"Put your feet against the centerboard," de Gier yelled, and eased the sheet of the mainsail a little, steering into the wind to relieve the pressure on the sails. When she seemed a little more comfortable he pulled the tiller again so that the wind caught the boat on the beam and it regained its speed. The lake's water made a tinkling sound as it splashed past the bow; a white frothy line had formed behind the rudder. They could see the man wave on the jetty and de Gier waved back.
The hamper had slid toward him and he reached down quickly and opened the lid. Yuiko was smiling nervously and he grinned at her.
"Where have you got your gun?" he asked. "It won't be any good to you now, and I'd like to have it for a moment. Is it in the hamper or do you keep it on your body?"
She didn't reply and he rummaged about. The hamper contained six plastic boxes, all neatly closed, and a thermos flask in its own compartment. The pistol was stuck between the boxes, hidden under a folded tea-cloth. He took it out and pressed the spring that held its clip. He could only use his left hand but he managed, taking his time. He transferred the clip to his right hand and released the six cartridges, making them jump over the side. Holding the tiller in his armpit and securing the jib-and-mainsail sheets to a large cleat attached to the centerboard case, he opened the gun's breach, but there was no cartridge in the chamber. He pushed the empty clip back and offered her the gun. She was looking away.
"Take it, Yuiko-san," he said gently. "It's a good pistol and you don't want to lose it. A Browning is worth three hundred dollars these days and this is a special model. I don't want to throw it overboard, I just don't want to get shot today."
She was crying and he put the pistol back into the hamper, flipping the lid down. They were traveling at such speed that the harbor behind them had changed into a few dots on the shoreline, and the masts of the moored yachts into a row of bristling hairs. Soon there would be nothing but water around them and he realized that he might have difficulty in finding his way back. He looked at the sun and checked the time. He had seen a chart in the storage space aft and he pulled it out. The buoys were indicated clearly and he compared their numbers and colors with the buoy he had just passed and the buoy which was coming close.
"Yuiko-san," he said softly, touching her shoulder. She turned around and faced him. Her cheeks were wet but she had stopped crying. "Don't be silly," he said. "You know what I am and I know what you are. We are on different sides of the line. I am a yakusa too, but I have another daimyo. Your boss and mine are at odds, so we are enemies. So what? We are sailing a fast boat on a beautiful lake. Why don't you cheer up? That's a good lunch in the hamper, and the daimyo or the man in the bar will give you new cartridges for your gun. Nobody is going to be angry with you. You have done your duty, you lured me out on Lake Biwa. And I came. I am stupid, but my stupidity is my own concern, not yours."
She laughed, rubbing her eyes. "You are not stupid. I knew it when I met you first in the bar. You are playing your own game and so far you haven't lost. It's just that I am frightened of water. I have never liked boats. It was the daimyo's idea and I couldn't refuse, but I feel as if I were in hell. The water is threatening me."
"The water is carrying us," de Gier said. "Can't you feel it? It is protecting us, the way a cradle protects a baby."
He pushed the tiller a little and shortened the sheet. The cutter behaved well as she turned to windward, and he sat on the side, motioning Yuiko to do the same. The boat heeled again, but Yuiko seemed to trust him now, and she was beginning to look about her. Within an hour she was ready to learn and he instructed her about the handling of the jib sheet.
He made the cutter come about, pushing Yuiko's head down to keep it free from the boom, and she caught on and responded to his shouted warning when he repeated the maneuver a few minutes later. They were close to the land again, a few miles north of the harbor, and the wind had lost some of its strength, being hampered by hills and forests on its way down to the lake.
"What's up?" he asked, giving her a cigarette and his lighter. "Are we going to be attacked on the lake somewhere? Is Kono around?"
"I don't know. I was told to go sailing with you. They never tell me exactly what will happen, I am not important."
She had trouble with the lighter and he took it back. He lit a cigarette between his shirt and his jacket and gave it to her.
"Do you think the daimyo is up to his tricks again?"
