Tokyo Redux
Page 19
I told you, said Kazuko Kawada, pulling her hand away, taking out a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron. He had his back to me, his face turned away…
Could he have been a foreigner?
A foreigner, like you…?
Maybe a Korean?
We get enough of them in here, these days, said the manager, Mister Niide, from across the aisle. Throwing their weight around, acting like they own the place.
Harry Sweeney turned to look across the aisle at Mister Niide and said, But you still take their money, yeah? Let them use the phone, do you?
Hey, said Mister Niide. As long they’ve got some, I’m happy to take it. Money’s money.
Harry Sweeney looked from the manager to the waiter to the cook, then back to the waitress, and said, So anyone wanting to use that phone, they have to ask one of you, yeah? And so that morning, the fifth of July, one of your customers, he asked to use the phone, he asked one of you.
Had to have done, said the manager, nodding, looking at the waiter and the cook. Must have done.
So which one of you was it, said Harry Sweeney, turning to look across the aisle again, to stare at the waiter –
The waiter – the nervous man, gaunt and tall – pulled at the collar of his shirt and said, Okay, okay, it was me.
You, said the manager. Why didn’t you –
Because you pay them fucking peanuts, said Harry Sweeney. So he pocketed the man’s change, that’s why.
Mister Kojima, the waiter, tore off his bow tie, threw it down on the table, put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a fistful of coins, and slapped them down on top of the table: There you go. Keep it all, I don’t care, he said, standing up –
Sit down, barked Harry Sweeney. Save your walk-out until after I’m gone, till after we’re done.
The man slumped back down at the table, scowling across the aisle at Harry Sweeney, not speaking, just waiting.
What did he look like?
Who, said the man.
The goddamn Emperor of Japan, hissed Harry Sweeney. Who d’you fucking think I mean?
Don’t know, said the man.
Harry Sweeney stared at the man as he said, That morning, the fifth of July, sometime after half past nine, but before ten o’clock, you were in the kitchen, and a man stuck his head inside, asked to use the telephone. I know he did, and how I know he did is because then that man called me, and so you’re going to tell me what he fucking looked like –
But I don’t know, said the man, glancing over at Kazuko Kawada, the waitress trying and failing not to cry. I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember…
Young, old – you must remember something?
Look, I was busy preparing the orders, said the man. The food, the drinks. I glanced over my shoulder, took his change, and then he was gone…
But he spoke to you, and so his voice –
Just a couple of words. Softly spoken, polite, I think. But that’s all I remember…
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
I’m sorry, said the man.
Me, too, said Harry Sweeney, looking across the table at Kazuko Kawada, the waitress with her head bowed, her shoulders trembling, tears falling onto her apron and her dress. Harry Sweeney closed his notebook, put the notebook and his pencil back inside his jacket pocket. He picked up the statement by Lee Jung-Hwan from the table, folded it back up, and put it in another pocket of his jacket. He picked up his hat from the chair beside him and stood up. He stared down at the staff of the Coffee Shop Hong Kong, shook his head, then turned and walked out through the door, the door banging, slamming shut behind him.
