Cult X Page 3

  “Matsuo-san was scammed,” Mineno said quietly. “Someone asked him to donate part of the land he owned for a charity hospital, and without thinking much about it, he handed it over. But that land was never used for a hospital. Before he knew it, it was sold and resold, and was eventually used to build a highway. But that’s not all. We don’t know the details, but the contract he’d signed had a stipulation sneaked in that required him to give up more and more, and he suffered a pretty big loss. The scam was carried out by a sham investment firm Sawatari was involved with. Matsuo-san doesn’t like to talk about it—really, none of us know anything about Matsuo-san’s life before he showed up at the mansion—but it seems Matsuo-san and Sawatari have a long history together. Anyway, Sawatari took a chunk of Matsuo-san’s property and a bunch of the people who used to come here and vanished. And . . .” Mineno suddenly went quiet.

  Yoshida finished the story. “That woman you’re looking for, she was involved with that investment firm. She’s one of the people who scammed Matsuo-san. She vanished with Sawatari—or maybe it’s more accurate to say they returned to their own cult.”

  “Their own cult?” Narazaki repeated.

  “Yes. She’s not here. They’re part of a nameless cult. They came to the attention of the Public Security Bureau once, and after that they went underground. It seems the Bureau just calls them X, since they have no name. It’s a pretty frightening name. Maybe there’s some other reason they use it, but I’m not sure. The woman you’re searching for, and we’re searching for, is there.”

  This dark room. How much longer will I be here? One week? One month? This tiny room. Walls all around me. My head hurts. No, maybe it doesn’t. I saw it a second ago—ah, a door. There’s a door. Mom? If I just close the door, it’ll be okay? It’s not okay. Not at all. It’s not okay because there’s a hole in that door. Because I used the drill from the woodshop to make a little hole.

  I don’t feel hungry any more. There’s no strength left in my body. When was the last time I ate something? When was the last time I drank something? A sound. I heard a sound. There’s a warmth rising up from deep within my body. It’s a happy warmth. A sound. I heard a sound. Just now, I heard someone knocking. But from where? From the other side of these walls? That sound, it’s telling me I haven’t been forgotten. Knocking. They remember me. Thank you! Thank you so much! Even though it hurts so much, even though there’s nothing left for me to throw up, I feel myself far more clearly than when I was working at that company. What should I say? If I just close the door it’ll be okay? Do you think so, Mom? Myself, much clearer—I exist. That should be obvious. But it’s not. Now I know I exist. Now I am here, full of pain. No, I exist in this space as pain. I’ve become pain, and am here, in this world. My arms and legs. My organs, my genitals, my body can’t move anymore, but my mind feels like it’s boiling over. A flood of consciousness. I’m so aware, I want to vomit . . . Where is that woman? Or was that just a dream? If I just close the door, it’ll be okay? Do you really think so, Mom? The second floor of that run-down hostess club. The scary second floor, where the windows rattled on windy days. I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew I shouldn’t look. But even though I was just in elementary school, I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see. I wanted to watch and play with myself. You, taking that strange man in so beautifully with your sturdy hips. You, taking him in so beautifully, and liking it. If I just close the door, it’ll be okay? I was jealous of those men. If I paid twenty thousand yen, could I do that to you? Should I say more? I wasn’t just jealous of those men holding you. I can’t stop the words from pouring out. I don’t feel like I need to stop them. I was jealous of you, too! Those men, those men filled with lust, they didn’t care about me in the next room. They didn’t care about me. They just wanted you. Those men, with those strong bodies, their violent passions, you took them in with your sturdy hips. You’re amazing, Mom. You could just keep taking everything those big men had. All of it, all of it, with a face that looked so, so, so happy it made me burn. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be wanted like that. No one would ignore me. They’d want me too much. And then, and then after. And then I began to empathize with girls when I had sex. I didn’t worry just about my pleasure. I imagined the woman’s pleasure, pleasure that would burn her up . . . That’s why I can drive women wild. So intense, so intense. Ahh! I thought I was good. I thought I was a coward. But just that part of me—just that part was strong enough to ruin my life. What is this music? Oh, I know. I know this song. I’ve heard it so many times in this room. It’s Bach. Bach. “I call to you, Lord Jesus Christ.” But why? Why this song with those images? Men gathering around my mother and this song? There’s no way. Could Jesus Christ have been there? When I got on all fours and brought my eye up to the hole and watched you in the throes of pleasure, I felt like I was being called by something. I was being led by something. Could that have been Jesus Christ? Was he there? Was he there somewhere? No, was he the place itself? Savior? No. Not savior. Not savior, fear. It was fear. Why did Jesus Christ show me fear? Because it’s my true being? Is that my true being? Did Jesus Christ show me my true being? Why? To lead me somewhere? To what sort of abyss? Why? Why would he be so cruel?

