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  The whole thing was preposterous, of course, but strangely not a single dissenting voice was to be heard. A couple of senior academics had even commented that Yasutani’s theories were “worthy of consideration.” As Makoto had pointed out, the universities were restructuring too, coping with the decline in the student population. A few well-aimed donations from Yasutani’s production company would go a long way.

  “Meyer-san, you look as pretty as ever!”

  Martine turned to face a tall man with a smooth oval face and slicked-back hair that curled around his ears and onto his collar. He was wearing a gray silk suit, an open-necked shirt, and tasseled loafers. He leaned forward, clearly intending to give her a peck on the cheek. Martine headed him off by thrusting out her hand.

  “Good to see you again, Shimizu-san. And thanks for setting this up.”

  Yasuo Shimizu was Nozawa’s chief adviser, the mastermind of his public relations strategy. The senior secretaries of most politicians were long-serving party hacks steeped in “Nagata-cho logic,” the way of thinking found in the insular world of Japan’s political district and nowhere else on earth. Shimizu was a different type entirely. For many years he had been head of the Japanese operations of Byrne & Company, one of the largest management consultancies in the world. He had a global reputation as a marketing guru and had published dozens of books on the IT revolution. Martine found him charming, sophisticated, and as slippery as a piece of overboiled tofu.

  “I really appreciate your help. An exclusive interview with Nozawa-sensei is a rare event these days.”

  That was true enough. Nozawa was not keen on submitting himself to detailed questioning by journalists. He preferred to communicate with the public directly through his phone-in radio show and his website, now one of [28] the most popular destinations in Japanese cyberspace.

  Shimizu grinned. “This is no ordinary interview, Meyer-san. We’re giving you a major scoop, one of the biggest stories of the year.”

  “I’m honored, of course. But why me?”

  “Because people don’t trust the Japanese press any more. If they see a story in the Asahi or the Nikkei, they assume it’s been planted by one of the political factions and they just yawn and turn the page. But if the same story appears in your paper first, splashed across headlines seen all over the world—that’s a different message entirely. It proves that foreigners are sitting up and taking notice.”

  Martine smiled. Nozawa was intensely conscious of what foreigners thought and said. This was a common trait among nationalistic Japanese.

  “I can’t guarantee the headlines, I’m afraid. That’s for the editor to decide.”

  “Sure. I know how you people work. But this is something special, Meyer-san. It’s the kind of story that could make a journalist’s career.”

  “Tell me more,” said Martine, intrigued.

  Shimizu shook his head and held up a well-manicured hand. He gestured in the direction of the master bedroom. “Go ahead. He’s in there waiting for you.”

  Martine knocked lightly at the door. There was no answer, so she turned to Shimizu, who gave a nod of encouragement. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A man was standing at the big picture window which framed the neon-splattered Shinjuku skyline. He turned and gazed at Martine, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt cut high to show off his bulging biceps, the product of his enthusiasm for bodybuilding.

  “Welcome,” he said, with a nod of the head.

  Martine bowed low and felt her hair brush down over her cheeks.

  “I’m honored to have the privilege of meeting you,” she said in her softest, most feminine voice.

  THREE

  Martine had met many showbiz celebrities over the years, from movie directors to pop stars to talk-show hosts. When you saw them on the stage or the screen, they all seemed like a special breed of human being, lit up with energy and purpose. But face-to-face, with no script, no makeup, no special effects, and no well-rehearsed studio audience, they usually looked shrunken and drained, ordinary even.

  Nozawa was different. For a start he was taller than she had expected, lean with long legs and narrow hips. Some of his original fans were probably grandparents by now, but he looked hardly older than Martine herself. He was an exceptionally handsome man. With his deep-set eyes and curling smile, he could have been Irish or Basque or Lebanese. And the way he moved lithely toward her, head slightly cocked to one side, reminded her of the time she had spent in Italy.

  “Come and sit down. It’s a great pleasure to meet such a distinguished journalist.”

  Nozawa’s voice was the same as in the recordings, deep and slightly hoarse. He gestured her over to a table by the window. There was a bottle of saké on the table, and a shiny black guitar propped up against the wall.

  “Thanks for coming here this evening, Meyer-san. It’s important that my message goes out not just to the Japanese people, but to the whole world, including our enemies and rivals.”

  Normally when meeting Japanese men Martine felt in control from the start. They were either reticent and unsure of themselves, or clumsily eager to impress. Nozawa was neither. He was cool, amused, and totally at ease. Martine had the unfamiliar feeling that in the game of sexual dynamics she was on the defensive. That hadn’t happened since she first met Makoto.

  “Enemies and rivals?” she repeated. “Who do you have in mind?”

  [30] “Any countries that are plotting to weaken our financial system. Any countries attempting to destroy our culture. Any countries that think they can use us as a colony, exporting drugs and crime and murder.”

  He paused before the word “murder,” to make sure she got the reference.

