The Investigation (11 page)

Two days later, Sugiyama went into town. The piano shop there had closed a long time ago. He pounded on the door for a long time until it opened. The bald, moustachioed owner
was as lethargic as a dust-covered piano. Sugiyama explained that he was seeking a tuning kit and repair tools. Resigned, the owner opened the door to the storage room. There wasn’t much that
was usable, but Sugiyama took a few tools and walked through the grey streets back to the prison.

Midori was waiting for him in the auditorium. Without a word, Sugiyama opened up the piano, revealing hundreds of nuts and dozens of strings, and the crossbeam that stretched across. He
tightened hundreds of tuning pins and strings and bearings and nuts.

‘Try any key.’

She played ‘Carry Me Back to Old Virginny’. Her playing sparkled, recalling for him the image of a rainbow, summer rain, amber. Sugiyama glanced at her fingers, which flew across the
keys like butterflies, at her thin ankles above the pedals. He softened, looking nostalgic.

‘Tuning isn’t something you can learn in a day or two,’ Midori suddenly said. ‘It’s obvious you didn’t just pick it up – you managed to tune this piano
without any real tuning equipment.’

Sugiyama flinched.

Midori could tell that he was recoiling from a memory.

He fixed his gaze on the rusted strings. ‘It was just to survive,’ he muttered. ‘It was a decent way to rip off the rich. I didn’t dare play, so I learned how to
tune.’

She knew that couldn’t be the whole story. His tortured expression wasn’t that of someone who remembered trying to make a few yen here and there. When he was tuning the piano, he was
an artist searching for the best sound.

She shook her head. ‘No, I can tell. Your voice is tender, almost loving, when you call out a note from the other side of the piano. All of your senses are focused on the sound.
You’re reading the player’s heart.’

But the man in front of her had turned back into a stern prison guard. He looked tired, like an exile pursued by his golden-hued past. He didn’t reply, instead tending to the piano
carefully, separating strings and actions, wiping away the rust with soft leather and recovering standard pitches. He reversed the damage to the hammer and damper. He adjusted the resistance and
working range of the keys and found a uniform touch. The piano slowly regained its elegance; the sounds gradually recaptured their colours. His voice became stronger as well. ‘G!’

A few weeks later, Warden Hasegawa and Director Morioka walked into the auditorium together. They were all smiles, thrilled that the piano was returning to its former glory.
Hasegawa was positively vibrating; he was honoured to be in the presence of a respected Fukuoka luminary. He looked at the piano with reverence as though he wanted to bow to it in gratitude, then
shot a doubtful look at Sugiyama, who was still busy working on the instrument. He didn’t know what the guard was doing, but he was forced to trust him.

‘Thanks to Miss Iwanami’s wonderful playing, we’ll be able to have piano accompaniment at all official events, including, of course, our weekly assemblies,’ Hasegawa
announced.

Morioka didn’t answer right away. Hasegawa stared at him impatiently.

‘It would be a waste for this instrument and player to accompany the assemblies,’ Morioka said finally. ‘We need a bigger stage. What do you think about organizing a larger
concert?’

Though slightly taken aback, Hasegawa nodded eagerly. ‘You are entirely correct, of course, but this is a prison and we don’t have the time for practices—’

Morioka gently cut him off. ‘Actually, the fact that this is a prison makes this the ideal venue. What if we had a concert for peace, direct from a criminals’ den? We will be coaxing
beautiful music out of a desolate place. We could invite a famous singer from Tokyo as well as high-level officials, both Japanese and international. What do you think?’

Hasegawa’s eyes glimmered at the thought of being part of this ambitious project. ‘You have an outstanding artistic vision, Director!’ he cried. ‘But would a famous
singer come here?’

