犯罪

Japan is a safe country. Women and children walk unlit streets at night, confident that there won’t be anyone with a knife or a gun lurking. Each day, thousands of mama chari – mums’ bikes with a ladies frame and a basket on the front that are used by everyone, even sarariiman – are left outside train stations and shopping centres with only a small bar poking between the spokes for security. More expensive bikes, such as mountain bikes and racers, are targets for thieves, but as long as they’re chained up properly, it’s generally not a problem. On the other hand, umbrellas seem to be considered universal property. On rainy days, umbrella racks in the entrance of department stores are full as it’s impolite to carry a sharp wet umbrella into a crowded space where it’s likely to annoy people and damage goods. Respectable ladies come out of the store, go to pick up their umbrella, then spying a nicer one a bit further down the rack, take that instead.

Japanese read violent manga, comics, on the train, but violent crimes are almost unheard of. Even housewives can be seen reading manga with rape, but sex crimes are also rare. The yakuza are often touted as ‘the Japanese mafia,’ but as well as their gambling and prostitution rackets, they’re involved in legal enterprises that benefit the public, like real estate and hospitals. The hand towels that are offered on arrival in every restaurant are reputedly a yakuza endeavour – adding honour to the extortion. They play a role as the modern samurai of Japan with a rigid hierarchy and a strict code of honour. Most Japanese I spoke to would avoid them in the street, but believe that they keep crime down by dealing with riffraff.

Francois’ boss lived a couple of houses away from the head of the largest gumi, team or organisation, in Japan, and everyone told him it’s the safest place to live – not because of the token police car parked permanently outside his house, but because no one would dare commit a crime so near one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the country.

But like everywhere in the world, bubbles of unrest are beginning to surface. One of them burst near me in my second month in Kobe.

*

I was woken at two o’clock on a hot Sunday morning in early June by Nimmi and Helen, calling from a koban.

“A police station? What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’ll tell you when we see you. We need a place to stay tonight,” said Nimmi.

When they buzzed my intercom, she was struggling to keep the humour in her voice. “Are you decent?”

Nimmi knew how I felt about her, and that seemed to give her even more reason to banter. “Not yet,” I said, playing along. Then I realised it was true, and reached for a shirt, cursing the humidity.

“Then we’re coming up.”

Nimmi was dressed in a slinky black dress, more gorgeous than I’d ever seen her, despite the weak smile. I showed them in, offered them a drink and we settled on the floor. Nimmi told the story, her wringing hands giving the lie to her resigned tone. Helen didn’t even try to cover her frustration and the few times she opened her mouth were to snap at me.

“We were at the Dubliner’s,” said Nimmi.

They’d been celebrating Helen’s last weekend in Japan and I would’ve joined them if I hadn’t been stuck in the office all weekend. I’d been there for fifteen hours the day before, Saturday, upgrading our voice mail system, and had to be back at eight in the morning.

“I was taking lots of pictures with my new camera. I guess we were pretty obvious about it, not thinking that anyone would steal in Japan, and I left it in my bag in the corner while I was dancing.”

I started to sweat, thinking of Nimmi on the dance floor. “So some guy stole the camera?”

“He took the whole bag. I went to get the camera after a couple of songs and it was gone. Helen and I ran outside straight away, and actually saw the guy going through the bag in his car.”

“Shit. Did you get his number plate?”

“There wasn’t time to think about that. He almost ran over us getting away.” She paused to collect herself. “The strange part is that I’m sure he was Japanese. Anyway, we found an omawarisan on the way back to the station.”

This title for a policeman translates roughly as Mr. Wanderer.

“What did the police say?”

“Fuckin’ cops were useless,” said Helen.

“They weren’t much help,” Nimmi agreed. “It’s the same everywhere. They take a statement then tell you that you probably won’t get it back.”

“You could always try the yakuza,” I said, only half joking. “They’d probably find it for you. Were your keys in the bag?”

“No kidding,” said Helen, glaring. “Why else would we be staying here?” I wished I could have left her outside.

“Yes,” said Nimmi, with a soothing look to Helen. “But that’s not all. Helen’s plane ticket and my purse were also in there. The bastard has my house key and my address.”

“He might be there now. Do you want to go and make sure everything’s ok?”

“How? I can’t get in. And anyway, there’s nothing valuable there. Nothing except my pure self.”

The comment invited a retort, but I could only look on in concern, thinking of how vulnerable she’d be until she got her locks changed.

“Can I use your phone? I need to cancel my credit cards.”

“Sure. And I’ll get you some sheets, Helen.” I set up the spare bed and started back to my own. “Nimmi, I’ll be waiting for you.”

She gave me a smile that promised everything, but then said, “You’ll be waiting all night.”

“Well, if you’d really rather sleep with Helen… Oh, you’re welcome to use the stereo, if that helps.”

“Thanks. Now fuck off so we can get some sleep.”

I finally had Nimmi in my flat, and she was going to be sharing a bed with someone who took no joy in the situation.

