Pretending, impersonating, deceiving…
Back beside her bed, her eyes closed, her hand in mine, I am whispering, ‘Can you hear me, Miss Murata…?’
There is sweat on her brow, in her hair, shadows on her cheeks, round her eyes. Her mouth opens and then closes, her fingers tighten and then loosen. She is dreaming, dreaming bad dreams –
‘Miss Murata, I can help you. Please believe me …’
Her eyes are open now but still not close, she is struggling to get back, back to this room, this white room in this hospital –
‘I can help you,’ I tell her. ‘You can trust me …’
Her fingers turn in my hand, tighten around my own, as she looks at me now and asks, ‘Who are you? Are you a doctor?’
‘No, this white coat is just so I could talk to you. That’s all. I just want to talk to you. I just want to help you …’
‘But why?’ she says. ‘Who are you?’
In the Fictional City, in the Seibo Hospital, in my stolen coat, I say, ‘My name is Takeuchi Riichi. I’m a journalist.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ she laughs. ‘Not a doctor?’
‘No,’ I smile. ‘A journalist, with the Yomiuri.’
She turns her face away from me now, not laughing any more. I let go of her hand. I want to apologize. She stares at the white wall, tears on her pillow. I stand up. I want to explain …
‘Get away from me!’ she cries.
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, a telephone rings, a voice whispers, along wires, down cables, with another time, another place –
Down another alley, in another room, through the shadows, past the stares, in another chair, another man –
A man with an envelope.
I open the envelope. I read the letter. I take out my wallet. I hand him the cash and I say, ‘I hope you didn’t write it yourself.’
The man counts the cash. The man puts it in his jacket pocket. The man smiles and says, ‘What difference would it make?’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, with an envelope and a letter on my desk, an editor and a deadline on my back, I write another story:
SINISTER NOTE RECEIVED IN PUZZLING BANK CASE
Reward for Capture Now ¥80,000; Police Still Baffled
Painfully slow progress was being made in the Teikoku Bank ‘Poison Holdup’ case as police officers continued to be enmeshed in difficulties because of the lack of tangible evidence.
Rewards for the capture of the diabolical killer of 12 bank employees rose to ¥80,000 and one silver cup.
A sinister letter was received on January 29 by the manager of the Shiina branch of the Teikoku Bank. Signed ‘Yamaguchi Jiro’, the alias used on the day of the diabolical crime, the letter said in part: ‘I am sorry I caused quite a disturbance the other day. I let Murata Masako (the girl who crawled into the streets to seek help) live because I have some use for her later. In due time, I shall pay her a visit… At first I had an unpleasant feeling watching so many people writhe and squirm in agony but later I didn’t mind at all…’
Police are investigating to see whether it really came from the poisoner or from some callous citizen with a dubious sense of humour.
Meanwhile, the description of the man who claimed the cheque stolen from the scene of the crime failed to tally with that of the poisoner.
Police officials, however, expressed gratification for public cooperation in the manhunt and said that scores of letters and phone calls are being received daily at the search headquarters.
In the Fictional City, so many letters and so many calls, so many stories and so many tales, so many doubts and so many, many questions.
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, in the Seibo Hospital, there is sweat on her brow, in her hair again, shadows on her cheeks, round her eyes again. Her mouth opening and then closing, her fingers tightening and then loosening. She is dreaming, dreaming bad dreams again –
‘Help me,’ she says in her dreams. ‘Please help me …’
In this white room, her hand in mine, I say, ‘I can help you. Please believe me. I can make that dream go away …’
Pretending, impersonating, deceiving…
She opens her eyes. She stares into me. She squeezes my hand. She whispers, ‘How can you help me?’
‘I can save you,’ I tell her –
Pretending, not pretending…
‘Until yesterday,’ she says, ‘I thought a cup was a cup. Until then, a table was a table. I thought the war was over. I knew we had lost. I knew we had surrendered. I knew we were now occupied.
‘But I thought the war was over. I thought a cup was still a cup. That medicine was medicine. I thought my friend was my friend, a colleague was a colleague. A doctor, a doctor.
‘But the war is not over. A cup is not a cup. Medicine is not medicine. A friend not a friend, a colleague not a colleague. For a colleague here yesterday, sat in the seat at the counter beside me, that colleague is not here today. Because a doctor is not a doctor.
‘A doctor is a murderer. A killer.
‘Because the war is not over.
‘The war is never over.’
‘I know,’ I say, pretending to pretend, in my stolen white coat, not pretending to pretend, beside her hospital bed, squeezing her hand and telling her again, ‘I know, I know.’
‘I was still going through that day’s thirty deposits when the killer arrived,’ she says. ‘I didn’t see what time it was when he entered, but business had closed as usual at 3 p.m., and I had then immediately begun to count up the deposits. The thirty deposits would have taken me no longer than ten minutes which means the killer must have arrived sometime between 3 p.m. and 3.10 p.m.
‘When the killer began to distribute the poison, I looked him in his face. I will never forget that face. I would know it anywhere.’
‘I know,’ I say again, and again, ‘I know, I know.’
‘I am a survivor,’ she says, still staring into me, deeper and deeper, still squeezing my hand, tighter and tighter. ‘But of course I know only through luck have I survived so many friends. But night after night, in dream after dream, I hear these friends saying of me: “Those who survive are stronger.” And I hate myself …’
Again and again, she says, ‘I hate myself.’
And again, again I say, ‘I know …’
Pretending, not pretending…
‘But I will help you.’
IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I walk down the long, long table to my editor’s desk at the head of the long, long table and I stand before him and I say, ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, Boss …’
‘Ah, Takeuchi,’ smiles Ono. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. Liked that piece on the “Sinister Note” very much. Very much.’
‘Well, actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m not sure it’s entirely legitimate. So I was thinking maybe you could hold it back for now while I checked into it a bit more …?’
‘Too late for doubts,’ laughs Ono, tapping his watch. ‘It’s already been set and the presses are rolling.’
‘I see,’ I say.
‘I’ve told you before,’ he tells me again. ‘You worry too much. In our business, there’s no time for doubts, no time for procrastination. Don’t get me wrong, I admire your integrity. But in our business we’ve got to go with our guts, run with our hunches, and your gut, your hunch, was to run with this. So forget it now, and get after the next one. After all, not like you made it up yourself, is it?’