December 6 (15 page)

Agawa walked over from the card game. He nodded toward the box next to Taro. “Is everything in there? I know someone who got a box that was empty.”

“Empty?” Taro was alarmed.

“Just saying. It was a shock to the family.”

“That would kill my mother.” Taro picked up the box tentatively. The box was wisteria wood sanded to a satin finish and tied with a white sash. He had carried it to the ballroom but hadn’t tested its heft before.

Agawa said, “There should be an official album of the unit Jiro fought in, along with photos of the emperor, the imperial standard, regimental banner and commanding officers, plus personal snapshots, a map and description of the circumstances in which he died and clippings of his fingernails and hair. And the ashes and pulverized bone, of course, in a stoppered container or a sack.”

“It sounds as if everything is in there.” Taro tipped the box one way and then the other.

“Better be sure,” Agawa said.

“I’m not ready for this, Harry,” Taro said. “I’m not prepared.”

“You’ll have to open it at home,” Agawa said.

Taro set the box on his lap and fumbled with the sash, his big fingers turned to rubber. He lifted the lid as if opening a tomb.

“Everything there?” Agawa asked.

Taro reached in and delicately sorted through the contents. “The album. The album and a little sack for ashes, but the sack is empty.” His face went as white as the box. “That’s all.”

“That’s outrageous,” Agawa said. “You should make a protest.”

“You don’t want to make a protest,” Harry said. “Let’s go.”

“This is going to kill your mother,” Agawa said.

“We’re going.” Harry put the lid back on and helped Taro to his feet.

While Tetsu carried the box, Harry got Taro to the ballroom foyer and set him on a chair, which he sagged over on both sides. Harry sent Tetsu back to keep anyone from following.

The chair trembled under Taro’s weight. He said, “I took the boat away from Jiro, and now I lost his ashes. I should have looked out for him. He was my little brother.”

“By fifteen minutes. He probably kicked you out, he was that sort of person.”

Taro hung his head. “Now to lose his ashes.”

“You didn’t lose Jiro’s ashes.”

“My mother will think so. She’ll tell everyone I deliberately lost them.”

“You didn’t.”

This was a perfect example, Harry thought, of how a tiny woman could make a sumo tread in fear. He looked around at the foyer’s dirty carpet, cloakroom alcove, clouded ashtrays, broken abacus and a cold potbellied stove. Harry opened the box and took out the empty sack.

“What are you doing, Harry?”

“Making things right.”

Before Taro could move, Harry opened the stove trap and, with the shuttle, transferred ash. One scoop half filled the bag. Harry drew the drawstring tight, deposited the sack in the box, wiped his fingers on his pants and knelt a little to bring his eyes directly to Taro’s.

“Now you have the ashes. Now your mother will have peace of mind. You will have peace of mind, too, because you will know that you have done everything possible to make her happy and allow her to pray for him. You have lost him, and now he is found. A good shepherd rejoices more in the one lost sheep he has found than in the hundred that never strayed.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Harry retied the sash and looped it over Taro’s head for carrying.

“I could kill Agawa. It’s good he asked, though.”

“Funny how things work out.”

“How can I thank you?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m presenting a donation to the head of National Purity, who is a famous sumo fan. Why don’t you come and set a patriotic tone?” He gave Taro the time and place. “I’ll be counting on you.”

“Sure, Harry. I’m sorry, I fell apart there for a minute.”

“No harm done. Ready?”

Taro rose to his feet, a full-size sumo again. They got out on the street, and with every step, he was steadier and more impressive, shoulders squared, expression solemn. Once on the Rokku, he and Harry parted ways. Watching Taro stride through the crowd, Harry felt not so much the pride of the good shepherd as he did the satisfaction of a butcher who managed at all times to keep his thumb on the scale.

