Restless, he put the manuscript back in the drawer and set his calligraphy box, a cup of water, three brushes and a calligraphy pad on the table. Opening the black lacquer box, he picked an ink stick and wet down the iron ink tray, then rubbed the stick along the tray until he had a dark gray wash. He dipped his brush and made a horizontal stroke. Horizontals first. The procedure was strict and rhythmic, dictated by economy of motion. He did kara of karate. He filled the first sheet with seven or eight of them, following the same sequence of strokes, filling his brush from the tray, then tore it off and started a new sheet. After two sheets the repetition became tedious and his attention drifted while his hand continued to perform; the almost identical nature of each sequence gained interest with each tiny individuation and gained suspense with the unfulfilled possibility of a major change or variation, until Ransom couldn’t have said what the word meant; it was no longer a word to him at all, if it ever had been. Because his Japanese was so limited, the characters were objects more than words, pictures corresponding to nothing at all.
When it was time to go, he got his gi from the terrace, where it was airing out, folded the pants with the shirt, rolled them together and tied them with the belt.
He was three blocks away from the dojo when his bike began to kick and misfire, finally choking off just short of the driveway. Ransom walked it the rest of the way. Out back the Monk was belaboring the punching post. Udo was sweeping the lot, and waddled over for a look. He climbed on and tried to kick-start it, then got down on his knees and started poking into the machinery. Others arrived and assembled around the bike, proposing diagnoses. Then Suzuki, who went to college with Yamada’s younger brother, came in on his moped with the news that Yamada was going to be married. It was a “love marriage,” Suzuki said, using an English phrase for a foreign concept. This announcement excited no small amount of surprise and comment. Ransom was pleased, although worried about the price Yamada would pay for his independence.
The sensei marched over and told everyone to change, no dawdling. Suzuki asked if he knew of Yamada’s engagement; he said he did, in a tone that indicated no felicitation. Yamada had probably visited the sensei to ask his blessing and to explain his decision, a conversation Ransom would have liked to have overheard. The sensei appeared to be in a foul mood. Ransom took it as a bad sign that he was wearing his black gi.
The Monk directed the stretching and calisthenics. He spread his feet apart and lowered his butt until it touched the asphalt. Ransom could not follow all the way; he had pushed as far as he could, feeling the tendons and muscles inside his leg stretching toward what seemed a tearing point, when he felt a foot on his back, forcing him lower; the sensei was standing over him, saying, I could drive a truck between your legs. Losing balance, pain mounting on either side of his groin, Ransom pushed out on his right heel and registered a sudden burning in his left thigh.
Lower, the sensei said.
I can’t, Ransom thought, I can’t possibly, but he did not say it.
He felt hands on his hips and then a flash of fire arcing up his left leg and across his groin and he concentrated on stifling the cry that had risen up into his throat and threatened to come out of his eyes and his nose and the follicles of his scalp. When the sensei released him, he drew a long, slow breath and wondered if anything was permanently ripped. He straighted up slowly. The high kicks, which followed shortly, were painful, but the pain faded. Ransom fixed his eyes on the Monk and tried to synchronize himself. The Monk seemed to be made of a perfectly elastic but diamantine material; the liquid rhythm of his limbs was hard to reconcile with the sensation of actual contact, when he was suddenly as hard and solid as teak. This was a grinding, no-frills practice in which the sensei took an active role. Half an hour after they paired off for kicking and blocking, the sensei began harassing Ransom. He watched as Ransom attacked Suzuki, then told Suzuki to step aside.
I want you to kick me right there, the sensei said, pointing to his belly.
They faced off. Ransom kicked, a hard left and then a harder right, keeping his eyes on the small black pupils of the sensei, driving his kicks into the target which would have been the sensei’s belly if he had not stepped back and blocked the hole with his forearm. The sensei drew Ransom forward as he retreated around the lot, timing his retreat so that Ransom’s kicks seemed almost powerless as they connected. When Ransom came at him faster, lengthening his stride and picking up the tempo of the kicks, determined to hit him hard, the sensei slowed his pace and forced Ransom to slow. Ransom kicked as hard as he could, telling himself that he would at least make him yield ground, beginning to hate the sensei’s eyes and seeing in them, he thought, a recognition of the desperation which was beginning to show in his own. He wanted to break the sensei’s arms.
