by John Donohue
He nodded when I was done talking, blinked, and said, “Now, Burke. This morning showed something you need to pay attention to. The need for initiative and follow-through.”
“Sensei,” I protested, “Sam knew that I got him.”
He sipped appreciatively at his mug, then grinned tightly. “No. YOU knew that you got him. Sam did not.”
I started to reply and he held up an open hand in admonition. “Burke. I understand that you are at a point when you can anticipate what would happen and do not feel the need to follow through. Like a chess player, yes?”
I nodded.
“You must remember,” he went on, “that, in fighting, TWO people are involved. Both are very sure that they are the best. Each thinks he will win. It is a delusion, of course,” he went on merrily, “but a necessary one for a warrior.”
His eyes locked on me, even as he sipped from his mug. “But in a real contest, you must shatter the other’s confidence. You must project your spirit in such a way as to let the other one know he is defeated. You cannot wait for him to act. You must take the initiative.”
“I know that, Sensei, but in training . . . “
“You think you are being benevolent. Permitting the other person to develop skills. I understand. But you are really holding back, letting the other person exist in a type of delusion.
“Look.” He walked to the table where his katana was nestled in a polished wooden holder. The long sword was elegantly simple, an arc of steel with minimal decoration that said something about the refinement and seriousness of purpose of its owner. “I know you have seen this.” The sword came off the rack.
Yamashita pointed to the tsuba, or hand guard. On some swords, this is a highly ornamented spot. For a real swordsman, however, the tsuba is reduced to its functional essence. The only ornament on Yamashita’s weapon was a character, etched in the surface of the hand guard that faced the owner when the sword was held in the ready posture. The character was jin, which means “benevolence.”
“This is to remind me of my duty,” Yamashita said, indicating the character. “The warrior’s way includes an awareness of when to be merciful. But, Burke . . .” he turned the sword around, “ . . . look and see that my opponent cannot see the character when I hold the sword. Only the blade. That is as it should be.”
“I understand, Sensei.”
“Do you?” he paused as if considering just how far he wanted to push this. Candor and something almost like urgency won out. “You must commit to things, Burke. Otherwise you run the risk of not only deluding others, but deluding yourself too.”
Yamashita believes that tact is an impediment to serious training.
I am sure he could have dwelt on my shortcomings indefinitely, but the mid-morning weekend class was beginning to arrive, and I had places to go.
Micky and Art were grinding away at the less glamorous side of detecting, but there was nothing yet. To make things worse I got a Fed Ex letter saying that President and Mrs. Domanova wanted the honor of my company for a cocktail reception to celebrate the end of the semester. Saturday at two at the presidential manse. I was happy to see that the money the university saved by exploiting adjuncts like me was wisely invested in really necessary things like the ornate copperplate invitation. I caught myself involuntarily admiring the fine bond of the card I held in my hand and felt flattered, manipulated, and gullible, all at the same time.
The president’s receptions are the talk of the campus. They are lavish beyond the experience of the rank and file. The trajectory of a career at the institution can be measured at these events. People covertly watch one another, mentally ticking off a list of who is willing to be seen with whom. And who isn’t. Domanova uses these things as public displays of his feelings about you. You can get invited so he can fawn all over you in that bogus Mediterranean way he has. Or you can get all dolled up only to arrive and learn that you’ve been summoned so he can pointedly snub you. In that case, the only consolation is that the hors d’ oeuvres are great and the booze is free.
I took the car to the party. There is, of course, no real direct way to get from Brooklyn to Bloomington by car. The city planners designed it this way to keep the riffraff out. What they were thinking when they allowed a university to be established there is anyone’s guess. In any event, the reception was already in full swing when I got there.
Domanova’s residence borders the university but is shielded from the gaze of mere mortals by thick hedges. Inside the yard, a striped tent shielded the bar and food tables. The day was warm and sunny, with a light breeze rustling the higher leaves of the big oaks that bordered the property. Various clusters of people were spread around the grounds chatting merrily while a quartet of shanghaied music majors sawed away dutifully at their instruments.
