He was poised to deliver a disquisition, but Deborah interrupted him tactfully. “Shall we take this inside, Mr. Swilley? It’s fascinating, of course, but I’m sure Nakahatchi sensei is waiting for us.” Her smile paused on me briefly as she scanned our little group. “And I’m sure we’d like to escape this heat.”
“Certainly,” Swilley assented with no change of tone. Maybe dry-and-neglected was the only tone he had.
Deborah reached for the door, but T’ang Wen forestalled her, bowing each of us inside ahead of him.
The air of the dojo was a relief—cooled and dim, almost comforting. If I’d been that easily comforted, I might’ve relaxed a bit. But nearly audible mental voices insisted persistently that I’d entered the presence of threats I couldn’t identify or defuse. That lives were on the line somehow.
Hideo Komatori awaited us at the foot of the stairs. He was formally dressed in a dark suit and understated tie which made him look like a pallbearer. Vaguely I wondered what that meant. If there were no accidents in Oriental manners, what message did Komatori mean to convey? For that matter, what did Hong and T’ang imply with their silks?
I wasn’t qualified to guess. Certainly Hideo’s smile seemed genuine. Ignoring Swilley, Deborah, and me, he bowed deeply to Hong—and almost as deeply to T’ang. “Sifu Hong,” he said, “T’ang-san, I am honored to welcome you. We’ve desired this day for a long time, but didn’t know how to bring it about. For that we’re indebted to Brew-san.”
Neither Hong or T’ang replied, but Hong gave Komatori a bow that looked adequately respectful. T’ang also bowed, although he couldn’t match his master’s reserve or grace.
Then Hideo turned his attention to the rest of us. He bowed to me as he had to T’ang, shook Deborah’s hand, expressed gratitude for Carliss Swilley’s presence—the perfect host. “My master is waiting.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Will you join him?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Swilley announced. I detected a note of peevishness in his voice. Maybe he thought he deserved more “face” than he’d been given.
Confirming my impression, he started to talk as soon as Komatori approached the stairs. “As I was saying, the later decades of the eighteenth century were a time when such martial artifacts as Leung Len Kwai’s Wing Chun chops would have been especially desirable. The martial arts in general, and Wing Chun in particular, played a significant political role during the first century of the Qing dynasty. They were considered subversive in the hands of the dynasty’s opponents, and strenuous efforts were made to suppress them. For that reason, such artifacts as Leung Len Kwai’s chops were uniquely valuable. They represented knowledge and traditions precious to the dynasty’s opponents. Historically, the time was ripe for copies of all kinds. A skilled reproduction from that period would have considerable value of its own, regardless of its provenance.”
He went on in that vein, throwing out references to “literati art,” hanging scrolls, and bamboo carving—claiming authority with both hands—but I stopped listening. Without much effort, I maneuvered us so that Deborah and I brought up the rear of the group. Giving her hand a quick squeeze, I bent down to whisper in her ear, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
She looked at me quickly. “Why?”
“I can’t explain it,” I admitted. “Just a hunch.”
She aimed a luminous smile into my heart. “Carliss has that effect on people,” she breathed. “I had to ride with him all the way here. Until I saw you, I wanted to step in front of a truck.”
My throat went dry as her breath kissed my check. I swallowed hard. “That’s not it. It began before I met him.”
Now she frowned. “Don’t you trust Mr. Nakahatchi?”
I shrugged helplessly.
She gave me a squeeze of her own. “Let’s see what happens.”
I didn’t have anything better to suggest. Hong could probably handle an entire roomful of thugs, if it came to that. And Nakahatchi had no discernible reason to turn this appraisal into a battlefield.
But that didn’t reassure me. Whatever the danger was, it didn’t come from Nakahatchi. Or from anyone at Essential Shotokan.
At the top of the stairs, we moved toward the meeting room. The door was open, and I noticed that Lacone hadn’t yet installed any of the bolts I’d requested. The display was visible, but I couldn’t see anyone inside until Komatori bowed us through the doorway. Then I spotted Nakahatchi.
