21

Paprika reached Radio Club with time to spare. She’d been particularly careful this time; the journalist Matsukane had told her of rumors that had circulated after her previous visit to Roppongi. She didn’t want that to happen again. Even so, she was loath to alter her usual outfit of red shirt and jeans. As Paprika, she somehow wouldn’t feel the same without it. It didn’t matter, anyway; unlike the previous occasion, she didn’t have to wander around looking for the bar, and arrived in good time without appearing unduly conspicuous.

“My!” Kuga remembered Paprika. He thrust out his portly belly before bowing obsequiously. “A pleasure to see you again!”

“Come on in!” Jinnai called across with a smile.

A male customer was sitting alone at the counter. Though initially startled by Paprika’s incongruous looks, he soon turned back to resume his conversation with Jinnai.

“Mr. Konakawa has yet to arrive,” Kuga said as he guided Paprika to the same booth as before. “Oh, and Mr. Noda just called to say he’s regrettably indisposed this evening. He said to give his regards to Mr. Konakawa.”

“Ah.” Paprika was disappointed at first, but then saw it as an act of discretion on Noda’s part. It was symptomatic of his perfectionist nature – he wouldn’t use the association with Konakawa to engineer a meeting with Paprika. That was what she liked about Noda. And in any case, she could hardly ask his advice in front of a Chief Superintendent from the Metropolitan Police Department.

Kuga was standing next to Paprika’s table, looking down at her with the genial smile of a Buddhist statue, eyes half-closed. Paprika returned the smile. She wondered why she was being treated like an old acquaintance when she’d only been there once before. They were playing “Satin Doll” again.

Paprika calmly asked Kuga if he had anything in particular to recommend. Kuga went back and forth to the counter, twice, to relay her questions and Jinnai’s replies. Kuga seemed to relish his role as go-between, much to the amusement of the lone customer at the bar.

The arbitration process settled on an unusual seventeen-year-old Ballantine called Black Jack, served on the rocks. Paprika was taking a sip with eyes narrowed when the door opened and a man walked in. From Noda’s description of his friend, she instantly recognized the man as Toshimi Konakawa. The reception he received from Jinnai and Kuga suggested he was a frequent visitor.

“I’m Paprika. Nice to meet you.”

Paprika rose and greeted the man with a certain formality. For it was already obvious that, unlike Noda, he would not feel at ease with the laid-back style of a teenager.

“Konakawa,” the man replied with equal formality. He lacked the usual expression of surprise whenever men first set eyes on Paprika. She decided to continue with a formal style of speech. In any case, she found that more comfortable when speaking to an older man.

It was only when they sat facing each other that Paprika noticed Konakawa’s manly demeanor. She’d heard from Noda that Konakawa often attended functions in place of the Chief Commissioner, and now she saw why. He was well built, his dark, taut face well proportioned; the mustache suited him well. Here was a man who could easily be mistaken for a hero in an American movie. Paprika had met a lot of men, but she felt a frisson of excitement at this man’s appearance, enhanced by the sharp eye with which he observed her. It may have been the eye of a sick man, but it was still the eye of a high-ranking police officer.

“I hear Mr. Noda won’t be able to join us,” said Paprika.

“Is that so.” Konakawa remained expressionless. He eyed Paprika for another moment, but then seemed to lose interest, turning instead to the waiter Kuga who still stood beside him. He eventually ordered the same drink as Paprika.

“You must be a very busy man,” Paprika started as soon as Kuga had left.

“Well … You know.” Konakawa smiled unconvincingly.

“Yes, of course. It stands to reason. But please, don’t think me foolish for asking. I need to ask all sorts of questions … Just as you do in your inquiries.”

“I see. Yes. Of course.” Konakawa corrected his posture, as if to signal that he might revise his view of Paprika.

“I know nothing about you, except what I’ve heard from Mr. Noda.”

Konakawa looked puzzled. The formality of Paprika’s speech was so much at odds with her appearance; that made it difficult to guess her age. “Yes. By all means. Please ask whatever you like.”

He sounded unnatural, as if he was forcing himself to speak when he didn’t really want to. Paprika was merely applying a basic technique to make the patient feel relaxed, but it seemed irksome to Konakawa. Paprika found herself of two minds. After all, this was the first time she’d met a patient with such a high standing in society.

Paprika decided to treat Konakawa with unusual respect. If he really was suffering from depression, his innate self-esteem would have suffered a considerable blow; he would need more than the customary support from those around him.

“I must say it’s quite an honor to meet a Chief Superintendent from the Metropolitan Police,” she started. “And to be asked to diagnose such a person, well …”

Konakawa finally permitted himself the thinnest of smiles. “Really?”

“Absolutely. An honor.”

Kuga arrived with Konakawa’s drink. For a moment, the two drank in silence.

“But anyway,” said Konakawa, initiating conversation for the first time, “you must find your own work motivating? As a therapist?”

Paprika thought it unusual for a man like Konakawa to show interest in the other person’s work. Perhaps he’d said it to put her at ease. But to Paprika, it was a sign that he didn’t find his own work “motivating” at all.

