Occupied City

The First Candle — The Testimony of the Victimo Weeping

Because of you. The city is a coffin. In the snow. In the back of a truck. Parked outside the bank. In the sleet. Under the heavy damp tarpaulin. Driven through the streets. In the rain. To the hospital. To the morgue. In the sleet. To the mortuary. To the temple. In the snow. To the crematorium. To the earth and to the sky –

In our twelve cheap wooden coffins –

In these twelve cheap wooden coffins, we lie. But we do not lie still. In these twelve cheap wooden coffins, we are struggling. Not in the dark, not in the light; in the grey, we are struggling; for here is only grey, here we are only struggling –

In this grey place,

that is no place,

we are struggling all the time, always and already –

In this place, of no place, between two places. The places we once were, the places we will be –

The deathly living,

the living death –

Between these two places, between these two cities:

Between the Occupied City and the Dead City, here we dwell, between the Perplexed City and the Posthumous City –

Here we dwell, in the earth, with the worms,

in the sky, with the flies, we who are no longer in the houses of being. Beyond loss, flocks of birds fall from the sky and shower us with their bloody feathers and severed wings. But we still hear you. We who are now in the houses of non-being. Beyond loss, schools of fish leap from the sea and splatter us with their bloody guts and severed heads. We still see you. We want to breathe again, but we can never breathe again. Beyond loss, herds of cattle run from the fields and trample us with their bloody carcasses and severed limbs. We listen to you. We want to return again, but we can never return again. Beyond loss. We watch you still. Through our veils –

The veils which no longer hang before our eyes, these veils which now hang behind our eyes, their threads spun by our tears, their webs woven by our deaths, these veils which replaced our names, which replaced our lives –

Through these veils,

still we see –

Still we watch, we watch you …

Our mouths always open, our mouths already open. But we no longer talk, we can no longer talk, here we can only mouth, mouth:

Do we matter to you? Did we ever matter?

Our mouths always screams,

already screams, screams

that mouth:

Your apathy is our disease; your apathy, a plague…

We dwell beyond sorrow. You close your mouths. We dwell beyond pain. You close your eyes. Beyond grief, beyond despair. You close your ears, for you do not hear us, for you do not listen to us …

And we are tired, we are so tired, so very tired –

But still we dwell, between these two places –

Beyond dereliction, we lie. Drunk, you harangue us. Beyond oblivion, we wait. Sober, you ignore us. Forgotten and untended, buried or burnt, haunted and restless, under the earth and above the sky, without dreams and without sleep. You are Mind to our suffering. We are so tired, so very tired. You are deaf to our supplications. We weep without tears, we scream without sound,

yet still we wait, and still

we watch –

Between the Occupied City and the Dead City, between the Perplexed City and the Posthumous City we wait, we watch and we struggle. Here in this grey place, here where we are waiting,

watching and struggling:

Cursed be you who cast us into this place! Cursed be you who keep us here! Fickle you are, so very fickle —

Fickle are you, fickle the living…

Forgotten are we, forgotten and denied –

Lives forgotten and deaths denied –

For you deny us our deaths …

Deny us and trap us …

In the Perplexed City, the Posthumous City, beyond the Occupied City, before the Dead City, here we are trapped, trapped in the greyness, trapped in this city. In this city that is no city,

this place that is no place –

Here we shuffle, we shuffle around, around in circles, with our boxes. Did you hear our footsteps in your heart? Our own ashes, around our necks, our own bones, in these boxes. Did you feel our fingertips within your flesh? We raise our shoulders, we raise our faces, we raise our eyes. Have you come to lead us back, back towards the light? Back towards the light, we begin to shuffle. Back to the Occupied City? In the Occupied City, we shuffle around, around these twelve candles, we gather around, around and around –

Back in the Occupied City, here we are the victims again –

Here, never the witnesses; always, already the victims –

So we are weeping. Always, already the weeping –

Here, we who were once the living –

Now weeping all the time, here –

Here tonight, weeping –

In the Occupied City, where the weeping seek the living. But the living are not here, not here tonight before these candles –

Here tonight, there are only the weeping –

Here tonight, only us:

