Shiga’s voice is hoarse: “No. But I always wanted to.”
“Just like the rest. Plenty of good intentions, but no follow through.” There’s sarcasm in the voice. The man seems to be enjoying his role, but Reizo has a feeling he also means what he says. He’s reminded of a psychiatrist his father forced him to visit a number of years back when he was suffering from extreme fear of failure: split personalities think they’re playing a role and do so with great conviction and pleasure. They don’t realise that they’re playing their role so seriously they can no longer distinguish between their own personality and the one they are playing.
Reizo Shiga doesn’t understand how it’s possible that Mitsuko’s father wants to kill him for a completely different reason than the kidnapping of his daughter. He accepts, not without a little pride, that he is a plaything in the hands of fate. The realisation allows an inner energy to rise to the surface, an energy he had always suspected was present deep inside him. In the limp and deceitful society Japan had become, he had never been given the chance to develop it. A sudden insight makes him hold his breath, tells him how to revenge himself against this man and his insult who is about to rob him of his life. Rokurobei looks at his watch, an absurd everyday gesture that doesn’t square with his fearsome appearance: “The question is: has a black sheep among the present generation ever heard of eiyo? Or is a sense of honour too old fashioned?”
“I repeat: I spoke the truth as a man of honour: I know nothing about my uncle,” says Shiga. “I severed contact with my family years ago.”
“This changes nothing, you understand, even if it is the truth. You’ve seen my face. You can identify me.” The man smiles, his voice melodious like an actor in a mugen no play full of ghosts and spirits: “This is the moment at which the supernatural world interferes with everyday reality. Take a look at the imagined reality flourishing between us.”
Reizo hangs his head. He knows that the man’s words are meaningful, but in reality he knows nothing about Noh theatre, he just likes the masks. In his imagined reality he’s a sensitive artist, a great writer, but in truth he’s just a sick young man with limited horizons. He looks up and grits his teeth: “If you plan to kill me I demand an honourable death.” A feeble smile: “In honour of the real emperor of Japan.”
“Oh? Are we that old fashioned?”
Reizo looks the giant in the eye and manages a crooked smile.
“An honourable death. To give a little lustre to that lustreless life of yours?”
Reizo refuses to look away.
“Do you have the courage to follow your teacher Mishima?”
Reizo doesn’t answer but takes off his shirt and gets to his knees. Rokurobei sizes him up. He stands upright, pulls a long steel knife from a sheath under his coat. Reizo notices the western clothing for the first time. It seems inappropriate for a man like this, a ghost of Japan’s feudal past. In his mind’s eye, Reizo Shiga pictures Mishima in full military uniform. How many times has he wanted to die this way after coming down from a bad trip with so much adrenaline in his body his heart could barely cope? In those moments of torture he prayed not to have to die the death of an insignificant junky, foaming at the mouth.
Reizo Shiga realises that his prayers have been answered. “Mishima committed seppuku because his coup d’état was a failure. I choose to do so because it is the better death,” he says softly.
Rokurobei snaps his fingers. One of the men hands him a sheath containing a katana that belonged to Shiga’s grandfather, the handsome shiny sword he had used earlier that day to make an impression on Mitsuko. Rokurobei tests its balance. Reizo Shiga monitors his expert movements. “I’m ready to be your attendant,” says the mafia boss. The man hands him the knife. He takes no risks: the ceremonial sword blade is pointed at Reizo’s throat. He steps back and to the side. His bodyguards are nearby, their weapons cocked and pointing at Reizo. It would be very hard to attempt to kill the man with a throw of the knife.
Reizo isn’t planning to do that. His thoughts are elsewhere. He remembers all those times in his life meditating with a knife against his navel, imagining the instant of suicide, glorying in it.
A final moment of hesitation takes hold of him, a perplexing knot deep inside.
He concentrates on the blade and on his hatred of the world that has had him in a stranglehold for so long. Reizo Shiga accumulates that hatred in every cell of his body. He breathes it out with a hissing sound as he drives the blade into his belly. It’s less painful than he had imagined. It feels cold, like an ice pick. Rokurobei moves closer and lifts up the sword to decapitate him. Reizo’s hands are warm and wet from the blood. He feels dizzy, then a ringing like tiny silver bells fills his ears .
“I lied,” says Rokurobei. “That’s all part of the theatre of life, neh? I take your life, Reizo Shiga, to punish your father.”
Reizo Shiga looks up at the giant figure leaning over him. His eyes glisten as if they’re made of metaclass="underline" “I didn’t tell you the truth either. That’s all part of the way I am. I’ve hidden your daughter in a secret place. When I die, she shall die. By killing me, you have killed her. That is your unmei.”
He sees the surprise in Rokurobei’s face. The giant lowers the sword that – according to the classical rules of ritual suicide – should have delivered the final blow to the neck. He leans closer, intent on pulling the knife from the young man’s belly. Reizo beats him to it, yanks the blade from the wound and thrusts it, this time without hesitation, into his own heart.
89
In the car Yori won’t shut up. Perhaps she thinks that Dr Adachi is good at listening to women because he’s gay. But Adachi isn’t comfortable in the presence of women. He hides his distrust behind old fashioned politeness. He listens to Yori’s monologue about her “miserable life” with apparent patience. Yori considers herself to be part of the “underground Japan” that for decades has had nothing to do with the economic miracle the world gets to see. The underground Japan is the Japan that exists outside the beehive mentality, Yori rattles. Both her parents were children when they dropped the bomb. They didn’t live far from the epicentre of the explosion. They survived a ridiculously heavy dose of radiation, but struggled to get by after that and died of cancer within weeks of each other. Her sister wanted to be a singer for as long as she could remember. She was sure she had talent. To prepare herself for her career, in which she believed with all her heart, in spite of opposition from her parents who insisted that they were just ordinary people trying to make ends meet, Yori’s sister developed anorexia. She kept it secret until her sixteenth birthday when her periods stopped and osteoporosis set it. They put her in an institution for the mentally disturbed where she managed to defeat her anorexia with heavy medication, although she cut it fine. She now works at a local supermarket. “We don’t talk,” says Yori as Adachi’s apartment appears in the distance. “She lives the existence of a bee.”
The police doctor nods. He’s tired. He tries to run over the draft of their plan in his head. It all seemed so clear back in the bar, but now all he can think about is the deformed baby in cold storage in the basement of police headquarters and the chrysanthemum on its heel.