Return to Hiroshima

by Bob Van Laerhoven

Hiroshima –Shiga residence – Nagai Shiga

  and his wife Akane – morning, March 15th 1995

  A formal Mr and Mrs Shiga are sitting opposite one another at the breakfast table.

  “What did we do wrong, Akane?” says Nagai Shiga.

  His wife looks up at him. His wife has always had something furtive about her. “We did the best we could,” Nagai Shiga continues. “We’re no different from other parents. What else could we have done?”

  “Perhaps he felt something in my belly,” his wife mumbles.

  “Please, Akane. Don’t start...”

  “My loneliness. My sadness. The life I no longer wanted.”

  “You’ve turned that episode into...”

  “Reizo was always such a lonely boy.”

  “We did our best! Some things are beyond your control.”

  “You were never there.”

  “I had to work hard, all the hours of the day, to get us to this, to where we are now.”

  “And where are we now?” his wife asks, her voice brittle. “That student you couldn’t keep your hands off when I was pregnant...”

  “Stop this!” the economist barks stiffly.

  * * *

  In the corridor, ready to leave for the university, Nagai Shiga calls his wife to the door. Their long marriage has evolved its rules and rituals and they still have to be obeyed. The illusion of everyday calm is important to him. His wife comes to him, refined and unruffled, as he prefers.

  “I gave him a copy of the photograph.”

  “Who?”

  “The inspector.”

  “When?”

  “When I walked him to his car.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Nagai Shiga hesitates: “For strategic reasons. I wanted to find out what he already knew. One thing is clear: the inspector’s visit wasn’t only about our son. He knows part of the truth. I tried to throw him of the scent.”

  “Why didn’t you want me to be there?”

  “I was afraid of your reaction. I didn’t tell him everything, Akane. I only told him that my brother had given me the photo on his last birthday and asked me to look after it.”

  “And what if he puts two and two together?”

  “I might not have sounded very convincing, I know, but I didn’t have much time to think about it. People do the strangest things in the heat of the moment. It happens all the time. The inspector asked me why my brother was being so secretive. He doesn’t know that Tomio confessed everything to me.”

  “If they find out that your brother was using his bank to launder Golden Lily money by investing it in Hong Kong it’ll be a national scandal, especially with the crisis. Then the name Shiga will become a synonym for shame.”

  “That’s why I tried to make sure they’ll keep looking for the treasure. If they don’t find it in the Abukama-do caves then they’ll think it was moved or that the whole story was just a myth after all. The authorities will think that Tomio died because he refused to divulge its location. You know how careful the government is these days with the banks. There isn’t a single minister who would dare insist on an investigation into the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank. Maybe, they’ll conduct some kind of inquiry, but it’ll only be symbolic.”

  “But if I’m not mistaken the oyabun who ordered Tomio’s execution knows better.”

  “The yakuza leader wanted to launder money by buying up companies in difficulty across the country. He was planning to borrow the money officially from Tomio’s bank, but he wasn’t planning to pay it back because it was revenue from the Golden Lily treasures. Result: laundered money.”

  “Why did Tomio decide to steer his own course if it was all so dangerous?” He notices, and not for the first time, that her lips are thin. They’re now pressed together, narrow and disapproving.

  “Rokurobei would have ended up controlling an important chunk of Japanese business output after the economy picked up. The international business world has known for years that our banks have close links with the yakuza and their criminal economy, but so much power in the hands of one oyabun was a step too far. Not to mention that fact that some consider him a psychopath…” Nagai Shiga shakes his head. “But Tomio had other reasons for not following Rokurobei’s instructions. Hong Kong is the biggest money laundering hub in Asia. By investing the Golden Lily’s money in Hong Kong he was convinced it would generate more revenue. Tomio was certain he was doing the right thing. He was thinking like a banker, Akane. He had faith in the power of numbers and presumed Rokurobei would see that his plan was better.”

  “The oyabun was clearly not convinced,” his wife responded dryly.