"Could be," she said, sucking the smoke hungrily. "The manager of the Golden Dragon gave me the message. He was upset. We have lost face. I heard them talk about you in the bar. Somebody came to tell us that you were around, buying art. They were sure they could frighten you away easily; they have done it so often to others. The daimyo happened to be in Kyoto and he came to the Golden Dragon and he thought of the game with the mask. A sculptor, he comes to the bar often- he drinks a lot but he is very good-was asked to make the mask. I think the sculptor was taken to your inn and he saw your friend, the old gentleman. He made the mask immediately, working from a sketch."
"Yes," de Gier said. "It was very effective apparently."
"But it didn't stop you. We heard about you playing your flute. They thought you were invincible after that, so Kono was asked to take care of you. Kono likes firearms. Sometimes he kills people, but not very often, the daimyo doesn't like it."
De Gier turned to look into her face. "I don't like Kono. If he had made my boss wound himself, I would have gone after him."
She shrugged. "Kono wouldn't have minded that. He loves fights and guns and racing cars. He is old-fashioned; he has pictures of the famous samurai in his house and he reads stories about them. The daimyo calls him his little boy, but they are of the same age. They say that Kono cried when he came home."
"Because of his hand?"
"No. He had lost face, but maybe he is a good loser. He said your boss was a great man."
"Pity," de Gier said, "so maybe we shouldn't have a fight, just to annoy him. And now he is somewhere around, I suppose, but what does he plan to do this time? Make me cut off my own ears and eat them?"
She laughed. "No. But he may want to kill you now. If he does he will make it look like an accident, I think."
"Thanks for telling me."
"You should be a little careful today," Yuiko said, avoiding his eyes and pretending she was interested in the jib sheet which was pulling at her hands.
"Make it fast," de Gier said. "There's a cleat over there. Just wind the sheet round it once; if there's a lot of wind you can pull it free. I hope Kono comes. I'm not alone anyway. Dorin is on the lake too, and I don't think he is alone. We are not as silly as we look. I wouldn't be surprised if Dorin has a machine gun on his boat, or a grenade thrower. We could have a proper battle. Dorin is like Kono; he likes to fight and he likes to do things in a big way."
"Dorin," she said. "That isn't a Japanese name. I saw a photograph of your friend; one of our boys took it near the inn you are staying at. He is Japanese. We have been trying to find out something about him, but I don't think we have had results. They say he speaks with a Tokyo accent and that he behaves like a nisei, a Japanese born abroad. Who is he?"
De Gier made a vague gesture. "Don't know. My boss found him through his Hong Kong contacts. I think he had his own operation, but something went wrong and now he works for others. Maybe he'll join us. He is very good, I think. I'd like to work with him. He can be our permanent agent here as far as I'm concerned, but I don't know what my boss thinks. He hasn't told me yet."
She nodded. "He must be good. He certainly got you the right contacts here. You've bought a lot of merchandise."
De Gier was comparing a buoy number with a point on his chart and hadn't been listening. She repeated her remark.
"Sure," he said. "The stuff should be easy to sell when we get home, or so the boss says. I don't know about art, it's not my job. I'm supposed to look after the old man."
"So you leave him all alone in the inn," she said reproachfully.<
br />
De Gier grinned. "He'll be fine, I think. He is probably soaking his skin in the bathhouse right now." He looked at his watch. "Time to eat, Yuiko-san, where are we going to do it?"
"I was told to take you to the island with the orange torii. It's north of the harbor. Maybe it is the island over there, can I see the chart please?"
She mumbled to herself as she read the names. "Here, this must be the island; there is a note about it in the margin. Famous torii. Do you know what a torii is?"
"No."
"It's a gate, set in the water. Many lakes have them. The island is a national treasure. I have read some poems which describe it. It's supposed to be like heaven."
He bent over to look at the chart. "Yes, that's the island we're heading for now. So the daimyo wants us to have lunch there, does he? Better loosen that jib sheet again. We are going out into the lake now and the wind will be strengthening. What else does the daimyo want us to do?"
