A family has gathered in a mansion to discuss the inheritance of a wealthy grandfather’s estate. It is a familiar mystery setup, and one that risks cliché, but Yasuhiko Nishizawa takes it into exciting new territory in The Man Who Died Seven Times. Nearly the whole story occurs within a single repeating day, much like the time-looping premise of the classic film Groundhog Day. Faced with his grandfather’s murder, the protagonist must sort out the nature of the crime (and try to prevent it) by altering the course of that day’s events.
Yasuhiko Nishizawa is a Japanese mystery writer belonging to the shin-honkaku, or “new orthodox,” movement. Mysteries within this school aim at the intricate puzzles characteristic of “orthodox” (honkaku) mysteries, but with innovations that expand the form in creative ways. This blend of classical setup and originality is on full display in The Man Who Died Seven Times; the book constructs a complex and satisfying puzzle without becoming convoluted, even if it subordinates prose and characterization to plot.
The Man Who Died Seven Times stakes everything on the pleasure of a challenging puzzle—and succeeds.
Hisataro, the narrator, is a relatively normal sixteen-year-old with one major oddity: ever since he was a child, he has regularly fallen into “the Trap”, a time loop wherein a given day repeats itself nine times before releasing him back into the regular flow of events. The Trap is such a regular occurrence for Hisataro (an average of two or three times a month), that he estimates his mental age to be closer to thirty, a characteristic that earns him the nickname “Gramps” and contributes to a resigned, occasionally nihilistic, outlook. For a while, he tried to help people but eventually gave up due to the complications and difficulty of doing so; instead, he accepts life as it comes to him in a fatalistic, one might even say defeatist, way. “I approach life with a sort of philosophical resignation,” he tells the reader, “as though I’m convinced that in the long run, nothing really means anything.”
Circumstances change, however, when Hisataro and his family visit his wealthy grandfather Reijiro in his mansion for New Year’s, where they wear (per Reijiro’s insistence) color-coded track suits and chanchanko jackets. The family members vie with each other for the elder’s affection in hopes of winning control of his company and fortune after his death. Deep rifts and dysfunction show themselves among the aunts and cousins, and Reijiro appears to delight in torturing his daughters and grandchildren with the power he holds over them. Various employees also proliferate the scene, further contributing to rivalries and erotic tensions.
All of this comes to a head when Reijiro is murdered just as Hisataro discovers he has fallen into the Trap. The majority of the book takes place within the nine cycles of this one day, and each iteration finds Hisataro attempting various strategies to discover what happened and to protect his grandfather. He uncovers plots, trysts, conspiracies, and shocking revelations regarding his grandfather and family history.
Events in a time loop-plot risk becoming repetitive, even boring, yet Nishizawa manages to continuously increase the stakes and the complexity of the narrative, adding more exciting and wider-reaching strands just as we feel we (and the narrator) have things figured out. The result is that each loop of the day becomes more exciting (and frequently ridiculous), snowballing right to the end.
Nishizawa prioritization of plot causes other elements to suffer, however. Character depth and development are minimal, and few of the characters are fleshed out or sympathetic, making it initially difficult to feel invested in the day’s outcome. Even the narrator—the only character whose memory is not erased at the end of each loop—doesn’t undergo lasting development. We see his apathy lighten through much of the story, but the ending sees him and his family largely in the same position, and there is little indication that Hisataro’s experiences have had a lasting impression. This feels like a missed opportunity given that he was so well set up to undergo a more significant change in attitude. The writing, moreover, is simple and straightforward, at least in Jesse Kirkwood’s translation, which aids pacing but can at times leave the language feeling flat.
Given the flair with which Nishizawa executes the plot, one can forgive him for sacrificing other elements of the text to it. The Man Who Died Seven Times is tremendous fun. Nishizawa takes full advantage of his unique premise to build a satisfying and complex mystery that manages to remain comprehensible and interesting even with repetition. By the end of the book, there are still new knots to be worked out. The Man Who Died Seven Times largely makes up for its weaknesses; it stakes everything on the pleasure of a challenging puzzle—and succeeds.