“I wanted to write a poem about my dream,” said Yuzo with a smile. “But I could only come up with those two lines. I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a poet.”
Yuzo and Takeshi were sitting on a bench on the roof of a department store. There were a variety of rides for children there, but there were few children and many old people in this world of the dead, and so they sat unused. The sky was clear and the air was dry.
“In that dream, were you taken to the restaurant by a couple of refined gentlemen?” asked Takeshi. “Or should I say a couple of refined-looking men?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I was sitting at the next table.”
Yuzo sat back in surprise. “Then I really did go to Hell. Amazing. I always thought that Hell was connected to the world of dreams.” Yuzo looked at Takeshi, his face momentarily showing the same intensity it had in his previous life. “Then you saw how pitiful I was.”
“That’s right,” said Takeshi. “But I think it was perfectly natural. After all, I know what it’s like to be starving. I’m sure I would have done something similar. Those two men were from our generation. They must have had similar experiences. And yet they still treated you terribly. Trust me, they weren’t trying to be nice to you. I’m sure they’re still here, if you want to get back at them. What do you say we go to that restaurant one more time? We might see them.”
“I don’t care about revenge,” said Yuzo, flashing his nihilistic smile once again. “Things like that don’t mean anything to me any more. Besides, I’d never fit in at that kind of place anyway.”
Yuzo had laughed when he told Takeshi about how he had been killed. What a ridiculous way to die, he said.
But what way of dying isn’t ridiculous? thought Takeshi. Didn’t everyone think that about their own death? People who achieved great things in their life probably thought at the moment of their death that everything they’d achieved was meaningless. When very rich people died, they were always deep in debt. And even people who live long lives must eventually think that going on living is pointless.
Takeshi didn’t think this just because he wanted to feel better about his own death. Regardless of what he had thought before, now that he was dead it didn’t really matter to him how he’d died.
In life, Takeshi had often found himself the object of a woman’s affections; more than one or two had confessed her love for him. At first they felt sympathy for him, with his crippled legs and his crutches. Then they would notice his elegant manner and convince themselves that they had discovered a hidden quality in him that didn’t exist in other men. Finally their hearts would be stolen by his good looks. They thought that he was special and that their love for him was unique.
There are ways of playing on a woman’s sympathies, of steering her in a certain direction, of smoothing over the realities of adultery, and Takeshi learnt them all soon after his comparatively early puberty. The fact that he was indeed unique in some sense only served to heighten women’s attraction to him. Innocent housewives were the most common, and in fact this type of woman appealed to Takeshi. It may have been that he subconsciously wanted revenge against their husbands because they were able-bodied or because they reminded him of the bullies he had to endure in school. But it had happened so many times, and with so many women, that to Takeshi the experience was anything but unique.
One evening, Takeshi was leaving a meeting with a client at a hotel when a child who had been running around the lobby knocked his crutches out from under him, causing him to fall and hit his hip against a large plant pot. A woman by the name of Motoko came running to help him up. She wasn’t the child’s mother. She was just a housewife who happened to be passing by. Takeshi gave her his business card and, having gained her trust by demonstrating his social standing, succeeded in getting her phone number. A week later, Takeshi invited her to dinner, saying that he wanted to thank her for her kindness. In addition to his thanks, he gave her small presents, and soon he was giving her expensive jewellery. Before two weeks had passed, they were sleeping together.
“I told my husband about you,” she said one afternoon. Motoko was married to Daisaburo Shimada, the president of a small shipping company. The company had been experiencing financial difficulties; cutbacks had forced him to drive one of the company’s dumper trucks himself. He had become suspicious after seeing his wife with jewellery that he could never afford, and so he followed her. When he confronted her, Motoko confessed her affair.
“I can’t bear the thought of separating,” she said to Takeshi. But it was not her marriage she was referring to, it was her relationship with Takeshi. When Takeshi realized this, he lost interest in her immediately. But already Motoko had made up her mind to leave her husband.