And so again tonight we are Takeuchi Sutejiro, Watanabe Yoshiyasu, Nishimura Hidehiko, Shirai Shoichi, Akiyama Miyako, Uchida Hideko, Sawada Yoshio, Kato Teruko, Takizawa Tatsuo, Takizawa Ryu, Takizawa Takako and Takizawa Yoshihiro –

But we are still weeping. Always,

already the weeping,

always, already the weeping again in the Occupied City:

In the Occupied City it is 26 January 1948 again –

Here it is always, already 26 January 1948 –

This date always, already our wound –

Our wound which will never heal –

Here, here where it is always, already that date, that time; always, already, the last time:

For the last time. In the morning, we wake in our beds. In our beds that are no longer our beds. For the last time. In our homes, we dress. In our homes that are no longer our homes, our clothes that are no longer our clothes. For the last time. We eat white rice. Now we eat only the black rice, the black rice that empties our stomachs. For the last time. We drink clear water. Here we drink only the dark water, the dark water that empties our mouths. For the last time. In our genkans, we say goodbye to our mothers and our fathers, our sisters and our brothers, our wives and our sons, our husbands and our daughters. Our mothers and our fathers, our sisters and our brothers, our wives and our sons, our husbands and our daughters who are no longer our mothers and our fathers, no longer our sisters and our brothers, no longer our wives and our sons, no longer our husbands and our daughters. For the last time. In the snow, we leave for work. For our work that is no longer our work. For the last time. Among the crowds, we catch our trains and our buses. Our trains and our buses that are no longer our trains and our buses …

For the last time. Through the Occupied City, we shuffle –

From the Shiinamachi Station, we shuffle. In the sleet. For the last time. Up the road, we shuffle. Through the mud. For the last time. To the Teikoku Bank. The Teikoku Bank that is no longer a bank…

For the last time. We slide open the door. The door that is no longer a door. For the last time. We take off our shoes. Where are our shoes now? For the last time. We put on our slippers. Where are our slippers? For the last time. We sit at our desks. Our desks that are no longer, no longer our desks …

For the last time –

Among the papers and among the ledgers, we wait for the bank to open. For the last time, on this last day, 26 January 1948 –

We watch the hands of the clock reach half past nine. For the last time. The bank opens and the day begins. For the last time. We serve the customers. For the last time. We write in ledgers.

For the last time –

In the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, we hear the snow turn to sleet, the sleet turn to rain, as it falls on the roof of the bank. And we wonder if today the bank will close early. We wonder if today we will be able to leave early, to go back to our homes, back to our families. Because of the weather,

because of the snow –

But the snow has turned to sleet, the sleet has turned to rain, and so the bank will not close early today and so we will not be able to leave early today, we will not be able to go back to our homes,

back to our families –

So we sit at our desks in the bank, in the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, and we watch the hands of the clock and we glance at the face of our manager, our manager sat at his desk at the back; we know Mr Ushiyama, our manager, is not so well. We can see it in his face. We can hear it in his voice. We know he has severe stomach pains. We know he has had these pains for almost a week. We all know what this could be; we know it could be dysentery, we know it could be typhoid. In the Occupied City,

we all know what this could mean –

In the Occupied City, we know

this could mean death, death –

But he will survive this,

he will live through

this…

For the last time. We watch the hands of the clock reach two o’clock and we see Mr Ushiyama rise from his desk at the back, his face is white and he holds his stomach. For the last time. We watch Mr Ushiyama bow and we listen to Mr Ushiyama apologize to us all. For the last time. We watch as Mr Ushiyama leaves early –

And we all know what this could mean –

We know this could mean death –

But he will survive, he will live. Back in his home that is still his home, back with his family that is still his family …

But we do not leave early today. We do not go back to our homes, back to our families. We sit at our desks, in the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, and we go back to our customers and back to our ledgers. And we listen to the sound of the rain –

And we watch the hands of the clock –

We watch the hands of the clock reach three o’clock and we watch as the bank closes its doors for the day. Among the stacks of receipts, we collate the day’s transactions. For the last time. Among the piles of cash, we tally the day’s money. For the last time. And then we hear the tap-tap upon the side door. For the last time –

We look up at the hands of the clock –

For the last time:

It is now twenty past three on Monday, 26 January 1948 –

Twenty past three, in the Occupied City –

The knock now upon the side door –

Twenty past three and he is here –

Our killer is here.

