The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (82 page)

Ishiwara was of the opinion that Japan should not turn Manchukuo into another undisguised Japanese colony, such as Korea or Taiwan, and should instead make Manchukuo a new model Asian nation. In his recognition that Manchukuo would ultimately serve as a logistical base for war against the Soviet Union—and even against the United States and England—Ishiwara was, however, admirably realistic. He believed that Japan was now the only Asian nation with the capability of fighting the coming war against the West (or, as he called it, the “Final War”) and that the other countries had the duty to
cooperate
with Japan for their own liberation from the West. No other officer in the Imperial Army at that time had Ishiwara’s combination of a profound interest in logistics and great erudition. Most other Japanese officers dismissed logistics as an “effeminate” discipline, believing instead that the proper “Way” for “his majesty’s warriors” was to fight with bold self-abandonment no matter how ill-equipped one might be; that true martial glory lay in conquering a mighty foe when outnumbered and poorly armed. Strike the enemy and advance “too swiftly for supplies to keep up”: that was the path of honor.

To Yoshitaka Wataya, the compleat technocrat, this was utter nonsense. Starting a long-term war without logistical backing was tantamount to suicide, in his view. The Soviets had vastly expanded and modernized their military capability through Stalin’s five-year plan of intensive economic development. The five bloody years of the First World War had destroyed the old world’s values, and mechanized war had revolutionized European thinking with regard to strategy and logistics. Having been stationed for two years in Berlin, Yoshitaka Wataya knew the truth of this with every bone in his body, but the mentality of the greater part of Japan’s military men had not outgrown the intoxication of their victory in the Russo-Japanese War, nearly thirty years before.

Yoshitaka Wataya went home to Japan a devoted admirer of Ishiwara’s arguments, his worldview, and the charismatic personality of the man himself, and their close relationship lasted many years. He often went to visit Ishiwara, even after the distinguished officer had been brought back from Manchuria to take command of the isolated fortress in Maizuru. Yoshitaka Wataya’s precise and meticulous report on sheep farming and
wool processing in Manchukuo was submitted to headquarters shortly after he returned to Japan, and it received high praise. With Japan’s painful defeat in the 1939 battle of Nomonhan, however, and the strengthening of U.S. and British economic sanctions, the military began to shift its attention southward, and the activities of the research team waging hypothetical war against the Soviet Union were allowed to peter out. Of course, one factor behind the decision to finish off the battle of Nomonhan quickly in early autumn and not allow it to develop into a full-scale war was the research team’s conclusive report that “we are unable to wage a winter campaign against the Soviet Army given our current state of preparedness.” As soon as the autumn winds began to blow, Imperial Headquarters, in a move unusual for the normally face-obsessed Japanese Army, washed its hands of the fighting and, through diplomatic negotiations, ceded the barren Hulunbuir Steppe to Outer Mongolian and Soviet troops.

In a footnote, the author pointed out that Yoshitaka Wataya had been purged from holding public office by MacArthur’s Occupation after the war and for a time had lived in seclusion in his native Niigata, but he had been persuaded by the Conservative Party to run for office after the purge was lifted and served two terms in the Upper House before changing to the Lower House. A calligraphic scroll of Kanji Ishiwara’s hung on the wall of his office.

I had no idea what kind of Diet member Noboru Wataya’s uncle had been or what he had accomplished as a politician. He did serve as a cabinet minister once, and he seems to have been highly influential with the people of his district, but he never became a leader in national politics. Now his political constituency had been inherited by his nephew, Noboru Wataya.

I put the book away and, folding my arms behind my head, stared out the window in the vague direction of the front gate. Soon the gate would open inward and the Mercedes-Benz would appear, with Cinnamon at the wheel. He would be bringing another “client.” These “clients” and I were joined by the mark on my cheek. Cinnamon’s grandfather (Nutmeg’s father) and I were also joined by the mark on my cheek. Cinnamon’s grandfather and Lieutenant Mamiya were joined by the city of Hsin-ching. Lieutenant Mamiya and the clairvoyant Mr. Honda were joined by their special duties on the Manchurian-Mongolian border, and Kumiko and I had been introduced to Mr. Honda by Noboru Wataya’s family. Lieutenant
Mamiya and I were joined by our experiences in our respective wells—his in Mongolia, mine on the property where I was sitting now. Also on this property had once lived an army officer who had commanded troops in China. All of these were linked as in a circle, at the center of which stood prewar Manchuria, continental East Asia, and the short war of 1939 in Nomonhan. But why Kumiko and I should have been drawn into this historical chain of cause and effect I could not comprehend. All of these events had occurred long before Kumiko and I were born.

I sat at Cinnamon’s desk and placed my hands on the keyboard. The feel of my fingers on the keys was still fresh from my conversation with Kumiko. That computer conversation had been monitored by Noboru Wataya, I was sure. He was trying to learn something from it. He certainly hadn’t arranged for us to make contact that way out of the goodness of his heart. He and his men were almost certainly trying to use the access they had gained to Cinnamon’s computer through the communications link in order to learn the secrets of this place. But I was not worried about that. The depths of this computer were the very depths of Cinnamon himself. And they had no way of knowing how incalculably deep that was.

Cinnamon was not alone when he arrived at nine o’clock the next morning. Beside him in the passenger seat was his mother, Nutmeg Akasaka. She had not been here in over a month. She had arrived with Cinnamon unannounced that time too, had breakfast with me, and left after an hour or so of small talk.