Harry Sweeney walked down the underground passage to the ticket gate to the station. He showed his pass, went through the gate and down the steps, onto the platform. The trains for Asakusa to the left, the trains for Shibuya to the right, a blast of wind rushing out of the tunnel and along the platform, picking up the scraps of paper and the ends of cigarettes. Harry Sweeney gripped his hat, held it tight as a train for Asakusa pulled into the station, the screams of its wheels and brakes piercing his ears again. Harry Sweeney waited for the doors to open, for the people to get off, the people to get on, then Harry Sweeney stepped into the brightly lit carriage, the doors closing behind him, the train pulling out as Harry Sweeney walked through the carriage, then the next carriage, and the next, and the next, until he came to the front of the train, found a seat in the carriage at the front of the train, sat down, and took off his hat. He reached for his handkerchief to wipe his face and then his neck, but his handkerchief was gone, and so he used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his forehead, to wipe his mouth, then he put his hat back on and looked up and down the carriage, then across the aisle, at the passengers. Men here, men there, some wearing hats, some carrying fans, some in jackets and some in ties, sleeping or reading, their book or their paper. Back pages and front pages, in their hands or left on a seat, an empty seat. Harry Sweeney picked up the discarded newspaper and began to read the headlines and the articles beneath: POLICE MEASURES TAKEN TO CHECK LAWBREAKERS: Not Aimed at Trade Unions, Says Hepler, Refuting Russian Allegations / SOVIETS WORKING FOR JAPAN CHAOS, U.S. COUNTERBLAST TO ACCUSATIONS AGAINST OCCUPATION POLICIES: Local Reds Instructed to Create Fear, Unrest, Confusion, Says McCoy / JAPANESE DUTY TO RESIST SOVIET OCCUPATION MOVE SAYS P.M. YOSHIDA / SHIMOYAMA WAS KILLED, ATT’Y GEN. PRONOUNCES: Mystery Death Caused by Foul Play –
Harry Sweeney stopped reading, looked up from the paper, its headline and its articles. The train had stopped, the carriage was empty. They had reached the Asakusa terminal, the end of the line. Harry Sweeney put the paper back down on the seat beside him, stood up, and got off the train, onto the platform. He walked up the steps to the ticket gate, showed his pass, and went on through the gate. He walked up the sloping passageway, past the basement entrance to the Matsuya department store, and up the steps to the Asakusa Tōbu line station. He walked up the second flight of stairs to the platforms and the trains. He showed his pass at the ticket gate and walked onto the platform. He went briskly down the platform, got onto a train to his left, a local train about to leave, but he did not look for a seat. He stood by the doors and watched them close, watched the train pull out of the station, on its elevated tracks, he stared out through the windows of the doors as the train crossed the bridge, crossed the river, the Sumida River, staring out at the river, the Sumida River, on this yellow train across this iron bridge, the river, the Sumida River, there down below him, stretched out before him, so still and so black, so soft and so warm, inviting and welcoming, tempting, so tempting, always tempting, so tempting, the river, the Sumida River, a man disappearing, a man vanishing, so tempting, very tempting, to disappear and to vanish, into the air, into the night, but then the river was gone, the Sumida gone, temptation gone, gone for now. Harry Sweeney blinked, blinked and wiped his eyes, the train going down the line, stopping at the stations, Narihirabashi then Hikifune, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, down the line, over the crossings, station after station, Tamanoi and on to Kita-Senju, then across another bridge, another iron bridge, across another river, the Arakawa River, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, the prison looming, Kosuge Prison, from out of the shadows, in the night, black on black, the tracks raised again, elevated again, on embankments and over girders, Harry Sweeney staring out through the windows of the doors, staring down at the other tracks to his right, crossing the Jōban line, they were crossing the Jōban line, crossing close to the scene, they were close to the scene, the scene of the death, the death of Shimoyama, Sadanori Shimoyama, down there, there on the tracks, there down below, stretched out before him, below and before him, stretched out and taunting him, Harry Sweeney blinking again, taunting and taunting him, Harry Sweeney wiping his eyes, again and again, Sadanori Shimoyama taunting him –
To
o late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
Harry Sweeney got off the train at Gotanno station. He walked with the men and the women, with their briefcases and their handbags, down the platform to the ticket gate. He held up his pass and he passed through the gate. He turned left and walked south down the main street of Gotanno, passing wooden shacks offering cheap food and strong alcohol, their lanterns floating in the thick, black, insect air, then past a sweetshop and a hardware store, a tobacconist and a greengrocer, already closed for the night, closed to the world. He came to a crossroads, turned left to walk east, and found himself opposite the Suehiro Ryokan. He stood on the other side of the street, staring across the road at the tall wooden fence, the tops of the trees smudged gray in the dark, smudged and shielding the shabby, gloomy, two-storied inn, hiding and obscuring that place of shabby, gloomy trysts and assignations, this hidden and obscured place of deception and lies. Harry Sweeney coughed, banged his chest with his fist, cleared his throat, spat upon the ground, then walked on, down the road, under the metal girders of the bridge, under the tracks of the Tōbu line, until he came to the Gotanno Minami-machi police box.