12

I
T WAS ON
an evening in April that Gen introduced Harry to the Magic Show. They had met at a new John Wayne movie and afterward strolled like cowboys in a marquee glow. Most naval officers were shorn like sheep, but Gen had managed to hang on to his hair, and in his panama hat, he exuded a style and confidence that made Harry want to hang back and applaud. Gen’s only problem was that he looked more like an actor playing a hero than a real hero. He had been assigned to Operations, and while another officer on the rise might have severed relations with as dubious a character as Harry, it wasn’t in Gen to be careful. Their relationship was too old, too strong, too complicated. Trust and distrust seesawed between them. Gen knew Harry too well, and that went both ways.

Gen consulted his watch from time to time, which meant nothing to Harry until they returned to the Happy Paris and Gen suggested the willow house across the street instead. Through the window slats of the Paris, Harry saw Michiko lean on the jukebox, waiting for him, mouthing some whispery song in a wreath of smoke. At the willow house, a lantern winked a more discreet welcome within an open gate.

“You’re kidding,” Harry said. “You’re drunk.”

“No.” And he wasn’t, Harry realized. Gen was sober. “I have a friend inside. You’d enjoy him.”

“At a geisha party?”

“No geishas. He wants to play cards.”

“There are games all over town.”

“He’s very private. You’d enjoy him. Just meet him, and if you’re not interested, you can leave. Five minutes, Harry.”

From the willow-house gate, a path of stones led across a lawn of moss to an entryway of polished cedar. Sure enough, Harry and Gen had barely left their shoes when, from behind paper panels slid shut, they heard the unmistakable sound of parties in progress: drunken toasts, the stumbling over musical pillows (a version of musical chairs) and the puns and feeble double entendres that passed for jokes. Rich drunks and simpering dolls, that was a geisha party so far as Harry was concerned. The cultural aspect fit into a thimble. The level of entertainment was prehistoric. One girl might sing like a lark, and the next one’s major talent might be tying a cherry stem with her tongue. The proprietor, hunchbacked from bowing, always greeted a customer at the front door. For once he was absent.

Gen led Harry to the room farthest from the street, traditionally the best and quietest accommodation. It was a room Harry sometimes escaped to from the Paris; in turn, he gave geishas a ride home when they were too tipsy to walk. A round window looked out on a softly illuminated garden of bonsai and ferns. A standing screen was decorated with gilded carp swimming across blue silk. There were no geishas now, however, only a short man in a threadbare kimono shuffling cards. He had a deeply lined, tanned and compact body, as if any more weight was baggage. His gray hair was shaved to the nub, and he was missing the middle and index fingers of his left hand. He didn’t rise to greet Harry or pretend to bow but seemed amiable and informal enough.

“I hear you play,” he told Harry.

“Deal them.”

The man dealt the cards facedown for five-card stud, and they played one on one with a one-yen ante just to make it interesting. The man was good; he had discipline, card memory, a sense of the changing odds, a natural poker face and, most important, an amused detachment that allowed him to take the loss or win of a hand as just deserts. It took until two in the morning for Harry to clean him out.

“You see, this is what I mean,” the man told Gen as Harry raked in the final pot. “You can start by putting in just one yen or one ship or one soldier and still lose everything if you don’t know when to leave the table. Leaving the table is not something Japanese are very good at.” He held up his hands for Harry. “Sometimes you even have to leave fingers on the table. I lost two fingers when my own gun blew up. But the geishas here are very nice. The usual charge for a manicure from a geisha is one yen. For me, just eighty sen.”

“Who were you shooting at?”

“Russians. It was war, it was perfectly legal.”

The songs and laughs from other rooms had died and disappeared. Quiet descended on the willow house. Gen had watched the entire poker game without saying a word or even stirring except to empty an ashtray or fetch tea. Everything the older man did, Gen followed with the attention and respect of an altar boy. “I am a terrible customer for geishas,” the man said. “I don’t drink, and I don’t have much to spend, but the geishas humor me nonetheless. I find the back room here restful.” He rubbed his head with embarrassment. “I tried to go home tonight, the first time I’ve been home in months, and I was locked out. My wife had taken the children on vacation, I suppose. So I came here with my loose change and some cards to make my fortune. Unfortunately, I ran into you, and now I have nothing at all.”

“I warned you,” Gen said.

“You were right. I will listen to my junior officers in the future.” The man returned to Harry. “Where did I go wrong?”

