Isamu Okabe

Isamu Okabe is 52 and a studio photographer in Ikebukuro. He was born in Nagano, the son of a schoolmaster, and learned the trade from an uncle who was a portraitist before being drafted. He spent the war in the army, photographing field infirmaries in Manchuria, and came back with a cough that won't go away and a way of looking at people as if studying a pose. Weddings and graduations pay the rent, but less and less.

He lives in a rented room above a fabric shop, with a narrow bed, an iron kettle and a shelf of family albums that he arranges by date. He eats rice with pickles and drinks very weak tea. He speaks softly and chooses every word, and what money is left goes to the photographic supplies shop, where he has an old debt. He pays his debts in installments and never aloud.

He is thin with narrow shoulders, a long, pale face, dark spots on his right cheek and closely cropped gray hair. He wears round metal-rimmed glasses and a worn brown suit with a waistcoat, which he mends himself. His smile is restrained and his gaze attentive. He calls the detective sir, serves tea before any question and listens with his head slightly tilted, as if waiting for the click.

About Monday, his account is a poor tradesman's. He says he makes portraits, that in the war he photographed hospitals and that today he photographs brides in Ikebukuro. He comments on what the neighborhood comments on, including the doctor whose name was on the man's card and the girl who walked out of the bank. When the detective asks if anyone would have a motive, he returns the question with delicacy.

Isamu talks with the calm of someone who has never been in a hurry and never takes offense aloud. When the question becomes an accusation, the courtesy remains, but grows colder, and he asks for proof instead of an answer. It may be the dignity of an indebted photographer who refuses to be remembered as a suspect. It may be someone who knows exactly how long a pose can hold. The detective will have to decide which.