The Ruined Map (28 page)

                 F
ROM EVENING
on, the cold was not so biting, perhaps because it had become cloudy. But the wind had ceased and apparently the fog was coming in; it was like
looking through wet glass. The neon lights and the street lights fused, clinging together like cheap water-soaked gumdrops. The commercial main street was making preparations for closing, but the minute we turned into a side street we found ourselves in a section where the most animated hours of the day were just beginning. Coffee houses large and small, arcades with pinball machines, drinking stalls, eating stalls … and mixed in among them all, second-hand camera shops and book shops, shops with materials for Western clothes, and somewhat more elegant record shops. Last of all there was a whole block of nothing but bars and coffee houses and one pharmacy. We crossed another main street and there was a block of bars, small drinking stalls, and nightclubs. Buildings were sharply etched against the evening sky colored by the light of the neon tunnel behind us, but the sky where we were was strangely black, and men loitering in groups filled the street; gradually their contours began to fade. Beyond lay another block of brilliant neon, lighting a concentration of Turkish baths and ambiguous hotels. Just before them we turned left and entered a quiet alley behind a dilapidated movie theater. “When you think about it, the men walking around here so feverishly are like temporary missing persons. The difference being a few hours or a lifetime.”

“It’s quite true. I was going to say exactly the same thing a moment ago in front of the pinball arcade. The mental attitude of someone playing pinball is the same as that of a person who disappears. God, that music’s annoying. Look. See that place over there just before the telephone pole, with the entrance at an angle and a little set in from the street? You can’t get in unaccompanied. I suppose people feel guilty because they’re playing the game of missing persons.”

There was a door made of narrow strips of wood with a knocker and creaking hinges. The old-fashioned lighting made the shadows stand out. Besides the bar with high stools there were three tables—a very utilitarian atmosphere. But the unfriendly attitude of the bartender, shaking his leg as he stood behind the bar, went somewhat beyond the bounds of the practical. Leaving me seated on an uncomfortable bar stool, Tashiro went out the rear door to open negotiations with Saeko. He was strangely sure of himself for someone who wasn’t a regular customer.—“A double rye-and-water.” The bartender continued to jiggle his leg without answering, but his movements as he mixed the drink were agile and skilled. There were only two other customers, their heads close together, at the table near the entrance, and judging from the animated tone of the conversation, one of them was not a customer but a shopman involved in business negotiations. The drink was placed before me. The bartender, looking back over his shoulder, turned the knob of the jukebox. At once ear-splitting, frenetic music began, shutting the rest of the bar off from me.

“We’re in luck. They say she’ll be here right away. I’ll have a rye-and-water too,” Tashiro said, rubbing his hands with glee and laughing broadly. He took off his coat and clambered up on the stool next to mine.

“While we’re waiting I’d like you to tell me something. About blackmail … Supposing for the moment some small fuel supplier was being shaken down … what could be the circumstances for blackmail?”

“You have some actual case in mind? For instance, could Mr. Nemuro be involved in it, maybe?”

“No. I swear it has absolutley nothing to do with Mr.
Nemuro. It’s only a question based on an assumption. But any world has its underside, invisible to outsiders. Like the door you just passed through. If you didn’t know what it led to, you wouldn’t have any idea of what was inside. At this point, I have to know something about the circumstances. Maybe the blackmailers are swarming like cockroaches at the back door. What are the possibilities of blackmail? If we attack a case theoretically, we can frequently find its real nature in no time at all; it’s a method we use a lot.”

“I’ve been thinking of a lot of things since I received your call. But they’re all specifics and not generalities. There are possibilities, but …”

“Well, fine. Tell me.”

“In the business world there are brokers who buy and sell rights to chain-store orders and blenders who water down gasoline. There’s a big difference in tax rates depending on the type of oil. It’s a thieves’ business where they make money on the difference in mixture. So even retailers, if they’re big enough and if they’re favored geographically, privately go in for blending. Or they actually overorder lamp and spindle oil for diluting and then sell the watered sales slips to the blenders. I wonder if it’s not something like that.”

