“Take off your clothes.”
Her face contorted with fear. I’m jealous, he thought. I’m jealous of the woman I’m about to rape. He was jealous of her hopelessness. After I have her pussy a few times, why not put it in her ass? There are women who feel it even more in the ass. I’ll never know what it feels like to be fucked in the pussy, but if I try, I can find out what it’s like in the ass. Once I know what she’s feeling, if I just use my imagination, I can become one with her. It felt like they were in a perfect closed-off space where no one could intrude. We can stay here moaning together forever, never leaving for all eternity. Someone screamed. What was happening? Why would she scream? His world began to peel away from this world. Their worlds began to separate; he was being pushed away. Some sort of invisible wall appeared in front of him. His comrades arrived; they were yelling at him. The wall grew thicker. What were they saying? He had just been trying to fit his own world into this one. His comrades shoved him. He fell back into the stall and landed on his ass. His comrades were comforting the woman, telling her they’d had no idea anything like that would happen. We’ll keep a close eye on him—they were talking about him—and never let him do anything like this again. The believer was left there, on his ass, in the stall. With an erection, on the dirty floor of the bathroom. He felt pitiful, even though he was hard.
He had a cell phone. He knew the numbers for all the explosives. He felt himself grow tense. Even if I dialed them, it wouldn’t be my fault, would it? It was the fault of his comrades who had knocked him over without even listening to what he had to say, wasn’t it? His consciousness began to grow thin with rage. He was already holding the cell phone, and everything seemed like a white haze. The leader would understand. He would understand the believer’s humiliation. Again. In the distance he could hear his own breathing. I have to tell someone. I’m being repelled from this world. He pressed the buttons. I won’t let anyone humiliate my mother. No one should interfere with his creating his own world. I need to be rewarded. His finger hit the dial button. Something inside him began to plummet.
His throat was dry and his heart was racing. What was he doing? What was he? Had he just done something he wouldn’t be able to take back? But hadn’t he already known that’s what it would be when he did it? So many thoughts swirled in his head, he didn’t know how to take them all. But then he realized the phone in his hand was ringing. It shouldn’t be ringing. It should connect immediately.
The believer stood up and returned to the studio. Sasahara strode toward him, his eyes dark with anger. Where was Takahara-sama? The believer didn’t like Sasahara. He was scary—he’d probably hit him. The believer didn’t like getting hit. Calm down—that’s right. I have information for him. Information he’ll need.
Full of rage, Sasahara approached the believer.
Trying to attack a woman in this situation? Was there no limit to his depravity? Sasahara couldn’t control his anger. But what should I do? What should I? he worried. We’re already surrounded by the media and the riot police. If I press him too hard, it could cause problems later. But if I’m not careful, it will set a bad precedent.
What would Takahara do? he wondered. I never liked that guy, but he’d probably know what to do at a time like this. Sasahara took the man into a corner.
“Listen—”
“The number didn’t work,” the man interrupted, keeping his voice low. “I called. The number. I messed up, and, I messed up and I called.”
“What are you talking about?”
“But it didn’t go through.”
Sasahara was stunned. “What?” He snatched the cell phone and looked at the screen. He couldn’t get his thoughts together. The believer really had called one of the numbers. What had he been thinking? But also, why hadn’t it worked?
“If you look at the screen, you’ll see. I called that number. But it just kept ringing. That shouldn’t happen. It shouldn’t ring at all. The moment you dial, it should connect and detonate.”
Sasahara’s neck and shoulders went cold. Staring at the screen, he dialed the number again with trembling fingers. It was true. He put the phone to his ear and listened to the ringing. His legs grew weak.
“Shit. Takahara,” Sasahara whispered without thinking. He wanted to hit the frightened man in front of him. Takahara had given them fake numbers.
22
There was a quiet knock on the hospital door.
