Also alien to Andy was their live-in maid who, according to Caroline, had been hired by Scott’s employers. Andy liked Fumi the maid a lot. She was smiley, although reserved. Her exemplary diligence ensured that all was constantly in order. He’d grown used to her kindly, quiet presence – it was she who kept him company until his parents got home most days. Her English and French was limited, and his Japanese was flat-out terrible, so they never had grand conversations, but signs and smiles gave meaning to their garbled sentences. It wasn’t an intense love by any means, but he liked her, and was fairly certain she liked him.
So Andy was walking toward his house and Fumi, watching the cherry blossoms in the waving trees. A few thrillingly detached and drifted into the road. He was relishing his walk, because in these past months he was usually running, sporting a swollen face or a dirty torn sweater. Andy’s classmates had turned on him rather quickly. His parents had hired him a private Japanese tutor, but his level was beginner, his confidence nil. He understood some things, was bamboozled by most, and could very rarely express himself adequately. Hard as it was for him to believe, however, he was doing quite well – Japanese is a hard language for a Westerner to learn, and integration, he’d been told, was the best way to learn it. His teachers received him with patience, but children will be children, and a few of those children had decided that he had no place in their country. Andy’s race and language made him a stranger. In Montreal, he, the little bilingual Caucasian boy, had had no notion of discrimination. The concept hadn’t existed, and now he was learning about it the hard way. A gang of schoolchildren made sport of tormenting him – their little chief had declared him an “albino demon”, and, like good little soldiers, they joined the crusade and were rewarded with acceptance by their peers.
It went back to the very beginning of school. At recess, the little ringleader that called himself “Jin” had zeroed in on Andy, flanked by four men-at-arms. Andy was withdrawn from the play yard, observing the fun from a bench. Jin greeted him with a smile and addressed him in Japanese. Andy returned the greeting and the smile. A future friend, perhaps? He was delighted. Jin looked him up and down, sniggering, and began to talk at him, challenging Andy’s limited Japanese. Andy persevered, wanting to do well, taking his time like his tutor had taught him. He felt all that he’d learned slipping away – he was visibly shy, searching for words, pausing for long stretches to try to express himself. The harder he tried, the louder Jin laughed. The others followed suit, laughing in unison without really knowing what was so funny.
Jin engaged him for several more minutes and Andy kept trying. After a while, Jin pointed to the baptismal bracelet on Andy’s wrist. He motioned for Andy to show it to him, and Andy obligingly and naively removed it and passed it to his new “friend”. Jin fastened it around his wrist and looked at his friends triumphantly. They continued to snigger and go on in Japanese. Andy held out his hand from the bracelet. Jin looked at him, pointed to the bracelet, and then pointed to himself – the bracelet, as far as he was concerned was his from now on. Andy finally clued in and began to shake his head, but Jin acted as though Andy didn’t exist. Andy darted forward to try to take the bracelet back, but Jin kicked him in the stomach. Andy crumpled to the ground, winded, clutching his throbbing midsection.
His ears were ringing with pain mixed with laughs, yells and incomprehensible Japanese howls. Jin knelt next to Andy and bent low to whisper in his ear:
“You think you can fight me, albino? This is the beginning for you!”
This time, Andy understood perfectly, but he was paralyzed. Jin motioned to the others to disperse and they jogged back to the playground… with the bracelet. Andy remained on the ground, trying to collect his thoughts, hearing the sniggers fade away.
Finally, he stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach. The kids were returning to class, including the ones who’d beaten him up. He sat himself on the bench where he’d been before Jin had approached him and tried to calm himself down. He stayed there for a long time, holding his stomach, surprising himself by not crying. He decided that class was done for him, for the day, and left the school grounds to wander the neighbourhood. He couldn’t return home until the usual time – there would be too many questions that he didn’t want to answer, an experience he had no interest in reliving.
