Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

Nagai Shiga leaves the house and points his zapper at his three litre Nissan Maxima. The lights flash without the usual click. He must have forgotten to lock it the night before. Nagai Shiga thinks nothing more of it. He’s relieved that the atmosphere at home has recovered the detached, neutral charge he prefers. He tries not to fret about the lie he told his wife. It wasn’t Tomio Shiga who came up with the idea of investing the Golden Lily’s money in Hong Kong. Tomio Shiga followed his brother’s advice, the renowned economist, the jack-of-all-trades.

Nagai gets into the car and sticks the key in the ignition. It’s only then that he notices the cardboard box on the floor on the passenger side. He lifts it onto the passenger seat as the engine purrs. Did his wife leave it there? He sees the box is open and flips up its cardboard lid. The severed head of his son Reizo, the eyes wide open like an absurd comic book drawing, stares back at him. A shiver runs through Nagai Shiga’s body. His last coherent thought: Tomio told them about me . He hears a buzzing sound then a click. Reizo Shiga’s eyes appear to spit fire as the detonating device ignites the bomb attached to his ragged neck.

The ensuing explosion blows out all the windows in the Shigas’ handsome residence.

“The art of shibari, an important part of our culture, had almost disappeared, until we were confronted with the need to torture prisoners during the Second World War to obtain information from them.”

Dr Adachi is lying on the sun bed in his room, naked. A complex pattern of wet ropes criss-crosses his body. Rokurobei is crouched beside him. He’s wearing a tiny pair of uv goggles, making his long face look like a fantasy being. The doctor stares at him, his eyes pinched against the powerful light.

“The important thing was to knot the ropes tight enough but not too tight. As the sun dried them they were capable of breaking bones and damaging interior organs. It was a very slow process, doctor, and extremely painful. But today we only have a watery sun, not even enough to tempt the cherry blossoms to flower. Fortunately you’re a little vain. So pleasantly warm here under your sun bed, don’t you think?”

The doctor coughs. “Why the needless cruelty? I’ve done you no harm.”

The yakuza peers at him. “That’s what you think, doctor. Your friend, inspector Takeda, has documents in his possession he could only have acquired from my daughter Mitsuko. I want those documents and I want her. And I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve my goal.”

“I already told you that Yori stole the papers from Mitsuko. You questioned her. You must have seen that she was telling the truth.”

“I’m very particular when it comes to the truth. I smell a rat at the least hesitation.”

Dr Adachi moves his head up and down like a captive horse. “The truth is that you take pleasure in suffering.”

“Do you think so? Most people tend indeed to be taken in by my rather fear inspiring exterior, which I cultivate with care, you understand.” The giant leans forward. Adachi can feel his breath on his face. “The truth is that I’ve been terrified all my life. Every day, every hour, I’m tortured by unbearable terror.” Rokurobei’s breath smells of bitter almonds. “I’m not a healthy man, doctor. I take medicine for my thyroid gland, I have problems with my kidneys and I suffer from arthritis. And in spite of it all I’m the lawful emperor of Japan, a superior natural spirit. I’m scared of death and everyone else is scared to death of me. A magnificent paradox, don’t you think, but precious little comfort.”

Adachi closes his painful eyes. “The biggest cowards are always the cruellest.”

“You may be right, doctor. But believe me: my cruelty is reluctant. Its purpose is to reduce my fear, but it has the opposite effect. I should demonstrate the wisdom of my years and stop, but I can’t. Just as I can’t contain my idiotic need to chatter, sometimes to the point of indiscretion , with the people I’m about to kill. To be honest, I feel a certain kinship with them.”

“Don’t try to convince me that you’re possessed by the legendary spirit of Rokurobei.”

“Why not?” Adachi’s executioner replies. “I’ve no other explanation for who I am. I read poetry, I love beauty, I’m captivated by the mysteries of nature, I’m a lover of culture . But at the same time I see a profound ugliness everywhere, doctor. I wanted to be an angel, but I became a devil against my will.”

“That’s what they all say, those egos coming apart at the seams. I had a good look at your birth certificate. You claim to be the lawful emperor of Japan and I’m sure you believe it. But in reality you’re the son of Emperor Hirohito and a concubine, a mekake .”

In the rental car on the way to the Suicide Club squat, Takeda is overcome by a sense of alienation. When the silence gets painful and he senses Beate looking at him, he says: “It’s an amazing coincidence that I met Yori through you and that she is – or was – the girlfriend of Reizo Shiga, the nephew of the unfortunate banker Tomio Shiga. Too much of a coincidence not to see the hand of fate in it all. A flash of intuition connecting the bank raid just after the Second World War with the recent attack on the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank and my desire to impress my superiors have totally changed my life.” Takeda leaves out the fact that it wasn’t intuition, but his attempt – twenty years earlier – to discover his father’s identity that had led him to the Golden Lily and the existence of secret units in the Japanese army. That topic was and remained a taboo.

Beate looks out of the window. At breakfast she was alert and active, as if she had enjoyed a night of good sex. She had suggested they rent a car via the hotel and drive to Tokyo to warn the authorities. Takeda had protested and insisted she had already done enough, but his words crashed into a wall of stroppy determination. She wanted to go with him to the Public Security Commission and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was convinced that her presence would support his case. Takeda didn’t think so, but he didn’t tell her why.

“Your life has changed too,” he concludes.

“It’s like a Greek tragedy,” says Beate without turning her head. “The hero always gets into trouble with the gods one way or another. They send fate to get you. That’s the way it is. You’re their plaything.”

Takeda frowns: “My wife believed in kyuuseijutsu, the Japanese form of astrology.” He turns to Beate. “Full of mysteries and rituals and hard as hell to figure out. That’s the way we Japanese like it.” Beate laughs and then feels cornered, not quite sure if his sarcasm was intended. “A month ago she read my horoscope. Her final words were: ‘The sword cuts like a bolt of lightning’. She said it meant something unexpected was going to happen.” Takeda looks outside. “According to her it could be something positive. I looked at the characters she had written and asked: ‘Don’t they say: something unthinkable is going to happen?’”

Takeda slams on the brakes. One of Hiroshima’s incomprehensible traffic jams has suddenly materialised. They’re on Takeya-cho, heading for the Suicide Club squat. Takeda is hoping Reizo Shiga will be there. The local radio news station hasn’t mentioned anything about Takeda being on the run. Takamatsu must have changed his strategy after the encounter the night before. That was what Takeda had hoped for, but he’s still not comfortable with the situation. He figures that Takamatsu probably decided to continue hunting him down, but not via the police. He’s pretty sure that the commissioner advised the yakuza who arrived when he left Denny’s Diner to eliminate him as quickly as possible and without a fuss. The inspector has to admit that Beate had turned out to be very helpful thus far. But he’s still determined to leave for Tokyo alone.