Текст книги "1q84"

Автор книги: Haruki Murakami

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Текущая страница: 54 (всего у книги 81 страниц)

No response.

“That’s a possibility. Maybe we’re wrong and the crow is right. Maybe time is nothing at all like a straight line. Perhaps it’s shaped like a twisted doughnut. But for tens of thousands of years, people have probably been seeing time as a straight line that continues on forever. And that’s the concept they based their actions on. And until now they haven’t found anything inconvenient or contradictory about it. So as an experiential model, it’s probably correct.”

“Experiential model,” Fuka-Eri repeated.

“After taking a lot of samples, you come to view one conjecture as actually correct.”

Fuka-Eri was silent for a time. Tengo had no idea if she had understood him or not.

“Hello?” Tengo said, checking if she was still there.

“How long will you be there,” Fuka-Eri asked, omitting the question mark.

“You mean how long will I be in Chikura?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Tengo answered honestly. “All I can say right now is that I’ll stay here until certain things make sense. There are some things I don’t understand. I want to stay for a while and see how they develop.”

Fuka-Eri was silent on the other end again. When she was silent it was like she wasn’t there at all.

“Hello?” Tengo said again.

“Don’t miss the train,” Fuka-Eri said.

“I’ll be careful,” Tengo replied, “not to be late for the train. Is everything okay with you?”

“One person came here a while ago.”

“What kind of person?”

“An N—H—K person.”

“A fee collector from NHK?”

“Fee collector,” she asked, again without the question mark.

“Did you talk to him?” Tengo asked.

“I did not understand what he was saying.”

She apparently had no idea what NHK was. The girl lacked some essential cultural knowledge.

“It will take too long to explain over the phone,” Tengo said, “but basically it’s a large organization. A lot of people work there. They go around to all the houses in Japan and collect money every month. You and I don’t need to pay, because we don’t receive anything from them. I hope you didn’t unlock the door.”

“No, I did not unlock it. Like you told me.”

“I’m glad.”

“But he said, ‘You are a thief.’ ”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Tengo said.

“We have not stolen anything.”

“Of course we haven’t. You and I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Fuka-Eri was again silent on the other end of the line. “Hello?” Tengo said.

Fuka-Eri didn’t reply. She might have already hung up. Though he didn’t hear any sound that indicated this.

“Hello?” Tengo repeated, this time more loudly.

Fuka-Eri coughed lightly. “That person knew a lot about you.”

“The fee collector?”

“Yes. The N—H—K person.”

“And he called you a thief.”

“No. He didn’t mean me.”

“He meant me?”

Fuka-Eri didn’t reply.

“Anyway,” Tengo said, “I don’t have a TV. So I’m not stealing anything from NHK.”

“But that person was very angry that I didn’t unlock the door.”

“It doesn’t matter. Let him be angry. But no matter what happens, no matter what anyone tells you, never, ever unlock the door.”

“I won’t unlock it.”

After saying this, Fuka-Eri suddenly hung up. Or perhaps it wasn’t so sudden. Perhaps for her, hanging up the phone at that point was an entirely natural, even logical act. To Tengo’s ear, though, it sounded abrupt. But Tengo knew that even if he were to try his hardest to guess what Fuka-Eri was thinking and feeling, it wouldn’t do any good. As an experiential model.

Tengo hung up the phone and went back to his father’s room.

His father had not been brought back to his room yet. The bed still had a depression in it from his body. No air chrysalis was there. In the room, darkened by the dim, chill dusk, the only thing present was the slight trace of the person who had occupied it until moments ago.

Tengo sighed and sat down on the chair. He rested his hands on his lap and gazed for a long while at the depression in the sheets. Then he stood, went to the window, and looked outside. The rain had stopped, and the autumn clouds lingered over the pine windbreak. It would be a beautiful sunset, the first in some time.

Tengo had no idea why the fee collector knew a lot about him. The last time an NHK fee collector had come around had been about a year ago. At that time he had stood at the door and politely explained to the man that there was no TV in his apartment. He never watched TV, he continued. The fee collector hadn’t been convinced, but he had left without saying any more, muttering some snide remark under his breath.

