The Japanese Corpse (17 page)

"Just to be able to learn how to read Japanese requires genius," the commissaris said sadly. "How can we ever trick them? To read a newspaper means that you have learned eighteen hundred and fifty Chinese characters and a hundred odd Japanese scribbles. The simplest yakusa can read a newspaper."

"They lost the war, didn't they?" de Gier said, and fell asleep.

When the commissaris woke up again the maids were serving breakfast and de Gier was dressed and shaved. The breakfast was American, fried eggs and bacon and sausages and toast and good coffee. He got up as the maids left the room chirping greetings and wishing him a good appetite, and got into his kimono. He shaved after breakfast and went out onto the balcony to watch the innkeeper and his small son patiently weeding the moss. The innkeeper was peering at the minute grasses and tiny leaves of budding dandelions and buttercups through his half-glasses, tugging gently to make sure that he got the roots too. The work would be interminable, and the commissaris thought of his own garden, where weeds had grown waist-high and where his wife had to mow the small lawn, for he would only sit and watch his turtle marching about trying to find his dish of lettuce leaves. Perhaps he should grow mosses too, and clean out the pond and stock it with a few goldfish, and build a rock arrangement in a corner. He shook his head. He would leave his garden the way it was; he liked his weeds. He also liked these immaculate mosses. Different environments, both congenial. He stopped comparing the two. De Gier had brought out a cushion and he sat down contentedly, feeling the tinge of the aftershave on his cheeks. De Gier sat down next to him on the wooden deck and began to oil his pistol, rubbing the barrel with a soft cloth.

"Lovely day, sergeant," the commissaris said. "Let's not forget to take that priceless scroll to the bank as soon as it opens. Nine-thirty, Dorin said. We'll hire a vault. I'll carry it and you can walk next to me clutching that automatic in case the horrible yakusa jump us."

"Maybe there are no horrible yakusa, sir," the sergeant said, blowing into the barrel. "Maybe there are just nice giggly maids and priests who know about history and friendly young men who give me lifts on their motorcycles."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Perhaps we managed to reach heaven. It's got a bit of a smell in the morning, but otherwise it is perfect."

Three hours later the commissaris wasn't so sure. He was sweating and trembling and his teeth chattered. "But nothing happened," he told himself again. "It was a mask, that was all. Just a mask." But his teeth continued to chatter and he had to sit down, in a small cafe which he found on his way. He dropped the cup the waitress had placed in front of him and broke it. She brought him a new cup and filled it with hot tea. She waited for his order, but he couldn't give it although he knew the Japanese word. He wanted coffee. Ko-hi. He couldn't say the two syllables. His hands trembled and he gripped the table top. The waitress left but kept an eye on him from behind the counter.

He tried to recall exactly what had happened, so as to be able to assure himself that there was nothing to get upset about. He had walked about with de Gier. They had taken a streetcar to the center. They had visited a bank and deposited the scroll and had gone into a large department store, and he had bought a tie. De Gier had wanted to look at the magazines in the newsstand and the commissaris had left, promising to meet the sergeant for lunch at the inn.

Then he had strolled around by himself, looking at shop windows, mingling with the crowds on the sidewalks, looking at photographs in the showcases of a cinema. He had stopped in a coffee shop and had looked through the pages of the
New York Times,
bought in the department store. He had caught the streetcar back, but had got off two stops ahead to give himself the opportunity of a walk. The streets and temples had looked very much alike and he had been a little worried about getting lost, but the sloping roof of the main building of the Daidharmaji temple complex had reassured him; he was almost home.

That was where he had met the young student, a twenty-year-old boy in a black uniform and a cap. Japanese students usually wear that uniform. Dorin had told him about the custom in Tokyo. The style dates back to the First World War and it looks good, though perhaps somewhat boring, for the uniform is everywhere, a black tunic with shining buttons, and fairly tight trousers. The clothes are made of good material and will last for many years, so the students don't have to waste the little money they have. Many students have nothing else to wear anyway.