I took a quick look around, getting the lay of the land. The Big Man was nowhere in evidence, which was a relief I spotted Dean Ceppaglia in mid-scheme with a cluster of administrators. A few faculty members stared at me briefly, then turned back to the business at hand.
I went to the bar, swigged some beer, and looked out at the other guests. I rolled the liquid around my mouth. Just passing time communing with Sam Adams, brewer and patriot. I looked with appreciation at the picture on the label. They were giants in those days.
Out strode the president, projecting himself as if there were something tremendously fearless in his decision to brave the force of the sun. He was impeccably outfitted in a double-breasted blue blazer and gray slacks. He’d made the bold fashion statement of wearing a little paisley ascot instead of a tie. Domanova began working the crowd, stopping to have brief, authoritative conversations with small knots of administrators. He churned through them with the look of someone diligently pursuing an unpleasant duty.
Bobby Kay was in tow. He was dressed in much the same sporty style—a tan summer suit, blue shirt, and maroon patterned ascot—but seemed somehow out of his element. As he and Domanova made their way across the patio, the entrepreneur had the look of a small dinghy being sucked along the surface of a dangerous sea by the screw turbulence of an ocean liner.
Then Domanova’s eyes met mine.
“Oh, no,” I said. It was involuntary. The president changed course and headed right at me. Probably wanted to know why I hadn’t worn a cravat. Then he turned the full force of that Mediterranean juggernaut on me.
Domanova doesn’t really smile as most people know it. The best he can manage is a sort of long foxy grin-a baring of teeth that is more frightening than reassuring-and he gave me one of his best “I will eat your young” grimaces.
He took my hand. “Dr. Burke, Mr. Akkadian has been telling me what a marvelous job you did for him.”
Bobby had been lurking in the background with that “sorry I had to finger you for murder, my mistake” look. On cue, he stepped forward to chime in.
“Fantastic, Burke. Thanks.”
“Well,” I said, stunned into courtesy, “my pleasure. Hello, Bobby.” I eyed him for a moment to see whether he would squirm. Not a twitch. He and the president seemed in on a little secret that made them both happy.
But joy is fleeting at the top. The president’s head jerked around. “Ah, there is my provost. I must have a word. Gentlemen, you will excuse me.” We nodded and made room as the ship of state got under way.
As a parting shot, he added, “I was telling Mr. Akkadian how glad we were to be of service to him. We look forward to a long friendship. I am sure you will agree, Professor.” He didn’t even wait for a reply, but strode across the yard calling for the provost.
Bobby steered me to the end of the bar. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two envelopes. He looked at the identifying marks on them, put one back, and handed me what turned out to be the long-awaited check. It was for the amount we had agreed on. Was it rude to peek? My landlord wouldn’t think so.
“Well,” I said, “things are looking up.” I was sure that the other envelope was for the president. It explain
ed his manic good spirits.
“You bet.” Bobby took a long, grateful pull from his glass. It told me he was finding a private session with Domanova to be somewhat stressful. He gestured to the bartender for another and seemed to brighten at the prospect.
“You would not believe the interest this thing is generating, Burke.”
“So the brochure worked out for you? That was quick.”
“Hmm? Oh, well, actually I went a step farther. I’m still creating the glossy piece for the opening. But to get things moving I put it on the Samurai House Web page.”
“How digital.”
“You bet.” The ice cubes clinked against his teeth as he drained the glass. “You’ve got to stay on top of this emerging technology, Burke. Otherwise the competition will eat you alive.”
“And what is the competition doing these days, Bobby?”
He gave me that Bobby Kay smile, the one that told me he was feeling a bit more himself away from the president. “The competition is eating their hearts out, Burke. You know, I was worried. What with the killing, I was afraid that the whole show would fall apart. With the setup costs, it could have been a disaster.”