"See the famous Buddha," she said. "He told me there is a statue sitting on a pedestal of stone and with a hill as a background. On the hill there is another manifestation of Buddha, another statue I suppose. We can climb the hill if you want to."
"The daimyo," de Gier said. "I'm sure he is clever, but I don't understand his game today. Surely he must realize that I am not just walking into a trap. Doesn't he know that I got to know you quite well and that we get on very well and so on?"
"So on what?"
"Well, we are having a bit of an affair, aren't we?"
"We aren't having an affair," she said quietly. "The first time we were together I became ill, and the second time you didn't want to. The other meeting was in the hospital with nurses coming in every five minutes to see for themselves what you look like."
"Did they?" he asked. "But the daimyo surely knows by now that I am familiar with the fact that you are ya-kusa and that he is using you to manipulate me."
She was trying to light another cigarette, but the spark wouldn't become a flame."Chigau," she said sharply. "You are wrong. What do you know about the daimyo's mind? He probably knows you came into the bar deliberately, but he is following a line of reasoning of his own. He is a great Go player. Go is Japanese chess, much more difficult than your game, the chess of the West. He makes his moves and you make yours. I don't know what you will find on the island. You didn't have to take the cartridges out of my pistol. I always carry a gun but I am not a killer. And the daimyo doesn't like us to use guns, I've told you that already. Guns are too heavy, he thinks. He wants us to use lighter and more interesting arms."
He was taken aback by her sudden violence and felt a spurt of anger, tickling around in his stomach, wanting to rise to his brain. He tried to control it, but some of it came up all the same. "Let go of your sheet," he shouted. "You are supposed to watch the jib, it's much too tight. Look at the mainsail, it's standing right out, and the jib is glued to the mast."
She bowed her head in submission and let the thin rope slip through her hands.
"Like this?"
"Yes," he shouted, and she bowed again. He felt silly and dropped his voice. "There is the fishing boat," he said, pointing ahead. "The boat we saw before when we left the harbor. It must have gone straight to the island while we were fiddling about near the shore. It's already been to the island and is coming back now, I think."
"How good are your eyes?" she asked.
"All right, why?"
"I need glasses, but they are in my bag. I only wear them when I am alone. Can you see who is in the boat?"
"I can see a man at the tiller."
"Can you see his eyebrows?"
"No," de Gier said. "Of course not. I am not an eagle. The boat is too far. Does the daimyo have special eyebrows?"
"Tufted," she said, "and very black. He has little hair on his head, just a gray fringe but his eyebrows are jet black. I think he dips them in ink." She giggled.
De Gier screened his eyes and looked again. "Can't see, and the boat has come about and is tacking away from us now. I would say that the man at the tiller is young. Did the daimyo say he was going to use a fishing boat?"
She shook her head.
"I see the torii now," he said. "Why is it there? Two big beams and a sloping roof. Why are the beams orange? I thought Japanese didn't like to use paint but preferred natural colors?"
"A decoration to please the water gods," she said, and pulled at the sheet. The jib had begun to flap, for the cutter was sailing much closer to the wind as de Gier steered toward a small bay. They passed close to the torii, a solid structure; the beams were at least a foot thick.
