Takeda, who considers Dr Adachi to be one of his few friends because they’re both seen as outsiders, often wonders whether the man is happy with this situation. Adachi likes to pretend that his work requires the sensitivity of an artist, diligently exploring all the possibilities that might allow him to conclude that the otherwise suspicious looking corpse lying on his dissection table died of natural causes after all. The mayor and the chief commissioner are satisfied.
The inspector walks into the autopsy room, into the familiar smell of formalin and disinfectant. Drunk or sober, Adachi insists on cleanliness. The police doctor, with his square features and thick-lensed glasses, never gives a straight answer. When they’re both on duty, their manners are formal. You never know who’s listening, and etiquette is important. “Murder, inspector? Hard to tell. I haven’t been able to perform an autopsy yet. All I got was a quick look at the body. The victims of the bank robbery get priority. But if I’m pressed I would say the mother was exposed to radioactive isotopes and the child was stillborn. I didn’t see any signs of physical violence on the body. Then again, it was so badly mutilated that only an autopsy can provide a definite answer.”
“Radioactive isotopes?” Takeda repeats.
“Yes, you heard me, maybe from depleted uranium. But that’s just a guess.”
“I don’t know anything about isotopes,” the inspector says drily. The doctor shrugs: “Under normal circumstances, depleted uranium with a low level of radioactivity doesn’t pose a health risk. It’s used as counterweights in lifts, for example. But the substance itself is chemically poisonous. The Americans used grenades containing depleted uranium in the Gulf War. When they explode, uranium particles are released and combine with oxygen. The resulting uranium dust is poisonous when inhaled. It can trigger cancer or metabolic disorders, even years later. Women have a greatly increased chance of giving birth to children with congenital defects. Do you know what Gulf War Syndrome is?”
“I’ve heard of it. American servicemen suffering from some unknown condition or other? I thought it wasn’t officially recognised.”
The doctor allows himself a crooked smile, revealing a set of false teeth that shine unnaturally in the brightly lit room.
“The American government is trying to deny it, producing all kinds of contradictory research reports. But the scientific fact remains that veterans are five times more likely to develop cancer, and female veterans three times more likely to have a miscarriage or offspring with congenital defects. I’ve seen the pictures. Their defects and the state of their skin resemble those of your abandoned baby.”
“Is the child Japanese?”
“Not a shadow of a doubt. Inspector Takeda, in the light of recent events, don’t you think it may be wiser if the case were…”
“So I’m looking for a female Japanese Gulf War veteran who secretly gave birth to a baby then dumped it underneath the Peace Memorial. After all, none of the hospitals has reported the birth of a malformed child.”
Adachi looks at the inspector long and hard. They’ve been friends for many years. Like many Japanese, he finds sarcasm difficult to grasp. It’s one of those things that mark Takeda out as foreign.
“That’s not what I said, inspector. I said it was probably not murder. I mentioned depleted uranium because the baby’s birth defects bear a close resemblance to those of Gulf War babies, but “normal” genetic defects from either the mother or the father could also lead to such serious malformations.”
“The body was covered with origami cranes. Seems like a symbolic act to me.”
The doctor takes out his menthol cigarettes, peers into the box and then slips it back into the breast pocket of his immaculate white coat.
“Not the only one,” he says. “The corpse has been embalmed. Meticulous craftsmanship. If kept dry, it’ll still look the same in a century.”
12
Xavier Douterloigne arrives from Tokyo station on the shinkansen at 10.19 p.m. The high-speed train has only recently started running at this late hour, but quite a few passengers are making use of it. Douterloigne navigates his way through the crowd and into Hiroshima-Ekimae station. He didn’t enjoy his short stay in Tokyo. In the space of six years the city has changed into a voracious metropolis full of neon lights and people in a hurry. Not exactly a positive evolution. Hiroshima station is spacious, modern and efficient. It’s busy, despite the time of night, and very noisy. After what happened to his sister Anna, Douterloigne feels the world could do with more silence. He heads towards the exit. The heat and humidity hit him hard as he emerges onto the street, but it’s familiar. Outside, he stops to take in the city skyline – a typically Japanese architectural cacophony. The City of Peace smells of wet cement, a hint of sea air, and spices. On the other side of a small square, against the sharp contours of a trio of cypresses, Douterloigne can see pink spindly cranes in front of a criss-cross of electricity lines. He starts walking, past run-down houses with faded façades and rusty air conditioning units, and a shop selling health drinks, magazines, manga comics and excessively cheerful-looking pink pigs with short elephant snouts. Their impish eyes look like innocence itself. Hiroshima feels like a house you return to, only to find it has fallen into disrepair in your absence. Compared with Tokyo, the city looks provincial, at night even dingy.
Douterloigne first visited Hiroshima with his parents 13 years ago. His sister Anna was still able to walk then. He remembers Peace Square, how huge it was, and the Japanese school children in neat rows, wearing blue uniforms that hurt the eyes. They were waving little Japanese flags.
Four coloured lights appear further down the road. They’re flashing on and off in sequence: purple, blue, yellow, green. Douterloigne doesn’t stop. It’s not in his nature to be afraid, and he reminds himself that Japan likes to pose as a safe country, though he knows better. A moment later, he can see the outlines of a person wearing a peculiar outfit. Coming closer, he can make out a girl in a black leotard, a short batwing coat and glittering thigh- length boots with stiletto heels. She’s wearing a mask that Xavier finds both endearing and sinister. It resembles a Venetian mask, but with two thin, springy antennas attached to either side and tiny light bulbs on the end – the feelers of an insect woman. The lights bob up and down in rhythm with her stealthy gait. The woman stops in front of Xavier, looks up at him and smiles. She’s wearing delicate lace gloves and she moves her hands with grace. Xavier knows from experience that Japanese women are keen on Westerners, especially the tall and the blonde. He sees them as arrogant children at heart, easy to please and ready to flatter. The masked girl says: “Beware, sir, aliens will land on Peace Square on the 50th anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. They will look like huge salamanders with gigantic, bulbous heads, and they will devour everyone.” Her English isn’t perfect. She giggles, evidently convinced of the originality of the text she has just rattled off. Xavier assumes she rehearsed it. The girl holds out a collection box adorned with pictures of fiery-eyed salamanders against an ominous background. “You are guaranteed to survive if you make a donation, as we, the honourable members of the Suicide Brigade, have a secret weapon that can stop these bloodthirsty aliens in their tracks. Unfortunately, they won’t be here for quite some time, and as life in Japan is getting terribly expensive, we’re left hungry, like all seers, prophets of doom and magicians.” She laughs as Japanese girls do when they think they’ve told a good joke.