Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

“Suicide?” Xavier replies in immaculate Japanese. “In your case, that would be a waste of talent.” He’s laying on the flattery with a trowel, but it’s working. Reizo drags both hands through his hair, sniffs and bends over to his companion. “A foreigner – one of the unclean – who speaks Japanese. This’ll be fun,” he says. The other boy shrugs.

“What were you doing with my fiancé? Seducing her with your Western talk?” Xavier assumes that Reizo is playing a role and isn’t quite sure if he believes in it himself.

“I’ve only just arrived in the city,” he says. “I met Yori on the street. She gave me some tips, that’s all. I’m Belgian.” If Yori was telling the truth, Reizo is an extreme nationalist. Xavier doesn’t want him thinking he’s an American. Reizo ignores the information, grabs Xavier’s nose and pinches it hard. “Tips? On how better to fuck her?” Another bad sign. The Japanese don’t talk about sex in public, except when they’re drunk.

Reizo’s companion pulls out a hard plastic container from between his feet. He opens it. Xavier can’t see the contents. His nose hurts. He has to stay calm. He tries his old trick again. “Why would I do that? I’m gay.”

Did Reizo even hear him in the state he’s in? He surprises Xavier by pointing at the print on Xavier’s T-shirt: speaking is NOT communication . “I don’t believe you. I was watching you. You wanted to stick your pale chinko into her, you dirty yarichin .”

Now that Reizo has called him a male slut in the presence of his companion, Xavier knows there’s no way back. Reizo has to take revenge on Xavier to save his honour. Xavier tries not to panic.

“Not at all, I…”

He’s suddenly blinded by a punch to the face. He can feel his lips swell up and his nose start to bleed. He tries not to groan or whimper. Luckily, Reizo is already taken by a new thought. Xavier can see the muscles of his jaw contracting.

“Has the baita told you I’m a writer?” Harlot? Yori can expect to share in Reizo’s aggression. Xavier tries flattery again. “Yes. You’re working on a novel that’s going to create uproar in Japan.” Xavier can tell by Reizo’s face that he’s gone too far, and quickly adds: “A visionary novel that’ll cause controversy the world over.”

Reizo seems to relax a little. “That’s right. It’ll be convincing . Conviction, that’s what other writers lack, even Mishima. I break all the conventional rules. Mishima spent his whole life practising for death. But times have changed. I’m going to practise on others, to perfect the art of a beautiful, dramatic death before my turn comes. I’m the writer who’s set to assert the superiority of Japanese youth. The older generation shall bow down to us!”

Xavier doesn’t know what to make of this ranting young man. They’re both roughly the same age, but Reizo has no work and no future. He’s starting to realise that his “innocent charm” is having no effect on the aspiring Japanese writer. The frustration is showing on Reizo’s face. Wiping the sweat from it with his forearm, he suddenly looks ill. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol is probably making him nauseous. His narrow face and his hair, bleached almost white and brushed into spikes, makes him look a little like a doll. The full, pouting lips, the delicate forehead, the small nose and dainty nostrils; Xavier has always been able to pick up subtle signs of homosexuality. It wouldn’t surprise him if Reizo was gay, just like his idol Mishima. Mishima was married with children, but couldn’t survive without the love of men.

“The success that this American Ellis is having with his American Psycho ,” Reizo continues contemptuously, “Crap! Hacking, stabbing, vaporising – anyone can do that. Not a single original murder in the whole book.”

Xavier is still trying to humour Reizo: “I agree. It’s a worthless novel. Flimsy… nihilistic.” Xavier hasn’t even read American Psycho ; he’s only read about it. Reizo pulls down the corners of his mouth. He’s trying to give his face the determined expression of a Japanese warrior. Xavier would usually laugh at such a cliché, but he’s growing increasingly concerned. He can’t figure this young man. Is it an act, or does Reizo really believe in his worldview, loosely constructed around half-understood role models and his own death-wish?

“One of the characters in my novel gets bitten by an Irukandji . I want to write an accurate description of the long death-struggle that follows.” Now he’s sounding sober. His gaze travels to Xavier’s stomach. Before Xavier can react, or even fully understand the meaning of the words, Reizo nods to his companion, who carefully removes a water-filled plastic bag from the container. He hands it to Reizo, who slowly lifts it close to Xavier’s face. A small jellyfish is floating in the bag, its four tentacles about five centimetres long. The light-green creature is so pale that Xavier can hardly see it. It looks weak and fragile, like a glob of snot in water.

“Such a sensitive animal,” Reizo says. “So delicate, it dies if you carry it around in a glass tank. One bump against a hard glass wall and it falls apart. But the poison in those tiny tentacles will probably kill you. You can’t be certain, it depends on the circumstances. But there’s no doubt you’ll suffer horribly. You’ll feel as if your body is bursting, your guts exploding. It’ll be a struggle between life and death. That struggle is your task. Mine, to observe it, and write what I see.”

Xavier barely grasps the torrent of words coming from the young madman’s mouth. His brain refuses to believe that this is real.

“If you survive, I grant you the right to avenge yourself,” Reizo continues in all seriousness. “You know my name. You know what I look like. I wish you luck.”

“Wait, I…”

Reizo rips open Xavier’s shirt. He carefully pours the water with the jellyfish onto his chest. Xavier tries to wriggle free, but his hands are tied with tape. He feels a slight sting. He braces himself for the pain, but it doesn’t come.

It was a lie, after all. Xavier has never heard of an Irukandji . It must have been a tasteless prank. In a minute, Yori will pop her head around the door and they’ll laugh about it together.

Reizo stands, smiling: “I forgot to tell you that the symptoms only start setting in after about an hour. We’ll leave you alone until then, to give you time to fool yourself into thinking you can beat the poison. Should be interesting.”

The young men head towards the back of the van. With the deliberation of a film noir actor, Reizo turns his head and says: “In the time you have left to think, before your brains are fried, reflect on this: you thought you could have her, but she’s had you. She spent days looking for a suitable victim for my literary experiment. Such an obedient woman, Yori, very loyal to my ideals – she will never love anyone more than me.”

Iremember my blood running cold when the miniature camera was disconnected. I left the room, not quite sure what to do next, and made my way down the crumbling staircase. The red lamps that had marked the way for the Yuzonsha members were still lit. The dark silhouettes of the Hashima buildings reminded me of an old story by the imperial lady in waiting Murasaki Shikibu, who wrote almost 1,000 years ago about houses absorbing gloom and hatred more easily than happiness and love. This had never been a beautiful island, just a lump of rock on top of a subterranean world of coal. The companies that erected these apartment blocks had been driven by the brute force of profit, and the whole island reflected this.