Takeshi received a call at his office from Daisaburo.
“She says she’s in love with you. She wants to divorce me. Where is she?”
“I don’t know where she is, but if I hear from her, I’ll tell her to go home.”
That had ended the matter for the moment, but a few days later Takeshi got a phone call from Motoko.
“I was staying with a friend,” she said. “Daisaburo found me there and forced me to go with him.” She no longer referred to him as her husband.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at his house. I’m practically a prisoner here. I told him I still love you, but he won’t give me a divorce.”
On the day of his death, Takeshi had been in the company car on the way to the bank. Shortly after his driver pulled onto the motorway, Takeshi noticed a truck in the fast lane behind them hurtling towards them and warned his driver about it. A moment later, the truck slammed into them and the car was crushed, wedged between the truck and the guard rail of the highway.
Takeshi was killed instantly, and yet he found himself standing at the scene of the accident. He no longer needed his crutches. His driver was seriously injured; an ambulance sped away taking him to a hospital. Takeshi observed his own battered body lying on a stretcher as if it were someone else’s. There was no doubt that he was dead. The driver of the truck, Daisaburo himself, was being questioned by the police, but Takeshi felt no anger. It seemed a certainty that Daisaburo would be arrested for homicide. Takeshi decided to move on. He nimbly jumped down from the thirty-foot-high motorway into the next world.
Being murdered would usually be considered an unfortunate way to die. But Takeshi had no reservations, no regrets. Once you were dead, you lost all feelings of attachment to the world of the living, and that made it impossible to wish your death had been any different. The only feelings he had were of amazement at how quickly and smoothly the transition had been made, and of joy at his immortal body, which had no need for crutches. But even these feelings soon dissipated.
Perhaps because he had frozen to death, Sasaki often wondered whether the traditional inferno version of Hell really existed. This was partly due to the story he had read, but it was also because he had met a number of people who seemed like they belonged in that kind of Hell. It wasn’t that they had done anything bad enough to deserve being burned alive. It was just that, given how close his Hell was to the real world, a “burning inferno” could quite likely be nothing more than a place where you were forced to drink warm beer. Actually, considering that he had frozen to death, he wouldn’t have minded that kind of Hell.
Sasaki had been walking along an avenue when he spotted a taxi idling at the kerb. Where would a taxi take people in Hell?
“Want a ride?” the portly middle-aged driver called out to Sasaki through the open taxi window.
“Where are you going?”
“No place special. Just for a drive. The scenery’s different every time I take somebody for a drive here. I guess it changes dependin’ on the passenger. Funny, huh?”
Sasaki got in. He had sensed that the driver had died in an accident, and he wanted to know his story.
“You were a taxi driver in the real world too, right?” asked Sasaki
as soon as the car was in traffic. “How did you end up here?”
“Everybody asks me that,” said the driver, laughing. “It’s a pretty stupid story, but I’ll tell you if you want to hear it. This really thin lady in a kimono gets into my cab. It’s a really hot summer day. Now, you can probably tell just by lookin’ at me, but I usually feel hot, so I had the air conditioning on full blast. But this lady, she says to me, ‘Driver, I can’t stand air conditioning. Please turn it off.’ I guess there are a lot of people like that. I don’t have any choice, so I turn the AC off. Soon the inside of the cab is like a Turkish bath. So I try openin’ a window. ‘Please close that window,’ she says. Pretty soon the sweat is pourin’ down my forehead and drippin’ into my eyes and I can’t see a thing in front of me. So I pull over to the side of the road and I say, ‘Sorry, lady, but I’m sweatin’ so much I can’t see the road. I don’t wanna cause an accident, so could you please get out here and find another cab?’ ‘What?’ she says. ‘I’ll never catch another cab here. Can’t you just take me a little further?’ What could I do? I keep drivin’. Finally, just when we’re comin’ to an intersection, the sweat in my eyes made ’em hurt so bad that I couldn’t keep ’em open. So I say, ‘I’m sorry, lady, but you see that signal up ahead? Is it red, or is it green?’ Then she gets all flustered. ‘What? The signal? Uh, um… It’s red. No, it’s green,’ she says. When she says it’s green, I pull out into the intersection and wham, we get sideswiped by a truck. My cab went flying. Me and the lady were crushed. We died instantly. Funny how things work out.”
