The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (74 page)

Ushikawa looked at me for confirmation of everything he had been saying, but I remained silent.

“Please don’t ask me how I know all these details. You dig hard enough, you find what you want to know—if you know how to dig. And I have a pretty good idea who is behind the dummy company. Now,
that
was a tough one! I had to crawl through a labyrinth for it. It was like looking for a stolen car that’s been repainted and had new tires put on and the
seats recovered and the serial number filed off the engine. They covered all the bases. They’re real pros. But now I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on—probably better than you do, Mr. Okada. I’ll bet you don’t even know who it is you’re paying the money back to, right?”

“That’s all right. Money doesn’t come with names attached.”

Ushikawa laughed. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Okada. Money does
not
come with names attached. Very well said! I’ll have to write that down. But finally, Mr. Okada, things don’t always go the way you want them to. Take the boys at the tax office, for example. They’re not very bright. They only know how to squeeze taxes out of places that have names attached. So they go out of their way to stick names on where there aren’t any. And not just names, but numbers too. They might as well be robots, for all the emotion that’s involved in the process. But that is exactly what this capitalist society of ours is built on.… Which leads us to the conclusion that the money that you and I are now talking about does indeed have a name attached, and a very excellent name it is.”

I looked at Ushikawa’s head as he spoke. Depending on the angle, the light produced some strange dents in his scalp.

“Don’t worry,” he said, with a laugh. “The tax man won’t be coming here. And even if he did come, with this much of a labyrinth to crawl through, he’d be bound to smash into something. Wham! He’d raise a huge bump on his head. And finally, it’s just a job for him: he doesn’t want to hurt himself doing it. If he can get his money, he’d rather do it the easy way than the hard way: the easier the better. As long as he gets what he’s looking for, the brownie points are the same. Especially if his boss tells him to take the easy way, any ordinary person is going to choose that. I managed to find what I did because it was me doing the searching. Not to boast or anything, but I’m good. I may not look it, but I’m really good. I know how to avoid injury. I know how to slip down the road at night when it’s pitch black out.

“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Okada (and I know you’re one person I can really open up to), not even I know what you’re doing in that place. I do know the people who visit you there are paying an arm and a leg. So you must be doing something special for them that’s worth all that money. That much is as clear as counting crows on snow. But exactly what it is you do, and why you’re so stuck on that particular piece of land, I have no idea. Those are the two most important points in all this, but they are the very things most hidden, like the center of a palmist’s signboard. That worries me.”

“Which is to say, that’s what worries Noboru Wataya,” I said.

Instead of answering, Ushikawa started pulling on the matted fuzz above his ears.

“This is just between you and me, Mr. Okada, but I have to confess I really admire you. No flattery intended. This may sound odd, but you’re basically a really ordinary guy. Or to put it even more bluntly, there’s absolutely nothing special about you. Sorry about that, but don’t take it the wrong way. It’s true, though, in terms of how you fit in society. Meeting you face-to-face and talking with you like this, though, I’m very, very impressed with you—with how you handle yourself. I mean, look at the way you’ve managed to shake up a man like Dr. Wataya! That’s why I’m just the carrier pigeon. A completely ordinary person couldn’t pull this off.

“That’s what I like about you. I’m not making this up. I may be worthless scum, but I don’t lie about things like that. And I don’t think of you in completely objective terms, either. If there’s nothing special about you in terms of how you fit in society, I’m a hundred times worse. I’m just an uneducated twerp from an awful background. My father was a tatami maker in Funabashi, an alcoholic, a real bastard. I used to wish he’d die and leave me alone, I was such a miserable kid, and I ended up getting my wish, for better or worse. Then I went through storybook poverty. I don’t have a single pleasant memory from childhood, never had a kind word from either parent. No wonder I went bad! I managed to squeak through high school, but after that it was the school of hard knocks for me. Lived on my wits, what little I had. That’s why I don’t like members of the elite or official government types. All right: I hate ’em. Walk right into society through the front door, get a pretty wife, self-satisfied bastards. I like guys like you, Mr. Okada, who’ve done it all on their own.”

Ushikawa struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette.

“You can’t keep it up forever, though. You’re going to burn out sooner or later. Everybody does. It’s the way people are made. In terms of evolutionary history, it was only yesterday that men learned to walk around on two legs and get in trouble thinking complicated thoughts. So don’t worry, you’ll burn out. Especially in the world that you’re trying to deal with: everybody burns out. There are too many tricky things going on in it, too many ways of getting into trouble. It’s a world
made
of tricky things. I’ve been working in that world since the time of Dr. Wataya’s uncle, and now the Doctor has inherited it, lock, stock, and barrel. I used to do risky stuff for a living. If I had kept it up, I’d be in jail now—or dead. No kidding. The Doctor’s uncle picked me up in the nick of time. So these
little eyes of mine have seen a hell of a lot. Everybody burns out in this world: amateur, pro, it doesn’t matter, they all burn out, they all get hurt, the OK guys and the not-OK guys both. That’s why everybody takes out a little insurance. I’ve got some too, here at the bottom of the heap. That way, you can manage to survive if you burn out. If you’re all by yourself and don’t belong anywhere, you go down once and you’re out. Finished.

“Maybe I shouldn’t say this to you, Mr. Okada, but you’re ready to go down. It’s a sure thing. It says so in my book, in big, black letters about two or three pages ahead: ‘
TORU OKADA READY TO FALL
.’ It’s true. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m a whole lot more accurate in this world than weather forecasts on TV. So all I want to tell you is this: There’s a time when things are right for pulling out.”

Ushikawa closed his mouth at that point and looked at me. Then he went on:

“So let’s stop all this feeling each other out, Mr. Okada, and get down to business.… Which brings us to the end of a very long introduction, so now I can make you the offer I came here to make.”