It was too early to be the guard change. The officer in uniform rose from his chair and asked who was there through the closed door. But there was no answer. Who could it be? the officer wondered. He wasn’t the only guard. There were others stationed in front of the elevator, the fire escape, and all entrances to the hospital. No one would have gotten by all those guards; there couldn’t be a problem. Nevertheless he was still somewhat nervous as he opened the door. Two men he didn’t recognize stood there. One man looked to be in his fifties, the other in his thirties.
“We’ll take over,” the fifty-something man said listlessly, passing his gaze over the dark room. The thirty-something man said nothing.
“Who are you?”
The men showed their badges. They were from the Metropolitan Police’s Public Security Bureau. Something wasn’t right; the officer wondered if they were real badges. He reached for the cell phone in his pocket.
“I can’t leave here without permission.”
“From who?”
“My superiors.”
The fifty-something man put his hand lightly on the officer’s right arm—the arm reaching for the phone.
“You’re careful. That’s great. But some very strange things are happening, and they will continue to happen regardless of whether you follow protocol.” The man continued listlessly. “You can check for yourself. All of the guards who were out there have vanished. We’re going to take over your position, too. You will not mention this at all, and no one will ask you about it. Not you, but another officer will make a mistake and release the person in that bed right now. Of course, that officer doesn’t exist, and no one will try to figure out who he was. If things go well, no one will even know that this criminal escaped, and it won’t make it on the news. All you have to do is not mention it. And one year from now, all you’ll have to do to pass the exam for the promotion you’ve always wanted is write your name down. You’ll be a full detective, and after working for the Metropolitan Police for two years, there will suddenly be talk of personnel changes. Changes that make those around you jealous. And the man who will appear before you as your boss at your new position”—the fifty-something man pointed to the thirty-something man—“will be him.”
The officer stared at them blankly.
“As for why you’ll have to wait a total of three years, that’s to test whether you can keep the secret. If you tell anyone about this, you’ll have to take a psychiatric evaluation. And you know what comes after that. Everything’s already over once you have to take a psychiatric evaluation.”
The officer’s right hand went limp. This is my chance, he thought. I don’t know what’s happening, but my chance is now. A chance others won’t get. The officer saluted the men. The pleasure that comes from obeying an unopposable force seized control of him.
“Good job. You have a bright future ahead of you. Just as I thought,” the fifty-something man said quietly. “The order that stationed you in this room in the first place—that order came from us, as well.”
—A few years ago there was a civil war here, and there were piles of bodies. The town was filled with this awful stink. Eventually, salesmen started coming by with carts selling strange meat. They’d cut up the bodies, seasoned them, and were selling them. We were starving so we ate it. It was delicious, although some parts were tougher than others. Yeah, they didn’t do it out of cruelty. They were high out of their minds. Why did they do drugs? They were scared. Can you stay sane when you’re in const
ant fear of death? Can you stay normal when there are bullets flying all around you? We need drugs. They’re absolutely necessary. Another civil war is coming soon.
—One hundred dollars. Yeah, just one hundred dollars is fine. I’ll ride you like a rodeo bull. What? More expensive than you thought? Why? Ha ha ha. You’re Japanese? What’s yen? Money? How much will you give me? How much is that worth?
—All the weapons here, they’re made by the superpowers, you know?
—She’s asking if you’ve been to Africa . . . Yeah, she seems to be interested in other countries . . . Her caste? They’re called Madiga . . . You’ve never heard of them? I’ll tell you for her. They’re even lower than the castes you know. Properly speaking, they’re outside the whole caste system. She’s an untouchable . . . You came here without knowing about that? Other people won’t touch people of her status. Or look at them. They’ll get contaminated if they do. When they buy things, too, shopkeepers will just toss the stuff at them. It’s against the law according to the constitution, but especially in rural areas it’s not rare . . . You want to ask if it’s hard being a prostitute? What does she think of the men who sleep with her even though they say she’s untouchable? It’s not hard for her. Hm? You don’t need to ask that. She’s a prostitute who’s given her life up to the goddess Yellamma. You don’t know about Yellamma? What? Caste is hereditary. It’s fate. What, you’re already done? Go home. You’re going back to Africa, aren’t you? How old is she? All right, I’ll ask. She says she’s fourteen.
