Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

“Your wish is our command, heika,” said the colonel.

The woman, young, Chinese, was lying on a dissection table, naked, hollow-cheeked and heavily pregnant. The powerful lights cast deep shadows under her eyes. She screamed at the top of her voice when a giant appeared above her in surgical attire, his face covered with a mask. Prince Norikazu turned to Dr Kenshin. There was something contrived about his movements, as if he had to think about every stimulus his limbs obeyed.

“They tell me you can speak Chinese, doctor. What is she saying?” Norikazu’s voice was hoarse and callous, but calm.

The doctor looked up at the bushy eyebrows atop his eminent guest’s sunken eyes. The prince’s head was square, angular. His jaws were heavy, his nose broad, and deep sockets formed what seemed like battlements around his lifeless eyes. It was better not to look into those eyes.

Dr Kenshin replied stiffly: “She’s saying: kill me, but please let my baby live.”

“An emotion as honourable as it is remarkable. The willingness to suffer pain for a creature she has never seen, and without knowing whether its life will be miserable or prosperous. I would be more inclined to call her reaction ‘instinct’, especially coming from someone of an inferior race.” In spite of his youth, the prince was verbose and slightly pompous when he spoke. At the same time there was often a hint of sarcasm in his words, giving them an ambiguous and ominous air. His hands were folded over his belly. “The baby is destined for our first experiment using large doses of growth hormone in combination with mushroom extract prepared according to the ancient Chinese texts,” Dr Kenshin explained. “When we injected the same cocktail into newborn mice it improved their physical defences, bodily measurements and lifespan by thirty-three percent.” The prince nodded and leaned over the woman. “Tell her she can die in peace. Her child has served a noble purpose.”

The doctor’s words were still fresh on his lips when the prince took a scalpel and cut open the Chinese woman’s belly with a single powerful swipe.

As they get out of the car in front of Adachi’s house, Beate Becht says: “Do you think it’s true? What Reizo Shiga last wrote on his computer?”

Takeda scowls. “We know in the meantime that the boy wasn’t firing on all pistons and that he suffered from delusions of grandeur.”

“But that last sentence: I have her underground and no one is more mine than she.”

“A stretched metaphor? His writing was pretty pompous stuff. And even if there’s some truth in it, it’s too vague. Where do you start?”

Beate nods but isn’t completely convinced. “What a situation. No wonder we’re confused. And by the way, I’m still trying to figure how it’s possible for a senior police functionary like your boss to work so openly with criminals, even if one of them has imperial blood.” She punches Takeda playfully but unexpectedly in the ribs. “And you, the fugitive inspector, drive through Hiroshima as if there’s nothing going on.”

Takeda forces a smile. “Have you ever seen a big police presence in the city? Hiroshima has to keep its image come what may. It’s the ‘City of Peace’, a symbol for the entire world. ‘Cover Up City’ would be closer to the truth. And don’t forget, the Japanese police force is the most corrupt and least efficient on the planet. Corruption here has historical roots: after the Second World War, Japan was left a broken, defeated nation, plagued by famine and scarcity at every level. The black market was the only way to get what you needed. It was run by gangs who had acquired weapons and influence during the war. The police helped them to construct an ‘underground Japan’ to save their families from starvation.” Takeda notices that the front door of the house isn’t locked. Nothing unusual. Adachi’s inclined to forget when he’s been drinking. “And underground Japan is much more important than the straight face we present to the world. We bow to one another, respect each other’s station, but that’s because we’re afraid that others might catch a glimpse of our shady inclinations. And because we’re afraid, we’re forced to cultivate a sense of superiority towards other peoples, a conviction that we’re smarter and stronger. There’s a reason why we’ve become a people of hidden extremes. Where else in the world could someone like Rokurobei avoid the media for decades?”

“But that’s it,” says Beate. “There’s something not quite…”

The inspector rattles on without waiting for her to complete her response: “Why are we so good at hiding whatever doesn’t fit the picture? We’re sick to the teeth of ourselves and of the enormous demands we place on one another. Our much-vaunted culture is rooted in greed , not just at the material level, but at the level of who we are and the way we present ourselves.” Takeda glances over his shoulder at Beate Becht who’s following him up the stairs. “Sorry for the tirade, but it’s a hobbyhorse of mine because I’m half foreigner.”

One of Adachi’s jazz cds is playing in the living room: Miles Davis in a set with John Coltrane. Over the years, Adachi has treated Takeda to more than a few evenings of whiskey and jazz. The doctor never once tried it on with him. They talked about life, love, death. Both men were the melancholy type, and both tried to hide it from others. Coltrane’s melancholy saxophone reminded Takeda that the police doctor was his only friend. His western-style living room is empty. The bright green display on his expensive Linn Mimik cd player – Adachi’s pride and joy – lights up when a new song starts.

At that moment Takeda senses that something isn’t right.

“What’s that smell,” says Beate, automatically lowering her voice.

Takeda doesn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, but his nose has never been particularly sensitive. He looks into the kitchen and then makes his way down the corridor to the stairway leading to the upper floor of Adachi’s duplex. He looks up and can see the blue light of the sun bed. He knows Adachi is a sun worshipper. He wonders what happened to Yori. He climbs the stairs in silence and stands outside Adachi’s half-open bedroom door.

“Daichi?”

The indifferent hum of the sun bed.

Takeda hears a noise and looks over the balustrade. Becht is in the corridor below looking up. Her face is a reddish brown in the light of the sun bed.

“Burning flesh,” she says. “I smell burning flesh.”

Takeda pulls his pistol and enters the room.

It was very early in the morning, four forty-five, a turquoise sea, first light, a cloudless sky. Two men stood by the pier, which offered spectacular views of the mainland and the other islands scattered across the Seto Inland Sea. The pale light made the islands in the distance look like prehistoric hump-backed sea creatures.

Colonel Tadao gestured in the direction of the mainland. “You’ll be safer there than here, heika. I’m convinced of it. ”

Norikazu grimaces. “I’m not safe anywhere, Koruzo.”

The colonel raised his chin on hearing his first name. “My men and I have sworn lifelong fidelity. You will be received on the mainland by people who will keep guard over you just as I have done.”

“We’re losing the war,” said the colossal young man. “The propaganda machine is working harder than ever before – proud Japan will destroy the barbarian enemy! – but what does my uncle do, Prince Chichibu? He uses yakuza leaders to secrete Japan’s war treasures. We’re such a pompous people, Koruzo. We stash gold and artworks in caves and call this miserable escape we have chosen “the Golden Lily”.”