Nocturne of Remembrance (25 page)

Just as he was wondering what to do, the cell phone in his breast pocket rang. The screen showed that the call was from an unregistered number.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Mikoshiba? It’s me, Takamine.”

Mikoshiba immediately recalled the face of the former neighborhood association chairman from Fukuoka.

“You said the other day that I hold the power of life and death over Akiko.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You thought your damn blackmail of a remark would turn this doddering old man into your arms and legs?”

“I kind of did. If you weren’t such a person, why would you ever have headed a neighborhood association? It’s just a title and nets you precious little.”

“There you go talking like you can see right through me. You must know why I’m calling, then.”

“If it’s bad news, spare me the theatrics?”

“Humph! What a pain in the ass. Fine, it’s good news. I’ve located the man you were looking for, Dr. Mizohata.”

“Have you really?”

“What would I gain by lying to you? Rest easy. Dr. Mizohata is still alive. And he remembered Akiko perfectly well.”

—
1
—

The website of the Japan Federation of Bar Associations topped the list of search results for Reiji Mikoshiba.

The database of member attorneys on the website must have offered up Mikoshiba’s name as a keyword. Gender, attorney registration number, bar association affiliation, office name, office address, office contact—nothing else was available.

He tutted in disappointment. No record of reprimands by the bar association, no profile, no past cases and how they ended, no internet rumors. Moreover, Mikoshiba’s practice didn’t have its own website, nor did the man have a blog or use Twitter, so no luck there either.

Who the devil is that attorney?
he wondered again. Competition had to be getting fierce thanks to business expansions because plenty of advertisements for lawyers and judicial scriveners hung on trains. The more solicitous firms had websites. Yet Mikoshiba seemed devoid of any commercial flair.

He’d heard that the best lawyers attracted customers by word of mouth and served as legal advisors to businesses. They didn’t need to advertise, and that was the impression he was getting here: that of a reliable and conscientious lawyer with a solid track record.

But in person the man’s impression was the exact opposite. He was no doubt experienced—but with dangerous high-wire acts. His shrewd eyes invited caution, not trust. He seemed less reliable, than quick with a stratagem for an ambush.

How had he gotten involved in this case? Why didn’t the softheaded former lawyer stay on it?

Thanks to that, he was getting paranoid and fearfully having to double-check everything that he’d said to Mikoshiba.

It was all because of the ongoing trial. The woman had confessed to the murder, so why couldn’t they just wrap it up? Why was it taking so much time?

Thanks to that, he hadn’t been able to fulfill his sexual urge since that day.

She had yet to recognize her own sexual appeal. All she needed was someone to draw it out of her. It just felt so good in her vagina. Of all the women he’d been with, she had to be number one or two. The first time, he’d almost felt like he’d wandered into Shangri-La. Since then, seeing her had become one of his precious few indulgences.

She’d resisted at first but had become obedient soon enough. Naturally. He had techniques he’d cultivated over the years. It was easy to entice her.

Alas, unless she stepped out of those castle walls, he couldn’t even touch her.

He prayed for this whole annoying business to get resolved and for those halcyon days to return. For the time being, though, he’d see how good Mikoshiba was.

The man was like a sharp knife. When it was pointed towards you, it was a most dangerous weapon, but if you were just watching from the sidelines, it made for an exciting fight.

Three days left until the day of the closing arguments.

Until then, he’d recall the texture of her membrane with relish.

*

Iikura, Sawara Ward, Fukuoka City.

It was an academic town where four elementary schools, one junior high school, one high school, and four junior colleges and universities were concentrated. With so many elementary schools, old and new multi-unit apartment complexes stretched from north to south.

Mikoshiba got off at the Kanayama Station on the Nanakuma Subway Line, took a taxi, and told the driver the address given to him by Takamine. After a conversation with the front office, the driver quickly set out. The destination seemed to be located within the minimum-fare area.

The taxi got there in five minutes.

“Is this the location you are looking for?” the driver said.

When Mikoshiba got out, he was standing in front of a two-story wooden house. It seemed to have undergone numerous extensions and reconstructions, and the colors of the walls differed by section.

