From the Fatherland, with Love, page 50
It probably wasn’t just the government’s fault, though. Nobody in Japan had any real idea of what independent diplomacy involved. Kuroda himself had taken it for granted that if Japan was attacked by North Korea or China, the US military would automatically step in. Everyone was under the illusion that Americans would basically do all the fighting for them, unreasonable though it was to expect any country to be that benevolent. What Kuroda wanted right now was for the Japanese government to come to Fukuoka and negotiate with the KEF—and virtually all the inhabitants of Fukuoka must have felt the same way. But the government just kept up their mantra of refusing to negotiate with terrorists. “Terrorist” was a useful word that had been sealed in the public’s imagination by the 9/11 attacks. Government officials still called the KEF “the North Korean terrorist group calling itself the Koryo Expeditionary Force,” and NHK followed suit. But the local residents couldn’t care less what they were called. When the enemy were on your doorstep, the priority was to avoid getting yourself killed—even a child could understand that.
“If we attack the fleet, it’ll mean war with the KEF, won’t it?” said Kuroda. Seragi sucked up some noodles. “I don’t think so,” he muttered, shaking his head. “How can you go to war when the Prime Minister, the Cabinet, and even the public haven’t got the will for it?” On TV, the anchor with the neat side parting was asking a military expert how Japan should respond to the situation. “According to clause twelve of the revised Japan Coast Guard Law, the SDF should first fire warning shots at the fleet,” was his grave-faced answer. “Even I could have told you that much,” said a surgeon sitting behind them, provoking titters around his table. “It’s not easy to say how things might pan out after that,” the expert went on, “given all the complex political considerations and possible options.” But in fact the options were dead simple. Either they attacked despite the risk of KEF reprisals, or they decided the risk was too high and allowed the fleet to dock at Hakata Port; it was one or the other. But nobody was prepared to point out this hard reality—not the government, nor the media or the pundits. They didn’t want a terrorist attack, but neither did they want the fleet to land—so they just dithered over what to do.
“Well then, let’s have a look at what’s going on in Fukuoka,” the anchor said, as the scene cut to a middle-aged male reporter outside the Daimaru department store in Tenjin. “Yoshida-san, what do things look like from your end?” Yoshida was a familiar face, a middle-aged reporter for NHK Fukuoka. “I’m here in the busy Tenjin district, where it’s just business as usual,” he said. He seemed irritated by the question, and that prompted a smattering of applause in the cafeteria. “Yoshida-san, it’s been confirmed that the North Korean fleet has set sail,” said the anchor, but Yoshida just frowned and fiddled with his earpiece. It was a cloudy day in Fukuoka, and a strong wind was blowing. Rain was expected at any moment, and many of the people outside Daimaru were carrying umbrellas. The shops and department stores in that area were all open for business. Buses were running, and people were at work or out shopping, just as they would be in normal times. “Yoshida-san, the reinforcements have already left North Korea,” the anchor tried again, and again Yoshida fiddled with his earphone and frowned, still gazing dumbly at the camera. The anchor was clearly ruffled by this. “Wait ’im out, Yoshida!” someone said, to chuckles and cheers in the cafeteria. “Make that Tokyo bastard squirm!” said someone else, eliciting more laughter. Seragi peered intently at the TV screen, his chopsticks suspended in mid-air with a load of noodles on them. “That’s not it,” he muttered. “He’s not being contentious. He just doesn’t know how to answer—after all, it wasn’t even a question, was it?”
“Yoshida-san,” said the anchor, pulling himself together and trying a new tack. “Can you describe the mood as people go about their business in town today?” Yoshida waved a hand at his surroundings. “As I said before, things seem quite normal here,” he reported. “That anchor’s missing the point,” said Seragi. “It’s not as if there’s a typhoon on the way. It’s an army. He doesn’t seem to get that, but Yoshida does—everyone in Fukuoka knows it only too well. And he’s supposed to go around asking people how they feel? It’s ridiculous.” Seragi looked away from the screen as though he’d had enough.
