I enthused about Seicho Matsumoto's Inspector Imanishi Investigates a few weeks ago, and have enjoyed my second excursion into his work just as much.

Tokyo Express first came out in Japanese in 1958, as a series of instalments in a magazine. It was immediately successful, and when it was republished in book form, it became one of the best-selling novels in post-war Japan. It appeared in English in 1970 (as Points and Lines, a direct translation of the Japanese title, "Ten to Sen"). I read it in Spanish (translated by Marina Bornas, and published in 2014). The title of that version is El expreso de Tokio, and the express we're particularly focusing on is the one that goes to Hakata, on the island of Kyushu.

Again, in what seems to be Matsumoto's trademark style, we follow the slow, painstaking unpicking of the clues, with all the setbacks and breakthroughs inherent in such a process, and again, we are afforded many little glimpses into the Japan of the era.


The photos are of Japanese trains, 2015. The Spanish edition of Matsumoto's book has an elegant but somewhat anachronistic cover... The bullet train actually didn't begin running between Tokyo and Osaka until 1964, and the service was not extended to Hakata until 1975...





The backdrop to the story is a network of somewhat dodgy relationships between ministries and manufacturers; the wheels of their mutually back-scratching transactions are oiled in nice restaurants, staffed by pretty girls, where the powerful can be discreetly schmoozed by the would-be powerful. While in many ways culturally specific, there's also a kind of universality about this theme, unfortunately. The ministerial department head around whom allegations of corruption have been swirling is eventually transferred to another department -- with a promotion. "It seems nonsense," says the detective, "but curious things happen in public administration." Ah yes... Little has changed around the world. Incompetent and unprincipled? Well, surely ripe for promotion. It is his subordinates who bear the brunt of the corruption scandal when it breaks. These are the ones "who have allowed themselves to be trampled on in order to show loyalty, because when people realize that their superior has noticed them, they do everything they can to please, even if they are being used". Again, plus ca change...



But back to the specifically Japanese underpinnings... The object of the investigation is an apparent double suicide. The bodies are found on a beach near Hakata, but there are some elements that arouse the suspicions of the two detectives who have to deal with the case.

It's an interesting phenomenon, this business of double suicide. The reports on such incidents, we are told, are not as rigorous; no autopsies are performed; and there is no further investigation. If someone commits suicide alone, without leaving a note, the police might be suspicious. But if it's a couple, there would be no doubts...

This aroused my curiosity, and sure enough, in Japanese literature and culture, "shinju" (double suicide) is a thing.

In various classical dramas, Steven Heine tells us, "shinju refers to two parties willingly and deliberately choosing suicide to extricate themselves from a miserable and oppressive situation and represents the final consummation yet fundamental hopelessness of their love". More than half of the domestic dramas written by Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653-1725) depict shinju, according to Sinead Roarty. In traditional Japanese theatrical and literary traditions, this was the accepted response of two lovers whose personal feelings were at odds with the social conventions around them. Roarty also discusses the "suicide forest" at the foot of Mount Fuji. Its popularity with those seeking to end things has been attributed to another novel by Seicho Matsumoto, which closes with the suicide of the lovers (this is his 1960 Sea of Trees, which I don't think has been translated); however, Roarty argues that this forest has been associated with voluntary death for hundreds of years, so maybe the causation is the other way round. Writing in 1967, Sato and Sonohara estimate that the number of family suicides and double suicides in Japan is the highest in the world, although they lack data to specifically prove that. 

This is the context in which Matsumoto was writing.



But there's a lot more that's of cultural interest, aside from this dark theme.

The first of our two investigators, Jutaro Torigai, is the veteran who lives down south. We see a little of his home life. His wife dutifully draws his bath, and serves his dinner; before he eats he enjoys a couple of glasses of sake. He is a little miffed that his wife doesn't want to join him at the table for a cup of tea (his odd hours mean that she's eaten already). He thinks she must be getting old...  Dinner is sea urchin, squid sashimi, and dried cod. And rice, of course.

Kiichi Mihara is the young sub-inspector from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, who carries the bulk of the investigation. We don't learn much about his domestic life. Indeed, it's only at the end that we even learn he has a wife. He comes across as solitary, a coffee aficionado who readily takes refuge in cafes, or rides the tram, with no specific destination in mind, when he needs time to think.

It is Mihara who finally solves the puzzle, though he recognizes that his older colleague has provided vital insights and advice. Towards the close of the book he says: "This case, from beginning to end, was a simple matter of train and plane time-tables."

And that's absolutely right. The plot revolves around the absolutely punctual comings and goings of trains. There are a few flights involved in the story, but the author doesn't seem nearly so interested in dull planes. Instead, the book is a celebration of the railway network and its complexity.



The doomed pair who are eventually found dead on that desolate beach are spotted early on in the story as they board the fast train from Tokyo to Hakata. We hear Tatsuo Yasuda, a businessman, explaining to his young companions that the train was called the Asakaze, which means "morning breeze". We later learn that this train takes 17.5 hours to cover the route, as opposed to the 20 hours required by normal trains. (The journey today on the Nozomi bullet train, takes 5 hours and 15 minutes... Wow...)

The Asakaze was a pioneer, kicking off the modern era of Japanese sleeper trains. The service began in 1956; with the introduction of the Series 20 passenger cars in 1958, however, the line really took off, as passengers liked the convenience of boarding in the evening, and alighting in the early morning. The Asakaze was nicknamed the Blue Train, on account of its distinctive blue carriages, and this name was eventually extended to all sleeper trains. (In a somewhat nerdy aside, I'm puzzled by the little note at the end of the book that says the timetables mentioned correspond to those in force in 1947. As the Asakaze didn't get under way until 1956, I wonder if this is a misprint...)

Nothing lasts, however. The high-speed Shinkansen bullet train service, and the increase in air travel, signalled the end of this kind of service. All overnight sleeper services between Tokyo and Kyushu, including the Asakaze, came to an end in 2009.

So, two conclusions:

The first is that I'm far from having reached saturation point as far as Seicho Matsumoto is concerned, and will be on the lookout for more.

The second is that this books makes me itch to be riding the rails in Japan again.

One day... May it be...