He rang the doorbell and stated his name. The door opened to reveal an elderly person whose head was bald on top—an amicable old gentleman who would have looked good in a white suit in front of a fried-chicken chain store. Yet a closer look also hinted at a level of guile befitting someone who had lived so long.

“You’re Mr. Mikoshiba? Thank you for coming all this way. I’m Shonosuke Mizohata. Mr. Takamine told me about you. Well, come on in.”

Led by Mizohata, Mikoshiba entered the house. Following behind, he saw that the man had difficulty walking due to his years. He took small strides as if to confirm each step.

Mizohata looked back as if he could read his visitor’s thoughts. “Sorry about my gait. ‘Physician, heal thyself’ and all that, but this is much better than suffering dementia.”

Mikoshiba had his doubts about that. Which was happier—feeling your decaying limbs and nearness to the grave on a daily basis, or no longer even realizing who you are?

“Both my son and his wife are working and absent. I’m the only one home, so we can talk without any worries.”

“Your wife?”

“She passed away five years ago.”

“I am sorry that I asked such a boorish question.”

“No, I don’t mind. She was bad with numbers and paperwork. If
I’d died before her, she’d have struggled with the inheritance and the funeral and whatnot. Good thing I was the one left behind.”

The room that Mikoshiba was ushered into seemed to be Mizohata’s own. There was a nursing bed in front of a bookshelf that covered the whole wall. A penetrating odor that seemed to combine plaster and leaf soil assailed Mikoshiba’s nostrils immediately upon entry.

“You will think that the bed is not very becoming for a study, but it’s a very convenient one for someone like me with a walking problem. Since I’ll end up being bedridden sooner or later, I might as well get used to it from now.”

As he spoke, he sat down on a chair. There on the leathered piece of furniture he looked hale and not in the least decrepit.

“In any case, good on you for coming all the way to Fukuoka. It’s rough being a lawyer, huh? Running around day and night, traveling far and wide on your client’s behalf. Just like doctors.”

“When you were in practice, you were the only physician in the neighborhood?”

“Yes. The only other medical professional was a dentist. So, despite being a private practitioner in a small town, I needed to practice pediatrics, internal medicine, and urology, like some general hospital.”

“You must have done a good business.”

“Ha, ha. I really wonder about this world where doctors and lawyers do a good business. But oh my, was I busy. We were closed on Wednesdays only, but I needed to attend to emergency patients as well, so I ended up working every day. I was only able to rest from morning to night for a precious few days a year.”

He must have seen a huge number of patients then. Under such circumstances, how well could he possibly remember one?

“Ah, I may have been busy, but my patients were limited to those in the neighborhood. I remember—maybe not every single one—but certainly the memorable,” Mizohata said as though he’d read Mikoshiba’s mind. “It’s been a long time since I closed my practice, but the thirty-odd years that I spent as a doctor are my treasure. I’m retired
now, but my only pleasure is to ruminate all day on the patients that I examined. Of course, I can’t recite all the details of a patient’s history or dosages administered … Yet I remember pretty much everything when it comes to little Akiko.”

That tired-looking housewife was still “little Akiko” for this doctor, Mikoshiba noted with odd satisfaction. “Was she under your care for a long time?” he asked.

“When she first came to my clinic, she was five or six years old. She came down with a bad cold that was going around. She was very brave for her age, and even when I gave her an injection, she fought back a flood of tears, you know, with some true grit. I asked her why and she said, ‘I don’t cry because I am the older sister.’ It was touching to see her so self-willed.”

“But lots of kids must have caught that cold.”

“If Akiko left an impression, it was because of the horrific incident that later befell her family.” A shadow came over Mizohata’s face. “She was nine then, so I think she was in third or fourth grade. One day, her younger sister died. Akiko’s shock and heartbreak were immense because she’d really cared for this younger sister. In fact, it must have been too much for her very young mind, and right after the incident, she became afflicted with a memory defect.”

“Was it so-called PTSD?”