Kuroda had never been bothered much by TV reporting before the KEF came along, but now it occurred to him that most viewers didn’t want facts from TV, they wanted reassurance. Just as they wanted the player who hit the game-winning home run to tell them he was happy about it, they wanted people in Fukuoka to say they were scared. That way, they could commiserate while feeling safe themselves. And TV broadcasters responded to that desire for reassurance. The scene now switched to demonstrations around the country, where thousands of people formed circles around the LNG tanks in Hiroshima, Osaka, Miura, Kanagawa, and Chiba. It was surreal to see the huge, half-buried silver gas tanks ringed by people holding hands in a bid to prevent terrorist attacks and promote peace. There had been endless talk on the TV news and chat shows about the threat of the LNG tanks being blown up and engulfing entire cities in flames. Presumably the demonstrators thought the terrorists would be deterred by the human daisy chains they were forming around them.
An elderly lady came out of the kitchen with a remote control and turned the TV volume down. Nobody wanted to watch these smug love-ins. Having finished his meal, Seragi had already turned his gaze from the TV and was talking with a plastic surgeon at the table behind. They were discussing the fact that some patients had deteriorated from the shock of the occupation, while others had perked up, determined to leave hospital as quickly as possible. Kuroda had seen similar examples in his own department. There had been quite a few elderly patients brought in with pneumonia contracted partly as a result of stress, while several patients had been so keen not to remain hospitalized right next to the KEF camp that their symptoms actually improved. Perhaps the extra motivation helped rally their immune systems.
Seragi had launched into a raunchy story from his wartime days, not bothering to lower his voice, and the younger doctors at the tables around him pricked up their ears. He rarely talked about his army days, and was scornful of people who came out with war stories when they were drunk, but it was known that he had entered the army as a minor and was stationed in North Korea. Even now, the focus of the anecdote wasn’t himself but an army doctor in his battalion who was an obvious homosexual. The army had been particularly concerned about recruits who suffered from phimosis, or non-retractile foreskin, since they were prone to infections that prevented them from fighting. In an attempt to address this problem, officers apparently gave instructions on how to stretch the skin manually. “They used to get everyone together in the large assembly hall, then say, ‘All of you with phimosis, step forward!’ It’s hard to believe it now, but nobody tried to dodge it. After all, we were all naked, and things like phimosis and piles and whatnot had already been recorded in the medical for new recruits, so they already knew who had what. Well, in every company of five hundred men, there’d be thirty or forty with phimosis. They were made to stand in a row, stark naked, and when the order was given, they had to stroke their willies all together according to instructions from a medical officer, a sergeant. And all the while, that doctor I mentioned sat glued to his chair, just staring.”
Seragi spoke dryly, without any change in his expression. Yoshizaki, the head of the cosmetic-surgery department, had asked him about his experience of North Koreans—if he didn’t think there was a streak of cruelty in the national character—not about young recruits masturbating. Perhaps Seragi wanted to avoid the question. “Guys with phimosis tended to circle the hand around the shaft, like this,” he continued, gesturing with his own right hand, “and stroke the whole thing, foreskin and all. The sergeant would see that and start bellowing in a voice that rattled the walls: ‘Not like that, you fools!’”
Everybody at the nearby tables laughed, and someone from the obstetrics and gynecology department said, “But could they get it up, with hundreds of guys watching?” To this Seragi replied, “Sure they could—they were young and sex-starved, and where was a new recruit going to find a woman? No, they didn’t have any problem getting it up. Well, the sergeant would then tell them how to proceed. ‘The proper method for masturbation is as follows. You hold the penis in the left hand and peel back the foreskin with the right, exposing the head of the penis, which you then stimulate directly. If you find the friction painful, just rub a little spit on it.’ You see, if boys with phimosis didn’t pull back the foreskin first, it would stretch even more and just make the condition worse. Anyway, then the sergeant would get one particular soldier to come up on stage and demonstrate. This fellow was from Tohoku, had been in the army a couple of years already, and his cock was a monster—so big that even the guys in the back of the hall could see it clearly. He’d get up on stage and bawl out his own name and rank, then rip off his loincloth and start stroking it like a master, as if he was playing an instrument. And all the rookies with phimosis were made to get up there and perform alongside him. Thirty or forty boys up there pulling on their hard-ons—it was quite a spectacle. And when the spunk started flying, that doctor I told you about would get so carried away that he’d jump up out of his chair and yell ‘Banzai!’”
