The Nicholas Linnear Novels (104 page)

It was witnessed by Greydon, dated June 4, 1983.

Nicholas sat down on the arm of Sato’s chair. His head was buzzing and he fought desperately for control. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this.

“Mr. Linnear?”

Slowly Nicholas looked up, becoming aware that Greydon had been trying to get his attention for some time.

“Mr. Linnear, will you sign the codicil?”

There was just too much happening at once. Nicholas felt overwhelmed. Emotion welled up from the Western part of him, while his Eastern half fought desperately to suppress those same emotions which if they surfaced would surely cause loss of face. Nicholas felt in the middle for the first time in his life, at odds with either side of himself. Because he wanted to do both: feel and not feel at the same time. Sato had been quite correct. In this country grief was an extremely private emotion, held back from even those closest to you. And yet, he felt acutely the presence of the Colonel urging him to grieve, telling him that it was all right, that it was a man’s prerogative to cry, to feel, to need solace in times of stress; it was what everyone wanted.

And still nothing showed on his face. Perhaps Nangi, the astute master that he was, might have seen the pain flitting like dark darting fish in Nicholas’ eyes. But Nangi would never even contemplate such a gross intrusion of privacy. Ever since Tomkin was stricken the Japanese had steadfastly looked only at each other, giving no chance for loss of face.

“Mr. Linnear?”

All at once Nicholas found himself in the first attack position, his muscles corded, his hips and knees already moving on their own, the red killing drive welling up in him and his arm beginning to lift.

“Yes?”

Greydon blinked rapidly behind his glasses, standing immobile and defenseless, and Nicholas thought to himself, What am I doing? appalled at the misdirection of emotion, the readiness of his body to act on his
aka-i-ninjutsu
training. It was as if all his time in America had been shed from him and now, returned to his natural element, he was reverting, cerebration giving way to instinct as he had been taught. For
jahō,
the magic of the ninja
ryu,
required the absolute imprisonment of the laws and strictures of so-called civilization.

But this was not Nara prefecture and he was not within the cool stone walls of the Tenshin Shoden Katori. He was no longer a pupil but a
sensei.
He should know better. But he was not entirely Eastern, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

And at precisely this moment, as if a great and towering glacial floe that had blocked his path for ages, reflecting the light in its icy rills and ridges, had cracked asunder, he understood the latent anger he felt toward the Colonel for bearing him, for imbuing him with his Western genes, reactions, instincts—his coarsened method of viewing the world. Nicholas realized that his unfaltering reverence for his father was merely a mask for the resentment that lay smoldering in white heat inside him. And abruptly he knew what he must do.

He relaxed his body, consciously draining it of the adrenaline which, unbidden, had been released in the onset of
kokyū suru,
the attack stance. Handing Greydon the papers, he said, “Give me some time, will you,” and went across the room, from island to carpeted island, past the four Japanese, who would not dare look into his face, who spoke in low, quick tones of mundane matters.

Nicholas went around the side of the sofa and Tomkin appeared before him again, already laid out as if on a bier. There was a bitter taste in Nicholas’ mouth and a burning behind his eyes. The day the Colonel had died, the Linnears’ new gardener, another old man, a Zen master of his leafy domain, to take the beloved Atake’s place in the house on the outskirts of Tokyo, had begun to rake the snow. And Nicholas could see again the lines of dark and white, the sight of melancholy winter transmuted by personal tragedy into the embodiment of death.

Nicholas knelt down at right angles to Tomkin’s body, bowing his head formally as one does to acknowledge the head of a family. After the revelations of a moment ago there seemed no difference between this corpse and the one he and his mother and Itami had buried with such ceremonial pomp and circumstance so many years ago.

Save that now the ache inside him, unknowable and seemingly absolute, had been dissolved in the knowledge of his view of the Roundeyed Barbarian. Though the Colonel had come to love the East with an unfailing passion, still he had been
gaijin
and throughout all his life growing up in Japan Nicholas had suffered because of it. The blood, the blood. The Japanese could not get over that, could not, in their heart of hearts secreted far away from their public display of affection for him, forgive him for that ultimate transgression.