Then his predatory optimism just ate right through that rare moment of doubt.
“But let me tell you, buddy,” he broke into a grin as his vodka was reloaded, “the news coverage has just revved up interest even more. Phone ringing off the hook. The Web page is getting, oh, I don’t know, like ten thousand hits a day! All in all, things couldn’t have worked out better.”
“Except for Reilly,” I mentioned. “What with the death thing and all.”
He looked momentarily chastened again, but it was an emotion that struggled futilely with the selective conscience of the businessman. It took a lot to keep Bobby down for long.
“Want to see your stuff? C’mon, we’ll use Peter’s computer.” He drained his third drink and we headed toward the house.
The transition from the sunny yard to the dim quiet of the Big Man’s study was a bit hard on the eyes, and for a moment I stood there waiting for them to adjust. Domanova’s home office was something of a disappointment. I knew some people who thought he slept there in a coffin, but it was really just a tastefully appointed study. Real wood paneling. Abstract artwork. The noise of our footsteps was swallowed up by a deep Persian rug.
Bobby booted up the computer. I noticed the machine had a university property tag stuck to the side of it. I wondered whether the art did, too. Bobby tapped merrily on the keys for a minute and wiggled the mouse.
The Web site loaded and we were off on a guided tour of his little cyber-kingdom.
“OK, here’s the home page.” It was a pretty nice graphic image of a waterfall, much like the one in the gallery. Vaguely Asian lettering identified various points of interest. He clicked on “Legacies of the Samurai” to show me the text and pictures of what would eventually be the exhibit catalogue. Sure enough, there was my stuff.
Something on the screen caught my eye: “Modern Masters.”
“Hit that,” I asked him, touching the screen.
A graphic appeared. It was a shoji—one of those sliding paper doors the Japanese use in traditional homes. Akkadian clicked on it and it slid to one side, revealing a shot of the dojo at the Samurai House. Superimposed over the picture were the characters for meijin, or master. He clicked again. A video clip of Mitch Reilly in action appeared.
The picture quality was not the greatest, but there was no mistaking the dense power of the man. It took about two seconds for the ghost to charge the screen with a slashing sword attack, then the image froze and a laudatory summary of Reilly’s achievements and expertise appeared.
It didn’t mention the fact that he was dead.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Bobby tried to act surprised. “Oh. I guess we need to update that.” He reached over for the mouse. Is it possible to click guiltily? We popped back to the home screen. A little message at the bottom informed us we were the 75,486th person to visit the site.
“See what I mean?” he asked. “You can’t beat this thing for publicity. And cheap? Oh, man.” He almost kissed the monitor. “I love these things.”
“I don’t suppose it hurts to have Reilly dancing around there so every reader of the Daily News can get a chance to see him, huh Bobby?” I never really knew Reilly, but flogging his image to drive sales was a bit much.
The grin faded on him. “Hey, that was on for weeks before the . . . incident. Besides, I have it rigged so there’s a new master every month or so, and there are links to their dojo and more free publicity than they ever imagined. Don’t get all cranky on me, Burke. Everyone makes out.”
He gave me a hard look. “Including you.” Bobby was usually all smooth and glad-handy, but I had heard he would cut a competitor’s throat in a minute. Seeing that look, I could believe it.
He was right, of course—the check I had in my pocket was Samurai House money. But it didn’t make me feel better. Bobby picked up on the sudden coolness in the room. He looked at his watch.
“Ah, God! I better get back out to Peter. Got a little donation ceremony to do.” He patted his breast meaningfully. “See you, Burke.” The tone told me that it would be quite some time.
8. Links
The Burke clan springs from a very shallow gene pool: we all look pretty much the same. When I pulled up in front of Micky’s house on the South Shore, a row of almost indistinguishable kid heads popped up from behind the palisade fence. “Hi Uncle Connor!” they shrieked and collapsed back down out of sight, giggling.
