The Gentleman from Japan

by James Church

  “All at once, out of nowhere, last night I heard voices of despair and hurt, cries of misery and pain and loneliness. I heard all of them, from everywhere, from all time. How could I have missed them before?”

  “Uncle…”

  He held up his hand again. “No, say nothing. Give me a minute to get this out. Maybe if I hear the words in my own voice, it will make some sense.”

  His eyes pleaded with me. I was suddenly convinced he was dying right here, in front of my eyes.

  “I’ve been alone,” he said. “Ever since my parents were killed in the war, I’ve been alone. My grandfather filled a space, he held me upright, he set me into the world. But he was alone, too, and that’s what he taught me. How to be alone. How to keep myself apart, because that was how I could preserve some spark in this sea of insanity. My brother … your father … if only…”

  I searched for something to say, some reassurance, but there was nothing.

  “I’m not talking about falling and scraping a knee. I’m talking about what is all around, what has always been around us.” He stood up and moved to the window. “You’ll find it strange coming from me, but there are great tides of horror, of deepest, deepest horror, that toss us about, nephew.” He moved aside the curtains and looked outside. “And we don’t pay attention. Echoes of voices of despair from centuries ago, from eons ago. I heard them all, every single one of them. They rang in my ears, softly at first, and then louder and louder. Moaning, screaming, crying, the last breaths of the wounded, the tortured, the lost. How could I have missed them until now? I have been a fool. All these years, wasted, gone, torn away, and I heard none of it?” His eyes were growing dull, the lids half closed. “And now what can I do?”

  “Look, uncle, maybe you’re a little depressed. It happens when you get old.”

  “Don’t, don’t even think you can make a happy face and I’ll snap out of this. This is not depression, nephew. This is not some black despair inside of me. Listen! Listen! I’m sane, I’m completely in control, I’m not drowning, I’m not going to kill myself. I don’t have to, I’m already dead.”

  “You heard voices?”

  He snorted. “No, not voices. There aren’t voices speaking to me. I don’t hear someone telling me to blow up a building or knock off a government official.”

  “But you said…”

  “Will you listen to me for once! Try and listen, forget you’re a fucking interrogator.”

  “All right.” I had a sense he was coming out of it.

  “Have you ever seen the sun shine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you ever laughed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Been with a woman.”

  “Uncle…”

  “Answer me.”

  “Well, of course…”

  “That Mongolian woman, you love her?”

  My radars started turning. What did he know? Why would he bring up Tuya all of a sudden? “I thought we were talking about … well, what about you? Have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Ah, been with a woman?”

  He almost smiled. I clutched at that for reassurance, but it slipped from my grasp.

  “You want to know, nephew? You want to talk about that?”

  I felt as if I were sliding into a pit. “Well…”

  “Good, I didn’t think you did. Neither do I.”

  A deep, almost terminal sigh came from somewhere. He put his hand to his eyes. I had the feeling I’d lost him again.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s just leave this where it is. I realized something that I never knew before. A portal opened. I may pack up and leave later today. I can’t stay here.”

  My heart froze. “Where will you go?”

  He smiled, and suddenly a shaft of sunlight came through the window behind him.

  “Dramatic.” He pulled the curtain shut. “Remarkably dramatic.”

  “Really, uncle, where will you go?”

  He turned back to me with a look of resignation on his face. “I don’t really know. Someplace warm and sunny.”

  “Hainan Island?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Portugal.”

  PART II

  Chapter One

  That Luis should be in northeast China to visit a relative of his who ran a hardware store in Harbin made no sense, but accepting his explanation was the easiest thing to do. Luis was an old friend, a half-Chinese, half-Macanese police inspector in Macau who had helped me years ago and to whom I always thought I owed a debt of gratitude.

  “You owe me, you know, Inspector.”

  “I know, Luis. It often occurred to me to inquire how you were, but then things went a little haywire at home and I had to join my nephew up on the border in this, the Great Center of the Universe, the Celestial Kingdom, the Land of Chou, Country of the Great Wall and Little Else. It is very confining. The youngster wants to know where I am every minute, and the only place I can go by myself is here in Harbin, supposedly to buy lumber for bookcases.”

  “What a coincidence,” Luis said. He was even thinner than when I first met him years ago on a tricky investigation that involved body parts and a red Louis Vuitton suitcase. Luis was stooped now, but he retained a quiet nobility in the way he walked. As he talked, his head moved, almost as subtle counterpoint to his voice. You might think you didn’t notice it at first, but gradually you realized that talking to Luis was like talking to twins, one reinforcing the other. “I mean, a real coincidence, that you should come to Harbin for lumber, and at the same time I should come here to visit a relative who owns a hardware store. Remarkable.”

  He smiled heartily, which did not suit him in the least and was probably why he rarely did it. He was only doing it now, I was sure, because that was how they had rehearsed it. It was not a coincidence that he was standing outside the lumberyard as I emerged, couldn’t be by any stretch of the imagination, and there was no chance that Luis thought I would buy the story. Sooner or later I’d find out what this was about. In the meantime, there was no reason not to play along. It was the least I could do for him. Besides, it might turn out to be more interesting than sitting in the workshop in my nephew’s house thinking up new ways to build bookcases, an activity that helped preserve my sanity and—not to be overlooked as a benefit—also irritated my nephew. He was, as far as I knew, my only living relative, and we got on each other’s nerves.

