of lust for another foreigner named Tracy.
Kimura directed him to one short passage about knives and Thomasâs fear of them. He had written that he couldnât go to Nepal for fear of the long, curved kukri nor to Israel for fear of the âshining fishâ commando daggers, that he didnât sculpt wood because he thought eventually his own knives would turn on him. It may have explained why he encased his knives in plaster, but Takuda didnât think it told the whole story.
Another, much longer essay was on someone named Job. It seemed deliberately convoluted, filled with internal references to biblical names âtwo lines aboveâ and concepts âforty-Âthree words before.â Had it been straightforward, Takuda still would not have understood; this went far beyond his casual knowledge of ChrisÂtianÂity. As it was, Takuda just scanned it. It ended on the second page with a nicely shaded cross-Âsection of a boil, that or some geological formation for which Takuda had no name.
The longhand scribbling was in random spots, sometimes wedged into trapezoids between finished drawings. When Takuda noticed this, he flipped through the binder. It seemed that Thomas had filled a one-Âhundred-Âpage composition book from cover to cover, then had started to fill in empty spots. No wonder the police had copied this journal. If they were looking for proof of insanity, it seemed a likely place to find it.
One page featured a full-Âsized drawing of the stone knife, in loving detail. The legend in English at the bottom of the page read, Kurodama, unknown stone, unknown origin .
Takuda flipped past it. The following pages were detailed drawings of individual bones and full skeletons, some highly detailed and some ridiculously stylized, some dancing in apparently joyous abandon with the legend Poor Skeleton Steps Out .
Two facing pages stopped Takuda as he flipped through. On first glance he thought there was an old Japanese print stuck in Thomasâs notebook, but the meticulous cross-Âhatching was unmistakably Thomasâs work. Then the whole thing came clear and Takudaâs stomach started to squirm. Thomas had drawn caricatures of Japanese Âpeople in scenes from Buddhist hell. They were tortured by comically grotesque demons who grinned to show their tusks and fangs while they flayed and roasted emaciated bodies. The flapping tongues of businessmen were nailed to the floor. Nabeshima, unmistakably Nabeshima, was skewered on a demonâs pike in a parody of physical love. Others Japanese girls were stacked in tiers on beds of smoking coal.
The caricatures themselves were worse than the tortures inflicted. Nabeshimaâs face was haggard and bleary. Thomas had drawn her in three-Âquarter profile, her forehead sloping down to heavy brows, then shoved her pug nose farther up between her eyes to make room for her jutting jaw and hugely outsized teeth.
The squirming settled deeper into Takudaâs stomach. He laid the binder facedown on the table and lit another cigarette. Kimura picked up the binder and pointed out some interesting sights in Buddhist hell, including the Hari no yama , the mountain of needles, and the Sanzu no kawa , the flaming river. Takuda didnât care. He was done.
âBut wait. See, it changes.â
Kimura turned the page. Willowy, indistinct shapes floated out of slipstreams and waves. They were beautiful, like faceless angels shining white on the black pages. There were arrows and labels to indicate different figures: âthe woman in the hallway,â âthe screaming boy,â âthe man who stands sideways.â
In the angular script:
They are very shy. They disappear when they turn sideways. They arenât transparent, and they arenât like chameleons. They just know how to disappear. One is a woman and she always hides in the wood crying. I hear her just as I fall asleep, and it wakes me up. But I turn on the light,
Kimura directed him to one short passage about knives and Thomasâs fear of them. He had written that he couldnât go to Nepal for fear of the long, curved kukri nor to Israel for fear of the âshining fishâ commando daggers, that he didnât sculpt wood because he thought eventually his own knives would turn on him. It may have explained why he encased his knives in plaster, but Takuda didnât think it told the whole story.
Another, much longer essay was on someone named Job. It seemed deliberately convoluted, filled with internal references to biblical names âtwo lines aboveâ and concepts âforty-Âthree words before.â Had it been straightforward, Takuda still would not have understood; this went far beyond his casual knowledge of ChrisÂtianÂity. As it was, Takuda just scanned it. It ended on the second page with a nicely shaded cross-Âsection of a boil, that or some geological formation for which Takuda had no name.
The longhand scribbling was in random spots, sometimes wedged into trapezoids between finished drawings. When Takuda noticed this, he flipped through the binder. It seemed that Thomas had filled a one-Âhundred-Âpage composition book from cover to cover, then had started to fill in empty spots. No wonder the police had copied this journal. If they were looking for proof of insanity, it seemed a likely place to find it.
One page featured a full-Âsized drawing of the stone knife, in loving detail. The legend in English at the bottom of the page read, Kurodama, unknown stone, unknown origin .
Takuda flipped past it. The following pages were detailed drawings of individual bones and full skeletons, some highly detailed and some ridiculously stylized, some dancing in apparently joyous abandon with the legend Poor Skeleton Steps Out .
Two facing pages stopped Takuda as he flipped through. On first glance he thought there was an old Japanese print stuck in Thomasâs notebook, but the meticulous cross-Âhatching was unmistakably Thomasâs work. Then the whole thing came clear and Takudaâs stomach started to squirm. Thomas had drawn caricatures of Japanese Âpeople in scenes from Buddhist hell. They were tortured by comically grotesque demons who grinned to show their tusks and fangs while they flayed and roasted emaciated bodies. The flapping tongues of businessmen were nailed to the floor. Nabeshima, unmistakably Nabeshima, was skewered on a demonâs pike in a parody of physical love. Others Japanese girls were stacked in tiers on beds of smoking coal.
The caricatures themselves were worse than the tortures inflicted. Nabeshimaâs face was haggard and bleary. Thomas had drawn her in three-Âquarter profile, her forehead sloping down to heavy brows, then shoved her pug nose farther up between her eyes to make room for her jutting jaw and hugely outsized teeth.
The squirming settled deeper into Takudaâs stomach. He laid the binder facedown on the table and lit another cigarette. Kimura picked up the binder and pointed out some interesting sights in Buddhist hell, including the Hari no yama , the mountain of needles, and the Sanzu no kawa , the flaming river. Takuda didnât care. He was done.
âBut wait. See, it changes.â
Kimura turned the page. Willowy, indistinct shapes floated out of slipstreams and waves. They were beautiful, like faceless angels shining white on the black pages. There were arrows and labels to indicate different figures: âthe woman in the hallway,â âthe screaming boy,â âthe man who stands sideways.â
In the angular script:
They are very shy. They disappear when they turn sideways. They arenât transparent, and they arenât like chameleons. They just know how to disappear. One is a woman and she always hides in the wood crying. I hear her just as I fall asleep, and it wakes me up. But I turn on the light,
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