Ryūnosuke pointed at the door. ‘He has just gone out.’
‘Why, you are still dreaming,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t you know who you are talking to? It is your own reflection in the mirror.’
Suddenly, the film jumped, appeared to snap in two. The lights in the theatre went up. The woman beside Ryūnosuke dug her nails into his arm, bit his ear and said, ‘So that is how it ends.’
*
Yasukichi Horikawa was in the Paulista café in Ginza, chatting with the editor of another literary magazine to which he sometimes contributed articles and stories. No sooner had he met one deadline for one story for one editor than Yasukichi would agree to another deadline for another story for another editor. This editor was eating a second baked apple and talking about the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Yasukichi interrupted him: ‘Actually, I feel I am becoming trapped inside a tale by Poe. Just the other day, at an end-of-year party, I bumped into that one-legged German translator. He said he had seen me in a tobacco shop near here and was offended when I ignored him. But I was in Yokosuka at the time, teaching as usual. But when he described what had occurred, I realised this “second-self” of mine had been wearing exactly what I had been wearing that day: a raincoat. And this is the second time this has happened to me recently.’
‘So you are a believer in what the Germans call a doppelgänger,’ asked the editor. ‘They do say we live in the Age of the Double.’
Yasukichi sighed. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between two of his fingers and said, ‘I don’t know. But if it’s not my so-called “second-self”, then what if someone is deliberately impersonating me, and with some ill intention? I am afraid neither explanation is very welcome.’
‘Then you also believe the doppelgänger to be a harbinger of bad luck,’ asked the editor. ‘Even death?’
Yasukichi sighed again. ‘I don’t know. But either way, I do feel as though I am being stalked by something or somebody.’
‘If that is what you truly believe,’ said the editor, ‘then you should see someone. Someone who might be able to help you.’
Yasukichi smiled and said, ‘Like who? A doctor?’
‘A private detective,’ said the editor.
Yasukichi shook his head. ‘I detest detectives, I hate detectives. Detectives cannot even pass for human beings. They are machines.’
‘But detectives and writers surely have much in common,’ said the editor, smiling. ‘In different ways, both search for the truth …’
Yasukichi snorted. ‘Nonsense. It is extremely rude to compare a writer and a detective. Theirs is a profession whose essence is to search for the truth in the most vulgar of senses. And if there are writers who only profess truth and do not care what happens to other ideals such as beauty and morality, then such writers must be people with a defect. Perhaps not as individuals, but certainly as writers. And I would say they are unhealthy. Akin to pickpockets and thieves.’
‘On what unfortunate personal experience are you basing such a rant,’ laughed the editor. ‘Have you had trouble with a detective?’
Yasukichi shook his head and said, ‘No. Luckily, I have never had the misfortune to ever meet a detective.’
‘So these are simply your observations, then?’
Yasukichi smiled and said, ‘Not simply my observations, no. Simply my observations would make me no better than a detective, too. These are my opinions; my opinions based on my knowledge, my knowledge formed by my observations.’
‘But you have had no personal experience with detectives,’ said the editor. ‘You have never even met one.’
Yasukichi shook his head again. ‘As far as I know. But more than likely, I have been tailed. In fact, I am certain I have been followed by a detective. And that probably explains my feeling of being stalked. As have you, no doubt. Such is modern life in the modern city.’
‘But then perhaps you should meet a detective,’ said the editor with a grin. He took out his wallet, then a name-card from the wallet. He placed the name-card on the table before Yasukichi –
‘Know-your-enemy, so-to-speak,’ he laughed.
Yasukichi looked down at the name-card on the table, then back up at the room. The mirrors set in the café walls reflected him in endless doubles. Coldly, menacingly mocking him.
‘At the very least, you’ll surely get a story out of it,’ said the editor.
Yasukichi sighed. ‘You mean, you will.’
*
Ryūnosuke put down his pen again. He picked up the packet of Golden Bat cigarettes. He put them straight back down on the desk. He picked up the packet of Shikishima instead. He took out a cigarette. He put it to his lips. He picked up the box of matches, shook it twice, then took out a match and lit his cigarette. He looked down at the manuscript paper and sighed, blowing smoke across the desk. He reached for the pile of envelopes. He flicked through them, turning them over one by one, reading the name and address of the sender on the back. He came to an envelope with no name or address on the back. He put the cigarette in the ashtray. He picked up the letter knife. He opened the envelope. He took out the letter and he read:
Dear Sir,
You are being watched.
Your behaviour at the Mikado restaurant in Manseibashi the other evening was unpardonable. The woman is married with a young son, and you yourself are engaged. If you do not immediately break off relations with the woman in question, then I will inform her husband and your fiancée.
Please do not doubt my resolve or sincerity.
Remember, you are being watched.
Ryūnosuke let the letter fall from his hand onto the desk. He stared down at the letter, the letter lying on top of the manuscript paper. He reached for the cigarette, but it was now just a fallen column of ash. He picked up the packet of Shikishima, put it straight back down again. He picked up the
