Free Virus: The Day of Resurrection by Sakyo Komatsu

carefully.”
    From this, it did not appear that he had lost control of the vehicle due to any passion between him and “Ms. M.”
    A story underscoring that point emerged by way of Tonio’s family doctor in Milano. Some years ago, Tonio had narrowly escaped death in an accident at the Le Mans race, and he had afterward developed (and striven earnestly to conceal) a mild phobia of high speeds. “Ever since that day, he was always a careful driver,” the doctor said.
    However, when he had been approached with the offer of a half-price Barca Volante, Tonio, being possessed of quick-draw linga such as had not been seen since the days of Errol Flynn, had found himself unable to turn down this phallic totem worshipped by women the world over and had thus made a show of accepting the offer gladly, though internally he had been conflicted.
    Taking these factors into account, the only way left to learn about the circumstances of this bizarre accident was to hear them directly from the mouth of Ms. M, who was hospitalized in Rome. Doctors made a preliminary announcement that Tonio’s cause of death was cardiac arrest caused by instantaneous neural paralysis resulting from the impact of the crash—in other words, a heart attack brought on by shock—but this was a little baffling, because it was known that Tonio had been in extremely good physical and mental condition up until that point, and that his heart in particular had been in fine shape. “It was probably because of the blow he took to the solar plexus from the steering wheel,” appended the already doddering and senile forensic specialist. Yet it seemed odd that Tonio, who had never thought twice about getting into brawls even while groggy and plastered, would be done in by a single blow to the body. Besides, this was Alfa Romeo’s vaunted bendable steering wheel. And so it was that the efficacy of the safety wheel—which should retreat softly like a feather futon if the driver’s body strikes it—became a target of heavy criticism.

    Because of one thing after another, Alfa Romeo was stuck grinding its teeth for a week. On the eighth day, Ms. M had finally recovered to a point at which visits could be permitted. For all their spectacle, Ms. M’s injuries were less serious than they appeared. Even her head injuries had not damaged her brain or skull, and the sunken place in her chest was not—from the standpoint of modern medical technology—life-threatening. On the eighth day, an investigator from Alfa Romeo, having kept the hospital under siege all week, leapt up when word was given that a visit would be allowed.
    “Wait just a moment, please,” the attending physician said. “She’s still suffering from a strong psychological shock, you know. Please limit this visit to one person, for no more than fifteen minutes.”
    “You’ve gotta be kidding!” cried the investigator, as did all the newspaper reporters who had been thronging in with her from the start.
    “Since when is only one person allowed?”
    “Everybody, wait just a minute,” said the inspector in charge of the accident investigation. “Right now, please let the police take her statement first. It doesn’t sound like Ms. M is ready to be answering a lot of obnoxious questions yet. So first and foremost, we’ll be asking her about what happened, and that’s all. At least save the morning-after talk about her and Tonio until she can sit in a wheelchair. In exchange, I’ll let you listen to what Ms. M has to say by way of this wireless microphone. Tape it, and then do whatever you need to do.”
    Some called this a high-handed abuse of authority, and as a result there was some brief trouble, but in the end it was agreed that the detective would go as representative, while the Alfa Romeo investigator and the members of the press remained glued to the speakers in the waiting room.
    The inspector’s voice came from the speaker: “Are you feeling better, Ms. M?”
    “Yes, thank you,”