Like his senior student, he baffled my expectations. Since Komatori was wearing a business suit, I’d assumed that Nakahatchi would do the same. Instead, however, he had on an elaborate Oriental outfit I could hardly describe. A brocade bathrobe—a kimono—with gold stitching and too many colors draped his torso, closed at the waist by a wide white sash fastened in a knot that must’ve taken him a week to tie. Below the bathrobe he wore voluminous black pantaloons like culottes on steroids. White socks and cotton sandals peeked out under his pant legs.
Apparently this ensemble was the Japanese equivalent of a morning suit, or maybe even a tux. By rights, he should’ve looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. Instead he seemed to emanate grave dignity. His costume had a stately processional quality that made the rest of us look shallow, as if we’d joined a funeral cortege after way too many beers.
As an exercise in Oriental manners, it made my skin crawl. I felt sure that Hong wouldn’t appreciate it.
Like Komatori downstairs, Nakahatchi began by concentrating exclusively on Hong and T’ang. With a bow as stylized as his garb, he said, “Sifu Hong, respected T’ang, please be welcome in my small home. Your presence does me great honor.” The seams on either side of his mouth looked deeper than they had the last time I’d seen him, cut into his cheeks by care. “It fulfills one of my most cherished desires.”
Hong bowed in return, but he didn’t fool me. I could feel anger fume off his skin, so hot it boiled the air. As unobtrusively as I could, I shifted Deborah out of the way, moved closer to him.
“Nakahatchi, you shame me,” he replied stiffly. “I was not invited to a formal occasion. I was asked to consider the authenticity of the chops. It is offensive—”
“Ah, forgive me,” Nakahatchi put in. His air of unrelieved mourning robbed the interruption of rudeness. “That was not my intent. I have been very clumsy.”
He took a small step forward, lowered his voice. “It is my wife, Sifu Hong. Mitsuku-san is entranced with pleasure at the thought of your visit. She instructs me to invite you to take tea with us when the matter of this appraisal is concluded. And nothing would satisfy her but that I must show my respect as such things are done in Japan, among the old families. I protested that surely you would wish to make your own preparations. But she would have none of it. ‘Sifu Hong,’ she insisted, ‘does quite enough by consenting to visit. No further effort is required of him.’ At last it became clear to me that I must comply with her wishes.
“The fault is mine entirely if I have erred.”
Again he bowed as if he were offering the back of his neck to a blade.
A small sigh of relief escaped me. Halfway through Nakahatchi’s speech, I felt Hong’s emotional temperature drop. Some arcane issue of “face” had been resolved. When Nakahatchi bowed, Hong did the same. Then he offered, “A good wife is a great treasure. They ask much of those who hold them, as all treasures do.” He sounded almost genial. “Put my protest from your mind. I spoke in ignorance. T’ang Wen and I will take tea with you.”
T’ang’s face wore a congested expression, but he kept his mouth shut. Which was a good thing. If he’d started trouble now, I might’ve punched him.
Deborah gave me a tentative smile, like she didn’t quite grasp what had just happened.
“You are very gracious,” Nakahatchi murmured in response.
On cue, Komatori stepped forward. “Sensei, let me introduce Ms. Deborah Messenger, who represents Watchdog Insurance. Also Mr. Carliss Swilley, who is widely considered an authority on Chinese antiques. Mr. Axbrewder you’ve met. It was h
e who persuaded Sifu Hong to join us.
“Ms. Messenger, Mr. Swilley, Mr. Axbrewder, this is my master, Sihan Nakahatchi.”
I took a few deep breaths while Nakahatchi shook hands all around. Swilley had surprised me by containing himself this long. He’d exhausted his patience, however. As he put his limp hand in Nakahatchi’s, he said, “I am an authority, sir. I recognize Leung Len Kwai’s work when I see it. And if your chops were carved by someone else, I should be able to date them quite accurately. That, as you know, is critical to determining their value. A more recent copy can’t compare with an eighteenth-century reproduction, especially if the workmanship suggests an authorized reproduction.
“There are several crucial questions. First—”
Deborah rolled her eyes at me, then interposed herself smoothly between Swilley and Nakahatchi. “The chops are here, Mr. Swilley.” Tucking her hand under his arm, she drew him toward the case. “Why don’t you explain while we look at them? That will help the rest of us understand.”