The sensei stopped retreating altogether and fended off Ransom’s kicks from a standing position. It became difficult to keep his back leg bent and maintain fighting crouch; from a standing position, his kicks became even less effective. His calves ached. The sensei kept telling him to stay down. The tops of Ransom’s feet and his shins were swollen and numb from the pounding. He didn’t think he could keep it up much longer, but the less he put into it, he knew, the longer the sensei would work him. He felt dizzy and he could hear a faint buzzing in his ears. The back of his neck was hot and itchy and he focused on that, to the exclusion of the pain in his feet and the pain in his calves, commanding himself to summon his energy and deliver it all at once, in one direction, like a center-fire rifle cartridge. As it was, he was wasting himself slowly. At the same time, he wondered why he was doing this: karate, boys in white suits kicking each other as if something were at stake. He could walk away, right now, no need to go on, tell the sensei to piss up a rope or whatever they pissed up in Japanese, kiss his gaijin ass.
Suddenly enraged at his own body for betraying him so easily, Ransom began to court the pain plaguing him and to almost gloat as his feet pulped up and his calves burned. Then the sensei looked aside, hearing or seeing something that Ransom was too exhausted to register, or perhaps out of boredom; or maybe, it occurred to Ransom later, handing him a chance. Ransom broke his rhythm, holding back for a second, then kicked harder than he had yet kicked, finding a small chink in the sensei’s defense and driving through the block until he felt the yielding canvas of the target.
It was a good, solid hit, and though the sensei was not visibly impressed he shifted on his feet in order to retain his balance. This was something. Ransom had been present once when the sensei had stood in the middle of the parking lot, arms folded on his chest, and invited each member of the dojo—except the absent Monk—to try and push him over. The sensei resisted only to the extent of not moving; no one, including Ransom, was able to budge him. Ransom had not known what to make of this, he still didn’t, but this time he had succeeded in moving the immovable sensei.
Okay, the sensei said, after Ransom had delivered a few more kicks, and walked off.
When Yamada arrived, less than an hour of practice remained. He apologized, bowed to the company and quickly changed. No one mentioned his engagement. He joined Ransom for the final drills.
Congratulations, Ransom said.
Yamada blushed and nodded.
Ransom planted his feet, inhaled deeply and then emptied himself of air. Yamada punched him in the gut, ten times with his right arm and with his left, Ransom taking and expelling another breath in between. Then they switched.
The sensei called, and they gathered in a circle around him. Ransom was tired and sore, his gi drenched with sweat. In his clean white gi the Monk looked rested and fresh. Ransom didn’t want to face him. Not today. Not now. Maybe some other time.
Sparring, the sensei said. Two points, no restrictions.
He looked around the group until his eyes fell on Ransom. Ransom looked back, trying to appear undaunted, disinterested, ready for anything. Still looking at Ransom, he called Yamada’s name. Yamada shouted Hai! and stepped forward.
&n
bsp; The sensei sent the junior members of the dojo to face Yamada first. The smallest boy flailed away valiantly. Yamada tapped him twice for the match and worked through the next five without incident. At this point Ransom expected the sensei to call the Monk, since the sparring was often split between the two black belts. But the sensei worked up the roster sending them in against Yamada. No one had scored on him—a foregone conclusion with his earlier opponents—but by the time he had dispatched Suzuki, ranked just beneath Ransom, Yamada was beginning to tire, his round face red and filmed with sweat.
It was Ransom’s turn. They bowed. Ransom could see that Yamada’s stance was loose. He was taking it easy, standing a little high to relieve the pressure on his knees. He threw Ransom three kicks and the third found an opening, catching him in the solar plexus and knocking him backward, although Ransom reacted quickly and didn’t lose much wind.
Point, the sensei said.
They faced off and Ransom attacked, kicking low, high and low before getting punched in the chest. The sensei didn’t call the point. Instead, he waited until Ransom looked over and then dangled his arms like an ape.
