The Secret Meaning of Blossom: a fast-moving spy thriller set in Japan

by T. M. Parris

  A proper network. Fairchild might have exactly that, and it wasn’t at all unlikely he’d be in Japan right now. Were things bad enough that she’d approach Fairchild? Talking to anyone in the business about family went right against her instincts, and with Fairchild even more so. Embarrassing if it turned out to be some domestic storm in a teacup.

  No, not yet. She’d leave it for now and hope Gardner could come up with something. Maybe it wasn’t as hopeless as he made it sound. But she couldn’t wait forever. Unpleasant though the idea was, if Gardner came up with nothing she’d have to rethink.

  Chapter 11

  Fairchild wasn’t entirely sure where they were going. Takao, sitting next to him, had instructed the taxi driver by giving him a business card. That was fishy to start with. The driver nodded and set off, his white gloved hands on the wheel manoeuvring them slowly out of the approach to the massive Tokyo Railway Station.

  “So, how’s business, my friend? You’re making money?” Takao, in his suit and tie, may have looked like a typical salaryman but he was anything but. He was a rarity in Japan, a genuine entrepreneur.

  “Yes, things are going well,” conceded Fairchild. Fairchild was also an entrepreneur, but for other reasons. His global business interests were largely set up to gather intelligence. As long as they were viable and kept him solvent, he was happy. Japan he’d struggled with, though. That was why he needed a fixer, a trusted Japanese citizen to introduce him to potential prospects. He spoke the language reasonably, but the intricacies of its use, more cultural than linguistic, were sometimes a struggle. This was why he needed Takao. The man did come with some down sides, though.

  “You said Ueno,” said Fairchild.

  “Yes, yes, Ueno district!”

  Fairchild stared out of the window. “We’re going straight there, are we? To this print expert you know?”

  Takao gave a good-natured grin Fairchild had come to recognise. “Quick stop on the way. Will be worth your while, Fairchild. Very good opportunity!”

  “Ueno is north of Tokyo Station. We’re going east. That’s not on the way.”

  “It’s not far! You see, it won’t take long. Few minutes.”

  Fairchild sighed. “At least tell me what we’re going to.”

  The sparkle in Takao’s eyes was palpable. “Small business, but growing. Good client list. Very good product. Business clients. All over Tokyo, now setting up in Osaka, Yokohama, Kobe.”

  “What’s the product?”

  “They need cash to expand. I saw their plans. Very sound, well thought through. They can double their turnover in a year. You get in now, you see real growth.”

  “Takao, what’s the product?” They were crawling through traffic four lanes wide in the wrong direction. He hated not being in control.

  “Bento boxes,” said Takao.

  “Bento boxes? You mean, lunchboxes?”

  “Fairchild, there’s so much more to a bento box than that! They are works of art, each compartment arranged, all beautifully presented in a lacquer style box. Top of the range! Big price premium, for clients who pay more for quality.”

  “Takao, I’m grateful that you thought of me, and I know there are limited opportunities for foreign venture capital here, but it doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing.”

  “They hand-deliver.” Takao gave him a sly look. “Go right into offices across the city. Banks. Law firms. Big conglomerates. Government departments. They do events, too. Meetings, receptions, seminars.”

  That made it more interesting. Opportunities there for prying eyes and attentive ears. Fairchild had forgotten how well Takao knew him. “Well, let’s see what they have to say, then.”

  Takao sat back, satisfied. Fairchild sat back too, taking the opportunity to rest. He hadn’t slept since arriving in the country that morning. But almost straight away they turned off the main highway, and several turns later came to a halt.

  Fairchild had been dragged by Takao on these visits often enough to know the drill. Shoes off, indoor slippers provided, an eager handshake and elaborate business card exchange, then they were led down the aisle of a large communal office with murmurs of “Irrashaimase!” following them in a wave. In a modest CEO’s office, a long and dull discussion, mainly led by Takao, explored the minutiae of making and delivering high quality bentos on an industrial scale. He mustered the enthusiasm to contribute a couple of questions, which elicited long answers in Japanese which Takao interpreted, at least in summary. Quite accurately for the most part, though occasionally adding a positive spin. Takao knew that Fairchild understood Japanese pretty well; they’d played this game before. Fairchild also peppered the conversation with occasional Japanese phrases, enough to impress their hosts but not to undermine their deeply held belief that it was impossible for any foreigner to learn Japanese.

