Chapter 8 (March 22, 2010) (3,227 words)

“Optical illusion,” said Akagi simply. He, being a steadfast believer in logic, and an unbeliever in anything that was impossible to explain logically, rejected outright the possibility that what Kogure was referring to when he had said “Look, it’s the Gardener!” was a ghost. Ghosts were a figment of one’s imagination, a notion engendered by irrational fear, and perpetuated through superstition. The concept doubtless stemmed from the fear people had of the dark back when there had been no electric lights and the shadows of things appeared warped and monstrous. He was surprised at the fact that people continued to be afraid of the dark even after the cause of their fear had been eliminated. “Look. Whatever you saw isn’t even there anymore. You must have been day-dreaming.”

“It’s no optical illusion,” said Kogure with a hint of indignation. He was a firm believer in the paranormal. He had always had a morbid fascination for the dead, ever since his uncle, a policeman, who was not the brightest of men, took him to a morgue one day. Kogure had been fascinated by the sight of the numerous corpses that were in various states of decay. Then he started watching horror movies, visiting purportedly haunted places, sticking around the place whenever one of those self-styled teams of Ghost Hunters from the United States visited the town in a fruitless endeavor to spot a real live ghost (rather, a real dead ghost), surreptitiously getting out of his house in the middle of the night to see whether the rumors about the graves in the neighborhood graveyard opening up and their dwellers roaming around the place in search of their loved ones were true, and doing everything that the average ghost lover would unequivocally claim would succeed in fishing out at least one ghost in a million. Kogure had had no luck in any of his ventures. It was his steadfastness that kept him from being discouraged. He was only seventeen – life was long; opportunities were plentiful.

“Actually,” said Hanagata, “I don’t think it could have been the Gardener either.” His beliefs were not as extreme as either Akagi’s or Kogure’s. He was of a more moderate opinion. While he did enjoy listening to ghost stories and watching horror movies, and even visiting supposedly haunted places for the fun of it, he would not believe in ghosts unless he saw one with his own eyes, heard one with his own ears, and unless a piece of one fell on his head. He added the lattermost assertion to make it sound like the old fable he had read as a kid in which a chicken thought the sky was falling on its head. “The Gardener was more… I don’t know. I find it unbelievable that the Gardener should follow us first to the waterfall, and then here.”

“Aha!” said Kogure. “So you do agree that the Gardener followed us to the waterfall.”

“I didn’t say that. If Ayako says—”

“So you agree that the Gardener followed us to the waterfall. Then why is it unusual all of a sudden for him to follow us here?”

“Well,” said Ayako. “I’m pretty sure that the person I saw down at the falls was the Gardener. I mean, he wasn’t standing all that far away either, so I couldn’t have been mistaken. And why should he stick to the shadows unless he was following us?”

“Because he’s a ghost,” said Kogure brightly. “As we all agree.”

“I’m thinking he was a stalker,” said Ayako, shuddering at the very idea. She inched closer to Haruko, who also seemed to be disconcerted by the thought that someone should be stalking cute, innocent girls like them.

“Maybe he had been stalker – back when he was still alive,” said Kogure, and then he assumed a reflective poise that oddly seemed to exude serenity as well as foreshadow unpleasantness. “He used to stalk women at the hotel. Once he must have got entangled with someone, and silenced her – you know, killed her – and then her lover must have got angry and done him in. His spirit still roams the hotel gardens – and other places, too: like the falls and this palace.”

“As much as I admire your storytelling skills,” said Ayako, “that wasn’t funny at all.”

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going there to check it out,” said Kogure. “I’m sure the ghost must have left a trail of ectoplasm or something. You coming, Rukawa?”

Kogure specifically asked Rukawa to go with him because the boy’s disposition was practically ghostly when he was not playing basketball. His theory was that Rukawa’s presence would attract any kind of ghosts in the vicinity – like bait – and thus expedite his pursuit of the Gardener.

