And yet . . .
If anyone was capable of opening a window to the outside, it was Mikumo. While he’d felt discouraged by her missionary zeal, like sun shining through a biting wind, another part of his mind had caught sight of a fleeting but welcome hope. And not just because she was uncontaminated, or a woman. She had grown wings in the course of a single night, and he’d seen in that a limitless potential. The impossible stopped being so. She could connect with the reporters. She could wade through the scum of one-upmanship and ambition, clear the waters for a younger, more naive earnestness to shine through.
She was right, he knew it. Tactics could never genuinely move a person. He wanted to believe they were both gazing at the same peak, even if they saw different routes, even if a landslide had left them both unable to move. He hadn’t forgotten: two sides were needed to shake hands.
They were trying too hard to be smart.
‘Sir,’ Mikumo started, sounding formal. ‘Please, let me work with the reporters.’
Mikami tutted. He made a wincing smile, surprised she’d even ask at this point.
I’m not afraid to dirty my hands a little.
He could still hear the words from the night before aching in his ears, but he felt confident now that she wouldn’t do anything rash. She’d just told him the best tactic was to minimize tactics.
‘Sign up for once-a-week training – on how to make an arrest.’
‘Sir . . .?’
‘Did anyone try to touch you, make a pass?’
She looked scandalized. In the next moment, the look dissolved into a smile.
‘No, nothing of the sort. I think I actually scared them off.’
‘I can see where they’re coming from,’ Mikami said, breathing out, checking the clock on the wall.
It was five minutes to two.
He’d expected the meeting to have ended by now, but Kuramae had yet to return. Sensing what was on his mind, Mikumo put on a serious face and bowed. She told him she was going to help with clearing up after the meeting and walked out.
Mikami leaned into his chair. He lit a cigarette. He took what felt like his first normal breath in a while. Eventually, he let out a chuckle.
He thought back to the look on Mikumo’s face as she’d turned around briefly on her way out. All the formality had gone from her eyes. He’d recognized it as a measure of gratitude, affection in the way one would think of a parent, but he’d also seen traces of the particular familiarity that was shared after a romantic encounter, even the joy of discovery he’d witnessed in Akama’s daughter when she’d found herself able to communicate with a single glance. Inside everyone is unlimited potential. People might work for you, but that doesn’t mean their emotions are any less valid.
Mikami knew it well enough – he’d spent twenty-eight years working for other people. He understood that no one was unquestioning in their obedience, just as he realized that no leader could ever hope to understand the inner workings of their staff. Yet they still made themselves gods. Whenever someone was newly appointed to them, they would tend to classify them as this or that kind of person, applying brightly coloured tabs to shoehorn them into the role they wanted performed.
Mikami had been the same at home.
Even at home.
A gentle wife who kept to herself. A daughter, spoiled but kind at heart.
He’d been quick to label them for whatever reason, then leave the classification unchecked, unaltered, as five, then ten years had gone by.
Had he known Ayumi at all?
Mikami felt himself tense, recognizing the onset of his dizziness. Everything around him started to go black. His vision blurred and spun. He pushed his elbows out and lay his face flat on the desk.
Ayumi was standing there, inscrutable, as his head lurched.
44
The only sound was the ticking of the office clock.
As before, the attack abated after five minutes. All that remained was a lingering echo, like a fading cramp in the leg, causing Mikami to forget all ideas of check-ups and hospital appointments.
Even after half past two, neither Kuramae nor Mikumo had come back. Nor had anybody called to let him know the meeting was over. Knowing they were due to discuss anonymous reporting, he had expected the press to deliver lengthy, padded-out speeches, but this was taking too long even with that in mind.
He had finally got hold of Odate. His wife had called out with the vitality of a young woman when he’d given her his name.
‘Mikami. It’s been a long time.’
‘Sorry I haven’t been better at staying in touch.’
‘Not at all, we know things are busy. How are Minako and Ayumi? I trust they’re well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Mikami had decided not to tell the truth, not wanting to add to the strain the director was already under. Even so, it had been three months already. He’d expected the information to have reached him by now. That it hadn’t only provided a glimpse into the solitude of retirement, of growing distant from the force, even for a man like Odate, who had worked his way up to becoming director of Criminal Investigations.
‘Do you mind if I ask what you’re calling about? My husband is resting at the moment. It’s the rehabilitation exercises, they really wear him out. I do sometimes wonder if they’re actually doing any good . . .’
Laughter flooded into his ear. While Odate’s retirement had meant an increased separation from the force, it had also allowed him a peaceful life at home. Where his wife had previously been reserved, always a few steps behind her husband, she was now bright and open, perhaps relieved of the hidden burden her role had exacted.
‘How is the director coping?’
‘Really quite well, actually. The mouth is still a problem, of course. Should I get him to call you when he’s up again? Although I’m sure he’ll be getting me to do the calling.’ She laughed again at the little joke.
‘Actually, I wanted to ask whether I could come over tonight, depending on the director’s condition, of course.’
‘Oh! I’m sure he’d be delighted.’
The internal line started to ring on his desk. Odate’s wife seemed to pick up on the sound.
‘Okay, I’ll be sure to pass on the message.’
‘That’s appreciated. I won’t impose myself for long. I’ll call to let you know when I’m leaving the office.’
There wasn’t anything to suggest that Futawatari had been there ahead of him. Feeling a measure of relief, Mikami ended the call. He reached for the ringing phone, assuming it would be either Suwa or Kuramae.
‘Mikami. This is Urushibara.’
Mikami reeled with the sudden change. What the hell could Urushibara want? Two days had passed since Mikami had called him. Urushibara had found it easy to fend him away, but that had been before he’d learned the truth about the Koda memo.