“So once this whole thing is over, do you think she’ll end up in prison…if it comes out that she was forced to do everything she did?”
“I hope not. Depends on how much she’s done and how the case is presented.”
Tatsuyama pulled on his cap again. “It seems to me that the sooner we get all this figured out, the better for everybody—sumo, me, Naoko. Anything additional I can do to speed things up, let me know.”
Kobayashi popped some chewing gum into his mouth, cranked the engine, scanned the garage one last time, and began to motor the car back through the garage and onto the narrow street below.
As he accelerated toward Coach Ikeda’s stable, he said, “One thing I know for certain, Tatsuyama. Even if Naoko doesn’t want you hurt, if the archer you knocked to the ground was in fact Yamada Hideyoshi, you just made a very powerful enemy very, very angry. I’m afraid this affair is about to get a great deal uglier.”
“Yamada had it coming. And don’t blame the ugly on me. Ugly started when Yamashita waltzed past me and began to mess with Akiko.”
“I’m not saying you did the wrong thing—either at the concert or at the samurai house. I’m just warning you: brace yourself for the storm that’s coming.”
15
ASPN Sports decided to scrap the interview Bob Thomas had shot with Tatsuyama. It would be too difficult to set up the segment on the Overtime Sports show. If ASPN seemed sympathetic toward Tatsuyama and it turned out he really was guilty of aggravated assault, the network could come out with egg on its face. People would accuse them of trivializing violence.
As long as Bob Thomas was in Japan anyway, ASPN decided to send him to the Ryogoku Kokugikan to try to salvage the trip. He would work on the same story, but from the opposite angle. It would be a human-interest piece on Mongolians, Russians, and other foreigners competing in a historically Japanese sport.
On day one of the May Grand Sumo Tournament, Bob and two ASPN crew members made their way down to the arena in Tokyo’s Sumida Ward.
Bob approached the arena through the main gates. Fascinating venue, he thought. Really sets the mood for what the spectator’s here to see.
Just across from the ticket booths, at ground level, one of his crew members reeled off several still shots of Bob next to a series of floor-to-ceiling depictions of samurai-era sumo wrestlers. More murals linking the sport to its samurai roots lined both sides of the gallery.
Taking their seats inside the site, the three ASPN veterans agreed that, while an arena was an arena in one sense, the large wooden roof adorned with purple curtains, colorful tassels, and Asian calligraphy above the main wrestling platform made a lasting impression.
Bob was thinking ahead to what he might include in his new film segments on sumo. He turned to his colleagues. “Each of you, give me your perception of this arena in one word.”
The one on his right said, “Exotic.”
The other pondered, “Hmm…festive.”
Bob recorded their perspectives in his phone’s Evernote app. “I’m going to go with haunting, in a good sense,” he said. “This place gives me a feel for matches wrestled centuries ago, under the same kind of canopy.”
Each day of the Grand Sumo Tournament, matches progressed from the lowest-ranked sumotori to the highest. Bob and his crew arrived in time for the san’yaku bouts only, those featuring titled champions.
Ordinarily, each of the last three matches of the day would have pitted one of the yokozuna against an aspiring competitor. But for that entire tournament—with Tatsuyama suspended—there would be only two yokozuna-level matches each day.
Before the yokozuna faced their opponents, those in attendance were treated to the dohyo-iri, the highly ritualized entrance of the grand champion contestants.
For the entrance ritual, each yokozuna is granted the privilege of wearing a special white belt made of twisted linen. The belt is knotted into loops in the back and displays strips of white cloth on the front, each piece folded to resemble a lightning bolt. A representative from NHK TV told Bob that the belt signifies the border between the sacred and the profane.
Watching the pageantry of the dohyo-iri as performed by the two Mongolian yokozuna was a special delight for Bob Thomas and his crew. Each yokozuna performed the ritual separately. Each entered the ring accompanied by a senior gyoji, a referee dressed in colorful silk clothing from Japan’s medieval period. The yokozuna were also accompanied by two personal attendants—one a sword-bearer and the other a dew sweeper. Again Bob recalled the samurai and the religious roots of the sport.