“We’re getting off the subject. Do you know Mr. Nemuro’s wife’s brother?”

“Her brother? Well, I’ve met
her
two or three times, but …”

“Somehow he gives you the impression of being a good-for-nothing. A broad-shouldered, lanky fellow. Did he ever visit Mr. Nemuro in the office?”

“Well, that doesn’t give me much …”

“Actually, he was killed last night.”

“Killed?”

“Moreover, barely a mile or two from the fuel supplier in F—Town.”

“Why would such a man … we all lead different kinds of lives. I wonder if I’m the only one who knows nothing.”

His suspicious, probing eyes, filled with amazement, opened wide behind his glasses; he seemed like an unsteady pot. He looked as though he would fall over with the slightest push. Apparently I could believe him. As for the brother’s blackmail, perhaps the objective was purely and simply to make money. If he had even the slightest connection with Dainen Enterprises this timid, suspicious office clerk would not have spoken, even inadvertently, of the possibility of black-market dealings.

Suddenly a rather dry, businesslike voice broke in: “Sorry to keep you waiting.” It was a girl with a bad complexion and a prominent chin. She had on a long, loose, purplish-red gown with a dark blue border. Except for her long hair, there was nothing to suggest the girl in the photos. Bits and pieces of a girl have no connection at all with a complete woman. Except for the slightly upturned nose, the thick, stubborn lips, the traces of faded pimples on both cheeks, and the puffy eyelids that looked as if one could squeeze pus from them were rather too vulgar for commercial pictures. One would have to explain away the face by saying the photographer was interested in her back. All her various parts would do if you just took the face away. And as far as the face was concerned it might have been possible to turn her into another person by adding another expression and getting her to assume that cooperative pose.

“It’s all right if you want to come back to my room.”

“Let’s have a drink. It’s on me.” I drew a stool aside, opening a space between Tashiro and myself. “Would you like a beer … or something stronger?”

“It won’t be any cheaper … time-wise. Is that all right?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Giving a derisive, nasal laugh, she climbed onto the bar stool; the front of her gown gaped open and her leg was bared to the fleshy part of her thigh. A beautiful leg, quite unexpected after the face and from the photos which had been distorted by the lens. It was a shapely, well-developed leg, which would have made one think of an athlete’s if it had not been so white. One could only say that his bias for backs, which had made him exclude even such legs, bordered on eccentricity. Doubtless a professional, she left her long naked leg uncovered, tapping in time to the music against the bar with the sandal hanging suspended from her toes.

“Well then, bartender, watch the time. I guess I’ll have a gin fizz. I’ll restrain myself.”

“You were especially recommended by a man named Nemuro.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“I think you know him. He showed me some pictures of you a while back. They covered you inch by inch.”

“Someone who took pictures … that must be a customer on the outside. You probably know that we don’t let customers take pictures in the studio.”

“Well, what do you do in the studio?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They like to see me naked … but they only look.”

“But the poses in those pictures were something. Terrific. They really got you.”

“I’m different from the beginners. But recently I haven’t been going out. I am going to be married soon. If I go out all sorts of things happen … it’s bad for my fiancé.”

“Congratulations. But if it’s true, there’ll be a lot of disappointed customers, won’t there?”

The bartender, his face perfectly expressionless, placed the gin fizz in front of the girl. The surface of the drink, with the bursting bubbles, seemed like a deep lake spewing forth a white mist. Tashiro’s rye was already gone and he had popped the huge ice cube into his mouth. Perhaps he was listening to our conversation, perhaps not; he stared absently at nothing. It was as if he was gazing at a crowd of unfeeling pedestrians who passed him by and ignored him. I gulped down what remained in my glass and ordered another round. Nervously bracing himself, Tashiro looked at me.

“Mr. Nemuro particularly will be one of those who are going to be disappointed,” he said, raising his voice above the record, but judging from the manner of his answer—he had not got the point at all—the music had made a wall unexpectedly thick, and apparently he had heard almost nothing of our conversation.

“Shall I turn down the sound further?”

“No. It’s fine. It’s best this way.”