  Eventually, the time came when it would not be impolite to leave. More handshakes and deferential head nodding. Naturally, nothing had been agreed. It would be a long time before any actual progress would be made. These things took time in Japan, particularly when foreigners were involved and trust had to be established. It was one of the difficulties Fairchild had with this country.

  Back in the taxi, Takao turned to him, eyes shining. “So, what do you think?”

  “Before I answer that, can you please reassure me we’re now going to Ueno to see this expert you’ve found?”

  “Yes, of course!” He leaned forward to repeat the address to the driver, who nodded, meeting Fairchild’s eye in the rear view mirror. Okay, well, they would see. The taxi slid out into more slow-moving traffic.

  “It sounds interesting,” Fairchild conceded on the matter of the bento company. “Things are still pretty stagnant here, though, aren’t they? I mean, a top-end product like that might be difficult to get off the ground if companies are looking to minimise costs because they’re not seeing any growth.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend.” Takao placed his arms behind his head in a posture more often seen in New York or London, places where he’d lived in the past, than here in Japan. “We’re learning from our mistakes. Economy is set to grow. And when it does, bam! You will wish you acted earlier. You have to anticipate in business.”

  “In life generally, I’ve found.” Fairchild was keeping a careful eye on their direction of travel.

  “Yes. So invest early, before we see growth. Buy when market is low. You know this, Fairchild! You’re successful. You can see good opportunity.”

  “Takao, you’ve been saying that Japan is about to return to growth for the past ten years.”

  “Because it’s true!”

  “Yes, but when? In another ten years?”

  “No, my friend, sooner. We’re a huge economy. Third biggest in the world. We will take our natural place.”

  This smacked of jingoism. “And what is your natural place? Second? First? Isn’t third good enough? Maybe Japan would do better if it accepted itself the way it is instead of trying to take on other countries.”

  “Why not be competitive? Other countries are. US, China, UK. But Japan shouldn’t be?”

  “Well, some people say Japan’s post-war bid for global economic dominance was a continuation of the imperialist mindset, a conversion of ambition from political to economic.”

  “Ah, so because of the war, Japan is not allowed to compete?”

  “No, I just wonder if you need to. Why clamour for the top rank? What’s wrong with simply being among the strongest? Japan is good at certain things. There’s huge creativity here, an originality of approach that you don’t see in China or the US or Germany.”

  “Fairchild, if you aren’t trying to move up, you move down. That’s how it works. Today third place, yesterday second place. If we don’t care, tomorrow we’ll be fourth, then after that fifth.”

  “So what? Will it bring hardship? Have standards of living fallen since the turn of the century? Per capita growth is still in line with the US and the UK, isn’t it?”

 
“Yes, but economy is shrinking because population is declining. And we’re all getting older. We’re getting older, Fairchild!” He pealed with laughter unexpectedly and slapped Fairchild on the back, or as close as you could in the back of a taxi. “So don’t delay! Act while you have the chance. I know you have the money. I know that, my friend. Use it!”

  Only Takao could make investing in bento boxes sound like fulfilling your life’s destiny. Fairchild moved on. “Tell me again about this print expert. Why has his name never come up before?”

  “I heard about him few weeks ago. Through the grapevine, you know. Before, I tried all the universities, art dealers, galleries. Many times you’ve asked me about this print of yours. Plenty of people have seen it, yes?”

  Fairchild nodded an acknowledgement. Takao had even taken custody of the print for periods of time, to trawl round and put it in front of connoisseurs all over Japan. This was Fairchild’s own print, the one his parents specifically left him.

  “Well, as I said to you before, I don’t just have one print now. I have two, which look like part of a set, and I know there was a third but it’s now been destroyed. So we need to start again with this. Why have you only just heard about this guy?”