Was it the same fee collector who had come today? He had the impression that that man had also said something about his being a thief. It was a bit odd that the same collector would show up a year later and say he knew a lot about Tengo. They had only stood at the door and chatted for five minutes or so, that’s all.

Whatever. What was important was that Fuka-Eri had kept the door locked. The fee collector wouldn’t be paying another visit anytime soon. He had a quota to meet and had to be tired of standing around quarreling with people who refused to pay their subscription fees. In order not to waste time, he would skip the troublesome customers’ places and collect the fees from people who didn’t have a problem paying.

Tengo looked again at the hollow his father had left in the bed, and he remembered all the pairs of shoes his father had worn out. As his father had pounded the Tokyo pavement collecting fees, he had consigned countless pairs of shoes to oblivion. All of the shoes looked the same—cheap, no-nonsense leather shoes, black, with thick soles. He had worn them hard, until they were worn out and falling apart, the heels warped out of shape. As a boy, every time Tengo saw these terribly misshapen shoes it pained him. He didn’t feel sorry for his father, but for the shoes. They reminded him of a pitiful work animal, driven as hard as possible and hovering on the verge of death.

But come to think of it, wasn’t his father now like a work animal about to die? No different from a worn-out pair of leather shoes?

Tengo gazed out the window again as the colors of the sunset deepened in the western sky. He remembered the air chrysalis emitting a faint, pale light, and Aomame, as a young girl, sleeping inside.

Would that air chrysalis ever appear here again?

Was time really a straight line?

“It seems I’ve reached a deadlock,” Tengo mumbled to the wall. “There are too many variables. Even for a former child prodigy, it’s impossible to find an answer.”

The walls didn’t have a response. Nor did they express an opinion. They simply, and silently, reflected the color of the setting sun.

CHAPTER 4

Ushikawa

OCCAM’S RAZOR

Ushikawa found it hard to get his head around the idea that the elderly dowager who lived in a mansion in Azabu could somehow be involved with the assassination of Sakigake’s Leader. He had dug up background information on her. She was a well-known figure in society, so the investigation had not taken much effort. Her husband had been a prominent businessman in the postwar era, influential in the political sphere. His business focused mainly on investments and real estate, though he had also branched out into large-scale retail stores and transport-related businesses. After her husband’s death in the mid-1950s, the woman had taken over his company. She had a talent for managing business, as well as an ability to sense impending danger. In the late 1960s she felt that the company had overextended itself, so she deliberately sold—at a high price—its stock in various fields, and systematically downsized the business. She put all her physical and mental strength into the remaining areas. Thanks to this, she was able to weather the era of the oil shock that occurred soon after with minimal damage and set aside a healthy amount of liquid assets. She knew how to turn other people’s crises into golden opportunities for herself.

She was retired now and in her mid-seventies. She had an abundance of money, which allowed her to live in comfort in her spacious mansion, indebted to no one. But why would a woman like that deliberately plot to murder someone?

Even so, Ushikawa decided to dig a little deeper. One reason was that he couldn’t find anything else that even resembled a clue. The second reason was that there was something about this safe house that bothered him. There was nothing especially unnatural about providing a free shelter for battered women. It was a sound and useful service to society. The dowager had the financial resources, and the women must be very grateful to her for her kindness. The problem was that the security at that apartment building—the heavy locked gate, the German shepherd, the surveillance cameras—was too tight for a facility of its type. There was something excessive about it.

The first thing Ushikawa did was check the deed for the land and the house that the dowager lived in. This was public information, easily ascertained by a trip to city hall. The deed to both the land and the house were in her name alone. There was no mortgage. Everything was quite clear-cut. As private assets, the property tax would come to quite a sum, but she probably didn’t mind paying such an amount. The future inheritance tax would also be huge, but this didn’t seem to bother her, which was unusual for such a wealthy person. In Ushikawa’s experience, nobody hated paying taxes more than the rich.

After her husband’s death, she continued to live alone in that enormous mansion. No doubt she had a few servants, so she wasn’t totally alone. She had two children, and her son had taken over the company. The son had three children. Her daughter had married and died fifteen years ago of an illness. She left no children behind.

