Black Wind

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Everyone speaks of war as the only answer," Matsuo said, thinking of the newspapers and speakers on the radio.

  "Not everyone, but very many, it's true. But either way, it will not lessen the importance of the roles you and Hiroki will play. Hiroki, with his education in the Hidden Face temple, will be our foot in our warlike past. I see Hiroki playing a vital part in a shooting war. But you, my son, will be Japan's foot in the present. You will be a general in the other war. The one I mentioned before: the economic war. And our enemy in that war will surely be America. That is when you will play your part. If and when that war is declared, you, Matsuo, my son, may well become the most important man in Japan, perhaps in the world."

  Matsuo swallowed his dismay. As much as he wanted to please his father, he did not want to be the most important man in Japan. Not if it meant going back to America, even for a day.

  DECEMBER

  SAN FRANCISCO

  "Bet I know what you're thinking, Frankie."

  The sound of my father's voice startled me. I hadn't heard him come into the room.

  I had been standing at the window, watching a Navy gunboat steam out of the Golden Gate and vanish into the foggy Pacific. It looked cold and rough out there, which was just fine, because that was pretty much in tune with the way I felt. The news on the radio at that moment was fairly grim, too. In preparation for the arrival of 1928 next week, the announcer was recapping the big stories of the past year. Mostly death and destruction: the Lower Mississippi Valley flood, the Sacco and Vanzetti executions, Isadora Duncan's death, Lizzie Borden's death. It seemed to go on and on.

  "Not a very good year, was it?" I said.

  "Are you kidding?" Dad said. "It was a great year. Don't listen to those radio guys. They're always down in the mouth. Look at all the good things that went on: Babe Ruth hit sixty homers, that fellow Johnny Weismuller swam the hundred in fifty-one seconds, the Holland Tunnel opened between New Jersey and Manhattan—something I'd like to see happen between here and Oakland so we wouldn't have to depend on that damn ferry—and we've got talking pictures now. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy The Jazz Singer. You must have seen it three times."

  I forced a laugh. "You win. It wasn't such a bad year."

  "That's the spirit. Now, let me guess what you were thinking about when I came in."

  "Bet you can't."

  I had been thinking about Matsuo. I hadn't wanted to think about him. I'd thought I'd had him well locked away in a quiet little-used corner of my brain. But too often those memories wanted out and when that happened I didn't have much say. Especially on this day, the day after Christmas. A year ago today I became a spineless turd and deserted my only friend.

  I wondered what Matsuo was doing, if he had found a better, truer friend.

  "You were thinking about that old engineering scholarship, weren't you?" Dad said, clapping me on the back.

  "Yeah. The scholarship."

  Let him believe that. Let him believe anything but the truth. He didn't know the truth. Only Matsuo, Mick and his gang, and me. Matsuo was gone, and the rest of us weren't talking.

  For the thousandth time I wished for a chance to go back and do it differently. But would I do it differently? I wasn't sure. And I loathed myself for that uncertainty. Not that it mattered. I'd never get another chance. And I'd never see Matsuo again.

  "But you don't need a scholarship. If my stock portfolio keeps performing the way it has for the past year, I'll buy you a college. Hell, if my stocks don't do anything at all next year, I'll still be able to buy you that college."

  My father had become obsessed with the stock market—all he talked about, all he seemed to think about. He even had a ticker here in his office at home. The market was a source of endless arguments between my mother and him. She said he was neglecting his own business and borrowing too much to add to his portfolio, and he'd say that thanks to his investments they were now worth millions. I didn't know who was right, but when I heard my mother mention that he had taken out second and third mortgages on the house and on the plant, it made me uneasy. But what did I know? My father had built his company out of nothing, so he had to know a lot more than I did.

  I said, "I want that scholarship because it's something that no one can buy for me. I have to earn it all by myself."

  "Something wrong with my money?" Dad said. "Something wrong with the tool and die business? I thought you said you wanted to run it some day. But if you've changed your mind and now think you're too good for it, just let me know."

  "Dad, please . . ." Was he just feeling defensive or was he worried about my going to college? He never had. "You know me better than that. You know I want a chance to run the plant. It's just that..."

  How could I explain it to him? How could I tell him I needed to do something to make me feel better than someone who scuttled through alleys on his belly?

  "I'm waiting," he said.

  "All right. For me, it's not good enough to waltz into that plant and just step into your shoes. You deserve the plant—you built it out of nothing. But if I take it over, I want to be able to change things when they need changing. I want to make it the best plant in the world. And to do that, I'll need some training in engineering. And when I've made it the best in the world, then I'll deserve to call it mine."

  "I don't know, Frankie," Dad said, shaking his head. "I don't know if you can handle it. Know-how is only a small part. You've got to go out and meet people, glad-hand them, grease their palms when necessary. I don't know if you're cut out for that. You know, kiddo, your mother and me, we worry about you."

  "Worry? About me?"

  I knew they thought I was strange, but I didn't let on.

  "Sure. After all, it's your senior year and you should be out with your friends having a good time instead of moping around here or hanging around the plant. Sometimes we wonder if we've failed you somehow."

  "Sorry, Dad."

