Occupied City (24 page)

‘Let’s pretend all your papers are now a finished manuscript, that your manuscript is now a book, a book called –

‘Teigin Monogatari…

‘Let’s pretend that this book has come, this book not a fiction, and that this book absolves the innocent and accuses the guilty …

‘Let’s pretend that this book ends the whole mystery, that this book solves the whole case, that this book solves the crime …

‘This crime and all crimes, all mysteries …

‘All stories, all fictions now ended …

‘Let’s pretend, sweet writer …

‘Let’s pretend …’

Now he closes his eyes and begins to count, to count out loud, ‘I say one, I say two, I say three, I say four, I say five, and I say six.’

And now the journalist opens his eyes and stares at the candle before him, the sixth candle. But now the journalist shakes his head.

He leans forward on his knees, on the damp floor, in the occult circle, leans forward towards the sixth candle.

Now the journalist blows out the candle –

The sixth candle.

In the half-light, you are alone again, in the upper chamber of the Black Gate, in the occult circle of now-six candles,

and in their half-light, alone again,

you half-whisper, you half-beg,

‘Let’s pretend, please …’

That all these words are not just the sum of their absences, that you, you are not the sum of your absences;

that a man is not what he lacks,

this city, this country,

not what they lack,

this world –

‘Lacks?’ laughs a voice now, the Black Gate spinning,
spinning and spinning. ‘Lacks what? Look outside this window, Mister Writer. Look at the height of those buildings, those skyscrapers. Look at those people down below, in their suits and in their cars. Not on their hands, not on their knees –

‘They lack for nothing. Nothing!

‘Because of me! Me! Me!’

The six candles gone, the occult circle gone, the upper chamber gone, the Black Gate gone, and now you are standing in an enormous room, on thick carpet, high above the city,

THE FUTURE CITY rising, here, now –

‘But I am everything you hate,’ laughs the man beside you, his hand on your shoulder, fingers in your flesh and nails in your bones. ‘For I am the future, your future! Now …

The city is a market, a black market, a stock market, a free market. And I run this city. I rule this city. For I built this city. From ash, through wood, to concrete, steel and glass –

Rise up Tokyo! Rise up Nippon!

You are not ash. You are not wood. You are concrete, steel and glass. I have dragged you out of the ash, through the wood to be here now, in concrete, steel and glass –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Beneath skies crossed and matted grey with your tangled strings, across grounds crawling and stained with your severed strings, you are all puppets. But I am no puppet –

I have cut my strings!

From Defeated and Ruined City, Surrendered and Occupied City, to Olympic and Future City, in less than twenty years –

THIS IS MY CITY …

MY CITY!

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a wooden building, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Boss, boss!’ pants my best puppet. ‘They’ve robbed the Teikoku Bank up by the Nagasaki Shrine. They’ve killed all the staff. Police everywhere, all over the place, all over the town …’

I look up from the cards. I look up from the die. I say, ‘This is my town. No one robs a bank in my town. No one murders its staff. Not in my town. So you find out who did this …

‘And you bring them to me …

‘And you do it now!’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a bunk in China, I am a soldier. I wake. I rise. Step by step. I rob. I rape. I kill. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I kill them all and I get money and I get medals –

But these fields of slaughter, these forests of skeletons, they trade not in bravery, trade not in honour, they deal in luck, they deal in death; lucky soldiers and dead soldiers –

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, on and on, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the fields and through the forests, on and on, over looted house and over stripped corpse, on and on, and from severed hand into bloody hands, forever-bloody hands, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #1: dog kills dog.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a wooden building, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘It was a doctor,’ says the puppet in the uniform. ‘Or at least a man pretending to be a doctor. A public health official.’

I look up from the flowers on the cards, the spots on the die, and I say, ‘Describe this doctor to me …’

‘Aged between forty-four and fifty. About five feet three inches tall. Thin build with an oval face. A high nose and a pale complexion. Hair cut short and flecked with grey. He was dressed in a brown lounge suit, wearing brown rubber boots. He had a white armband on his left arm on which was written “LEADER OF THE
DISINFECTING TEAM”. He had a raincoat over one arm and he was carrying a doctor’s bag …’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, he had two distinctive brown spots on his left cheek. The survivors also said he was a distinguished and intelligent-looking man with the air of an educated doctor.’

‘Do you have any suspects?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not as yet.’

‘Well then,’ I say, ‘let’s see if me and my men can’t jog a few memories, get you a few names, shall we?’

‘Thank you,’ he says with a low bow, my pills in his wooden hand, his paper money in mine.

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a courtroom, in a dock, I am a criminal, a war criminal. I wake. I rise. Step by step. But I do not cry. I do not apologize. I do not speak. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I appal them all and I get shunned and I get accused –

And they may hang me, they may jail me, they may pardon me, or they may release me, for their courts trade not in justice, trade not in truth, they deal in retribution, they deal in vengeance –

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, on and on, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the victors and across the losers, on and on, over justice and over injustice, on and on, and from innocent hand to guilty hands, forever-guilty hands, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #2: dog eats dog.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in a deserted factory, in a dark space, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘But I don’t know anything!’ screams the beaten, bruised and naked puppet on the concrete floor. ‘I know nothing!’