Morioka walked over to the piano. Hasegawa followed him awkwardly. ‘You know the singer Professor Marui, right? He is a supporter of Miss Iwanami and offered to help her study in
Tokyo.’ He turned to look at Midori. ‘Miss Iwanami! Brief the warden about the plans for Fukuoka Prison’s peace concert. It’s ultimately his decision.’

Midori stood up. ‘Sugiyama-
san
did his best, but he couldn’t find all the tuning tools and parts in town. That’s when I thought of Professor Marui. I thought he might
be able to help us. I know I may have overstepped my place, but I sent a letter asking him for tools and new parts to revitalize the prison’s old piano.’

‘And?’ Hasegawa cut in impatiently. ‘What happened? Did Professor Marui reply?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. From Tokyo we received a tool set, parts and new strings. I wrote back that once the piano was tuned, I would be honoured to accompany his rendition of
Die
Winterreise
. He thought it was a wonderful idea.’

Hasegawa couldn’t believe his ears. The foremost singer in Japan would perform in his prison! A smile began to form on his face. An International Peace Concert at Fukuoka Prison –
the benefits of a good press would be incalculable. The music would float out from behind bars and reach a nation exhausted from war and austerity. Hosting such a meaningful event meant that he
could invite high-level officials of the central government, including the commanders of the army, navy and air force, and military Diet members. This might help him get a job at the Interior
Ministry. Soldiers ruled during wartime, but afterwards it would be the bureaucrats’ era. This concert could deliver him to the core of power. Hasegawa clenched his teeth with determination.
‘We must begin to practise immediately.’

Midori finished her story and started to play. As her fingers sprang across the keys, the keys pushed up the hammers, the hammers pounded the strings, and the strings trembled
and vibrated. One note led to another and seeped into the dark, dry air. I felt my despair lifting; from within me bubbled hope for life, making me want to hold someone’s hand and fall in
love.

I started to sing along: ‘Carry me back to old Virginny . . .’ My heart hammered, a clamour in the calm. It was enough to make me want to hope, even in these turbulent times.

After she finished playing I asked, ‘Why would Sugiyama have the lyrics of
Die Winterreise
?’ I was afraid to hear the reason, but I had to know.

She swept up a strand of hair. ‘He always kept poems in his shirt pocket. He loved poetry and gave everything to it.’

Untuned strings roared dissonantly in my heart. He loved poetry? He, who callously destroyed books? The face of the young poet hovered in front of my eyes. Hiranuma. He must know something.
Maybe he knew everything.

According to the incineration log, Hiranuma Tochu’s documents were burned on 2 April 1944, immediately after he arrived at Fukuoka Prison. On the log were the names of
unfamiliar Korean authors written in Chinese characters – Kim Yeong-rang, Baek Seok, Yi Sang, Jeong Ji-yong. Next to them were titles of books, a mixture of Chinese characters and
katakana
.
Poetry of Yeong-rang, Poetry of Jeong Ji-yong
. . . Most were volumes of poetry, but there were also copies of a Korean magazine called
Sentences
and books in
English. The next incineration date was 3 April 1944. Sugiyama had written down all the names of the burned poems in his cramped hand.

The numbers went up to nineteen. In the notes column he had written: ‘19 poems, to be included in the unpublished

The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry
’. Under that were the numbers twenty to twenty-nine. In the notes column was the following: ‘According to Detective Koroki, the
prisoner translated the poems into Japanese at Shimogamo Police Station in Kyoto.’ So Hiranuma had been arrested and brought to Shimogamo Police Station in Kyoto. The arresting officers
confiscated dozens of seditious books and poems, and made Hiranuma translate his poems into Japanese. And of fifty or so poems, nineteen had been intended for inclusion in an unpublished book of
poetry. The remaining poems seemed to have been written in Tokyo and Kyoto.

Sugiyama Dozan and Hiranuma Tochu. Sugiyama the censor ruined Hiranuma the poet, and Hiranuma hated Sugiyama for it. They were in stark contrast to each other – one was the shadow and the
other the light. But they were linked by poetry. So why did Sugiyama have poems in his pocket and desk drawer? What role did poetry have in their relationship? To find out I had to interrogate
Hiranuma.

