Dragon Dance Page 16

  “Did you enjoy the concert?” asked the Diet member Makino, sipping a glass of white wine.

  “Very interesting,” replied Martine.

  [118] “I suppose it must be impossible for a foreigner to understand Nozawa-sensei. He has the true Japanese spirit.”

  “Ah,” said Martine. It was a sound that signified neither agreement nor disagreement, but agreement to avoid disagreement. Over the years she had got used to being told that such and such a phenomenon was “impossible for foreigners to understand.” In the case of Nozawa, though, Martine wondered if Makino might not be right. Nozawa appealed to such a range of the Japanese population, regardless of sex, age, or level of education. Martine couldn’t grasp how he had done it, what propelled him so far above the rest, but then she hadn’t grown up with Nozawa. She hadn’t heard her father singing his songs in the bath, seen his face on TV before she learned to talk, discussed the meaning of the lyrics with her school friends, or followed the rumors about his personal life in the weekly magazines. She had done none of these things because she wasn’t Japanese. There were parts of the code that she would never be able to crack.

  A former boyfriend, an investment banker whose hobby was writing haiku, had once told Martine that there were Japanese words that she would never really understand, no matter how hard she tried. These were not complicated words, but simple ones like “house” and “mist” and “mountain.” When he used the word “mist” in a haiku, he had a particular picture in mind, an essence of all the “mists” that had appeared in Japanese literature and art throughout the ages. Martine’s “mist” was bound to be different, blending traces of all the mists she had ever seen, from the highlands of Scotland to Cape Cod, from the paintings of Turner to Sherlock Holmes movies.

  That relationship hadn’t lasted long. Glimpsing a hostess’s namecard in his wallet—a hostess from a transvestite club, at that—had been the final straw. But she took the point. There were things that could never be grasped from the outside. You had to live them to get the full message.

  “The future of this country very much depends on Nozawa-sensei,” Makino was saying. “He is the only one who can give us hope.”

  “What kind of hope?”

  “Hope to go forward in our own way. We’ve been running to catch up with the West for one hundred and fifty years. Now it’s time to stop running.”

  “So you support Nozawa-sensei’s policies?”

  Makino frowned. “It isn’t that definite. But the current government is following bad policies, very damaging to our farming community. They’re quite unacceptable.”

  Martine nodded sympathetically. The agricultural liberalization program, implemented under heavy US pressure, had wreaked havoc on the farmers of northern Japan. Homelessness, penury, family suicides, daughters forced into prostitution to pay off their parents’ debts—the descent into misery had come astonishingly fast.

  [119] “In times of national crisis Japan needs a different kind of leadership, someone from outside the political establishment. That’s what happened in the Meiji Revolution. Young samurai from remote areas seized power and changed the whole country, from top to bottom. We need the same thing now. We need a second Meiji Revolution.”

  “And is this one going to open up the country or close it?”

  Makino chuckled. “My great-grandfather was involved in that struggle. He fought to expel the barbarians and keep Japan pure. But when his side was victorious, they westernized as fast as they could. The point is to clear out the old corrupt ways and bring in new blood, men of sincerity who will dedicate themselves to the nation.”

  “And you think it’s the same this time?”

  “That’s right. We’re not anti-Western. We’re pro-Japan. That’s a big difference.”

  Martine noted the “we.” Makino had obviously made his decision already.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Martine saw the female newscaster walking down the steps of Nozawa’s trailer. There was something about the way she was patting down her hair, the dizzy look on her face—Martine guessed it hadn’t been an ordinary interview.

  “Meyer-san—there could be time for a quick interview, if you want one.”

  Shimizu was at her shoulder, radiating the odor of hair oil.

  “That’s a kind thought,” said Martine politely. “But I don’t think I’m properly prepared.”

  Shimizu shrugged and walked away. Martine finished her wine and headed for the exit. On the other side of the stage the huge crowd had melted into the night, and technicians were busily dismantling the banks of loudspeakers and video screens. Hundreds of pressmen were bunched in front of the VIP enclosure, straining to get a glimpse of the celebrities in the marquee. As Martine passed through the security zone, a volley of flashes exploded in her face. Instinctively she held up her hand as dozens of camera shutters whirred and buzzed.

  Behind the press were clusters of fans, waiting patiently for a glimpse of their heroes. Many of them were Nozawa clones, kitted out in bellybands, baggy trousers, and split-toed sandals. If you went to Harajuku on a Sunday afternoon, you could see thousands of young people dressed like that, complete with “Certain Death” headbands and artificial eyebrows halfway up their foreheads. They might look like gangs of day laborers searching for work, but their outfits were designer brand versions that might cost a week’s wages.

  One of the clones ran up to Martine and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “What do you want?” she snapped, nerves on edge.

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you ... You attended the VIP party, didn’t you?”

  [120] He was well spoken, painfully shy, only a few years older than Ichiro. Martine placed him as a student at one of the better universities, the kind who would have gone on to join a bank or insurance company in the old pre-crisis days. Now he would be lucky to get any kind of job. A group of his friends, all dressed the same way, were watching and grinning from a safe distance.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you see Nozawa-sensei?”