  Knocking. Thank you. I haven’t been forgotten. But my vision is getting cloudy. The door? If I just close the door, it’ll be okay? My true self. My vision . . . I feel like I’m going to vomit. Nothing comes out. My throat spasms a little. I can’t tell if it hurts, or if it feels good . . . What? The door? The door is opening?

  “Congratulations.”

  Light streamed in from the other side of the door.

  Collapsed on the floor, the skinny man looked up toward that light. It wasn’t strong, but he had been in the darkness so long it was bright to him. Is that light? the skinny man wondered. Ah, there are people. There are people.

  “Are you all right? Congratulations! You did well. You did very well.”

  The long-haired believer helped the skinny man up and led him from the small room. There was light everywhere. The long-haired believer was crying. The skinny man felt his body grow warmer. For me? Are they crying for me?

  “Ohhh . . .”

  “Don’t worry. You don’t have to speak. Congratulations. The leader will meet you.”

  The leader? Really? The skinny man’s body began to tremble. For me? Oh, there are so many people. They are all smiling at me. Some are crying for me. For me? Thank you. You were the ones who knocked for me, right? You were the ones who kept knocking for me, to let me know I hadn’t been forgotten, right? A warmth spread through the skinny man’s body. Have I ever felt this much, this much joy?

  “Congratulations!”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Congratulations!”

  The skinny man was led by the long-haired believer up the stairs. To the twenty-first floor. The twenty-first floor, where only the chosen can enter. I get to go to the twenty-first floor! Me . . . At the edge of his blurred vision, he saw a door. Their steps rang out on the hard stone tile covering the expansive floor. His consciousness faded, but all the sounds resonated through his body. There was a massive door. All he could see was that tremendous door.

  The long-haired believer spoke again. “I cannot go any farther. Congratulations. The leader will meet with you shortly. You must be so moved. You must be so happy.”

  The door opened. It was dark inside. The leader was sitting in a chair. He could tell from just one look—that was the leader. I came here to meet you. I came here to meet you. To meet you. To meet you. I was born to meet you.

  “You have overcome. You are wonderful.”

  The leader’s voice was low but strong. The skinny man collapsed in tears.

  “Your life of suffering, your unrewarded life will end today.”

  “. . . Yes.” The skinny man stared up at the man speaking, tears streaming down his face.

  “No one will hurt you here.”<
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  “. . . Yes.”

  “There are no idiots here, no one who will fail to recognize your strength.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “There is no one here who will interfere with your life.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “You are my disciple. My irreplaceable disciple. To us, to me, you are an irreplaceable friend.”

  The skinny man continued to cry, unable to stand.

  “Your life is here. All your reasons for living are here. I plan to change this world. I want your help.”

  “Yes.”

  The skinny man rose to his knees, and joined his hands together as if praying to the leader. His tears would not stop flowing. They were so violent and warm he didn’t know what to do.

  “Leader.” What in this life has meaning? My comforts, dreams, pride? “I give you my life, leader.” I give it all to you. “I am yours.”

  “Since they have no name, we have nothing else to call them,” Yoshida said under his breath. “Cult X.”

