by Riku Onda
I said my piece and the woman went quiet for a few moments.
I could hear some kind of background noise, which I had noticed from the first but was unable to identify, although it crossed my mind that she may have been speaking outside.
In that brief period of silence, however, it suddenly struck me what the sound was.
The sound of waves.
The woman must be calling from somewhere very close to the sea. And for the life of me I cannot say why, but at that moment I had an image of the ocean on the Hokuriku coast.
When she spoke again it was to praise Miss Saiga for all the effort she had put into researching her book, and said that she must have visited K— city numerous times and spoken to many acquaintances to have recorded the events of the past with such care.
Her tone was different. She sounded wheedling and gave the impression that she wanted something from me, though I could not fathom what that might be. However, my guard was up.
I replied, with some caution, that yes, Miss Saiga had been very conscientious in her research. Then I asked for her name and contact details in a businesslike manner.
She gave no answer. Instead, she was simply silent, then all of a sudden she hung up.
Again, I cannot pinpoint the reason why, but this unnerved me.
However, in that gap before she hung up, I overhead a brief snatch of conversation. And I could tell that there was another woman next to the caller, who was much younger and spoke in a very sharp voice.
My instincts told me she was the one who had asked the middle-aged woman to make the call. Hence, the person who was really acquainted with the author must be the young woman. The actual caller did not know her at all.
I was rather uneasy about all of this.
Why did the young woman not make the call herself if she knew the author? And why would she not give her name?
I pondered this for some time after putting the receiver down.
It was most disquieting. What was it that she wanted to know?
VIII
Are you in the process of writing a book?
Is it by any chance another review of this case?
A non-fiction work about a work of non-fiction? Hmm, that is an interesting concept. Currently there is a boom in books about the Showa era. Perhaps because the last generation to have experienced war is growing old and feels a sense of crisis. Personally, I would like to see more younger people with international experience bring a fresh and objective perspective to bear on the period.
Have no fear, I am not asking you to answer that.
Keep your ambition close to your chest, is what I always say. If you speak of a project before completion the magic will disappear. You have to let it mature inside you, not bring it out for discussion with anybody.
Look out of this window. See how the street fills up with more and more people once afternoon comes.
Students, businessmen killing time, academics, foreigners.
No doubt there are editors, writers and researchers amongst them, each one engaged in their own mental and spiritual pursuits according to their own particular style. Patiently working on pet projects, nursing ambition, their sights set several years ahead. Researching. Thinking. Writing.
Some will founder along the way, of course. Some manuscripts will end up discarded, never to be seen by anybody. Others, however, will blossom and be sent out into the world to bear fruit, as it were, producing excellent results.
There are also people walking around down there with the seeds of ideas in their heads that have not yet germinated into words on the page.
I always feel heartened to look out of this office window onto a street lined with second-hand bookshops.
I feel reassured that the world is full of books that people are steadily reading their way through. No matter how much information may be available, or how easy it is to come by, when all is said and done books can only be read by working one’s way through them, line by line, page by page.
There is an old saying to the effect that when an elderly person dies a library disappears.
That undoubtedly holds true for each and every one of the shops on this street.
I have haunted this area since my student days. I was nervous at first about going into the bookshops because I felt as if anything I did would be scrutinized by the owner and my intelligence judged. I would think long and hard before pulling any book from a shelf.
Yet once I overcame my nervousness I discovered that the bookshop owners have an astonishing trove of knowledge.
On one occasion I was looking for reference materials, searching for a certain novel in translation, and when I mentioned the title to the shop owner he told me – off the top of his head – that three translations had been put out by different publishers before the war, but all were out of print now, though the most recent, which was the 1944 version, had been on that shelf over there until very recently. I was flabbergasted, as you might imagine.
I had many similar experiences at other bookshops and have learned a tremendous amount from the owners over the years. I continue to benefit from their erudition to this day and have the greatest respect for them and the storehouse of knowledge that they acquire in the course of their daily business.
Which is why I hope they will always be there. May that precious storehouse of knowledge always be safe from unforeseen events too, such as earthquake or fire. I sincerely hope that from the bottom of my heart.
What? Yes, I suppose I am slightly emotional.
Perhaps you are not aware. The M bookshop referred to in that notebook no longer exists.
It burned down.
IX
I discovered this only recently myself.
Last week I went on a business trip to K— city. Since you had just contacted me and I was feeling slightly nostalgic, I put the book into my briefcase to renew my acquaintance with it on the train. It was an emotional journey in more senses than one, so to speak, to flick through it again and read the occasional section. Of course, it made me think of her research notes again as well.
