To Yoshitaka Wataya, the complete technocrat, this was utter nonsense. Starting a long- term war without logistical backing was tantamount to suicide, in his view. The Soviets had vastly expanded and modernized their military capability through Stalins five-year plan of in- tensive economic development. The five bloody years of the First World War had destroyed the old worlds values, and mechanized war had revolutionized European thinking with regard to strategy and logistics. Having been stationed for two years in Berlin, Yoshitaka Wataya knew the truth of this with every bone in his body, but the mentality of the greater part of Japans military men had not outgrown the intoxication of their victory in the Russo-Japanese War, nearly thirty years before.
Yoshitaka Wataya went home to Japan a devoted admirer of Ishiwara's arguments, his worldview, and the charismatic personality of the man himself, and their close relationship lasted many years. He often went to visit Ishiwara, even after the distinguished officer had been brought back from Manchuria to take command of the isolated fortress in Maizuru. Yoshitaka Wataya's precise and meticulous report on sheep farming and wool processing in Manchukuo was submitted to headquarters shortly after he returned to Japan, and it received high praise. With Japans painful defeat in the 1939 battle of Nomonhan, however, and the strengthening of U.S. and British economic sanctions, the military began to shift its attention southward, and the activities of the research team waging hypothetical war against the Soviet Union were allowed to peter out. Of course, one factor behind the decision to finish off the battle of Nomonhan quickly in early autumn and not allow it to develop into a full-scale war was the research teams conclusive report that we are unable to wage a winter campaign against the Soviet Army given our current state of preparedness. As soon as the autumn winds began to blow, Imperial Headquarters, in a move unusual for the normally face- obsessed Japanese Army, washed its hands of the fighting and, through diplomatic negotiations, ceded the barren Hulunbuir Steppe to Outer Mongolian and Soviet troops.
In a footnote, the author pointed out that Yoshitaka Wataya had been purged from holding public office by MacArthur's Occupation after the war and for a time had lived in seclusion in his native Niigata, but he had been persuaded by the Conservative Party to run for office after the purge was lifted and served two terms in the Upper House before changing to the Lower House. A calligraphic scroll of Kanji Ishiwara's hung on the wall of his office.
I had no idea what kind of Diet member Noboru Wataya's uncle had been or what he had accomplished as a politician. He did serve as a cabinet minister once, and he seems to have been highly influential with the people of his district, but he never became a leader in national politics. Now his political constituency had been inherited by his nephew, Noboru Wataya.
I put the book away and, folding my arms behind my head, stared out the window in the vague direction of the front gate. Soon the gate would open inward and the Mercedes-Benz would appear, with Cinnamon at the wheel. He would be bringing another client. These clients and I were joined by the mark on my cheek. Cinnamon's grandfather (Nutmeg's fa- ther) and I were also joined by the mark on my cheek. Cinnamon's grandfather and Lieutenant Mamiya were joined by the city of Hsinching. Lieutenant Mamiya and the clairvoyant Mr. Honda were joined by their special duties on the Manchurian-Mongolian border, and Kumiko and I had been introduced to Mr. Honda by Noboru Wataya's family. Lieutenant Mamiya and I were joined by our experiences in our respective wells-his in Mongolia, mine on the property where I was sitting now. Also on this property had once lived an army officer who had commanded troops in China. All of these were linked as in a circle, at the center of which stood prewar Manchuria, continental East Asia, and the short war of 1939 in Nomonhan. But why Kumiko and I should have been drawn into this historical chain of cause and effect I could not comprehend. All of these events had occurred long before Kumiko and I were born.
I sat at Cinnamon's desk and placed my hands on the keyboard. The feel of my fingers on the keys was still fresh from my conversation with Kumiko. That computer conversation had been monitored by Noboru Wataya, I was sure. He was trying to learn something from it. He certainly hadn't arranged for us to make contact that way out of the goodness of his heart. He and his men were almost certainly trying to use the access they had gained to Cinnamon's computer through the communications link in order to learn the secrets of this place. But I was not worried about that. The depths of this computer were the very depths of Cinnamon himself. And they had no way of knowing how incalculably deep that was.
24 The Signal Turns Red
The Long Arm Reaches Out
Cinnamon was not alone when he arrived at nine o'clock the next morning. Beside him in the passenger seat was his mother, Nutmeg Akasaka. She had not been here in over a month.
She had arrived with Cinnamon unannounced that time too, had breakfast with me, and left after an hour or so of small talk.
Cinnamon hung up his suit coat and, while listening to a Handel Concerto Grosso (for the third day in a row), he went to the kitchen to make tea and toast for his mother, who had not yet eaten breakfast. He always made perfect toast, like something to be used in a commercial.
Then, while Cinnamon straightened up the kitchen as usual, Nutmeg and I sat at a small table, drinking tea. She ate only one slice of toast, with a little butter. Outside, a cold, sleety rain was falling. Nutmeg said little, and I said little-a few remarks about the weather. She seemed to have something she wanted to say, though. That much was clear from the look on her face and the way she spoke. She tore off stamp-sized pieces of toast and transported them, one at a time, to her mouth. We looked out at the rain now and then, as if it were our longtime mutual friend.
When Cinnamon had finished with the kitchen and started his cleaning, Nutmeg led me to the fitting room. This one had been made to look exactly like the fitting room in the Akasaka office. The size and shape were virtually identical. The window here also had two layers of curtains and was gloomy even during the day. The curtains were never open more than ten minutes at a time, while Cinnamon was cleaning the room. There was a leather sofa here, a glass vase, with flowers, on the table, and a tall floor lamp. In the middle of the room stood a large workbench, on which lay a pair of scissors, scraps of cloth, a wooden box stuffed with needles and thread, pencils, a design book (in which a few actual design sketches had been drawn), and several professional tools, the names and purposes of which I did not know. A large full-length mirror hung on the wall, and one corner of the room was partitioned off by a screen for changing. The clients who visited the Residence were always shown to this room.
Why Cinnamon and his mother had had to make an exact reproduction of the original fitting room in this house I had no idea. Here there was no need for such camouflage.
Maybe they (and their clients) had become so accustomed to the look of the fitting room in the Akasaka office that they were unable to come up with any new ideas for decorating this place. Of course, they could just as well ask, Whats wrong with a fitting room? Whatever the reason for having it, I myself was pleased with it. It was the fitting room, not any other room, and I felt a strange sense of security there, surrounded by all kinds of dressmaking tools. It was an unreal setting, but not an unnatural one. Nutmeg had me sit on the leather sofa, and she sat down next to me. So. How are you feeling? she asked. Not bad, I answered. Nutmeg was wearing a bright-green suit. The skirt was short, and the large hexagonal buttons came up to the throat like one of those old Nehru jackets. The shoulders had pads the size of dinner rolls. The look reminded me of a science fiction movie I had seen a long time ago, set in the near future. Almost all the women in the movie wore suits like this and lived in a futuristic city.