The Nicholas Linnear Novels (107 page)

“Yes, Obā-chama,” Nangi said softly. The bursting of his months-long frustration had brought no relief. Rather it had given rise to a feeling of dull depression.

“Lift your head up, Tanzan-chan,” the old woman said. “I want to look in your eyes when I speak to you.” Nangi did as he was told. “You look as if all is lost, my son. It is not.” Her tone had changed, softening just a bit. “You speak to me of how ingenious your thinking is at the ministry. It is time to bring some of that home, to guide yourself.

“It is my understanding that in order to receive promotions each junior bureaucrat must have a senior to champion him. Tell me, my son, who is your
sempai
?”

“I have none, as yet, Obā-chama.”

“Ah.” The old woman put down her cup and folded her mottled hands in her lap. “Now we come to the root of the problem. You must have a
sempai.
” She knitted her brows together, her eyes crossed in concentration, the stylized
mie
used in the
kabuki
theater and in art. “The first three factions have been put aside, but what about
kyōdobatsu.
Have we, by chance, a vice-minister who comes, as you do, from Yamaguchi prefecture?”

Nangi thought for a moment. “The only bureaucrat of such senior position is Yoichirō Makita. He was born in Yamaguchi just down the road from me.”

“Well, then.”

“Obā-chama, Makita-san was minister of the Munitions Ministry during the war. He is now a class A criminal serving time in Sugamo Prison.”

Now Obā-chama smiled. “You have been so busy working away at your ministry you have no time to read the newspapers. Your Makita-san has been in the news lately. You know that as well as being munitions minister, Makita-san had also been granted cabinet minister status by Tōjō.” Nangi stared at her clear-eyed. It seemed as if he had suddenly awakened from a dream. What was in Obā-chama’s mind?

“When the Americans captured Saipan in 1944, Makita-san publicly expressed his belief that the war was over for Japan and that we should throw up our arms in surrender.

“Tōjō was outraged. Well, who can blame him, really. In those days the word ‘surrender’ had been struck from the language, and rightly so, in the spirit of the intense patriotism we all rallied around.”

“But Makita-san was right,” Nangi said.

“Oh, yes.” She nodded her gray head. “Just so. But Tōjō called him to task. Cabinet minister or no he would have no more of this defeatist talk. As the head of the
Kempeitai***
he could have had Makita-san executed. But he did not. As it happened the minister had a number of influential friends in the Imperial Household, the Diet, even the bureaucracy, and they were strong enough to stay Tōjō’s hand.”

Obā-chama picked up her tiny cup, poured herself more tea. “These facts have just come to light. Last week, Makita-san’s status was changed to unindicted class A war criminal and the machinery is currently under way to depurge him.” Those dark eyes watched Nangi carefully over the rim of the delicate tea cup. She swallowed and said, “You know, my son, Makita-san served as vice-minister of commerce and industry under three cabinets and as minister under a fourth. That would certainly make him
sempai
, would it not?”

“Hai.”

Obā-chama smiled charmingly. “Now eat your rice cakes, my son. I baked them especially for you.”

Sugamo Prison was a depressing place. It had nothing to do with the physical aspect of the place, which was altogether ordinary. In fact, in those areas not given over to cells, it might have been the repository for any one of the myriad ministerial bureaus housed across the city.

The indifference of those who ran Sugamo appalled Nangi more than anything else. Yes, there were
iteki
—as Obā-chama would call them—always present. But it seemed to Nangi as if the everyday administration of the prison had been given over to the Japanese, and it was the behavior of these people that affected Nangi so intensely. To a man they exuded the shame and indignity the SCAP forces had put them through incarcerating their own people. The daily horror of feeding, exercising, observing, and, most of all, punishing these war criminals was tattooed on their faces as clearly as if they were the inky artwork covering Yakuza flesh.

It took Nangi three weeks to burrow through the labyrinth of red tape guarding the entrance to Sugamo like a Gordian knot. His vice-minister was of some help, though the man himself was unaware that his signature on a form in triplicate helped Nangi open the steel-clad doors of the prison.