The cafeteria erupted in laughter. Even the kitchen ladies poked their heads out to see what was going on. Kuroda wondered whether the old man told stories like this at home too. After his wife died, he had moved in with his granddaughter. Seragi Yoko was a dermatologist here at the hospital, but she was a self-effacing, well-mannered woman. How on earth did she cope living with a loudmouthed grandfather who casually told stories about monster dicks?
After the laughter died down, Seragi turned serious. “Some of the junior officers I knew were fine men who’d studied science and engineering at technical schools and colleges around the country. They were talented, and decent, too. There are people who say that burying your nose in books is bad for you, but I don’t agree—knowledge and skill make a person’s character. Better to read even one book on the natural sciences or philosophy than do Zazen or stand under a waterfall, I say. Not all the Japanese troops in Korea or China were bastards, obviously, but… Do you see what I’m getting at, Yoshizaki?” Yoshizaki said he thought he did: “There’s no such thing as ‘cruelty’ as a national character. Is that it?” Seragi said, “Something like that, I guess.” He put the box of yuzu pepper paste back in his pocket and looked around at his audience.
Kuroda was just getting to his feet when his cellphone rang. At the same moment, his name was announced over the PA system: “Dr. Kuroda, please report immediately to the main entrance.” On the phone was the head of security, Koshida, who informed him in a shaky voice that the KEF army doctor and officer who had brought in the injured soldier the day before were waiting for him there. Kuroda wondered why they’d asked for him, but then remembered that he’d given them his name card—they were so correct and well mannered that he’d automatically responded in kind. “Do you know what they want?” he asked, but was told, “They said they’ll tell you when they see you. Please come quickly.”
“What’s up?” Seragi asked Kuroda, a mischievous expression on his face. When Kuroda told him, he looked amused. “Maybe they’ve found out about your crimes. Drop by the pharmacy and get yourself some Voltaren in case they arrest you,” he called after him. “It might help a bit when you’re being tortured.”
“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble,” the KEF officer said to Kuroda, “but would you mind accompanying us to the command center?” They were waiting outside the front entrance, which was where they’d been yesterday, but this time he was surprised to see they had a car with them. It was a large gray Toyota sedan with a little KEF flag attached to the wing mirror. A junior officer, presumably the driver, had opened the rear passenger door and was standing at attention beside it. On the TV news, Kuroda had seen an officer—the one with a keloidal scar where his ear had once been—pull up to City Hall in the same car. At least he probably wasn’t being arrested, since they used an MAV to transport detainees. But it was only a few minutes’ walk from the Medical Center to the Sea Hawk Hotel—was the car because they were in a hurry, or was it out of respect for him? What would he do if they demanded that he become their official doctor, or help establish a military hospital or something?
“How long do you need me for?” Kuroda asked the officer. The doctor said something in Korean, which was translated as two hours. Two hours—well, he could probably manage that. Kuroda called up Takahashi, the director of the respiratory department, and explained the situation, asking him to change the afternoon shift of consultations. Takahashi had already heard from the head of security that the KEF had come to see Kuroda, but he was surprised to learn that he’d been summoned to their command center. “Are you sure it’s all right?” he asked, the worry evident in his voice. “Well, they’ve gone to the trouble of sending a car for me, and they asked so politely, it’s kind of hard to refuse,” Kuroda told him. “I guess,” said Takahashi. “But you take care, all right?” And just how am I supposed to do that, Kuroda wondered as he hung up. Before getting into the car, he asked the officer why, out of almost two hundred doctors in the hospital, they had chosen him. This was translated for the army doctor, who brought out the name card Kuroda had given him yesterday and said something. So that’s all it was, thought Kuroda. But the officer interpreting pointed to the job title under Kuroda’s name. Beneath “Deputy Director of Respiratory Medicine, National Kyushu Medical Center” was a second title that read “Lecturer in Virology, Faculty of Medicine, Kyushu University.”
