The Complete Ring Trilogy: Ring, Spiral, Loop. Koji Suzuki
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“At any rate, we now know what we have to do. We have to find out who this person is. Or was. I think he or she is probably no longer with us. And then we have to find out what this person desired while he or she was still alive. And that’ll be the charm that will allow us to go on living.”
Ryuji winked at Asakawa, as if to say, how’m I doin’?
Asakawa had left the No. 3 Tokyo–Yokohama Freeway and was now heading south on the Yokohama–Yokosuka road. Ryuji had reclined the passenger seat and was sleeping a perfect, stressless sleep. It was almost two in the afternoon, but Asakawa wasn’t the least bit hungry.
Asakawa reached out a hand to wake Ryuji, but then pulled it back. They weren’t at their destination yet. Asakawa didn’t even really know what their destination was. All Ryuji had done was tell him to drive to Kamakura. He didn’t know where they were going or why they were going there. It made him a nervous, irritable driver. Ryuji had packed in a hurry, saying he’d explain where they were going once they were in the car. But once underway, he’d said, “I didn’t sleep last night—don’t wake me till Kamakura,” and then he’d promptly gone to sleep.
He exited the Yokohama–Yokosuka road at Asahina and then took the Kanazawa road five kilometers until they reached Kamakura Station. Ryuji had been asleep for a good two hours.
“Hey, we’re here,” said Asakawa, shaking him. Ryuji stretched his body like a cat, rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, and shook his head rapidly from side to side, lips flapping.
“Ahh, I was having such a pleasant dream …”
“What do we do now?”
Ryuji sat up and looked out the window to see where he was. “Just go straight on this road, and then when you reach the Outer Gate to the Hachiman Shrine turn left and stop.” Then Ryuji went to lie down again, saying, “Maybe I can still catch the tail-end of that dream, if you don’t mind.”
“Look, we’ll be there in five minutes. If you’ve got time to sleep, you’ve got time to explain to me what we’re doing here.”
“You’ll see once we get there,” said Ryuji, jamming his knees up against the dashboard and going back to sleep.
Asakawa made the left and stopped. Dead ahead was an old two-story house with a small sign reading “Tetsuzo Miura Memorial Hall.”
“Pull into that parking lot.” Ryuji had apparently opened his eyes slightly. He wore a satisfied look and his nostrils were flared like he was sniffing perfume. “Thanks to you I was able to finish my dream.”
“What was it about?” asked Asakawa, as he turned the steering wheel.
“What do you think? I was flying. I love dreams where I’m flying.” Ryuji snorted happily and licked his lips.
The Tetsuzo Miura Memorial Hall looked deserted. A large open space on the ground floor featured photographs and documents in frames on the wall or in cases under glass, and an outline of this Miura fellow’s achievements was plastered onto the center wall. Reading it, Asakawa finally figured out who the man was.
“Excuse me. Is there anyone here?” called Ryuji into the depths of the building. There was no reply.
Tetsuzo Miura had died two years ago at the age of 72, after retiring from a professorship at Yokodai University. He’d specialized in theoretical physics, concentrating on theories of matter and statistical dynamics. But the Memorial Hall, modest as it was, didn’t result from his achievements as a physicist, but from his scientific investigations of paranormal phenomena. The resumé on the wall claimed that the Professor’s theories had attracted worldwide interest, although undoubtedly only a limited number of people had actually paid any attention. After all, Asakawa had never even heard of the guy. And what exactly were this man’s theories? To find the answer, Asakawa began to examine the items on the walls and in the display cases. Thoughts have energy, and that energy … Asakawa had read this far when he heard, echoing from another room, the sound of someone hurrying down stairs. A door opened and a fortyish man with a mustache poked his head in. Ryuji approached the man, holding out one of his business cards. Asakawa decided to follow his example and took his own card-holder from his breast pocket.
“My name is Takayama. I’m at Fukuzawa University.” He spoke smoothly and affably; Asakawa was amused at how different he sounded. Asakawa held out his own card. Faced with the credentials of an academic and a reporter, the man looked rather dismayed. It was Asakawa’s card he was frowning at.
“If it’s alright, there’s something we’d like to consult with you about.”
“What would that be?” The man eyed them cautiously.
“As a matter of fact, I once had the pleasure of meeting the late Professor Miura.”
For some reason the man seemed relieved to hear this, and relaxed his expression. He brought out three folding chairs and arranged them to face each other.
“Is that so? Please, have a seat.”
“It must have been about three years ago … yes, that’s right, it was the year before he died. My alma mater was sounding me out about possibly giving a lecture on the scientific method, and I thought I might take the opportunity to hear what the Professor had to say …”
“Was it here, in this house?”
“Yes. Professor Takatsuka introduced us.”
Hearing this name, the man at last smiled. He realized he had something in common with his visitors. These two must be on our side. They’re not here to attack us after all.
“I see. I’m sorry about all that. My name is Tetsuaki Miura. Sorry, I’m fresh out of business cards.”
“So you must be the Professor’s …?”
“Yes, I’m his only son. Hardly worthy of the name, though.”
“Is that right? Well, I had no idea the Professor had such an outstanding son.”
It was all Asakawa could do to keep from laughing at the sight of Ryuji addressing a man ten years older than himself and calling him an “outstanding son”.
Tetsuaki Miura showed them around briefly. Some of his late father’s students had got together after his death to open the house to the public, and to put in order the materials he’d collected over the years. As for Tetsuaki himself, he said, somewhat self-deprecatingly, that he hadn’t been able to become a researcher like his father had wanted, but instead had built an inn on the same lot as the Hall, and devoted himself to managing it.
“So here I am exploiting both his land and his reputation. Like I say, I’m hardly a worthy son.” Tetsuaki gave a chagrined laugh. His inn was used largely for high-school excursions—mostly physics and biology clubs, but he also mentioned a group devoted to parapsychological research. High-school clubs needed to have a reason to go on trips. Basically, the Memorial Hall was bait to bring in student groups.
“By the way …” Ryuji sat up straight and tried to guide the conversation to the heart of the matter.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been boring you, babbling on like this. So tell me, what brings you here?”
It was apparent that Tetsuaki didn’t have much in the way of talent for science. He was nothing but a merchant who adjusted his attitude to suit the situation—Asakawa could tell that Ryuji thought little of the man.
“To tell you the truth, we’re looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Actually, we don’t know the name. That’s why we’re here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.” Tetsuaki looked troubled, as if to urge his visitors to make a little more sense.
“We can’t even say for sure if this person is still alive, or has