The young uniformed police officer, sat alone behind the small counter in the police box, looked up from his hands, blinked nervously, and asked, Yes?
Public Safety, said Harry Sweeney, taking out his badge again, holding up his badge again.
Yes, yes, excuse me, said the young officer, standing up behind the counter, bowing, and nodding his head. I remember you, sir. What can I do for you, sir?
Harry Sweeney put away his badge, took out his notebook, flicked through the pages, then looked up and said, Missus Take Yamazaki? Can you give me directions, please?
Yes, yes, said the young officer, nodding. But it might be easier if I came with you, if I showed you, sir?
Harry Sweeney shook his head, smiled, and said, Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Just the directions, please.
I see, said the young officer, nodding again, gesturing with his right hand, pointing out of the door of the police box. Well then, you need to head back under the tracks, then cross the road and follow the embankment south. You’ll see rows of houses beside the embankment. It’s a bit of a rabbit warren, so you’re probably best just to ask again when you get there.
Harry Sweeney nodded, thanked the young officer, and then stepped back out of the police box and back into the night, the black night and its thick, wet, insect air –
Hang on a moment, said the young officer, picking up a handheld paraffin police lamp, lighting the lamp, offering it to Harry Sweeney. Best to take this and all. You need to watch out for the ditches and the drains…
In the light from the police box and from the police lamp, in the thick, wet, insect air, Harry Sweeney looked at the young officer and he smiled and he said, Thank you.
You know, said the young officer, quietly, softly, handing the lamp to Harry Sweeney, then looking down at his empty hands, holding out his empty hands, rubbing the fingers and thumbs of his hands together. You know, I can still feel him on my hands. No matter how many times I wash them, I can still feel the pieces of him…
The pieces of him, asked Harry Sweeney.
The pieces of his skin, the pieces of his flesh, whispered the young officer, staring down at his hands, the ends of his fingers. In the rain, that morning, when they made me pick up his clothes, made me put them in that box, from along the tracks, all along the tracks, all covered in mud, all covered in blood, there were pieces of his skin, pieces of his flesh, still on his clothes, all over his clothes. I can still feel them, still feel them, on my hands, between my fingers, no matter how many times I wash my hands, I scrub my fingers, I can still feel him…
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney, reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of the young officer, to pat the shoulder of the young man, gently, softly. I’m sorry.
Will it ever stop, asked the young officer, looking up from his hands and his fingers, staring up at Harry Sweeney. You think it will ever go away, sir?
I hope so, said Harry Sweeney, quietly and softly, and then Harry Sweeney turned away from the young officer, walked away from the police box, carrying the lamp, holding up the lamp, heading back under the bridge and under the tracks, crossing the road, and then going south, following the embankment, through the night – things moving in the night, things crawling in the shadows, insects biting and dogs barking – until he came to the houses, the rows of houses, some with their lights on, some in darkness, darkness and silence.
Harry Sweeney stopped before one of these weather-beaten, moss-stained, barely-still-standing tenement houses, one with a light and a radio on, a thin, sad melody leaking into the night, mixing in the air with the smell of sweet potatoes and human excrement, and Harry Sweeney tapped on its lattice door, then slid open its wooden door: Excuse me…?
What a fright, cried an old skinny man, sprawled on the floor in his underwear, half under a battered, low table, half propped up on a stained, thin cushion. A foreigner!
I’m very sorry, said Harry Sweeney, glancing around the single room, seeing a woman rising from her bedding in the shadows, watching the man trying to get his feet out from under the table, knocking over the empty bottle and glass on the table. I’m looking for Missus Yamazaki’s house…?
Too late, said the old skinny man, coughing and wheezing. Too late then, aren’t you.
What do you mean?
They’ve gone, haven’t they, said the man, waving his right hand around. Her and her husband, they’ve flit.
Flit where?
Damned if I know, laughed the man. But bet it’s someplace nice. They come into money, didn’t they.
You shouldn’t say that, whispered the woman from the shadows. You don’t know that.
