Beyond the Window: The Shelf Life of a Denial
Column 'Beyond the Window,' installment 8: reading today's front page, where the Window Treaty's annex went from 'doesn't exist' to 'does exist' in a little over three weeks, the editor-in-chief writes about the shelf life of a denial.
This morning I spread today's front page across my desk, next to the one from three weeks ago. On October 11th, we dutifully quoted the Foreign Ministry spokesperson's line, "no such document exists," exactly as given. I don't regret quoting it dutifully. But reading today's front page, where the same ministry corrected itself to "it exists," I was reminded that the shelf life on those words — "does not exist" — was shorter than I'd thought.
■ Even a Denial Has a Shelf Life
When I was a rookie, a senior colleague used to tell me, "A ministry's denial comes in two kinds — one because the thing genuinely isn't there, and one because it can't be said yet. A reporter's job is learning to tell them apart." I've done this job for nearly fifty-one years now, and I still can't put the method for telling them apart into words. But every time a day like today comes, I realize afterward it was the second kind.
■ Munakata's Word, "Reversal"
Tetsuo Munakata said today that "the speed of the reversal is itself proof." I suspect he meant it as sarcasm, but as a reporter I have a slightly different take. The speed at which a denial collapses isn't proof of anything — it's simply the shelf life itself showing its length. A thing that truly isn't there can be denied for years without ever expiring. Only a thing that can't be said yet waits for a day when it finally can be. Today was that day.
■ The Substance Is Still Nowhere to Be Seen
Still, all that was confirmed today was the single word "exists" — nothing of the substance is visible yet. The trouble with this kind of story is that an expired denial doesn't mean everything comes out at once. How much longer will this newly expired thing stay unopened before anyone can see inside? That shelf life, I suspect, is the real story starting from today.
On the desk, Yurari is holding its teacup again today, the tip of its antenna glowing. It has never once admitted to anything — mostly because it has never needed to. Some days, I envy it for that.
