Читать книгу Why Ghosts Appear - Todd Shimoda - Страница 8

Not surprisingly, the car wasn’t finished when I returned to the service station. The budding mechanic was waiting for me to authorize replacing a part somewhere in the engine. I authorized the work, although I wasn’t sure it was necessary. My free parking spot was becoming expensive.

The noodle stand was open with no customers until I sat at one of the counter stools. The proprietress had dark puffy flesh under her eyes and her face was pocked with large pores. She wrote my order on a slip of paper and passed it into the kitchen through a small window, then served me a cup of tea. While I sipped it, I glanced through the butterfly book. On the title page of the book, I found the name of the fortuneteller’s son listed as the illustrator. In the preface of the book, the editor noted that the drawings and photographs were made in the field in many locations in Japan, Southeast Asia, and the Americas.

The noodle stand woman brought me a bowl of steaming broth filled with ramen, slices of meat and vegetables, topped with chopped green onion. Her fingernails were chipped and unevenly trimmed.

The son’s picture showed the young man holding a sketchbook in a tropical setting of lush greenery. His pose was stiff and his expression anticipatory, nearly grim, as if he were gamely awaiting his execution. A floppy hat shaded most of his face except for the lower part of his chin. Despite the dark mood of the photo, I could see no immediate cause for concern at this point. The son did not show up as was his custom but that could be for countless reasons, some the mother could have thought of but lacked the fortitude to admit because they might reflect poorly on her. Perhaps an argument with her about when he was going to get married and provide her with grandchildren, or his reluctance to visit her more than once a year.

When I settled the tab for the tea and noodles, I used their pay phone to call the publisher of the book—Shinshin Group. After I was bounced through four levels of employees, I was connected with the art director who worked on the book. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Mizuno Ren,” I said to the director.

There was a long disconcerting silence before she said, “I don’t understand. Disappearance, you said?”

“Yes. Apparently his mother was expecting him for the holiday and he never showed up.”

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand,” she said with an edge of irritation and suspicion. “You do know he died three years ago.”

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The noodle stand woman looked at me out of the corner of her eye, quickly glancing away when I saw the direction of her gaze. Her expression softened, as if now that I was a paying customer I had entered a sphere of safety. The pores that were once large had closed up, and the darkness under her eyes had lightened. Either she applied makeup while I was on the telephone or my perception of her changed.

Sitting back on the stool, I asked for another cup of tea. She hesitated as if she were going to ask a question, then opened a tea pot and tossed in two pinches of leaves. Glancing at me, she added a third and filled the pot with hot water from a thermos. While we waited for the tea to steep, I asked her how long she had lived in the neighborhood.

“Not long, I suppose. Let’s see … my husband and I moved here eight years ago when his parents died. They left us their house.” She turned to face the back of the stand where her husband was bent over a counter concentrating on a task. She turned back to me and said, “We started this noodle stand two years ago. He always fancied himself a chef.”

“A noodle shop is a good place to start as a chef.”

“Not really,” she said. “It’s a good place to end a career as a chef.”

I would have agreed but looking at the husband’s back as he patiently worked his knife I felt sorry for him. “I’m sure things will work out,” I said. “By the way, I’m in the neighborhood to get my car fixed at the shop and realized an old friend lives near here, or at least used to. Mizuno Ren. Do you know him?”

She shook her head, too quickly to have given my question much thought. She took a rag, lifted a stack of bowls, and wiped the counter underneath them.

“How about his mother? Mizuno Rie?”

Again she shook her head. Now, I was just another nosy customer. The dark circles of loose flesh under her eyes returned, and her pores enlarged. Again, the change may have been due to my perception.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I allowed that she didn’t know the Mizuno family despite the mother’s home being only a few steps away. Perhaps the fortuneteller was never a customer of the stand. Or maybe the noodle stand woman was simply not an observant neighbor, instead too focused on her husband’s dream that will wither and die.

▶

The art director at the publishing company hadn’t given me anymore information over the phone, despite my persistent questioning. How did Mizuno Ren die? When exactly? Where? She deflected my questions with professional demurs until she broke off our conversation with a quick “Goodbye.”

From the noodle stand, I walked back toward the small shrine and the steps to the fortuneteller’s home. I would have to confront her with the report of her son’s death. However, I lacked confidence in what the art director told me. She may have decided I was not a person she should be talking with about the son, perhaps because she didn’t want to be called as a witness in a future legal proceeding. Unfortunately, people thought more and more about such things, making my job increasingly difficult. On the other hand, the change in people’s willingness to cooperate could be due to a change in my style of questioning. A brusqueness had crept into my social interactions. The change might be chalked up to middle age, giving me an attitude of having seen too much to let anyone get away with petty, selfish balking.

On the other hand, the change in people could be because as a society becomes more affluent it tends to become more closed. Behavioral scientists studying the phenomenon conclude that financial success, or the hope of financial success, leads to fear of losing those gains. As a society we become hoarders and selfish accumulators bent on the single-minded pursuit of wealth. Of course, what is generally true for a society is not always true for the individual. Some consciously fight the trend of a closed society because they want to be individualistic and antisocial, or rather anti-society. Some are open because they desire acceptance in a given situation, outweighing their need for security. These people are the easiest to get information from, although in many cases they are overeager and will say whatever they believe you want to hear. That reminded me of the fortuneteller’s statement about her clients and their willingness to hear what they want to hear.

I reached the shrine at the bottom of the steps leading up to the fortuneteller’s house where I stopped and considered what I should do next. When I heard the art director’s claim that the missing son was dead, I wanted to confront the applicant immediately. An investigator’s time is expensive and should not be wasted. In fact, my section chief at the agency should be informed about the revelation of the son’s death. But I rejected that idea—the chief would cancel the assignment, refund the fee other than my hour or two I’d spent on the case. No time for kooks, he would say. We’ve got real work to do. No time for chasing ghosts.

I rejected informing the chief because of a strange reaction I was having to the neighborhood and the case. There was a feeling of familiarity, although not déjà vu. It was similar to a case of some twenty years ago. The old case started in a different neighborhood from the fortuneteller’s—one of concrete-and-steel high-rise apartments, sterile grounds, and glaring lights that created artificial shadows. In contrast, the neighborhood of the fortuneteller was older with wooden homes, narrow alleys, and a soft, natural darkness. Also, the client in the old case was a young wife whose husband disappeared, rather than a mother looking for her son.

What the cases shared was an inexorable dread that drew on the energy of the people involved, not only the clients but all those connected directly or peripherally. For example, a couple of scraggly youths with sunglasses and tattoos stared suspiciously as they walked past me and entered the noodle stand. An unmarked van slowly, sinisterly pulled into the service station. Across the street, two women in the alley argued about what I couldn’t hear. They gave me a hard stare when they noticed I was trying to eavesdrop.

As I headed to the service station to rescue my car, the neighborhood I had considered insignificant took on the misery of humanity, of rage, of nerves exposed to brine. The noodle stand became a gang hangout where executions were planned, and the garage a drop off point for burglars or smugglers. The two women were embroiled in a turf battle that will erupt into incomprehensible violence.

My car was ready. The mechanic gave me a rundown of the parts and labor but I barely heard. I paid and drove away from the neighborhood having decided to investigate further before confronting the fortuneteller about the death of her missing son.

As I left the neighborhood behind I could not shake the memory of the old case.