This much was easy to find out. But once he tried to dig deeper into the woman’s background, a solid wall loomed up out of nowhere, blocking his way. Beyond this, all paths were closed. The wall was high, and the door had multiple locks. What Ushikawa did know was that this woman wanted to keep anything private about her completely out of public view. And she had poured considerable effort and money into carrying out that policy. She never responded to any sort of inquiry, never made any public statements. And no matter how many materials he raked through, not once did he come up with a photograph of her.

The woman’s number was listed in the Minato Ward phone book. Ushikawa’s style was to tackle things head on, so he went ahead and dialed it. Before the phone had rung twice, a man picked up.

Ushikawa gave a phony name and the name of some investment firm and said, “There’s something I would like to ask the lady of the house about, regarding her investment funds.”

The man replied, “She isn’t able to come to the phone. But you can tell me whatever she needs to know.” His businesslike tone sounded mechanical, manufactured.

“It’s company policy not to reveal these things to anyone other than the client,” Ushikawa explained, “so if I can’t speak with her directly now, I can mail the documents to her. She will have them in a few days.”

“That would be fine,” the man said, and hung up.

Ushikawa wasn’t particularly disappointed that he couldn’t speak to the dowager. He wasn’t expecting to. What he really wanted to find out was how concerned she was about protecting her privacy. Extremely so, it would appear. She seemed to have several people with her in the mansion who kept a close guard over her. The tone of this man who answered the phone—her secretary, most likely—made this clear. Her name was printed in the telephone directory, but only a select group could actually speak to her. All others were flicked away, like ants who had crawled into the sugar bowl.

.    .    .

Pretending to be looking for a place to rent, he made the rounds of local real estate agencies, indirectly asking about the apartment building used as the safe house. Most of the agents had no idea there was an apartment building at that address. This neighborhood was one of the more upscale residential areas in Tokyo. These agents only dealt with high-end properties and couldn’t be bothered with a two-story, wooden apartment building. One look at Ushikawa’s face and clothes, too, and they essentially gave him the cold shoulder. If a three-legged, waterlogged dog with a torn-off tail and mange had limped in the door, they would have treated it more kindly than they treated him.

Just when he was about to give up, a small local agency that seemed to have been there for years caught his eye. The yellowed old man at the front desk said, “Ah, that place,” and volunteered information. The man’s face was shriveled up, like a second-rate mummy, but he knew every nook and cranny of the neighborhood and always jumped at the chance to bend someone’s ear.

“That building is owned by Mr. Ogata’s wife, and yes, in the past it was rented out as apartments. Why she happened to have that building, I don’t really know. Her circumstances did not exactly demand that she manage an apartment building. I imagine she mostly used it to house their employees. I don’t know much about it now, but it seems to be used for battered women, kind of like those kakekomidera, temples in the old days that sheltered wives running away from abusive husbands. Anyway, it isn’t going to fatten a real estate agent’s wallet.”

The old man laughed, with his mouth shut. He sounded like a woodpecker.

“A kakekomidera, eh?” Ushikawa said. He offered him a Seven Stars cigarette. The old man took it, let Ushikawa light it for him with his lighter, and took a deep, appreciative drag on it. This is exactly what the Seven Stars must long for, Ushikawa mused—to be enjoyed so thoroughly.

“Women whose husbands smack them around and run away, their faces all puffed up, they—they take shelter there. They don’t have to pay rent.”

“Like a kind of public service,” Ushikawa said.

“Yes, that sort of thing. They had this extra apartment building so they used it to help people in trouble. She’s tremendously wealthy, so she could do whatever she wanted, without worrying about making money. Not like the rest of us.”

“But why did Mrs. Ogata start doing that? Was there something that led up to it?”

“I don’t know. She’s so rich that maybe it’s like a hobby?”

“Well, even if it is a hobby,” Ushikawa said, beaming, “that’s a wonderful thing, to help people in trouble like that. Not everyone with money to burn takes the initiative to help others.”

“Of course it’s a nice thing to do,” the old man agreed. “Years ago I used to hit my old lady all the time, so I’m not one to talk.” He opened his mouth, showing off his missing teeth, and guffawed, as if hitting your wife every once in a while were one of life’s notable pleasures.

“So I take it that several people live there now?” Ushikawa asked.

“I go past there when I take a walk every morning, but you can’t see anything from outside. But it does seem like a few people are living there. I guess there will always be men in the world who beat their wives.”