  Martine recalled the newscaster emerging from Nozawa’s trailer, patting down her hair, walking away a little too fast. “He didn’t appear. It seems he was caught up in some kind of discussion.”

  “So you didn’t have a chance to meet him?”

  “Not this time. But we did have a conversation last week.”

  “You actually spoke to him?”

  “Yes, for about thirty minutes.”

  “Fantastic! Meeting Nozawa-sensei face-to-face, talking to him—that’s the dream of my dreams! I mean, he’s a genius, isn’t he? What were your impressions? Was he everything you expected?”

  The student was gazing at Martine with shining eyes. He reminded her of a puppy wagging its tail at the prospect of a biscuit. She paused, then nodded.

  “Yes he was. Everything I expected, and more.”

  Which in a way was true. In today’s Japan Nozawa was the main event. Of that she had no doubt.

  Martine had a sudden desire to get away from the throng of Nozawa fans. She cut down a neon-lit alleyway reeking of stale fish, then turned into a shabby entertainment district. It was one of the less salubrious areas of Shinjuku, with homeless guys peering out of cardboard boxes and schoolgirl prostitutes hanging around street corners, but it was still safe, unlike the badlands around Kabuki-cho where gangsters of different nationalities regularly engaged in shoot-outs, sword attacks, and fire bombings.

  The main street was lined with cardsharps, jugglers, monkey trainers, bear handlers and fortune-tellers, all calling out for custom. Some of these would have been ordinary salarymen until recently. Martine stopped to glance curiously at their faces, some straining with fake enthusiasm, others slack-mouthed and blank.

  “Hey, foreigner-san. Don’t you want to know your future?”

  The voice, a wheezing croak, came from just behind her. Martine turned to face a fortune-teller hunched in the shadows of a doorway. The flickering candle on his trestle
table lit up bloodshot eyes, a gap-toothed grin, a face as dark and wrinkled as an old prune.

  “Not really,” said Martine politely.

  “What’s the matter?” cackled the fortune-teller in a thick accent she [121] could barely understand. “Are you scared of it?”

  Martine caught the fetid smell of his clothes and winced. “Of course not. I haven’t got time.”

  “For a beautiful woman like you there’s a special discount. Why not try? Don’t you want to be happy?”

  “I’m happy enough already.”

  The gap-toothed grin widened. “I don’t think so.”

  Martine turned away, then paused to consider. How many customers would this pathetic character attract tonight? Enough to buy a meal and a room in a flophouse? Probably not.

  “All right,” she sighed. “But let’s be quick.”

  She sat down on the tiny stool and watched as he rattled the wooden sticks around the cup. He muttered a few words that Martine didn’t catch, then tossed the sticks onto the table. For a moment he was motionless, the only sound the bronchial rasp of his breath.

  “Well, what’s the result?”

  “You are too impatient,” said the fortune-teller softly. “Impatient with yourself and impatient with others. This is one reason for your problems concerning men.”

  “I don’t have problems concerning men. They have problems concerning me.”

  “You are a lonely person, I think. You haven’t found a home in this world.”

  Martine crossed her arms over her breasts. “You’re wrong there. I have a very pleasant apartment, facing south over Meguro Park.”

  The fortune-teller ignored her. His eyes were fixed on the clutter of divining sticks.

  “Ho!” he croaked. “Here’s something strange! A chance to change your life forever. Perhaps it has happened already, just recently. Is this possible?”

  He glanced up, holding her in his watery gaze. “Yes—there it is. The traces are visible in your face.”

  “So you can read faces too?”

  The old man gave a little snort of laughter. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But your face is like a book. Things are written there that you don’t know yourself.”

  This time Martine said nothing. The yellow flame ducked and swayed, shooting shadows across the fortune-teller’s grizzled cheeks.

  “You must accept what you’ve been given,” he murmured.

  “But nobody has given me anything.”

  “Accept it. Don’t think. Don’t ask any questions at all.”

  “Wait a moment. I’m a journalist. Asking questions is my job.”

  The fortune-teller shook his head. “This time you must swim with the [122] current. If you try and swim against it, you’ll drown.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m saying nothing more. Your time is up.”

  With that he spat on his fingers and snuffed out the candle. Martine sighed with exasperation. Did the guy really expect to make a living out of such absolute bunkum? She got to her feet and took out her purse.

  “How much?”

  “The fee is two thousand yen.”

  “Two thousand yen? I thought you said there would be a special discount!”

  He gave a cackle of laughter that turned into a cough, then back into laughter again. “Ah, but your fortune was a difficult one, the most surprising I’ve seen for a long time.”

  Martine held out two banknotes, which he grabbed and stuffed into the pocket of his shapeless trousers. She could still hear him laughing as he hobbled toward a woman in a schoolgirl’s uniform standing at the street corner.

  Kurokawa City, sixty miles from Tokyo, was in a region that had been hit hard by the crisis. The industrial base of small- and medium-scale manufacturers had been decimated, and dozens of small credit unions had folded. When the local bank finally went under, it was found that sixty percent of its loans were unrecoverable. In terms of unemployment, suicide, child abuse, and arson, Kurokawa was at the top of the national rankings. But there was another phenomenon for which it was even more famous—the road war.

