Fuminori Nakamura - Evil and the Mask

I could feel the warmth of her body next to mine.

“But what puzzles me is why you aren’t running away as fast as you can.”

She looked at me in surprise. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“My life hasn’t been so sheltered that I’ll suddenly get scared by a story like that.” Casually she took hold of my fingers.

“In costume dramas and cartoons,” I continued slowly, “when the bad guy gets killed everybody cheers. In real life it seems like it’s not that easy. I don’t know why, but Japan seems to be full of stories and games and stuff where people get killed and no one seems upset, even though they teach that killing people is wrong. But in real life …”

“But even if life is hard, you mustn’t die,” she said quietly. “I don’t know all the details about what happened, but you’ve got to get over it.”

“Get over it?”

“That’s right. Because here and now you’re alive.”

She put her arms gently around me.

“Did you know this?” she went on. “Every year far more people kill themselves in Japan than die through war or terrorism in Iraq. We go on and on about other countries, but I think Japanese society is pretty cruel too.”

She took a deep breath.

“Let’s sleep like this today. From a distance we’ll look like a contented couple.”

“You’re weird, you know that?”

“It’s just that I don’t like the world very much.”

When I woke the next morning, Mikihiko Kuki’s secretary was standing outside my apartment.

WHEN THE DOORBELL rang, I was still in bed and Kyoko was sitting at the table watching TV. The news was reporting on Diet members who’d secretly taken to wearing wigs after JL threatened to assassinate politicians in order of baldness. One guest, a young politician, was calling it pitiful. Another, a self-declared liberal, said that the PM should do the imitation of Hiromi Go, a comment that infuriated the third guest, a member of the conservative party. The directors of a chemical plant where three employees had died of overwork had all suffered food poisoning at a nightclub, and it was suspected that JL was behind it. I ignored the bell but it just kept on ringing, echoing through the apartment. Kyoko, who was laughing at the news, gradually turned to look at me. I climbed out of bed and looked at the intercom. A tall middle-aged man was standing there.

“Koichi Shintani?” he asked as soon as I lifted the receiver.

“What is it?”

“Mikihiko Kuki would like to meet you.”

I could feel Kyoko’s eyes on my back.

“I don’t know him.”

“Please get ready,” he said, completely ignoring me. “The car is waiting.”

He fell silent. I was a bit unnerved, but I realized that more than anything that I was just weary. The moment I heard the name Mikihiko, my fatigue grew much stronger. I was sure that no matter what I said, this guy would just keep repeating the same message. When I replaced the receiver Kyoko was still watching me. In the light seeping through the curtains her skin looked white.

“I’m going out for while.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Maybe.”

I started to get changed.

“What should I do?”

“If you’ve got things to do you can go home, but you can stay here if you like.”

“But if I stay here, you know I’m going to go snooping around, at your computer and stuff.”

“That’s okay. Anyway, I don’t think you will.”

“You should be more careful.”

When I opened the front door the man gestured for me to walk ahead of him. I could feel his looming presence. I remembered stories of jailers accompanying prisoners like this, walking behind so they could keep an eye on them.

WE GOT INTO a black car, expensive but tasteless, and drove slowly along the dark road. The streetlights were just coming on. There was a matte cigarette case in the car but I lit one of my own instead. I saw that the smoke bothered him and he opened the window, so I made up my mind to keep smoking until we arrived.

“Why does this guy Kuki want to see me?”

The man didn’t reply. No response at all, not even a shrug.

“What’s he like? Just give me your impression.”

“Mr. Shintani,” he said, still facing ahead and gripping the steering wheel.

I noticed that he had a dark red scar on his neck.

“It’s not my job to answer your questions. Mikihiko Kuki told me to bring you to him, and that’s all I’m doing. I wasn’t told to be polite. Just to deliver you.”

He didn’t overtake any other cars, nor give way to them.

“Obviously we are in close proximity at the moment, but that doesn’t mean we have to establish any kind of relationship. Is that understood?”

What a hard-ass. I just kept blowing smoke at him without saying anything.

WE GOT OUT of the car in front of the Lille Durant Hotel and took the elevator to the top floor. He swiped a card key through a scanner to open the automatic glass doors. “At the back, on the right,” he said from behind me, and when we reached the room he stretched out an arm and rang the bell. An indistinct voice came from inside. My heart rate, which had been gradually increasing as we came closer, grew even more ragged. The voice sounded exactly like my father’s.

The man opened the door and we entered. I saw a carpet, garish under the dim lighting, a white table with white chairs. The rough, vulgar chandelier was unlit and some potted plants, struggling to grow in the restricted space, glowed pale orange under the indirect lighting. On the wall opposite was a painting, too big for the room, of a lake that looked like a pit. Behind the low table was a black sofa, and sitting on it was a man in a black tracksuit. I thought it was Father. My body went rigid, as though it had tensed of its own accord. He was tall, much bigger than Father, but if my father were fifty years old the similarity would have been remarkable. With a large nose and eyes that slanted down at the corners, he should have been ugly, but somehow his face had a kind of dignified balance. Even from a distance I could tell that his clothes were made of expensive fabric.

“That will do,” he said quietly.

“But—” protested the driver.

“It’s fine. Go home.”

The man who had brought me here bowed low and silently left the room.

For some reason the picture of the lake had really grabbed my attention. The man gazed expressionlessly at me, not saying a word, as I stood in the doorway. The orange lights threw random shadows around the room. I moved slowly towards him, doing my best to stay calm. The closer I got, the more he looked like my father. I stood before the sofa with the table between us, staring at him. My pulse just wouldn’t settle. I felt I was reliving all those memories of being summoned to Father’s study. A bottle of whiskey and a glass with spiral patterns etched in it cast long shadows on the table.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

My throat was incredibly dry. His dark form seemed like the wreckage of something huge and soft.

“You brought me here, remember? If we’ve got no business then I’m leaving.”

“It’s so depressing.”

He watched me lazily, leaning back in the couch. He was big-boned but, cloaked in languor, he showed no energy at all.