Apparently he didn’t care who he talked to, as long as he got to talk. Still lecturing, he approached the display. Komatori opened it for him, then withdrew in my direction.
For a moment Hong held back. Maybe he didn’t want to encroach on Swilley’s expertise. Or maybe he just couldn’t stand Swilley’s manner. But Nakahatchi urged him to go ahead with his own examination. Followed by T’ang, they joined Deborah and Swilley at the case.
I stayed where I was. I wouldn’t learn anything by watching other people peer at ivory carvings. And I didn’t enjoy the unconscious insult of Swilley’s pedantry, his implicit assumption that Hong and Nakahatchi knew nothing. He could expatiate on “the Qianlong emperor’s eulogy” and “the application of pidiao techniques to ivory during the Qing dynasty” until his jaw broke, and it would still be rude.
Komatori approached me. The pale scar cutting across his eyebrow into his left cheek gave his smile an ironic cast. “You’ve done us a considerable service, Brew-san,” he stated softly. “My master and Sifu Hong may finally be able to dispel some of their differences.”
“Over tea?” I asked, just to keep him talking.
“Yes,” he assented. “The occasion will be highly ceremonial. If you were present, you might find it too”—he considered adjectives briefly—“indirect to be useful. But it gives great face. I think Mitsuku-san is right. Sifu Hong will understand that any disagreement about the chops doesn’t indicate disrespect.”
“So why aren’t you all dressed up?” I meant, like Nakahatchi.
He smiled more broadly. “Because I was born in this country, Brew-san. And my ancestors weren’t aristocrats. My family has remained Japanese in many ways, but our traditions don’t include formal aristocratic tea ceremonies. I don’t own the right clothes. This”—he indicated his suit—“is the best I can do.”
“Well, you’ve got me beat, at any rate,” I muttered. “It’s a good thing I’m not invited.” I was sincere about that. An hour kneeling at a low table while I struggled not to use the wrong chopstick would’ve ruptured something. “I’m not that pretty on my good days.”
Komatori didn’t respond directly. Without any particular transition, he announced, “My master would like to speak with you later. Perhaps after lunch?”
That surprised me. “What about?”
Hideo didn’t offer me any help. “He’ll tell you.”
For the second time my throat went dry, like I’d swallowed a lump of alum. New tension ran along my nerves. I had the sudden impression that something big had opened ahead of me, just out of sight. Something personal—
My instincts must’ve been working overtime. Or else I was so knotted up about Hong that I’d started flinching at shadows.
I forced moisture back into my mouth. “After lunch is good,” I said, nearly croaking. I hadn’t made any specific plans. “I’ll be glad to talk to him.”
Komatori bowed as if I’d granted a significant request.
Meanwhile Swilley continued hectoring his unfortunate audience. He’d produced a loupe which he used to scrutinize several of the chops from all sides, while he went on and on about secret artist’s marks and scientific means of dating ivory. As far as I could tell, he hardly paused for breath. Maybe having a voice that dry enabled him to inhale through his ears.
At his side, Deborah listened and nodded, feigning attention.
Hong had examined a couple of the chops, primarily by rubbing them with his fingers. Then he withdrew as if he didn’t want to get in Swilley’s way. His face held no more expression than a clay pot. In contrast, T’ang watched Swilley like he expected the appraiser to grab a handful of chops and bolt.
From a respectful distance, Nakahatchi presided over the display. The sheer artificiality of his attire seemed to emphasize the sorrows ingrained in his features. He looked like a man with more bereavements than he could name.
The more I saw of him, the more difficulty I had imagining him as a martial artist. He looked like Death’s Gatekeeper, immersed in the griefs of those who passed through his portal.
Abruptly Swilley put down the chop he’d been peering at, lowered his loupe, and turned around.
“Ms. Messenger. Mr. Nakahatchi.” His voice held a tremor I hadn’t heard before—excitement or alarm, I couldn’t tell which. “There’s no doubt. Other experts will agree with me. The workmanship is unmistakable. And the particular way that the ivory has aged is right.”
He paused as if he needed to gather his courage. Then he announced, “The chops are genuine. They were carved by Leung Len Kwai.”