“Yes. Mr. Mikoshiba, do you know much about PTSD?”

“Not really. I only have a smattering of knowledge about it. Please treat me like an amateur.”

“Excessive physical punishment, abuse, or indelible psychological trauma plunges the mind into a state of panic. The brain tries to evade it by numbing part of its functions. In her case, it took the form of amnesia about the entire time prior to the incident.” Mizohata shook his head as if to dispel unpleasant thoughts. “In and of itself, averting panic is not a bad thing. But even if it’s just one part, if your brain functions are numbed, abnormal signals are sent to both the mind and the body. Eventually, there will be physical consequences like
stomach pain and headaches, as well as mental consequences such as nightmares and flashbacks. In addition, there can be an adverse effect on character formation. Because this was psychiatry, I asked for help from an acquaintance at the university hospital, but we couldn’t arrive at a fundamental solution even with our combined knowledge.”

“There was no cure?”

“Traditionally, PTSD is treated via drug therapy and debriefing, which is a method of releasing the emotions by reconstructing the triggering event. Since Akiko was still so young, drug therapy risked side effects. In addition, articles that cast doubt on the merits of debriefing had appeared in quick succession back then, so we were also reluctant about that approach. According to some reports, compulsory counseling actually exacerbated the psychological pain. In the end, we had to fall back on natural healing.” Mizohata’s words oozed despair. Most likely, he remembered Akiko not because of anything about her but because he regretted not having cured her.

“If she lost all her memories from before the incident …”

“No, to be precise, she lost all memory of her dead sister. She remembered her parents clearly, but deleted ever being with her sister from her memory.”

“Does she still suffer this amnesia?”

“I don’t know. Their family moved to Kobe, and I had no way of finding out. I prayed that she would recover in time …”

“Do you know why they moved?”

“It was thanks to malice.” Mizohata’s face twisted as if he’d just tasted something horrid. “People can be terribly cruel. They don’t hesitate to cast stones at the injured and the weak. When people feel insecure or unfulfilled, they love to gang up. Without friends they can’t lick each other’s wounds. And those who can’t even gang up look for weaker people to harass. They need to confirm that they aren’t at the bottom of the heap and find relief that way. But they’re cowards no less. And what those cowards did to the family was utterly unforgivable. When her mother told me what happened, I nearly lost myself in
anger. The story is disgusting, I warn you.”

“I am accustomed to that kind of thing.”

“After the seventh-day memorial service, the family started to receive mute calls. Some weren’t silent. The anonymous voices said the parents were partly at fault for leaving their daughter unguarded, or accused them of currying sympathy—baseless calumny. Someone even spray-painted on the front door, ‘Don’t keep posing as the victims!’ ”

Listening to this, Mikoshiba could only nod along. Anyone who believed that humans were good at heart might have frowned, but sadly, the world was full of malice and heartlessness. Mikoshiba had been no different, in fact. The kind of malice that Mizohata had encountered was as commonplace as kids pelting a mutt that had fallen into a pond.

“It’s as if they think people who’ve suffered misfortune have become defiled. Malice rained on Akiko, too. Apparently a bunch of idiots harried her on her way home: ‘It’s your fault that your sister died.’ There’s a good chance that such external factors brought on her PTSD.”

“I’m guessing that was why they moved?”

“If they’d stayed there, not only Akiko but her parents might have suffered a mental breakdown. The father muttered that he regretted giving the impression that groundless malice had won out, but from a doctor’s standpoint, I had no reason to object to a therapeutic change of scene … By the way, Mr. Mikoshiba, since you seem to be investigating Akiko’s past, you must have looked into her family. Are her parents well?”

“The mother is still alive and in Kobe. But the father lost his life in the Great Hanshin Earthquake.”

Mizohata heaved a sigh and fell silent. After gazing at the ceiling for a while, he turned to Mikoshiba a little teary-eyed. “I wonder if unhappiness always haunts certain people … Was Akiko happy when she was in Kobe?”

“I haven’t heard anything about that from her. She doesn’t seem to trust me fully and won’t share her thoughts.”