“Nowhere special. You just didn’t have enough money, so you let me buy two pots, and then you had to be too aggressive. Then the losses snowballed.”

“That’s so true! You know, there were times when I seriously thought of leaving the sea and becoming a full-time gambler. Not cards. Roulette. I had a very encouraging experience once at Monte Carlo. Also I like dice.”

“We could try that.” Harry fished a pair from his jacket.

“Oh, I don’t I think I should play with someone who carries dice just in case.”

“I extend credit.”

“Even more dangerous. Lieutenant, your friend is as good as advertised.” The man rubbed his hands together. “Excellent!”

From his corner, Gen beamed with pride.

“Do you have a system?” the man asked Harry.

“No, I let the other man have a system, and I try to figure it out.”

“You bet on anything?”

“Cards, cars, dogs, horses, pigeons, about anything.”

“The lieutenant told me about the car race at Tamagawa.”

Tamagawa was a track on the way to Yokohama.

“They have good races,” Harry said. “Bentleys, Bugattis, Mercedeses.”

“Is it true that you entered a car with an airplane engine?”

“A Curtis thirteen-cylinder engine.”

“It stayed on the ground?”

“Barely, but it won.”

“That’s what matters. I wish I could have seen that.”

Gen said, “Some of the other competitors were upset.”

“Too bad,” the man said. “The losing side is always upset.” He returned to Harry. “But you are also a businessman with an interest in oil.”

“I help the government develop sources of oil,” Harry said.

“From…?”

“Shale, mostly, but also looking at alternative sources.”

“What does that mean?”

There was something about the man that suggested bullshit wouldn’t do. “Pine trees.”

The man grinned in wonder. “As a boy, I understand, you sold cat skins. I suppose you will be squeezing them for oil, too.”

“Let’s say Japan doesn’t have the usual sources of oil.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” The man’s smile folded. “I used to drink, a little. Then I encountered the most sobering sight in my life. It was a Texas oil field. Oil rigs as far as you could see in any direction. One Texas oil field that outproduced all of Japan. I visited assembly lines in Detroit and skyscrapers in New York City, but the last thing I see when I close my eyes at night is that oil field. Whenever I mention oil, the army says not to worry because we Japanese have Yamato spirit. Yamato spirit, Yamato spirit, that’s all the army knows. They say Japan is so different, so superior, we will necessarily win. You know, I have seen the cherry trees in Washington, and they are just as beautiful. The army talks about the incomparable Japanese character. Well, you can tell a lot about character and intelligence by how a man approaches a woman. A Japanese goes up to a woman and demands, ‘Give me a lay.’ Even a prostitute would say no. An American shows up with flowers and presents and gets what he wants. So much for moral superiority, and so much for results. The army can have Yamato spirit, give me oil.”

The man spoke with such intensity that it took Harry a moment to find the air to answer. “I can’t get you Texas.”

“No, I understand, but it seems to me that you have exactly the sort of skeptical eye and varied experience we need for a certain situation. You are unique. The lieutenant was right, you are just the man.”

Harry didn’t know how flattered to be. “For what?”

“Do you do card tricks?”

“I just play cards, I’m not a magician.”

“You know magicians?”

“Dozens. Magicians with doves, rabbits, scarves, saws, feats of mental telepathy, whatever you want.”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“For a magic show?”

The man developed a smile. “That’s the problem, we don’t know quite what it is. It’s magic or a miracle. I’m hoping you will tell us.”

A
NAVY CAR
with an anchor insignia picked Harry up at the Paris the following night. Gen was inside behind window curtains. He wore navy blues, and his easygoing manner of the previous evening was replaced by a somber mood.

“Where’s our friend with the cards?” Harry asked.

“He’ll be there. No names,” Gen warned Harry.

“Whatever you say.”

