A Man by Keiichiro Hirano

Published in Japan in 2018; published in translation by Amazon Crossing on June 1, 2020

A Man is a story of people who have changed their identities. The prologue tells us that the author is recounting a story told in a bar by a man who identified himself as Akira Kido before confessing that the name belongs to someone else. Kido told the author that he keeps himself together “by living other people’s pain.” Kido claims to achieve honesty through lies, something that all writers of fiction should strive to accomplish.

The author tells us that Kido told a story of becoming obsessed with the life of a man, but it is Kido, “when viewed from behind as he chases this man,” who the story is about. The author sensed something in Kido that “needed to be seen.” What that might have been is left for the reader to decide.

The man with whom Kido becomes obsessed was known for part of his life as Daisuké Taniguchi. Until his accidental death, he was married to a woman named Rié. Rié had two sons with her first husband. After the younger son died, Rié’s husband divorced her. After Rié’s father died, Rié returned to her hometown with her son Yuto. She met Daisuké, who explained that his father had also died, but not until family friction was caused by Daisuké’s reluctance to be a liver transplant donor for his father. Rié and Daisuké had a girl named Hana, but Daisuké died after less than four years of marriage.

The story begins after Daisuké’s death, when Rié makes contact with Daisuké’s family for the first time. When she notifies his brother Kyoichi of Daisuké’s death, Kyoichi visits Rié and delivers the startling news that Rié’s husband was not his brother. While Kyoichi indeed had a brother named Daisuké, the man who was married to Rié is not Daisuké. Kyoichi’s brother found it better to run away from home than to live with the impossible expectations of an overbearing father. The life story Rié’s husband told her is Daisuké’s story, not his own.

Rié takes this news to her divorce attorney, who happens to be Kido. The story then follows Kido as he attempts to discover Daisuké’s true identity and the reason he concealed it from Rié. The answers he finds give closure to Rié and Yuko, as well as the opportunity to repair the difficult relationship between a mother and teenage son. In a way, ending his obsessive quest also brings Kido a sense of closure.

This is a novel about the lives of people who want to begin anew. Adopting a new identity, or trading identities, seems to be the preferred mechanism in Japan of abandoning an old life and making a new one. Kido, at least, finds multiple examples of the practice that complicate his investigation. Kido’s exploration of troubled lives brings him into contact with stories of violence and despair, but also prompts a potential reunification of a lost soul and the woman he has never forgotten.

Kido tells us of his own life and his interest in heritage, stemming from his Korean ancestry. He is a third generation Zainichi, although he only recently started to understand the discrimination that Zainichi have faced in Japanese culture. An increase in Japanese nationalism and xenophobia has unsettled Kido. Exploring other families makes Kido wonder about his own roots in Korea. It also amplifies his feeling of being isolated in the world.

The theme of loneliness pervades the novel. It is central to Kido’s life, “a bottomless, middle-aged kind of loneliness that he never could have conceived when he was younger, a loneliness that saturated him with bone-chilling sentimentality the moment he let down his guard.” Rié senses Kido’s loneliness but wonders if she is only seeing a reflection of her own “intense loneliness of middle age.” She always thought her second husband was the best man she had ever known and cannot understand why he deceived her about his very identity, leaving her with memories of a life together that no longer feel authentic.

A Man is more than a mystery novel. In addition to nationalism, the novel considers the role of the death penalty in Japanese society. One of the lives Kido explores belongs to a man who was raised by a violent father and in turn became a violent husband and parent. That man eventually murdered his employer’s family. When he was executed, the judicial system made no effort to examine the childhood that shaped him. Kido views the judiciary as covering up the mistakes of other branches of government that failed Japan and its citizens by allowing the killer to be raised in an atmosphere of violence. Kido believes that wiping out the evidence of society’s failure is destined to create an ever-growing number of citizens who will need to be executed.

Apart from its social relevance, the plot investigates questions of identity. Perhaps pretending to be someone new can transform the pretender into someone who is truly new. Adopting a different identity is an extreme way to change a life, but Keiichiro Hirano seems to suggest that unsatisfactory lives can, at least, be changed. Perhaps the person who tells the story to the author, the person who claims to be using the name Kiro, has internalized that lesson. In any event, Hirano gives the reader much to ponder while working through this intriguing mystery.