  3

  “. . . Cult X?”

  What a strange name, Narazaki thought. Like the name of some trashy TV show.

  “Have you told the police about this scam?”

  “Matsuo-san didn’t want to,” Yoshida said, looking fed up. “Because of whatever that old connection is between Matsuo-san and Sawatari. I don’t know the details.”

  It began to grow dark outside. Narazaki felt as though the lights inside were growing stronger—manmade lights stretching out everyone’s shadows.

  “And what about you? Can we hear your story?” Yoshida asked. “I’m sorry we can’t be of much help to you, but we’re also looking for this woman. Well, we’re looking for Sawatari, at least—without Matsuo-san knowing, of course. Maybe there will be a hint in your story.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know much,” Narazaki said.

  “What do you mean?”

  How much can I tell them? Narazaki wondered. But I haven’t lied. I really don’t know much about her. “Well, she just vanished. That’s it.”

  “So . . . were you lovers?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  In the silence that followed, Narazaki noticed Yoshida staring at him. The woman in the Rilakkuma apron was still staring at the ground. The clock’s second hand moved slowly.

  “Well, thank you for coming. I think you’ll be back,” Mineno said softly, as if exhaling. “This is probably a difficult topic for you, so talk to us when you feel ready. Would you like to watch a DVD before you leave tonight? We have recordings of Matsuo-san’s talks. When Matsuo-san’s not here, the people who come to visit always watch them.”

  “But—” Yoshida interrupted.

  “What? You think we should try to force him to talk? Do you think Matsuo-san would want that?”

  Yoshida looked at Mineno, a perturbed expression on his face. Mineno ignored him and gave Narazaki a cautious look. “I’m sure Tachibana-san is also in the video.” Mineno stood, and Yoshida reluctantly followed suit. Narazaki followed them out of the room and down the old hallway. The floor was worn but well polished.

  “It looks nice in here,” Narazaki said. He felt he had to make up for not speaking earlier.

  “Oh, we’re cleaning. Matsuo-san’s coming back.”

  “Coming back? So he’s not that sick?”

  “It’s just hemorrhoids,” Yoshida said.

  Mineno couldn’t help but laugh. “Hemorrhoids. Really bad hemorrhoids that required surgery. Unbelievable, right? A religious leader with hemorrhoids?”

  They led Narazaki to a tatami room with a TV and an ashtray. It was smaller than the previous room, and for some reason the heater was already on. He could hardly believe it as they said goodbye, leaving him all alone in the room. Do they trust me? he wondered. And it doesn’t look like they can lock that sliding wooden door from the outside.

  Narazaki stared blankly at a cardboard box filled with DVDs. He had expected them to be lined up more showily, as might befit videos of the group’s leader. He picked one up and lit a cigarette. He had started smoking again a month ago.

  On the cover was a picture of a thin old man. Was he in his seventies? Narazaki couldn’t tell. His eyes were large, and his short hair had a lot of white in it, but he had a good-looking face for an old man. His left arm was moving, so this must have been from before he collapsed. He was wearing a gray sweater and beige chino pants. He really didn’t seem like a religious leader. He was sitting on the wooden veranda of the mansion, and fifty or sixty people sat in folding chairs in the garden.

  Since he’d pretended he was interested in their faith, Narazaki felt he had no choice but to watch the video.

  Matsuo-san’s Lectures, I, PART 1

  Well, today I’d like to talk about something rather serious. Everyone, you all know about the Buddha, right? The Buddha. The man who’s said to have founded Buddhism. Buddhism is what they practice in temples, not shrines—shrines are for Shinto rites, and they have their own gods. We’re talking about the religion where people ring bells on New Year’s Eve. Temples. Temples are for Buddhism.

  You know about the Daibutsu, right? Those big statues of the Buddha. What do you imagine when you think of the Buddha? You probably at least think he was a good guy, right? [Light laughter.] He did good things, was filled with compassion, and tried to lead even sinners to heaven . . . But was he really like that? Was Buddha really a “good guy”? That’s what I’d like to talk about today. That and the most recent theories of neuroscience. These two topics are connected very closely.

