At that moment they all flood back, the endless rambling monologues my father delivered from his eagle’s nest while the wind tugged at his hakama. His never-ending stories about the age-old continent of Mu of which Japan was a part, and the magnificent inhabitants of the mythical land, superior in every way to modern men and women. His accounts fascinated me. Why do I find it so hard to remember them now? Why do I have the feeling I’m in shock? That I’ve lost touch with myself? Is this mental state only a result of recent events? Ever since I started to bleed from my vagina and realised that the blood was mixed with lumps of tissue I’ve been unable to shake the idea that there’s something seriously wrong with me. Did Dr Kanehari lie to me? I was at his clinic only a few days ago, but I can barely remember his face. His words sound distorted in my mind, as if they’re being spoken under water: phantom pregnancy. My heart begins to race and I feel dizzy. I try to concentrate on the text in the folder in the hope it will focus my memory. In a very roundabout manner it states in essence that Japan is the oldest country in the world and that in the olden days there was an umbilical cord connecting heaven and earth that brought forth the god Kunitokotachi-no-Mikoto. The Japanese are direct descendants of the children sired by this divinity, but they are unaware of it. A shiver runs down my spine as I read these words. The feeling that something is being whispered in my ear is so intense it makes me turn and look behind me. No one. I read on. Once again it claims in bombastic language that “the yellow race of Mu”, the people of ancient Japan, was superior to every other yellow people, and all of them superior to the white, black or brown races. The people of Mu understood the language of the divine signs, the kamiyomoji, which served as a source for all future alphabets and ideograms. It reminds me of my father’s dogged determination to develop software that would enable his computers to communicate with kanji. It scares me to think that Reizo’s cellar, a young man I consider to be mentally disturbed, contains ideas and images similar to those of my father. In another drawer I find some Oni masks with horns and fangs, most of them red, a couple black, with tresses of coarsely braided string.
I start up the computer but it asks for a password. I decide to shut it down again, but type something on the off chance, not sure why: baita – whore, a word Reizo uses a lot when he’s talking to Yori. I have access to the files. I’m not even surprised. Everything in my head is floating, weightless, as if I’ve been taking drugs. The text I open looks like a chapter from the novel Reizo’s always going on about. Ostensibly it takes place in the future in the middle of a “brutal conflict” between the youth and the Japanese government. The government is determined to round up all the troublemakers and isolate them on an island without provisions. There’s water on the island in the form of a couple of lakes, but there’s no food. Knives and axes: all they have. Tiny airborne cameras flutter around keeping them under surveillance day and night. Before long the young people form groups and fight each other over meat, each other’s meat. Their blood drenched battles and cannibalistic orgies are broadcast worldwide on 3D television. The novel’s subject is sickening and there’s no explanation for the conflict between the adult “wrecks”, as Reizo calls them, and the young antagonists who call themselves “wolves”. The style is also pretty woeful. Reizo’s talent doesn’t reach beyond scenes of violence and characters that continuously foam at the mouth. My finger is hovering over the off switch when I notice at the bottom of the page that a new delivery of young rebels has been dropped on the island to keep the bloodbath going. One of them is a giant: “bolted together like simple meccano, face like a pumpkin, the daughter of Rokurobei, the celestial slut. Every warm-blooded young man on the island wants to plant his seed in her, now not later, in the hope of siring a child with exceptional qualities, an heir to Amatsu Mikaboshi, the lord of Evil”.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
50
“Try the bacon wrapped asparagus. Delicious.” Inspector Takeda points to the English menu the Tencho-san – the proudly grinning owner of restaurant Sawa No Tsuru – has placed on the table in front of them. Beate nods. Yori has buried her head in the Japanese version. Beate peers at her out of the corner of her eye and notices the girl’s eyes are closed. Takeda taps loudly on the table. Yori jumps. “I should have arrested you on the spot and taken you to the station,” he says. “But I gave in to our foreign visitor to avoid unnecessary complications. She has access to the media all over the world. I advise you to enjoy your meal. It may be your last as a free citizen.” The girl looks up at him, misery written all over her face. Takeda senses Beate’s disapproving stare and adds in English: “Normally I should have arrested her and taken her to the station for interrogation. I broke the rules to do you a favour.” In reality, he was doing himself a favour when he had agreed to Beate’s suggestion that they first give Yori a chance to speak. His pride hadn’t quite dealt with the humiliation he had suffered in chief commissioner Takamatsu’s office. The inspector had reported the attack on the German photographer by the Iranians. He figured it had to do with the attempted murder of the Belgian – maybe Beate knew more than she pretended – but he still had described it in his report as robbery. If Takamatsu got wind of his suspicion that the German woman was attacked because of her involvement in one or other conspiracy he would hand the case over to a team of detectives. Takeda’s determined to keep the chief commissioner out of it.
“She’s innocent,” says Beate. “She told me everything.” She sees the scepticism in Takeda’s face and adds: “In spite of the language problem, I still think she’s telling the truth. I believe her.”
The Japanese girl had spent more than an hour in Beate’s hotel room trying to tell her story. Beate understood the gist of it. She was entranced by the dramatic images Yori’s story planted in her imagination. Yori’s account fascinated her, drawing her in bit by bit. She was convinced the young woman was genuinely afraid and saw no way out of the dangerous situation she was in. She decided to take Yori for a meal. They were just getting out of the lift when Inspector Takeda appeared. Beate was completely taken aback and blurted that the girl was the one who had driven the young Belgian to the hospital. Yori had turned at that point and was about to run away, but the high heels she was wearing slowed her down. Takeda took three steps in her direction and grabbed her arm. Beate was nervous and suggested that they all three go to dinner “to clarify the situation”.