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Earthlings by Sayaka Murata

Published in Japan in 2018; published in translation by Grove Press on Press October 6, 2020

Like Convenience Store Woman, Sayaka Murata’s Earthlings explores the theme of personal freedom in a society that values conformity to social norms. Both novels address, in very different ways, the belief that Japanese women should have the right to choose the life they want to live, unconstrained by the conventional notion that women must marry and reproduce soon after reaching adulthood.

As a child, Natsuki convinces herself that she is a magician and that her doll is an alien from the planet Popinpobopia. Every year she attends a family gathering with her parents. One year, her cousin Yuu tells her that he is also an alien and is just waiting to return home. Natsuki falls in love with Yuu because he is the only person who understands her. They stage a mock wedding and Natsuki eventually convinces Yuu to have sex with her. Natsuki and Yuu are discovered, scolded, and kept apart until well after they reach adulthood.

Natsuki’s only other experience with sex involves a college student who teaches cram sessions. When Natsuki tells her mother that the student had touched her and tricked her into giving him oral gratification, Natsuki’s mother dismisses the report as the product of Natsuki’s imagination. It seems likely that, true or not, Natsuki’s mother doesn’t want discussion of the incident to bring shame upon the family. Without giving her actions much thought, Natsuki eventually puts an end to one problem and creates another.

As an adult, Natsuki is unenthused about the idea of dating and sex. Succumbing to social pressure, she joins an online dating site and finds a man named Tomoya who wants to marry but does not want intimacy. That suits Natsuki, but the parents of Natsuki and Tomoya are soon pressuring them to have children. Tomoya would like to leave it all behind and visit the place where Natsuki’s family used to gather, a place that seems magical as he listens to Natsuki describe it. When they make that trip, they meet Yuu and change their lives in unusual ways.

The theme of freedom is first expressed in Natsuki’s belief that her town is a factory for the production of human babies. She believes her womb is simply a factory component designed to couple with a different factory component. Yuu and Tomoya agree that “everyone believed in the Factory. Everyone was brainwashed by the Factory and did as they were told. They all used their reproductive organs for the Factory and did their jobs for the sake of the Factory.” Like the protagonist in Convenience Store Woman, Natsuki rejects society’s expectations about her duty to have sex and bear children. That simply isn’t the life she wants, but other options are lacking if she wants to live as an earthling.

The story becomes a bit loopy at the end, relying on dark humor to make its point about the dark side of human nature. The alternative lifestyle that Natsuki, Yuu and Tomoya eventually adopt takes on an absurdist quality. While I didn’t find the ending to be particularly satisfying, the entertaining story that precedes it makes a strong point about the difficulty that ordinary women in Japan encounter when they elevate freedom and individuality above the patriarchal society’s definition of a woman’s duty.

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The Honjin Murders by Seishi Yokomizo

First published in Japan in 1946; published in translation by Pushkin Vertigo on August 4, 2020

The Honjin Murders is a classic Japanese locked room mystery, first serialized in a Japanese magazine in 1946. When the mystery baffles the local police, a brilliant young detective is called to the scene and promptly solves the puzzle. The novel marks the detective's first of more than seventy appearances in Seishi Yokomizo's work. The detective is also a character in five Japanese films.

The story is set in 1937. Kenzo is the current master of the house of Ichiyanagi. Before the shogun was overthrown and the imperial government restored, the house was an inn for travelers who belonged to the nobility (a honjin). Nothing is more important to the Ichiyanagi family than being descendants of the owners of a honjin.

Kenzo and Katsuko were married in Kenzo’s home. Kenzo was about 40. His bride was about 25 and (to her shame) not a virgin, a confession she made just before the wedding. A scarred man with three fingers on his right hand inquired about Kenzo while passing through the village on Kenzo’s wedding day.

The post-wedding sake ceremony lasted all night. It was after midnight before Kenzo could take his new bride to their bedroom. Two hours later, a blood-curdling scream is heard. Kenzo’s family broke into the locked room and discovered that both had been hacked to death, apparently with a sword. The murder weapon disappeared with the killer, but how did the killer enter or leave a room that was locked from the inside?

Bloody three finger handprints point three fingers of guilt at a possible culprit, but that doesn’t solve the mystery of the locked room. Other characters who might be murder suspects are primarily Kenzo’s family members, including his mother and four siblings. His youngest brother is the family’s black sheep while his youngest sister is a bit simple. The sister has just buried a dead cat, which is apparently an ominous circumstance in Japanese mythology.