  “Yes, come to think of it,” I said, “I could use a new chisel, Luis. Shall we go visit your relative’s store?” I already knew the answer.

  Luis smiled again, though it was more for himself than something for my benefit. He recited his lines with wry humor that made clear he hadn’t written them and thought the whole thing was foolish. “My uncle’s store burned down in 1937, Inspector. Imagine my surprise on learning that earlier today. It was a shock. I had been looking forward to seeing him.”

  “Imagine!” I said. “What a shock! Should we have tea and talk about old times?”

  Luis led the way to a tea shop on a quiet street not far from the lumberyard. There were two old ladies seated at a table in the rear. Neither looked up when we entered. If they weren’t working for Luis, I would have been surprised.

  “Nice place,” I said, looking around. “You’ve been here before?”

  Luis stared at me. “Inspector, you are too suspicious for your own good. This is not far from my hotel. I found it yesterday while I was wandering around looking for my uncle’s store.”

  “The one that burned down in 1937?”

  “Is there another one?” Luis laughed. “My mother’s family is from here, I give you my word. They went south one short step ahead of the Japanese. My uncle stayed, figuring he could make money selling hardware to the Imperial Army.”

  “I hope he at least collected the insurance.”

  Luis looked thoughtful. “No one suggested that might be a question.”

  2

  Once the tea arrived, brought by a shuffling old ma
n who served us without saying a word, Luis took a notebook from his jacket. “As long as we’re here”—he cleared his throat—“maybe you can help me.”

  I sipped some tea and looked at the two ladies. They were hunched over their table and ostentatiously comparing manicures. Presumably, they already had the microphones calibrated so didn’t have much else to do for the moment. “You know me, Luis, if there is some way I can be helpful, all you need do is ask. And if you need me to repeat anything”—I nodded and smiled at the old ladies—“don’t hesitate to tell me.”

  “How would you like to come to Portugal?” Luis sat back in his chair and looked around the tearoom. “You must be tired of this by now, ready for a change of scenery, am I right? How long have you been stuck here?”

  “In China? A couple of years, I suppose, three maybe. Too long, whatever it is. I’ve lost all sense of time. My nephew and I galloped off to Mongolia not long ago. Extremely odd place. Very few trees where we were. It gave me the shakes.”

  “Well, there are plenty of trees in Portugal. You like seafood, yes?”

  “Up to a point. We get a lot of river fish where my nephew lives.”

  “Yanji is not famous for its cuisine.”

  “Did I mention Yanji?”

  “Inspector, this is why I am glad we are meeting again. There is no one else with whom I can have quite so fine a chase through the preparatory brambles.”

  “Luis, I salute you. Did you write this script yourself, or are you merely interpreting it, knocking off the rough spots along the way?”

  Luis looked at the old ladies. One of them shook her head slightly. “Excuse me, Inspector.” He got up and walked to the rear table, and the three of them exchanged Portuguese insults. I don’t know Portuguese, but I know insults when I hear them. Finally, the two women walked out, one of them trailing a wire that must have been uncomfortable if the rest of it was coiled where I assumed it was.

  “Nice ladies,” I said. “Too bad they had to leave so soon.”

  Luis put both hands on the table, a sure sign that he was nervous but getting to the point. “Inspector, this is something big. I don’t know the details, but someone I trust and who holds considerable power over my employment convinced me that it was big and that we needed help. We needed the best, I was told. So I thought of you.”

  “Chinese flattery or Portuguese? Very musical, but to no avail; I’m not working anymore, Luis. Do you think I’d be in Harbin if I had something better to do? I make bookcases and write a little poetry when the spirit moves me. Otherwise I’m done, played out, washed up, taking up space. Besides, I can’t very well do anything sitting in Yanji.” I smiled at Luis to grant him the point. He nodded without comment. “My nephew watches me all the time, and when he isn’t, the local police follow me around like dogs trotting after a bag of pig’s entrails.”

  “You won’t be in Yanji, don’t you see? You won’t be in China at all. Think of it, Inspector, someplace new, fresh vistas, no one to tell you what to do or how to do it. Just like things used to be, you’d be your own man.”

  “More flattery, Luis, or have you lost your mind? When was I ever my own man?”

  “Come on, Inspector, I watched you in Macau, remember? You were practically a free agent. Maybe back in Pyongyang you had strings—”

  “Ha!”

  “OK, ropes. But when you got outside, you operated like a free spirit. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

  “So what exactly do you need this free spirit to do for you?”

  “I told you, I don’t know exactly. All I know is that you and I are to meet somewhere.”

  Now it was my turn to stare at Luis. “And where is somewhere?” I just asked out of habit. I already knew because he’d already given it away, just like he was supposed to do.

  At last Luis gave me a real smile as he slid an envelope across the table. “I’ll be there to meet you. Pack light, we’ll have to move fast.”

  Chapter Two

  “I’ll leave you here, Inspector.” Luis seemed ill at ease.