Things only got worse from there. Jin and his friends targeted him day after day. He had no idea how to fight back, so he chose fear, and cowered before them. Once, he’d tried to settle it all by talking to Jin and attempting to form a truce – thirty seconds later his pocket money was gone and he’d been punched in the face. Of course, he wasn’t beaten up every single day – he could go days unbothered and then suddenly, as soon as he’d stopped watching over his shoulder, they were there, waiting behind a tree or sneaking up from behind him. Sometimes they pursued him by chasing him all the way home. To Jin, it was a game.
It wasn’t only Andy’s pain that amused him; it was his fear as well. He cultivated it, the fear, because it made him powerful, and all he wanted was power. Andy couldn’t know this, but he was the outlet for Jin’s own pent-up fear and rage. Crushing Andy in front of his cronies gave him strength. What had begun with a single kick from a single boy had blossomed into a catalogue of aggressions from anybody who wanted “in”. What Andy didn’t have was martial arts, an entrenched component of Asian culture. Most boys of his age practiced diligently, particularly karate. In Japan, martial arts was a part of life, increasingly a negative part for some.
The problem was that Andy hadn’t grown up in this culture. He had no martial arts skills and no means of reacting efficiently against the aggressions of the little louts. Moreover, he wasn’t an aggressive kid to begin with, whereas his attackers spent their free time in their neighbourhood dojos. So Jin’s plan was definitively successful: Andy was terrorized, and help was out of the question, because talking would only bring about repercussions. The students saw what Andy was living through, but their pity was outweigh by relief that it was someone else. They simply turned the other cheek. They stole from him, tore his clothes, threatened and attacked. It was all so irregular that he could never relax when he was out of his house. He lost all motivation at school and his academic performance suffered. He paid no attention in class, because nothing else mattered. His own survival demanded every speck of attention. Jin’s words had come true – his life was hell. It was a game of cat and mouse. He was the mouse.
Yogi was on his way home, backpack slung over his shoulder, when the little white kid ran by once again, a gang of kids on his heel, led by Jin. It made Yogi laugh, to see these idiots who played so tough, creating gangs and fancying themselves dangerous, showing off their simple karate techniques. Yogi knew they were all completely ignorant. None of them had any real skills. Their technique itself was limited, not to mention their nonexistent speed and coordination. All they’d “mastered” was a few superficial techniques. As for the internal aspect – that escaped them completely, and this made them weak in his eyes. Yogi knew he could knock them over like a chopstick in a bowl of rice. For Yogi was the son of Sensei Mick Tanaka, the reputed and respected grand master of the region. He’d run a dojo for years and his name was synonymous with truth and efficiency. His advanced students were solid characters that trained in the most traditional way. Sensei Tanaka’s methods sought to build the whole individual, to impart values like respect, introspection, compassion, humility. His pupils were uniformly good people, but they were most famous for being formidable and merciless warriors in combat. They were solid as rocks and feared by students of other dojos.
Yogi had trained from a young age under his father’s benevolent but strict tutelage. Karate was a part of his upbringing, as were all its values. His father had trained him to be fierce, but also to be aware of his power, and to realize that great power was dangerous. Yogi had been pushed as hard as any other pupils and pushed himself harder to win the respect of the older, bigger, more experienced kids. At as young as se
ven years old, Yogi Tanaka had been a formidable warrior, winning several karate championships in his age group, but he was always calm, kind and compassionate. He often went unnoticed in a group, but his reputation was widely known. He was the pride of his neighbourhood and everybody loved him. He inspired many people in the district.
Of course Yogi had noticed the poor little kid running from Jin, but he’d never intervened. According to his philosophy, it was each person’s responsibility to pass their own tests. Surely, he would eventually decide to face Jin on his own, to meet his destiny and brave his adversaries – but, no. Time after time, Yogi watched him running for his life, often falling short and succumbing to many fists and feet. It was a wretched spectacle and it depressed him. He realized the boy was crippled, lost and alone against this band of honourless morons. Making matters worse, the little Western boy clearly didn’t have a single defensive instinct. He absorbed the attacks instead of resisting them. He could tap into the Japanese mindset. And today, the same thing was about to unfold in front of him as he walked to his father’s dojo.