  “He’s retired. Not been active a long time. Used to be in the trade. Had a shop. Was very well thought of. These days keeps very quiet. But people say, in years gone by, go to Yonemura-san for anything to do with old woodblock prints. He knows them all, they said. So, I got friend of a friend to set up a meeting. Not easy. He’s expecting us in, ah” – he looked at his watch – “eh – toooo – we’re a little behind schedule…”

  Another unusual thing about Takao: in a nation obsessed with punctuality he could often be scandalously late. Fairchild was uncomfortably aware at times that other Japanese people saw Takao as eccentric. But he was also valuable; he could explain Japan to the outsider, a skill as rare as gold dust.

  “Exactly how late are we?” he asked.

  Takao stared at his watch as if he didn’t believe what it was saying. “Ah, well.” He shrugged. “Guy’s retired. He won’t have anything else to do.”

  “Oh, great.”

  So an unwanted bento-box diversion might have delayed him in the reason he came to Japan in the first place. There was no point in getting angry with Takao, though; he was who he was, and remained Fairchild’s best tool for gaining inroads into Japan. Even the upcoming arrival of Trade Winds in Tokyo owed something to Takao, who had trawled the city for potential premises and secured one in the heart of Roppongi for a just-about-affordable rent. So they’d have to hope that Takao’s natural enthusiasm would make up for them being embarrassingly late.

  They came off the main highway and turned into smaller and smaller roads. The driver started muttering to himself, staring at doors as they passed. Takao joined in. Fairchild sat back and left them to it. The immense difficulty of finding an address here was one of many Japanese idiosyncrasies he could do without. With no street names, elements of an address referred to smaller and smaller units, but within the smallest unit the numbers followed no logical order. It was like moving round the shell of a snail getting ever closer to the centre, but the centre itself had no spiral pattern and was just a random mess. You knew you were in the right area, but then you just had to hunt for it, which was what they were doing.

  The streets were becoming so narrow it was difficult for the taxi to get down them. At one point Takao had to jump out to move a couple of bicycles leaning against a wall. Eventually the taxi stopped. Takao turned to Fairchild.

  “It’s down there.” He nodded down the street. “Not far.”

  “He knows that for sure, does he?”

  Fairchild knew he didn’t, but they couldn’t get much further like this anyway. They got out and started walking. Away from the traffic it was like stepping back in time. Red lanterns hung outside tiny bars and restaurants. Sounds of chatter and crockery came from behind the dark panelled frontages. There was a smell of teriyaki and wood. A vending machine flashed and chatted to itself on a street corner. Takao was doing a poor job of pretending to know where he was. He stopped and asked a shopkeeper who was standing by the door of his shop. The address yielded no recognition, but when Takao mentioned the man’s name, Yonemura, the shopkeeper’s eyes widened and he pointed the way with some explanation Fairchild didn’t catch.

  “It’s close! It’s close!” said Takao, jogging off down the crowded lane. Fairchild lost sight of him for a moment and sped up to catch him. But Takao was already slowing, approaching a sliding door which to Fairchild looked completely anonymous.

  Takao put his hand on the door. “You ready?” he asked.

  Fairchild shrugged. “Sure.”

  Takao swept the door to the side with one confident movement. No need to knock, then. Behind the door was a tiny room laid out with tatami mats. In the centre on a folding chair sat an old man wearing shorts and flip flops. His eyes turned to them but he looked neither surprised nor startled. Takao launched into a long and respectful introduction. Fairchild assumed a deferential expression and gazed round the room. It was piled high on all sides with sacks of what looked like rice.

  The man gave the slightest of nods and Takao shed his shoes and stepped inside. Fairchild followed suit and was formally introduced. No handshakes here, just a bow. The man muttered something.

  “Yonemura-san says that he’s happy to take a look at what you have, though his memory isn’t what it was.”

  Fairchild already had the gist, but waited politely for Takao’s interpretation before getting the prints out of his backpack. As he spread them on the floor, he said to Takao “I have to ask. What’s with all the rice?”

