‘Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!’
In their thousands, in their masks –
‘Oni wa soto!’
Handful after handful, my face stung, swarm after swarm, my face bleeding, in their thousands, they are putting their arms through the arms of my brown lounge suit, in their masks, they are lifting my burnt-orange boots off the ground –
‘Oni wa soto!’
IN THE oCcULT CITY, I am flying now, past the mid-night, through the blue-sky, the moon and the stars all out tonight and they look good, so good tonight, and now they put me down, down where the tall grass grows, down among the branches and the leaves, the sky a dirty yellow now, the moon a bloody red, in this forest of broken bones and dead skin, He is coming now, shuffling through the forest, He is here, shuffling through the trees, He is here, He who has brought my carcass to this place, to this defeated city, here to parade my meat, in the occupied city, my flesh to hang from its branches, my blood to drip from its leaves, to stain the trees, the branches and the limbs of the oCcULT CITY, in this place where the flies begin to gather now, this place where death will come as a wasp, a wasp in the Wintertime, in its light that sheds no light, with its sunfall and rainshine, where I will be but shadow, shadow at the side of the road.
And now He lays me down, and He stretches me out, and He smiles and He says, ‘This city is no séance. This city is a mirror.’
And He holds the mirror up to my face, the nails to my hands, my hands to His door, and now He laughs,
the Last Laugh, ‘Ha!’
Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, the door falls, the medium falls, and now the fifth candle is extinguished,
another candle, another life, out, out, out,
and once again you are alone,
alone in the occult circle,
alone in the light
of its seven
candles,
with no new words and no new book, among the rivers of ink and the mountains of paper, the bonfires and the ashes,
you crawl, in circles, on your hands
and on your knees, you crawl, through old words and old books, and you pick up the books and then you drop the books, drop the books and then pick up your pen, pick up your pen and now you write, write more and more insincerities, again and again, more and more lies, day after day, the same insincerities, the same lies, over and over, day after day, again and again,
until now you drop your pen,
drop your pen again, here –
Alone by the rivers of ink, alone on the mountains of paper, on your hands and on your knees, in the smoke and in the ash –
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult circle of its seven candles,
among the flurries and the flakes, the paper flurries of paper flakes, these now-black and white flurries
of news-paper flakes,
spinning, spinning
and spinning, deaf again to the steps on the stairs, the sirens and the telephones, startled anew by the hand on your shoulder, you look up from your ink, up from your papers, and you see a smile, a smile that says, that says, ‘My dear, sweet writer –
‘I know this river, I know this mountain. The smell of these fires, the taste of these ashes. I know all about insincerities, I know all about lies. For I am a Master of Insincerities, a Master of Lies. For I trade in insincerities, I trade in lies. For I am a journalist and these are my stories …
The Sixth Candle — The Stories of a Journalist
The city is a story, so many tales for her to tell, so many chronicles for me to chronicle. For the city is a chronicle, a journal, in black and white, and I am its chronicler, its journalist, in hat and coat. A thousand stories for every day, every night; never one city, but a thousand cities — heaven for some, hell for others. And for every story there are two sides, two sides at least, for the city is always, already a fiction, this city made of paper, this city made of print –
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I am Takeuchi Riichi, Homicide Reporter for the Yomiuri Shimbun. Every day, every night, I walk the city and I hear the city, her streets and her stories. I catch her stories and I collect her stories, to pin and mount them, on paper and in print, to display and exhibit, in black and white –
Monday 26 January 1948 …
In the Fictional City, this story starts like every story, with a siren, and then another, and another, another ambulance siren.
In the late winter afternoon, I am standing around a stove in the press office of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Board with all the other homicide reporters, my rivals from the Mainichi, the Asahi, and all the other newspapers, and we are listening to the sirens, waiting for a statement. But no one comes down from upstairs, no detective with a statement from the MPB, and so we ignore the sirens, warming our hands as we wait for a story –
A sniff of a story …
In the Fictional City, the tap on my shoulder, the word in my ear; ‘A moment of your time,’ whispers Shiratō Sakari. Shiratō is the Public Health reporter for the Yomiuri. Shiratō doesn’t often come down to Police HQ. Shiratō leads me out into the corridor.
‘You heard all those sirens, the ambulances?’ he asks. ‘Well, they’re all heading up to the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank in Toshima-ku. Biggest case of food poisoning in years.’
‘Food poisoning? When? How many?’
‘The whole bank, at least ten people, about an hour ago. Loads of police up there, all saying nothing for now, but it’s a big, big story. And we can get the scoop …’
The face out of the door, the shout down the corridor; ‘Takeuchi, telephone!’
‘Wait here,’ I tell Shiratō, and I go back into the press office, the rival eyes of all the other reporters watching me as I shrug and I sigh, pick up the telephone and say, ‘Hello, Takeuchi here.’
‘I know everyone in the room is watching you,’ says Ono, my editor at the Yomiuri. ‘So just answer yes or no.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘Did you hear those ambulances about an hour ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has there been any statement from the MPB about where they were going, about what’s happening?’
‘No.’
‘Have you spoken with anyone about them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shiratō?’
‘Yes.’
‘He told you it was a big case of food poisoning at the Teikoku Bank in Shiinamachi?’
‘Yes.’
‘He still with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, keep him there. I’ve sent Tomizawa up to Shiinamachi and he’s going to phone back all the details to you because I want you to write this. So you stay put because this is not food poisoning. This is mass murder and robbery, ten dead at least, and the bank’s takings stolen, so get writing the story now. Fill in the details with Tomizawa later. You understand what I’ve said?’
‘Yes … Er no.’
‘Quickly,’ says Ono. ‘Which is it?’
‘Yes. Maybe,’ I start to say, but Ono’s gone, the line dead. I replace the receiver gently. I turn around as casually as I can but I know I will have fooled no one; the rival eyes of all the other reporters still watching me. I fake a yawn but they are shaking their heads. I walk as slowly as I can towards the door but still they are shaking their heads and now, as I open the door, as I step outside, back into the corridor, the rival hands of all the other reporters are reaching for the telephones, their rival fingers dialling their editors –