Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

“Reizo Shiga?” The voice behind the cypress mask with its ambivalent undertone drops a contemptuous octave: “The junky Reizo Shiga?”

Reizo rubs his nose. He suddenly remembers the depression that took hold of him after he failed the university entrance exam. “The writer Reizo Shiga,” he says.

The man grabs Reizo’s battered nose and twists it hard.

Takeda tries to stay calm as they head for Denny’s Diner in a taxi. The situation is evolving so fast he has a feeling he’s lost his grip on reality. His wife’s murder doesn’t seem to have hit home completely.

Takeda ponders about what happened: Adachi gave him chief commissioner Takamatsu’s mobile number back in the gay bar. Takeda punched in the number and treated the chief commissioner to a few carefully rehearsed threats. He revealed that he had official documents at his disposal that could expose the identity of the Oyabun called Rokurobei, the man who had given orders for the attack on Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank. Much of the conversation was one-way. This was Takeda’s chance to say what he wanted and he refused to let himself be interrupted. The chief commissioner didn’t even squeak when Takeda accused him of being a member of a criminal organisation that was responsible for his wife’s death. Instead, he asked unruffled what Takeda wanted in exchange for the documents.

“I want my name cleared and my share of the takings.”

“What takings, inspector?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Takamatsu. Don’t try to tell me the attack on the bank was only to get rid of the ceo. You don’t happen to have the golden Buddha from the Abukama-do caves back at your apartment by any chance? Or other Golden Lily war treasures?”

A lengthy silence followed.

“I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” said Takamatsu. “Meet me at my place.”

Takeda laughed. “So you can kidnap and torture me to make me tell you where I’ve hidden the documents? I prefer something a little more anonymous.” Takeda gave the chief commissioner the address of Denny’s Diner in the Hakushima district, a family restaurant, part of an American chain, that serves yoshoku, western dishes with a Japanese touch. The lights in the place are blinding and the serving staff smiles even worse. Takeda threw in a final warning for good measure: “Just in case you’re planning to kill a bunch a people – let’s say an entire restaurant – to cover up the elimination of one single person: I’ve hidden the documents in a very safe place.”

“Always true to form, inspector Takeda,” said Takamatsu cool and collected.

Click.

When the giant lets go of his nose, a searing burst of pain careens through Reizo’s entire body. But the pain of humiliation is even greater.

“People call me Rokurobei,” says the giant. “It’s not my real name, but over the years I’ve come to identify with it.”

It takes a while for Reizo Shiga’s penny to drop. “If the masks are anything to go by you are a lover of Noh ,” the man continues. “I prefer Shakespeare myself. The strangest and most besotted things happen in his plays… so true to life.” The man leans forward. The eyes behind the mask glisten with scorn. “But I couldn’t resist the temptation to borrow the identity of the storm god. If Shakespeare had known him he would have been crazy about him. He was in a state of awe about everything supernatural. Ironic isn’t it that Japanese men and women of your generation claim they don’t believe in the old spirits anymore, yet they’re all completely addicted to comic strips in which the supernatural is central. Ho hum… But as a writer you must surely have heard of shingao, tell me, Reizo Shiga?”

Reizo doesn’t answer. He saves face, in spite of his aching nose, by staring at the man unflinchingly.

“In the old days it literally meant: eat your face ,” the masked man continues unperturbed. “It was presumed you would wipe out your own everyday face and replace it with the incarnated spirit of the mask you were wearing. What do you think, Reizo? Could that be true?”

Reizo’s voice cracks, but his words are far from a terrified whisper: “Let me put on the storm god mask and I’ll tell you.”

Rokurobei slaps his thighs with delight. His minions grin. “Look what we have here… a real man with karisuma!”

The underlying insult carried by the word charisma is crystal clear. But Reizo’s face remains rigid.

“But we’re not here to talk about culture. Your uncle Tomio Shiga lost his life recently in a bank raid. Did he try to contact you before he died, in whatever fashion?”

Surprised by the abrupt change of subject, Reizo tries to think on his feet. He was expecting a different question: where is my daughter? He’s standing face to face with the father of Mitsuko, the man she said would come for his blood when he left her behind in the metro service tunnel. But the drugs have left him indifferent. He realises that the man is unaware that his daughter is close by. Rokurobei is here for something else. Reizo grins obliquely. “My uncle, the magnanimous bank executive whose plan to save the Japanese economy was touted in the newspapers day in day out? A man like that isn’t likely to want anything to do with the black sheep of the family.” The figure before him moves in closer. Reizo observes that his neck is unnaturally long. He’s wearing a support collar that appears to be made of silver. “Is that so?” says Rokurobei. “A classical dilemma. Should I believe you? You could be telling the truth, I suppose, but I grew up with absolute values, do you get my drift? When I catch even a whiff of doubt I’m on my guard. Shortly before he died, your good uncle threatened me. He said the Shiga clan would be my downfall. And you’re part of that clan, whether you like it or not.”

The spirit of the young junkie isn’t to be tamed: “I don’t care if you’re on your guard. Why target me ? I’m a member of the Brotherhood and that makes me a part of your…”

“I know you’re a member of the sect,” says Rokurobei. “But who told you I was a man of influence in Aum Shinrikyo?”

“I’m highly placed in the Brotherhood. I know things.”

“You’re lying. You’re a novice.”

“I’m one of yours!”

The man sighs. “That sounds so delightfully old fashioned. Are you a ronin , boy? Is that what you think you are? A mercenary in my employ? Let me give you some advice: open your eyes and look around. In a world of crisis and recession, fidelity and a person’s word are worth as much these days as a rat’s ass. Especially in Japan.” He looks round the room. “That’s even more true for someone like you, who lives the life of a rat.”

Reizo’s sense of honour lifts him out of himself: “So I’m old fashioned. My word counts.”

A lengthy silence follows. “So it would appear,” says the man, his tone polite. “Bushi no ichigon, neh?”

Reizo straightens his back. “I give you my word as a samurai, that’s true.”

“Mmm, I can trust the word of a samurai. But the word of a junkie?”

Reizo isn’t immediately sure how to react to this insult. Jump to his feet and challenge mister know-it-all to a duel, man to man ? But his initial rage has been replaced by a paralysing indifference. A boundless fatigue takes hold of him. For years, the drugs had filled his dreams with visions of terrifying creatures creeping up on him, leering at him. Now that Rokurobei, the “serpent’s neck” as the demon was once called, is standing in front of him, large as life, the same drugs make him shrug his shoulders.