The ritualized squats, stretches, arm movements, and clapping that each yokozuna performed thrilled the crowds. Each stomped his feet to drive away evil spirits, lending a sense of the sacred to his practice. Enthralled by a sporting ritual dating back so many centuries, Bob and his crew found themselves totally caught up in the moment. He had to remind himself that the yokozuna in the ring were not even Japanese. They were certainly Asian, but the discerning eye would make the distinction instantly.
Bob wondered where the hearts of the Japanese fans were at that instant. Perhaps they were carried along with the dohyo-iri of the Mongolian Hashimaru, but more likely, he decided, they were disappointed by the absence of Tatsuyama, their native son.
A short while later, the san’yaku matches commenced.
“This ought to be interesting,” Bob said, glancing between his program and the two contestants taking the dohyo. “We’ve got a blond Russian, weighing in at a mere two hundred and fifty pounds, facing a five hundred-pound Japanese ozeki.”
“No kidding,” his cameraman said, chuckling. “Look at the size of that guy!”
“The Russian ought to be all over him, at least in terms of speed.”
“Yeah, but ozeki is the second-highest rank in the sport. You don’t get there by losing matches. He’s got to have something special in his arsenal. If he keeps a low center of gravity, he could be hard to topple.”
“You know the old saying,” the sound specialist said. “The bigger they are…”
The mountainous Japanese wrestler, who wore a peacock-green silk mawashi, the classic sumo loincloth, started from a four-point stance. The Russian, wearing a rust-colored mawashi, took his time approaching his starting line on the dohyo. At last, the Russian crouched. His fist barely touched the surface of the ring before the mammoth Japanese wrestler sprang at him with mind-numbing speed. But the Russian was a split-second faster.
Bob hardly blinked as he watched.
The Russian sidestepped the huge Japanese sumotori and pressed him toward the boundary of the ring. Displaying unimaginable power and agility, the massive Japanese wrestler stopped and reversed his tremendous momentum in the space of only four feet. The Russian then slid behind his Japanese opponent to push him from the back. Just when Bob thought the Japanese sumotori would find the incredible strength necessary to pull the Russian from behind him, he lost his footing. The Russian seized the moment and forced him down to the clay.
The ASPN crew gave an ovation worthy of the remarkable match.
Bob examined his program and made note of the Russian’s ring name. He turned to the NHK host and asked if he thought an interview with the Russian could be arranged before the next night’s rounds. The genial host promised to accommodate the ASPN sportscaster.
The last match of the night pitted the legendary Mongolian Hashimaru against Tetsunosuke, a Japanese ozeki who needed to win eight bouts in May. Winning fewer than eight would result in the loss of his ranking.
Theirs was a symbolic match. A Japanese man stood on the verge of losing his standing in his own country’s official national sport, facing a Mongolian opponent who had dominated that sport. The Mongolian’s rank was not in jeopardy, win or lose.
Tetsunosuke of Japan fought valiantly. For a brief second when time almost seemed to stand still, he had Hashimaru on the brink. But the Mongolian managed to force his powerful arms inside the Japanese wrestler’s defenses. Grasping T
etsunosuke by the back of his deep blue mawashi, the Mongolian simply twisted the Japanese competitor out of the ring into defeat. It was the first loss of what would turn out to be a 6–9 tournament for Tetsunosuke.
During the course of the tournament, Bob Thomas found himself deeply lamenting the absence of Tatsuyama. He respected Mongolia but longed for Japan to have its best man in the competition. The drama somehow seemed hollow without the Japanese yokozuna.
Besides, Bob considered himself a fair judge of character. It was hard for him to imagine the kind, dignified man he’d interviewed assaulting anyone that didn’t have it coming. I’ve got a gut-level feeling—once the evidence is in, Tatsuyama’s going to be exonerated.
He took out his iPhone again and made himself a note to follow up on the brief exchange he’d had with Tatsuyama about dinner. It’d be great to hear the yokozuna’s side of the story—off the record.