The girl smiled sarcastically. Placing both hands on the counter, she drew herself back and, raising her naked leg, crossed it in a large arc. Her thick gleaming thigh completely filled the space between the counter and the bar stool. Putting her weight on the arm that held the glass, she turned the upper part of her body toward me, reducing the distance separating us by half. “Is the customer you were talking about the man next to me?”

“No. He’s not the one. But it doesn’t seem to be the first time here for him either. Do you remember him?”

“I can’t remember the face of every single customer. The light’s right in my eyes and the customers are as black as crows at midnight.”

“But Mr. Nemuro’s pictures were terrific,” I said, gently caressing the girl’s leg with my fingers. Seeing she put up no resistance, I boldly placed my palm on the curve of her large white thigh, while over her shoulder I could see Tashiro averting his gaze in confusion, clamping his lips on his second drink, which had just been brought, as if he could bite the glass. “Letting someone go so far in taking pictures of you is proof you were rather intimate, isn’t it?”

“What sort of work does he do?”

“He’s a section head.”

“Office workers run out of money. My fee for working outside is high. In return, I do what the client wants.” Suddenly she finished off her gin fizz, which she had been sipping slowly and, holding up her glass, ordered a second without requesting permission. “But I’m going to be married in a little while. I want a big ceremony. My bridal gown is definitely not going to be a rented one. I’m going to put up all my friends at the most expensive hotel and have a party where everyone can drink as much as he wants, all night long, free.”

“By ‘friends,’ you mean model friends? In that case, your fiancé must know about your work, doesn’t he?”

“None of your business.” I seemed to have touched a sensitive spot; she peevishly brushed my hand away. “I don’t do this work for the fun of it or to show off. Of course, I’ve had my dreams too. But I wasn’t lucky. I’ll never take second
place to anyone. If the others think they do better than I, let’s just compare bankbooks. Your purse is empty if you play the lady and do bathing-suit ads for discount houses. For my kind of work twenty-five or twenty-six is the peak, and after that the only thing left is what’s in your bankbook.”

“Then you can look your fiancé in the face.”

“It’s true. Nobody has to spend money on me. I’m the one who provides all the expenses for the ceremony and the down payment on an apartment. I’m not going to buy anyone to marry me.”

“If that’s so, then those pictures are pretty valuable articles.”

“What pictures, for heaven’s sake? You’re so secretive.”

“The ones of only your back and buttocks. Don’t you remember? The fellow who specialized in backs and buttocks. The charming dimples about the cleavage in your buttocks. Look. This one.”

Grasping a photo I had ready in my pocket, I held it in front of her eyes. Suddenly her expression changed and even her voice took on an uncompromising severity.

“How can you know it’s me?”

“Because I do.” Again I placed my hand on her thigh, absorbing her through my palm. “First of all, your hair, for instance.”

“What do you mean?” Suddenly she laughed nervously, at the same time frowning suspiciously. “That’s silly. Not everybody, but most of us wear any wig the customer demands. Right now I’m wearing long black hair on order.”

Abruptly she turned and looked at Tashiro over her shoulder, swinging her long tresses and lashing out the ends, which she grasped in her hands. I could not tell the meaning of her high-pitched woman’s voice. The expression on Tashiro’s
face was hidden by the girl’s head before I could see it. Hmm. Had it been a wig? Then I could not state positively by the hair alone that this girl and the model in the pictures were one and the same person. I could not arbitrarily claim that a wig was impossible, even in the strange pose where she had passed the hair between her thighs. If, for instance, she had held firmly between her teeth the part of the wig that attaches to the head she could have assumed approximately a similar position.

“Look. I’m sorry,” she said, comparing her thigh—the network of shallow bluish veins lent a unique feeling of transparency against the whiteness—with her hand resting on it like some great red spider. Her angry voice spat at me as I basked in a feeling of security that came through my hand. “I want you to stop these false accusations. You said pictures of me—which I find strange. I wouldn’t do that. Do you think we let pictures be taken that can be used as evidence later? I’m not an amateur. Look at this and you’ll see what I mean.”