The Tokyo Zodiac Murders (17 page)

When I got back to Emoto’s apartment, I found him calmly listening to music. But Kiyoshi was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Kiyoshi? Have you seen him at all?” I asked.

“Yes, I met him just as he was going out,” Emoto replied.

“How was he?”

“Well… um… he looked furious. He didn’t tell me where he was going. He only said ‘I’ll never give up!’ and then stormed out.”

Very curious. But I had my own fish to fry, so I asked Emoto if I could borrow his car the next day.

“Oh, please do,” he replied.

I decided not to stay up late, because I was exhausted. I set the alarm, hoping to get an early start. I didn’t know whether the traffic in Kyoto was as bad as in Tokyo, but I reckoned I could probably avoid the rush hour if I left around six. I wouldn’t have any time to see Kiyoshi, but it couldn’t be helped. He was obviously following his own path; and so should I. I could talk to him when I got back in the evening.

I spread my futon on the floor, and set out Kiyoshi’s, returning the favour. I pulled a blanket over myself and was soon fast asleep.

I had a weird dream. When I awoke, I couldn’t remember what it had been about, but the effects of it remained.

Kiyoshi was still asleep. I heard him groan when I pulled myself out of my futon.

It was chilly outside, but the air was refreshing, and I was fully awake by the time I’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

Emoto’s car started easily, and I drove to the Meishin Highway. The traffic was flowing smoothly. A billboard in a field to the left came into view. A girl was smiling sitting next to a refrigerator, her hair flying in the wind. Suddenly, the dream came back to me. A beautiful woman, completely naked, had been floundering in the middle of the ocean, her long hair undulating with the waves. Her lower chest, her stomach, and her knees all seemed unnaturally thin, as if tied up with a rope. She was looking straight at me, but I didn’t recognize her. She seemed to be beckoning to me in the cold silence. And then she disappeared beneath the dark waves.

It gave me goosebumps just recalling it. Could it have been some kind of message from Azoth? I suddenly remembered the mystical charm that had haunted Tamio Yasukawa, and the man who had gone mad and jumped into the ocean…

I left the highway at the Komaki Interchange, and suddenly the traffic got heavier. I didn’t arrive at Meiji-Mura until 11 a.m. I parked the car and boarded the shuttle bus that took
visitors to the entrance of the park. The road was narrow, and the branches from the low trees kept brushing against the windows of the bus; it was like going through the woods. Then suddenly a patch of blue water came into sight—Iruka Pond. The theme park had been designed all round it like a huge open-air museum.

I followed the signs to the restoration of a typical town centre from the Meiji era. The thing that struck me most was how American it all looked. Apparently, Meiji architects were deeply influenced by Western-style construction. Very few buildings from that era remain today in Japan; rapid modernization has transfigured the urban landscape, leading to the ruin of many traditions. The British, on the other hand, still live in the same houses with the same furniture from the period of Sherlock Holmes. The typical Japanese city looks so boring and lacking in character; every new building looks like a factory or a prison. Surrounded by mortared walls and cut-out windows, people appear to have chosen to live in graveyards. The popularity of Western-style construction didn’t last very long; perhaps it didn’t really fit the Japanese climate. In summer, people preferred to leave their windows open in order to reduce the heat and humidity indoors. In order to protect their privacy, they piled concrete blocks around their homes. But as a result of Japan’s post-war economic success, most Japanese households have now turned to air-conditioners. Soon, we may be able to get rid of those ugly concrete blocks.

As I strolled through Meiji-Mura, I began to wish that Japanese architecture would regain the openness it once had.

I passed the Oi Meat Shop and St John’s Church, and then I came upon two traditional Japanese structures. One of them
was the actual Tokyo house in which Soseki Natsume wrote his famous novel
I Am a Cat
. Several people were sitting on the porch. One of them was calling out, “Here, kitty kitty!” pretending to be the author. It made me wish Kiyoshi was there. He would have enjoyed mimicking the legendary writer.

One thought led to another, and I recalled a line from another Natsume novel,
The Three-cornered World
. I memorized it when I first read it:

“Approach everything rationally, and you become harsh. Pole along in the stream of emotions, and you will be swept away by the current… It is not a very agreeable place to live, this world of ours.”

I would say that Kiyoshi fits the former image very well. On the other hand, I am more of an emotional type; I have always been easily swept away. Neither of us has been very successful in this material world. What Natsume said made even more sense to me now than when I first read it. Bunjiro Takegoshi was like me in that respect—he was a man of emotions. If I had found myself in his situation, I’m sure I would have done the same things he did. And, of course, the world was not a very agreeable place to live in at all for him.