It had been built half a mile from the island's shore and the waves were chopping against the gleaming orange paint, lapping the gate with their green tongues and rubbing it with white frothy heads. Two large wooden posts rose from the water; its roof was tiled, sloped like the temples in Kyoto. A capricious structure built in honor of the water gods, de Gier thought. Maybe I should try and sail straight through it. A small show of bravery. The lake isn't friendly, neither is the island. The daimyo knows the lake and is using it against me. He tried to recall his plan. He only had one goal, to meet the daimyo in order to identify him, and to provoke him if possible so that he could be arrested and taken to court. He also tried to recall his guesses that would explain the daimyo's plan. The daimyo, he thought, and he imagined the commissaris thinking along the same line, was no longer interested in frightening them out of Japan. He might still like to chase them off, but he was probably thinking that he wouldn't be able to. The daimyo didn't intend to have them killed. Two dead foreigners would embarrass the country and might lead to the daimyo's fall. But the daimyo wasn't giving in either. The game was still on or he wouldn't be here, sailing a cutter around a Watergate. The daimyo obviously thought them to be what they were pretending to be, two Dutchmen, representatives of an unlawful organization prepared to buy stolen art and drugs. The daimyo had no way to check their background in Holland, for his men in Amsterdam were in jail. The daimyo was now moving toward a union of the Dutch organization and his own, and this boating trip with the charming and seductive Yuiko was his attempt to make contact. The daimyo had surmised that de Gier wanted to make contact too, for why would he have visited the Golden Dragon otherwise? So all he, de Gier, had to do now, was to go ahead and see what the daimyo had planned for him to get into that day. He checked his thoughts again as he sailed the cutter around the torii once more. Yes, it all seemed quite logical. And Dorin was around in case he was wrong. It might be that the daimyo meant to kill him, after all, and would try to kill the commissaris in Kyoto at the same time. But the commissaris was protected. Two of Dorin's men would be with him now, sitting in the public bathhouse most probably, and others would be around the building. Dorin's commandos, the Snow Monkeys, out of uniform, eager young men, well trained. If something went wrong, he, de Gier, would be the victim. Dorin's boat wasn't visible; it would take time for Dorin to catch up with him. He had been given a small radio transmitter, small enough to fit in the pocket of his Windbreaker. If he pressed a button Dorin would appear. He thought he had seen Dorin's boat a little earlier, a dot on the far side of the lake. It would probably be a fast motorboat, but it would still need half an hour or an hour to catch up with him.
The fishing boat had become invisible again as it was swallowed by a line of rocks, jutting out from the island's beach, and he told Yuiko to throw out the anchor. The cutter was close to the island now and he could see the lake's sandy bottom. By paying out the anchor's rope and raising the centerboard they managed to get the cutter close enough to the shore so that they could walk through the shallow water and he took off his shoes and rolled up his jeans. Yuiko had helped him to lower the flapping sails and stood next to him on the small after-deck staring at the water and a shoal of small fish darting about nervously, occasionally turning over and flashing their minute silver bellies. He carried her to the beach, and she kissed him as he waded through the low waves chasing each ot
her to the strip of sand where they broke. She was pressing her breasts against his chest and caressing the thick hair on his neck, and he kissed her cheek and lost his footing and nearly fell.
"Abunai yo," she whispered. "It's dangerous here."
He smiled. There didn't seem to be much danger around. If he fell he would wet his clothes; they would dry again in the sun and wind. He returned to the boat to pick up the hamper. He still had the feeling he had found in himself as he had waked up in the commissaris' house after the accident in Amsterdam, breaking gently out of his fogged drugged sleep and contemplating the patchwork blanket which the commissaris' wife had tucked in neatly only a few minutes before. He had defined the feeling as consisting of two words: nothing matters. A very strong feeling blotting out all other sensations. Nothing matters, he told himself now as he put the hamper down on a rock. Nothing at all. "I was a balloon," he said aloud, and turned toward the lake. A balloon, a small round bloated toy, floating about thinking it had a life and an identity of its own, until something made it pop. I popped, he thought, and grinned vaguely. He remembered the hippies who would wander into the police stations of Amsterdam to tell the police that they had flipped and that everything had become different. But I didn't flip, he thought, gazing at the lake stretching away endlessly, I popped. Flipping is just a change of direction, popping is final. There had been nothing tangible as he looked at the patchwork blanket. A shape, a form, lying in a clean bed, and now putting down a hamper on a rock. A hamper made out of dry bleached stalks on a gray dead rock, spotted with yellow lichen. His thoughts kept on forming themselves, clear and crisp, like teletype messages coming out of a transmitter. I move, he thought, and I talk and I listen and dress and undress and shave and I drive a sports car and sail a boat and maybe I'll sleep with this girl before the day is over and if the daimyo's way of playing chess differs from what I am anticipating, I may get killed today too. I dream and the daimyo dreams and our dreams touch today, but nothing is happening. I am not taking part, I have nothing to take part with.
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