The boy had spoken to him in halting English. He had understood that the student was interested in improving his command of the language, and he had answered his questions—where he came from, how long he had been in Japan, whether he was having a good time. The commissaris said he was having a good time. The student was walking next to him and said something about an interesting temple just ahead. Maybe they should take a minute and have a look at it. A very old temple, one of the oldest of the city, a beautiful garden, something about the architecture which he hadn't understood. Together they had walked through the large imposing gate, almost a little building in its own right and greeted the monk inside who smiled and bowed at them. The boy said something to the monk and the monk invited them to go into the garden. Apparently the two knew each other. But the garden was a maze and the commissaris had wandered around while the boy pointed at trees, at a stone Buddha sitting in the shadow of a wall, smiling to himself, at a pond where goldfish darted about, at a ferocious statue, a snarling warrior standing on a dead body. "Dead body is self," the student had explained. "Warrior is discipline." He had nodded vaguely, then the boy had disappeared. One second he was there, the next he wasn't. The commissaris was alone with the statue.

There had been something very strange about the statue. He had studied it again and had taken off his glasses and polished them. He had bent down to look at the corpse under the large feet of the warrior. The corpse had a face and the face was his own. He had bent down, unwilling to believe what he saw. But there was no doubt about. The face of the corpse was his own face, complete with the neatly parted hair, the round metal-framed glasses, the small sharp nose, the thin lips. Even the ears were perfect, standing slightly out from the head. And a thin trickle of blood came from the corner of the mouth. He had sat down on his haunches to look at the blood. Tomato ketchup, and the face was a mask, a wooden mask. He had touched it and it was loose. He had taken it in his hand; it came off quite easily. Under the mask was another face, a stone face with slanting eyes, a different face altogether. He had dropped the wooden mask and run. He had run in a circle, and had come to the statue again. The wooden mask was no longer there. As he had taken it off, some of the tmato ketchup, or whatever the red fluid on the mask was, had caused a stain or the gravel. The stain was still there, but the mask was gone. He had rushed off again and found the gate. The monk was no longer there.

But it's all perfectly obvious, he said to himself. They are trying to frighten you. Somebody took a good look at you and made the mask, a rough mask cut quickly out ol soft wood. The mask was placed on the statue and the student and the monk were told to get hold of you and lead you to the statue. And it all happened the way they planned it.

He was still clutching the tabletop. He noticed his white hands and lifted them. They didn't tremble anymore. The girl was looking at him from behind the counter. He remembered the word for "please." "Kudasai." He made himself say the words, "Ko-hi kudasai." She smiled and understood and brought him the coffee. Everything was as it should be.

But what if he hadn't gone with the student? He could have excused himself, couldn't he? Would they have thought of something else? He shuddered in spite of all his efforts. Now look here, he said, you have seen a mask, a well-made mask. You've seen your own portrait. And that's all.

The sergeant had seen a play. When the commissaris reached their room and took off his jacket and washed his face with cold water, de Gier was standing on the balcony. He was practicing with his pistol, pretending just to be standing, then something happened—his hand shot up, whisked the small pistol from the shoulder holster, his other hand shot up as well and grabbed the breach, the breach snapped back, de Gier swiveled around and took aim. Then he replaced the pistol and started all over again. The movements were so quick that they blurred.

"Very good," the commissaris said.

"No. I am quicker with a service pistol. This gun is slightly different. I still haven't got the right grip, but it will come. The whole thing shouldn't take more than two seconds, but I think I need three."

"I saw a mask," the commissaris said, and told his story. De Gier had sat down and was listening carefully.

"Cleverly staged," the commissaris said, when he had come to the end of his report, "don't you think?"

"Yes. I saw something too, I was killed in a play."

De Gier hadn't taken the streetcar when he left the department store. He had studied his maps well and knew the way back to the inn. He had walked, but he had met a young student on his way, and the student had started a conversation.

"What did he look like?" the commissaris asked.

"Small and roundish—tubby is the word, I think— nervous little fellow, waved his hands about and talked like a flowing drain. His English was excellent. He told me that he had spent a year in Australia, on some exchange program."