Beyond Natsume’s home, there were some stone steps. As I walked down them, a white cat casually crossed my path. It made me smile. Whoever kept a cat there must have a good sense of humour. The steps led down to a square, from where an old Kyoto tram slowly made its way around the town. Off to one side, a group of teenage girls were giggling as they had their picture taken with a middle-aged man in an old-fashioned policeman’s uniform. He was wearing black trousers with gold piping down the seams, and there was a gold sabre attached
to his belt. As the girls took their turns posing, the policeman rolled the ends of his waxed handlebar moustache, which caused the girls to shriek with laughter. Some other visitors smiled as they lined up to have their pictures taken.

Everything there seemed so pleasant and gentle. The attendants were all middle-aged and kind, and they seemed to enjoy their work. It occurred to me that the man dressed up as a Meiji policeman could be Hachiro Umeda. I decided I would return to talk to him later.

I climbed onto the tram. The elderly conductor punched my ticket, stamped it, and handed it back to me, saying “You can keep this as a memento of your ride.” I wondered if life in Japan could ever have been so gracious. Certainly it was a far cry from the Tokyo subway during the rush hour.

“The lighthouse coming up on your right used to be in Shinagawa in Tokyo… and that house on your left was the home of the famous writer Rohan Koda…” The conductor spoke with the confident voice of a professional storyteller or a stage actor. Each time he pointed out some building or historical monument, the group of middle-aged women on the tram would rush from one side to the other to get a better view. They reminded me of buffaloes stampeding.

When the tram reached the terminal the conductor jumped out of his seat. Surprised by his quick movement, I watched him through the window. Despite his age and his tiny stature, he leapt up to grab the rope hanging from the pantograph like a frog leaping for a willow branch. His weight pulled it down. Then he ran beside the car as it turned on the turntable. He turned the pantograph in the opposite direction and then ran back to his seat. He signalled to the driver and the tram
started up again very slowly; it resembled a cow just waking up from a nap.

The elderly man’s brisk movements astonished me. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry at Meiji-Mura, and presumably there wasn’t a timetable, but even so he seemed passionate about running the operation smoothly. I’m sure his family would have been worried if they could see how hard he worked. Working like that would suggest that he didn’t suffer from either back pain or insomnia—but what if he had a heart attack while jumping around? Well, I suppose that would be his fate. In fact, he would probably be happier to die with the tram rope in his hands than peacefully in bed. I remembered what Shusai Yoshida had said about envying his friend working in the village. I could understand why he felt like that.

After the tram ride, I passed by the Shimbashi railway and the Shinagawa Glass Factory. Finally I came to the Uji-Yamada post office. I was ready to meet Azoth!

I walked slowly up the stone steps and entered. Inside there was an oil-coated wooden floor. My heart was almost in my mouth. Sunlight was streaming in through the high windows. Specks of dust were floating in the air. I was the only one there.

The exhibition was arranged in chronological order, beginning with a mannequin of an express messenger who delivered letters on foot. Next, there was the first postbox used by Japan’s postal system. That was followed by several different designs, ending with a familiar red postbox in the shape of a column. Then there was an exhibition of postmen in different uniforms.

I was beginning to feel irritated. “Where is she?” I said to myself out loud. I turned to one side, and there, in a dark
corner, was a female mannequin wearing a red kimono. Her black hair was in bangs.

Are you really her?

I approached the mannequin timidly, like a hesitant child. She was standing up straight. Her vacant black eyes stared at me. The dust on her hair and shoulders was a testament to her forty-year history.

Who are you? What do you want to tell me?

On that peaceful afternoon, facing this mysterious object, I felt so alone. I was suddenly full of fear. I began to shiver and wrapped my arms around myself. I leant on the guardrail to get a closer look; my legs felt leaden.

What if she begins to move?

I stood where I was—about six feet away—and stared at her. The mannequin seemed to have wrinkles around her eyes. Her eyes were made of glass. Her hands looked artificial.

Wait… wrinkles on her face? I must get a closer look…

I looked round. There was nobody in sight. But just as I was about to step over the guardrail, the door to the post office opened and in walked the janitor, holding a broom and a metal dustpan. She began to sweep, paying me no attention. Suddenly she dropped the dustpan and it clanged on to the floor.