“There are always far more people in the world who make things worse, rather than help out.”

The old man guffawed again loudly, his mouth wide open. “You got that right. There are a lot more people who do bad things than do good.”

The old man seemed to have taken a liking to Ushikawa. This made Ushikawa uncomfortable.

“By the way, what sort of person is Mrs. Ogata?” Ushikawa asked, trying to sound casual.

“I really don’t know that much about her,” the old man replied, knitting his brow like the spirit of an old, withered tree. “She lives a very quiet, reserved life. I’ve done business here for many years, but at most I’ve just caught glimpses of her from afar. When she goes out she always has a chauffeur, and her maids do all the shopping. She has a man who is like her personal secretary and he takes care of most everything. I mean, she’s a well-bred, wealthy woman, and you can’t expect her to talk with the hoi polloi.” The old man frowned, and from the midst of those wrinkles came a wink, directed at Ushikawa.

By hoi polloi, the old man with the yellowed face seemed to be talking about a group composed primarily of two people: himself and Ushikawa.

Ushikawa asked another question. “How long has Mrs. Ogata been active in providing a safe house for victims of domestic violence?”

“I’m not really sure. I’ve only heard from others that the place is a kind of kakekomidera. But about four years ago, people started to go in and out of that apartment building. Four or five years, something like that.” The old man lifted the teacup to his lips and drank his cold tea. “It was about then that they built a new gate and the security got tighter. It’s a safe house, after all, and if anyone can just wander in, the folks who live there won’t be able to relax.”

The old man seemed to come back to the present. He looked at Ushikawa a bit suspiciously. “So—you said you’re looking for a reasonably priced place to rent?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then you better try somewhere else. This neighborhood is full of expensive mansions and even if there are places for rent that come on the market, they’re all high-end rentals aimed at foreigners who work in the embassies. A long time ago there were a lot of regular people who lived around here, ones who weren’t so wealthy. As a matter of fact, finding places for them is how our business got started. But there aren’t any affordable houses left, so I’m thinking of closing the business. Land prices in Tokyo have skyrocketed and small fry like me can’t handle it anymore. Unless you have bags of cash to spare, I suggest you try elsewhere.”

“I’ll do that,” Ushikawa said. “The truth is, I am a bit strapped. I’ll try some other location.”

The old man breathed out cigarette smoke and a sigh. “But once Mrs. Ogata passes, you can bet that mansion will disappear. That son of hers is a real go-getter, and there’s no way he’s going to let a prime piece of real estate like that in a premium area just sit around. He’ll knock it down in a flash and put up an ultra-high-end condo. He may very well be drawing up the blueprints as we speak.”

“If that happens this whole neighborhood won’t be quite as serene as it is now.”

“Yup, you won’t recognize it.”

“You mentioned her son. What business is he in?”

“Basically he’s in real estate. The same as me. But the difference between us is like chalk and cheese. Like a Rolls-Royce and an old bicycle. He takes a huge amount of capital and then makes investments on his own, one after another. He licks up all the honey himself, without leaving a drop behind. Nothing spills over in my direction, I can tell you that. The world sucks, that’s for sure.”

“I was just walking around a while ago and wandered all around the outskirts of that mansion. I was impressed. It’s quite a place.”

“Well, it’s definitely the best residence in this neighborhood. When I picture those beautiful willow trees being chopped down, it hurts.” The old man shook his head as if he really were in pain. “I can only hope that Mrs. Ogata lives a little longer.”

“I hear you,” Ushikawa agreed.

Ushikawa found a listing for the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence in the phone book and decided to contact them. It was a nonprofit organization, run by volunteers and headed by several lawyers. Ushikawa made an appointment in the name of his phony office, the New Japan Foundation for the Advancement of Scholarship and the Arts. He led them to believe he might be a potential donor, and they set the time for the appointment.

Ushikawa proffered his business card (which was the same as the one he had given to Tengo) and explained how one of the purposes of his foundation was to pinpoint an outstanding nonprofit organization that was making a real contribution to society, and provide them with a grant. Though he couldn’t reveal who the sponsor was, the grant could be used in any way the recipient wished. The only requirement was to submit a simple report by the end of the year.