A few spots of rain appeared on the windshield. The army doctor in the front passenger seat had given his name as Heo Jip, while the interpreter sitting to Kuroda’s right was Pak Myeong. Kuroda wondered why they needed a specialist in virology. Had something happened at the Sea Hawk Hotel? If there’d been an outbreak of some infectious disease, he couldn’t deal with it alone; he would have to call in specialist staff from the public-health department. And all he taught at the university was basic virology for first-year students, nothing advanced or specialized. After graduating from university he’d worked, on the recommendation of his professor, as a technician in the graduate school virology lab at Kyoto University. Spending his days collating lab data on viral infections helped him realize he was more interested in clinical medicine, and he left Kyoto after two years and returned to Fukuoka, where he was soon invited to join the respiratory department at the Medical Center. Known for its advocacy of advanced comprehensive medical care, the hospital had many elderly or seriously ill patients, and there were frequent outbreaks of viral respiratory infections.
Perhaps he should warn them that they also ought to contact the public-health department, he thought as the car pulled slowly away from the entrance. The hospital building receded behind him. It was then that he noticed the distinctive smell in the car. It was a pungent odor, like spicy miso and kimchi mixed with sweat, and Kuroda suddenly found himself struggling for breath. He regretted complying with their request to accompany them. He should have realized that meeting just outside the hospital was one thing, but being taken to their HQ was quite another. In the hospital he was surrounded by friends and colleagues and felt safe. He should at least have found someone to go with him.
A revolver with a dull black hammer was at Pak’s hip, and grenades shaped like baby pineapples hung from the driver’s belt. The three North Koreans sat in oppressive silence. Enveloped in that oppressive smell, Kuroda’s thoughts turned dark, and he began to revise his impression of the army doctor and his interpreter. He had thought there was a certain charm to Heo Jip’s large eyes, but here in the car the man looked downright gloomy. Beneath a pointed nose were thin, bloodless lips, and now he could see cruelty in those round, deep-set eyes. He’d been thinking of trying to find out more about KEF medical issues, but he now realized this wasn’t someone he could enjoy a conversation with. Pak Myeong, seated beside him, might have passed for nobility, but his refined features, seen up close, seemed cold and mask-like, and though young, he had no trace of youthfulness in him. He must be about the age of the trainee doctors at the Medical Center but was utterly unlike any of them. His strangely mature face was taut with discipline and wariness.
The road from the hospital to the Sea Hawk Hotel passed by the KEF camp, and to reach the hotel entrance on the Dome side you had to do a U-turn at Checkpoint A, just before Yokatopia Bridge. Kuroda had often been inside the hotel for a party or seminars in one of the banquet halls. He could see the camp on his left. It looked emptier than usual, probably because of the rain. One large tent in particular stood out, and in a clearing in front of it were two upright wooden posts about two meters high, though one was slightly shorter than the other. They were square-sided, perhaps a hand’s width across, and blackish—probably scrap lumber taken from the nearby landfill. Sandbags had been piled up behind them. It looked like the setting for some kind of ritual or ceremony. Or perhaps the posts would be wrapped in wadding for use in bayonet training. No soldiers were in sight, but it all looked a little spooky. Noticing the direction of Kuroda’s gaze, Heo said something to Pak. “That’s for the execution this evening,” Pak explained, but his pronunciation was a little odd, and to Kuroda it sounded like “eggs section.” He assumed it was some kind of North Korean custom or celebration, and just nodded in reply.
