He whips out a thick coal-black fountain pen from his breast pocket to show her.
“This fountain pen is the same kind that was used by a Middle Eastern dictator. Pretty cool, huh? You can have a look if you want. Here. It’s long and heavy, so it’s extremely hard to write with. I had to use this to fill out all those little spaces over and over again. You can see why I’m mad now, right?”
It’s your fault for using that pen in the first place!
I keep that thought to myself, though.
“Listen, lady, I’m an author, mmkay? Ever read any of my books? Here, I’ll even make you the protagonist in my next story, so please just lemme speak to one of your higher-ups. I’ll write a book about us committing lovers’ suicide. I’ll even use this pen to write it if you help me defect.”
For a terrible author, he’s becoming curiously good at this acting thing. I get the sense this is how he woos women at pubs.
“C’mon, throw me a bone here. I’m in a lot of trouble. Big trouble! Some scary guys from the PSIA are coming for my neck! Listen, I just write whatever I like, and all I said was that one of the Foreign Affairs ministers was wearing a toupee, and now the authorities are trying to kill me! This is a violation of free speech, and I will not allow the government to abuse their authority! And down with hairpieces!”
“Shut the hell up, will ya?! I’m tryin’ to watch the game here! And what’s your problem with toupees?!” the Caucasian man in the black cap watching the baseball game shouts hoarsely, but it’s going to take more than that to bring Dazai down.
“Hey, I’m not the problem here! It’s the guy who got mad at me for calling him out! If he was gonna get that upset about it, then he shoulda just shown us all his shiny bald pate and been proud of it!”
“E-excuse me, sir? You’re, um, you’re with him, c-correct?” the flustered office worker asks me with pleading eyes. Apologies, but this is all for the greater good.
“I’m his chief editor. While I sympathize with you, as you can see, he’s in no mood to listen. If a civil servant with authority, however, was to come and talk with him directly, I guarantee he’d give up. So do you think you could talk to one of your superiors for me?”
“Okay…”
Drained of energy and in a state of shock, the receptionist nods before staggering to her feet.
“I’ll be right back…with someone to help you…”
She probably feels that she’s done everything she could and just doesn’t want to deal with Dazai anymore. I don’t blame her. I truly pity the woman.
After waiting for a short while, she returns and waves Dazai and me into another room.
“This way, please.”
* * *
“You’re making things really difficult for me, you know?”
We’re taken to a diplomatic reception room where a bald Caucasian diplomat appears to have been waiting for us. The business card handed to us says he’s a third attaché. Not a bad catch. But it’s not enough. He isn’t ranked high enough to know intelligence-agency secrets, which means only one thing: This is where the real mission starts.
“I completely understand, sir.”
I lower my head. To someone from a different culture, bowing might confuse them, but it’s surely not going to make them feel better.
“Never in my career have I ever heard of someone seeking political asylum from a country as peaceful as this one. I could contact our State Department, but I know the answer is going to be no. Therefore—”
“Oh, I don’t care about that anymore. Sorry for the trouble. I mean, I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with us, but to tell the truth, I’m not actually an author.”
I take out a black notebook with gold-framed letters.
“We’re with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department’s Public Security Bureau.”
“S-security…police…?” the attaché asks in astonishment.
I don’t blame him. The situation is a lot more serious when you believe you’re talking to the recipient country’s security police.
“Due to the circumstances, we needed to take an unconventional route in establishing contact. However, this notebook should serve as proof that we are who we say we are.”
I hold up my police notebook with the words PUBLIC SECURITY BUREAU written in gold on the black cover. Inside sits my picture beside my division’s name. The attaché opens my notebook and compares the picture to me. Of course, it’s a fake I created with my skill, The Matchless Poet, but it appears every bit as real as an official one. Therefore, he has no way of knowing just by looking at it that we’re lying.