  “Some people say I’m anti-Western, but that’s not true. I’m not anti-Western, I’m pro-Japanese. Ordinary people have been suffering here, losing their jobs, and watching their children turn into monsters in front of their eyes. Meanwhile the government does nothing except run up enormous deficits and turn Japan into a whore for foreign countries. All this needs to be changed.”

  “And you’re going to change it?” asked Martine, pen zipping across the page of her notebook.

  Nozawa glanced over her shoulder at Shimizu, who had slipped quietly into the room while they were talking. He was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest. For a moment their eyes met and some sort of signal was exchanged.

  “We are about to establish a new party,” Nozawa said. “One that answers the needs of ordinary people, one that will make them proud to have been born Japanese.”

  Martine nodded politely. This was hardly what the world wanted to read about—yet another Japanese political grouping. In the past few years dozens of factions and “study groups” and miniparties had been formed, as the jockeying for power intensified and the old configurations dissolved. None of them had made any real impact. But then again none of them had boasted a charismatic figurehead like Nozawa.

  “You said ‘we.’ Who else is joining you in this project?”

  “Already I have the support of sixty other politicians. All are under forty-five years old and all are excellent men, sincere and patriotic. I can’t give you their names yet, but several members of the opposition parties are included.”

  Sixty Diet members—that would be quite a force. But how would they be able to fight an election? The kind of resources necessary would be way beyond the grasp of junior politicians, no matter how intelligent and well-meaning. In Japanese politics, it was only after winning four elections that you became a serious figure, and only after winning eight did the big money come rolling in.

  “This sounds like a major project,” said Martine. “Where are the financial resources going to come from?”

  Nozawa glanced over her shoulder at Shimizu, who was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

  “It won’t be expensive,” Shimizu interjected smoothly. “That’s the whole beauty of the idea
.”

  “Not expensive? But no politician can make any impact in this country without spending billions of yen.”

  [31] “Correct, Martine-san, and that’s a powerful barrier. But what actually causes the high cost of politics? Just think about the economics of the issue.”

  “Go on,” said Martine, trying to disguise her impatience. Nozawa was the story, not Shimizu. But Shimizu wasn’t going to shut up until he’d had his say.

  “It’s the cost of communication. Building up a support base, nurturing it, expanding it, mobilizing it—that needs a sophisticated organization with a huge budget. And that’s where the problems start. The only way politicians can get their hands on the kind of money they need is from corporate donations. Naturally, corporations don’t give out money unless they get something in return. So you have the recipe for constant scandal and public distrust.

  “Anyway, you can see the big picture. If the problems of Japanese politics are caused by high communication costs, then the solution must be lower communication costs. Right?”

  Martine nodded. Shimizu plowed onward.

  “And that’s where we have an overwhelming advantage. Nozawa-sensei has his own direct communication system already in place, and it’s more powerful than any politician could ever dream of. Eighty percent of all Japanese households own at least one of his CDs. His Sunday night show is the highest-rated program on TV. There are three million members in his fan club, who get a newsletter every week and buy the sensei’s T-shirts and jackets and headbands. Three million people! Just think about that, Martine-san. Ichizo Ogawa has the biggest support base in Japanese politics, and he only has fifty thousand members!”

  Shimizu seemed genuinely excited by what he was describing. Martine listened to him prattling on about synergies, platforms, and franchises. Could this whole project have been dreamed up by Shimizu himself? Martine considered the idea, then rejected it. Shimizu was no visionary. He was a hired gun, the kind of guy the visionaries would need to make sure everything went smoothly. So who was behind it? Surely not Nozawa himself, but who?

  “So when are you going to announce this to the world officially?”

  “Very soon,” said Nozawa. “The optimum time will be at the start of the next nationwide tour, to coincide with the release of my new CD. It’s a concept album, called ‘National Regeneration Songs.’ ”

  “A concept album?”

  Nozawa had used the English word, pronouncing it with the heavy, semi-ironic emphasis that he often used with foreign words.

  “Yes. In the past there used to be lots of concept albums, produced by such excellent groups as the Beatles and Pink Floyd. I have always been a big fan of the Beatles, especially John Lennon.”

  Martine blinked with surprise. “Lennon? But he campaigned for world peace. That’s rather the opposite of your approach, isn’t it?”

  [32] “It isn’t important what he campaigned for. The important thing is that he campaigned with all his spirit and no fear of the consequences. He was ready to risk his life at any moment. I am the same. I’m ready to risk my life at any moment.”

  Nozawa gazed into space, as if entranced by a vision of Lennon’s ghost.

  “The Beatles came to Japan only once. At the time I was a junior high school student and had never even been outside my hometown. But when I heard about the Beatles, I knew everything was going to change. They would change Japan. They would change me. I had to go and see them, it was a matter of destiny. Do you believe in destiny, Meyer-san?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Martine, without hesitation.

  “Getting to Tokyo wasn’t easy in those days. I had to ride in the back of a truck filled with pumpkins, a twelve-hour journey. I was sick the whole way. Even now I can’t stand the smell of pumpkins. As for the money I borrowed, I had to work in the rice fields every Sunday for half a year to pay it back. But I succeeded in seeing the Beatles. And I was right. Four young men burning with hope and sincerity—they changed everything.”

