“Yes,” Mr. Childan said. “Depending on condition, for instance.” He watched alertly.
“Colt .44 revolver,” Mr. Tagomi said.
They were both silent, regarding the gun as it lay in its open teakwood box with its carton of partly consumed ammunition.
Shade colder by Mr. Childan. Ah, Mr. Tagomi realized. Well, so be it. “You are not interested,” Mr. Tagomi said.
“No sir,” Mr. Childan said in a stiff voice.
“I will not press it.” He did not feel any strength. I yield. Yin, the adaptive, receptive, holds sway in me, I fear.
“Forgive me, Mr. Tagomi.”
Mr. Tagomi bowed, replaced the gun, ammunition, box, in his briefcase. Destiny. I must keep this thing.
“You seem quite disappointed,” Mr. Childan said.
“You notice.” He was perturbed; had he let his inner world out for all to view? He shrugged. Certainly it was so.
“Was there a special reason why you wanted to trade that item in?” Mr. Childan said.
“No,” he said, once more concealing his personal world—as should be.
Mr. Childan hesitated, then said, “I—wonder if that did emanate from my store. I do not carry that item.”
“I am sure,” Mr. Tagomi said. “But it does not matter. I accept your decision; I am not offended.”
“Sir,” Childan said, “allow me to show you what has come in. Are you free for a moment?”
Mr. Tagomi felt within him the old stirring. “Something of unusual interest?”
“Come, sir.” Childan led the way across the store; Mr. Tagomi followed.
Within a locked glass case, on trays of black velvet, lay small metal swirls, shapes that merely hinted rather than were. They gave Mr. Tagomi a queer feeling as he stooped to study.
“I show these ruthlessly to each of my customers,” Robert Childan said. “Sir, do you know what these are?”
“Jewelry, it appears,” Mr. Tagomi said, noticing a pin.
“These are American-made. Yes of course. But, sir. These are not the old.”
Mr. Tagomi glanced up.
“Sir, these are the new.” Robert Childan’s white, somewhat drab features were disturbed by passion. “This is the new life of my country, sir. The beginning in the form of tiny imperishable seeds. Of beauty.”
With due interest, Mr. Tagomi took time to examine in his own hands several of the pieces. Yes, there is something new which animates these, he decided. The Law of Tao is borne out, here; when yin lies everywhere, the first stirring of light is suddenly alive in the darkest depths… we are all familiar; we have seen it happen before, as I see it here now. And yet for me they are just scraps. I cannot become rapt, as Mr. R. Childan, here. Unfortunately, for both of us. But that is the case.
“Quite lovely,” he murmured, laying down the pieces. Mr. Childan said in a forceful voice, “Sir, it does not occur at once.”
“Pardon?”
“The new view in your heart.”
“You are converted,” Mr. Tagomi said. “I wish I could be. I am not.” He bowed.
“Another time,” Mr. Childan said, accompanying him to the entrance of the store; he made no move to display any alternative items, Mr. Tagomi noticed.
“Your certitude is in questionable taste,” Mr. Tagomi said. “It seems to press untowardly.”
Mr. Childan did not cringe. “Forgive me,” he said. “But I am correct. I sense accurately in these the contracted germ of the future.”
“So be it,” Mr. Tagomi said. “But your Anglo-Saxon fanaticism does not appeal to me.” Nonetheless, he felt a certain renewal of hope. His own hope, in himself, “Good day.” He bowed. “I will see you again one of these days. We can perhaps examine your prophecy.”
Mr. Childan bowed, saying nothing.
Carrying his briefcase, with the Colt .44 within, Mr. Tagomi departed. I go out as I came in, he reflected. Still seeking. Still without what I need if I am to return to the world.