I had enjoyed myself much more than I had expected — more, really, than I had wanted. But the chill cut through my reverie, reviving my memories and doubts. I glanced over at Midori’s face, thinking, What have I done to her? What am I doing?
“What is it?” she asked, seeing my eyes.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
She looked to her right, then again at me. “It felt as though you were looking at someone else.”
I shook my head. “It’s just us.”
We walked, our footsteps echoing softly. Then she asked, “Will you come see me play again?”
“I’d like that.” Stupid thing to say. But I didn’t have to follow through on it.
“I’m at the Blue Note Friday and Saturday.”
“I know,” I said, stupid again, and she smiled.
She flagged down a cab. I held the door for her as she went in, an annoying part of me wondering what it would be like to be getting in with her. As it pulled away from the curb, she rolled down the window and said, “Come alone.”
8
THE NEXT FRIDAY I received another page from Harry telling me to check our bulletin board.
What he had found out was that the stranger on the train was indeed a reporter: Franklin Bulfinch, the Tokyo bureau chief for Forbes magazine. Bulfinch was one of only five male foreigners living in the Daikanyama apartment complex I had seen the stranger enter; all Harry had needed to do was cross-reference the names he found in the local ward directory against the main files kept by the Immigration Bureau. The latter kept information on all foreign residents in Japan, including age, birthplace, address, employer, fingerprints, and a photograph. Using this information, Harry had been able to quickly determine that the other foreigners failed to match the description I had provided. He had also obligingly hacked and uploaded Bulfinch’s photo so I could confirm that we were talking about the same guy. We were.
Harry had recommended a look at forbes.com, where Bulfinch’s articles were archived. I checked the site, and spent several hours reading Bulfinch’s accounts of suspected alliances between the government and the yakuza, about how the Liberal Democratic Party uses threats, bribery, and intimidation to control the press, about the cost of all this corruption to the average Japanese.
Bulfinch’s English-language articles had little impact in Japan, and the local media were obviously not following up on his efforts. I imagined this would be frustrating for him. On the other hand, it was probably the reason I hadn’t been tasked with removing him.
My guess was that Kawamura was one of Bulfinch’s sources, hence the reporter’s presence on the train that morning and his quick search of Kawamura. I felt some abstract admiration for his doggedness: his source is having a heart attack right in front of him, and all he does is search the guy’s pockets for a deliverable.
Someone must have found out about the connection, figured it was too risky to take out a foreign bureau chief, and decided to just plug the leak instead. It had to look natural, or they would have provided more grist for Bulfinch’s mill. So they called me.
All right, then. There had been no B-team. I had been wrong about Benny. I could let this one go.
I looked at my watch. It was not quite 5:00. If I wanted to, I could easily get to the Blue Note by 7:00, when the first set would begin.
I liked her music and I liked her company. She was attractive, and, I sensed, attracted to me. Enticing combination.
Just go, I thought. It’ll be fun. Who knows what’ll happen afterward? Could be a good night. The chemistry is there. Just a one-nighter. Could be good.
But that was all bullshit. I couldn’t say what would happen after her performance, but Midori didn’t feel like a one-nighter. That was exactly why I wanted to see her, and exactly why I couldn’t.
What’s wrong with you? I thought. You need to call one of your acquaintances. Maybe Keiko-chan, she’s usually good for a few laughs. A late dinner, maybe that little Italian place in Hibiya, some wine, a hotel.
For the moment, though, the prospect of a night with Keiko-chan was oddly depressing. Maybe a workout instead. I decided to head over to the Kodokan, one of the places where I practice judo.
The Kodokan, or “School for Studying the Way,” was founded in 1882 by Kano Jigoro, the inventor of modern judo. A student of various schools of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Kano distilled a new system of fighting based on the principle of maximum efficiency in the application of physical and mental energy. Loosely speaking, judo is to Western wrestling what karate is to boxing. It is a system not of punches and kicks, but of throws and grappling, distinguished by an arsenal of brutal joint locks and deadly strangling techniques, all of which must of course be employed with great care in the practice hall. Judo literally means “the way of gentleness” or “the way of giving in.” I wonder what Kano would make of my interpretation.
Today the Kodokan is housed in a surprisingly modern and bland eight-story building in Bunkyo-ku, southwest of Ueno Park and just a few kilometers from my neighborhood. I took the subway to Kasuga, the nearest station, changed in one of the locker rooms, then climbed the stairs to the daidojo, the main practice room, where the Tokyo University team was visiting. After I threw my first uke easily and made him tap out with a strangle, they all lined up to do battle with the seasoned warrior. They were young and tough but no match for old age and treachery; after about a half hour of nonstop randori I was still consistently coming out on top, especially when it went to groundwork.
A couple of times, as I returned to the hajime position after a throw, I noticed a Japanese kurobi, or black belt, stretching out in the corner of the tatami mats. His belt was tattered and more gray than black, which indicated that he’d been wearing it for a lot of years. It was hard to guess his age. His hair was full and black, but his face had the sort of lines that I associate with the passage of time and a certain amount of experience. His movements were certainly young; he was holding splits without apparent difficulty. Several times I sensed that he was intently aware of me, although I never actually saw him looking in my direction.
I needed a break and made my apologies to the college students who were lined up, still waiting to test their mettle against me. It felt good to beat judoka half my age, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to do it.
I went over to the side of the mat and, while I was stretching, watched the guy with the tattered belt. He was practicing his harai-goshi entries with one of the college students, a stocky kid with a crew cut. His entry was so powerful that I caught the college kid wincing a couple of times as their torsos collided.
He finished and thanked the kid, then walked over to where I was stretching and bowed. “Will you join me for a round of randori?” he asked, in lightly accented English.
I looked up and noted an intense pair of eyes and strongly set jaw, neither of which his smile did anything to soften. I was right about his watching me, even if I hadn’t caught him. Did he spot the Caucasian in my features? Maybe he did, and just wanted to take the gaijin test — although, in my experience, that was a game for judoka younger than he looked to be. And his English, or at least his pronunciation, was excellent. That was also odd. The Japanese who are most eager to pit themselves against foreigners have usually had the least experience with them, and their English will typically reflect that lack of contact.