Читать книгу Why Ghosts Appear - Todd Shimoda - Страница 9

The only time I had been told my fortune was twenty years ago, during the case of the missing husband. Over the years, many cases involved missing husbands—the number is surprisingly vast—but this case I never forgot. It ended badly—the wife’s brother died violently during the course of the investigation and an innocent suspect in the disappearance committed suicide. The husband was never found (at least not for sure, I had my suspicions about his fate), but it was clear to me that he left simply to leave. The wife was defeated and confused about the course of events, her guilt intense as she believed she was at fault for his disappearance.

Naturally, I had fallen for her.

The fortune I received twenty years ago was printed on a slip of paper that cost me ten yen from a machine. I can’t remember the entirety of the fortune; indeed, it was a mishmash of random propositions. Something about luck. That’s how it started. I remembered that much. But did it mean that I would have luck, or did it wish me luck because my future would be such a trial that only luck could help me? The years that followed have not been lucky by any reasonable standard. Other than the fact that I was alive and healthy for the most part, things had not gone well. By “things” I mean the mileposts, the memorable events, the gems of existence: love, marriage (to be precise, a good marriage), children, promotions, a decent golf game. None of those occurred. My life was all so much trash floating away on a tsunami of days.

I wish I had kept the fortune. I could have reviewed it, studied it, learned from it. And perhaps understand what went wrong. Instead I lit it on fire and used the flames to chase cockroaches around a table at a grungy sake bar. What a good time. Wait, there was something about radioactivity, and an umbrella. What kind of umbrella protects against radiation? A lead one? Rather impractical, eh? There was something else about a cow or a horse. It was all a hodgepodge of random propositions meant for no one and everyone. Oh, there was something about love, I suddenly remembered, but that’s all I could recall. Something about love …

▶

The office of fraud complaints was located in a warren of low-rise offices, framed by twin, elegantly sculptured towers occupied by the government finance and policy branches. The architectural disparity made it clear that the government placed a lower priority on consumer affairs than it did policy and finance. As I gazed at the towers, trying to keep both in focus at the same time, the buildings began to vibrate and rapidly change colors. The shimmering was a result, I assumed, of the nerves that control the eyes. Actually, the odd sensation could have been from an inaudible sound created by wind vibrations and the slow oscillation of the two buildings. It’s a biological fact that sounds below twenty hertz are detected by the eye. Whatever the reason, it was not unlike the pulling and shearing I experienced at the fortuneteller’s home. The shimmering made me dizzy so I closed my eyes for several moments.

The door to the office of fraud complaints was made of thick glass. The sign that announced its purpose was made from cheap, stick-on, black film. One corner of a character had come loose and had been taped down with transparent tape yellowed over time. The pull handle of the door was worn in the middle. A floor ashcan near the door was full of cigarette butts. I resisted the urge to pick out one with some tobacco left and resume my smoking habit.

Inside the office, the quiet astounded me. As hushed as a library, the only sound was the slight hum of a machine, perhaps the photocopier or a small fan. With my handkerchief, I wiped the beads of sweat that bloomed while walking from the subway station to the offices. At the closest desk, I stopped next to a clerk. His white shirt was limp, his tie too large. His belt was snugged too tightly and the loose end flapped away from his waist. On top of that, he had done a sloppy job of shaving—a few hairs longer than stubble poked from the apex of his cheek. He gave me a belligerent glance over the top of his reading glasses and continued working on the form he was hunched over.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m seeking information about a possible fraud case involving a fortuneteller.”

The clerk wrote a few words on the form, then said, “Fortunetelling fraud? That’s me all right.” He gestured at the chair across from his desk. I sat and waited while he entered a few more words. Finally, he replaced the cap on his pen and put the form in a folder. I started to speak, when he said, “You won’t mind if we start this conversation out in the corridor, would you?”

“Need a smoke?” I surmised.

He nodded and headed for the door, a cigarette appeared in his fingers as if by conjuring. The split second we left the office he had it lit. He didn’t offer me a cigarette. With a puff of smoke he said, “You don’t look like the type to be defrauded by a fortuneteller.”

“You don’t look like the type to be a civil servant.”