I woke at six to find Helen snoring on the bed and Nimmi still curled around my phone. I made a quick breakfast and sat down beside her. She stretched enticingly and her smile sent my pulse racing. If only I could wake up to that every morning.

“Did you sleep?”

“No. Not really. I came in to talk to you, but you were out cold. I figured you needed the sleep.”

“I did, but I’d rather have been talking to you. The hard part’s done. I’ll probably just be babysitting the vendor today.” I left them with the spare key, went to work and met up with them again that evening for Helen’s farewell dinner. She was in a much better mood then, having sorted out her plane ticket, but I was still glad to see her go. It left a gap in Nimmi’s life that I was happy to fill.

*

Nimmi would call me to chat when she got home most evenings – whenever she wasn’t expecting a call from her fiancé – and on her days off, we’d have dinner in town. A few weeks after the event, the rain let up for a long enough to inspire us to get out. We took to the mountains behind Kobe in search of cooler air.

“I woke up three times last night when the wind rattled the door. I’ve put the carving knife next to the bed for tonight. My God, what is that?”

I thought she was looking at a wall of concrete damming a dry riverbed. Then I saw what she did – three grilles covering a strange spill gate. The centre grille extended well below the others.

“It’s a gigantic phallus. Surely that’s no accident. But it’s pointing the wrong way,” she grinned at me.

My eyes were drawn to Nimmi’s shirt, clinging invitingly to her body, wet from sweat and the earlier tsuyu rain. Her innuendo was a little too tempting, right then, so rather than join in, I forced my thoughts back to her fears. “You’ve got my number on speed dial, right? Just call me if anything happens.”

“You’re so brave when you think it might get you an invitation to stay the night,” she teased.

I bit. “That’s not true!” My stomach twisted – it was half true. “I would have offered the same to anyone, even Helen.” At least that was wholly true – or would have been if she’d lived nearby.

“I know, and I appreciate it,” she said, serious again. “I’m even scared walking home now. I used to just be disgusted by the drunken men who flash themselves at gaijin women, but –”

I cut her off. “They what?” I knew about chikan, men on trains who grope women, using the press of passengers to hide their actions, but that usually only happened in Tokyo.

“Didn’t you know? Some of them even masturbate in front of you…. Like we’d be turned on. At least they don’t usually touch people, but the other night, someone did touch me. I was walking back from the station and this guy started following me. I walked faster and so did he. When I got close to my house I started running, but he caught me on the steps and grabbed my legs.” She shuddered.

“It wasn’t the guy who stole your bag, was it?”

“No. I’m sure it wasn’t, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. And then there’s all that stuff on the news now. Japan just doesn’t feel so safe any more.”

“You mean the insurance fraud?” Everyone in the office was talking about it. A woman who worked at a life insurance company was arrested after being the recipient of three or four claims. It seemed she had never met any of the deceased and speculation was that she’d arranged the murders after forging the papers.

Gruesome incidents like that are still rare in Japan, making headlines for months, but they do occur. The last had been the subway gassing by the Ohm cult, and before that, just after I arrived in Nagoya for school, the news was of a girl killed for being late. She was running to get through the gate before it closed and the teacher, seeing her, pushed harder – a challenge to run faster. She fell. Her head landed on the track and the heavy gate crushed her skull. Perhaps it was all a big mistake, but at the school assembly that morning, the principal told everyone that it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been late. He probably made everyone run twenty laps of the soccer field as punishment for her lapse.

The event wasn’t seen as hanzai – a crime. There was no trial. Discipline was solely the responsibility of schools and both the teacher and the principal were doing their jobs. The government supported them and the girl’s family mourned quietly.
It was six weeks before Nimmi’s landlord finally arranged another lock for her. He seemed oblivious to the fear that was now a major part of her life. He probably saw it as another inconvenience of having a gaijin rent his flat. I’d found, when looking for my own place, that some landlords specified ‘no gaijin,’ even if the same place had ‘pets allowed.’ The reason, I was told when I enquired, was that gaijin don’t know how to treat a Japanese flat. We put nails in the walls and make too much noise. I couldn’t imagine an Australian landlord being able to specify ‘no Japanese’ because they flood the bathroom every time they take a bath.

*

One night, while the old locks were still in place, I was pulled out of dreams of phone systems to hear my own phone ringing. Fearing Nimmi’s knife was being put to use, I was up and pulling on clothes even as I picked up the phone.

“Hi Murray!”

‘Not Nimmi,’ I thought as I fought the surging adrenaline. Then I recognised the voice of Jemma, an old Australian friend from the exchange. She was living in Japan again, too. “Shit, you scared me. What’s up?”

“I’m at karaoke with some friends and we’re trying to remember who sang ‘Unchained Melody’ in Ghost. You always know music stuff.”

“The Righteous Brothers.” I slammed down the phone.

It was two hours before my pulse slowed to normal, and the next day I stumbled to work bleary-eyed, for the first time arriving after everyone else. At least Nimmi was safe.