Читать книгу Why Ghosts Appear - Todd Shimoda - Страница 11

Report

24 August: 11:15 a.m.—I investigated the art director’s claim that Mizuno Ren died three years ago by checking the Mizuno family registry at the ward office. There, in the dismal light of the records room, I discovered his death had not been recorded. Of course, this does not necessarily mean that he isn’t deceased.

I drove from there to the son’s last known address. I encountered a lack of activity at the older, exhausted-looking building of “rabbit hutch” apartments. The neighborhood, however, was undergoing improvement with newer office and retail buildings, as well as construction of a condominium project (starting at prices of 75 million yen per unit!).

No one answered the missing son’s apartment door when I rang the bell and knocked. There was no window along the front entrance so I could not see inside. I rang the bell of the apartment next to the son’s apartment, but no one answered. As I was about to try another apartment, a man, roughly thirty-years old, with closely cropped hair, dressed in athletic gear (although his doughy physique did not indicate athletic tendencies), came out of the apartment two doors down. I questioned him about the son. He blinked, shook his head, and mumbled he hadn’t seen him lately. When I asked, “How much is lately?” the man shrugged, shaking his head that was the size and shape of a steer’s. I offered him a multiple choice response: “One week? One month? One year? Two years?” To which he responded, “Off and on.”

I tried another door at the end of the hallway. A woman in her late twenties answered, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying or had just woken up from a fitful sleep. After several moments, she apparently comprehended my question and gave me a response as vague as the one from the man in athletic gear. “Occasionally.” When pressed, she said simply, “I can’t say for certain. Maybe I haven’t seen him at all.” At this point, I abandoned further attempts at contacting residents of the building.

expenses:

32-km car expense

¥120 photocopies

Finished writing my report in the stupor of a hangover, which was due to the prior evening drinking with the fraud clerk, I ordered another cup of coffee in the shop where I waited for the next available time for Reiko, a masseuse I visited when I needed revitalization. I rarely drank to the hangover stage, maybe only once or twice a year. The time it took my aging organs to remove alcohol increased each year, to the point now of leaving me incapacitated for at least two days.

I decided not to tell the chief about the art director’s claim that the son was dead. The chief was not one to be trifled with, although he could to a degree be manipulated. The line between submission and manipulation was thin but over the years I had managed to keep my position in the company and maintain a degree of independence, an unsatisfactory but tolerable situation. Take the previous night for instance. I did not mention in my report what occurred with the clerk because investigating the applicant is not part of our contract. In short, we can’t get paid for it. Anything we can’t get paid for is strictly off limits. From a management perspective, it’s an understandable policy; however, I deemed my investigation of the applicant critical to my ability to proceed with due diligence. At least that’s how I justified it to myself.

I met the clerk on a side street crowded with pedestrians, mostly salarymen on their way to their favorite drinking establishment. The clerk’s sloppy appearance had worsened, as if the journey from his office to the bar was rough. His shirttail was partially pulled out from his pants, his hair disheveled. With an elaborate sweep of his arm, he channeled me into a bar, one of ten or twelve on the block. As to how the clerk picked this one I couldn’t see an immediate reason.

The owner—a mama-san—greeted the clerk as a regular. Only a couple of other tables in the bar were occupied and we sat at a corner table. The clerk nodded to the mama-san, something related to our order I assumed, then said to me, “The place specializes in shōchū drinks. Do you like shōchū?”

Despite disliking the grain alcohol usually served sweetened with fruit juice, I said “Depends on the shōchū.”

The clerk sighed. “You’re a sensitive sort, aren’t you?”

“Not really.”

He ordered plum shōchū for us. It was decent enough.

“I did some more research on your fortuneteller,” the clerk said, his upper lip damp with alcohol. “It made the afternoon go by quicker than usual.”

“But you said there was only one report on Mizuno Rie.”

“Only one official file, yes. What I refer to are unofficial records. You see our department functions like an octopus with a competing brain for each tentacle. Sometimes we reach for the same bit of information at the same time only to tear it apart and hoard the torn bits.”

“A chaotic situation,” I granted him. The clerk obviously wanted to vent about his job for a while, so I let him. The little bar grew dimmer as the night darkened, a strange occurrence because the interior lighting should have increased in relative brightness. Perhaps the drink robbed a part of my vision. While he rambled, I discovered that when I focused on the corner where two walls met, I could see two clerks. The more deeply I stared into the space, the further I projected myself into that alternative universe with two clerks.

The clerk, or rather one of two, said, “The fundamental nature of people is a desire for order, for simple cause and effect, which leads them to unverifiable beliefs. Superstition being one example, fortunetelling another. We can educate people all day long but their fundamental nature will never change because they cannot comprehend chaos. We do not want to believe that things exist or happen due to randomness and coincidence.”

The clerk turned out to be an amateur psychologist. “I agree, even though I believe there are instances of direct cause and effect. Now what about the fortuneteller?”

The clerk licked his upper lip. “It turns out that before she was married her name was Kuchi Rie. The Kuchi family is well known in fortunetelling circles. In the past, there have been several fraud complaints against them.”

I recalled that the camera store owner, Obushi, said something about “others.” I asked one of the clerks about a connection between the Kuchi clan and Obushi.

“Haven’t you listened to what I said? Don’t look for connections when they aren’t there!”

“But,” I said, my head aching, “isn’t that why you brought up the Kuchi case? Wasn’t I supposed to make a connection?”

“If you don’t want my information then don’t ask me to help. Anyway, you wanted to hear about teso.” The clerk finished his drink and led me out of the bar.

Down an alleyway, several fortunetellers had set up small tables and signs advertising their specialties. Customers were standing two and three deep waiting for their favorite fortuneteller. While we waited in a line, the clerk gave me a mini-lecture on teso, starting with him tracing my lines of fortune and misfortune: life, head, fate, heart, marriage (a stubby, nearly invisible crease below my little finger—no doubt how that would be interpreted).

After I paid two thousand yen to the fortuneteller—a hard-looking woman with short hair dyed a mahogany color and curled in a flip—I sat down and surrendered my left hand to her. She gave it a quick touch. “Please relax,” she said.

As I guessed, the fortuneteller immediately pointed out my puny marriage line. “To be honest, there’s no hope. Your fate line shows a strong disruption in the past, with a cross indicating a divergence in the future. You need to find a new line of work, something you’re more suited for. And at all costs, stay away from love affairs …”

I’d had enough.