We watch as Miss Akuzawa gets up to open the side door for our killer. You say he is forty-two years old. Our killer presents his name-card: Yamaguchi Jirō MD; Technical Officer; Ministry of Health and Welfare. You say he is fifty-four. Our killer asks to see the manager. You say he is forty-six years old. Miss Akuzawa asks our killer to come round to the front door. You say he is fifty-eight. Our killer goes back outside. You say he is five feet four inches tall. Our killer opens the front door. You say he is five feet three inches. Miss Akuzawa has a pair of slippers waiting for him. You say he is five feet five inches tall. Our killer takes off his boots in the genkan. You say he is five feet two. We listen as Miss Akuzawa tells our killer that the manager has already left, but that the assistant manager will see him. You say he has a thin build. We watch as our killer nods and thanks Miss Akuzawa, as she leads our killer through the bank. You say he has a medium build. We watch our killer pass us in our rows of desks as we work. You say he has an average build. We listen as Miss Akuzawa introduces our killer to the assistant manager, Mr Yoshida. You agree he is rather thin. Our killer bows. You say he has an oval face. Our assistant manager offers our killer a seat. You say he has a long face. Our killer sits down, his face to the right. You say he has a high nose. Our assistant manager stares at the name-card: Yamaguchi Jirō MD; Technical Officer; Ministry of Health and Welfare. You say he has a handsome face. Our killer tells our assistant manager there has been an outbreak of dysentery in the neighbourhood. You say he has a pale complexion. Our assistant manager now presents his own name-card: Yoshida Takejiro; Assistant Manager; Teikoku Bank; Shiinamachi branch, Nagasaki-chō, Toshima Ward, Tokyo. You say he has a jaundiced complexion. Our killer tells Mr Yoshida that the source of the outbreak is the public well in front of the Aida residence in Nagasaki 2-chōme. You say he has two brown spots on his left cheek. Mr Yoshida nods and mentions that the bank’s manager, Mr Ushiyama, has in fact left early due to severe stomach ache. On his right cheek. Our killer tells Mr Yoshida that one of Mr Aida’s tenants has been diagnosed with dysentery and that this man made a deposit in our branch today. You say he has a bruise on his left cheek. Mr Yoshida is amazed that the Ministry of Health and Welfare has heard of the case so quickly. A scar on his right. Our killer tells Mr Yoshida that the doctor who saw Mr Aida’s tenant reported the case promptly. You say he has close-cropped hair. Mr Yoshida nods. You say his hair is grey. Our killer says he has been sent by Lieutenant Parker, who is in charge of the disinfecting team for this area. You say his hair is rather long and grizzled. Mr Yoshida nods again. You say his hair is dark. Our killer has been told to inoculate everyone against dysentery and to disinfect all items that may have been contaminated. You say he wears a brown lounge suit. Mr Yoshida nods for a third time. You say he wears an old winter suit. All members, all rooms, all cash and all money in this branch, says our killer. You say he wears a uniform. Mr Yoshida stares at the name-card again: Yamaguchi Jirō MD; Technical Officer; Ministry of Health & Welfare. You are sure it was a uniform. Our killer says that no one will be allowed to leave until his work has been completed. You say he wears a brown overcoat. Mr Yoshida glances at his watch. You say he carries an overcoat. Lieutenant Parker and his team will arrive soon to check the job has been done properly, says our killer. You say he wears one coat but carries another. Mr Yoshida nods. You say he carries a spring coat. Our killer now places his small olive-green bag on Mr Yoshida’s desk. You say he wears brown rubber shoes. Mr Yoshida watches our killer open the bag. You say he wears burnt orange rubber boots. Our killer takes out a small metal box and two different-sized bottles marked in English. You say there was mud on his shoes. Mr Yoshida reads the words FIRST DRUG on the smaller 20 °CC bottle and SECOND DRUG on the 50 °CC bottle. You say his boots were clean. Our killer tells Mr Yoshida that this is an extremely potent oral antidote which the Americans have recently developed through experiments with palm tree oil. You say he wears a white cloth band on his left arm. Mr Yoshida nods. You say it reads in red ‘Leader of Disinfecting Team’. It is so powerful that you will be completely immunized from dysentery, says our killer. You say he wears a Tokyo Metropolitan Office armband. Mr Yoshida nods again. You say it reads in black ‘Disease Preventative Doctor’. Our killer warns Mr Yoshida that the administration procedure is complicated and unusual. You say he wears a Toshima Ward armband. Again, Mr Yoshida glances at the name-card on his desk: Yamaguchi Jirō MD; Technical Officer; Ministry of Health & Welfare. You say it reads ‘Epidemic Prevention Team’. Our killer asks Mr Yoshida to gather his staff. You say he carries a small olive- green shoulder bag over his right shoulder. Even the caretaker, his wife and two children? asks Mr Yoshida. Or was it his left? Our killer nods. You say he carries a doctor’s bag. Mr Yoshida rises from his desk. A black doctor’s bag. Mr Yoshida calls us over. I am Takeuchi Sutejiro and I am forty-nine years old but here I am no longer Takeuchi Sutejiro and now I am no longer forty-nine years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We rise from our desks. I am Watanabe Yoshiyasu and I am forty-three years old but here I am no longer Watanabe Yoshiyasu and now I am no longer forty-three years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We shuffle through the bank. I am Nishimura Hidehiko and I am thirty-eight years old but here I am no longer Nishimura Hidehiko and now I am no longer thirty-eight