Wide open, the sensei said. Attacking doesn’t mean you can forget about your defense.
Ransom nodded, ready to limp away with his chagrin, when the sensei said, Best out of seven.
Pardon? Ransom said, pretending he hadn’t heard, and the sensei repeated his command almost mockingly.
Yamada bowed to Ransom once again. The sensei must have been disciplining them both, Yamada for being late and perhaps for getting married and Ransom for what—presuming to be a black belt?
Ransom took the next two points, both on straight front kicks, after protracted exchanges. Yamada’s cheek was bleeding where the nail of Ransom’s big toe had grazed it. They were both slowing down, just out of immediate kick range from each other, and the sensei called them on it. Ransom was breathing hard; Yamada appeared to have his breath under control. He came at Ransom with a combination of thrusts, but suddenly fell back; as Ransom set himself to attack he saw an insect, a bee, had flown into Yamada’s eye. Yamada was shaking his head, frantically, and Ransom stopped himself mid-kick.
Attack, the sensei shouted, but Ransom hesitated. Yamada had dislodged the bee and resumed his stance, his left eye closed and weeping. He kicked Ransom in the stomach.
Doubled over, trying to regain his breath, Ransom felt indignant, betrayed. He heard the voice of the sensei, lecturing him, a fool, an idiot. Without bothering to listen, he knew what was being said. Never break off an attack. Practice as if your life were at stake, live as if you were practicing. Expect the unexpected, whether in the form of a knife or a winged insect.
As he gasped for breath, Ransom tried to master a desire for revenge with the proposition that Yamada had performed admirably, by the book, and that he had screwed up. The nicest thing you could do for your opponent in the dojo, the sensei liked to say, was to hit him as hard as you could.
He tried to hurt Yamada, perhaps for his own good, but he was badly winded and after a few exchanges Yamada hit him square on the chest, though without much damage. They bowed. Yamada did not look as bad as Ransom felt, but he looked tired, and now he had to fight the Monk.
Yamada held his own for a short time, but the Monk was relentless. The Monk’s strategy was aimed at Yamada’s endurance. Usually he waited for his opponent to attack, but today he took the offensive. Yamada went down.
Ransom had never seen him go down. The back door of the gym opened and, before it closed again, the buzz of voices from within made the subsequent silence awful. Yamada jumped to his feet and resumed fighting stance. He was being punished, Ransom thought, for falling in love.
Finally it was over. Yamada bowed at the end and knelt beside the Monk. Afterwards it was very quiet, someone asking for soap, a frightened-looking new boy sweeping the lot, Udo’s voice lowered as he asked Ransom when the trouble with his bike started. Over by the showers, Yamada was pulling on his pants. Suzuki asked him if he was okay, then congratulated him on his marriage, but the others, as if by agreement, kept their distance. The Monk was jogging around the lot to wind down.
When Ransom came out of the shower Udo held up a carburetor for his inspection.
Look at that, he said. Udo pulled on the intake so that Ransom could get a glimpse of the inside, but Ransom couldn’t see much.
What is it? Ransom said.
I think it’s sugar, Udo said.
Sugar?
Udo nodded.
Ransom asked, How would that get there?
Udo asked if he had any enemies. He wasn’t certain it was sugar, though. He told Ransom he’d have the bike picked up and taken to the garage, and call when he found out. Ransom gave him the number of the coffee shop.
Walking downtown, Ransom reviewed the suspects. The gesture seemed a little pissant for the yakuza. DeVito was promising, and there was always the possibility of random juvenile delinquency.
Among the shoes at the men’s entrance to the public bath were a pair of Italianate lizard loafers. Ransom left his sneakers beside them. He paid the old woman for the bath and accessories and took a basket for his clothes.
Inside the bath chamber, two heavily tattooed men were squatting on the tiles along the row of faucets. Ransom sat down a few faucets away. Today the yakuza did not seem as quaint as in the past.
He heard the word gaijin several times. He ignored them as long as he could. Then a piece of soap hit him in the head. When he looked over, they were delighted, as if they had just discovered that he was animate. The smaller of the two, whom Ransom observed to be missing two fingers, began making faces at him.