In Raphael Tomkin Nicholas had perceived, albeit unconsciously, all the traits, though untrue, ascribed to his father. He saw now that part of his hate for Tomkin was his hate for what the Colonel had been, what he could not help being. He was an Easterner trapped in a Westerner’s body.
Karma.
But Nicholas understood now that he had never been able to accept that, that he had for so many years unconsciously fought against that
karma,
just as he had steadfastly refused to face his deep and abiding hatred.

Now he could. Tomkin’s death had shown him the way, and for that he would be eternally grateful to the man. But he knew as well that he had felt far more than hatred toward Tomkin. He had never truly believed him the monster his daughters claimed he was. Always ruthless, sometimes cruel, he could nevertheless display an astonishingly profound love for his children as well as life. Nicholas felt the sorrow bubbling upward, released at last from the iron restraints of his Eastern heritage.

For while he grieved for Raphael Tomkin, he grieved anew for his father as well. Tears fell like stones from his eyes, neatly aligned pebbles from his own inner Zen garden that had forever been diminished by human loss.

After a time, Nicholas rose. His face was calm, composed, and his mind felt clear, free of the ropy restraints of a half hour before. He went back to where Greydon was standing patiently holding the documents, and took them from him. He read the letter all over again, fascinated anew by Tomkin’s insight; he had obviously understood far more than his ugly American exterior had indicated.

When Nicholas got to the paragraph about Angela Didion, he paused. Was Croaker right or wasn’t he? he wondered. How could it be both? Shock after shock. Wheels within wheels. The letter’s overall tone was curiously Oriental in its acute introspection, its hints at deeper developments.

For a long time Nicholas stared at the letter. He had long ago ceased to read. His eyes might even have seemed blank to an uninitiated observer. But the fact was he had begun to look beyond the words, to find the Void, and, in that peculiar form of meditation open only to the greatest of the world’s warriors of the East, the answer to perhaps the largest change in his life.

Abruptly he looked up, and when his eyes made contact with Greydon’s they were focused and sharp. He carefully folded the letter and put it away in his inside jacket pocket. “What happens if I don’t sign?” he said quietly.

“It’s all in the will,” Greydon said. “I cannot tell you the details; that would violate my trust. I am authorized to say only that the board of directors will decide on the new president.”

“But who will it be?” Nicholas asked. “Will he be a good man? Will he be in favor of this merger? Will he manage the company as Tomkin wanted?”

Greydon smiled thinly. “What would you have me say, Mr. Linnear? Obviously Mr. Tomkin wanted you to make your decision without such knowledge.” He looked at Nicholas for a moment. “However, just by your asking those questions I believe you have already come to a decision.” He produced a fountain pen and uncapped it. Its gold nib shone in the light like a sword-blade.

“Tomkin said there was something I must do…if I sign. You know what it is.”

Greydon nodded. “That’s correct. As the new president of Tomkin Industries you are required to seek an interview with a man in Washington. His name is C. Gordon Minck. I am in possession of his private number.”

“Who is he?”

“I have no idea.” The pen was waiting, hanging in the air. Nicholas took it, noting its weight and balance. He put the codicil down on Sato’s desk and wrote his name on the designated line.

Greydon nodded his head. “Good.” He took the codicil, waved it about until the ink dried, then folded it away. “You will receive a copy after the will is read.” He stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Linnear.” He ducked his head. “Now it’s time I notified the company and began to see to funeral arrangements.”

“No,” Nicholas said, “I’ll do that. And, Greydon, please wait until I speak to his daughters before informing the office.”

“Of course, Mr. Linnear. As you wish.” He left the room.

Nicholas looked across the expanse of Sato’s office. The others were discreetly not looking at him.

He went across to them and said, “Sato-san, Nangi-san, Ishii-san,” bowing formally, “I have been named to succeed Tomkin. His company is now mine.” He lifted his eyes to see their reaction, but they were being very careful and circumspect. Too much had already happened today.

Sato spoke first. “Congratulations, Linnear-san. I am so sorry that your good fortune comes through these tragic circumstances.”

“Thank you. Your concern is greatly appreciated.”