As I had a bit of time on my hands when I arrived, I took a walk through the second-hand bookshop district.
In particular I wanted to look in the M shop.
But although I searched all over I could not find it anywhere.
Eventually I asked a local and was told that it had burned down quite some time ago. Apparently the fire had begun in the residence of an elderly person who lived alone behind the bookshop, and had spread from there. This neighbour had also died in the fire.
The couple that owned the bookshop lived off the property and were unharmed. Their rare books were kept in a safe at home, fortunately. However, everything in the shop was lost. You can imagine how all that paper must have fuelled the blaze. I expect it went up in a very short time.
The owners were insured, but it is not as though their stock of books was replaceable. Apparently they have decided against reopening the shop.
I was rather upset about the whole incident. Whenever I go on a business trip or holiday I always like to visit the second-hand bookshops. And in this case the M shop’s connection to a book that I had worked on made it doubly interesting to me.
What year was the fire, did you say?
Well now, I think it was a year after the book came out…
Yes, that is correct, now I think about it. It would have been just around the time we received that strange phone call. But I could not say now which came first.
X
I never met Miss Saiga again, but we do exchange New Year greetings cards. She almost never writes any news of herself, though she did write that she had found a job at a pharmaceutical company and had married. It was my impression that she was well and truly set on her path in life, and so I refrained from further contact with her.
However, I did receive one postcard out of the blue.
I think that would have been about six years after publication.
The message w
as very simple.
She had had reason to go back to K— for the first time in a long while, and the crepe myrtle was in full bloom again. Something like that… it was a very dry letter.
You will not find that postcard in the cardboard box, however. If you want to see it, I can bring it with me next time. But truly, that was all it said.
A poem?
Ah, you mean the poem that was left at the scene of the crime.
She did not put the poem in her book, but she did know the wording. She showed it to me, in confidence.
So you know about it too?
All that was said about it in the newspapers at the time was that it contained a foreign name. Even now nobody knows the significance of that name, and although it was believed the perpetrator wrote the poem, that too was never confirmed.
It is a curious poem, though, if it can be called that. Is it really a poem, I wonder, or a letter?
Apparently the police researched thoroughly the possibility of it being a quotation of some kind, but came to the conclusion it was most likely invented by the person who wrote the letter. The name Eugenia is not common by any means. People connected with the case were questioned repeatedly about it. Was it significant to them? Was it a pet name for anyone they knew – that kind of thing – but in the end the police dug up no clues whatsoever.
If you take it as written, it can be read to mean that Eugenia refers to that family whom the sender knows and has come to take revenge on. But in the end police were never able to find any connection between the perpetrator and the family.
The handwriting was also very bad. Whether that was intentional we do not know, but it did make it difficult for experts to identify the sex or age of the writer.
It was found on a table under a single flower vase. That fact alone suggests that it was put there in order to be discovered and read.
Miss Saiga and I once looked that letter over together and discussed it. What kind of letter it was, who had written it and for what purpose, et cetera.
She asked me my opinion.
In my profession I am used to dealing with handwritten manuscripts and various types of handwriting, but I could not be sure of anything with that example. I gave her my honest opinion nonetheless.
It was my feeling that a woman wrote the letter. There was something about the writing and choice of words that did not seem quite masculine to me. I think that is what I said to her. That was my impression, anyway.
Then she asked if I thought it could also be taken as a love letter.
I told her that I did think it could be read that way.
Though as a love letter, I did feel that it was somewhat threatening. I am sure the intended recipient would feel alarmed by it.
That is basically what I told her. These days a woman who sent that might be said to have paranoid, stalker-like tendencies. But the word stalker was not in use back then.
I asked her for whom she thought the letter was intended.
And she replied, quite matter-of-factly, “That whole family, don’t you think?”
In which case it would mean that the person who wrote the letter had some kind of grudge against the family.
But when I put it to her like that, she shook her head.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she told me. “I don’t know if the person had a grudge against them, but I do think that this letter was addressed to the family.”
Her answer was so cool and matter-of-fact that somehow I could not dispute it.
But in that moment, I did think it conceivable that she had an idea of the perpetrator’s identity.
She appeared to think it over for a while and then spoke again, in a manner that suggested the thought had only just occurred to her:
“The person who wrote this letter is in darkness.”
“In darkness?” I replied.
“That’s right. I have the feeling that this person is in a dark place,” she repeated.
“A dark place? What do you mean?” I asked her. “That person’s surroundings? Or their mental state?”
Again, she shook her head in answer.
“I don’t know. I just have a feeling it might be both.”
