Tokyo Year Zero

He looks like shit, like he still hasn’t slept –

I am looking in a mirror, in a mirror …

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask him –

Nishi stares at the pistol stuck in his stomach. Nishi says, ‘They’re all celebrating, aren’t they?’

‘Celebrating what?’

‘A case closed.’

‘Which one?’

‘Kodaira.’

‘So they couldn’t even wait for me to get back from Tochigi. They couldn’t even wait to see the evidence I found, to read my report. They couldn’t care less about all the others, could they?’

There have been others. There have been others …

‘But they’ve been looking for you, you know that don’t you?’ he tells me now, still staring down at the pistol stuck in his stomach. ‘You should go to Daimon. You should go and join the party. Talk to Chief Kita, but you should go now before it’s too late…’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him. ‘It’s already too late.’

Nishi shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not.’

Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! …

‘Shut up!’ I hiss again. ‘And just answer my questions…’

Now Detective Nishi bows his head. Now he nods –

‘What happened to Detective Fujita?’ I ask him.

‘Nishi looks up. You don’t know?’

I push the pistol deeper into his gut. ‘Just tell me!’

‘They found his body in the Shiba Canal,’ says Nishi. ‘Hands and feet nailed to the back of a door, drowned face down, just…’

‘Just like Hayashi Jo,’ I say for him –

Nishi nods again and says, ‘Yes.’

‘And whose case is it?’ I ask –

‘Chief Inspector Adachi’s.’

I curse him. I curse him …

‘And so who does your great inspector think killed Fujita?’

‘The chief inspector thinks that Fujita was somehow involved with Nodera Tomiji in the murder of Matsuda Giichi, that Hayashi Jo tried to blackmail Fujita and so Fujita killed him to silence him, that Boss Senju then somehow found out about it and had Fujita killed.’

‘This is not a problem … this is going to be a pleasure…’

‘And me?’ I ask him. ‘What’s he saying about me…?’

Nishi shakes his head. Nishi says, ‘Nothing…’

I raise the pistol so it is level with Nishi’s eyes, the space between his eyes, and I say, ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying…’

‘But it’s the truth,’ pleads Nishi. ‘Please…’

I ask, ‘Then what about Ishida?’

‘What about Ishida?’

‘What has Adachi said about Ishida?’ I ask. ‘Where does Detective Ishida fit into all this?’

Nishi shakes his head again. Nishi says, ‘I have no idea…’

‘Ishida was working for Adachi all along,’ I tell him –

But Nishi is still shaking his head, ‘I don’t know…’

‘Adachi had him spying on me, on you, on us all.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…’

‘Maybe now it’s you, now he’s gone…’

‘Now who’s gone? What’s me?’

‘Ishida’s not coming back.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Hell,’ I tell him –

Nishi staring down the barrel of the gun. Nishi sweating. Nishi telling me now, ‘That’s between you and Detective Ishida –

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he begs. ‘Please…’

‘Is that what Adachi told you to tell me…?’

‘He’s told me nothing,’ shouts Nishi –

I touch the barrel to his forehead –

‘Nothing!’ shouts Nishi again –

I press the barrel into him –

‘Adachi is trying to help you,’ cries Nishi. ‘To save you!’

‘Liar! Liar!’ I whisper as I pull the trigger. Click —

‘No! No!’ he screams. ‘It’s the truth…’

‘Adachi sent Ishida to kill me!’ I tell him as I pull the trigger, again and again, as I pull it. Click. Click —

Nishi dropping to his knees –

Click. Click —

Nishi on his knees –

‘Please, no…’

I lower the pistol now. I take out my notebook of rough paper from my jacket pocket. I bend down over him. I lift his face up to the light. I push the notebook into his face. I force open his mouth –

Now I stuff the notebook inside Nishi’s mouth –

‘That’s the truth in there,’ I say. ‘My truth…’

In the half-light, the half-things …

‘Read it and remember it!’

*

The nighthawks under the tracks are out early tonight. Asobu? Asobu? In their yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dresses. Asobu? Asobu? They have had their radios on, their newspapers open, and have heard there is a typhoon approaching. Asobu? Asobu? In their white half-sleeved chemises. Asobu? Asobu? They know there will be no business later, only rain and only wind. Asobu? Asobu? In their dyed-pink socks. Asobu? Asobu? They know they have to earn what they can now. Asobu? Asobu? In their white canvas shoes with their red rubber soles. Asobu? Asobu? But they do not try to grab my hand –

In their yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dresses …

They do not try to lure me into the shadows tonight –

‘Get away!’ they scream. ‘Get away from here!’

They look into my eyes, then hide their own –

‘We don’t fuck the dead! We don’t fuck ghosts!’

*

Potsu-potsu, the rain is beginning to fall now, hot fat drops on the kettles and the pans; potsu-potsu it falls in a terrible rhythm on the crockery and the utensils; potsu-potsu as the stall-holders still left outside the Shimbashi New Life Market struggle to cover the clothes and the shoes; potsu-potsu on the cooking oil and the soy sauce; potsu-potsu as the canvas and the straw mats are hauled out –

Potsu-potsu as it drowns out even the ‘Apple Song’ –

‘If two people sing along, it’s a merry song…’

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses of the goons guarding the foot of the stairs to Senju Akira’s office –

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses as they frisk my body and clothes for guns and knives –

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses as they only glance inside my old army knapsack –

Potsu-potsu as it falls on the corrugated tin roof which covers the stairs up to Senju Akira’s office –

Potsu-potsu on the blue-eyed Victor coming down the stairs; potsu-potsu as he winks at me –

‘Good evening…’

Potsu-potsu as I push past him up the staircase to the office; potsu-potsu …

Senju Akira sat cross-legged before his long low polished table; bare-chested again with his trousers unbuttoned at the waist, there are revolvers and short swords lain out on the table before him –

Senju Akira is preparing for war, preparing for another war –

I put down my knapsack. I bow low on the tatami mats –

‘There’s always a war somewhere,’ he tells me –

My face to the floor, I do not answer him –

‘At home or abroad,’ he says. ‘There’s always war and always profits to be made for the bold and the brave among us!’