  The Buddha’s real name was Siddhārtha Gautama. Some say he was born in India in 624 BC. Others say it was 463 BC. No one’s really sure. Regardless, he was born between four hundred and six hundred years before Jesus Christ. He was born into royalty, but when he was twenty-nine he abandoned his wife and children, left the palace, and wandered the world. It’s said that when he was thirty-five or -six he reached enlightenment. His teachings—what became Buddhism—spread not just through India, but also reached China and Japan. There are plenty of temples in Japan, too, right? Much is said about how the Buddha led his life. Some stories are so fantastic one can only assume they’re legends—like the ones that say he flew through the sky without a ship.

  People later expanded on the early ideas of Buddhism, and there are a vast number of writings from later periods. Of course, all of those books are worthwhile. But, in truth, I have no interest in the teachings of Buddhism. I’m interested in the Buddha himself. What kind of person was he, and what did he teach? Unfortunately, none of the Buddha’s original teachings survive. The same is true of Jesus Christ. It was his disciples, the people who followed him, who passed his words on to later generations.

  There is one collection of teachings called the Sutta Nipata, it is the oldest extant Buddhist teachings. I was surprised when I read this work. It was rather far removed from the image of Buddhism I’d had until then. This work had already been mostly lost by the time Buddhism was passed from India to China and then Japan. In other words, it didn’t have much impact on Buddhism in East Asia. But this is the oldest of the Buddhist scriptures, and as such may be the one that best captures the Buddha’s true voice.

  It is said that of the books in the Sutta Nipata the oldest are the fourth and the final fifth book. How these later books wound up being the oldest is thought to be a matter of the editing style. In the case of Islam’s Quran and Hinduism’s Rigveda, the older parts come first. There are all sorts of editing styles.

  Now, let me read a few sections.

  One must sever oneself from the root of delusion, the thought that thinking brings wisdom.

  The philosopher Descartes was born in 1596. His famous phrase, “I think, therefore I am,” was contradicted by the Buddha here in the Sutta Nipata about two thousand years before Descartes was even born. Western philosophers co
ntinue to argue over this or that point in Descartes, never even realizing that the Buddha contested his claims millennia before they were made.

  For whom there is no desire, for the monk who has cut off the stream (of existence) and abandoned all kinds of works both good and bad, there is no pain.

  In other words, they don’t do bad things, or good things. Religious doesn’t mean good! They don’t worry about good and bad at all.

  Under all circumstances the independent holy man neither loves nor hates anyone; sorrow and avarice do not stick to him, as water does not stick to leaves.

  A holy man loves no one. Of course, there’s no romantic love either—this text says you must abandon all your romantic desires as well as all other desires. Women are humans. They’ve got organs, and they get runny noses, and take shits. It makes you want to ask, “Are you serious, Buddha?” There really is also a section that says we all shit, so don’t act high and mighty.

  An accomplished man is not led by holy works, nor by tradition.

  Let a monk not depend upon what is seen, heard, or thought, or upon virtue and holy works.

  As Bhadrāvudha and Alavi-Gotama have left their fate, so, too, shall you.

  . . . How about that? It doesn’t sound like a religion at all, does it? To quote Hajime Nakamura, a world expert on ancient Buddhism, “Buddhism itself exists in the rejection of teachings.” How cool! “In the beginning, Buddhism did not preach saddhā, or the belief in teachings, but rather pasāda, or the idea that through listening to teachings one could purify one’s heart.” In other words, there’s a possibility that Buddhism wasn’t a religion at all. The Buddha “did not believe himself to be the special founder of a religion,” writes Nakamura. And he goes on to claim, “If one doesn’t abandon ‘Buddhist Studies,’ one cannot understand the Sutta Nipata.”

  So what about the Buddha’s enlightenment? While it’s quite difficult to understand, let’s turn again to the Sutta Nipata.