Then she pointed at the letter.
“Look at the second half. ‘The song that rises to my lips / The insects of the woods crushed beneath my shoes in the morning.’ See how it continues, ‘And this tiny heart of mine ceaselessly pumping blood.’ I think these are sounds the writer hears.”
“Sounds?” I asked her, then reread the poem.
“Don’t you think the writer is describing what he or she is hearing, not seeing?” she said. “The writer hears a song, the sound of insects being crushed underfoot, and the sound of a heart beating. Hears, not sees. That’s why I sense darkness in this poem.”
“Point taken,” I told her. Then I put it to her that the long ago dawn in the first half suggested a visual sensation.
Once again she shook her head in answer.
“Before that comes the word shivering. Which suggests that this writer senses changes in time and the nearing of dawn, through changes in the temperature. A person in darkness perceives the passage of time through their skin.”
Once she had said that much, even I could see who she suspected.
The girl who survived, the one who had lost the light.
Therefore I asked Miss Saiga – circumspectly, mind you – if she believed her to be the author of the letter.
She hesitated a while, then mumbled, “I don’t know.”
She spoke flatly and without expression. It did not sound as if she were speaking reluctantly; she truly did not seem to know.
That was very like her. Though she was articulate and direct, one never knew what she was thinking. She had a certain aura, as if there were a grey mist hanging over her that warded off anything more than superficial interaction. I always felt slightly uneasy when speaking with her.
However, I was greatly impressed by her interpretation of that poem. It gave me a new appreciation of her ability to investigate and analyse complicated issues. In fact, I believe that for her, writing the book was an exercise in her utilizing her talent to the maximum.
XI
What is the truth, really?
How do you go about proving what happened on a certain day in a certain place?
Say a murder takes place at an isolated house in the mountains.
Four people, with complicated interrelationships, kill each other.
Everybody involved dies, and several months go by. The house was cut off from society to begin with. Nobody knew there were four people there, nobody knew they even existed. Eventually a storm comes and the house is flattened by a landslide, then finally the land becomes a wild field. The house and bodies are never discovered.
In such a case, did something happen? Naturally it was a tragedy for those involved. But what is it to us? And to the world? There was violence, but if that is never made known to us, is it not the same as if nothing ever happened?
In one sense, something can only be recognized as having happened if there is a record of it.
Miss Saiga said that she wrote the book as material.
At the time of the murders she was still in primary school. It is my guess that writing about them was a way for her to confirm to herself that it happened. And through that process she was finally able to recognize her connection. I feel sure that book was written for herself. Through writing about the crime, she discovered it.
In the process, she also discovered the culprit. The person she believed to be responsible.
I remember that she did do some research on the law regarding the statute of limitations.
She was particularly interested in the suspension of the statute of limitations and looked into cases of suspects going overseas. Apparently time spent abroad can extend the deadline on the statute of limitations.
I am sure you can see where I am heading with this. Who it was that she suspected.
/> There is the matter of the letter, but it is likely that she had suspected this person for quite some time. At least, that is what my instincts tell me.
And they also tell me that she is in pursuit of this person even now. But, strangely enough, I do not think that her aim is to apprehend the person in question or extract a confession. It is my belief that her object is something different. That the pursuit of this person has become her mission in life and, as with the book, she does it only for herself.
But let us say that she did manage to get hold of the truth. If she did, well, I for one do not believe she would write a book about it. If she herself is satisfied, that would be sufficient for her. A shame, is it not? It is a strange trait, if I do say so myself. Another fact gets buried. And with no record then, regrettably, it will be as if it never happened.
So, if you do happen to write about her or about this case, I beg of you, please do keep me informed. Make sure to keep backup copies of your material. And, just to be on the safe side, please do telephone me often.
Promise me that much, all right?
11
THE DREAM PATH: PART TWO
The detective
I
Sorry about the racket before. The grandchildren are here – my youngest son’s boys.
We’re a very male family. The eldest son’s got two boys too.
Course I’m fond of them, but they do get excited. I can last hours if I’m interrogating during an investigation – even now – but when it comes to playing with the grandchildren, just half an hour does me in. And they get heavier every time I see them.
Ah, but I never imagined the day would come I’d hold grandchildren in my arms. Happens before you know it. One day suddenly there were these little kids calling me Grandpa… it was a real shock, I tell you.
Not at all, I feel more relaxed outside. And it’s easier to talk while walking.
Facing someone over a table reminds me too much of the job. Makes it hard to settle down for a proper chat.
No, I don’t do much now. Teach kendo to children once a week, that’s about all. I’m just your average retired senior citizen.