While Bob lamented Tatsuyama’s absence, he admired Japan’s evenhanded approach to discipline. As far as he could tell, not even the nation’s top athlete was above the law of the land. Competing here was a privilege, not a right, Bob deduced. It all seemed so noble compared to the many peccadillos swept under the rug in American sports.
Fans back home wanted their heroes’ sins forgotten so they could get back to lighting up the scoreboard for their team. In Bob’s estimation, American franchises took too many risks that perpetuated bad-boy behavior from high-profile athletes. If ticket revenues and team paraphernalia sales remained high enough, wishful thinking too often outweighed common sense. Even in his own profession, Bob Thomas knew that a sensational story on a controversial character could bump up viewer ratings for the network. Upticks like that were good news for decision-makers who had less regard for societal trends than for a great quarterly report.
If only Bob had known.
All competition for day one of the tournament was over, and the dohyo level of the Kokugikan arena was emptying quickly. Tatsuyama’s good friend Masaru returned to pick up a towel he had dropped at the base of the dohyo. When he spotted a wealthy-looking gentleman in the corner furtively motioning for Coach Ikeda, he lingered.
Who is that? Masaru acted as though he was searching for some other lost item. Coach Ikeda glanced around before crossing the floor to the stranger. Masaru could see both men’s faces, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
The man in the expensive suit wore a grim expression. Whatever it was he was saying, Coach Ikeda was sure reacting strongly—shaking his head vehemently, face turning bright red.
Masaru wondered whether he should go and back up his coach. It could be viewed as impertinent. He wouldn’t want Coach Ikeda to lose face. Besides, he thought, Coach Ikeda’s been around. He knows how to handle people—and himself.
As the coach turned away, the stranger grabbed his arm. Masaru’s concern grew. The man leaned in, glowering. He seemed intent on telling Coach Ikeda one last thing. Masaru could tell his coach was incensed. The rich guy’s dark glare followed Coach Ikeda as he marched away toward the arena’s main exit.
Reflecting on whether he would ever know the significance of that heated exchange, Masaru ambled back to the bath.
16
On Monday—day two of the Grand Sumo Tournament—Tatsuyama felt agitated from the moment he woke up. For so many years, his days had been structured around sumo training, sumo competition, public appearances, and dinners with sponsors. Now a major tournament was underway, and he wasn’t part of it.
It was surreal watching his fellow sumotori running tournament-related errands while he had to sit this one out. By midmorning all of them would be at the Kokugikan, preparing for matches or helping stablemates prepare. The coaches would be there all day.
In an ideal world, Tatsuyama would be at the arena too, competing in the last of each day’s matches. Now he wished he could at least be there to watch. Even if he couldn’t compete, he could study opponents’ matches and cheer on his friends.
What chafed him most was knowing that his suspension was the work of criminals out to wreck the cultural heritage he loved so much. And the pain, he thought, was as bitter as bile since they had used Naoko to inflict it.
Meanwhile there were two clear reasons why Tatsuyama wanted to avoid the public, particularly the throngs at the epicenter of global attention on sumo. First, his safety could be at risk, especially in light of his intrusion into and escape from a Yamada home. Second, he had zero interest in explaining himself repeatedly to media representatives, not to mention delicately extricating himself from well-meaning fans.
On top of it all, Coach Ikeda had found Tatsuyama that morning and told him not to discuss anything about the charges against him—or about sumo at all—with anyone other than Detective Kobayashi. He wanted the two of them to go over some important matters in private first. Coach Ikeda suggested that his own standing as a coach and the stable’s future could depend on Tatsuyama’s temporary silence.
Tatsuyama couldn’t even help Kobayashi with the investigation that day. Among other things, the detective was doing some extensive homework in the library of police records. Without that preparation, he had said, they might find themselves in legal trouble, in addition to running for their lives.
Bored, Tatsuyama went down to the stable’s weight room to work out for a while. He stretched for quite some time. He did squats and shiko stomps for strength and flexibility. He repeatedly pushed against tall, twelve-inch-thick teppo poles to strengthen himself for thrusting opponents out of the ring. He didn’t watch the clock, working instead until he’d nearly exhausted himself. A hot soak in the ofuro capped off the morning.