You can shut up, said the man, coughing again, wheezing again. Know more than you, is what I know. Know she was talking to all them newspapermen, all them interviews she was giving them, telling them anything they wanted her to tell them, long as they paid –
Stop it, said the woman. Shouldn’t say things like that. She’s never been well, has Take-chan, always had it hard.
And we fucking ain’t, said the man. Everybody’s had it hard, still got it hard. She ain’t doing so bad now…
You don’t know anything about her, said the woman. You never spoke to her. I did. She was afraid.
Afraid, asked Harry Sweeney.
From her bedding, from the shadows, the woman said, Yeah, afraid. Told me she wished she’d never opened her mouth, wished she’d never got involved. It was her husband who made her, made her say all that…
Good on him, laughed the old skinny man. Hasn’t worked out too bad for them, has it? Got them out of here.
In the doorway, on the threshold, holding up the lamp, looking at the woman, on her bedding, in the shadows, Harry Sweeney asked, But what was she afraid of, who was –
I don’t know, said the woman, lying back down on her bedding, turning her face back to the shadows.
Don’t know, my ass, said the man. The fucking cops is who she was afraid of, everybody knows that, and everybody knows why. Selling rice, wasn’t she –
Shut up, shouted the woman, turning back round, sitting back up. Shut up, you old git!
Why, laughed the old skinny man. Not a secret, is it? Everybody knows, the cops know. That’s how they got her to say what they wanted, do whatever they wanted, isn’t it? Because she was selling rice on the black market.
I can’t believe you’ve just said that, whispered the woman, shaking her head, looking at Harry Sweeney, shaking her head again, pointing at Harry Sweeney. You don’t know who he is, you’ve no idea who he is, you stupid old fool. You could have just signed her death warrant…
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice wa
s gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
So what, laughed the man, then coughing again, wheezing again. We’re all going to die, ain’t we.
On the threshold, in the doorway, Harry Sweeney turned and stepped out of this weather-beaten, moss-stained, barely-still-standing house, and slid the door shut, the thin, sad melodies of the radio drowned by shouting and screaming, the smell of sweet potatoes now gone, the stench of human excrement still strong, stronger than ever, the insects biting deeper, the dogs barking louder as Harry Sweeney walked away down the alley, along and beside the embankment again, heading south again, Harry Sweeney going south again, until he came to the place where the embankment met another embankment, where the tracks of the Tōbu line crossed over the tracks of the Jōban line –
In the thick, wet, insect air, the police lamp in one hand, Harry Sweeney clawed one-handed up the embankment of the Jōban line, up and onto the tracks of the Jōban line. Dripping with sweat, wiping a hand on his jacket, Harry Sweeney turned to the west and saw the lights across the river, the Arakawa River, the lights of Kita-Senju. Then, turning to the east and holding up the lantern, Harry Sweeney saw the metal bridge of the Tōbu line tracks overhead, saw the ballast, the sleepers, and the rails of the Jōban line tracks at his feet, saw them disappearing around the bend, vanishing under the bridge. Between the rails, over the sleepers, and through the ballast, Harry Sweeney followed the tracks around the bend and under the bridge, under its girders, under the tracks, under the bridge and along the tracks, walking along the tracks, pacing out the distance: one yard, two yards, three yards, four, until he came to the place, he came to the spot –
In the night, the thick, wet, insect night, on the tracks, between the rails and on the ballast, the chipped and broken, stained pieces of stone, someone had rested a bouquet of flowers, white chrysanthemums tied with black ribbon, on the tracks, in the night, left in this place to mark the spot. And in this night and on these tracks, between the rails, on the ballast, Harry Sweeney crouched down and set the lamp down, in this night and on these tracks, Harry Sweeney reached out to touch the petals, to hold the petals, and Harry Sweeney touched the petals, Harry Sweeney held the petals, he touched the petals and he held the petals, the night beginning to tremble, the tracks beginning to tremble, the rails humming and the ballast jumping, faster and faster, a train coming down the line, its wheels turning on the tracks, around the bend and under the bridge, closer –