Lady Joker, Volume 1 by Kaoru Takamura (lightest ebook reader .txt) 📕

that the clock read 9:13 a.m., Shiroyama thanked Ide for his efforts and dismissed him. He was aware of the confusion within his own mind as he glanced at the black minutes log that had been set on his desk.

The forty-eight-year-old log smelled musty and its cover was so decayed that it looked as if it might peel away with a single touch. Perhaps right after the war they had not been able to hold board meetings as frequently—this log was much thinner than the ones they used nowadays. Shiroyama noticed a trace of discoloration near the knot on the binding string that held the log book together. He did not have to wonder what the mark signified—it was clear that someone had very recently retied the forty-eight-year-old knot.

Shiroyama opened the minutes log, confirmed that the date in July was followed by the date in September, and was just reaching for the intercom when Ms. Nozaki’s voice announced, “It’s time.” Shiroyama told her to summon Shirai at once and to ask the police to wait ten minutes.

Because Shiroyama had asked him to come “at once”—an uncharacteristically urgent emphasis—Shirai appeared within two minutes, looking distracted. “Nice day out, isn’t it? I’ll be leaving for Sendai now. Do you remember that cooperative industry-university project with Tohoku University? I think it’s better to involve the prefecture and make them pay the infrastructure maintenance fee—”

“Shirai-san. Figure out who removed the August minutes from this log. Let me know when you find him.”

Shirai was silent for a count of three, holding the minutes log that Shiroyama had passed to him in his hands. Then a mock smile appeared on his face. “So now you’re going to play the tyrant?”

“Does looking for the thief make me a tyrant?”

“I’ll look for your thief, but only if you let me deal with him. It’s better for you to appear not to know anything.”

Shiroyama felt a twinge of regret after Shirai breezed out of his office without another word. Shirai had taken pity on Shiroyama, who had burdened himself with yet another issue that could land him in trouble if anyone outside the company knew about it—not only that, Shirai had provoked in Shiroyama a sense of defeat for losing his composure, and then shrewdly displayed a sense of ease by promising to take care of the matter. During their short exchange, Shiroyama again felt his mindset relegated to that of the victim—the object. Shiroyama was highly resistant to this, but in the end he was forced to admit—with a bit of self-deprecation—that the theft of the meeting minutes and the indignity of losing his cool in front of a colleague were additional burdens befitting the man who had brought misfortune home to the company.

Aware that time was scarce, Shiroyama was hurriedly tidying the documents on his desk when Ms. Nozaki poked her head in and said, “It’s time for you to go, but Tamaru-san is on the line with an urgent call.”

He must want to negotiate directly about the land purchase in Gunma. With a fresh wave of panic, Shiroyama answered the outside line. “This is Shiroyama.”

“This is Tamaru. It’s been a long time.”

“Thank you for the telegram yesterday. I’m much obliged.”

“I’m sure you have a lot to worry about. And there’s no need to get into a serious discussion now.”

Two years ago, after the company had managed to sever ties with the Okada Association thanks to Kurata’s efforts, Shiroyama had met Zenzo Tamaru at a dinner party, for what he hoped would be the first and last time. Tamaru’s outward appearance could be described as nothing more than “a man in his seventies wearing a suit,” but for the entire hour Shiroyama was in his company he had been assailed by a disconcerting sensation, like a faint chill running up his spine. Later, when Kurata explained to him that an ultranationalist like Tamaru showed his mettle by a willingness to stab his opponent at any given moment, it finally seemed to make sense. Frankly, it was quite an experience for Shiroyama—a man who valued his life—to come face to face with one who did not, and to feel the chill of such decisive violence, which seemed to defy logic.

Over those drinks two years ago, Tamaru had regaled Shiroyama with the story of his success, from his roots in the coal-mining town of Chikuho to his rise as a postwar black market broker. Throughout their conversation he consistently implied how vastly different the world he belonged to was from that of Shiroyama’s, which thus made him immune to fear. Ultimately, there was nothing more to Tamaru than the brutality of a snake intimidating a frog, but it was something of a discovery for Shiroyama that what underpinned the life of a longtime fixer like Tamaru was a warped lust for subjugation.

If assessing calmly, however, Shiroyama could not deny Tamaru’s resourcefulness. Tamaru had apparently adopted his nationalistic tendencies under the influence of Karoku Tsuji, who had been a puppet master in prewar Japanese politics, but Tamaru said what moved him most was his realization immediately following the war that, even after the democratization of Japan, politicians and money could not be separated. Another lesson for Tamaru was the political donation scandal during the 1947 general election that ended Karoku Tsuji’s career, from which Tamaru had ascertained that the prewar era when ultranationalists wielded enormous power with their mere presence was over, that the dissolution of the zaibatsu conglomerates would alter the flow of money, and moreover, that these channels would shift underground from then on.

Tamaru then made a fortune from his dealings in scrap iron, moving on to shipping and port services, and no sooner had he established the Hikari Industry Group and driven up the stock price, he sold off the entire group to raise capital for the creation of the ultranationalist organization known as the Jiyu Seiwakai, the predecessor of the present-day Seiwakai. Next, in accordance with his own theory that the money would shift underground,