Only one very young trainee had stayed behind at the stable. His name was Yoshio, and he was too inexperienced to compete professionally. As Tatsuyama entered the kitchen, Yoshio was just finishing stirring the chanko.
“Going down to the Kokugikan today, Yoshio?”
“Coach Ikeda said I could go after getting dinner started and leaving it to simmer,” the youngster answered sheepishly. “Would you like some for lunch, Tatsuyama-san?”
“Sure. That would be great.”
Yoshio dished out a generous serving of the piping-hot stew and set it before Tatsuyama.
“Arigatou, amigo.”
“Amigo?” the youngster said with a slight grin. “I thought you’d be in a bad mood, but you’re still kidding around.”
“I am in a bad mood, but there’s no sense in taking it out on you.”
Yoshio served himself and sat across from Tatsuyama. “Oh, wait. I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
The boy drew a carefully folded Japanese-style greeting card from his sleeve. The card had been wrapped with an elaborate gold cord. He handed it to the yokozuna.
Tatsuyama opened the card and read, “Meet me at any old hole-in-the-wall that comes to mind. Tonight. 9:00.” It wasn’t signed, and there was no hanko stamp marking the sender’s name.
He cocked his head to one side. “Who gave you this, Yoshio?”
“A schoolgirl on a bicycle.”
“What schoolgirl? When?”
“I never saw her before. She banged on the front door till I opened it. She handed me the card, and then she and her little friends rode off down the street. That was at about seven forty-five this morning.”
Tatsuyama focused on the card again. He fingered the edge of the crème-colored cardstock. Noted the graceful bamboo-green motif. Not a cheap piece of stationery. The handwriting? Very generic.
Gazing past the card, he asked Yoshio, “Were there any cars in the street when this arrived? Maybe a silver Toyota limousine?”
Yoshio shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and stuffed a chunk of chicken into his mouth.
Tatsuyama was about to set down the card and dig into his bowl of stew when suddenly he felt revitalized. He thumped the card. The cryptic note made sense to him. He knew where he had to go. Being patient until nine o’clock would be the difficult part.
> As nightfall approached, Tatsuyama pulled on his gray driving cap once again, his hair in an ordinary ponytail that hung to the base of his collar. He walked from the stable to the nearest street corner and there hailed a green taxi. He gave the driver quick instructions. As the cab pulled away from the curb, he scanned the street in every direction. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, as far as he could tell.
Almost an hour later, the taxi dropped him off at the head of a nondescript alleyway near a Starbucks in Tokyo’s upscale Roppongi Hills area. Tatsuyama headed down the street, away from the newer shops and restaurants. Several blocks down, he glanced over his shoulders and entered an older building. His sandals resounded too loudly on the marble floors as he hurried toward the back of the lobby. There he looked up to read the Romaji, or Latin, lettering over a brick-lined doorway. Hole in the Wall, it said.
He pulled the greeting card out of his pocket and read it again. “Meet me at any old hole-in-the-wall that may come to mind. Tonight. 9:00.”
I liked this place, he thought. She did, too. Tasty food, casual atmosphere.
Inside, a hipster band cranked up a new tune. Simultaneously energized and cautious, he eased into the restaurant-nightclub.
Tatsuyama had perhaps never felt more keenly aware of his size than when he tried to slip into Hole in the Wall unnoticed. He was particularly grateful for the cluster of five businessmen talking and laughing quietly in a haze of cigarette smoke between the doorway and the bar. He made his way as inconspicuously as he could to the curved end of the bar, where the tall counter hid a great deal of his bulk.
Remaining on his feet, he rested his elbows on the counter and let his eyes and ears go to work. They had to adjust to dim lighting, pulsating music, and punctuated bursts of laughter and conversation.
Panning the tables and booths, Tatsuyama observed just what he would have expected to see most any night there. Couples chatting over drinks. Friends sharing plates of appetizers. One couple definitely in love. A few booths were filled with exhausted businessmen, collars and ties loosened, no doubt moaning about the boss’s unreasonable expectations. One very pissed-off lady and her man. He’s got his work cut out for himself tonight.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 8