Existence has become difficult. Shortages of food and scarcity of electricity have left most citizens cold and hungry, while sitting in the dark. Even now, survival for many is not guaranteed. Thankfully, my wife and children have been spared much of the hardship that has befallen my cousins.
I am no longer royal. The title for me is gone, but the flesh and the former deeds remain the same. My nights are still haunted by the voices of the past. I have no means to lay them to rest. There is no way I can think of to right the wrongs.
General MacArthur’s tentacles, with the blessing of America’s President Truman, have spread and infected every corner of this country. The octopus has captured the fish and is slowing consuming it.
Military trials are done, and the new constitution has been approved. Large corporate groups have been made to divide.
A Socialist coalition government was elected last year. The new prime minister is Christian—in a country where Shinto and Buddhism are the common beliefs.
But I still have old friends in high places, and they have been whispering to me, telling me things that should not be revealed. Golden Lily has been found. The earth is giving up her secrets. The emperor’s grand plan is being used against us. Ideals are being bought and sold. Lies and corruption are everywhere. Bribes are making the new politicians and bureaucrats rich. Elections are being controlled. Even as I write this, a secret campaign to purchase generations of compliance is being forged.
Using the travel agent’s telephone, Max left a message after the sound of the beep. “Toshi, it’s Max. I need help. It’s a long story. I found the diary’s caretaker, but the Yakuza followed me. I don’t know how, but they did it. I’m stuck in Osaka, and I need to get to Okinawa fast. All the flights are sold out. I was hoping you might know somebody at the airlines who could help me get a ticket. Anyway, I’ll try to call again later.”
The travel agent took back the phone and re-cradled it. Her perfume was overpowering, which was probably good, since he badly needed a shower. He was purposefully dragging out the meeting, hoping for a little luck. “So, you’re sure there’s nothing? No flights today or tomorrow? Maybe something came free in the last few minutes.”
The agent sighed. “Very sorry, Mr. Ma-ku-su. Everything full.”
It was the fourth agency he’d been to, and the answers were all the same. His sense of panic grew larger. The warm office air pressed in around him; he needed to get outside. Squeezing through the crowd of people gathered in the tiny space, he finally made it to the door and onto the sidewalk. Pacing back and forth, he took deep, controlled breaths. It seemed pointless to try a fifth.
If only I knew Tomoko was safe, then I could lie low and go to Okinawa in a few days.
A thumping sound made his raw nerves jump. Turning round, he saw a shaggy-haired boy slapping a palm against the inside of the window, waving for him to return.
Pushing his way back inside, Max could hear the agent’s voice. “Come, Mr. Ma-ku-su.”
His hopes soared. The crowd parted, and he stumbled through the sea of arms and legs before catching himself on the desk’s edge. “You found something?”
The agent held out the receiver, a quizzical expression on her face. “Telephone for you.”
The situation felt strange, and he hesitated before speaking. “Hello?”
A woman’s soft voice sounded in his ear; her diction perfect. “Mr. Travers, I’m Toshi’s secretary. He asked me to return your call.”
“Is Tomoko safe!” Max blurted. “Is she there at the house with you? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know sir. I’m at the office,” the woman explained with cold efficiency. “However, I was asked to pass along a message. Toshi has a plan to help you, but he stressed that you must be aware of the potential risk.”
“I’m desperate!”
“Then write down this address—it’s the airport you need to go to.”
THE TORA-FUGU Fish Company delivery truck swerved erratically through the freeway traffic. Brakes screeched and horns blared as it squeezed into the fast lane between a red sports car and a minivan. The Yakuza driver was struggling to keep up with Oto Kodama’s Mercedes sedan, which was rocketing westward.
Sealed inside, Tomoko watched as Hiro kicked his foot against the metal side of the truck’s cargo hold. He was shouting in vain, trying to be heard over the engine’s gunning noise. “Stop driving like an idiot!” He staggered sideways as the driver made another unpredictable lane change.
Stacked boxes formed descending layers along the cargo area’s front wall. They vibrated and jumped with each swerving motion. The odor of seafood permeated the confined space.
Tomoko crouched against the opposite wall, trying to stifle her involuntary moans each time the vehicle lurched violently. Her white-knuckled hands clutched the free end of a secured rope—it was the only thing keeping her from tumbling across the rancid floorboards. The bump on her head was pulsing, fueled by her racing heart, and it was just a matter of time before she vomited.
“Keep hanging onto the rope,” Hiro yelled. “We should be out of city traffic soon.”
Tomoko raised her sarcastic voice against the rumble. “Thanks for the advice.”
Along the front wall, a wide box groaned as it slipped from its place and tipped precariously on edge. Tomoko caught the movement from the corner of her eye, turning in time to see the heavy cargo plummeting straight for her.
