PROLOGUE
Transcript of a police interview with
Hisako Aosawa. Interviewer: Detective T—.
File: Aosawa Murders, City of K—, I— Prefecture
What do you remember?
Being outside an old, dark, blue room.
Where was this room? Whose house was it?
I don’t know.
Why were you in the room?
I don’t know. But someone – an adult – was holding my hand. That person must have taken me to the room.
Who was it?
I don’t know.
Tell us about the room. Which part was blue?
The walls were blue. A deep, cold blue. The room was Japanese-style, with tatami mats. Very small and compact. It was an unusual design, I think – two walls faced the corridor. Parts of it were a reddish-purple colour too. I remember thinking I would hate it to be my room and have to eat meals surrounded by those walls.
Did you enter the room?
No. At least, I don’t remember going in. We just looked in from outside.
What happened next?
I don’t remember.
Can you remember anything else? Anything at all, no matter how trivial.
The crepe myrtle.
A crepe myrtle tree? With a smooth bark trunk?
No, the flower. A white crepe myrtle flower.
White? Are you sure? Not red?
Yes. I remember a pure white crepe myrtle flower. In full bloom.
Take your time and try to remember. What did you think as you looked at this white crepe myrtle flower? What did you feel?
It was so beautiful. In full bloom, with not a blemish. It was so beautiful, I was frightened.
You were frightened? Why?
I don’t know. But for some reason I was very frightened by that white flower.
1
FROM THE SEA
A conversation with Makiko Saiga, the author, thirty years after the murders
I
As always, the new season brings rain.
No, I take that back; new is not the word I’m looking for, it’s next. The next season always brings rain. That’s what it feels like in this city.
The change of season in this part of the world is never dramatic. It’s more like the gradual erosion of a boundary line every time a rain shower arrives to paint the old season over bit by bit, as the new one takes its time to turn gradually, in a vague, almost apologetic fashion.
On this side of the country rain rolls in from the sea.
I was always very aware of that as a child.
These buildings block the view from here now, but almost anywhere in the city that was even slightly elevated used to have a view of the ocean. You’d see undulating waves of ominous rain clouds, weighed down with stifling heat, creep in from the sea and rise up over the land, threatening to dump their load over the city.
When I moved to the Kanto region, I was astonished to discover that wind blew off the land there, and out into the Pacific Ocean. On the Kanto coastline you don’t get the same sense as you do here of the overbearing presence of the sea. You can be right up close to the water’s edge and still not feel it. Heat and smells that rise off the land escape out to sea. Towns throw themselves open to the ocean. And the horizon is always far in the distance, like a picture in a frame.
But the ocean here isn’t refreshing at all. Gazing at it doesn’t give you any sense of freedom or relief. And the horizon is always close, as if waiting for an opportunity to force its way onto land. It feels like you’re being watched, and if you dare look away for just a moment the sea might descend upon you. Do you see what I mean?
It’s so hot, isn’t it?
This heat is so heavy. It’s like the city is sealed up inside a steamer. Heat like this is cruel, it robs you of energy, far more than you expect.
As a child I found summer unbearable. I’d lose my appetite and barely eat. By the end of the summer holidays my diet would consist of somen noodles and barley tea, that’s about all. In photos I look thin and goggle-eyed. Have you noticed how walking over this hot asphalt makes your legs feel shaky? Now everyone has air conditioning, it’s not the summer heat that takes its toll so much as the shock of the difference between the temperature indoors and outdoors. It’s getting hotter and hotter every year, don’t you think? Climate change, I expect.
It’s been a long time.
You do realize we only lived here for four years, when I was in primary school? We came here in the spring of grade two, when I was seven, and moved to Nagano in the spring of grade six.
Yes, I spent a year going back and forth between here and Tokyo in that period.
Did you bring an umbrella? The guidebook recommends you do. The sky’s clear now, but you can’t be sure how long that will last.
As I was saying, this humidity is lethal. It saps you of all energy. Notice how the sky is a murky blue colour and the clouds have a dull glowing outline? They seem so close you feel you could reach out and touch them. That’s when you get heavy showers. Before you know it low clouds fill the sky and dump rain mercilessly on the city. An umbrella is hardly enough protection to stop ankles and shoulders getting wet – it’s enough to make you miserable and fed up.
Nobody seems to wear wellies any more, do they? I loved wearing them as a child to play in puddles, skipping through them or deliberately jumping in with both feet to make a big splash.
It doesn’t snow so much in this area. We lived in Toyama for a while before moving here, which isn’t far geographically, but the snow there was something else. It was a heavy, wet snow. The kind that would hurt if someone threw a snowball at you. The sliding paper screens in the house used to swell up with moisture and stick shut. You don’t get that kind of snow in this city.
Human beings are strange creatures, though. We soon forget. When the weather gets this humid it’s hard to believe that just a few months earlier it was wintry and cold, and we miss it.
Oh, it’s so hot.
II
Doesn’t the layout of this city strike you as odd?
It hadn’t occurred to you? Well, most cities have some kind of commercial district near the train station. That is, if a station wasn’t added later for a new bullet train line or to provide airport access. Typically, old regional cities like this one develop outwards from the station. But that’s not the case here. All you find around the station in this city is a few hotels, while the centre and main shopping area are further off.
In my experience prefectural capitals all tend to look alike. At the front of the station you’ll find a traffic circle surrounded by department stores and hotels. Then, leading from the station, a main road lined with shops, and an entertainment district in an area parallel – not quite connected, but not exactly separate – to the zone for offices and local or regional government buildings. There’s also usually some kind of redevelopment on the other side of the station, with rows of sterile new buildings. Do you see what I mean?
As a child I had trouble grasping the layout of this city. I knew where the bus stops were, and the area around each one, but I didn’t know where they were in relation to each other.
Do you mind if we just wander about?
As I was saying, other cities have visible boundaries where the centre ends. It’s clear that beyond a certain point the land is either for residential or agricultural use. The divisions are obvious.
Here, though, there’s nothing to show where the city centre ends. You can walk one way and find yourself in a teahouse district. Or if you go in another direction it’s all temples and shrines. Walk a bit further and you find old samurai houses, then the prefectural offices, then the entertainment quarter. Wherever you go, there are loosely grouped small communities that seem to go on forever. Walking around the city, as we are now, is like a synaptic experience – it’s all connected but separate. There’s no centre anywhere, only a series of loosely linked neighbourhoods. You could walk and walk and never feel like there’s any end to it. It’s like moving pieces on a Chinese chequers board.