“Literature is about the violence within us that leads to death.” He puffed on his cigarette and inhaled deeply. The shoddy surroundings of the decrepit factory hall were in complete contrast to his aristocratic demeanour.
“Why?”
He seemed surprised at the stupidity of my question, straightened his shoulders, his yellow crest. “Writers are like God. They love their characters, but take pleasure in the suffering they put them through. They torment themselves through the puppets they create and in the midst of the torment they discover a sort of rage, the rage you need to create. There’s a lot of sadomasochism in the universe and literature has its own fair share.”
A far-fetched hotchpotch of an answer, I figured, but I was happy enough that I’d managed to change the subject. I kept my face even. But I couldn’t deny that his ideas made me think of my father. I realized that I had seen a sort of rage in him when I was a child, a rage that had terrified and attracted me all at once.
“The Eros and Thanatos principle,” I said. He made a dismissive gesture: “Fuck that old crap! Have you read Gide?”
I had to admit that I had never heard of Gide. Reizo continued self-satisfied: “French writer. Published Les Caves du Vatican in 1914. One of the characters throws a complete stranger from a moving train for no reason at all. People saw it as an illustration of the existence of free will. But they were wrong: the character wanted to have a free will so much that he was willing to do anything to prove it: the rage of imperative desire. It motivates every writer. That’s why, my dear Mitsuko, writers are the most amoral creatures alive.”
The most amoral creatures alive.
Because of imperative desire.
I repeated his words aloud. He burst out laughing, brayed that I’d walked right into his trap.
I watched him for a while. He examined his nails, threw back his head, lit another cigarette. Then he grinned at me, bristling with hate and lust and compassion.
If I had been more attentive, smarter, I would have seen that same expression in my father’s face long ago.
38
Dr Kanehari rolls his eyes. It’s all he can do.
“Are you familiar with shi-e, doctor?” says the voice behind his right ear. “Probably not. You’re young, modern; our old and venerable Japanese culture is probably a stranger to you. Shi-e is one of the kegare or ‘impurities’. It represents the impurity of death. What many people don’t know: shi-e intensifies when we live a dishonourable life and die as a result. The body of such a person deserves only to be spat upon.”
A long silence follows. Kanehari can hear the blood pounding in his ears.
“You might want to ask yourself why I’m taking such a personal interest in you,” the voice muses. “I have a network of people who do all sorts of things for me, who prepare things for me, just as I have people who are preparing this nation of ours to take its place once again as the mother of all countries. It’s not just coincidence that the old name for Japan, Yamato, means ‘the land on top of the pyramid’.”
The voice falls silent. Dr Kanehari has no idea what’s going on. Twenty minutes earlier, two policemen appeared at his door to question him about a young woman who had visited his clinic. Kanehari let them in and before he knew it they had overpowered him and tied him to his own operating table. The door opened. He heard a rustling sound. Someone was standing behind him, leaning over him. It made him shiver. A voice spoke to him. Kanehari did his best but couldn’t place it. The same elusive voice now continues: “And the present name for our country, Nihon, surely you know its meaning?” The doctor has nothing to say; the voice continues unruffled: “Source of the Spirit. In prehistoric times, Kanehari, the Japanese ruled the world. The evidence is indisputable.”
A long bony finger taps the doctor’s left cheek. Kanehari can smell it. As if the flesh is burning.
“The symbol of the Egyptian pharaoh Tutankhamen was the chrysanthemum. The Egyptians treated their pharaohs like gods, supernatural beings in human form. The symbol of our imperial family, who we traditionally honour as gods, is the same chrysanthemum. Proof if proof were needed that the Japanese race has its roots in the beginnings of time. The chrysanthemum is my symbol, Kanehari, and that of my daughter who visited you here. Do you get my drift, doctor?”
Kanehari gulps, moves his head to one side.
“My daughter consulted you. You told her she had a phantom pregnancy. She refused to believe you. You sent her away. What kind of doctor are you? Have you no eyes? Have you no ears? Surely you were able to diagnose my daughter’s affliction?”
Tears appear in Dr Kanehari’s eyes. An arm, long, with thick knobbly ligaments enters his field of vision. Words are whispered in his ear. Then he panics, bites his tongue. A pair of hands, broad, out of proportion, take hold of the doctor’s head. A face hovers above him. Kanehari opens his eyes wide and then closes them.
“Do you understand why you must die?”
A pinkish froth appears in the corners of Kanehari’s mouth.
“Death is a problem, don’t you think?” The voice has dropped in pitch, sounds like crickets on a summer night. “We should be aware of our mortality at every moment of our lives. It’s what transforms our existence into a continuous stream of choices.”
The voice laughs, heartily, with a hint of self-mockery. “You’ve made your choices, I’ve made mine. When the gods decide to punish us they first drive us insane then they kill us. But I was treated like a god from the day I was born. How do you punish divinity? Let me tell you: with lucid insanity. As a result I’ve spent my entire existence struggling with the same question: what kind of life should I live? ”
Beads of sweat roll over the doctor’s temples. Powerful lights blind him. The straps holding him down are tight.
The man behind Kanehari stands up straight. His voice sounds further away. “During my years of isolation I studied the magnificent laws of the universe and then I explored the hidden features of butoh from the perspective of depth psychology. If the laws of entropy and the feigned insanity of butoh, our most elevated dance form, are so similar, what does that tell us? That affliction is fundamental and universal. We devour each other, driven by the misery we afflict on ourselves. I devoured myself for years. But I finally concluded: if I’m a god, I’m also fated to be a demon. I withdrew from the world, embraced immobility, now I’m on the hunt. What am I hunting? My destiny, the pinnacle of self-affliction.”
Dr Kanehari wants to object, argue back, tell the man behind him that his bizarre monologue is a manifest sign of mental illness. The gag in his mouth prevents him.
“How to live?” The voice sighs. “It’s my obsession. But in your case, Kanehari, the tables are turned. How to die? Death in butoh is the essence of thinking and being, a magical moment to be savoured with respect. Do you know who died with a smile on his face? The great Sergei Diaghilev. ‘It’s not wasting any time…” were his final words. Do you know what the worst thing is? Dying slowly! What do you think? Do you deserve a quick death? I don’t think so. Most of our deeds in this world are futile and passing, ripples on a pond as it were. But there are moments in a man’s life when his deeds seal his fate. That’s what happened to you, Kanehari. Submit to your fate with dignity.”