by Alan Russell
Their ammunition spent, the two men offered grins and nods for one another. Seed-spitting contests, thought Am, the new diplomatic frontier. He motioned for Hiroshi to sit atop the boulder, but to no avail. It is virtually impossible to out-polite the Japanese.
“That place is taken,” said the Fat Innkeeper.
“I was about to leave,” said Am.
“Your work went well?”
Am wasn’t sure if there was any facetiousness in the inquiry. Most American bosses wouldn’t take kindly to an underling’s retreat into the brush, but Hiroshi seemed genuinely interested.
“I was trying to get an idea of how Dr. Kingsbury spent his time at the Hotel,” said Am. “It is good to get…”
Should he say, “far from the madding crowd”? Would Hiroshi understand? Sharon had emphasized how very different Japanese and American upbringing was. In America youthful individualism is extolled, whereas in Japan children are taught that success is a group endeavor.
“… away to think,” said Am, compromising his response.
“Yes,” said Hiroshi. “This is a good thinking rock, isn’t it?”
They both nodded—or was it bowed?—again.
“Did Dr. Kingsbury have a family?” asked Hiroshi.
“No,” said Am.
The news apparently bothered Hiroshi. “No one?”
Am shook his head. “His parents are deceased, and he had no siblings. He was married once, but that was a long time ago and there were no children.”
“That is not good.” The Fat Innkeeper was insistent. “Bad shiryoo.”
“What?”
“Shiryoo means the spirit of someone who has just died. The family takes care of the shiryoo. They…”
He stretched for the word. “… appease it.”
“What happens,” asked Am, “if the shiryoo isn’t appeased?”
“We have a word called gaki. It is a wandering spirit stuck between the worlds of the living and the dead. It is hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“Hungry for someone to care, for someone to set it free.”
It was refreshing to hear someone who was Japanese talking about ghosts. The Japanese are usually referenced to automobiles, or electronics, or trade. But some of them, at least, trafficked in spirits.
“There are companies in Japan,” said Hiroshi, “which have mass tombs for their workers and families. They don’t want them to feel lonely after they die.”
That, thought Am, sounded more Japanese. Most Americans would sooner share a social disease than they would a tomb, especially one housing their co-workers.
“I think,” said Am, “that’s one company benefit you don’t have to worry about offering here.”
Hiroshi nodded, but it was apparent he wasn’t really listening. “It is good you are concerned about this man,” he said. “His shiryoo should be delivered from the concerns of this world. Unless that is done, there is the threat of tatari— curses.”
“Do you really think that?” asked Am.
The Fat Innkeeper looked away, embarrassed. “Does it matter?” he asked. “It is traditional to think in such ways, but now traditions are forgotten.”
“Maybe that explains our brave new world,” said Am. “More wandering spirits and more curses.”
Hiroshi didn’t smile. “In my country we have Obon,” he said, “a Festival of the Dead. But it is not what it was. Everyone wants to be a mobo or moga, a modern boy and girl.”
“What about you?”
Hiroshi reddened slightly and looked uncomfortable. It was clearly not pleasurable for him to talk about some matters, but he still apparently felt the need to talk. Am knew from Sharon that the Japanese favored indirect speech, quite in contrast to American “straight talk.” One Japanese anthropologist had written a paper on how candid speech disturbed the Japanese, and had concluded with a footnote confessing that even writing about it made him feel uncomfortable.
“Sometimes I wonder if I have become a total stranger,” he said, “a mattaku tanin ni natta—an outsider. I find myself thinking in English because in Japanese it is difficult to imagine the thoughts I have been having. Hideki Yukawa won the Nobel Prize in physics. He said that when he thought about physics, he thought in English. I understand that.”
“Did you want to come here?” asked Am.
A slight shrug. “It was necessary. From here I can see better over there.”
Neither one of them said anything for a minute or two. Am thought about his words. They were similar to the sentiments expressed by the near-dead. Having almost died had changed their thinking. They said they understood things better now. “Be positive,” Kingsbury had said. Words for life, or words for death?
“I have to go look after my dead man,” said Am.
“In Japanese, samurai means ‘one who serves,’ “ said Hiroshi.
The translation, thought Am, fit him only too well.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Hotel limo had picked up Bradford (his real name was Brad, but he had added the “ford” because he thought that was more classy) and his girlfriend Cleopatra (she herself preferred to be called Cleo, but Bradford liked her full name) at the airport. The driver, Bradford thought approvingly, knew his stuff. He’d opened the doors for them, addressed them as “madam” and “sir,” and been appropriately obsequious. There had been a complimentary split of champagne iced and waiting for them. Bradford had opened the bottle, looked Cleo romantically in the eye, and had poured. When they clinked glasses, he said, “To us.” The words had the proper effect. Her eyes went soft and stupid, and her brain clicked off. She was sure she was in love. That would make matters much easier for him.
Going with him to the Hotel was her declaration of independence. And it was his route to independence. Her old man was the only obstacle between Bradford and money. Mack Harris had made a fortune in his Arizona trucking business. The only thing that mattered to Mack other than money was his daughter. It figured that Mack was the one who had insisted she be named Cleopatra. She was his little princess.