The scent of defeat rather than despair perfumed the atmosphere inside Sugamo. Bars were everywhere in evidence, and during his hours there the resulting striped sunlight gradually came to seem normal to Nangi.

Because Makita-san had been declassified and was in the process of being depurged, they allowed him to sit across from Nangi without the usual steel net screen between them.

Nangi could remember having seen Yoichiro Makita only once—in a photograph in the newspaper announcing his appointment as munitions minister. That man had been hearty and as rotund as a Chinese, with a fine, wide face and broad, heroic shoulders. The Makita who now appeared before him had another appearance entirely. His body had lost most of its weight. Because one could now see that he was a relatively large-boned man, his undermuscled flesh appeared as thin as the skin over it. He had an unhealthy pallor that made him appear almost jaundiced.

But oddest of all, his face had lost none of its roundness. If anything, that moonlike quality had inexplicably increased, bloating his features. All save his eyes, which seemed sunken in soft folds of meaty flesh.

Nangi expressed none of his dismay in either tone or movement, merely bowed formally as he introduced himself.

Makita nodded absently, said, “Good of you to come,” as if he knew precisely why Nangi had shown up. “It is time for my exercise.” He waved a hand in an aimless gesture. “I hope it will not inconvenience you overmuch if you accompany me outside.”

Sugamo’s version of “outside” was a narrow strip of courtyard between two buildings that rose up, bricked and barred, on either side of the lane. At one end was a brick wall too high for any human being to climb but crowned with corkscrews of barbed wire all the same. At the other end was a glassed-in guard tower. The tarmac on which they walked was hard and unyielding.

“Please excuse my silences,” Makita said. “I am no longer used to talking except to myself.” He walked with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, his enormous head down. Already he evinced the shuffle of an old man.

Nangi was no longer certain of his course. Could this burned-out husk of a man actually become his
sempai
? It seemed unlikely now that he had come in physical contact with him. It seemed as if his best days were behind him. Nangi was about to excuse himself, saying it was all a mistake, and accept his loss of face as
karma
, when Makita turned to him.

“So what is it about me that has caused you to seek me out here in the depths of the netherworld, young man?”

“
Kanryōdō
.” Nangi said it automatically, without thinking. “I am seeking my way in the new Japan.”

“Indeed.” Makita said nothing more for the moment, but his head had come up. They commenced walking again.

“You work for which ministry?”

“MCI, Makita-san, in the Minerals Bureau.”

“Uhm.” Makita seemed lost in thought, but Nangi noticed that he was no longer the shuffling old man he had been at the outset of the walk. “I’ll tell you what is most interesting to me, Nangi-san. The Americans are now more interested in the burgeoning worldwide Communist threat than they are in us as a defeated power.

“When SCAP first set up shop here they were adamant about one point. They claimed that since we had brought on our own economic woes, the Allies were not going to be responsible for setting us back on our feet, so to speak.

“Interesting, Nangi-san, because as soon as they found out that due to the complete collapse of our international trade that tack would only ensure a Communist revolution here, they switched one hundred eighty degrees and insisted that the state take complete control of all economic measures.

“Good for us who practice
kanryōdō.
But even better, they removed the largest thorn in our side, the
zaibatsu.
As you know, Nangi-san, these giant cartels were our biggest rivals before and during the war. They snatched economic power from us bureaucrats as often as they could. But by doing this they ensured their own destruction. SCAP rightfully decided that the
zaibatsu
were responsible for our wartime economy, and they have been banned. The ministries have their power now, and it must be like having stepped into the promised land.

“Now Japan is perceived as a bulwark for America against the further spread of Communism in this part of the world. As such it has come to my attention that SCAP’s first priority is to make our postwar economy viable.” Makita stopped and turned to Nangi. “And do you know how they propose to do that, young man?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

“International trade, of course.” They began walking again, up and down beneath the gaze of the guards and the fulminating sky. “And that being the case, it seems obvious to me that the Ministry of Commerce and Industry has outlived its usefulness.”

