Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

He sees the surprise in Rokurobei’s face. The giant lowers the sword that – according to the classical rules of ritual suicide – should have delivered the final blow to the neck. He leans closer, intent on pulling the knife from the young man’s belly. Reizo beats him to it, yanks the blade from the wound and thrusts it, this time without hesitation, into his own heart.

In the car Yori won’t shut up. Perhaps she thinks that Dr Adachi is good at listening to women because he’s gay. But Adachi isn’t comfortable in the presence of women. He hides his distrust behind old fashioned politeness. He listens to Yori’s monologue about her “miserable life” with apparent patience. Yori considers herself to be part of the “underground Japan” that for decades has had nothing to do with the economic miracle the world gets to see. The underground Japan is the Japan that exists outside the beehive mentality, Yori rattles. Both her parents were children when they dropped the bomb. They didn’t live far from the epicentre of the explosion. They survived a ridiculously heavy dose of radiation, but struggled to get by after that and died of cancer within weeks of each other. Her sister wanted to be a singer for as long as she could remember. She was sure she had talent. To prepare herself for her career, in which she believed with all her heart, in spite of opposition from her parents who insisted that they were just ordinary people trying to make ends meet, Yori’s sister developed anorexia. She kept it secret until her sixteenth birthday when her periods stopped and osteoporosis set it. They put her in an institution for the mentally disturbed where she managed to defeat her anorexia with heavy medication, although she cut it fine. She now works at a local supermarket. “We don’t talk,” says Yori as Adachi’s apartment appears in the distance. “She lives the existence of a bee.”

The police doctor nods. He’s tired. He tries to run over the draft of their plan in his head. It all seemed so clear back in the bar, but now all he can think about is the deformed baby in cold storage in the basement of police headquarters and the chrysanthemum on its heel.

The imperial sign. Adachi shakes his head. Apparently, there’s more to “underground Japan” than just the poor and the simple. Yori misinterprets his head movement: “But she’s happy now, has a couple of kids. And you know what?” Yori laughs. “She’s fat as a pig. And look at skinny me.” She starts to talk faster and faster, her eyes fixed on the road ahead: “Did I show you my tattoos? They’re…”

Yori suddenly covers her eyes with her hand. Adachi turns into his street. “I lied,” she sighs. “Mitsuko didn’t give me the documents. I’m always skulking around, ready to strike if there’s a profit to be made. I saw where she hid her things. When I woke up in the Suicide Club and she wasn’t there I wanted to run because I knew Reizo would be intent on revenge for the humiliation we had dealt him. I stole her money and snatched the documents in the process. From what she had told me I figured they might bring in a bit of cash. I’m a thief and a coward for leaving her behind. But you don’t know Reizo, all the things he can… The rest is true, I swear. She really did tell me who her father is!”

Rokurobei spits on Reizo Shiga’s corpse: “Search the place from top to bottom.” The sweat on his forehead glistens like mercury. His bodyguards notice that their leader is rambling to himself, nothing unusual when he’s under great pressure. “I don’t believe that lunatic. But I can’t deny he was a member of Aum Shinrikyo. And I gave the sect members orders to look out for my daughter. The proximity of death cleared his mind. He thought he could hurt me. But I want to be sure. Track down the other members of the Suicide Club. On the double. I want to hear what they have to say. I want to know if Mitsuko was here.”

Rukorobei’s mobile phone rings. He pulls out the clumsy contrivance’s antenna.

“ Moshi moshi … The connection is poor, Takamatsu… What? When?… He has the documents? Make sure he’s still there when I arrive… No, don’t argue, I’m not in the mood.”

“ Heika, ” says one of his ex-military associates. He still refers to the mafia boss with the unofficial term for his majesty. Rokurobei forbad it, but old habits die hard. The man is pointing his torch at the right hand wall of the room. “Look.”

The words Deep in our hearts we all want to be like Reizo Shiga are spray-painted on the wall in large letters.

He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel on the hospital stairs.

He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel in the hospital corridors.

He hears the footsteps of his guardian angel on the corridor that leads to his room.

He keeps his eyes closed, as he has done for the last few days.

The guardian angel opens the door to his room.

The guardian angel approaches his bed.

His heart is fit to burst. Tears stream from his closed eyelids.

He wants to ask where she has been all this time.

He wants to ask her why everything happened as it did.

He wants to know the origins of suffering.

And the meaning of the future.

He wants to take one of her feathers and tickle himself, so that he can laugh, in spite of everything, in defiance of himself and this world.

To do that he has to open his eyes.

And see who she is.

Denny’s Diner stays open late into the night. At this hour the place is full of youngsters stuffing themselves after a night on the town. They’re wearing every colour of the rainbow; some are unnaturally quiet and shiftless, others are over-excited and noisy.

By arriving too early, Takeda is taking a risk. What if Takamatsu sticks his neck out and sends an arrest squad to keep an eye on the diner? The inspector is counting on the documents he has in his possession being sufficient bait to prevent Takamatsu from doing anything of the sort. He catches sight of Beate Becht in a booth in the non-smoking area – as agreed – and opts for a booth diagonally opposite without making eye contact. The restaurant’s half-moon shape and the semi-open booths make it easy for them to keep an eye on one another. They don’t exchange glances. Becht has just been served a portion of saimin, a soup with noodles, ham and fishcakes, originally a Hawaiian plate, but en vogue with the young crowd. The waiter is a young man with straight hair and sparkling glasses. He’s exaggeratedly jovial. Takeda orders a simple grilled chicken , tsukemono as a side-dish. He realises that he’s hungry, in spite of everything. He’s about to finish his pickled vegetables and chicken when Takamatsu walks into the restaurant. Takeda watches the chief commissioner look round, take note of the interior and the customers. He seems self-assured. He walks towards Takeda, his pace measured. Takeda has spent most of the evening trying to work out how to appear angry at the death of his wife in an effort to convince Takamatsu that he’s confused, upset, scared. Now that his chubby superior is standing in front of him with that familiar arrogant look on his face, anger comes easy. He looks Takamatsu in the eye. The chief commissioner stares back unruffled, as if he demands respect for his rank even in this situation. Takeda hunts for a crack in his armour but finds none. For one reason or another, Takamatsu still considers himself master of the situation, in spite of being forced onto the defensive. At the last moment the inspector changes strategy. Takeda gives his sorrow free reign and hopes that the commissioner will notice: “Was it necessary to get my wife involved in this? She’s never harmed a fly.”