Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

“If my interpretation is correct,” he says, “we’re dealing with a criminal fraternity that calls itself the Yuzonsha, which has links with powerful people in different social circles. The leader’s called Rokurobei, and they venerate him because he…”

The taxi driver interrupts. He’s from Pakistan and he’s tired and losing patience. “Wasn’t I supposed to drop the lady here?”

Takeda looks outside. As a precaution he had decided to drop Becht a couple of streets away from the agreed rendezvous with Takamatsu. Beate Becht nods and grabs her bag.

Takeda bites the bullet: “I’m honoured by what you said back there, miss Becht, but I think…”

“I know.” She glances at him and looks away, shy, bashful… “It’s because…”

“I understand. You’re a ravishing young woman with exceptional talents.”

Why all the politeness, Takeda asks himself. This isn’t his usual style.

“Thank you.”

“And very courageous,” says Takeda when Becht gets out of the taxi. “When all this is over…”

The taxi driver hits the accelerator.

Reizo Shiga involuntarily drops the mask when he sees Rokurobei’s face. The man in front of him has monkey-like features, thick skin and heavy stubble all the way up to his eyes. Reizo has never seen eyes blacker than these or ears so enormous. Without the mask the long neck seems even longer. But in spite of his rugged lips, forehead, nose and jaws, the expression on his face is almost gentle. He smiles. His polished teeth glisten in the lamplight.

“Ah? So you want to look the demon I embody in the eye, boy? Courageous of you.” A pair of unnaturally large hands come to rest on Reizo’s shoulders. “But young Japanese men like you know that demons don’t exist. Am I right? You’re convinced that what you see looks like acromegaly, a metabolic disorder caused by a problem birth.”

Reizo doesn’t answer. The hands hold him motionless. The man’s heavy forehead comes closer. He whispers: “But if you look deep into my eyes you begin to have doubts, don’t you, Reizo Shiga?”

Reizo looks Rokurobei in the eye. He nods.

Rokurobei makes a gesture of appreciation and returns his hefty hand to Reizo’s right shoulder. “A warrior must wake up every morning with the idea that this is his last day. Have you done that, Reizo Shiga?”

Shiga’s voice is hoarse: “No. But I always wanted to.”

“Just like the rest. Plenty of good intentions, but no follow through.” There’s sarcasm in the voice. The man seems to be enjoying his role, but Reizo has a feeling he also means what he says. He’s reminded of a psychiatrist his father forced him to visit a number of years back when he was suffering from extreme fear of failure: split personalities think they’re playing a role and do so with great conviction and pleasure. They don’t realise that they’re playing their role so seriously they can no longer distinguish between their own personality and the one they are playing.

Reizo Shiga doesn’t understand how it’s possible that Mitsuko’s father wants to kill him for a completely different reason than the kidnapping of his daughter. He accepts, not without a little pride, that he is a plaything in the hands of fate. The realisation allows an inner energy to rise to the surface, an energy he had always suspected was present deep inside him. In the limp and deceitful society Japan had become, he had never been given the chance to develop it. A sudden insight makes him hold his breath, tells him how to revenge himself against this man and his insult who is about to rob him of his life. Rokurobei looks at his watch, an absurd everyday gesture that doesn’t square with his fearsome appearance: “The question is: has a black sheep among the present generation ever heard of eiyo ? Or is a sense of honour too old fashioned?”

“I repeat: I spoke the truth as a man of honour: I know nothing about my uncle,” says Shiga. “I severed contact with my family years ago.”

“This changes nothing, you understand, even if it is the truth. You’ve seen my face. You can identify me.” The man smiles, his voice melodious like an actor in a mugen no play full of ghosts and spirits: “This is the moment at which the supernatural world interferes with everyday reality. Take a look at the imagined reality flourishing between us.”

Reizo hangs his head. He knows that the man’s words are meaningful, but in reality he knows nothing about Noh theatre, he just likes the masks. In his imagined reality he’s a sensitive artist, a great writer, but in truth he’s just a sick young man with limited horizons. He looks up and grits his teeth: “If you plan to kill me I demand an honourable death.” A feeble smile: “In honour of the real emperor of Japan.”

“Oh? Are we that old fashioned?”

Reizo looks the giant in the eye and manages a crooked smile.

“An honourable death. To give a little lustre to that lustreless life of yours?”

Reizo refuses to look away.

“Do you have the courage to follow your teacher Mishima?”

Reizo doesn’t answer but takes off his shirt and gets to his knees. Rokurobei sizes him up. He stands upright, pulls a long steel knife from a sheath under his coat. Reizo notices the western clothing for the first time. It seems inappropriate for a man like this, a ghost of Japan’s feudal past. In his mind’s eye, Reizo Shiga pictures Mishima in full military uniform. How many times has he wanted to die this way after coming down from a bad trip with so much adrenaline in his body his heart could barely cope? In those moments of torture he prayed not to have to die the death of an insignificant junky, foaming at the mouth.

Reizo Shiga realises that his prayers have been answered. “Mishima committed seppuku because his coup d’état was a failure. I choose to do so because it is the better death,” he says softly.

Rokurobei snaps his fingers. One of the men hands him a sheath containing a katana that belonged to Shiga’s grandfather, the handsome shiny sword he had used earlier that day to make an impression on Mitsuko. Rokurobei tests its balance. Reizo Shiga monitors his expert movements. “I’m ready to be your attendant,” says the mafia boss. The man hands him the knife. He takes no risks: the ceremonial sword blade is pointed at Reizo’s throat. He steps back and to the side. His bodyguards are nearby, their weapons cocked and pointing at Reizo. It would be very hard to attempt to kill the man with a throw of the knife.

Reizo isn’t planning to do that. His thoughts are elsewhere. He remembers all those times in his life meditating with a knife against his navel, imagining the instant of suicide, glorying in it .

A final moment of hesitation takes hold of him, a perplexing knot deep inside.

He concentrates on the blade and on his hatred of the world that has had him in a stranglehold for so long. Reizo Shiga accumulates that hatred in every cell of his body. He breathes it out with a hissing sound as he drives the blade into his belly. It’s less painful than he had imagined. It feels cold, like an ice pick. Rokurobei moves closer and lifts up the sword to decapitate him. Reizo’s hands are warm and wet from the blood. He feels dizzy, then a ringing like tiny silver bells fills his ears .

“I lied,” says Rokurobei. “That’s all part of the theatre of life, neh? I take your life, Reizo Shiga, to punish your father.”

Reizo Shiga looks up at the giant figure leaning over him. His eyes glisten as if they’re made of metal: “I didn’t tell you the truth either. That’s all part of the way I am. I’ve hidden your daughter in a secret place. When I die, she shall die. By killing me, you have killed her. That is your unmei. ”