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“I give up. I don’t know what you’re up to, some inscrutable scheme to turn a tragic situation into a buck, but I’m washing my hands of you, Harry.”

“People always say that. Wait.” Harry clapped a couple of times and bowed to Kato’s stone. He straightened up. Most of the stones in the cemetery weren’t carved, just selected for their dignity. “You know why we got along, Hoop?”

“I always hate that nickname.”

“Know why, more than the obvious reasons that you secretly liked breaking the rules and I needed a lookout? Because we both liked Japan. It was like a mysterious club no other Americans could join. We knew what was going on and no one else did, not our parents, not our teachers, not our preachers. We understood Japan.”

“That’s over now.”

“I don’t think so. No matter how hard you try, I think you still have a mustard seed of intelligence. You asked when this attack was going to take place. Did I see a written order? No, but I did see Tojo in the park this morning.”

That got Hooper’s attention. “Really? What was he doing?”

“He was riding. He was riding horseback in tweed and breeches and a sporty hat, followed by the missus and daughters in a convertible. The tweeds are important because, as we know, General Tojo is never seen out of uniform, and he never, ever takes a day off from running the busy empire. Today of all days, he took the time to ride around Ueno Park with his lovely family and be presented flowers by a little girl. There were photographers. The embassies all take each edition of every paper. Everyone can go to sleep tonight with a picture of a new, peace-loving Tojo under their pillow. Now you tell me when they’re going to attack.”

“Tweeds? Gosh, I wish I’d seen that.”

“So?”

Hooper rocked back and forth. Finally he said, “I can’t do it. Signal Hawaii on a hunch?”

“It’s not a hunch. You know.”

“All on your say-so, Harry. I’ll check the evening paper and see if Tojo’s in it.”

“And you’ll still sit on the pot. Or pray.”

Hooper flushed as if Harry had slapped him. In fact, Harry felt a band of pain across his back from bending to the joss stick and thought, Well, I’ve made my pitch to save the world and failed. It was stupid to even try. Now he thought about aspirin, Michiko and Ishigami, in that order. A gang of kids ran along the cemetery with their arms out like planes. A breeze pushed first one petal and then another off Kato’s stone to Hooper’s feet. Harry didn’t move, and Hooper became aware that although he was with Harry, he could as well have been alone. Before he headed out the gate, he said, “I’ll pray for you, too, Harry.”

“Do that, Hoop.”

AFTER HOOPER LEFT, Harry found a café to use the restroom, which was a cabinet behind a sliding door. He leaned to one side to feel, inside his shirt, a welt raised like a snake across his back. When he pissed, the toilet bowl turned pink. That wasn’t good, either.

21

AGAWA’S PAWNSHOP was open on Sunday because December was a busy time, when people needed cash for winter house-cleaning and the big blowout at New Year’s. They didn’t like banks; banks transferred mysterious papers around, sign here, sign there. At a pawnshop a person’s goods were safe, redeemable within three months, and shelves were filled with bright stacks of women’s kimonos, toolboxes, movie cameras, tap shoes, ice skates, a golf bag and clubs. A glass case displayed ivory netsuke, a comb and brush set of mother-of-pearl, earrings of black pearl and golden filigree, everything a little chipped, a little shabby, and over it all reigned thin, dyspeptic Agawa at the counter with an abacus, ashtray and pack of Golden Bats.

“That story about Noah’s ark. That was pretty cute,” Agawa said when he saw Harry at the door.

“I knew you were good with numbers. You, saying you couldn’t play cards with Jiro’s ashes there?”

“Well, I find it distracting to play next to a dead man.”

“You’re not so far from there yourself. We’ll just prop you up at the ballroom and deal you a hand.”

“I’d probably still win.” The picture obviously appealed to Agawa. His shoulders shook to indicate that he was laughing. “And I suppose you scratched together some dust for Jiro’s box?”

“We found something appropriate.”

Agawa looked around his shop, at pawned saws and patched umbrellas hanging from the beams, slightly dingy scrolls hanging on the walls, like a personal museum assembled by a man who never dusted. “Want anything here, Harry? Ski poles, telescope, carving of a bear with a salmon in his mouth?”

“No.”

“Good.” Agawa shouted for an assistant who crept in to mind the shop while he led Harry out the back and across a dirt yard populated by hens to a two-story cement tower that looked like the keep of a medieval castle. The tower door was a bank-vault door with a combination lock, and the upper window had iron bars and coffered shutters faced in iron plate. Drop cloths covered everything on the ground floor, although Harry caught a luminous hint of porcelains and the dark stare of a samurai helmet. These weren’t the pawned baubles of the working class, these were treasures of major debt. He followed Agawa up a ladder to the floor above, where the pawnbroker maneuvered a strongbox toward the crosshatched light of the window. Every movement of Agawa’s had been quick and agitated, but in unblocking the box he became nearly reverent, lifting the lid from the rich, swarming glow of gold bars.

The bars were cosseted in red velvet and stacked according to size. Indian tael bars were about the size of calling cards. Chinese “biscuit” bars were six ounces and carried the impression HONG KONG GOLD & SILVER EXCHANGE. Strings of Chinese doughnut coins Harry didn’t bother with. Selling or buying gold was illegal, but there was a rough black-market price both he and Agawa knew: five hundred yen per tael bar, and two thousand yen per Hong Kong biscuit. Biscuits made the pockets sag. Harry laid down three thousand for six tael bars that would be his currency from Hong Kong to America.

“How much for the golf clubs?” Harry nodded back toward the shop. “Keeping in mind that the army’s taking over all the courses and there’s no place to play.”

“A hundred.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifty.”

“Forty.”

“Done.” Agawa spread the bills like playing cards to count them. “Always good to do business with you. Very professional. As long as you let me count the money, not you. Just joking. You know the first time I saw you, Harry, you were running errands for the girls backstage at the Folies. I was interested in a dancer named Oharu, remember her? I wasn’t so old. I was married, but I was still interested. But I could never get her away from that artist. I think she posed for him. Now, there’s a job, painting someone like Oharu. Anyway, I heard that the artist was going to an exhibition out of town, and at once I got over to the Folies in time to catch Oharu and ask her to meet me after the show. She said she had a date. I got the drift, I didn’t have a chance, not with her. I went out and tried to drown my sorrows in drink. Then I went to the movies. I don’t think I ever looked at the screen, because three rows ahead of me was Oharu with you. You were her date. A boy, not even Japanese. I fought a powerful impulse to strangle you. I could feel my fingers closing around your throat. I could feel your breath rattle. You were so friendly with her, so easygoing. I wanted to beat your head against the steps and crush it under my heel.” Agawa rocked with excitement and slowly settled back. “I didn’t, of course. I controlled myself and left the movie theater. I went to a red lantern and got drunk again and calmed down. Although, I have to say, when the earthquake hit soon after and I heard that Oharu didn’t survive, my first reaction was Good, I hope the little gaijin died, too. I didn’t know you had already gone home.”