—We killed the kids, cut out their hearts and ate them. Of course we cooked them. You can’t eat them raw. What? Of course we don’t like eating that sort of thing. Don’t lump us together with the characters in your stupid movies. Why? It’s like a magic spell. They say that if you eat them, the bullets won’t hit you. To do magic requires transcending your humanity. Without that, it’s not magic. I guess we do it because eating kids’ hearts feels like the worst thing we could possibly do. How’d it taste? It’s like liver. Well, sort of. When you kill someone, when you’re filled with the violence required to kill someone, you can look at them and think, I’m better off than this person, right? I’ll die eventually, but at least not right now. Maybe that’s why we do it, to feel like we’re a little better off than someone else. And what? You dig wells? Well, thanks for that, but do you have any opium? Or alcohol? What? Hey, don’t just start talking about money. If anyone hears you say that, you’re finished . . . There are outsiders here. To a Japanese person like you we may all look the same, but we can tell ourselves apart just by looking. They have accents, too . . . We have to get out of here. Hurry up. What are you doing? Hurry.
When Takahara woke up in his hospital bed, two men were looking down at him. One appeared to be in his fifties, the other in his thirties.
“What are you doing?” the older man asked. “Hurry and set them off.”
Takahara’s heart began to race. “Who are you?”
“Don’t play dumb,” the older man said. “We are messengers of R.”
Takahara tried to sit up. Pain shot through his bandaged right shoulder and he grimaced involuntarily. His left arm was hooked to an IV. He could see the call button. Even if I press it no one will come, he thought. Sasahara had shot him. His thoughts grew disordered.
“You don’t need me anymore.”
“We’re not done with you yet.” The older man drew a quiet breath. “Are you saying you don’t care what happens to Ryoko Tachibana?”
“I—”
“Set them off. Blow up all those buildings. Kill. You have to kill. The gods won’t be appeased without death. Bring it here, to Japan—the death and destruction that floods the rest of the world. They don’t matter to you, do they—normal people? You’ve always looked down on them.”
They handed Takahara a simple prepaid cell phone.
“You’re going to dial those numbers at ten p.m. and set off the bombs.”
Takahara’s head began to hurt. The man’s voice sounded faint. “You can set off the bombs and many ordinary people will die. Or Ryoko Tachibana gets gang-raped, has her genitals carved off, and is killed.” His voice grew even fainter. “One or the other.”
They walked down the hospital’s empty hallway. The younger man decided that it was best not to ask the other anything here. He got in a car, gripped the steering wheel, and stepped on the gas. He carefully chose small roads with no license plate scanners. Quietly, he asked, “What is R?”
“Hm? Oh, it’s a religion. It doesn’t exist anymore, though,” the older man answered. “It’s a fundamentalist religion, and he was one of the idiots who joined. Some say that this Cult X is also one branch of the faith, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. But that man is certainly a believer.”
They took an even smaller road.
“I mentioned its name so he’d set off the bombs.”
The car they were in wasn’t particularly nice. Nice cars draw attention.
“Our job is to make the cult look bad. Originally I thought that would be taken care of once we sent the riot police in. They’d make a show of infiltrating their compound and subduing the threat. The media coverage should have been great—people would praise the police for preemptively stopping a terrorist attack. We’d take the election easily; there would be no resistance to drastically increasing funding for defense and the police. Everyone would be filled with national pride and we could march forward with militarization. But once they took over that TV station and started spouting all that nonsense about the state of the world, we needed a new plan. You understand what’s happening without my spelling it out, right? This is how history is made. We’re just following the precedents. The government will issue an order to stay indoors. The police will detain everyone with any connection to the cult. They’ll show the people that they’re trying. And then suddenly the cult—or properly speaking, that radical Takahara—will blow up those buildings when no one expects it. Even though the government responded in earnest, the cult broke their promise. Innocent people will probably die. The cult’s public image will be unsalvageable. At that moment we’ll invade both the cult facility and the TV station. We’ll kill about half of them and take control. Even if some of the hostages are killed in the process, the public won’t criticize us because it was the cult that moved first. We will have prevented further deaths.”