Ushikawa’s appearance didn’t inspire any goodwill or trust, and the young lawyer he spoke with eyed him warily at first. However, they were chronically short on funds, and had to accept any support, no matter the source.

“I’ll need to know more about your activities,” Ushikawa said. The lawyer explained how they had started the organization. Ushikawa found this history boring, but he listened carefully, his expression one of devoted interest. He made all the appropriate noises, nodded in all the right places, and kept his expression docile and open. As he did, the lawyer warmed up to him. Ushikawa was a highly trained listener, adopting such a sincere and receptive manner that he almost always succeeded in putting the other person at ease.

He found the opportunity to casually nudge the conversation in the direction of the safe house. For the unfortunate women who are running away from domestic violence, he asked, if they can’t find an appropriate place to go, where do they end up living? He put on an expression that showed his deep sympathy for these women whose fate was like that of leaves tossed about in some outrageously strong wind.

“In instances like that we have several safe houses where they can go,” the young lawyer replied.

“Safe houses?”

“Temporary refuges. There aren’t many, but there are places that charitable people have offered us. One person has even provided an entire apartment building for us to use.”

“An entire apartment building,” Ushikawa said, sounding impressed. “I guess some people can be quite generous.”

“That’s right. Whenever our activities are covered in newspapers or magazines, inevitably we’ll get a call from people wanting to help out. Without offers from people like that, we would never be able to keep this organization going, since we depend almost entirely on contributions.”

“What you’re doing is very meaningful,” Ushikawa said.

The lawyer flashed him a vulnerable smile. Nobody’s easier to fool, Ushikawa thought, than the person who is convinced that he is right.

“How many women would you say are living in that apartment building now?”

“It depends, but—let’s see—I would say usually four or five,” the lawyer said.

“About that charitable person who provided that apartment building,” Ushikawa said, “how did this person get involved? I’m thinking there must have been some event that led up to this interest.”

The lawyer tilted his head. “I really don’t know. Though in the past this person was, it seems, involved in similar activities, on an individual level. As far as we’re concerned, we’re just grateful for this individual’s kindness. We don’t ask the reasons behind it.”

“Of course,” Ushikawa nodded. “I assume you keep the locations of your safe houses secret?”

“Correct. We have to make sure that the women are protected, plus many of our donors prefer to remain anonymous. I mean, we’re dealing with acts of violence, after all.”

They talked for a while longer, but Ushikawa was unable to extract any more useful information. What Ushikawa knew were the following facts: the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence had begun operations in earnest four years ago. Not long afterward, a certain “donor” had contacted them and offered them use of a vacant apartment building as a safe house. The donor had read about their activities in the newspaper. The donor had set one condition, namely, that the donor’s name never be revealed. Still, from what was said, Ushikawa could deduce that, beyond any doubt, the “donor” was the elderly dowager living in Azabu, the one who owned the old apartment building.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me,” Ushikawa said warmly to the idealistic young lawyer. “Your organization is certainly making a valuable contribution. I’ll present what I have learned here to our board of directors. We should be getting in touch with you fairly soon. In the meantime, my very best wishes for your continued success.”

Next, Ushikawa began to investigate the death of the dowager’s daughter. The daughter had married an elite bureaucrat in the Ministry of Transport and was only thirty-six when she died. He didn’t know the cause yet. Not long after she died, her husband left the Ministry of Transport. These were the only facts Ushikawa had unearthed so far. He didn’t know why the husband had left the ministry, or what sort of life he had led afterward. The Ministry of Transport was not the sort of government office that willingly revealed information regarding its inner workings to ordinary citizens. But Ushikawa had a sharp sense of smell, and something smelled fishy. He couldn’t believe that losing his wife would have made the man so overcome with grief that he would quit his job and go into hiding.

Ushikawa knew there weren’t many thirty-six-year-old women who died of illness. Not that there weren’t some. No matter how old you are, or how blessed your circumstances, you can suddenly fall ill and die—from cancer, a brain tumor, peritonitis, acute pneumonia. The human body is a fragile thing. But for an affluent woman of thirty-six to join the ranks of the dead—in all likelihood it was not a natural death, but either an accident or suicide.