Rukawa did not have any reason to refuse. He was not as passionately in love with ghosts as Kogure, nor did he harbor the slightest doubt about their existence as Hanagata did. He was more inclined to Akagi’s point of view, but that was only because he was too lazy to decide whether ghosts existed or didn’t. When in doubt, or when you’re feeling too lazy to think (was Rukawa’s motto), always deny something. And when you’re feeling too lazy to refuse someone who wants you to go somewhere with them, just comply.

And so Rukawa and Kogure were about to march off in the direction where Kogure had supposedly seen the ghost, when Coach Anzai spoke up.

“Kogure, Rukawa,” he said in his calm voice that despite its calmness had a tone of stern authority which really came in handy when he had to deal with insubordinate players. The tone of voice he assumed now also hinted at his more violent past as a coach, and thus evoked nameless fear in whomever was being addressed. “I don’t want you to go there.”

“But Coach—”

“I said I don’t want you to go there,” said Coach Anzai with an air of finality.

Kogure waited for him to say why he didn’t want him to go after the Gardener, but Coach Anzai said nothing.

Then Kogure turned to Rukawa.

“Come on, Rukawa, you know you want to meet the Gardener and find out what he’s up to,” he said. He was secretly hoping that Coach Anzai would let them go if he realized that they were determined. And on top of that, Rukawa had a formidable reputation as a fighter – Mitsui would attest to this. There was no reason for Coach Anzai to refuse them.

But Rukawa merely cocked his head to one side, thought awhile, and said, “I’d rather just stay.”

Haruko, who had been silently praying for Rukawa not to go, gave vent to a yelp of joy, which she immediately tried to disguise in a cough.

Kogure’s jaw dropped.

“Rukawa!” he said, half incredulously, half pleadingly.

“Kogure,” said Coach Anzai. His otherwise sweet, fluffy voice seemed to have suddenly revealed a hidden needle. “I don’t want you to stray from our group. It is my responsibility to ensure your safety, and it is yours to listen to what I say.”

Kogure was overwhelmed by compunction. What had he come to? He had always been the levelheaded, mature vice-captain of the Shohoku Basketball Team. Coach Anzai had always relied on him to make sure the team’s emotions were under control. And now Coach Anzai was telling him off for his immaturity. Akagi’s words hadn’t meant a thing to Kogure back when he had spoken them, but now they started to make sense. Kogure had indeed become a different person. And he promised himself that from then on he would not let temptation get the better of him, and that he would salvage his reputation as the mature glasses man – in Sakuragi’s words.

“I’m sorry, Coach Anzai,” he said earnestly.

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Coach Anzai. “I knew I wouldn’t have to come up with longwinded admonitions to make you see sense, Kogure.”

Kogure turned to Akagi.

“I’m sorry, Akagi,” he said. “I should have listened to you.”

“It’s okay,” said Akagi, patting Kogure on the back. “I’m glad the old Kogure’s back.”

Ayako sniffled and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Welcome back, Kogure,” she said.

A round of applause rang out for Kogure.

A minute of silence passed after that. It was Sendoh who broke it.

“Er…” he said. He paused for a moment, unsure of himself, when everyone turned to him as if he had perpetrated something unspeakable. Miyagi stood protectively next to Ayako, his manner suggesting that he wouldn’t let Sendoh anywhere near her without making him wish he had never been born. “Can we go see the palace now?”

“An excellent idea, Sendoh!” said Coach Taoka. He gave his star player a fatherly pat on the back as a reward for something good Sendoh must have suggested in the way of an idea but of which he wasn’t aware.

“I agree with Sendoh,” said Maki, and he got similar treatment from Coach Takato.

“I agree with Sendoh and Maki,” Takano said experimentally, and he earned a punch from Fujima. He tried to apologize, but only earned a second punch.

The bus conductor cum tour guide gave vent to a small cough that was calculated to draw attention.

“What is it?” asked Coach Takato.

“I shall be waiting out here,” he said. “Once you are satisfied that you have seen enough of the palace and wish to return to the hotel, all you have to do is come back here.”