“Hello, you monkeys,” I called. Thomas, one of Micky’s kids and the birthday boy of the moment, came charging out and grabbed me by the leg.
“Where’s my toy? Where’s my toy?” He demanded.
“Toy? What toy?” I said. Then, feigning surprise, “Who are you, little boy?” He stopped tugging at me long enough to look confused for a second.
“Uncle Connor!” He insisted, “You know who I am!” Thomas was almost sure of it, but kids are well aware that adults are strange and unpredictable. Almost anything was possible.
Micky’s wife, Deirdre, had spotted the open gate and came scooting out to drive him back into the corral. “Thomas!” she said in that tone mothers everywhere use. “Behave.”
I laughed. “OK, Mr. T. The loot’s in the car.” He seemed briefly relieved that I hadn’t lost my mind, then went scampering off to get his gift. “Hi, Dee,” I said.
Dee has a broad, open face. She smiled, which made her eyes narrow into slits. “The riot is being held in the back,” she said. As an in-law, Dee has a somewhat more objective view of the family than I do. She has also benefited from a decade of experience with us. Dee was nice but usually got right to the point. Life with Micky was not an adventure in subtlety.
Thomas lumbered by with a wrapped box almost as big as he was. Dee and I followed and closed the gate.
It was early in the season, but Micky had taken the bold step of opening the pool for the kids. Long Island is like the Mekong Delta in the summer: hot and humid but with more concrete. A succession of aboveground backyard pools had punctuated the vacation months of our childhood, and Micky had replicated that experience for his kids.
There were at least twelve bodies flailing around in the water. I knew there were redheads, brunettes, and even blondish Burke units in there, but soaking wet, they all looked alike. Occasionally, a skinny one would emerge for a toweling down, lips blue, trembling with cold, and then leap back in for a screaming, splashing dance with hypothermia. The fatter Burke kids only came out to eat.
Most of the guys were by the barbecue. My two other brothers, Tom and Jimmy, were there. So was Art. I spotted his wife, Marie, over by the sliding glass door that led to the kitchen and gave her a wave. My sister Peggy was doing lifeguard duty by the pool. My other sister, Irene, was probably in the kitchen, deep in recipes concocted with huge globs of mayonnaise.
My brothers-in-law wer
e two pleasant guys who, as time went on, began to get looks on their faces that said life with my sisters was more than they had bargained for. Between the two of them, they had nine kids under the age of ten. They enjoyed the barbecues: they got to talk to adults, tell off-color jokes they had been hoarding for weeks, and furtively drink more beer than permitted. Both men were starting to lose their hair.
There were music and stories, various minor accidents with the kids, and the normal type of socializing that goes on with a group of people who know each other very well, and generally get along well despite the fact. In short, the rest of the afternoon passed in the subdued riot that passes for get-togethers with my family.
After cake and presents, as evening came on, I sat on a molded plastic lawn chair, a little apart from the crush of the family. You could still smell the charcoal in the air. One of the neighbors had a baseball game on the TV and the faint roar of the stadium crowd washed in the background like the sound of the sea. A few of the smaller kids were rolling around in discarded wrapping paper from the presents.
This was pretty much the way it was for us growing up. When I think about it, I mostly remember crowds–kids and adults—Christmas, birthdays, and barbecues. I jerked my legs out of the way as one of Irene’s kids shot by, trying to catch a lightning bug. I had memories of similar hunts, running with small tribes of children on broad expanses of freshly cut lawns. The breathless pursuit in the moist blue of a summer night.
My mother was in Maryland visiting her sister. Otherwise, we’d probably be at her house destroying her lawn. My dad, the king of barbecues, died five years ago of cancer. He gave it a good fight. But at the end, there wasn’t much left. Just some fierce eyes. You’d think thoughts like that would get to you, but I smiled and looked around the backyard. At times like this, I recall him the way he was. I can almost hear him in the crowd. It’s one of the reasons I keep coming to family parties, I suppose.