  “He’s a seller. Has family in Kyushu who grows it. Very good quality. Very good prices. That’s why people round here know him. Makes more money than dealing art!”

  “I see.” Fairchild had heard about the fiercely protected domestic rice market acting as an informal social security system, the many small acreages providing families with additional income. Another thing Takao would no doubt claim was about to change. He watched Yonemura’s expression as he stared at the prints, and his breath caught.

  He recognised them. This old man recognised them! Fairchild was about to say something but a small movement of Takao’s hand stopped him. This wasn’t to be hurried. Silence fell in the room. Outside, footsteps and an occasional voice penetrated as people passed by. Fairchild caught the fresh reedy smell of tatami. Eventually the man spoke. Takao’s interpretation didn’t add much.

  “Ochanomizu.” Yonemura pointed to one of the prints, the one featuring a river running through a gorge. Slowly he turned to point at the other one. “Yoshiwara.” His finger waggled between them. “Gone. All gone. Fleeting life.”

  Takao translated it as floating life.

  “Fleeting or floating?” Fairchild muttered to him. But Yonemura was talking again.

  “So long ago now! Barely remembered! Just a name, no physical presence. Just a memory. Only existing inside our heads. Hah!” An unexpected laugh, like a thunderclap. “Then does it exist at all?” He chuckled, enjoying some private joke. Then his face became indescribably sad. “So much change. So much lost. Memories too painful to visit get locked away. The world was so different then! Better? No, not better. More difficult, more arduous. But you felt things. Now it’s all so easy. Safe. Enough food, enough warmth. Before, no. Living was a struggle.”

  He tailed off, looking mournful. A question seemed allowable. Fairchild turned to Takao. “He seemed to recognise the prints. Is there any particular story associated with them?”

  Takao paused and launched in. Again it was a very long rendition, the language flowery by Fairchild’s ear. The question delivered, Yonemura looked at Fairchild with curiosity before turning back to the prints. “Lots of stories. How many of them true? We will never know.”

  That seemed to be it. Fairchild tried again. “You mentioned place names. The places these pictures repre
sent. Are they significant? Ochanomizu. That’s in Tokyo, isn’t it? And Yoshiwara.”

  Takao obliged. Yonemura lifted a finger and traced the shapes in the pictures. “Ochanomizu. O-cha-no-mizu. Very old name. You know what it means?” He looked directly at Fairchild.

  “It means water for tea,” replied Fairchild in English. “I guess it was used as a spring. Is there anything of it left?”

  Takao interpreted and the man lowered his head. He stayed bowed for a good while. When he looked up his eyes were full of tears.

  “Gone,” he said again. “All gone.”

  His face creased and he rocked with silent sobs.

  Chapter 12

  Rose was feeling as lost as she ever had. Tokyo was reminding her of Beijing, but cleaner and slicker. Back then she’d been sent single-handed on a mission to a country she didn’t know at all, and she was feeling the same way about this one now.

  Gardner had come through in the end. They’d managed to trace a cashpoint withdrawal in the Shinjuku area within the past forty-eight hours, thanks to a friendly Bank of Japan employee. It took her forty-five minutes from getting off the train to even find the bank where the cash machine was. Now she was circling out from it, combing the streets for places where James might stay. Gardner had written out the Japanese symbols for the word hotel – hoteru in Japanese, apparently – but she hadn’t seen one yet. She was tired and groggy; she’d fallen asleep on the subway and almost missed the stop. And now it was cold and dark. Every face looked hostile, every sign incomprehensible. How long should she give it? She had all night really, at least nowhere else to be. But an energy boost wouldn’t go amiss. She chose a place with window seating looking out onto the busy street, got herself a large coffee and a sugary chocolate donut, and settled in.

  Almost as soon as she got comfortable her senses sprang to attention. A blond head bobbed past the window, a foot above the dark-haired heads around it. She rushed to the door but by the time she got outside it had gone. She ran after it, struggling to pass people without colliding with them while trying to catch another glimpse. Nothing.