Bradford Beck was similar to Mack in that he also loved money, but he didn’t like having to work for it. He had become a stockbroker, not because he had any enthusiasm for the trade, but because the market was something rich people liked to diddle with. When Bradford was at the country club he always had a line of patter that the members liked. He knew how to dress their dress and talk their talk. He wanted in on their fraternity, had assiduously scouted out the moneyed set. He knew their holdings like a sports fanatic knows batting averages. Cleo Harris was the catch he had been looking for. No siblings, no mother, nothing between her and a fortune except for a red-necked, greasy-handed father.
Bradford had done his best to charm her old man. He had been attentive and polite, had pretended interest in his words (what few of them had been thrown his way), and yet the simian had made it clear he didn’t approve of Bradford.
Screw him. After they got married, Daddy Warbucks would still want to please his little darling. He’d cough up for a seven-figure house, and that would be for starters. And if Bradford could stomach his spoiled baby for a few years, the payoffs would only get better and better.
“Just you, and me, and the beach, darling,” he said. “La Jolla, here we come.”
The damn Hotel California wasn’t cheap, but in order to make money, you had to spend money. It was Bradford’s way of priming the pump. She would see that Daddy wasn’t the only one who could protect her, or give her the best. And he could entertain in ways that Daddy couldn’t. She’d probably be asking him to marry her. They had all but made their eloping official.
“La Jolla,” she whispered, closing her eyes and kissing him.
He closed his eyes and kissed her. He preferred it that way. Bradford didn’t have to look at her, could see visions of dollars instead of a slightly overweight bleached blonde. She looked more like a million others than a million dollars, but there were those hidden assets, those wonderful hid
den assets.
“The Hotel California,” he said. “They were booked up, but I was able to convince a reservationist that it was our special occasion.”
Cleo cooed at his masterful manner. He figured the Hotel was perfect. That’s where the gentry went. All of Cleo’s rich friends had practically grown up there, had escaped Arizona’s summer heat by going to the San Diego coast. But not Cleo. Her father had always shipped her off to the East Coast for her summers, had sent her off to his sister for some “womanly influence.” Cleo’s mother had died when she was young. Wasn’t that a shame?
“I hear it’s wonderful there,” she said.
At the prices they charge, thought Bradford, it better be. But it should be the culminating touch. It would demonstrate his pedigree, his good taste. Cleo was used to the best. She would naturally compare him with Daddy, and he wasn’t going to fall short. The stay was already choreographed in his mind—the attentive bellmen, the subservient room-service waiters, the glad-handing maitre d’, the watchful doorman. He would be a showman, surprise her with goodies and treats, provide her with the best time in her life. He’d give her irresistable romance. And then he’d be rich. God, he’d be rich.
Buoyed by bubbly, the thirteen-mile ride from San Diego’s Lindbergh Field (one of the few airports that is actually located downtown and not in some suburb) went quickly. When Cleo caught sight of the Hotel, she couldn’t find enough superlatives. Look at the ocean! And the gardens! And the gazebo! Everything so perfect! She could hardly contain her excitement. The last time Cleo had felt like this was when she was a little girl and her daddy had taken her to Disneyland. She leaned over and kissed Bradford. “Thank you,” she said. No one else had ever treated her this way. In high school she had only had three dates, two if you didn’t count the senior prom, and a friend had set her up for that. Cleo felt grown up now, a lady. And she had her knight in shining armor, her love.
The limo pulled up to the front of the Hotel, glided to a stop in front of the towering palms and the waving flags. The driver was out in a flash, had their doors opened and their luggage on the curb in double time. He said he hoped the ride had been comfortable, and was sure they would enjoy their stay. A bellman, he informed them, would be taking their luggage to the front desk. The driver said all of this in mellifluous and practiced tones, addressing them as if they were royalty. Bradford momentarily debated whether the performance was worth a ten spot or a twenty, and settled for a ten on top and George Washington underneath. He folded the bills so that the driver only knew he was getting Hamilton and a friend, which got them several more bows and expressions of gratitude than if he’d merely handed over the tenner.
Cleo acted as if she had died and gone to heaven. She kept pulling at Bradford’s arm. The old Hotel did have a lot of charm, he had to admit. He’d heard the Nips had bought the place a few months back. That had stirred up a hornet’s nest, but they had made a bunch of promises that they weren’t going to tamper with the “Hotel’s unique ambience.” The new ownership had said they were actually going to improve operations, make the place “run more efficiently.” That sounded just fine to Bradford. He wanted everything chop-chop, and if the Japs could deliver that, fine and dandy.
The doorman, dressed in pith helmet and safari outfit, opened the door to the lobby. “Good day, sir,” he said. “Good day, madam.”
Mighty damn fine, thought Bradford.
Cleopatra was chattering about this and that while they walked through the old lobby. For someone with as much money as she had been born into, Bradford thought she acted as if she had been raised in a barn. There were a lot of attractions, to be sure—flower arrangements big enough to qualify for their own zip code, crystal chandeliers that glimmered so much you’d swear the lighting was superfluous, and dramatic tapestries that…
Bradford bumped into someone. Automatic words were uttered at the same time: “Excuse me.”
