“We can turn this around, however. Language is an essential part of intelligence. If computers understand language, their intelligence increases significantly. For this reason I have ordered the development of new software that will shortly enable computers to recognise the network of meaning underlying our language, allowing them to think with us. Once this first hurdle has been taken, we can overcome the next. Western scientists have warned that artificial intelligence will surpass the human intellect in the foreseeable future. Computers double their performance every eighteen months, while human evolution has stagnated. If we are to keep up with the artificial mind we are creating, we need to alter the genetic make-up of our brains and bodies. At the moment, modifications to the body seem to be more readily within our reach. By deactivating the gene that regulates myostatin, we can strengthen and improve the human body. Modifications to the mind are more difficult, but not impossible. By increasing the complexity of our DNA, we can develop the brainpower needed to meet the challenge of artificial intelligence.
“All these possibilities are within our grasp. But global and national forces are preventing the experiments necessary to carry out this vision of the future. What has happened to our country? Our current emperor’s father dishonourably renounced his status as arahitogami, a deity become human, after the Second World War. He denied being the embodiment of the divine natural spirit, thus insulting the Japanese people and damaging our souls.”
I distinctly remember the way my father turned his head. It swung round like the head of a large predatory bird. He stepped away from podium and suddenly his enormous face was filling my screen. He laughed. His canines, filed sharp and carefully set with small gems, gleamed in the bright light of the spotlights behind him.
One rapid movement, then grey, dancing pixels.
Had he sensed the miniature camera?
He had removed it before his speech was over, but I’d heard enough.
My father wanted to be the creator of a new arahitogami, a divine emperor the likes of whom Japan had never seen before.
24
Xavier Douterloigne soon realises that the Japanese boy in front of him is high. Or drunk. Or both. His affected behaviour makes him look like an actor in a French play.
Xavier wouldn’t have been too worried – even though he’s realised that he’s dealing with Reizo, Yori’s boyfriend – if Yori hadn’t told him the story about the stabbing. Then there’s the sweet-and-sour breath Reizo is blowing into his face, his rigid stare and pouting lips, and the duct tape tying Xavier’s hands behind his back. The second boy is slumped on the floor of the van, hands dangling between his knees. He’s tall and lean, and grinning with a malicious delight that’s making Xavier nervous.
“I wanting make suicide as long as remember,” Reizo says in pitiful English. “In Nippon, making suicide is artistic, yes? But shortly I think that shit. First immortality with novel, then everyone knowing when I do the suicide.” His clumsy sentences have a smug ring to them. Xavier realises that he’s going to need all his experience as a diplomat’s son. There’s a cunning gleam in Reizo’s eyes, as if he’s calculating the effect he’s having on Xavier.
“Suicide?” Xavier replies in immaculate Japanese. “In your case, that would be a waste of talent.” He’s laying on the flattery with a trowel, but it’s working. Reizo drags both hands through his hair, sniffs and bends over to his companion. “A foreigner – one of the unclean – who speaks Japanese. This’ll be fun,” he says. The other boy shrugs.
“What were you doing with my fiancé? Seducing her with your Western talk?” Xavier assumes that Reizo is playing a role and isn’t quite sure if he believes in it himself.
“I’ve only just arrived in the city,” he says. “I met Yori on the street. She gave me some tips, that’s all. I’m Belgian.” If Yori was telling the truth, Reizo is an extreme nationalist. Xavier doesn’t want him thinking he’s an American. Reizo ignores the information, grabs Xavier’s nose and pinches it hard. “Tips? On how better to fuck her?” Another bad sign. The Japanese don’t talk about sex in public, except when they’re drunk.
Reizo’s companion pulls out a hard plastic container from between his feet. He opens it. Xavier can’t see the contents. His nose hurts. He has to stay calm. He tries his old trick again. “Why would I do that? I’m gay.”
Did Reizo even hear him in the state he’s in? He surprises Xavier by pointing at the print on Xavier’s T-shirt: speaking is NOT communication. “I don’t believe you. I was watching you. You wanted to stick your pale chinko into her, you dirty yarichin.”
Now that Reizo has called him a male slut in the presence of his companion, Xavier knows there’s no way back. Reizo has to take revenge on Xavier to save his honour. Xavier tries not to panic.
“Not at all, I…”
He’s suddenly blinded by a punch to the face. He can feel his lips swell up and his nose start to bleed. He tries not to groan or whimper. Luckily, Reizo is already taken by a new thought. Xavier can see the muscles of his jaw contracting.
“Has the baita told you I’m a writer?” Harlot? Yori can expect to share in Reizo’s aggression. Xavier tries flattery again. “Yes. You’re working on a novel that’s going to create uproar in Japan.” Xavier can tell by Reizo’s face that he’s gone too far, and quickly adds: “A visionary novel that’ll cause controversy the world over.”
Reizo seems to relax a little. “That’s right. It’ll be convincing. Conviction, that’s what other writers lack, even Mishima. I break all the conventional rules. Mishima spent his whole life practising for death. But times have changed. I’m going to practise on others, to perfect the art of a beautiful, dramatic death before my turn comes. I’m the writer who’s set to assert the superiority of Japanese youth. The older generation shall bow down to us!”
Xavier doesn’t know what to make of this ranting young man. They’re both roughly the same age, but Reizo has no work and no future. He’s starting to realise that his “innocent charm” is having no effect on the aspiring Japanese writer. The frustration is showing on Reizo’s face. Wiping the sweat from it with his forearm, he suddenly looks ill. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol is probably making him nauseous. His narrow face and his hair, bleached almost white and brushed into spikes, makes him look a little like a doll. The full, pouting lips, the delicate forehead, the small nose and dainty nostrils; Xavier has always been able to pick up subtle signs of homosexuality. It wouldn’t surprise him if Reizo was gay, just like his idol Mishima. Mishima was married with children, but couldn’t survive without the love of men.
“The success that this American Ellis is having with his American Psycho,” Reizo continues contemptuously, “Crap! Hacking, stabbing, vaporising – anyone can do that. Not a single original murder in the whole book.”
Xavier is still trying to humour Reizo: “I agree. It’s a worthless novel. Flimsy… nihilistic.” Xavier hasn’t even read American Psycho; he’s only read about it. Reizo pulls down the corners of his mouth. He’s trying to give his face the determined expression of a Japanese warrior. Xavier would usually laugh at such a cliché, but he’s growing increasingly concerned. He can’t figure this young man. Is it an act, or does Reizo really believe in his worldview, loosely constructed around half-understood role models and his own death-wish?