“Very, very sick?” Imanishi asked.
“It would depend on individual susceptibility, of course. Those who are especially vulnerable could even die -if the cycle of sound waves went on and on.”
“I see,” Imanishi said. And he did.
SIXTEEN A Certain Family Register
A letter addressed to Imanishi arrived from the town office, Nita Town, Shimane Prefecture.
Imanishi Eitaro, Police Inspector
Tokyo Metropolitan Police
Your previous request for information about Motoura Chiyokichi has taken some time to investigate. The following is a report of the information we have been able to obtain so far.
Reviewing our old records, we have found that Motoura Chiyokichi entered Jikoen Sanatorium in xx Village, Kojima County, Okayama Prefecture, on June 22, 1938. As so much time has passed, we have not been able to obtain all the details, but we have finally uncovered the record books from that time, enabling us to report the exact date. However, this record book makes no reference to Motoura’s son, Hideo, who was said to have accompanied him. It is likely that Miki Ken’ichi, the police officer stationed in Kamedake who made the arrangements, dealt with the matter.
That information would have been in the daily records of the police substation. However, the records for 1938 have already been disposed of.
It can be surmised from the situation surrounding the event that officer Miki arranged for only the patient Motoura to enter Jikoen Sanatorium, separating him from the apparently healthy boy, Hideo.
We are most interested in what Hideo decided to do after he was taken into protection, but, regrettably, that is unknown. Judging from officer Miki’s character, we think that he must have arranged for Hideo to stay with a family. Our investigation turned up no information about this. We conclude that Hideo ran away from that family of his own volition. This is a common occurrence when a child has led a life of wandering.
I submit this as our final report on this matter.
General Affairs Section Head,
Town Office, Nita Town
Imanishi remained deep in thought for a long while. He could see the Kamedake road in early summer. On a hot day, a father and son, wandering beggars, walked along this road. The father’s body was covered with pus-filled infections. Seeing this unfortunate pair, police officer Miki persuaded the father to enter Jikoen Sanatorium and took the seven-year-old son under his wing. But the boy, used to a traveling life with his father, was unable to respond to the care he received. One day he ran away without warning. Covered with dirt, the boy crossed the ridge of the Chugoku Mountain Range to the south. There, he took one of two possible roads. One road led to Hiba County at the northern edge of Hiroshima Prefecture, the other to Okayama. Which road had the boy taken?
No, he could have retraced his steps alone in the direction from which he and his father had come. That would lead to Shinji and on to Yasugi and Yonago. He might have continued walking to Tottori. These three were the routes that the waif could have taken. Whichever road he had walked, he had finally reached Osaka.
In Osaka, the waif was taken in by someone and possibly adopted into a family.
Imanishi could not waste time on a letter of inquiry asking for an investigation. He boarded the night express train to Osaka. Imanishi closed his eyes as he sat on the uncomfortable seats and sipped whiskey from a pocket flask that he had bought for the journey. The sound of the night train followed a simple rhythm. It was not an unpleasant sound. In some ways it was as gentle as a lullaby.
Sounds. Sounds.
“Both high-frequency and low-frequency sound waves are felt as very unpleasant sensations.” Hamanaka’s voice echoed in his mind.
Imanishi arrived at Osaka Station at eight-thirty the next morning. At the police box he asked for directions to Ebisu-cho in Naniwa Ward. The policeman turned around to look at a large map on the wall.
“That’s west of Tennoji Park, mister,” he said in a thick Osaka accent.
“Is the ward office near there as well?”
“It’s about five hundred yards to the north.”
Imanishi hailed a taxi that drove south through Osaka’s morning air.
“Driver, where is the Naniwa Ward Office?” Imanishi asked as they started up Tennoji hill.
“The Naniwa Ward Office is that building you can see over there.” The taxi driver had a thick Osaka accent as well.
Imanishi looked at his watch. It was ten minutes before nine. The ward office would not be open.
“Mister, do you want to stop at the ward office?”
“No, I’ll do that later.”
Imanishi gave an address to the driver. They turned onto a street lined with shops, none of which had opened yet.
“The stores in this area look very nice,” Imanishi said.
“Yes, it was totally rebuilt after the war.”
“Does that mean that this whole area was burned in an air raid?”
“Yes, mister, it was totally destroyed.”
“Which air raid was that?”
“It was near the end of the war, on March 14, 1945. A large contingent of B-29s rained fire bombs on this area.”
“I suppose many people died?”
“Yes, several thousand.”
The date was the one Imanishi had etched in his mind from Tokyo.
“Mister, we’re here.”
Imanishi looked to find that they had stopped in front of a clothing wholesaler. “Is this the number I gave you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Imanishi paid the fare. In this neighborhood all the houses were new. Not one old, prewar building survived. The clothing wholesaler’s sign read “Tangoya Shop.” Imanishi stood in the doorway of the shop, which was fitted with shelves crammed with bolts of cloth. He was made to wait a while to see the shop owner.
“Welcome,” an old man over sixty said in the Osaka merchant’s dialect, as he came from a back room wearing a kimono with a navy blue traditional apron. He had been told who Imanishi was. “Thank you for coming. Is there something I can help you with?” The old man kneeled down.
Imanishi heard what the Tangoya shop owner had to say. The old man, who was as thin as a withered tree, said that his family had lived in this spot for generations. Therefore, he was very familiar with the area’s history.
After listening to the old man for some thirty minutes, Imanishi left the shop and walked up a gentle slope to the ward office. He assumed there was a school nearby, since he could hear the clamor of children’s voices. Again he was reminded of the nature of sounds. Annoyingly loud noises. Unpleasant sounds.
Imanishi remembered the words the dying Emiko had uttered. “Stop it, please. Oh, no, no. I’m afraid something will happen to me. Stop it, please, stop, stop…” He continued to think as he walked, his shoulders hunched over. A streetcar passed by. The tracks were curved, and the wheels produced a screeching, metallic sound. Abrasive sounds, unpleasant sounds. A flock of pigeons flew up in the sky. The bright sunlight glanced off their wings.
Arriving at the ward office, Imanishi showed his police identification to a young woman clerk at the window of the family register section.
“I’d like to ask some questions.”
“Yes?”
“Is this the family registered at Number 120, 2 Ebisu-cho, Naniwa Ward?” He showed her the address in his notebook.
