Fuminori Nakamura - Evil and the Mask

“But that story has a sequel, doesn’t it?” I said.

Ito’s expression didn’t change.

“Sure, I’ve heard that story,” I went on. “And sure, the firing rate went up. But the flip side was that lots of soldiers came home with serious psychological problems. The army concluded that guns were no good. Even though the soldiers had been watching Westerns since they were kids, in which people kill each other all the time, the real thing took its toll. So they decided to develop hi-tech weapons, virtual, remote-controlled weapons, so that it didn’t feel like you were killing a real person at all. That was the Gulf War. There was a terrible imbalance between the people being killed and the people doing the killing, between the Iraqis who were dying spurting blood in pain and suffering and hatred and the soldiers of the multinational force, who managed to completely avoid the feeling that they were killing people. That caused a different kind of spiritual decay.

“And then there was Iraq, which became a land war, an old-fashioned shoot-out with rifles. As a result, the rate of psychological disorders among returning soldiers was abnormally high. I can’t help feeling sorry for them. The perverted history of modern warfare is all about trying to maintain the emotional balance of the soldiers who kill. That’s been the constant refrain. But it’s simply the difference between keeping the shock of killing bottled up in the subconscious and using weapons to numb the soldiers’ sensibilities. If you think that’ll work, you’re just stupid. In fact, maybe the real purpose of war is simply to replicate itself, to create more wars.”

Ito had stayed stony-faced throughout my monologue. He continued to stare fixedly at the wall in front of him, as though something was written there.

“You’ll never understand,” he said quietly. “Listen. Imagine there’s this guy who’s thinking about killing himself after murdering someone. Imagine he doesn’t care when he dies — or rather, he wants to die but plans to kill someone else first. He wouldn’t give a shit about beauty or malfunction or any of that. Ethics and morality are irrelevant to him. Because for us there is no god. We don’t believe in an afterlife either. Look, the only reason I’m doing this crap now is because of the bloodbath that’ll come at the end, that feast of contempt for life. Now it’s all just a preview. Thousands of people dying for no reason, hundreds per day. It’ll be a world of contempt for everything, where life is absolutely worth nothing. I can’t wait. I’ve been yearning for that from the depths of my soul, ever since I was a kid.”

He turned towards me. Again, the noise of a motorbike engine shook the apartment.

“Let’s say,” he continued, opening his eyes slightly and playing with his wristband again. “Let’s say there’s a guy like this. Brought up in violence from as far back as he can remember, brought up as though that was completely normal. Constantly beaten, beaten without love, without any feeling at all, as though even kicking him was a bother, indifferent kicking, because he was in the way … Shunned by people from warm, bright, caring homes just because he hadn’t taken a bath for days. Nothing but pain; no food, only fear and hatred. Unable to sleep properly because of recurring memories of violence. Slashed his wrists many times but couldn’t die …

“Can you tell someone like that to be kind to others? Can you tell him to think about how other people are suffering, that there are people in the world worse off than you, think of the starving children in Africa? Can you say that to a man who had those feelings beaten out of him from the day he was born? To a man who has lost the ability to cherish those things? To a man who suffers because he can’t feel anything for other people, no matter how hard he tries? You can tell him not to interfere with other people’s happiness? To a man who already wants to die, you can tell him to die alone, thinking only of others, like some kind of saint? To a man who’s tried to protect himself by telling himself that the years of abuse he received weren’t such a big deal, you can tell him that violence towards others is bad? To a man who was raised by an insane, drug-addicted woman whose adored husband died in a mass suicide as part of an evil cult, and whose only thought was to ruin her son’s personality in order to pass on the malevolence of his father? To a man whose mother somehow blamed him for her husband’s death, who was filled with crazy ideas she inherited from her husband and with hatred of her son? To a man who was raised by a monster who grew tired of him and only continued the violence out of habit? To a man who was so hungry that he used to eat his own hair? To a man whose birth wasn’t even registered?”

His shoulders heaved as he gasped for air, and his frightened eyes stared directly into mine. Father’s blood was still seeping from the wall opposite. Suddenly I remembered the doctor’s tale of the baby who died in the toilet. I had a vision of my booze-soaked father, and it felt like his blood and alcohol were running off me, mixed with my own perspiration. I could hardly breathe. Ito fell silent. I felt like I had to say something.

“If that’s how it is, my advice is just to keep on living. Sure, malfunctions and beauty don’t mean anything to a man who’s already made up his mind to die. But still, I’d advise you to live.”

“Obviously. If you advise a murderer to live and he follows that advice, then the idea that malfunctions and beauty don’t matter to someone who’s determined to die, that no longer applies. So I’m listening. Why should he live?”

I couldn’t answer, because the question was directed at me.

“Why should he live? With such a background and such an emotional vacuum inside him towards other people, why? You know what I mean. Enough with the sermon already. Anyway, will you fund us? JL needs money now.” He put the empty bottle on the carpet. He looked exhausted.

“But you’re still not ready to do it, are you?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re still putting it off. You can’t join in the killing, you’ve stopped at pretend terrorism. That proves it. You satisfy the impulses inside you by stopping just short of exploding. You give yourself various reasons to make yourself feel better, but you steer clear of actually blowing things up. Besides, isn’t JL in big trouble right now? I bet that’s the real reason you need money.”

He glared at me.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re close to catching one of you, aren’t they? One of the early members. If they arrest him, the whole group could be in trouble.”

“What have you heard?”

“There’s a guy on the run, isn’t there, a guy with a protruding jaw? If they catch him, JL will be in deep shit. You said it yourself, when you were talking about killing politicians too early. There’s a risk you could get wiped out before you get really big.”

“How much do you know? What do you mean?”

“You’re smart. You need escape money for when JL is eliminated. Yeah? That’s what it’s really for, isn’t it?”

“That’s beside the point. Just give me the money, and let me worry about what it’s for. You’ve got money to burn, haven’t you? You’re rich, you don’t need it. Besides, what’s the matter with you? Acting like your shit don’t stink, when we both know you’re just a crazy mother. You and me, I think we’re similar. Right? Because you could have ignored me but you didn’t. I’m not saying you have to give it to me right now. Next time we meet would be fine, but could you get some money together for us?”

“How much?”

“Five million yen.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”