Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

I nod.

“But not now,” I say. “I’ve forgotten my past and need to find it again. Later.” My voice sounds hoarse and fake, but he’s so elated by my response he grabs me with both arms and beams at me: “Isn’t that the same as everyone else, except those dimwits outside? Forgetting your past is a sign of exceptional intelligence!”

He glances to his left and his right as if expecting applause from some invisible public dazzled by his performance. A glint of artifice in his eyes disturbs me for a second but quickly passes. I realise it was clumsy of me to throw in the word “later” just to win time. I also realise I’ve decided to leave the Suicide Club, but I don’t want him to harm Yori.

He looks me in the eyes and says: “Your hair is so beautiful. Like the tresses they use to make Noh masks.”

His right hand reaches up, caresses my hair. The tips of his fingers pause for an instant on my neck.

“My darling child!” says Bruno Günder. The publisher’s voice trembles with excitement. He speaks posh affected German, melodious, not unlike the way the Austrians speak. He’s infected the entire management at Bertelsmann with it.

Beate has been telling him about the men who tried to stab her in Hiroshima because she witnessed some sort of weird incident. She doesn’t miss a detail.

“In the City of Peace, no less?” Bruno crows.

“The inspector and I have reached a compromise,” Beate concludes. “He insists I have a police escort, but how can I work with a couple of yellow uniformed monkeys hanging around me all day? So I refused.”

“Beate,” Günder groans, savouring every moment. “You’re a true professional.”

“But I’m still not rid of him. He dropped me at my hotel and made me promise I would wait for him while he talks things over with his superiors.”

“You know the Japanese, darling, everything according to the book,” Günder growls. “Not an ounce of creativity! But I don’t think you’ll be able to refuse that escort forever. I’ll talk with our lawyers about it asap.”

“OK,” says Beate. She feels excited, bubbling with ideas. She knows that she might be suffering from shock, but she wants to stay with the feeling, intensify it. Ideas flow thick and fast. Her new book is going to be her best yet, it’s inevitable.

“One more thing, Bruno. I’m not allowed to talk to the press about this.”

A short silence follows. “But you didn’t talk to the press, sweetheart,” says Günder, his accent even thicker. “You spoke to your publisher about it.”

Beate gently replaces the receiver. She looks in the mirror. She’s beaming. At this moment, she realises, Günder is having his staff prepare a press release and is about to milk the hype. With a bit of luck it’ll go global. She can see the headlines: “Attempted murder of renowned German photographer in the City of Peace!”

In her mind Beate Becht pictures Günder lighting one of his expensive cigars. She smiles and looks at her reflection in the mirror. A sacred light glistens in her eye.

Someone knocks at the door.

After my confrontation with Reizo in the storeroom I make my way back to Yori, but she’s not on the futon where I left her. I don’t understand these people. They sneak in and out like rats in their ideological struggle to break the daily bread. I explore the rest of the dingy and miserable squat. There’s no one here. It’s time for me to get out too, but I first want to be sure Yori is safe. I peer through the green and grimy windows, framed in rusting rectangles. Extinguished neon signs still decorate the facades outside, remnants of what the place used to be: a sewing workshop, a restaurant, a firm that produced boxes and packaging. I make my way back, call Yori’s name. I realise what made me feel at home here so quickly, in spite of the state of the place. It reminds me of Hashima Island, the same weathered atmosphere, the same suppressed hostility. I wander through the dark mouldy spaces, not quite sure of what I’m doing. Judging by the black stains on the walls and the floor there must have been machines here, probably not so long ago. I retrace my steps and peer through the doorway of the main room, the machine room as Reizo calls it. There are futons and tatami mats all over the floor, shelves with provisions, laundry, yellow plastic containers we use to store drinking water. A mixture of smells, predominantly rusty. The parking lot in front of the building is overgrown with weeds, and there’s a swing barrier twisted up into the air, crooked, broken. Yori told me the city authorities were planning to ask a court to decide who was responsible for cleaning up the site for redevelopment. The Suicide Club didn’t have much time left. I walk down the ramshackle stairs. On the ground floor there’s a pale grey iron door, bolted shut. I try the bolt and it opens without a problem. It’s been recently oiled. I can see a ladder disappearing into a hole in the ground, a dark, damp cellar. I can just see the reflection of the tiles on the floor. There’s a light switch. A single light bulb illuminates the cellar with a bluish glow. I’ve no reason to go down, except for the fact that the ladder is new and someone went to the trouble of tapping electricity from the web of cables that criss-crosses Hiroshima.

The moment she opens the door without checking first who has knocked, Beate Becht realises she is acting foolishly. She stands there, frozen to the spot. But it’s just a Japanese girl, not an attacker with a knife. The girl is dressed in an unimaginative grey suit, the type worn by the majority of Japanese women when they’re at work. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she’s wearing a hat that’s both pert and artless. She’s also wearing spotless white gloves. She says she has a message from the hotel desk. Her English is lumpy. Beate automatically steps back and invites her in. The first thing the girl does is lock the hotel door behind her.

Beate grimaces in a state of panic. The girl takes off her hat, shakes her hair loose, and makes a reassuring gesture.

“Not recognise?”

For an instant Beate looks as if she’s about to throw herself at the girl and force her way to the door. Then her penny drops. It’s the Japanese girl who drove the van to the hospital. She was dressed differently back then. The stiff two-piece made her unrecognisable. Beate remembers that she was wearing gloves that night too, shiny, with a tiger motif. It takes a while for the girl’s words to penetrate. She apologises in her broken English for abandoning Beate at the hospital. She was scared. Now she wants to ask her something, or better, how you say? Beg? She hopes Beate will listen, she won’t regret it. “Please listen. My name is Yori.”

She then does two things. She unzips her belt bag and produces a well-thumbed copy of the American edition of Beate’s first photo collection, the one with all the punk, horror and sadomasochistic grand guignol motifs.

She then removes her left glove. Her left hand looks as if it’s covered in snake skin. The fingers are slightly clawed and she has no nails. She bursts into tears. She points at herself, searches for her words, repeats again and again: “Hibakusha!”