years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We gather around Mr Yoshida’s desk. I am Shirai Shoichi and I am twenty-nine years old but here I am no longer Shirai Shoichi and now I am no longer twenty-nine years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We all watch as our killer turns to Miss Akuzawa, as our killer asks her to bring enough teacups for all the members of the branch. I am Akiyama Miyako and I am twenty-three years old but here I am no longer Akiyama Miyako and now I am no longer twenty-three years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Miss Akuzawa fetches sixteen teacups on a tray. I am Uchida Hideko and I am twenty-three years old but here I am no longer Uchida Hideko and now I am no longer twenty-three years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Our killer opens the smaller bottle marked FIRST DRUG. I am Sawada Yoshio and I am twenty-two years old but here I am no longer Sawada Yoshio and now I am no longer twenty-two years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Our killer asks if everybody is here. I am Kato Teruko and I am sixteen years old but here I am no longer Kato Teruko and now I am no longer sixteen years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Our assistant manager counts our heads and nods, everybody is here. I am Takizawa Tatsuo and I am forty-six years old but here I am no longer Takizawa Tatsuo and now I am no longer forty-six years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Our killer holds a pipette as though it were a dagger in his hand. I am Takizawa Ryu and I am forty-nine years old but here I am no longer Takizawa Ryu and now I am no longer forty-nine years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We all watch as our killer drips some clear liquid into each of our cups. I am Takizawa Takako and I am nineteen years old but here I am no longer Takizawa Takako and now I am no longer nineteen years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. We all listen as our killer tells each of us to pick up our own teacup. I am Takizawa Yoshihiro and I am eight years old but here I am no longer Takizawa Yoshihiro and now I am no longer eight years old; now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. Each of us reaches for our own cup. We who are here now in the grey. Now our killer raises his hand in warning. We who are always, already struggling. We all listen as our killer warns us of the strength of the serum, the damage it can cause to our gums and tooth enamel if we do not watch our killer’s demonstration carefully, if we do not follow our killer’s instructions precisely. We who are always, already only weeping. We all watch as our killer now takes out a syringe. You define us as the victims. We all watch as our killer dips his syringe into the liquid. You damn us as the victims. We all watch as our killer draws up a measure of the liquid into the syringe. You are happy to remember us in the black and white of our deaths. We all watch as our killer opens his mouth. You are ignorant of us in the colour of our lives. We all watch as our killer places his tongue over his bottom front teeth and then tucks it under his lower lip. We are evidence at a crime scene. We all watch as our killer drips the liquid onto his tongue. We are bodies in a crime book; bodies, never characters. We all watch as our killer tilts his head back. In our lives you did not know us. We all watch as our killer stares at his wristwatch, his right hand in the air. Only by our deaths did you find us. We all watch as our killer’s hand falls. At a crime scene. We all listen as our killer tells us that this medicine may damage our gums and our teeth, as our killer tells us we must all swallow quickly. In a crime book. We all nod. Our names, our faces. We all listen as our killer tells us that exactly one minute after we have taken the first medicine, he will administer the second medicine. In print and in photographs. We all stare at the 50 °CC bottle marked SECOND DRUG. Reduced to a number. We all listen as our killer promises us that after we have taken the second medicine, we will be able to drink water or rinse out our mouths. Twelve, you will always write 12. Now our killer tells each of us to lift up our cups. In this number, this number 12. We all pick up our teacups. In this number, we die again. And now each of us drinks. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. Our killer tells us to drip the liquid onto our tongues. For we are not twelve. And now we all taste the bitter liquid. We are Takeuchi Sutejiro, Watanabe Yoshiyasu, Nishimura Hidehiko, Shirai Shoichi, Akiyama Miyako, Uchida Hideko, Sawada Yoshio, Kato Teruko, Takizawa Tatsuo, Takizawa Ryu, Takizawa Takako and Takizawa Yoshihiro. We all swallow it down. We who are here now in the grey. And we hear our killer tell us he will administer the second drug in exactly sixty seconds. We who are always, already struggling. We see our killer looking at his wristwatch. We who are always, already only weeping. We see him staring at his wristwatch. Weeping and waiting. We all wait for the second drug. Waiting and watching. We all watch as our killer pours the second drug into each of our teacups. Watching and reaching. We all reach for our cups again. Reaching and waiting, again. Again we all wait as our killer checks his wristwatch, and again we all wait for the signal. For the smile. Now we all see our killer gesture for each of us to drink again. With a smile. And we all drink. And you smile as we drink. And we all see our killer waiting. Still smiling. And we all see our killer still watching us. That smile on your face. And now we all feel the second liquid in our mouths, now in our throats, now in our stomachs. But you are smiling. And now we all hear our killer telling us to rinse out our mouths. Still smiling, still smiling, still…