Ishii also expressed his concern in a manner that managed to be sincere without being inquisitive. Nangi said nothing. That was all right. Now it was time to forge ahead. “Unfortunately, I will be forced to return to the States immediately to see to the last rites. Our discussions must be postponed.” They bowed all around.

“
Karma
,” Sato said.

“But I have no wish to forestall our merger,” Nicholas said. “And I will be returning as soon as is proper. But toward that end, I find I must leave with you some information, bizarre though it may seem to you.” Now he had their undivided attention. Good, he thought. Here goes.

“I had decided not to bring it up now because I felt some more evidence was needed. I thought I could be of some help in this. Now, however, circumstances dictate otherwise. Because I am leaving, because I hold sacred our mutual pact and do not want anything to disrupt it, I must now answer Nangi-san’s question fully.

“He asked if I had any knowledge of death linked to the
Wu-Shing.
I said truthfully that I had never seen such a thing. And yet I have heard of it.”

“In what circumstance?” Sato asked. “What happened to Kagami-san, truly? We must know.”

And Nicholas told them the ancient legend he had recounted to Tomkin. Quiet electricity built itself in the air.

“I think it’s time for all of us to go,” Nangi said from out of the silence.

Uniformed attendants, called by the doctor, had arrived, and now they began to wrap Raphael Tomkin in silver-gray plastic swaddling.

Ishii left. Then Sato and the doctor filed past but Nangi, his face as pale as a geisha’s white rice-powdered visage, held back, his dark eyes locked on Nicholas’ face.

They stood side by side. “In three days,” Nangi said, “the cherry blossom springs to life, blooming like a mystic cloud, heaven come to earth for a brief moment. In its opening we find joy; in its fading we console ourselves with the richness of memories.

“Is that not the way of all life?”

With a dry crinkle, the silver-gray plastic enwrapped Raphael Tomkin’s face in its code of eternal silence.

W
HEN TANZAN NANGI RETURNED
from the consequences of war, released from the military hospital in which he had recovered while his country slowly lost the initiative in its desperate struggle against the West, he tried to go home.

He was set free of his antiseptic bed on March 11, 1945, almost a year to the day since he had been rescued from his makeshift raft. The hospital had claimed him, the surgeon’s scalpel probing his flesh time and time again in attempts to repair the nerve and muscle damage done to him. Sight in his damaged eye was totally gone and there was nothing they could do but sew the lids in place to stop the interminable tic that had plagued him.

With his legs it was another matter entirely. Three lengthy operations returned partial use of his limbs to him. He would not, as the doctors had at first feared, be subjected to the indignity of amputation. But, they told him, he would have to learn to walk all over again, and it would be a slow, painful process. Nangi did not care. He was grateful to the God Jesus to whom he had prayed in his darkness and who had seen fit to preserve his life.

Travel in those times was difficult for a civilian, even a hero of the war. If you did not wear a uniform, if you were not on your way to a mobilization center, you were largely ignored. Japan, in dire straits, had more on its mind. The bureaucratic war machine’s hegemony over the country was stronger than ever.

But the spirit of togetherness beneath the billowing clouds of war was everywhere and Nangi found a ride into Tokyo in a farmer’s broken-down truck, rattling over bumps and holes in the roads, stopped seemingly at every turn to allow the military traffic its right of way.

As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered. The sky was black over Tokyo, a dense, acrid pall in no way related to the rain clouds higher up. Choking ash hung in the air, coating face and hands, lining the mouth and nostrils with grit.

Nangi stood shakily up in the back of the trembling truck as they rolled into the city. It seemed as if there was nothing left. Tokyo had been devastated. The high winds made it difficult to see clearly, and he was obliged to blink constantly to keep his eye free of ash. Not whole buildings, not whole blocks, but entire sections of the city had been incinerated. Where Nangi’s family’s house had stood there were now squads of sweepers and shovelers clearing their way through the lumps of blackened structures. No one was left alive, he was told. The intense heat of the igniting napalm combined with the high winds—the same winds that had fanned the terrible Tokyo fire of 1920—to roast fully half the city.