Today was stick day. Jin and his gang had collected cherry branches and were hitting, poking, anything that got a reaction from the wriggling thing in the centre. This time, Yogi had seen enough. In a calm, firm voice, he called toward them:
“Enough! Leave him! Can’t you see he can’t defend himself?”
Jin turned to stare at Yogi. Of course he knew who he was and what he was capable of. Arrogantly, he responded, “None of your business, keep walking!”
Yogi advanced with a piercing glare and a slow, steady step. “Don’t you feel cowardly, attacking someone with a whole gang behind you?”
“Hey, I thought you were Japanese! What are you doing, defending the albino demon?”
“I told you, Jin, to leave him alone!”
Jin laughed shrilly and arrogantly and more than a little nervously. He knew what Yogi could do to him, of course, but more than that, he could lose face in front of his followers. He hadn’t planned for an encounter like this, and now Yogi Tanaka was less than a metre away, and Jin was in a tough spot.
“You can’t tell me what to do! I’m the boss, and I decide what happens to the albino demon, you see!?”
Yogi darted forward and pulled Andy from the circle. Jin swung a hook that Yogi blocked easily with his left forearm, followed by a punch in the stomach with his right fist. Jin went down. His comrades fled. Yogi took Andy by the scruff of his neck and led him away from the farce.
“Don’t you ever defend yourself?”
Andy was still in shock. He thanked him.
“You’re welcome. I’m Yogi.”
“I… I know. I’m Andy.”
Yogi smiled. “Now we both know.”
The two friends walked together until their paths diverged, getting acquainted as the sun set on a spray of cherry blossoms.
Things changed for Andy at that moment. Yogi became his big brother, of sorts, and they became friends. Japan was beginning to look promising.
CHAPTER 4
It was a grey morning (as usual). When Andy awoke, rain was splashing over his windowpane. He ate maman’s breakfast at the table, as usual. His daddy was already seated and reading the paper, dressed for work, as always. Scott mentioned that he would fix Andy’s broken bicycle – the front wheel was bent due to Andy’s carelessness, and he promised to pay more attention in the future. Pleased, Scott smiled and returned to the paper. When the time came, Andy and Scott left together to start their day. As he walked away, Scott revived the engine.
Suddenly, a blast rang through the street. Andy turned back. A black sports car with tinted windows had rolled up in front of the family home. A machine gun spray. Two or three bursts and a flame licking out of the car. Andy’s father absorbed it all before crumpling onto the ground. The car squealed away, the smell of burnt rubber lingering in the air. Andy was paralyzed, or he refused to move, because something so horrific simply couldn’t be real. The car was utterly peppered with bullets, windows shattered. The worst of it, the bleeding mass lying in the entrance, had been his father only a few seconds ago. He was standing there, staring at what was left of his father’s head. Blood flowed down the street in red trickles like lava. Blood, head, screams. Blood head screams. Like a cobra, the Yakuza had struck.
* * *
In dying, Scott knocked Andy’s life wildly off course. The Yakuza had managed to hit Andy’s childhood as well. He and Caroline returned to Montreal after burying Scott in San Francisco, his birthplace. The funeral was, naturally, somber, with plenty of mourners attesting to the level of respect and appreciation Scott had earned in every facet of life. Through the years, Andy’s memories of his father dissipated until the man he had adored, and who had adored him, was only a vague imprint over his earliest years. It made him sad, but it let him get on with his life. However, there was a wound buried deep within him, and it had never healed properly. Andy channelled everything into his studies, coming to excel in every field.