“I reft my heart in San Franshisco, desu ne?”
Ransom turned away and lathered up his wash cloth.
“I am a boy. My name is. How do you do? I am fine shank you.”
They were still at the faucets when he went to the tubs. Without making a very conspicuous detour he would need to walk directly behind them to get to the water. They both turned and stared as he walked past. He felt that holding the washbucket and cloth in front of his crotch would be a concession of some kind, so he didn’t. The smaller one said something nasty that he couldn’t make out. He lowered himself into the first tub.
They began directing all of their comments at him. He couldn’t hear all of them, but one refrain was how bad gaijin smelled.
He moved to the second tub. The two men stood up and sauntered over. They looked down at Ransom.
My friend wants to get in that tub, the little man said. His chest was taken up with a tattoo of a geisha in a long flowing kimono. On the larger man’s chest a dragon roared, brilliant in red and green, and there was a scar on his right cheek. Both had wide, fleshy faces and crewcuts. The taller one was in decent shape; probably a budoka of some kind, kendo or karate. Ransom was tired of their shit and he would have liked to see if he could knock them around, but it wasn’t worth it. He climbed out of the tub and stepped into the third, lying back and closing his eyes. The two men splashed water over the rim from the next tub and discussed the erotic utility of gaijin women.
When Ransom abruptly stood up they fell silent. He turned to look at them, and for a moment saw fear in both. Then he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He did not want to retreat in cowardly fashion, nor did he want to put up with any more of their talk. He got out of the tub and stepped over to the fourth and hottest. Steam drifted and curled over the surface. He stepped in as casually as he would onto a subway car.
The shock seized his lungs and the next sensation that separated out from a solution of pain was the waves, made by his entry, abrading his flesh like sandpaper. He kept a stoic demeanor, resisted the urge to move; motion increased the heat. Once the water was still it became almost tolerable. He wasn’t sure if he had done this for himself or for them, but he stayed in until it was no longer painful, ignoring them, their words swamped in the watery echoes, and then he stood up, walked over to the cold tub and subm
erged himself completely until he felt cool on the outside.
Ransom picked up his gear and walked out, not looking back, though he could hear their taunts. Inspired, he towelled off and dressed quickly. There were two baskets of clothing on the floor beside the lockers, and one Funky Babe shopping bag. He emptied both baskets into the shopping bag.
The old lady thanked him as he slipped out the door. He picked up the shoes in the entryway and added them to the bag. Out on the sidewalk, he felt lightheaded. The noise of traffic seemed to reach him from a great distance. He walked to the corner and deposited the shopping bag in a trash can, pausing for a moment to admire the velour lapels of a maroon sport jacket, then walked out to Kawaramachi Street to the bus stop.
19
“What’s the weather in Kyoto?” Honda asked.
“Muggy,” Ransom said.
“Muggy? What is this?”
“Mushi atsui.”
“You should move to Osaka. Be closer to office.”
Ransom grunted noncommittally.
“I do not mean to criticize, but Mitsubishi class wishes to know why you do not go out drinking with them. As you surely know, relaxation drinking is an important part of business scene in Japan.”
“I have karate practice every night. Besides which, I don’t drink.”
“You could join them sometimes.”
“The last time I did my head ached for three days. Everybody had to sing a song and I got ‘I Did It My Way.’”
“Flank Sinatra.” Honda smiled. Then he became serious. “Please. Make a date to join them for drinking.”
“I’ll check my calendar,” Ransom said. A Japanese standoff, this. For the moment they would leave it vague.
Honda had to go out and pitch the A-OK Business English System to a new company. The sulky and unkempt Desmond Caldwell was accompanying him as a live exhibit. Caldwell was wearing a tie and jacket for the occasion.
Ransom sat down at his desk and opened a letter from his father, which he had transferred directly from the mail slot to his breast pocket on his way out of the house. On the train, he had not been eager to open it. He did so now to delay reading the ad copy Honda had left for his comments, which was probably even worse than a fatherly epistle.
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