Coach Takato frowned slightly. He seemed to have sensed a kind of concealed unwillingness in the guide’s manner – as if he knew there was something dangerous about the palace that was best avoided, but was not telling them about it. The guide’s behavior was suspicious, to say the least.

“All right,” said Coach Takato deliberately after a moment’s thoughtful silence passed between him and the guide. “We should be back within the hour.”

“Very good, sir,” said the guide.

“What was that about, Coach?” asked Maki once they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the guide. “You were acting strangely.”

“Nonsense, Maki,” said Coach Takato with an absolutely unconvincing tone of insouciance in his voice. “Why would you say that? Don’t answer that. I was just… thinking of this and that. But that’s none of your concern. For the nonce let’s appreciate our country’s history. Such elegance! I’ve never seen a palace this beautiful. Have you?”

“Coach,” said Maki. “It’s in ruins.”

“Oh,” said Coach Takato. “Well it’s still beautiful – for a ruined palace.”

There was a rope-and-pole style barrier that directed tourists to the entrance of the palace. Normally it might have been used to manage large lines. Now there was just the President of the Winter Games standing in front of them, paying for a ticket and a tour guide, and waiting to be let in.

“Next,” said the young man at the counter. He had a bored expression on his face, and was probably new on the job.

Coach Taoka promptly stepped up.

“Twenty-eight tickets, please,” he said.

The man at the counter was momentarily taken aback. Then he scrutinized the group carefully and decided that there were indeed twenty-eight people. It was odd. People didn’t usually visit the place in such large numbers this time of the year. There was that old legend one of the senior employees of the tourism company for which he worked once told him. But he couldn’t remember what it was. He didn’t care. It was just another stupid legend stupid mountain people came up with. Oh right. He was insulting himself.

Coach Taoka gave a cough of impatience.

“The tickets,” he said.

“Right,” said the man at the counter with a start. He fumbled with the tickets and eventually tore out thirty of them from the stash.

“That’s thirty,” said Coach Taoka, who had an eye for detail.

“Why the fuss?” said the young man. “If you’re paying for twenty-eight, might as well pay for thirty. The boss’ll be happy.”

Coach Taoka handed two tickets back to the man at the counter.

“Fine, fine,” said the man, grumbling. “That’ll be two thousand eight hundred yen.”

“And do we get a guide?”

The man turned to his left, and grumbled in irritation.

“Ryu went in with the old dude,” he said. “So there’s no one left but me.”

“How much do you cost?” asked Coach Taoka, quite oblivious of the interpretation the more perverted members of the group – like Mitsui – placed on his words.

“I’m for free.”

Mitsui and a few others went into guffaws.

“Good,” said Coach Taoka, paying the man 2,800 yen, and wondering what on earth Mitsui found so funny.

“I was kidding,” said the man, who was now officially the guide. “I cost two hundred yen.”

“Are you saying that just so you can get three thousand?”

“It is a nice, round number, isn’t it?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“So are you going to pay for me or not?” said the freshly appointed guide, tapping his foot in impatience.

“Fine,” said Coach Taoka condescendingly, and in an oddly pompous way. “I like to help the poor and the needy.”

“Then how about five—”

“Don’t push it, kid.”

“Okay,” said the man, putting two thousand eight hundred yen in a little box that had a lock on it, and pocketing the two hundred that was his price for playing the role of tour guide. Somehow the money seemed to invigorate him, and all of a sudden, he discarded his grumbling, indolent demeanor and assumed that of a professional.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a professional way, with a professional smile, and with no little exuberance. “Welcome to the Summer Palace! Any questions?”

“See what money can do,” said Coach Taoka to Coach Takato with an air of triumph.

“So is this place really called the ‘Summer Palace’? I mean, doesn’t it have an actual name?” asked Sendoh.

“Sadly, no,” said the tour guide. “This place was unheard of until the early twentieth century. What archeologists have discovered is that the Emperors of Japan wanted to keep this place a secret. This place was abandoned sometime in the mid-seventeen hundreds, and we haven’t found any historical data regarding what it was called back in those days.”

“So didn’t people come up with a name when they discovered this place again?” asked Sendoh. He was bent on eliciting a satisfactory answer to his question.