Unnerved, I hurriedly left the post office…

I felt famished. I bought some pastries and milk at a kiosk and sat down on a bench. From there I could see the main entrance of the famous old Tokyo Imperial Hotel. In front of me there was a pond with a twin-arched bridge. Some swans were gliding on the water. It was so nice and quiet. There was
not a soul in sight. A streak of smoke was trailing above the trees. A steam locomotive appeared from the woods, pulling three cars. It trundled over an iron bridge.

As I munched on the pastries I began to start wondering again. I was entirely perplexed. How could Tamio Yasukawa have possibly thought that
that
mannequin was Azoth? It seemed impossible. No, not
that
mannequin. Had Yasukawa really lost his mind? Or had someone replaced the real thing?

I walked back to take another look at it, but, unfortunately, there were several visitors in the post office. I stared at the doll briefly and then went to look for Hachiro Umeda.

The mustachioed policeman was sweeping the square in front of the police station when I returned. “Sayonara,” a group of girls were shouting happily, bowing as they left. The policeman—who really did look the part—bowed back.

I walked up to him. “Excuse me, would you happen to be Mr Hachiro Umeda?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” he responded quite openly.

“My name is Ishioka. I’m visiting from Tokyo. Mr Shusai Yoshida mentioned your name to me. He thought I might want to meet you.”

A curious expression appeared on Umeda’s face. After I explained the situation to him—by now I had had a lot of practice—he put down his broom and invited me inside. He offered me a chair.

“Let me see… Yasukawa Tamiko… Yeah, yeah, I remember him. A heavy drinker. He died, didn’t he? Poor old man, he would have enjoyed his life if he’d moved here. The air’s clean, the
food’s great… Everything would have been perfect for him if alcohol was allowed in here!” He paused, smiled and continued, “I look good in this uniform, don’t I? This was my dream, you know. For the chance to wear a uniform with a sabre like this, I would’ve happily done anything—even joined a parade or posed for a poster. So when I was offered the job here, I was very excited. I had several choices—I could have been a train conductor, a tram driver, anything—but I chose the policeman’s job right away!”

He was pleasant and friendly, but he was a disappointment to me. From all indications, it was highly unlikely that this cheerful middle-aged man could have dreamt up the complicated Umezawa schemes and committed the horrible murders. Also, he looked like he was only in his late fifties, much younger than Umezawa would have been if he was still alive. Of course, it was likely that his lifestyle contributed to his youthfulness.

I asked him if he had ever heard of Heikichi Umezawa.

“Heikichi Umezawa? Ah, that’s very amusing. Yasukawa got drunk once and started calling me ‘Heikichi Umezawa’. I told him I wasn’t called Umezawa, but he kept bowing and talking to me like I was. I looked like him, maybe? But Umezawa was a criminal, so I didn’t appreciate it very much. Now if I had looked like General Nogi or the Emperor Meiji, that would’ve been different. That would have made me very happy!” He laughed loudly.

“Excuse me, but could I ask you where you lived in 1936? I know it’s almost forty years ago, but…”

“1936? Hmm… I was twenty… That was before the war, so I was living in Takamatsu on the island of Shikoku. I worked at a liquor store.”

“Were you born in Takamatsu?”

“That’s right.”

“But you seem to have an Osaka dialect.”

“Oh, I lived in Osaka for long time, that’s why. When I left the military, I couldn’t find a job in my hometown, so I moved to the big city. I was hired at another liquor store, but they went bankrupt. Since then, I’ve had many different kinds of jobs. At one time I pulled a stall around selling
ramen
noodles; another time, I worked in a mannequin factory.”

“Is that how you met Mr Yoshida?”

“No, no, I met him after I quit that job, when I was a security guard at a building in Osaka. That was over ten years ago… no… must have been nearly twenty years ago. I knew a sculptor who was renting a space for his artwork in the same building. We became friends, and he introduced me to a doll-making club in Kyoto. Shusai Yoshida was the person who started the club. He had just moved from Tokyo and was new to the area, so I offered to help if I could. Eventually, I became his doll-making assistant. He said that he was just doing it as a hobby, but he was too modest. When it comes to doll-making, there is nobody better than him. This is not just my personal opinion; all the experts say the same. He’s almighty in the field. But his technique and artistry are especially brilliant when it comes to creating the faces of Western-style dolls. For Expo ’70 in Osaka, he was asked to exhibit some of his dolls, and that was when our friendship developed. In order to have everything ready by opening day, we sometimes had to work through the night. It was tough work, but I enjoyed working with him a lot.” It was true—Shusai Yoshida did have a certain charisma.