At twenty minutes past three on Monday, 26 January 1948, in Tokyo, and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and I am drinking and now, now we run and we retch, we stagger and we stumble, and we begin to fall, to fall and to fall –

Infected, we are falling and falling –

We are falling. We are falling –

We are falling in tears –

In tears, the tears –

We are weeping. We are weeping –

We are weeping all the time –

Always, already weeping,

here. But in the Occupied City, it is twenty minutes past three,

now it is twenty-one minutes past three,

now twenty-two minutes past,

twenty-three minutes –

In the Occupied City, the minutes and the hours, the days and the weeks, the months and the years will pass. But in the Perplexed City, the Posthumous City, between two places, the minutes and the hours, the days and the weeks, the months and the years will not pass.

Here where it is always, already January, but where January is not January; here where it is always, already 1948,

but where 1948 is not 1948;

here where we do not age –

In the Perplexed City, in the Posthumous City,

it will always, already be twenty past three –

But still we watch you age, watch

you age, and watch you forget…

Here, where it is always, already twenty past three –

Here, where it will always, already be grey –

Into the greyness, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling, I am falling –

I am falling, I am falling –

I am falling –

Falling –

Here, into the Perplexed City, the Posthumous City, this city that is no city, into the grey place, this place that is no place,

we all fall, away from the light,

from the Occupied City,

we all fall, into the earth and into the sky,

we all fall, fall, fall –

From your city, into our coffins …

Twelve cheap wooden coffins –

Your city, our coffin …

Here, here –

In the snow. In the back of a truck. Parked outside the bank. In the sleet. Under the heavy damp tarpaulin. Driven through the streets. In the rain. To the hospital. To the morgue. In the sleet. To the mortuary. To the temple. In the snow. To the crematorium. To the earth and to the sky. In our twelve cheap wooden coffins –

Ash for hair, soil for skin, among the flakes and the sod / We defy the fire and the rake, the spade and the grave / The grave in the earth, the grave in the sky / In the abyss of the sky, in the abyss of the earth / Your earth, your sky. Not our sky, not

our earth / not here, not now /

Now into the heights, we

fall, into the depths …

These twelve cheap wooden coffins, in which we lie. But we do not lie still. In these twelve cheap wooden coffins, we are struggling. In the greyness, we are struggling. In this city, we are struggling. We are struggling and we are weeping, weeping the words:

Where is the law, we ask as we fall, from being into non-being, as we struggle, between one place and no place,

as we weep, where is the law?