“Jinx,” said the woman he had nudged, “owe a drink,” then she counted to ten and laughed.
“She’s got you there,” said the man next to her.
Bradford looked puzzled. “Didn’t you ever play that game?” the woman asked.
She asked in such a way that Bradford wished he had. She was older than he was, about thirty-five, he guessed, but in fine form. He tried not to stare at the cut of her blouse, which was very open, but he did take in a few peeks. She had red hair and green eyes, was the kind of woman, he thought, who had a way of beckoning from her lips to her hips.
“Surely you must have played that game, Bradford,” said Cleo. “You know, when you say the same thing at the same time as someone else, and you’re supposed to say ‘Jinx,’ and then name your price and count to ten. Whoever counts first wins. Me and Donna used to always be saying the same thing and playing that game. We played for Cokes.”
“I play for more than that,” said the woman.
“I guess I owe you a drink,” said Bradford.
“Doug Walker,” said the man, “and the woman you owe a drink is my wife Missy.”
“Bradford Beck,” he said, “and my girlfriend, Cleopatra Harris.”
They shook hands all around. Bradford was certain that Missy grasped his hand with a little more pressing of the flesh than was usual, and held on longer than was customary. Not that he was complaining. Far from it.
“You’re lucky my wife didn’t hit you up for something more,” said Doug with a wink.
“The conversation’s young,” said Missy. “Who knows, we might cross tongues again.”
“We weren’t watching where we were going,” said Cleo. “I think our eyes were in the stars.”
That’s it, thought Bradford. Make us look like yokels.
“We’ll have to plead guilty to that also,” said Doug. “Course they say when you’re looking up at the stars, you’re at the mercy of the puddles of the road.”
Cleo and Doug laughed. He patted her on the shoulder, then rubbed her on the arm.
“Is this your first…”
Bradford and Missy said the same thing again. “Jinx,” she said, “owe a drink,” then outcounted him to ten.
The four of them were hard-pressed to stop laughing. “I think your boyfriend’s trying to get my wife drunk,” said Doug, patting Cleo’s arm again.
“Who says he needs to?” asked Missy.
The laughing started once more. “I better keep my mouth shut,” said Bradford. “This could get damn expensive, especially if your taste runs to Napoleon brandy or Cristal champagne.”
“I only swallow two kinds of drinks,” she said, “a Sloe Screw on the Wall, or a Screaming Orgasm.”
Bradford had heard of those drinks, but didn’t know of anyone who actually ordered them. For a moment there was silence, then Doug said, “I swear to God it’s true. Those are her favorite drinks.”
They all laughed again.
“Are you staying here?” asked Cleo.
“We’re just about to check in,” said Doug.
“So are we,” she said.
“Well, I call that happy tidings. We just drove in with another couple, but they’re not nearly as fun as the two of you.”
He squeezed her arm again. By this time Cleo was used to it, and squeezed him back.
“Shhh,” said Doug. “Here they come now. Whatever you do, don’t abandon us.”
There didn’t appear to be much chance of that. Missy was giving Bradford some looks that he thought were promising, very promising.
“Gary and Suzy Corbett,” said Doug, “it’s time you met Bradford and Cleopatra.”
The Corbetts could have been Mr. and Mrs. Claus at about age forty, thought Bradford. Gary had a long beard, still mostly dark, red cheeks, a slight pot belly, and a rubicund nose that could have passed for Rudolph’s. Suzy wore granny glasses, had plump cheeks, and wore her hair in a bun. Both of them were oh, so happy. Suzy gave Bradford a big hug, and Gary did the same to Cleo. It was as if they were all old friends. When the six of them walked up l
aughing to the front desk, it was impossible figuring out who belonged to whom.
“Checking in,” said Doug. “The ladies are with me, and I don’t know who these men are.”
“That’s funny,” said Missy, “I do.”
The laughter started again, even before Missy goosed Bradford.
Margaret Talley was a recent graduate of Mesa College’s hotel-motel program. She was a reentry student, had been a homemaker for the twenty years prior to her going back to school. Margaret’s world had been that of raising three children. She said that in her two weeks at the Hotel she had gotten a new education on life and human nature. By the sounds of it, those were insights she might have been better without.
“If you’ll please register,” she said, supplying them with registration cards.
The men did the registering. Usually males are about as proprietary with registration cards as they are with the television remote control.
“This time you don’t have to sign us in as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith,” said Missy.
“Hard to break old habits,” said Doug.
“Get thee to a nunnery,” said Gary.
The laughter started again. Margaret didn’t ask them, “How many in your party?” She had seen even staid businessmen get their testosterone flowing over that one.
“Two in each room?” she asked.
“Give or take a few,” said Doug.
Margaret offered a Mona Lisa smile. Being a veteran of a fortnight in the industry, she was now of the opinion that her schooling should have included a course on “Introduction to the Obnoxious.” She tapped into the computer and managed to maintain her smile, though suddenly she was nervous. These were some more of those people, those sex maniacs.