Prisoner 645 sat straight-backed on the old wooden chair in the interrogation room. The humidity-spotted walls accentuated his gaunt, pale face. He was slight in his too-large
prisoner uniform. I assumed an impassive demeanour as I flipped through the file, but I was feeling anxious. I told myself to calm down; Hiranuma was the one who should be worried.

‘Did you catch the murderer?’ he asked.

His question knocked the breath out of me. I’d already lost my authority. I took off my sweat-soaked military cap and decided to confide in him. There was no way he would tell me the truth
if I didn’t. ‘It was a prisoner named Choi Chi-su. He killed the guard when his escape plot was discovered.’

Hiranuma nodded. Dark shadows were cast under his nose and on his stubbly chin. The bruise on his eye was turning yellow. ‘So you got the murderer. What do you want from me?’

‘I have the facts, but not the truth.’

He scanned my face. ‘Facts and truth . . .’

I recalled Rilke’s book of poems in his box of confiscated books. ‘It was a fact that Rilke died from being stuck by a rose, but that wasn’t the truth. The thorn caused blood
poisoning that spread bacteria throughout his body, but that wasn’t the cause of death. It was leukaemia. On the other side of a fact lurks another truth.’

‘You don’t say?’

‘Yes. He wrote his own headstone to say: “rose, o pure contradiction, desire to be no one’s sleep beneath so many lids”. That is suggestive of the secretive essence
hidden on the other side of a beautiful rose.’

He searched my face. My argument was, in essence, revealing to him the kind of person I was; he was reading me as I sat in front of him.

I made an effort to regain the terse tone of an interrogator. ‘Why did Sugiyama Dozan copy out your poems?’

He shook his head. He looked firm – he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell. Noting my disheartened expression, he spoke, with the finality of scattering wet dirt into an open grave.
‘Accept the facts that have been revealed. The truth only makes everyone suffer.’

I shook my head violently as if to fling off the wet dirt. The wall in front of me swayed like a thin, undulating piece of paper. ‘Even if it’s presented as the truth, a lie is a
lie. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’

He hesitated. ‘What is it that you want to know about Sugiyama Dozan?’

‘His life.’

‘Not about his death?’

‘I need to know about his life to understand his death. Only when I know how he lived will I be able to know why he died.’

‘It would be easier to ask your fellow guards about his life. Why are you asking me, of all people?’ Hiranuma seemed anxious to leave as soon as possible.

‘Because you’re the one person who really knew him.’

He studied me carefully. After a long time he replied in a calm voice, ‘He was a poet. He was the most wonderful poet I’ve ever met.’

Sugiyama Dozan was a poet. But not at first. At the beginning he was quite different. He despised literature and looked down on those, like Hiranuma, who believed they could
make something out of words.

Hiranuma came to Fukuoka Prison in the spring of 1944. With fourteen other men he stepped behind walls that aged him instantly. Exhaustion and fear grew like liver spots on his face, his bones
protruded, the heels of his sockless feet cracked and the back of his frost-bitten hands chapped. With dim eyes he gazed at his reality – the barbed wire, the bars and the thick steel doors
that blocked his vision. He was puzzled as to why he was here, dragged in by a few lines and a couple of documents – his banned Korean poems, police reports, the prosecutor’s indictment
and the judge’s ruling. At Fukuoka he moved slowly, passing through the shadows of the tall watchtower and the cold brick walls. He went into the disinfection room and was doused in white
powder. He was given an old prisoner uniform. He wondered whether the person who’d worn it before him had left this place alive. He walked along the long corridor into the musty unknown, his
own feet crushing his consciousness. Cell 28, Ward Three. That first night he hunched in a corner like a crumpled piece of paper as despair soaked into his marrow.