In the Ab-grund, in the Un-grund, the without ground, the non-ground / Here, other voices in this other-dom will speak this other-place with other-name –

In this un-place, in this un-city, between two places, in this other-dom / There are no swallows, no swallows fly here / Here, we shuffle across the carpet of their corpses, up and down, their bloated chests, their barren wings / Here, where their still eyes accuse us, yellow / Here, where their empty beaks stand open, yellow –

In this place of no place, we lie. It has a name

and it has none. So speak it,

now speak it: Caesura –

Between us –

In this place — no-place / un-place — this place called Caesura, named Caesura, this place that takes away our breath, this place that leaves us weeping. Always, weeping. Already, weeping –

You are deaf, you are dumb and you are blind,

so you cannot and you will not hear us,

cannot and will not help us,

will you …

In the Perplexed City, the Posthumous City, in Caesura, always, already –

You will not help us, will you, dear writer?

The first candle blown out –

Always, already, out –

In-caesura, in-difference …

Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult circle, her white face falling and her red robes flailing, the medium is flat upon the floor before you now. The wind, the bell and the drum all silent now, the medium mute and prostrate upon the floor,

the blood and tear-splin-taint-ed floor –

In-difference and in-caesura …

The first candle extinguished,

the medium exhausted –

Un-in-corpor-ated…

Possessed no more, you are alone here. Here in the Occupied City, alone and deaf, dumb and blind –

Yet still you try to write,

to pick up your pen,

to write again

here. Here in this place between the things you did and the things you did not do, between the things you felt and the things you did not feel, the things you said and the things you did not say,

here in this place between the done and the un-done, the felt and the un-felt, the said and the un-said –

Yet still you try to write,

to write again

here–

But here the done can never be un-done,

the un-done never done –

Here the felt can never be un-felt,

the un-felt never felt –

The said never be un-said,

the un-said never

said–

Here where you know the written can never be un-written,

and where you fear — fear, fear, fear — the un-written,

the un-written can never be written,

the un-written never written

here. Here where your see-ing is fading, now as your hear-ing is failing. Here and now where nightmares and headaches curse your days and nights. Here and now as you mistake the sun for the moon, moonlight for sunshine, sun-fall for rain-shine,

life for death, cough-cough,

death for birth. Here –

In this occult circle of the eleven candles, in this upper chamber of the Black Gate, you cough and you cough-cough, see-fading and hear-failing, you cough and you cough-cough, blood-blots and tear-traces here. Here among the blank tears and the falling papers, you are coughing, cough-cough, and now you are spinning, spinning and spinning, unable to write, unable to see,

still half-deaf to the foot-stair-steps,

to the sirens and the telephones –

‘No more tears,’ whispers a voice, the voice of an old man. ‘No more tears, no more tears for him …’

You drop your pen, your ink-dry-pen. You open your eyes, your red-dry-eyes. The eleven candles have gone, the Black Gate has gone, the Occupied City has gone. You are standing in a shed, or a barn, with the earth-smell, the damp-smell. You are watching an elderly man opening up cardboard boxes, taking out files, dust-webbed and cob-covered, the elderly man leafing through papers and documents, documents and notebooks, notebooks upon notebooks –

‘It was many years ago,’ the old man is saying. ‘Not so many people left now who remember what the Teigin case was really like.

‘But I remember. Because I was in the Murder Room; Room #2 of the First Investigative Division of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Board. And Room #2 was in charge of all murders.

‘The head of our division was Suzuki and the head of our room was Minegishi…

‘But you want to know what happened, yes?’ repeats the old man. ‘No? You want to know the truth? Make up your mind! Which do you want to know; what happened, or the truth? What do you mean they’re the same? Of course they’re not! I can believe something happened, but it doesn’t make it true –

‘Does it?

‘For example, I once knew this detective. Married. Kid. The whole deal. Anyway, this detective, he starts to believe his wife is having an affair. A fling. With an American. A soldier. She wasn’t. But that didn’t stop him believing she was. He would tell me, last night my wife was off fucking this American soldier. She wasn’t. But that didn’t stop him believing it. Believing it happened. Believing it was real. Believing it was true. It was the truth for him. It was real for him, very real for her too, in the end. But that’s another story. But you see my point, don’t you? But, anyway, if you want to know what happened, then I’ll tell you what happened. It’s all in here …

‘Here in these boxes, here in these notebooks …

‘But remember, no more tears –

’No more tears for him …