Not likely, he thought. Still, the possibility had to be kept in mind.
Halfway through the flip side of the album the apartment door opened.
It was Kimiko. “Hello. You look comfortable.”
“It’s a comfortable place.” He got up, sipping his drink.
She stepped out of her high heels, put aside her stole of Thai silk, and went to her bedroom, saying that she would only be a moment. He watched her ooze across the room. It was a pleasant sight, like watching a good sailboat on a heaving sea.
They were always sexier with their shoes off, he thought. He felt the familiar surge in his groin. Whoa, boy! Not this one.
She came out in a black kimono-like dressing gown secured at the waist with a gold cord. She had wiped her face clean of makeup; it gave her little face a classic simplicity. She picked up his glass and went to the sideboy for a refill. She made one for herself.
“I am so glad you came, Mr. Brook. At night, home from the club, I am lonely. Now that I do not see Aleksei, it is even worse.”
“I hope I’m not too poor a substitute,” Brook said.
“I think I am very glad you are here.” She brought the drinks back to the coffee table, set them down, and seated herself beside Brook. He became instantly conscious of her body and the illusion of perfume. Only a robot would have been immune to her. He had to make an effort to keep his mind on his work.
“You speak wonderful English,” he said. “Where did you learn it?”
Kimiko laughed. “I was an orphan, raised in a missionary school. I am sure the Sisters would be unhappy if they knew I am a hostess at The Golden Obi. But as I explained, it is difficult to do anything else.”
“That’s where Alex met you?”
“Yes. It was the usual thing in the beginning. He came one night with a party of Japanese and foreign diplomats. I was assigned as his hostess — we have a number system for the girls. But after that Aleksei came often, always asking for me, and soon we began to see each other regularly. He is really one of the nicest gentlemen I have ever met.”
Brook looked at her. “That’s a funny way to talk about someone you love.”
Her frown puzzled him. “They spoke of love at the mission school, too. I am not sure I understood it in quite their meaning. It was the same with their reglious teachings. Everything they taught us seemed not of my world. I’m afraid I am hopelessly of the East.”
“Are you trying to say that you don’t really love Krylov?” He had not foreseen this at all.
“Oh, I will be very good to him,” Kimiko said quickly. “It is not important to love.”
“But if you don’t love him, why Krylov? Why not somebody else? You must have dozens drooling over you.”
“I have had other lovers, yes. And, as you say, there are so many men always available. But Aleksei offers what I really wish. He will make it possible for me to leave Japan. It is my country, but it is so difficult for a woman with amibitions. I studied fashion design, you know. As a designer in Japan I would be working for a Japanese woman’s pay, which is very little. I think in America it will be otherwise.”
“Why don’t you just go to the States on your own?”
“It takes a great deal of money, Mr. Brook, which I do not have. And there are visa problems — you must have an American citizen’s sponsorship, must you not? No, I shall let Aleksei take me there.”
She said it all very matter-of-factly, and Brook almost chuckled. So the great Krylov was being taken! It was a joke he must remember to tell Benny, who would appreciate it. Well, it was really no business of theirs. There was little or no chance of trouble after the pair got to the States. Love or no love, Kimiko would carry out her part of the bargain; that was the oriental way.
But it did put a different light on what was going on in his groin.
She had turned to examine Brook. “But you have a message from Aleksei.”
“Yes. He says you’re to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. The word will come in a week or so. Arrangements are being made.”
“You are helping him?”
“I’m acting as a go-between.”
“How good of you, Mr. Brook.” She put her hand on his thigh.
He pretended not to notice; things were happening. “You must be careful not to tell anyone, Kimiko. Alex thinks it’s wiser not to see you; his people are watching him. He wants you to sit tight, be patient.”
“That is a hard thing,” the girl said. Her voice was suddenly soft. She leaned toward him. “To be patient, I mean. It is even harder when a girl is lonely.” Then her arms were around his neck and her tongue was prying his mouth open.
It took Brook by surprise in spite of everything. But he had been trained too well to lose his head. If circumstances had been different he would have tried to resist her. But he was not sure of anything. The thing to do, his instinct told him, was to play along.
It was a pleasure. Her tongue, her body, wriggled with life; her fingers kept stroking the back of his neck; she kept pushing at him like an animal seeking warmth. He slipped his hand under her gown and pulled it open, cupping her breast, kneading it, letting nature take its course.
The night air was cool but not sobering; Brook’s blood still raced. It had been a rare bout. Love, shove — Krylov was a lucky bastard.
Kimiko had pressed him to stay, but he had explained that it was best for him to leave while it was still dark. She had knelt to kiss him goodbye. It was an hour before he could tear himself away.
There were some departments, he thought, in which FACE training missed badly. How to walk away from that. When I get mine, he thought, it’s going to be through a girl like Kimiko.
He walked the empty street, hearing the whisper of his own shoes and nothing else. It was just before dawn. He would be able to find a taxi, Kimiko had said, on the main street a few blocks away.
Brook suddenly heard a run of thin high musical notes. It seemed to be coming from a side street ahead. It was a dark little phrase that made a union with the night.
It startled him at first. But then, from somewhere in his memory banks, he found the answer: he had heard it once before in Tokyo. Someone had explained that it was the call-in-trade of a noodle vendor, made on a fluty little instrument called a... he could not remember the Japanese word.
A yellowish light appeared from around the corner and came bobbing toward him. A moment later he made out the shape of the vendor’s tall handcart. The yellow light was a lantern hanging from the canopy.
Brook suddenly felt hungry. He had had no dinner, and Kimiko had given him a great deal of exercise. Why not? FACE instructors were always preaching the desirability of conforming to local customs abroad. He had sampled soba more than once; the steaming noodles in their savory sauce were delicious. By God, Brook thought, I’ll stop that clown and have a bowl. He could already taste it.
By God, Brook thought, I won’t. I’ll be the hero I wasn’t up in Kimiko’s apartment. Controlling this kind of appetite had been thoroughly covered in FACE training, and in that course he had scored high. I’ll get something to eat at the hotel, or in some all-night joint nearby. He was long overdue at the hotel; the message he was expecting from Benny Lopez might have been waiting for him there for hours.
The noodle vendor’s cart was coming close.
From habit he inventoried the cart and the stocky man pushing it. Short cotton curtains hung from the canopy, each printed with a Japanese character; a small tin disc nailed to one post had a number on it — 76495 — probably a license. There were eight bowls stacked on a rack and three ladles hanging from a crossbar.