“They did.”

“What was it?”

“‘The Summer Palace’. Not very imaginative, but foreign tourists had no trouble saying it, and they’re usually the ones who go around the world, visiting places like these like they have nothing better to do, so the name stuck.”

Then they proceeded through the palace doors into the palace. The moment they passed through the doors, they were greeted by a most disagreeable musty smell.

“Interesting,” said Sendoh. “The Summer Palace, huh. Couldn’t have come up with a better name myself.”

“Idiot,” said Rukawa.

“What?” said Sendoh with an air of self-assertiveness. “Excuse me for being a little inquisitive.”

“Does it really matter what this place is called?” Ruakawa did not care much about names. To him they were nothing more than… He really should think about what names to him were nothing more than.

“Yes it does,” said Sendoh. “Names are everything. Usually palaces and castles have cool, old names.”

“Those would be the names of the cities in which they were built.”

“Yeah, but this one isn’t in a city, so I was expecting it to have an even cooler name.”

“The only reason that it doesn’t have a cool name is that it’s not located in a city.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Sendoh. “Point taken.”

“… And as we enter the magnificent entrance hall – at least, I imagine it must have been magnificent at some point – we see to our left the typical Japanese sandpaper wall (I’m surprised it’s lasted this long), and we see to our right—”

“No wall at all,” said Maki.

“Exactly!” said the tour guide. “Archeologists speculate that this face of the palace must have been left open because the entrance hall was in reality something akin to a deck.”

“Look at those vines,” said Haruko, pointing at a wooden column some distance off. “They’re so thick! I wonder how long they’ve been growing.”

“Nyahahahahahaha!” said Sakuragi. “The genius will tell you. H’m. I think these vines should be around seven hundred years old, at least.”

“Idiot,” said Rukawa. “That’s older than the palace.”

“Those vines?” said the tour guide. “Oh, no, no, no, they were planted here by my boss. They’re only about five years old. Returning to the topic, you might have noticed the intricate designs on the ceiling. They were inspired by Indian art. The emperor who built this palace was probably very fond of art, and he must have collected art from all over the world, because as we go through these doors and into the next room, we will find that it is based heavily on Persian architecture.”

“So this place,” said Fujima as he regarded with no little interest the arch-shaped niches in the wall and the intricate calligraphy that was ubiquitous. “Does this place have a bit of all kinds of architecture.”

“More or less,” said the tour guide. “In fact, there is very little about it that is actually Japanese – except for the exteriors.”

“So what was this room supposed meant for anyway?” asked Uozumi. It was too large to be a bedroom – even by his standards. And it definitely could not have been a dining room, what with the stultifying air of intellectuality that it had about it unmistakably.

“I can’t tell you for certain,” said the tour guide, “but we can safely assume that this was where the emperor held meetings with dignitaries in the summer. People visiting from other counties, traders, craftsmen and the like.”

“There’s another door at the end of the room,” Koshino observed. “Why is so dark on the other side?”

It was daytime, and the Persian conference room – as it may have been – was exceedingly well-lit, thanks to the large windows that lined the wall. The room Koshino was referring to was, however, completely dark. Moreover, the doorway had a single board nailed to it that suggested that no one was allowed beyond it.

“Oh that,” said the tour guide. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea to go too close to it. We have accepted it as a rule that no one’s allowed to near there. We’ve heard stories about it that are likely to make you jump out of your socks. But—”

But something seemed to have moved in the darkness. And then all of a sudden the distinct outline of a man appeared behind the board. It jumped over the board lithely and stepped into the light.

“Hello there, kids.”

Everyone gasped.

“I knew it!” Kogure shouted exultantly, completely forgetting about the promise he had made earlier. “I knew he was around here somewhere!”

“I don’t believe it,” said Akagi. “Kogure was telling the truth.”

Everyone stepped back, moving closer to each other.

Coach Taoka stepped forward.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Me?” said the Gardener in surprise. “You’re asking me who I am? Why, I’m the owner of this palace.”