Cinnamon hung up his suit coat and, while listening to a Handel Concerto Grosso (for the third day in a row), he went to the kitchen to make tea and toast for his mother, who had not yet eaten breakfast. He always made perfect toast, like something to be used in a commercial. Then, while Cinnamon straightened up the kitchen as usual, Nutmeg and I sat at a small table, drinking tea. She ate only one slice of toast, with a little butter. Outside, a cold, sleety rain was falling. Nutmeg said little, and I said little—a few remarks about the weather. She seemed to have something she wanted to say, though. That much was clear from the look on her face and the way she spoke. She tore off stamp-sized pieces of toast and transported them, one at a time, to her mouth. We looked out at the rain now and then, as if it were our longtime mutual friend.

When Cinnamon had finished with the kitchen and started his cleaning, Nutmeg led me to the “fitting room.” This one had been made to look exactly like the “fitting room” in the Akasaka office. The size and
shape were virtually identical. The window here also had two layers of curtains and was gloomy even during the day. The curtains were never open more than ten minutes at a time, while Cinnamon was cleaning the room. There was a leather sofa here, a glass vase, with flowers, on the table, and a tall floor lamp. In the middle of the room stood a large workbench, on which lay a pair of scissors, scraps of cloth, a wooden box stuffed with needles and thread, pencils, a design book (in which a few actual design sketches had been drawn), and several professional tools, the names and purposes of which I did not know. A large full-length mirror hung on the wall, and one corner of the room was partitioned off by a screen for changing. The clients who visited the Residence were always shown to this room.

Why Cinnamon and his mother had had to make an exact reproduction of the original “fitting room” in this house I had no idea. Here there was no need for such camouflage. Maybe they (and their clients) had become so accustomed to the look of the “fitting room” in the Akasaka office that they were unable to come up with any new ideas for decorating this place. Of course, they could just as well ask, “What’s wrong with a fitting room?” Whatever the reason for having it, I myself was pleased with it. It was the “fitting room,” not any other room, and I felt a strange sense of security there, surrounded by all kinds of dressmaking tools. It was an unreal setting, but not an unnatural one.

Nutmeg had me sit on the leather sofa, and she sat down next to me.

“So. How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Not bad,” I answered.

Nutmeg was wearing a bright-green suit. The skirt was short, and the large hexagonal buttons came up to the throat like one of those old Nehru jackets. The shoulders had pads the size of dinner rolls. The look reminded me of a science fiction movie I had seen a long time ago, set in the near future. Almost all the women in the movie wore suits like this and lived in a futuristic city.

Nutmeg’s earrings were large plastic things, the same exact color as her suit. They were a unique deep green that seemed to have been made from a combination of several colors, and so they had probably been special-ordered to match the suit. Or perhaps the opposite was true: the suit had been made to match the earrings—like making a niche in the wall the exact shape of a refrigerator. Maybe not a bad way to look at things, I thought. She had come in wearing sunglasses in spite of the rain, and their lenses had almost certainly been green. Her stockings were green too. Today was obviously green day.

With her usual series of smooth linked movements, Nutmeg drew a cigarette from her bag, put it in her mouth, and lit it with her cigarette lighter, curling her lip just slightly. The lighter, at least, was not green but the expensive-looking slim gold one she always used. It did go very well with the green, though. Nutmeg then crossed her green-stockinged legs. Checking her knees carefully, she adjusted her skirt. Then, as if it were an extension of her knees, she looked at my face.

“Not bad,” I said again. “The same as always.”

Nutmeg nodded. “You’re not tired? You don’t feel as if you need some rest?”

“No, not especially. I think I’ve gotten used to the work. It’s a lot easier for me now than it was at first.”

Nutmeg said nothing to that. The smoke of her cigarette rose straight up like an Indian fakir’s magic rope, to be sucked in by the ceiling ventilator. As far as I knew, this ventilator was the world’s quietest and strongest.

“How are
you
doing?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Are
you
tired?”

Nutmeg looked at me. “Do I look tired?”

She had in fact looked tired to me from the moment our eyes first met. When I told her this, she gave a short sigh.

“There was another article about this place in a magazine that came out this morning—part of the ‘Mystery of the Hanging House’ series. Sounds like the title of a horror movie.”

“That’s the second one, isn’t it?” I said.

“It certainly is,” said Nutmeg. “And in fact, another magazine carried a related article not too long ago, but fortunately no one seems to have noticed the connection.
So far.
”

“Did something new come out? About
us?
”

She reached toward an ashtray and carefully crushed out her cigarette. Then she gave her head a little shake. Her green earrings fluttered like butterflies in early spring.

“Not really,” she said, then paused. “Who we are, what we’re doing here: no one knows yet. I’ll leave you a copy, so you can read it if you’re interested. But what I’d really like to ask you about is something that somebody whispered to me the other day: that you have a brother-in-law who’s a famous young politician. Is it true?”

“Unfortunately, it is,” I said. “My wife’s brother.”

“Meaning the brother of the wife who is no longer with you?”

“That’s right.”

“I wonder if he’s caught wind of what you’re doing here?”

“He knows I come here every day and that I’m doing
something
. He had somebody investigate for him. I think he was worried about what I might be doing. But I don’t think he’s figured out anything else yet.”

Nutmeg thought about my answer for a while. Then she raised her face to mine and asked, “You don’t like this brother-in-law of yours very much, do you?”

“Not very much, no.”

“And he doesn’t like you.”

“To put it mildly.”

“And now he’s worried about what you’re doing here. Why is that?”

“If it comes out that his brother-in-law is involved with something suspicious, it could turn into a scandal for him. He’s the man of the moment, after all. I suppose it’s natural that he would worry about such things.”

“So he couldn’t be the one leaking information about this place to the mass media, then, could he?”