  Every Saturday night, thousands of teenagers congregated at a cluster of fast-food joints, pachinko parlors, and used car dealers facing the big Kurokawa intersection. This was where the trucks and other heavy traffic got onto the national road that led to Tokyo. It was also the start of the Kurokawa Skyline, a public works project started toward the end of the era of stagnation in a vain attempt to shore up the local economy. It was a fine road, thirty miles snaking up into the mountains, well lit and with a smooth, fast surface. The problem was that it led nowhere, and the toll booths had been taken down last year when the Road Corporation collapsed. Since then it had become a magnet for road racers from all over the country. They started with tests of speed, an unofficial Formula One for packs of souped-up stolen cars. But it wasn’t long before the races turned violent. The purpose became not just to outspeed the others, but to force them off the road or send them skidding into a concrete pillar at one hundred miles an hour. The racers started taking along “soldiers,” spaced-out young crazies who would hang out of the [123] hurtling cars wielding chains, baseball bats, and crossbows. There were often ten or twelve victims a night, but the police made little effort to intervene. It was better to have the race gangs in one place where they wouldn’t harm ordinary citizens, rather than causing mayhem in suburbs all over the Kanto region.

  Tonight one of the local gangs, the Black Devils, was in their usual place in the parking lot of the Starjacks café. They were good customers, since the drugs they took gave them a craving for sweet cakes and gallons of soft drinks. Around twenty of them were standing around, joshing and preening themselves, listening to Nozawa’s voice blaring from a smashed-out car window. The song was “Rainy Season Women,” a thumping blues from his hard rock period. The boys had orange Mohican cuts, filed teeth, electroluminescent tattoos of death’s-heads and dragons. The girls had their eyebrows shaved and teeth painted black, and were wearing skintight jumpsuits that turned translucent with changes in body temperature. Suddenly one of them dropped her cardboard cup and fell choking to the ground. The others gathered around in a circle, watching blankly as she curled up into the fetal position and started puking. Then one of the boys dropped his baseball bat and did the same. Then another. Then another.

  “Stand up, you idiots!” roared the chief, a shaven-headed thug with red contact lenses and stretched earlobes that dangled down like little sausages.

  “It’s the drink,” gurgled someone twitching on the ground.

  “The orange juice!”

  “There’s something in the orange juice.”

  “What’re you talking about?” screamed the chief, earlobes swinging. But then he too sank to the ground, hands clutching at his throat.

  At the same time, in a Starjacks café in Tokyo’s fashionable Daikanyama district, a miniskirted college student suddenly stood and threw up all over the middle-aged businessman who was paying for an evening of her company.

  “What’s the matter?” yelped the businessman, as she slumped forward, sending the table crashing to the ground.

  On the next table, a real-estate salesman stood bolt upright and a stream of orange liquid gushed from his mouth.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Quick—call an ambulance!”

  “It’s the orange juice.”

  “There’s something wrong with the orange juice.”

  Over the next few hours the same cries were heard at Starjacks outlets all over eastern Japan.

  TWELVE

  Martine sat cross-legged in front of the TV, a cup of coffee cradled in her lap. Outside the window, a gang of crows was greeting the morning with a raucous chorus of squawks and caws, but Martine didn’t hear them. What was happening on the split screen had her full attention.

  On the INN side a blond-haired square-jawed man was furrowing his brows and flashing his perfect dentistry, trying to sound concern
ed and calm and decisive all at the same time. He was slim, tanned, and looked like a tennis pro or a surfer. In fact Kip Harper was in his mid-fifties, and thanks to the truckload of share options he had awarded himself, he was one of the most highly paid CEOs in America.

  “Our sympathies are of course extended to the victims and their families. The causes of this unfortunate incident are still unclear, but we have total confidence in the quality of Starjacks products. Every day over one million consumers in ninety-three different countries eat at Starjacks cafés ...”

  Harper had probably rehearsed the speech half-a-dozen times already, under the expert tuition of his public relations team. They would have written the script that he was currently reading off the teleprompter. They would have told him what kind of shirt to wear (light blue denim, open-neck), which words to emphasize, when to smile, and when to frown. All this had been done in a couple of hours, an impressive feat of damage limitation.

  On the other half of the screen, a Japanese reporter was standing in the forecourt of a hospital speaking excitedly into the microphone. Twelve people confirmed dead, he was saying, over fifty seriously ill. The names of the dead people scrolled down the screen, together with their ages and areas of residence. Martine noted that most were young, between the ages of sixteen and thirty. Then the screen cut to a female reporter interviewing the parents of one of the victims.

  [125] “So what are your feelings now?” asked the reporter, pushing her microphone into the shocked face of the mother.

  “It’s so sad ... she was a such kind girl ... she never did any harm to anyone ...”

  The woman broke into sobs. The camera zoomed in and lingered lovingly on her crumpled face and streaming eyes.