Let me speculate here, Ushikawa said to himself. Following the famous rule of Occam’s razor, I’ll try to find the simplest possible explanation. Eliminate all unnecessary factors, boil it all down to one logical line, and then look at the situation.

Let’s say the dowager’s daughter didn’t die of illness but by suicide. Ushikawa rubbed his hands together as he pondered this. It wouldn’t be too hard to pretend that a suicide was actually death by illness, especially for someone with money and influence. Take this a step further and say that this daughter was the victim of domestic violence, grew despondent, and took her own life. Certainly not an impossibility. It was a well-known fact that certain members of the so-called elite had disgusting personalities and dark, twisted tendencies, as if they had taken more than the share of darkness allotted to them.

If that were the case, what would the rich old dowager do? Would she call it fate, say that nothing else could be done, and give up? Not very likely. She would take suitable revenge against whatever force had driven her daughter to her untimely end. Ushikawa felt he had a better understanding of the dowager. She was a daring, bright woman, with a clear vision and a strong will. And she would spare neither fortune nor influence to avenge the death of the one she loved.

Ushikawa had no way of knowing what kind of retaliation she had actually taken toward her daughter’s husband, since all trace of him had vanished into thin air. He didn’t think that the dowager had gone so far as to take the man’s life. But he had no doubt that she had taken some sort of decisive action. And it was hard to believe that she had left any trail behind.

Ushikawa’s conjectures thus far seemed to make sense, though he had no proof. His theory, however, did clear up a lot of questions. Licking his lips, Ushikawa vigorously rubbed his hands together. Beyond this point, though, things started to get a little hazy.

The dowager had set up the safe house to sublimate her desire for revenge, turning it into something more useful and positive. Then, at the sports club she frequented, she got to know the young instructor Aomame, and somehow—he had no idea how—they came to a secret understanding. After meticulous preparation, Aomame got access to the suite at the Hotel Okura and murdered Leader. The method she used was unclear. Aomame might be quite proficient in murdering people using a special technique. As a result, despite being closely guarded by two very dedicated and able bodyguards, Leader wound up dead.

Up to this point, the threads tying his conjectures held together—barely—but when it came to linking Sakigake’s Leader to the center for battered women, Ushikawa was at a total loss. At this point his thought process hit a roadblock and a very sharp razor neatly severed all the threads.

.    .    .

What Sakigake wanted from Ushikawa at this point were answers to two questions: Who planned the murder of Leader? and Where was Aomame?

Ushikawa was the one who had run the original background check on Aomame, and he had found nothing suspicious about her at all. But after she had left, Leader expired. And right after that, Aomame disappeared. Poof—like a gust of smoke in the wind. Sakigake had to have been very upset with Ushikawa, convinced that his investigation hadn’t been thorough enough.

But in fact, as always, his investigation left nothing to be desired. As he had told Buzzcut, Ushikawa was a stickler for making sure all the bases were covered. He could be faulted for not having checked her phone records beforehand, but unless there was something extraordinarily suspicious about a situation, that wasn’t something he normally did. And as far as he could tell from his investigations, there wasn’t a single suspect thing about Aomame.

Ushikawa didn’t want them to be upset with him forever. They paid him well, but they were a dangerous bunch. Ushikawa was one of the few who knew how they had secretly disposed of Leader’s body, which made him a potential liability. He knew he had to come up with something concrete to show them so they would know he was a valuable resource, someone worth keeping alive.

He had no proof that the old dowager from Azabu was mixed up in Leader’s murder. At this point it was pure speculation. He did know that some deep secret lay hidden inside that mansion with its magnificent willows. Ushikawa’s sense of smell told him this, and his job was to bring that truth to light. It wouldn’t be easy. The place was under heavy guard, with professionals involved.

Yakuza?

Perhaps. Businessmen, those involved in real estate in particular, are often involved in secret negotiations with yakuza. When the going gets rough, the yakuza get called in. It was possible the old dowager might be making use of their influence. But Ushikawa wasn’t very certain of this—the old dowager was too well bred to deal with people like them. Also, it was hard to imagine that she would use yakuza to protect women who were victims of domestic violence. Probably she had her own security apparatus in place, one that she paid for herself. Her own personal system she had refined. It would cost her, but then, she wasn’t hurting for funds. And this system of hers might employ violence when there was a perceived need.