  “Tomio told me that Rokurobei is extremely nationalistic,” said the economist resignedly. “Tomio made a serious error of judgement. And sooner or later the mafia boss’s minions are going to be knocking on our door wanting to know what kind of relationship I had with my brother. You know the yakuza don’t like loose ends.”

  “What’ll you do then?”

  “Tell them what I did last night.”

  “Are you mad, Nagai?”

  “The best approach is to seed the truth with lies, Akane. I’ll tell them I received the photo from Tomio and I passed it on to the inspector. As far as I’m concerned the treasure still has to be found. If the yakuza figure that the police know about the Golden Lily, even if it’s bogus information, they’ll think twice about hurting us. They managed to camouflage Tomio’s death with a bank raid. They clearly want to be discrete, in their own way. But the death of another Shiga after he handed over a photo to the police with the location of the Golden Lily? Not even the yakuza would stick their necks out that far.”

  His wife doesn’t look convinced. Nagai Shiga smiles: “Do you remember how I predicted economic growth all those years? It was only when the recession seemed inevitable that I changed tack. The scandal lasted two whole months. I stuck to my guns in every interview: people had misquoted me, had been selective in what they heard me say. I had warned about the recession after all. Now they see me as one of the first to predict the economic crisis and they call me a visionary. It’s all a question of perception, Akane.”

  * * *

  Nagai Shiga leaves the house and points his zapper at his three litre Nissan Maxima. The lights flash without the usual click. He must have forgotten to lock it the night before. Nagai Shiga thinks nothing more of it. He’s relieved that the atmosphere at home has recovered the detached, neutral charge he prefers. He tries not to fret about the lie he told his wife. It wasn’t Tomio Shiga who came up with the idea of investing the Golden Lily’s money in Hong Kong. Tomio Shiga followed his brother’s advice, the renowned economist, the jack-of-all-trades.

  Nagai gets into the car and sticks the key in the ignition. It’s only then that he notices the cardboard box on the floor on the passenger side. He lifts it onto the passenger seat as the engine purrs. Did his wife leave it there? He sees the box is open and flips up its cardboard lid. The severed head of his son Reizo, the eyes wide open like an absurd comic book drawing, stares back at him. A shiver runs through Nagai Shiga’s body. His last coherent thought: Tomio told them about me. He hears a buzzing sound then a click. Reizo Shiga’s eyes appear to spit fire as the detonating device ignites the bomb attached to his ragged neck.

  The ensuing explosion blows out all the windows in the Shigas’ handsome residence.

  97

  Hiroshima – Dr Adachi’s apartment near the Peace Tower –

  Adachi and Rokurobei – morning, March 15th 1995

  “The art of shibari, an important part of our culture, had almost disappeared, until we were confronted with the need to torture prisoners during the Second World War to obtain information from them.”

  Dr Adachi is lying on the sun bed in his room, naked. A complex pattern of wet ropes criss-crosses his body. Rokurobei is crouched
beside him. He’s wearing a tiny pair of uv goggles, making his long face look like a fantasy being. The doctor stares at him, his eyes pinched against the powerful light.

  “The important thing was to knot the ropes tight enough but not too tight. As the sun dried them they were capable of breaking bones and damaging interior organs. It was a very slow process, doctor, and extremely painful. But today we only have a watery sun, not even enough to tempt the cherry blossoms to flower. Fortunately you’re a little vain. So pleasantly warm here under your sun bed, don’t you think?”

  The doctor coughs. “Why the needless cruelty? I’ve done you no harm.”

  The yakuza peers at him. “That’s what you think, doctor. Your friend, inspector Takeda, has documents in his possession he could only have acquired from my daughter Mitsuko. I want those documents and I want her. And I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve my goal.”

  “I already told you that Yori stole the papers from Mitsuko. You questioned her. You must have seen that she was telling the truth.”

  “I’m very particular when it comes to the truth. I smell a rat at the least hesitation.”

  Dr Adachi moves his head up and down like a captive horse. “The truth is that you take pleasure in suffering.”