It all came together when Andy got his masters in political science. His theses had hardly gone unnoticed and his future employers had been tracking his evolution for a while. His future was decided before he knew it. One night, while Andy was bussing tables, a furtive type from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service recruited him right then and there. Andy burned with a desire to make a difference, protect his country, and, above all, seriously damage the bastards that had stolen his childhood and his father. He didn’t have to reflect for long. Soon, he was a first-class agent, and those who watched him from the shadows nodded with the satisfaction of one whose prediction has come true.
Andy lived his life and, at the dawn of his fifties, his flame for justice had blown out. The filth he’d been hunting all his life were almost never sentenced and stopped. Oh, a few were taken, and some were killed, but the architects of criminality pulled through cheaply. It was a symptom of a rights-driven society: the barest hint of a reasonable doubt was enough to get you out. He concluded that the only ones who were really advantaged were the types who would kill a man in cold blood while his son watched. His work never flagged, but in place of his flame of justice burned a flame of rage. He was hopeless, which made him listless. When his superior called him one day into his office, there was no notion of a turning point in his head. He went in and shut the door behind him.
“What can I do for you, James?”
James Kantan, chief of undercover operations, had over 30 years of field experience, during which time he’d called plenty people into his office. However, there was something in his face that gave Andy pause.
“Ok, give it to me. It’s because of the Forzatelli case, isn’t it?” James just sat there, staring. “Shit, are you going to tell me or shall we just stand here all day?”
“It’s like this, Andy… listen. I don't know what shitload of problems you got into again, but there’s CIA people in Montreal, and they want to see you. They ‘demanded your presence’.”
Andy snorted with laughter and plopped himself into an armchair.
“Listen, James, you know I’m seeing a snitch tonight. The meeting’s been planned for days and this jackass is directly connected to Reiki. He’s gotten away twice – twice! – but if this guy talks, there’s several firearm caches in it for us. So, it’s too bad they didn’t notify me in advance. Guess they’ll just have to go fuck themselves.”
“Yeah, but here’s the problem... I don't have a choice so you don’t have a choice! I don’t know what they want, they wouldn’t tell me. I insisted and they told me to fuck myself, sort of. The orders came from a high place. I was told that you had to go and you will go. It’s none of my business anyway, you’re the one they want, you take it up with them tonight, see!?”
“Goddammit James, we’re in deep shit, do you hear me!? Do you want me to work the case or—”
“You’re going, and that’s it! Here’s the address, be there at twenty-hundred, do NOT keep them waiting. Be there!”
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Andy grabbed the post-it and grumbled out of the office.
The chicken scratch on the yellow post-it led to an abandoned slaughterhouse in Montreal’s eastern outskirts. The building was a huge brown cube with a few little iron-barred windows. Train tracks, also abandoned, ran behind the complex. Long grasses hugged the detritus strewn everywhere. A “For Sale” sign was tacked next to the main doors. Andy parked in front and took it in, looking for cars that might have belonged to these new friends, but there were none. All was deserted. What kind of mouthbreather would buy a place like this? It was begging for a wrecking ball. The main door was barred. In the darkness, he circled the building through the long grass and found a door, which was open, although behind it was nothing but a black abyss. Without questioning, he entered.
It was pitch dark inside, with the exception of a few wisps of light from the tiny windows. It smelled like mould. The place was vast and Andy could make out a glass-paned window that might have been the reception area. Everything was concrete, except for a giant refrigerator door a few steps away. He pulled at it – must have been full of carcasses in its day – and it gave. Deep inside, five or six blobs sat around a table (no carcasses, thankfully). The little lamp cast more shadows than light. The silence was broken by a serious, composed voice:
“Good evening, Mr. Bane. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Good evening. As a conference room, I will admit this is pretty original.
The man who had addressed him rose and approached, wearing a half-smile. He was tall and, like his moustache, thin and grey. Andy walked forward, both to extend his hand and to get a sense of the rest of the men, of which there were seven. All seemed older than him, and they watched without speaking.
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