“I wonder why you were sent here. Did the woman come here, too?”
“I haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s somewhere else.”
Who was in charge of who went to Hell and who didn’t? It couldn’t just be random, could it? This wouldn’t be the only time that Sasaki would wonder about this.
Although he had insisted to Takeshi that he wasn’t interested in going to the restaurant from his dream, Yuzo ended up going there alone. He had wanted to check that it had actually been real, but he didn’t feel like going there with Takeshi. He entered the familiar-looking restaurant and sat at what seemed to be the same table he’d sat at as a child. He was looking around, doing his best to quell the feelings of embarrassment that this environment threatened to rekindle, when the same expressionless, proper-looking waiter came to take his order.
“Do you remember me?” Yuzo asked.
The waiter studied Yuzo carefully and smiled. “So you were that little street urchin?”
“That’s right. I was starving.”
“I understand.” The waiter nodded deeply. “Surely you’re not ashamed of how you acted?”
“No. That’s why I was able to come here today.”
“Well, you’re most welcome.”
He seemed to be sincere. Still, Yuzo had no intention of opening up to him.
The waiter went on, “Yes, most welcome indeed.”
“Do those two men come here often?”
“That’s hard to say,” said the waiter, an uncomfortable look coming over his face. “One loses all track of time here. But I imagine you’ve noticed that already.” He hurriedly added, “I do know that you came here quite early.”
He seemed to mean that Yuzo had died at an early age. Yuzo guessed that Takeshi was actually much older than he had looked. That is, his true form must have been older, but somehow he was able to change his appearance depending on whom he was with. Or maybe he only appeared that way to Yuzo. Yuzo, on the other hand, seemed to have only one immortal form. His fellow gang members would definitely recognize him if they saw him there. What could Daté and Hattori be up to now? They would surely be coming to Hell when they died, so they must not have been killed yet. He felt sorry for them; he had put them through a lot.
On opening night at the Kabukiza Theatre, before he was to walk down the elevated runway that extended into the audience, Konzo Ichikawa got lost in the storage area under the stage. It should have been a short detour to the little curtained waiting room where he would await his cue, but someone had rearranged the props kept there, turning the area into a veritable labyrinth.
Even in his bewildered state, Konzo realized that this had to be the work of Yamatoya. The part of Iso no Toyata was a speciality of Yamatoya’s, and it must have been a terrible blow that it should go to the likes of Konzo, who was not a member of a famous kabuki family. But in fact the theatrical company had included the play in the roster specifically so that the popular and talented Konzo could play the part.
Konzo hit his knee against a prop boulder and moaned. Onstage above him, Narikomaya and Monzaburo had only a few minutes of drawn-out dialogue before Konzo was to make his entrance.
“But do I really have the right to ask for Shinobu’s life, even to save my own?” The voice was that of Yamatoya’s son Monzaburo, who played the parts of Kyonokimi and her servant Shinobu, who was to be sacrificed in her place.
Now that Konzo thought about it, Narikomaya had been quite nasty during rehearsals, making snide remarks about the kind of people who would stoop to appear on television. But Konzo didn’t have time to think about that now. He had to hurry and find his way.
Konzo had on a haori coat; he was wearing a black wig and his face was painted with circles of dark crimson around his eyes. A gourd dangled from the cherry branch slung over his shoulder. This light-hearted new role was certain to make Konzo even more popular, and he wasn’t about to let Yamatoya ruin it for him.
But in the dimness of the storage area, the only light coming from emergency lamps, Konzo struggled to regain his sense of direction. He was lost. He felt around with his hands and feet, straining to find his way. He would take off in one direction and trip over something, then turn back and run into something else.