  “Do you think so? Most people tend indeed to be taken in by my rather fear inspiring exterior, which I cultivate with care, you understand.” The giant leans forward. Adachi can feel his breath on his face. “The truth is that I’ve been terrified all my life. Every day, every hour, I’m tortured by unbearable terror.” Rokurobei’s breath smells of bitter almonds. “I’m not a healthy man, doctor. I take medicine for my thyroid gland, I have problems with my kidneys and I suffer from arthritis. And in spite of it all I’m the lawful emperor of Japan, a superior natural spirit. I’m scared of death and everyone else is scared to death of me. A magnificent paradox, don’t you think, but precious little comfort.”

  Adachi closes his painful eyes. “The biggest cowards are always the cruellest.”

  “You may be right, doctor. But believe me: my cruelty is reluctant. Its purpose is to reduce my fear, but it has the opposite effect. I should demonstrate the wisdom of my years and stop, but I can’t. Just as I can’t contain my idiotic need to chatter, sometimes to the point of indiscretion, with the people I’m about to kill. To be honest, I feel a certain kinship with them.”

  “Don’t try to convince me that you’re possessed by the legendary spirit of Rokurobei.”

  “Why not?” Adachi’s executioner replies. “I’ve no other explanation for who I am. I read poetry, I love beauty, I’m captivated by the mysteries of nature, I’m a lover of culture. But at the same time I see a profound ugliness everywhere, doctor. I wanted to be an angel, but I became a devil against my will.”

  “That’s what they all say, those egos coming apart at the seams. I had a good look at your birth certificate. You claim to be the lawful emperor of Japan and I’m sure you believe it. But in reality you’re the son of Emperor Hirohito and a concubine, a mekake.”

  98

  Hiroshima – in a rental car on the way to the Suicide Club squat –

  Kabe-cho – Takeda and Becht – March 15th 1995

  In the rental car on the way to the Suicide Club squat, Takeda is overcome by a sense of alienation. When the silence gets painful and he senses Beate looking at him, he says: “It’s an amazing coincidence that I met Yori through you and that she is – or was – the girlfriend of Reizo Shiga, the nephew of the unfortunate banker Tomio Shiga. Too much of a coincidence not to see the hand of fate in it all. A flash of intuition connecting the bank raid just after the Second World War with the recent attack on the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank and my desire to impress my superiors have totally changed my life.” Takeda leaves out the fact that it wasn’t intuition, but his attempt – twenty years earlier – to discover his father’s identity that had led him to the Golden Lily and the existence of secret units in the Japanese army. That topic was and remained a taboo.

  Beate looks out of the window. At breakfast she was alert and active, as if she had enjoyed a night of good sex. She had suggested they rent a car via the hotel and drive to Tokyo to warn the authorities. Takeda had protested and insisted she had already done enough, but his words crashed into a wall of stroppy determination. She wanted to go with him to the Public Security Commission and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was convinced that her presence would support his case. Takeda didn’t think so, but he didn’t tell her why.

  “Your life has changed too,” he concludes.

  “It’s like a Greek tragedy,” says Beate without turning her head. “The hero always gets into trouble with the gods one way or another. They send fate to get you. That’s the way it is. You’re their plaything.”

  Takeda frowns: “My wife believed in kyuuseijutsu, the Japanese form of astrology.” He turns to Beate. “Full of mysteries and rituals and hard as hell to figure out. That’s the way we Japanese like it.” Beate laughs and then feels cornered, not quite sure if his sarcasm was intended. “A month ago she read my horoscope. Her final words were: ‘The sword cuts like a bolt of lightning’. She said it meant something unexpected was going to happen.” Takeda looks outside. “According to her it could be something positive. I looked at the characters she had written and asked: ‘Don’t they say: something unthinkable is going to happen?’”