The stringed instrument known in Japan as the koto figures into the plot, in part because “the eerie strains of a koto being plucked with wild abandon” are heard just after the scream. A letter and a photo album that contain the words “My Mortal Enemy” provide another potential clue. Deciding which clues are real and which are red herrings adds to the fun, but to Seishi Yokomizo’s credit, none of the potential clues are completely extraneous to the story. Everything fits together and contributes to the mystery’s solution.

The police inspector, unable to make headway, summons Kosuke Kindaichi from Tokyo. Kosuke is unkempt and speaks with a stammer, but in the tradition of eccentric detectives, he pieces together obscure clues with ease. When Kosuke notices that the home’s library is filled with detective novels, he offers some literary criticism, expressing a preference for locked room mysteries that do not rely on a mechanical trick over those that do. Kosuke is a particular fan of Leroux’s Mystery of the Yellow Room and the locked room murder mysteries of John Dickson Carr.

The story is clever and complex, as good locked room mysteries tend to be. I probably miss the nuances of Japanese mysteries, having not grown up in the culture, but the unfamiliarity of the setting is part of the appeal of Japanese fiction. I doubt anyone will guess how the murder was committed. It may be possible for astute readers (and I’m not one of those) to puzzle out why it occurred. Whether the novel surprises the reader or not, following Kosuke’s deductive chain as he assembles the clues is fun. The Honjin Murders would be a perfect addition to the shelf of any devoted fan of locked room murder mysteries.

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Tokyo Ueno Station by Yu Miri

Published in Japan in 2014; published in translation in Great Britain in 2019 and in the US by Riverhead Books on June 23, 2020

Having a familiarity with Japanese history would probably help a reader dive into the full depth of Tokyo Ueno Station. I lack that familiarity, although some googling and consulting the SamuraiWiki (yes, there is such a thing) helped me understand references to the conflict between the Shōgitai and Imperial troops, leading to the Battle of Ueno. In addition, a student of Buddhism, or a reader who is familiar with each of the novel’s references to eastern religious rituals and beliefs, will likely have a more nuanced perspective on Tokyo Ueno Station than I did. Such are the difficulties and rewards of tackling Japanese fiction. The novel nevertheless conveys universal truths, regardless of and apart from history and religion, including the pain of loss and the search for meaning in an apparently random universe.

Kazu, the novel’s narrator, tells the story from his memories of being alive. Those memories are fading, as is his ability to distinguish colors and smells. At the age of 67, Kazu began living in Ueno Park in central Tokyo. By 2010, apparently the year of his death, he was 73. He collected cans for recycling to earn the pocket money that helped him survive. Kazu often wondered whether survival is worthwhile. His status as a ghost suggests that he decided his pain was unendurable. Yet he still wanders through the park and the train station, still listens to conversations, still watches when the emperor’s car drives past, the emperor waving at the people lining the sidewalks, probably without really noticing them. Death has not changed Kazu much; certainly, it has not removed the pain. Fading away is his best hope for peace.

Kazu’s life shared milestones with the emperor’s — they are the same age, their children were born on the same day, the park that became his home was a gift to Tokyo from the emperor — yet their lives are a study in contrast. Kazu worked as a laborer, traveling from one construction project to another. He was rarely home to visit his wife and child. His son died in the middle of life. Shortly after Kazu’s retirement, when he finally had time for his wife, she died sleeping next to him after he came home drunk. Kazu wondered whether his wife cried out in pain, whether he could have saved her if he had not fallen into a drunken sleep. He carried the weight of both deaths. After his granddaughter came to live with him, he decided a 21-year old woman should not be burdened by an old man, so he left her a note saying he was moving to Tokyo and that she should not look for him.

Kazu tells us that the homeless do not usually tell each other stories, but a couple of the men he encounters in the park tell him about their past lives. A sense of guilt and shame is their unifying feature. Many of the park’s homeless occupants come to a sad end, sometimes by being beaten to death for sport by Tokyo teens. Their stories are in sharp contrast to the snippets of conversation that Kazu overhears, the idle gossip or comparison of purchases at the mall, the chatterers oblivious to the lives around them.

Tokyo Ueno Station suggests the importance of noticing the unnoticed. “To be homeless is to be ignored when people walk past while still being in full view of everyone.” Watching a young man read the prayers for health or success at a temple reminds Kazu that, when he was a young man, he “had no interest in other people’s hopes or setbacks.” The experience of homelessness triggered an empathic awareness of the world that Kazu lacked when he lived a more fortunate life. It is an empathy that government lacks, as he learns when park management displaces the homeless and their cardboard huts so that the imperial family can enjoy the park and its museums without being troubled by reality.