  “Why? Something the matter? I mean, other than the fact this isn’t Portugal. That’s where I thought you told me we were going. Instead, we bounce through the airport in Lisbon, board another plane, and sit in Spain. Naturally, I’m curious. Actually, more than curious.”

  “You don’t like it?” Luis was glancing around as if he expected bad news.

  “Oh, no. It’s fine. Where are we?”

  “Barcelona.”

  “Ah, yes. Barcelona is a pleasant city, isn’t that what people say? Nice weather. Plenty of things to see.”

  “Speaking of things to see, there’s one of them. Don’t make it obvious. Just cast a casual eye off to your right. See that van across the street?”

  “Green one? With the flowers painted on the side?”

  “You’re being watched.”

  “Me? I’m being watched? How do they even know who I am?”

  “Spanish security is very efficient, Inspector. Very thorough. And very tough. They are still using training manuals from the Inquisition.” He stopped. “Pardon me.” He bowed slightly. “A reference without meaning perhaps. The Inquisition I speak of was an unpleasant episode six hundred years ago.”

  “So I’ve heard. Word gets around, Luis.” I cast another casual eye at the van. “Well, we’re in Spain, so what’s the problem? I thought they all napped for an hour or two after lunch. They sleep, we stroll away.”

  “That’s what they’d like you to believe.”

  “You’re skeptical?”

  “Inspector, yes, this is Spain. The Catalans would like you to think it isn’t, but it is. We’ve endured living next to the Spanish for a long time. If a Spaniard tells us it’s sunny outside, we dress for a storm.”

  “And even so, you’re going to leave me alone here? Luis, I thought we were friends.”

  “You are my dearest friend, Inspector.” His brows knitted. “Not counting Lulu, of course.”

  “Without saying.”

  “I’m leaving you because what interests the green van most is that a half-Portuguese policeman from Macau—”

  “They know that?”

  “I told you, they are efficient. And they are curious why one such as I is walking with someone…”

  “… such as I. And what would that be? I’m still using the Costa Rican passport I had in Macau.”

  “Bad idea, I’m afraid. They will already have checked it.”

  “But I didn’t have to show it to anyone at the airport when we landed here.”

  “No, you showed it at the Lisbon airport when you arrived in Europe.”

  “You mean there are Spanish agents working in the Portuguese immigration office?”

  “I told you, Inspector, their training manuals go back to the Inquisition. They could infiltrate a plate of bacalhau grelhado.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Cod, grilled with olive oil and lemon. Tiny potatoes on the side. A plate of lightly fried dumplings stuffed with fragrant morsels of pork. A glass of wine. Ahhh.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Would you like to try it?” He looked at his watch. “Maybe a late lunch?”

  “Here, in Barcelona?”

  “True, it would be a pale imitation of what you could get in Sesimbra, but worth a few euros.”

  “Luis, am I mistaken or is someone getting out of that van with a basket of flowers?”

  “Bastards!” Luis said under his breath. “Let’s move into the shade, Inspector, behind those trees. I’ll sketch out for you where you should come in contact with someone who can help guide you through this operation. See? They’re trying to work their way toward us.” He took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and patted his neck. “They always do this to me, make me sweat. Life is much simpler in Macau. Lulu, lunch, and love.” He shook his head and replaced the handkerchief. “We never should have let that bastard Rodrigo Borgia get away with his holy line.”

  “He drew a line?”

  “
A Spaniard, wormed his way into the papacy. Gave everything to Spain. Left us with Brasil.”

  “I thought you liked Brasil.”

  “I like women from Brasil, Inspector. But that’s different from geography. No need to rake over papal politics right now, even those only five hundred years old. Perhaps later.” He turned abruptly, very unlike Luis.

  Across a narrow single lane of traffic was a long line of plane trees overarching a broad, straight walk. On either side were benches, and down the center was a watercourse broken every twenty meters or so with a small waterfall. The shade was cool, but more than that, the sound of the water splashing and gurgling as it made its way to some outlet, probably the Mediterranean about half a kilometer distant, made the whole place seem to be dozing. Luis picked out a bench and sat down.

  “This is good, Inspector. It reminds me of Lisboa.” He had recovered his composure.

  “It reminds me of Pyongyang,” I said.

  Luis looked startled, and then amused. “Home is where the heart is, eh, Inspector?” An air of nonchalance passed over his features. “Tell me, Inspector, out of curiosity, how did you convince your nephew you needed to get away on such short notice?”

  This was not an idle question. It was not simply “out of curiosity.” It was something he needed to know.

  “Someone worried about what I said, is that it, Luis? Does someone think I might have said too much, compromised your operation? Maybe that’s how the Spaniards were tipped off?” I paused. “Don’t worry, my friend. I made something up. It worked. My nephew doesn’t suspect anything except that I’m old and maybe getting a little crazy. Just take my word.”

  Luis took out his handkerchief again. “Humid,” he said.

  “This operation of yours, Luis, give me the outlines. So far I know nothing.” I nodded toward the green van. “Or are you worried about someone overhearing? What if they have long mikes or something? They might learn something about dumplings, and then where would we be?”