  Takeda slams on the brakes. One of Hiroshima’s incomprehensible traffic jams has suddenly materialised. They’re on Takeya-cho, heading for the Suicide Club squat. Takeda is hoping Reizo Shiga will be there. The local radio news station hasn’t mentioned anything about Takeda being on the run. Takamatsu must have changed his strategy after the encounter the night before. That was what Takeda had hoped for, but he’s still not comfortable with the situation. He figures that Takamatsu probably decided to continue hunting him down, but not via the police. He’s pretty sure that the commissioner advised the yakuza who arrived when he left Denny’s Diner to eliminate him as quickly as possible and without a fuss. The inspector has to admit that Beate had turned out to be very helpful thus far. But he’s still determined to leave for Tokyo alone.

  “Do you know the Star Wars saga?”

  Beate smiles. “That’s one of my weak points. I’m crazy about space opera. And I’ve seen every episode.”

  “They’re based largely on Japanese mythology. The background idea has its roots in what we nowadays call chanbara in fight movies, usually the warrior’s mythical struggle with fate occasioned by some minor event and by unexpected bonds between people who’ve never met before.”

  The photographer sticks out her chin. She seems smaller than she really is in the passenger seat of the car. “Star Wars has a happy ending,” she says stubbornly. She looks out at the busy street. There are no pedestrians. She wants to ask Takeda: how strong are those unexpected bonds? But she keeps it to herself.

  “That’s why the saga was such a success here. We’re not used to happy endings.”

  They’re making painfully slow progress. With every metre his knuckles get whiter on the steering wheel. From the side his deep-set eyes and the skin around the robust eye sockets seem strained.

  “What’s the matter, Akio? You look anxious.”

  “I was thinking about Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World.”

  Beate isn’t surprised that he keeps changing the subject. At that moment, the inspector is more preoccupied with himself than with the predicament he’s presently in. “A cyberpunk novel, if memory serves,” she answers. “By... by...”

  “Haruki Murakami. I read it in English hoping it would improve my fluency. I can’t remember much about it to be honest, just that it was complicated and dark. Some of the characters lived in a strange city surrounded by a wall and an impenetrable forest. The inhabitants of the city weren’t allowed to have a shadow. I still remember how I found that such a
pitiful idea for someone who was supposed to be a great writer. But to my surprise the image stayed with me, haunted me, as if it had latched on to something inside me. And now I feel as if a shadow lived my life instead of me, while I was imprisoned in a city surrounded by a wall and an impenetrable forest.” The inspector looks at her apologetically and then smiles: “I’m gibbering, I know it. The last forty-eight hours have left me feeling like a tsukimi specialist.”

  Beate raises her eyebrows. “How do you say that in English?” he asks. “The best I can think of is ‘the art of moon gazing’. The ancients used to stare at the full moon until they reached a state of transcendence. At that moment they saw the universe as it really is. It was so scary and confusing that it drove many of them mad.”

  Before she knows what she’s doing she runs her finger over his cheek, an intimate gesture, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t pull away; he just blinks for a second or two, surprised. “You’re not mad, Akio,” she says “You’re just sad.”

  99

  Hiroshima – Dr Adachi’s apartment near the Peace Tower

  – Adachi and Rokurobei – March 15th 1995

  Rokurobei has a habit of getting close to his victims. He now does the same with Adachi as he did with Dr Kanehari and Reizo Shiga. In the light of the uv lamps, his enormous, angular, slightly crooked head appears nothing short of monstrous.

  “By saying I’m the son of a concubine I presume you’re trying to make me angry, doctor, in the hope that I will hasten your death. Smart, but not smart enough. You know as well as I do that the children sired by the emperor with a concubine are officially registered to ensure their right of succession to the throne. I was scrapped from the register because I was sickly, not because I’m the son of a mistress.”

  “I read the documents.” Adachi’s voice is little more than a whisper. “The doctors were convinced you would die before you were six months old. The imperial physician experimented on you on his own initiative. He gave you the growth hormone somatropin, among other things. In those days they had to harvest it from the pituitary glands taken from fresh corpses. How many Manchurian prisoners of war had to die to keep you alive, kotaishi?” On Adachi’s lips the word for “crown prince” sounds like an insult.