Yet empathy cannot cure the sadness that Kazu feels. The sorrow of death has captured him. Whether he has imagined or witnessed his granddaughter’s fate is unclear, but he has seen enough death to consider whether the time has come to for him to die.

Tokyo Ueno Station might be read as a critique of the Japanese government, its post-war drive to become an economic superpower at the expense of family and a meaningful existence. On a more personal level, the novel stands as an examination of the choices (or lack of choices) that shape life and death. The novel tells a bleak story in spare prose that suits its subject matter, but it encourages readers to recognize the importance of the only life we have and the value of all that lives that we choose not to see.

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Murder in the Crooked House by Soji Shimada

Published in Japan in 1982; published in translation by Pushkin Vertigo on June 25, 2019

Murder in the Crooked House is a locked room murder mystery that Soji Shimada divided into acts and scenes. A locked room murder in the first act is followed by another in the second. The novel challenges the reader not just to identify the killer but to figure out how the murders were committed. The latter is the more difficult challenge.

Kozaburo Hamamoto constructed the Crooked House, an isolated Western-style house next to a leaning glass tower, at the tip of Japan’s northernmost island. Hamamoto is a reclusive millionaire. He invites a few elite businessmen and their glamorous wives to a Christmas party at his Crooked House, as well as a couple of students. The chef, chauffeur, and maid are also present.

The students both have an interest in marrying Hamamoto’s daughter Eiko. Hamamoto puts a puzzle to them, offering his daughter’s hand (if she so wishes) to the winner. The challenge is to determine the significance of the flowerbed at the base of the tower. The significance will be revealed at the novel’s end.

Later that night, a female guest sees the face of a monster in her window — seemingly impossible since her room is on the third floor. The next morning, the chauffeur is found dead in his room with a knife protruding from his chest. The only door is locked from the inside. An art object, sort of like a large puppet or mannequin, is found in the snow outside his room. This turns out to be part of Hamamoto’s impressive collection of wind-up toys and other figures. He calls it a golem.

DI Okuma, DCI Ushikoshi, and DS Ozaki lead the police investigation. They take note of the house’s unusual design, which makes it difficult to move from room to room. A guest might need to climb down one staircase, walk the length of the house, and climb up a different staircase to access an adjacent room. The house is built on a slant and there are gaps between walls and the floor. The intricacies are difficult to follow, but Shimada provides helpful diagrams and maps of the house and murder scene.

Murder in the Crooked House is a classic locked room mystery. Several people were staying in the crooked house, all had gone to bed, most of them had their own room and no alibi, and none had an obvious motive to murder the chauffeur. The second murder is of a lecherous old man. This time, the only guests who had a motive were in the company of a police officer at the time the killing occurred.

The detectives are frustrated and, by the end of Act Two, they are wishing they had the assistance of a Japanese Sherlock Holmes. Enter Kiyoshi Mitarai, the star of Act Three. Mitarai’s role in the story is narrated by his own version of Watson, Kazumi Ishioka. Prior to the final act, the reader is assured that all the clues are in place and is challenged to solve the mystery.

And it’s true, the clues are there, but only a reader with some esoteric knowledge of Japan (and perhaps the ability to speak Japanese) will be able to unlock all of them. Most of the clues, however, would allow a reader to piece together how the murders were committed. To do so, the reader would need to be more astute than I am. Guessing the killer’s identity is somewhat easier.

The plot provides readers with an entertaining murder mystery, but the story is fascinating in its glimpse of certain aspects of traditional Japanese culture. A wife complains that her husband, a salaryman, is sycophantic in his relationship with a business owner, but bullying and bossy when he is at home. An older businessman is sleeping with his much younger secretary but hiding his conduct for the sake of appearances. The detectives are more worried about saving face than catching the killer. The murderer’s motivation for one of the killings is related to Japanese history. When the murderer is revealed, the unfailingly polite detectives fall over themselves to compliment the killer on an ingenious plan. And, of course, the polite murderer praises the investigator who solves the crime. What a nice place Japan must be to live (if you can avoid being murdered).

Mitarai isn’t quite Sherlock, but he brings a theatrical flair to his detecting style. An epilog gives the story a final twist. Murder in the Crooked House is a good choice for fans of Japanese crime fiction and a really good choice for fans of locked room murder mysteries.

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