“And surely so must you?” she said. Konakawa forced another smile. Paprika had every confidence in the correctness of her judgment. She’d done her homework. Chief Superintendent was merely a rank; unlike Chief Commissioner, it was not a job description. That was why Konakawa had to perform other tasks that weren’t really in his remit.

“I hear you’re having trouble sleeping,” Paprika said to broach the central issue. “That must be causing you problems.”

“It certainly is.”

“Is this the first time it’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve lost your appetite, too?”

“Yes. My appetite as well.”

“In what way are your insomnia, your lack of appetite affecting your work?”

Konakawa thought long and hard. Not that he was thinking what to say; he was thinking how to say it.

“Well,” he replied at length, “I tend not to say much. I’m a poor speaker. But in my role as Deputy Chief Commissioner, I’m expected to talk in front of people. Now because of my insomnia, I can never find the right words to say. The ready wit or pithy remark that’s required to suit the situation. It’s quite pathetic. But that is what’s expected of me …” And he trailed off in mid-sentence.

“So you dislike that kind of thing, in the first place?”

“Yes. But I have to do it.” He flashed a sharp look at Paprika.

A perfectionist. The classic personality most easily prone to depression. Perfectionists make unreasonably high demands of themselves. They work toward unattainable goals and assume too much responsibility. They try to perform several tasks correctly and to the same high standard. When told that their expectations are too high, they reply that they wouldn’t be doing their job properly if they didn’t meet those expectations. And since they’ve convinced themselves that they should be able to meet them, their ears are closed to advice.

“Do you know why you can’t sleep at night?”

“Yes. It’s because I can’t rid my mind of trivial thoughts.”

“For example?”

“Really trivial things.” He actually laughed. “So trivial I’d be ashamed to mention them.”

It must have seemed perfectly natural, to a man like Konakawa, that he couldn’t express such trivial things. Paprika knew about this from other cases of clinical depression. For example, the sufferer will hear some noise after going to bed, and will then lie awake wondering when the noise will be repeated, with the resultant loss of sleep.

Paprika still knew nothing of Konakawa’s private life. To get information of that kind from such a taciturn type would require repeated questioning. He was unlikely to proffer the information himself, and the discussion would turn into a kind of interrogation. She decided to ask just one thing for now, then play it by ear from there.

“Where do you live, Mr Konakawa?”

“In a police apartment near here.” His reply was followed by a pause. Konakawa seemed to be expecting another question, but when none came, he continued: “I live there with my wife. My son lives in student dorms near his university.”

Children leaving the family nest. Depression often seemed to follow this kind of change in family circumstances, when parents were relieved of their obligations. Yes, Konakawa was almost certainly suffering from clinical depression. Now Paprika faced a dilemma. Clinical depression usually took time to treat, but she had all the problems at the Institute to deal with, not to mention her own work as Atsuko Chiba. How would she find the time to treat him? Then again, she knew she couldn’t simply ignore Konakawa’s condition.

“In cases like yours, the method that’s usually most effective …” Paprika started, then stopped short.

“Yes?” Konakawa’s eyes were full of expectation. He was about to hear an expert opinion at long last.

“… is recuperation for a period of several months.”

“Ah.” Konakawa shifted his gaze to the space above Paprika’s head, as if to say “Out of the question.”

“But that’s impossible, isn’t it.”

“Yes. Completely impossible.”

“The best cure would be to take a complete break from everyday life, rather than vainly battling with sleeplessness or depression. But since you can’t do that …” Paprika started to think again.

Konakawa was definitely not the kind of person to take time off work for recuperation. In fact, that attitude was probably the root cause of his condition. Paprika came to a decision: she would have to see him through it herself.

“All right. There’s nothing for it – I’ll have to analyze your dreams. I presume you’ve heard all about that from Mr Noda?”

“Oh yes.” Konakawa spoke in a tone of resignation. He clearly had no faith whatsoever in the analysis of dreams.

“And to help you recover more quickly, I’ll combine it with drug therapy.”

“Drugs?” This also seemed to sit uneasily with Konakawa.

“You may feel uncomfortable about the idea of treating psychological symptoms with drugs. But in cases like yours, the conventional wisdom is that treatments based on psychoanalysis have no effect and are moreover unnecessary. So the treatment has relied wholly on drugs until now.”

“You mean sleeping pills?”

“Antidepressants.”

“So you’re saying it’s depression, then?”

“Yes.”

Konakawa looked crestfallen. Paprika wanted to avoid using trite platitudes merely to lift his spirits; her aim was rather to calm his anxiety over the treatment.

“I’ll keep the drugs to a minimum, as I’ll be analyzing your dreams at the same time.”

“But what sort of effect do the drugs have?”

Paprika gave him a smile of supreme confidence. She maintained that look as she started to explain things in a way that would appeal to his intelligence. This was an area in which she was particularly skilled.

“A number of drugs have been produced to date. And now we know precisely what effect each of them has.” The development of PT devices made it possible to know the mental effect of a drug by scanning the patient’s mind after administering it. “Drugs act on the synaptic clefts inside the brain. Substances called monoamines come into play when impulses are transmitted from one synapse to the other. Drugs control the effects of those monoamines …”