The man spoke with his characteristic listlessness.
“History has ironclad rules. Get them to attack first. Wars must be started by the opponent. All through history, America always let the enemy attack first. Before they went to war with Japan, America ordered decoy vessels to sail by the Indochina coast and Cape Cà Mau between Hainan Island and Hue to get Japan to attack first. And in fact, they were attacked first—at Pearl Harbor. There are lots of stories that claim Roosevelt, the president at the time, knew the attack on Pearl Harbor was coming. Whether or not that’s true, it is clear looking at American documents that he tried to provoke Japan to be the aggressor. Think of the soldiers he sacrificed. America broke that “make the opponent attack” tradition when they invaded Iraq, but they insisted they were going after weapons of mass destruction. Japan is the same. We blew up our own railways in Manchuria, claimed it was a Chinese attack, and launched our invasion. It’s a childish approach, but all through history people have continued to be fooled by it.”
“Can I ask one thing?”
“What?”
“What if . . . I think you know everything, but . . .”
“No, you’re right. I don’t know everything. I simply recognize the scenarios proposed by politicians’ think tanks. I don’t know who is behind what’s going on today. I just guess. The think tanks aren’t the only black curtain hiding who’s behind it all. No single industry is manipulating these events. Stock prices are one hint for guessing who’s benefiting from these events. Whoever is behind all this, they’re just using the system o
f nation states. Countries don’t exist except as abstractions these days. Whoever’s really in charge, they just employ the concept of statehood for their own purposes. They can do whatever they want to the citizens. If they want to militarize them, they can do it easily. Thankfully, there are always people who want to stay under the control of the conservative government, to keep power in the hands of the people already in power. Look at the Internet, at WikiLeaks. In other countries, people use technology to fight for freedom of speech and expression. Here they just use it to bash the Chinese and Koreans. No matter how horribly we treat the poor, those online conservatives will defend us. If we export the weapons we make, and those guns find their way into the hands of terrorists and are used to shoot schoolgirls, they will defend us. If weapons with the rising sun on them are used to slaughter children, they will defend us. They will even say that the war in which millions of our forebears died was righteous. No matter what we do, as long as we give them ‘enemies’ they will defend us. They position themselves on the side of the powerful, and, wrapped up in their own ideology, they take pleasure in attacking others. It makes them feel superior. They will never reject our brand of conservatism. Once they believe, no matter what they hear or read they will never turn against us. There aren’t many people who can doubt something once they’ve believed in it; it would mean doubting themselves. Finding the courage to be reborn is incredibly painful. They don’t want to think for themselves. They are happy to consider our set pieces their own. They want to be part of something great. They’ll come to our rescue this time as well. No matter how much information gets leaked online, they’ll monitor it all, better than if they were an official agency we sponsored, and they’ll crush it. They do it for their country. When they’re given a cause to hide behind, they unleash all the hideousness inside them. By convincing them they need to protect their own country from a foreign menace, we can increase our own gains. We’re deliberately enlarging the gap between the rich and the poor, but they don’t even notice that’s our goal. For the sake of large corporations, we’ll take in more immigrants who will work cheaply. Because of the immigrants, there will be workers who can’t find jobs. Then we just make them hate immigrants. The country will begin to militarize and the weapons industry will make money. This is the historically standard way of creating a conservative country. Of course, in the end there will have been mistakes in our information. But if our plan succeeds, no one in the country will have a problem with it. If someone high up must be punished, it will all end with just a verbal reprimand. No one needs to get fired; there are cases where ‘disciplinary action’ doesn’t even involve a cut in wages. What convenient words. Their title may change, but their salary and status remain the same. While the grime of the earth struggle down here, those at the top just change positions. If things don’t go well, we just quit. Politicians all have money, so they can quit whenever they want.”