Ushikawa put both hands on the table. Then he flicked his tongue over his lips.

“So let’s say I’ve just told you that you ought to cut your ties with that land and pull out of the deal. But maybe you can’t pull out, even if you want to. Maybe you’re stuck until you pay off your loan.” Ushikawa cut himself short and gave me a searching look. “If money’s a problem, we’ve got it to give you. If you need eighty million yen, I can bring you eighty million yen in a nice, neat bundle. That’s
eight thousand
ten-thousand-yen bills. You can pay off whatever you owe and pocket the rest, free and clear. Then it’s party time! Hey, what do you say?”

“So then the land and building belong to Noboru Wataya? Is that the idea?”

“Yes, I guess it is, the way things work. I suppose there are a lot of annoying details that will have to be taken care of, though.…”

I gave his proposal some thought. “You know, Ushikawa, I really don’t get it. I don’t see why Noboru Wataya is so eager to get me away from that property. What does he plan to do with it once he owns it?”

Ushikawa slowly rubbed one cheek with the palm of his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Okada, I don’t know about things like that. As I mentioned to you at first, I’m just a stupid carrier pigeon. My master tells me what to do, and I do it. And most of the jobs he gives me are unpleasant. When I used to read the story of Aladdin, I’d always sympathize with the genie, the way
they worked him so hard, but I never dreamed I’d grow up to be like him. It’s a sad story, let me tell you. But finally, everything I have said to you is a message I was sent to deliver. It comes from Dr. Wataya. The choice is up to you. So what do you say? What kind of answer should I carry back?”

I said nothing.

“Of course, you will need time to think. That is fine. We can give you time. I don’t mean for you to decide right now, on the spot. I would
like
to say take all the time you want, but I’m afraid we can’t be that flexible. Now, let me just say this, Mr. Okada. Let me give you my own personal opinion. A nice, fat offer like this is not going to sit on the table forever. You could look away for a second, and it might be gone when you looked back. It could evaporate, like mist on a windowpane. So please give it some serious thought—in a hurry. I mean, it’s not a bad offer. Do you see what I mean?”

Ushikawa sighed and looked at his watch. “Oh, my, my, my—I’ve got to be going. Overstayed my welcome again, I’m afraid. Enjoyed another beer. And as usual, I did all the talking. Sorry about that. I’m not trying to make excuses, but, I don’t know, when I come here I just seem to settle in. You have a comfortable house here, Mr. Okada. That must be it.”

Ushikawa stood up and carried his glass and beer bottle and ashtray to the kitchen sink.

“I’ll be in touch with you soon, Mr. Okada. And I’ll make arrangements for you to talk with Ms. Kumiko, that I promise. You can look forward to it soon.”

•

After Ushikawa left, I opened the windows and let the accumulated cigarette smoke out. Then I drank a glass of water. Sitting on the sofa, I cuddled the cat, Mackerel, on my lap. I imagined Ushikawa removing his disguise when he was one step beyond my door, and flying back to Noboru Wataya. It was a stupid thing to imagine.

Nutmeg knew nothing about the women who came to her. None of them offered information about herself, and Nutmeg never asked. The names with which they made their appointments were obviously made up. But around them lingered that special smell produced by the combination of power and money. The women themselves never made a show of it, but Nutmeg could tell from the style and fit of their clothes that they came from backgrounds of privilege.

She rented space in an office building in Akasaka—an inconspicuous building in an inconspicuous place, out of respect for her clients’ hyperactive concern for their privacy. After careful consideration, she decided to make it a fashion design studio. She had, in fact, been a fashion designer, and no one would have found it suspicious for a variety of women to be coming to see her in substantial numbers. Her clients were all women in their thirties to fifties of a sort that could be expected to wear expensive, tailor-made clothes. She stocked the room with clothing and design sketches and fashion magazines, brought in the tools and workbenches and mannequins needed for fashion design, and even went so far as to design a few outfits to give the place an air of authenticity. The smaller of the two rooms she designated as the fitting room. Her clients would be shown to this “fitting room,” and on the sofa they would be “fitted” by Nutmeg.

Her client list was compiled by the wife of the owner of a major department store. The woman had chosen a very carefully limited number of trustworthy candidates from among her wide circle of friends, convinced that in order to avoid any possibility of scandal, she would have to make this a club with an exclusive membership. Otherwise, news of the arrangement would be sure to spread quickly. The women chosen to become members were warned never to reveal anything about their “fitting” to outsiders. Not only were they women of great discretion, but they knew that if they broke their promise they would be permanently expelled from the club.

Each client would telephone to make an appointment for a “fitting” and show up at the designated time, knowing that she need not fear encountering any other client, that her privacy would be protected absolutely. Honoraria were paid on the spot, in cash, their size having been determined by the department store owner’s wife—at a level much higher than Nutmeg would have imagined, though this never became an obstacle. Any woman who had been “fitted” by Nutmeg always called for another appointment, without exception. “You don’t have to let the money be a burden to you,” the department store owner’s wife explained to Nutmeg. “The more they pay, the more assured these women feel.” Nutmeg would go to her “office” three days a week and do one “fitting” a day. That was her limit.

Cinnamon became his mother’s assistant when he turned sixteen. By then, it had become difficult for Nutmeg to handle all the clerical tasks herself, but she had been reluctant to hire a complete stranger. When, after much deliberation, she asked him to help her with her work, he agreed immediately without even asking what kind of work it was she did. He would go to the office each morning at ten o’clock by cab (unable to bear being with others on buses or subway trains), clean and dust, put everything where it belonged, fill the vases with fresh flowers, make coffee, do whatever shopping was needed, put classical music on the cassette player at low volume, and keep the books.