"Different fellow," the commissaris said, "but it had to be, of course. They met us about the same time, but go on, I am sorry I interrupted you."

The student had invited the sergeant into a small bar. De Gier hadn't wanted a drink, so they had coffee instead.

"We Japanese used to drink only tea," the student had told him. "To drink tea became an art. We know at least five hundred different types of tea, all different tastes and qualities. A very elaborate art with many details. The cups or bowls come in different styles, they are held in a certain way, the choice of the teapot matters; we are taught how to sit while we drink; even the conversation has certain rules." The sergeant had said that he had heard about this. The Tea Ceremony, an important event.

The student had smiled and bowed. Yes, yes. But then coffee came on the scene and they quickly acquired the taste. But now coffee had to have its rites too. He had pointed at the array of jars on the shelf behind the bar counter. Some twenty different jars. Different qualities. Brazil, Colombia, Java. "We even have monkey coffee," the student had said. "Do you know what that is?"

De Gier didn't know. The student was glad he could explain. In Burma certain experiments had been made with coffee plantations. It was thought that the plantations should be high in the mountains, but for some reason the crops had been disappointing and attempts to plant there had been stopped. But the coffee plants still grew, and the berries were eaten by monkeys. The pips, being inedible, passed through the monkeys' intestines and were deposited all over the place. And the mountain tribes would gather the pips, clean them and sell them. At a high price, of course, for it was hard work to gather the pips. Monkey coffee sells at about ten times the price of the ordinary qualities.

De Gier was impressed and the student was happy. They left the bar and walked about and the student chattered on. De Gier was getting tired of the high-pitched voice, but the student had a sense of humor and the sergeant went on listening. They came to a small brick building, at the end of an alley, a theater serving the people of the poor quarter with live plays, song and dance, music, bits of clowning. The student said that the city had many little theaters like that. People liked to go in and stay an hour or so. Would he like to go in for a bit? He wouldn't be able to understand the dialogue, of course, but maybe it would be amusing to watch the actors. They had gone in.

The place had been crowded, but there were a few seats left on the back row. The small stage showed a love story which ended in a double suicide. Then an old man with a beard down to the floor recited poetry, while the orchestra provided the proper sound effects. He would chant a few words and a cymbal would clash, then he would whisper and a guitar would finish the phrase for him.

"Then it happened," de Gier said. The student excused himself; he had to go to the toilet and he never came back. On the stage two people appeared. A small chubby student in a black uniform, talking excitedly and a tall foreigner with curly brown hair, a full mustache and high cheekbones. The actor was Japanese, but he had been well made up. He managed to imitate de Gier's bouncing way of walking. He was listening to the student, who was explaining things to him, pointing at this and that as they walked along. They both spoke Japanese, but they were using English words here and there. The overall effect of the scene was nearly perfect. De Gier felt that he was watching himself and his new-found friend, who hadn't come back from the toilet. The lights on the stage changed and the orchestra played a ghastly song, the shrill voice of a girl sang of impending doom. A guitar whined and drums sounded a heartbeat. The rhythm quickened and stopped. Four characters, dressed in black capes and hoods, had appeared suddenly, detaching themselves from the shadows and gliding around the couple. The music started again and the old man was singing, a wavering long drawn-out incantation, obviously warning the two actors to withdraw, to run, to give up. The taller actor had stopped, looking about anxiously. He was in doubt but he decided to go on, and as he moved forward the four characters attacked. There was a flicker as the light caught the shine of a long blade. The music shrieked and wailed, the tall actor sank to the ground, groaning and vomiting blood, the student ran away.

"Yes," the commissaris said.

"It was well done, sir. They got through to me. The little tricks the actor went in for were good, the way I pull my mustache when I am listening, for instance. At one point he took a cigarette from a pack which he kept in his shirt pocket and lit it; every movement was a complete copy of my own. It was interesting to watch him. A mirror image is never really good because you know that you are watching yourself. This was much better."