Oh, shit. My heart kicked into a faster beat. Genuine? That sure as hell raised the stakes. For me, for Watchdog and Lacone. Definitely for Nakahatchi. And for Hong—
Somehow Swilley’s pronouncement multiplied the danger I’d put Hong in. Suddenly the floor around him was littered with land mines, metaphorically speaking, and I didn’t know where any of them were.
Deborah’s eyes widened at the news. T’ang looked hard at his master, expecting some reaction, but Hong remained expressionless, silent. Nakahatchi bowed his head like a man in prayer.
Komatori glanced at me and shrugged discreetly. I guess he didn’t know where the mines were either.
“I would be reluctant to assign a specific value,” Swilley continued, “without consulting my sources.” Now that he’d taken the plunge, his voice grew steadier. “And Mr. Hong may have relevant information which would clarify an important point.”
Shifting to face Hong, he asked, “Do you know if this collection is complete, sir?”
After a moment Hong nodded ambiguously.
Did that mean, Yes, I know, or, Yes, it’s complete? I wanted to ask, but Swilley didn’t give me a chance.
“On that basis,” he proclaimed like a desert wind, “I feel confident in suggesting that a complete set of this provenance cannot be worth less than one million dollars.” He looked like he wanted to chortle. “Beyond question. Possibly more.
“Congratulations, sir,” he finished, addressing Nakahatchi. “You are now a rich man.”
Damnation. Killing Bernie probably seemed trivial to a man who aimed to get his hands on that much loot.
At the case, Deborah appeared to shake herself out of a daze. “Mr. Nakahatchi,” she began earnestly, “I recognize that this may not be entirely good news. When Mr. Swilley is ready to name a precise figure”—she looked toward the appraiser—“by tomorrow if possible?”
“By three o’clock today,” Swilley answered with a smug smile. “No later.”
Nakahatchi raised his head. Whatever he’d felt a moment ago was hidden now. He might’ve been ecstatic, suicidal, or merely confused, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
Deborah nodded reluctantly. “When we get a figure,” she continued to Nakahatchi, “we’ll consult with Mr. Lacone and the IAMA. And our home offices, of course. We’ll see what we can work out. I’ll do everything possible to keep the insurance within your means. But th
at will take at least a couple of days.
“In the meantime”—she pulled in a deep breath—“I assure you that you’re covered. Your policy, and the policy on Martial America, will protect you until we’re ready to discuss new terms.”
Nakahatchi should’ve been glad to hear that. A couple of days would give Lacone time to get serious about security. But Deborah’s promise didn’t seem to affect him. Apparently he’d raised stoicism to the level of an art form. Or else he just didn’t care.
That I did not believe.
“You are most kind, Ms. Messenger,” he said the same way he might’ve thanked her for mailing a letter. “We will await further discussion.” Then he turned to Hong and bowed.
“Sifu, may I inquire if you are satisfied with your own inspection?”
“I am, sensei,” Hong replied quietly. “No more need be said.”
His answering bow looked just a touch deeper than the one he’d given Nakahatchi earlier.
The intensity on T’ang Wen’s face resembled shock. But he effaced it quickly. Good disciple that he was, he didn’t do or say anything to undermine his master, regardless of his own feelings.
Nevertheless he gave me the sudden impression that he knew where at least some of the mines were.
“Then,” Nakahatchi continued with another bow, “I thank you for your time and attention in this matter, Mr. Swilley.”
Swilley nodded back like he didn’t think that an ordinary old bow did him justice.
Next Nakahatchi bowed to Deborah. “Ms. Messenger, when you are ready you will speak with Hideo-san.”
“Of course, sensei.” She used his title like she couldn’t help it.
I knew how she felt. Despite his getup, and his diffidence, he commanded respect.
“Sifu,” he went on, “will you now enter my humble dwelling? You will do my dear wife great honor if you and the esteemed T’ang Wen will take tea with us.”
“It is we who are honored, sensei,” Hong replied with an air of liturgical gravity. “We will join you with pleasure.”
The fact that neither of them let Swilley’s pronouncement affect their courtesies did nothing to ease my panic. I couldn’t match them. Inside I reeled with the sensation that at least one of them had already stepped on a mine and blown himself to bits. I just didn’t know how or why—or when the damage would show.
The Man Who Fought Alone Page 38