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boat trip across our beautiful Inland Sea that is so full of Japanese history; a local train
from the terminal harbour at Beppu to Fukuoka and a walk or taxi drive along a
beautiful coast to the awe-inspiring ramparts of this mysterious Castle of Death. Climb
these, or smuggle yourself in on a provision cart, and then a last delicious, ruminative
walk, perhaps hand-in-hand with your lover, through the beautiful groves. And finally
the great gamble, the game of pachinko the Japanese love so much. Which ball will
have your number on it? Will your death be easy or painful? Will a Russell's Viper strike
at your legs as you walk the silent, well-raked paths? Will some kindly, deadly dew fall
upon you during the night as you rest under this or that gorgeous tree? Or will hunger
or curiosity lead you to munch a handful of those red berries or pick one of those
orange fruit? Of course, if you want to make it quick, there is always a bubbling,
sulphurous fumarole at hand. In any one of those, the thousand degrees Centigrade will
allow you just enough time for one scream. The place is nothing more than a
departmento of death, its shelves laden with delicious packages of self-destruction, all
given away for nothing. Can you not imagine that old and young flock there as if to a
shrine? The police have erected a barricade across the road. Genuine visitors,
botanists and so on, have to show a pass. But the suicides fight their way to the shrine
across the fields and marshes, scrabble at the great walls, break their nails to gain
entrance. The good doctor is of course much dismayed. He has erected stern notices of
warning, with skulls and crossbones upon them. They act only as advertisements! He
has even gone to the expense of flying one of those high helium balloons from the roof
of his castle. The hanging streamers threaten trespassers with prosecution. But, alas
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for the doctor's precautions, the high balloon serves only to beckon. Here is death! it
proclaims. Come and get it!'
'You're daft, Tiger. Why don't you arrest him? Burn the place down?'
'Arrest him for what? For presenting Japan with this unique collection of rare plants?
Burn down a million-pound establishment belonging to a respected galjin resident? The
man has done nothing wrong. If anyone is to blame, it is the Japanese people. It is true
that he could exercise more careful surveillance, have his grounds more regularly
patrolled. And it is certainly odd that when he has the ambulance called, the . victims
are always totally dead and are usually in the form of a bag of calcined bones fished out
of one of the fumaroles. From the list I have shown you, one would have expected
some to be only crippled, or blinded. The Herr Doktor expresses himself as much
puzzled. He suggests that, in the cases of blindness or amnesia, the victims
presumably fall into one of the fumaroles by mistake. Maybe. But, as I have said, his
tally so far is over five hundred and, with the stream of publicity, more and more people
will be attracted to the Castle of Death. We have got to put a stop to it.'
'What steps have been taken so far?'
'Commissions of investigation have visited the doctor. They have been most
courteously treated. The doctor has begged that something shall be done to protect him
from these trespassers. He complains that they interfere with his work, break off
precious boughs and pick valuable plants. He shows himself as entirely cooperative
with any measures that can be suggested short of abandoning this project, which is so
dear to his heart and so much appreciated by trie Japanese specialists in botany and
so forth. He has made a further most generous offer. He is constructing a research
department - to be manned by workers of his own choice, mark you -to extract the
poisons from his shrubs and plants and give the essences free to an appropriate
medical research centre. You will have noted that many of these poisons are valuable
medicines in a diluted form.'
'But how has all this come on your plate?' Bond was now getting drowsy. It was four
o'clock and the horizon of jagged grey, porcelain-shingled roof-tops was lightening. He
poured down the last of the sake. It had the flat taste of too much. It was time he was in
bed. But Tiger was obviously obsessed with this lunatic business, and subtle, authentic
glimpses of Japan were coming through the ridiculous, nightmare story with its
undertones of Poe, Le Fanu, Bram Stoker, Ambrose Bierce.
Tiger seemed unaffected by the lateness of the hour. The samurai face was perhaps
etched in more sinister, more brutal lines. The hint of Tartar, tamed and civilized, lurked
with less concealment, like a caged animal, in the dark pools of his eyes. But the
occasional rocking motion on the buttocks and sides of the feet was the only sign that
he was interested, even excited. He said, 'One month ago, Bondo-san, I sent one of my
best men into this place to try and discover what it was all about. I was so instructed by
my Minister, the Minister of the Interior. He in turn was under orders from the Prime
Minister. The matter was becoming one of public debate. I chose a good man. He was
instructed to get into the place, observe, and report. One week later, Bondo-san, he
was recovered from the sea on a beach near this Castle of Death. He was blinded and
in delirium. All the lower half of his body was terribly burned. He could only babble a
haiku about dragonflies. I later discovered that, as a youth, he had indulged in the
pastime of our youngsters. He had tied a female dragonfly on a thread and let it go.
This acts as a lure for the male dragonfly and you can quickly catch many males in this
way. They attach themselves to the female and will not let go. The haiku - that is a
verse of seventeen syllables - he kept on reciting until his death, which came soon, was
"Desolation! Pink dragonflies flitting above the graves."'
James Bond felt he was living inside a dream: the little room, partitioned in imitation
rice-paper and cedar plywood, the open vista of a small, inscrutable garden in which
 37
water tinkled, the distant redness of an imminent dawn, the long background of sake
and cigarettes, the quiet voice of the storyteller telling a fairy tale, as it might be told in a
tent under the stars. And yet this was something that had happened the other day,
close by - was happening now, something that Tiger had brought him here to tell. Why?
Because he was lonely? Because there was no one else he could trust? Bond pulled
himself out of his somnolent slouch. He said, 'I'm sorry, Tiger. What did you do next?'
Tiger Tanaka seemed to sit slightly more upright on his black-edged rectangle of
golden tatami. He looked very directly at James Bond and said, 'What was there to do?
I did nothing except apologize to my superiors. I waited for an honourable solution to
present itself. I waited for you to come.'
'Me!'
'You were sent. It might have been another.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]