"Do you like the scroll?" a soft voice asked. He looked down into a smiling face. A Japanese woman, some forty years old, the smile brought out her buck teeth, filled with an abundance of gold. She spoke English as he had expected. This woman was also dressed in a kimono, but the color was more sedate than its counterpart in the restaurant. The cold politeness of the smile softened somewhat when she noticed Grijpstra's discomfort. There was a small hole in his left sock and a toe peeped through; he was trying to hide it with his other foot.
"Sit down, please," the lady said, pointing at a low table. There were three cushions on the floor, which was made of thick mats, each mat six-by-two feet and bordered with a strip of printed cotton showing a simple flower motive. "Tatamis," she said. "We imported the mats from my country, like everything else in this room. In the restaurant we worked with local materials but here everything is true Japanese."
There was a quiet pride in her voice and Grijpstra was impressed. "Very beautiful," he said and she smiled again, the smile still softening.
He lowered himself till his knees came to rest on the cushion. He felt the mat under the cushion, it was springy. "Nice and bouncy," he said.
She nodded. "In my country everybody lives on these mats, they are the right size for sleeping, see?" She pointed at the mat next to Grijpstra's cushion and when she saw that he didn't understand, quickly dropped to the floor and stretched out, folding her hands under her head and closing her eyes. She made a snoring sound and Grijpstra laughed.
She got up and her eyes twinkled. "My husband is in the kitchen," she said, and made a gesture at the girl who had come in holding a tray with two beer bottles and glasses. The girl knelt in one smooth movement and put the tray on the table. She raised herself again and left the room, kneeling at the door, sliding it open, and shuffling quickly through it.
Grijpstra had watched the girl and turned to his hostess. "They always go through doors like that?" he asked.
"It is the custom, but modern Japanese girls often forget to do it now," she said, and opened a bottle, pouring the beer carefully into his glass. He did the same for her and they held the glasses up and drank.
He wiped his mouth and mustache. "What does that mean?" he asked, pointing at the scroll in the niche.
She smiled again, and the smile wasn't as ugly as before; he was getting used to her teeth. She had evidently warmed up to him and there was less formality in their contact. "A poem," she said, "a Chinese poem, it says Step step step, the fresh morning breeze."
Grijpstra repeated the words. He liked the sound and tried to feel the meaning. She was looking at him over her glass.
"You climb some steps and enjoy the cool wind?" he asked.
"Could be," she said, and swallowed. "Could be something else."
"Hmm," Grijpstra said, and felt for his cigars. She leaned over and flicked a lighter. "Step step step," Grijpstra said, "like moving slowly, enjoying every step."
She nodded. "Yes, like that. You looked at the menu?"
Grijpstra grinned. "I did but I did not understand."
"Shall I recommend something?"
"Please. Maybe it could have a raw fish in it. I saw one of your men cutting up a fish at the bar."
"Sushi," she said. "We could try a platter of assorted sushi and have some soup with it. Are you very hungry?"
"It's a hot evening, maybe I am not so hungry, but the fresh fish would be nice."
She called and the girl came in, kneeling at the door, waiting for the order. The lady spoke in Japanese and the girl said "Hai hai" in a high voice and left.
"'Hai' means "yes'?" Grijpstra asked.
She shook her head as if in doubt. "Not quite. It means 'I am here, at your service.'"
"And will do as I am told," Grijpstra said.
She tittered. "Yes, like that, but then they often do something entirely different."
"Not bring the fish?" Grijpstra asked, and looked worried.
She laughed and bent over and touched his shoulder. "No, she will bring the fish. You really fancy the fish, don't you?"
He had brought out his notebook and looked serious again. "I am a police detective," he said, and took a visiting card out of his notebook. "There are some questions; I hope you don't mind."
The head with the elaborate hairdo dressing the jet-black thick strands into an intricate knot, bobbed. "Yes, my name is Mrs. Fujitani. My husband and I manage this restaurant. He will be up in a few minutes, but there is a special dish to prepare and he can't leave it alone just now. I assume that you are inquiring into Joanne Andrews' complaint about her missing fianceT'
"Yes, madam," Grijpstra said. She spelled her name and he carefully wrote it down.
"Perhaps nothing is the matter," Mrs. Fujitani said hopefully. "Perhaps Mr. Nagai is enjoying himself somewhere and will show up soon."
"We thought so too," Grijpstra said, "but we don't anymore. We found his car, you see, and there is blood in the car and a fragment of human skull with black hair attached to it. Somebody was shot in the car."
He looked at her carefully. The fright reaction seemed genuine. He didn't think Mrs. Fujitani expected the man to be dead. Her eyes were staring at him, she had sucked in her breath sharply and her hands were clasping each other with such force that the knuckles showed white centers.
"Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Mr. Nagai?" Grijpstra asked gently.
"So that's why Joanne didn't show up today," Mrs. Fujitani said. "I telephoned her landlady. She said Joanne had been nervous the last few days, very nervous."
Grijpstra repeated his question. She shook her head, but there were tears in the small dark eyes.
"Did you like Mr. Nagai?"
She nodded. "Yes, he was such a nice quiet man. Once, a year ago, I think, he drank too much in the restaurant here and bothered people. You know, went up to their tables and tried to talk to them. My husband had to show him the door but he didn't make a fuss. He just went and then he didn't dare to come here again. I went to his hotel and he was almost crying with embarrassment."
"Did he come back again?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes. He brought me flowers and he gave us a little statue, very valuable, I believe. It's over there."
She pointed at a low lacquered table. Grijpstra got up from his cushions, rubbed his legs which had gone to sleep under him and stumbled toward the table. The statue depicted a stocky old man with a large bald head, bushy eyebrows which pointed aggressively forward and enormous eyes, bulging ferociously. The small, hunched-up body seemed to exhale tremendous strength. "Hey," Grijpstra said, and stepped back.
Mrs. Fujitani giggled. "Daruma-san," she said, "the first Zen master, very powerful."
"A priest?" Grijpstra asked doubtfully. "Aren't priests supposed to look holy?"
"Very holy," Mrs. Fujitani said, and bowed reverently toward the statue. "Daruma means 'teaching,' san means 'mister, Mister Teaching.'"
"So what did he teach?" Grijpstra asked, looking at the fury on the old man's face.
"Buddhism," Mrs. Fujitani said. "But I don't know about Buddhism. My husband and I are Christians, Methodists, but I like to look at this statue. It was very good of Mr. Nagai to give it to us; it is the center of this room now."
The girl brought in a large tray with the sushi, and Grijpstra was told how to mix a sauce in a small dish and dip the raw fish and rice into the dish, using chopsticks. He had no trouble with the chopsticks; he had used them many times before, in the cheap Chinese restaurants of the old city. After the sushi she offered a bowl of hot noodles topped with fried vegetables and poured sake, the Japanese rice wine, from a small heated bottle.