It didn’t matter. Harry knew the player’s name. Anyone who read a newspaper or saw newsreels knew the dour face and blunt manner of the commander in chief of the Combined Fleet. Although no names had been exchanged, Harry had recognized Yamamoto as soon as the admiral shuffled the deck of cards with the famous eight fingers instead of ten. Harry also understood that the meeting had been engineered for invisibility, at midnight in the back room of a willow house with no witnesses but the loyal acolyte Gen. Could Harry claim that he had even been introduced to Yamamoto? No. That was okay. A lot of people didn’t want to be associated with Harry.

Gen said, “This is a very sensitive situation.”

“You mean your career is on the line. Magic or miracle, what is that supposed to mean? The Great Man has looked me over and approved, but I’m still kept in the dark. Give me a clue.”

“You have to see it to believe it.”

“That’s a good clue. Are we talking about the resurrection? Water to wine? A burning bush?”

“On a par.”

“On a par? Wow. Like parting the sea and just marching where you want to go?”

“Sort of. This is very big, but…” Gen lowered his voice. “But there is also a risk of embarrassment.”

“Losing face?”

“Not face. Enormous, disastrous embarrassment.”

That sounded intriguing to Harry, but Gen shook his head to indicate the end of the conversation. South of the palace, the driver swung into an alley behind the Navy Ministry and stopped. Gen studied the shadows, then rushed Harry out of the car and down a flight of stairs as if delivering a prostitute. Inside, they followed a trail of dusty lights through a tunnel of steam and water pipes to a door that admitted them to a basement hall of office doors. Harry wondered who would be working at one in the morning. Someone was, judging by the sound of voices and haze of light down the hall. Gen went almost on tiptoe and, when they were nearly on top of the voices, slipped Harry though a door into what was more a tight space than a proper room, a catchall crammed with scales, sterilizing trays, bedpans. At eye level was an inset pane of glass.

Gen whispered, “On the other side, it’s a mirror. This used to be a medical clinic where we examined pilots. Sometimes that demanded discreet observation.”

Harry observed a room dominated by a metal table supporting a tank of water about eight feet wide and four feet high, a good-size aquarium that contained, instead of sand and fish, six bottles of blue glass. Each bottle was sealed and connected via an overhead electrical line to a battery big enough for a submarine. It had to be like moving a piano to get it in. V-shaped wands wrapped in copper wire stood around the tank, and over it hung a copper sphere. A small but impressive audience had been gathered: four navy officers, no grade less than a commander, and two unhappy civilians. Harry noticed a couple of petty officers with pistols standing at the door. He also saw Yamamoto, with so many rings around his sleeves they looked as if he had dipped his cuffs in gold. The uniform seemed to weigh on him, and his attention, like everyone else’s, was anxiously focused on a gaunt man in a white lab coat jotting numbers from a bank of gauges individually wired to the copper wands. Welder’s goggles hung around everyone’s neck. By Harry’s watch, five minutes elapsed before the man in the lab coat raised his head and declared. “Progress, definite progress.”

“Progress in what?” Harry asked Gen. “What is he doing?”

Gen couldn’t get the words out right away. “He’s making oil.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s turning water into oil.”

Harry actually took a step back. He wasn’t dazzled by much, but this was blinding. “Water into oil?”

“You can smile, but I’ve seen him do it.”

“I don’t think even God tried that. Water and wine, yes; oil, no. You realize it’s impossible.”

“Opinion is divided,” Gen granted. “The program is secret.”

“I bet. What’s the researcher’s name?”

“Ito. Dr. Ito.”

While Ito adjusted controls, Gen explained what the doctor had explained to him, that the table of the elements was neither fixed nor limited and that through “electric remapping,” their atomic bonds could be broken and recombined. Ito was in the middle of mapping the transitional states of elements and, in recognition of the national need, had diverted his talents and discoveries toward the transformation of water into oil. From their faces, Harry saw who in the room bought it. At least one civilian was visibly suppressing professional outrage, but there were hopefuls and believers among the navy. And it wasn’t a bad show. Ito was dramatically thin, with lank hair overhanging a pale forehead and eyes hollow from lack of sleep. His coat was dirty, his hands filthy; everything about him spelled genius. He worked on the run in rubber overshoes, resetting dials, repositioning the copper wands, stopping only to cough in a tubercular way. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Perhaps that’s all for tonight.”