  Nozawa picked up the guitar that was leaning against the wall and started strumming chords. Martine watched his fingers shifting over the fretboard. The look of a man’s hands had always been important to her. Makoto’s were strong, square, dependable. Nozawa’s were long and surprisingly pale.

  “Once there was a way,” he crooned softly in English. “Get back, John! Get back to where you once belonged ...”

  It was an uncannily accurate imitation, catching every flattened Liverpudlian vowel.

  Shimizu stepped forward and tapped his watch.

  “I don’t want to rush you, but we have to end this interview in five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Yes, the sensei is starting rehearsals for the tour this evening. It’s the most important tour of his life.”

  Martine suppressed her annoyance. She had been hoping to get more information about Nozawa’s controversial policy ideas, of which there had been many recently. He was proposing “moral guidance classes” in local shrines, for adolescents to attend at six o’clock every Saturday and Sunday morning. He wanted a special tax on foreign banks and financial institutions. As part of his “Population Revival Program” he was targeting a twenty-percent increase in the birth rate. There would be lotteries open to couples with three or more children, financed by a “bachelor tax” on unmarried men over the age of thirty-five. But those were subjects that would have to wait for another day. Right now there was one topic that dwarfed all others in importance.

  [33] “Sensei, my readers are especially interested in your views on security issues. What do you mean by a ‘fully independent defense policy’?”

  Nozawa leaned back with a smile on his face. He had obviously been expecting the question. “The meaning is clear, I think. Japan has money and technology, but it will never be taken seriously until it defends itself with its own blood. Look at the British. They have no money and no technology, but they’ve spilled their blood all over the world. That’s the reason they are taken seriously, the only reason in fact.”

  “What about the US-Japan Security Treaty?” pressed Martine. “Does it still have a useful role?”

  “Useful for who? It’s not useful for us, and never has been. The role of that treaty is to keep the Japanese totally dependent on the Americans, like good little children who do whatever daddy says.”

  “So you would favor terminating it?”

  “Of course! Japan is a nation under occupation. General MacArthur’s army is still here, sixty years after the end of the Pacific War.”

  That was a catchy quotation. Martine could see it as a subheading, or maybe a lead-in to the opening paragraph. But then Nozawa came up with so many quotable comments. Compared to the usual cliché-mumbling Japanese politician, he was a journalist’s dream.

  “Are you calling for negotiations on the future of the US bases?”

  “Calling for negotiations?” snorted Nozawa. “That’s old-style political thinking! The Americans aren’t wanted here on Japanese soil. They must leave when we say so.”

  “But what about the leases? They still have many years to run.”

  “Those leases were signed under duress. We can pass a law any time, and the bases will come back to Japanese ownership. If the Americans refuse to accept the decision of the Japanese people, then we’ll withdraw all financial and logistical support. No water, no electricity, no food, no fuel, and no civilian workforce. If they still want to make a fuss, we’ll sell our national holdings of US treasury bonds, dump them like foul-smelling garbage.”

  Nozawa chuckled. It was obviously a prospect that intrigued and delighted him. Martine led him back to reality.

  “This is a period of escalating tension throughout Asia. Isn’t there a risk you’re going to destabilize what is already a dangerous situation?”

  “And who made the situation so dangerous? The IMF, the World Bank, the meddling of the US and Europe. If you white people had left Asia to the Asians, none of this would have happened!”<
br />
  That was a sentiment that Martine was coming across with increasing frequency. In fact many of Nozawa’s views were widely held by Japanese politicians, bureaucrats, and intellectuals. Except that they held these views [34] fatalistically, almost shamefacedly. Nozawa held them passionately, with a clear understanding of where they would lead. In that sense he was a true politician, perhaps the only one left in Japan.

  Shimizu cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we have to stop there, Meyer-san. We look forward to seeing a nice article on the front page of your excellent international newspaper.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Nozawa got to his feet, the black guitar still cradled in his arms. “By the way, I’m hoping you will attend my next concert.”

  “When is that going to be?” said Martine, putting away her notebook.

  “Next Sunday evening. It’s an open-air concert in support of the anti-US bases movement. There’ll be places for our all good friends at the front. Here, take this.”

  Shimizu held out an envelope emblazoned with an ink drawing of Nozawa and the characters “National Regeneration.”

  “Inside are two tickets,” Nozawa said. “One for you, and one for the man of your destiny.”

  Martine gave a little bow and said contritely: “I’m honored by the invitation, but we’re not allowed to accept gifts—it’s a company rule.”

  “Company rule! You don’t look like the sort of woman who cares much about rules.”

  Nozawa was staring at her with a sardonic smile on his face. It looked as if he was going to say something else, but he just stared at her, as if trying to read her mind.

  “Maybe not, but I do care about my professional reputation. Please don’t get me wrong, I’m very keen to attend the concert. In fact, I’ll pay you for the tickets right now.”

  She fumbled in her handbag, while Nozawa carried on staring at her, arms folded across his chest.