  "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm sorry you're not enjoying life more. When I was your age I spent every spare minute of every day sweating for a few dimes to keep my brothers and sisters fed. If I'd had the chances you've got now, I'd be out having the time of my life."

  "But I like the plant, Dad."

  "For God's sake, why? What do you want to get yourself involved in that for? Only a sucker would want to give himself an ulcer trying to manage a place like that."

  I was shocked. "I . . . I thought you wanted me to take it over someday."

  "I did. But I didn't know what I know now. I don't want you to have to spend all your time running around brown-nosing a bunch of military brass to keep the orders coming in when there's money falling out of the air—out of the air, Frankie—at the stock exchange."

  "I don't understand that stuff; Dad."

  "Maybe you'd better learn to understand it, Frankie. Because I don't think you've got the stuff to run the company."

  The hurt I felt from those words must have shown on my face, because Dad gave my shoulder a quick squeeze.

  "Don't get me wrong, kiddo. I love you. And I think you'd do a great job running the plant—but that's a long way from running the company. To run the company you've got to get out there and hustle every day for the orders. You've got to have lunch and make pleasant conversation with people you have no respect for, got to invite people to your house that you wouldn't speak more than a few words to on the street. Sometimes you've got to shave points and jimmy balance sheets just to keep your head above water. Frankie, my boy—I don't think that's quite your cup of tea."

  "I could learn." I knew he was probably right but I was too stubborn to admit it. "All I need is a chance."

  "Okay. You'll get your chance. But in the meantime I want you to learn something else. First thing tomorrow morning when the New York exchanges open, I'll give you some of my stocks to manage. The best way to learn is by doing. You'll have your own little portfolio to manage to help you get to know the ropes."

  "But Dad—"
/>   "No buts. I want you to get your feet wet. As soon as you do, you'll see what I mean. You'll learn early what I learned late. I used to work for money, but no more, kiddo. No more. Now I let money work for me."

  Reluctantly I agreed. Mostly to get him off my back, but also because I was intrigued by what he was saying. Money for nothing. It seemed too good to be true. But what did I know?

  But I wasn't giving up on that scholarship. Stocks or not, I was going to try for it.

  1928

  THE YEAR OF THE DRAGON

  APRIL

  TOKYO

  "Nagata-sensei," Matsuo said. "Tell me what to do."

  He had performed the tea ceremony with Nagata. And now as Matsuo sipped the green liquid, he saw Nagata, the man he loved and admired more than any in the world, put his cup on the low table between them, fold his hands over his ample belly, and fix his eyes on Matsuo's.

  "Am I such a terrible teacher that you do not know? Am I to hang my head in shame when I go out in public now because my student does not know how to behave?"

  Matsuo recognized the overstatement, but realized too that it wasn't far from the truth.

  "How can I tell my father that I don't want to go back to America?"

  Nagata's face grew stern. "You cannot tell him that. It is your father's wish that you finish your education in America. It is your path toward taking your proper station. It is your parental on. Filial piety demands that you follow his wishes." Nagata lowered his voice. "And because your father plans for you to become an Imperial advisor, one might even say that chu demands that you return to America."

  Matsuo stiffened. Chu—the ultimate on—the endless, unrepayable obligation to the Emperor. The discussion was over. To circumvent chu was unthinkable.

  "I will go to America," he said, fighting the heaviness within him.

  "Of course you will." Nagata slapped his knees and smiled. "Was there ever any doubt?"

  Matsuo did not answer. His throat felt locked. He had been in Japan less than a year and a half; only half a year remained.

  So little time.

  Nagata answered for him. "Of course not. And think of it this way: Giri demands that you return to America and clear your name with those who beat you in such a cowardly fashion. It will take all of your cunning to devise a plan whereby you satisfy giri without breaking a law and landing in an American prison."

  Matsuo instinctively ran a hand over his right flank where his ribs had been broken. He let his fingers dip into the concavity where the bones had healed improperly.

  "Will you help me plan it?"

  Nagata shook his head slowly. "I will not be going with you."

  The statement so startled Matsuo that he nearly upset the table.

  "But you must."

  "I too must do the bidding of your father, only for me it is nushi-no-on—duty to one's lord. And your father tells me that his estates need my attention. It is from those lands, deeded to your ancestors by the Emperor himself many centuries ago, that your family fortune flows. I am honored by his trust. I must stay."

  Alone in America, Matsuo thought.

  The prospect of crossing the Pacific again was now doubly daunting.

  "You are seventeen now," Nagata was saying. "You will be eighteen not too long after you return to America. You will be a man. You will have to learn to live like one."

  Matsuo took a deep breath and calmed himself. Yes. He could do that. He would have to do that.

  "Your hands are quite bruised," he heard Nagata say in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  Matsuo held them up, examining the blue of the fresh bruises and the yellow of the older ones.

  "I have been studying te at the Shotokan dojo."

  "Ah! The Okinawan empty-hand defense. I have seen it since our return. Most impressive."

  "Shall I show you a kata?"