“You must consider your position, as well as the life of the unborn child in your womb,” Narikomaya was now saying.
“And yet that is little more than an excuse,” replied Monzaburo in a shrill falsetto. “If it were not for Benkei’s compassion, I would already be dead. Alas, Shinobu must die if I am to live…”
Konzo’s mouth suddenly dropped open. They were all in on it, he realized. Of course. That fox-faced Monzaburo had been smirking at him ever since the first rehearsal; he and Narikomaya had been whispering and laughing to each other. They had been planning this even then. But the mastermind behind it all was certainly Yamatoya. Only a star of his stature could have engineered a grand scheme like this. He even had the stagehands working for him. Konzo’s servant Kunihiro was supposed to have been here to escort him to the waiting room by the stage, but at the last minute he had been reassigned to prop duty. Yamatoya had been behind that too. But there was nothing he could do about it now. His cue was coming up, and he was going to miss it.
NARIKOMAYA: “If you are to live, you must accept Shinobu’s sacrifice and dedicate your life to serving Buddha in atonement for what must be done. Ironic, is it not, that she should be named Shinobu?”
MONZABURO: “Shinobu. To withdraw from the world. And that is what I must do.”
NARIKOMAYA: “An inauspicious name indeed.”
From behind the curtains, SOMEONE cries out: “Toyata has returned!”
Konzo threw his head back in frustration. They had gone right ahead without checking if he was present. If an actor wasn’t ready in the wings before he was to go onstage, someone was supposed to go find him. Damn. Everyone was a part of the conspiracy! He started walking again, only to trip on a prop jizo statue and fall to the floor. Damn! His costume was now covered in dust and getting soaked in sweat. He couldn’t go onstage like this! Above him, Narikomaya and Monzaburo continued reciting their lines to one another. They seemed quite cheerful – because they knew he was trapped.
NARIKOMAYA: “What’s that? Toyata has returned?”
MONZABURO: “Then until the deed is done…”
NARIKOMAYA: “We must keep what we spoke of today…”
MONZABURO and NARIKO
MAYA (in unison): “…a secret.”
(Pause.)
MONZABURO and NARIKOMAYA (in unison): “Welcome home, Toyata!”
(Enter Toyata with a cough.)
That was Konzo’s direction. What was he going to do? He could at least manage the cough.
“Ahem!”
Could they hear him? He ploughed his way through a prop bush, only to bump against the wall of the machine room. Damn. He had been going round in circles. That rotten stagehand. He was the one who had done this. Konzo was directly under the centre of the stage now. He hurriedly turned back again, determined not to be fooled this time by the maze of props around him, and proceeded straight ahead in what he thought was the direction to the stairway leading to the stage entrance. He could hear Narikomaya and Monzaburo onstage chuckling to one another.
NARIKOMAYA: “Oh dear, Shinobu. I have heard that Toyata had returned and yet I see no sign of him.”
MONZABURO: “Whatever could have happened to Toyata?”
NARIKOMAYA: “He’s been appearing on television quite often recently. Perhaps he’s still there?”
The audience laughed. Konzo was frantic and tripped on another prop, which sent him to the floor, flat on his face. Unable to bear it any longer, he cried out in a voice so loud he felt his throat might split from the force of it.
“Here I am! I’m down here! Please make my apologies to your mother, Shinobu!”
MONZABURO: “Where could that voice be coming from?”
NARIKOMAYA: “It seems to be coming from the ground.”
MONZABURO: “Yes, it is definitely coming from the ground.”
NARIKOMAYA: “From the depths of Hell, perhaps.”
MONZABURO: “That faint voice. It could be none other than…”
MONZABURO and NARIKOMAYA (in unison): “Konzo Ichikawa!”
Konzo jumped in fury. How far were they willing to take this? He would not let them make him into a laughing stock! He started running like a scared rabbit, collided with another prop, and tumbled to the floor again. Holding one leg in pain, he hopped towards the dim light he saw before him. Surely that was the stairway.