There was silence for a time. It seemed to Nangi that outside the prison walls the wind had picked up, but it was difficult to tell. Certainly the sun had been occluded by dense, dark gray clouds. He swallowed, aware that the barometer was falling. A storm was coming.

“Everyone at MCI is split into two camps,” Nangi said. “Half believe in the
seisan fukkō setsu
, reconstruction through production, and the commitment to heavy industry buildup; the other half are advocates of the
tsūka kaikaku setsu,
the control of inflation and a commitment to light industries that would take immediate advantage of our cheap and large labor pool.”

Makita laughed. “And which side do you adhere to, my advocate of
kanryōdo
?”

“Actually to neither side.”

“Eh?” Makita stopped and peered at Nangi in the gathering gloom. “Explain yourself, young man.”

Nangi steeled himself. This was just one of the ideas he had been formulating that he could not articulate to anyone at the ministry. Now he would see if Obā-chama had been right in guiding him to Makita.

“It seems to me that we must devote ourselves to the expansion of heavy industry, if only for the greater value of the finished products. But to ignore currency reform would, in my opinion, be a grave error, for if inflation is allowed to spread out of control it won’t matter what kind of industry we are beginning to build. It will all collapse like a house in an earthquake.”

Makita stood up straight, and Nangi got the impression that the other man was looking at him as if for the first time. In the ensuing silence, a rumble of thunder could just be discerned, muffled as it was by the high walls. Once trapped in there, however, it reverberated in blurred overlapping waves like the echo of a temple gong, calling the gods for supplication. It was very dark now, a premature evening or the first slide into an eclipse. Nevertheless, Makita’s eyes glittered fiercely like diamonds at the bottom of a well.

“An interesting theory, Nangi-san. Yes. But to carry it out we would need a ministry that went beyond MCI, the Board of Trade, or any other now in existence, do you not agree?” Nangi nodded. “We would need a ministry with broader powers. A large ministry whose primary function was the manipulation of international trade.” His head came around like that of a great predator. “Do you see that, Nangi-san?”

“Hai. So desū.”

“Why?”

“Because of the Americans,” Nangi said immediately. “If they are suddenly in such desperate need for us to become a viable country again—to protect their Far East flank—then it will be their international trade which must pull us up. Nothing else will work as quickly or as completely.”

“Yes, Nangi-san. It is the Americans we must make our closest, though unwitting, allies in this venture. For SCAP will help us create a ministry able to wield
denka no hōtō,
the
samurai
sword. That status accorded us will bend both government and industry to our will.”

Then rain came with a great surge of moisture and almost no wind because of the narrowness of the space. Within moments they were drenched, but neither seemed to mind.

Makita came closer to Nangi and said, “We are from the same prefecture, Nangi-san. That is as good as a blood bond. No, better. If I cannot trust you then I can trust no one, not even my wife, for her second cousin married one of my chief rivals not more than two weeks ago.” He huffed. “So much for loyalty among family.” The rain pattered against the tarmac, soaking their socks and making their shoes squeak when they moved.

“Now, there are two immediate problems. One is that as long as I am in here I am not as well informed as I might be. Go back to your job at MCI, Nangi-san, and in your spare time gather dossiers of as many of the ministers and vice-ministers as you can. I know where you work and you are only down the hall from the central file.

“The second problem is mine as well. I am being depurged by a most difficult man, a high member of the SCAP team, a British colonel by the name of Linnear. He is a very thorough fellow, and his annoying attention to detail is holding up my release.”

Makita smiled. “But I will make him pay for prolonging my incarceration.” He put a hand on Nangi’s arm for a moment, an unusual gesture. “When finally I am released, rest assured that this
iteki
shall hand over to me the information we will need to complete our files and begin our own
mabiki,
our weeding-out process.”

The Board of Trade that Makita had mentioned was a fascinating institution. Because of the terms of the Potsdam Declaration which Japan had accepted as part of its surrender, no private Japanese could engage in international trade. Everything had to go through SCAP.

Therefore the Occupation Forces created a Japanese organization in charge of accounting for and distributing imports brought in by SCAP and handing over to SCAP exports manufactured by local manufacturers.