‘That’s a great pity,’ I tell him, ‘because no one needs an ignorant man, do they? They are simply surplus to requirements. Human garbage, in fact. Waste …’

‘Please, please, please …’

‘And you know what we do with garbage and waste, don’t you? No you don’t, do you? Because you don’t know anything, you know nothing. Well then, I’ll tell you. We drive the garbage and the waste out of the city and we dump it in holes …’

‘Please, please …’

‘Deep holes,’ I tell him. ‘Because no one likes the sight or the smell of garbage and waste …’

‘Please…’

‘Next!’

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In a market, a black market, I am a gangster, a racketeer. I wake. I rise. Step by step. I steal. I sell. I steal things. I sell things. I make money. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I exploit them all and I get money and I get respect –

I license the market stalls. I take money and I make money. I burn down rival markets. I take money and I make money. I set up gambling dens. I take money and I make money. I set up whorehouses. I take money and I make money. I get money –

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, on and on, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the strong and across the weak, on and on, over the satiated and over the starving, on and on, and from scared hand to scarred hands, scarred hands into top-pockets and back-pockets, fat back-pockets, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #3: dog steals another dog.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Mejiro town, in the police station, in an upstairs office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Thank you for coming,’ says the local chief puppet. ‘I know you are a busy man. Thank you for making the time to see me.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘It’s my pleasure. Thank you for inviting me and taking the time yourself.’

‘Well, I wanted to thank you personally for all your efforts in helping us in our investigation …’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say again. ‘It’s not only my pleasure but also my duty as a local citizen …’

‘Thank you,’ says the chief puppet again. ‘Unfortunately, as you are aware, our investigation has yet to reach a conclusion.’

‘It’s a great pity,’ I say. ‘But I know you and your men are working tirelessly to catch this fiend. And I am certain, in the end, that you will be successful in your investigation.’

‘I appreciate your encouragement and support,’ says the chief puppet. ‘Thank you. As you are also aware, the Metro Detectives no longer believe the culprit to be a local man. They believe him to be a man with a military and medical background, who quite possibly served on the mainland during the war …’

‘Is that right?’ I say.

‘That’s their thinking, yes,’ he says. ‘That the culprit possibly even served with the Tokumu Kikan in China …’

‘Really?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And so the Metro Detectives are planning to question all the former members of the Tokumu Kikan they can find.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ nods the chief again. ‘I thought you’d be interested to
know their present thinking, the current course of the investigation, as a concerned local citizen …’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ says the local chief puppet, being pulled to his feet. ‘It’s my pleasure. Please keep in touch …’

‘Thank you,’ I say again, bowing and leaving, a fresh fish and a bottle of sake on his desk.

¥

Tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

In the upstairs room of a police station, I am a strike-breaker. I wake. I rise. Step by step. I provide men, big men. I provide sticks, big sticks. I crack heads, red heads. I break bones, red bones. In newspaper plants and in film studios, in factories and in universities. For Dai Nippon, for the Emperor –

Fight! Fight! Fight!

For you, for me –

Fight! Fight!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, morning, afternoon, evening, and night – in all these times – Dust, mud, desert, jungle, field, forest, mountain, valley, river, stream, farm, village, town, city, house, street, shop, factory, hospital, school, government building and railway station – in all these places – Soldier, civilian, man, woman, child and baby, I intimidate them all and I get money and I get more work –

I beat up strikers on their picket lines. I take money and I make money. I burn down the houses of union officials. I take money and I make money. I threaten and I bully, bully, bully –

For the War Machine rolls on, never stopping, never resting, never sleeping, on and on, always rising, always consuming, always devouring. On and on, the War Machine rolls on, across the workers and across their unions, on and on, over their rights and over their jobs, on and on, and from dirty hand into dirtier hands, under the table and into back-pockets, back-pockets into wallets, big fat wallets, money passes, money changes, money grows –

Lesson #4: dog sells stolen dog to another dog.

¥

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, on the Ginza, in a concrete building, in a brand-new office, tap-tap, knock-knock, bang-bang, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Thank you for seeing me, Boss,’ I say. ‘I know you are a very busy man so, really, thank you very much.’

‘We’re all busy men,’ laughs the Big Boss. ‘Times may be tough, but there are still lots of opportunities for the man who is prepared to be busy. Still money to be made, always money to be made. Lots of money for the busy man …’

‘That’s the truth, all right.’

‘Yes,’ says the Big Boss, ‘and that’s why none of us likes anything to stand in the way of opportunity. Anything like a police investigation, a city-wide manhunt; obstructing our opportunities, impeding our businesses; asking questions none of us want asked, turning over stones that should be left as they are …’