure that, whether there were complaints from the bereaved families or not, Yuuki would be fired from the paper. By the time Yuuki parked in front of his house, he was convinced this would be the outcome.
Ever since his days on the police beat, he’d always taken his own key and let himself in when he came home. Tonight, as soon as he stepped through the door into the humid genkan entranceway, he could hear laughter coming from the living room. Yumiko and Yuka … and he could also hear Jun.
Everyone was still up. He hurried down the short corridor, feeling a mixture of happiness and confusion.
“Wow, you’re early!” said Yumiko, with a look of surprise.
Yuka was kneeling on the floor in front of the TV, her legs splayed out to the sides.
“Hi, Daddy!” she called out to him in a cheerful voice. Cross-legged next to her sat Jun. Their eyes met for a split second, but the moment his dad stepped into the room he abruptly turned his back and fixed his gaze on the TV screen. There was an exciting-looking dinosaur film on. Yuuki guessed it was the kind of thing they showed during the summer holidays.
Seventeen Page 33