Smoke puffed out of his nostrils like a steam engine and his yellow teeth flared at me like a hyena. How he took the comment, which I had intended to be taken as either a compliment or a backhanded insult, was unclear. If he were intelligent enough, he would have grasped the irony of the double meaning.

“Very humorous,” he said dryly. “Now tell me what happened.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t very precise with my request. I’m not here to present a complaint but to find out if a certain fortuneteller has ever received a complaint.”

The clerk tapped his cigarette over the can but the ash floated around aimlessly and mostly outright missed the target. Investigations were often like that.

“I see,” he said. “That puts it in a different light. Are you looking for something specific?”

“I’m researching background on a missing person connected with a fortuneteller.”

“Hmm, background, you say. I guess you’re an investigator. Private, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“What’s it like being a private investigator?” he asked seriously, as if considering applying for my job.

“A lot like someone in your position. Listening to people with problems, trying to find out what they really want. Discerning what is the truth and what are lies or at least exaggerations. Trying to figure out what they aren’t telling you.”

“Filling out reports?” he asked.

“More than seems necessary.”

The clerk nodded sadly and stubbed out his cigarette which he had smoked almost completely down to the filter in the short time we were in the corridor. “Against my better judgment I’ll help you. Let’s go back in and see what we have.”

▶

The clerk uncovered only a single complaint against Mizuno Rie. “That’s abnormal,” he said in the matter-of-fact tone of a doctor studying an x-ray.

I waited a few moments. Certainly he’d explain, I thought, but I had to prod him. “Abnormal?”

“One complaint is peculiar because if there is one there are many. None or many is the norm.”

That made sense and I let him know with an understanding “Ahh.” When I asked to see the file, he sputtered and fumed that such reports were private to protect the complainants.

“Of course,” I said. “Perhaps, you need another smoke?”

He laughed. “Such subtlety. Did they teach you that in investigator school or did you acquire the skill through experience?”

While the clerk was out in the corridor, I skimmed the file he left on his desk. The single complaint was registered three years ago by a man named Obushi. He claimed to have been duped of just over one million yen, the amount paid to the fortuneteller for attempting to contact his wife’s ghost. The contact never occurred and, according to the claimant, “was never intended.”

A series of notes jotted into official-looking boxes completed the report. In the box labeled RESPONSE, I read this:

Contact with Mizuno Rie was made via phone. She expressed dismay that the complaint was made. She had been working with Mr. Obushi over the course of several months and never claimed that she would be successful in contacting the wife’s ghost. In fact, she claimed she told Mr. Obushi several times that there are no guarantees. It was asked of her what types of fortunetelling she conducted, to which she answered primarily teso-style palm reading. Contacting spirits was a rare event, used only in very special cases, she said. Less than once a year on average, she estimated when pressed. She added that she was considering no longer accepting clients for that type of work.

ACTION

Because there is no backup documentation or evidence as to what actually occurred between Mr. Obushi and Mrs. Mizuno, and because Mrs. Mizuno has no other recorded complaints, no official action was taken. Mrs. Mizuno was advised to cease her operations in “contacting ghosts,” to which she agreed. Mr. Obushi was advised of this outcome and it was suggested he should pursue the matter in civil court if he still wants satisfaction.

Wants satisfaction. Oddly put. Who doesn’t want satisfaction yet who ever feels satisfied? Indeed, what is satisfaction? I supposed it is a feeling of completeness, of wholeness, nothing left to act on or desire. In the whole history of the world, of all the billions of people born and dead, there never was a satisfied soul.

Or, maybe it’s just me who is so unsatisfied.

The clerk returned apparently satisfied from his cigarette break, his head lolling on his shoulders like a rag doll’s. I slid the report file across the desk. “What can you tell me about teso?” I asked.

The clerk picked up the file. “Palm reading? What do you want to know?” He put the file back into the cabinet.

“I know the basic idea of palm reading. What I need to know is how it’s done, typical fees, how long a session lasts, customer satisfaction. Details.”

“All that?” The clerk glanced to the clock behind me and slightly to the left. “How about if I show you in situ?”

“You mean… ?”

“Where it’s practiced,” he said with no small amount of impatience.

“I see. All right. I suppose if that’s what you think is best.”

The clerk laughed again. I had no idea why.