  Matsuo stood and began going through his shuri-te movements, kicking and thrusting at the air. He worked on his kata daily for hours, making up for the years of experience the other students in the dojo had on him. He was nearing the top of his class. Soon maybe he would be the best. But his kicks and punches had new force and quickness today. He was losing himself in the routine, imagining Mick McGarrigle as his opponent.

  JULY

  SAGAMI BAY

  Matsuo whirled in the air and lashed out at him with a vicious kick. Hiroki drew his head back and closed his eyes against the spray of sand from his brother's foot as it passed within an inch of his jaw.

  Although the setting sun was red and low above the hills and the two of them stood within a stone's throw of the bay, the July heat remained insufferable, hanging in the air like wet cotton. The damp sand in a wide circle around them was scuffed and pocked with their footprints, and here and there even an occasional body print. The beach was deserted but for Hiroki and his brother, both clad only in fundoshi, the air silent but for their harsh, rasping breaths as they circled and clashed and parted and circled again.

  Hiroki's chest burned from the exertion of the sparring exercise. He knew his younger brother had been studying te, but had never dreamed he had progressed this far in so short a time. His kicks, both high and low, were devastatingly accurate, and his hand strikes were flashing blurs in the humid air.

  Had they been engaged in a full contact battle, Hiroki was sure he would have been down by now. He could barely lift his arms and was ready to drop, but he would not allow himself to call a halt. He could not admit defeat at his younger brother's hands.

  To his surprise, it was Matsuo who called the halt. Raising his hands, he dropped to the sand and sat there gasping. His chest heaved except at the concavity on the right where the ribs had been broken.

  "No more, brother! I am too out of breath! You have beaten me again!"

  Hiroki flopped across from him. Matsuo had won. They both knew that. Yet his younger brother seemed content merely with the knowledge. He was not requiring an admission of defeat. Hiroki found that almost incomprehensible.

  "You have improved immensely, Matsuo." If Matsuo could save face for him, let it never be said that he could not repay in kind. "In fact, I doubt very much that there is another shuri-te-ka in all of the world who has learned as fast as you."

  Matsuo bowed his head. "Funikashi-san is a supreme master and teacher. I practice often and have added a personal impetus to my kata."

  “And what is that?"

  "I fight the American boys who beat me. All of them. At once."

  "And do you win?"

  Matsuo smiled fiercely and nodded. "Yes. Every time."

  "It is said that it is unwise to fight in anger. The mind becomes fogged by its heat."

  "The anger is gone," Matsuo said. "All that remains is the need to satisfy giri."

  Hiroki understood. He could almost pity the Americans who were Matsuo's target. Almost.

  He stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles seep away. His sweat was cooling and drying. He felt relaxed and close to his brother.

  "Speaking of America," he said, "I have a special duty to request of you."

  "You need only ask," Matsuo said as he stretched and massaged his own muscles.

  "I want you to watch over Meiko during your stay in America."

  Matsuo's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. How can I—?"

  "Meiko will be going to America after the Enthronement. Like you, she is registered in the class of 1932 at the University near San Francisco."

  Matsuo looked dumbfounded. "Berkeley?"

  "Yes. It is the wish of both fathers. Didn't you know?"

  "Know? Of course I didn't know. How can I know something if nobody tells me!" He was suddenly sitting up bo-straight, his eyes wide as the words tumbled from his lips. "Meiko is going to America? To Berkeley?"

  "Of course. This has long been in the planning."

  "And you approve?"

  Hiroki settled his gaze on the calm blue line of the horizon and sought a share of its steadfastness. "It is the will of
the count. And Father's. I have no say in the matter."

  The thought of his Meiko alone in that land of barbarians was almost too much to bear. She would be chaperoned, of course; one of the count's retainers and his wife would go along and maintain a home for her. Her absence for all that time was bad enough, but the realization that it would be another four years before they could be married, before he could touch her, pillow with her . . .

  He dreamed of wallowing in her innocence for a while before teaching her the special things she had to do to please a man.

  "This must be a terrible burden for you to bear," Matsuo said. "But poor Meiko. She must leave Japan and live over there for four years. She must feel terrible."

  Hiroki was pierced with a sudden pang of guilt. He had never thought about how the prospect of living in America must be affecting Meiko, only of what it was doing to him.

  "But what would you have me do, brother?"

  "Guard her," Hiroki said. "Be the champion of her purity."

  "But surely she would never look at a gaijin."

  "Of course not. But she is young and impressionable. I would not want her to return unduly tainted by Western ways."

  "Like me?"

  Hiroki saw the pain and defensiveness in his brother's eyes. Yes, like you, would have been the honest answer, yet Matsuo had shown himself to be a good and gracious younger brother today. He could certainly be half as gracious.

  "Matsuo," he said levelly, "for all the years you spent in America, you show yourself each day to be as much of a Japan man as anyone who was reared here."

  Hiroki was surprised and gratified at the sight of the tears that sprang into his brother's eyes before he bowed.

  "Katajikenai, my brother. You have made me rich with those words. I shall stay close by Meiko's side throughout her stay in America. She shall return to you as she left: an honorable Japan woman."

  It was Hiroki's turn to bow. When he raised his head, Matsuo was on his feet and running toward the bay.