“Can I come again?”
“Perhaps you’ll deliver another print.”
“You’ve been very kind.” Harry tugged Gen toward the door.
Gen moved stiffly, reluctantly slipping his feet into his geta. The customer seemed to dismiss the two boys without as much as a nod, but as they stepped over the threshold, he told them to wait, went to the vase and bestowed on Gen the single chrysanthemum. Gen accepted the flower as if it were a sword itself, and although his thick black hair fell forward when he bowed, Harry saw a violet blush of pleasure spread across his cheeks.
HARRY FOUND KATO at the Folies, in the balcony with the manager watching a final act called “Amusing Violin.” The manager wore a greasy boater and snickered through an overbite stained from cigarettes and tea. He and Harry had never gotten along since the day Harry first stumbled into the dressing room. Onstage, a comic musician playing “The Flight of the Bumblebee” was afflicted with a rubbery bow and ridiculously overlong European tails that flopped around his feet. His bow caught in the strings, flew offstage like an arrow and was retrieved by Oharu in a skimpy one-piece and net stockings. She handed the sagging bow to the comedian. As he watched her stride away, his bow stiffened. The manager laughed in and out like a donkey.
Kato said to Harry, “I hear you let Gen deliver the print to the customer. I told you that only you should take it.”
“Nothing happened. He seemed to like Gen more than me.”
“Why not? Gen is a far more attractive boy than you. You are a mongrel, and Gen is the ideal.”
Flustered by Oharu, the comedian reached into his violin case and brought out a fan to cool himself. Not enough. He brought out an electric fan with a long cord and asked a musician in the orchestra pit to plug it in. The comedian directed its breeze up and down his body and along the bow.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Kato said.
Harry recounted the scene at the customer’s house. Meanwhile, onstage, the comedian started “The Bumblebee” again but noticed a piece of paper drifting by and, in the midst of playing, speared it with his bow. It was sticky paper. It stuck to his bow, his shoe, his hand, finally to his forehead, and he played while blowing the paper up from his eyes. The audience around Harry laughed so hard they stuffed handkerchiefs into their mouths.
“This is great stuff,” the manager said.
Kato said, “He gave Gen a white chrysanthemum?”
“A gift.”
“And the customer, Harry. Tell me again, did he introduce himself?”
“No.”
“Then I will tell you. His name is Ishigami. Lieutenant Ishigami is a rising man in the army. He is the natural son of a royal prince, no one is quite sure who, so he has the protection of the court and a stipend from the imperial household. He could have gone into banking or writing poetry, instead he chose the army. He joined the Kwantung army so that he would be sure to come under fire from bandits or Russians or Chinese, and he acquitted himself so well that admirers call him a virtual samurai. So you might ask why he is here in Tokyo. Because, Harry, Ishigami is in disgrace. A board of inquiry is looking into the accusation that he is one of a circle of junior army officers agitating against the civilian government. Ishigami says his allegiance is to the emperor, not to politicians. This has made him even more popular with the army, and with patriotic groups in general, but while the board of inquiry meets, he is forced to lie low and waste his time with the likes of you and me and, apparently, your friend Gen. That’s why I wanted to send you. Ishigami wouldn’t touch you. You’re not his type.”
“What do you mean?”
The manager leaned over. “He means that a white chrysanthemum isn’t just a flower. It represents a boy’s tight little asshole. You didn’t know that, Harry? So I guess you don’t know everything after all. There is a certain kind of samurai, and there always has been. Don’t take it seriously, it’s just sex.”
The bow flew offstage again. Again Oharu retrieved it and peeled the paper from the comedian’s forehead. She had a languid way of strolling off forever. Harry felt a proprietary claim on those legs, those long flanks to which he had administered so many vitamin shots. The comic lectured his stiffening bow, but the bow tried to follow her, dragging him across the stage.
Harry was angry and confused. “Not Gen.”
“Why not?” the manager said. “Gen is a poor boy. Ishigami is a hero. His attention is worth seeking. All Gen has to offer is his beauty. If it means pulling down his pants, why not?”
“Gen’s not that way.”
“What way?” Kato said. “Up, down? Right, left? How would you know?” For the first time, Kato turned his eyes to Harry, who could see what a foul humor he was in. “You shouldn’t have let Gen take the package, Harry. You should have done as I told you.”
“I didn’t think it would make any difference.”
“Obviously it did.”
“I always made the deliveries. Gen wanted a turn.”
“Gen would do anything you do. He admires you. He also resents you. You are the stray dog that won favor, which I think made Gen all the more susceptible to attention from Ishigami. Gen has changed now, thanks to you. Not that part of Gen wasn’t that way. In the end, it’s all a matter of taste, and who are we to be judges, right, Harry? Well, I suppose we all admire you, you’re the best example of a survivor we’ve ever seen. That first day when they chased you up the stairway to the dressing room, I said to myself, Here is a fish that could live in a tree if it had to. I got very fond of you. I got too close.”
“What do you mean?”
Kato went back to watching the show. “I don’t think I’ll be using you anymore, Harry, that was a mistake. You should spend more time with your family. Won’t you be going back to America soon?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Well, you should get ready.”
Apart from movies and music, America didn’t interest Harry. In Tokyo he ran his own life, and he suspected that once in the States, he would be supervised to the point of suffocation by his parents, church people, aunts and uncles and ignorant cousins. Tokyo was the world’s center of color, beauty, life. What was Kentucky? He had seen films with hillbillies sitting around cracker barrels, boots up, aiming tobacco juice at spittoons. Was that him? How many times had he looked into a mirror and hoped to find himself magically given a new body of smooth skin, straight black hair and properly narrowed eyes? It almost had to happen.
“I’ll make up for it,” Harry said. “I’ll deliver everything myself.”
“Not anymore, Harry. Don’t come around.”
Harry tried to catch a tease in Kato’s eye. “You’re kidding.”
Kato ignored him.
Harry tried a different tone of voice. “I’m sorry about Gen. I shouldn’t have let him take it.”
“Too late.”
“I could lay off for a while.”
“Stay away for good. I’m bored with you, Harry. You are no longer amusing.”
Harry lost his breath from the swiftness of his demotion from Kato’s favorite pet and confidant to…nothing, as if on a whim the artist had erased him from a picture.
Kato added, “No backstage visits, either. Stay away from Oharu.”
“Oharu and I-”
“Oharu is no longer a friend of yours. Stay away from her.”
The manager leaned across Kato to twist the knife himself. “No backstage, no girls. In fact, forget the whole theater. I’ll have you tossed out the next time I see you in here.”
“You can’t stop me,” Harry said.
“See,” the manager said. “A Japanese boy would have been genuinely contrite.”
“East is East and West is West, Harry,” Kato said. “You were a guest, and now it’s time for you to go.”
The manager tugged on Kato’s sleeve. “Oh, this is the finale I wanted you to see.”