Hiro attempted an interception as the truck executed another unpredictable swerve. His feet caught up, sending him stumbling to his knees. His injured right hand collided with the floor and he shrieked in pain, instinctively clutching the wound to his chest, causing his face to hammer hard against the wooden floor.
Attached to the rope, Tomoko swung her slender frame away, barely missing the box as it crashed down and tumbled past, finally coming to rest against the rear door.
Swinging back into place, she exhaled a sigh of relief while her moaning captor lay fetal on the floor, motionless. He should have been the object of her hatred for what he’d done. Yet surprisingly, she found herself moved by his pain. He seemed different from the other Yakuza, thoughtfully intelligent, and even aware of his own parasitic place in society. The hoodlums who formed the base of the group’s pyramid structure didn’t place great stock in kindness or literacy. It was no wonder the others disliked him.
Soon, the vehicle’s motion smoothed out. Presumably, the traffic had lightened. As Hiro predicted, they must have finally reached the main highway between Tokyo and Osaka.
Moving onto all fours, Tomoko crawled across the shuddering floor. She touched his shoulder, and felt him tense. “Come on. Sit up. Let me look at your hand.”
“I’ll get up on my own.” The wiry Yakuza kept his right arm clutched to his chest as he twisted himself into a sitting position.
Tomoko gasped at the sight of the open gash on his left cheek. The fall on the rough floor had torn away a ragged inch-long strip of flesh. A bloody trail ran along his face.
“What’s wrong?”
She did her best to hold back another wave of nausea. “Nothing . . . you’ve just got a cut. Let’s move over to the boxes.” Tomoko held herself against him as they cautiously crouch-stepped their way toward the front of the hold.
Hiro settled onto the floor. Resting his back against a box.
“Do you have any medical supplies I can use?” she asked.
He opened his mouth, then suddenly stopped, staring into her eyes as though he was seeking an answer. Finally he spoke. “I have a knife and bandages in my back pocket.”
He shifted his weight, allowing her to lean in close and wrap herself around him, one arm grasping while the other worked as an anchor. Anyone unexpectedly opening the truck door would have sworn they’d caught the two in a lovers’ embrace. Tomoko suddenly became aware of the fact that she hadn’t bathed in three days.
Her fingers slipped between the layers of denim. “Got them.” She leaned back quickly. “I need somet
hing to wipe away the blood.” Opening the box next to her, she pulled out a swath of heavy brown packing paper. It would have to do. “If I do this right, the scar will be small.”
His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. “Thank you, but it won’t matter, anyway.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it matters.”
“I’m not . . .”
Tomoko tore open the plastic pouch holding the bandage. She could tell that he wanted to say something. “What? Tell me what you were going to say. It’s not like I’ll pass it on to anyone.” She made a sweeping motion to illustrate the empty compartment.
There was a pause before Hiro spoke. “I’m not going to live for long, so don’t spend time worrying about a scar.”
She wrinkled her brow, confused. “I thought I was the one worrying about survival.”
“Your chances are better than mine.”
Gingerly, she applied the bandage. The truck’s shuddering made it a difficult task. “How do you know that?”
“I overheard Oto’s guards talking to the sentry. The plan is for me to take the fall for the problems we’ve had in retrieving the diary.” Hiro scowled. “Once it’s found, I’ll be killed. Then the police can blame me for everything, and Oto can walk away.”
“‘Problems’? That’s how you describe murder?” Tomoko felt her chest grow tight as her eyes welled with tears. “Mrs. Kanazawa was my friend! Her death isn’t just a ‘problem’ that needs to be solved.” She forced herself to concentrate on smoothing the bandage’s edge. “It’s all insane. This whole thing is crazy.”
“I’m very sorry. My Sempai Jun is not—”
Tomoko’s voice filled with righteous anger. “I mean, how can you kill and . . . and steal . . . then go home and read books like Cry Freedom? Stories of people with courage who take risks—who try to do something with their lives.”
“I never killed your friend!” Hiro’s eyes flared. “I’ve never murdered anyone. The fact that I’m Yakuza and what I have to do . . . those things were dictated to me. I have no choice. My path was laid out since before I was born into a Yakuza family.”
Tomoko picked up the knife and slapped the remaining supplies together, tossing them into his lap. “That’s a nice, clean excuse. People fight to change their lives every day. You may be tough on the outside, but maybe it’s your inside you need to worry about. Instead of just reading about courageous people, you should try being one sometime!”
“I tried to change once.” He said feebly.
The truck swayed as Tomoko turned and crawled back to the loose end of the rope. Parking her back against the wall, she pulled the frayed yellow fibers over her shoulder.
Hiro lowered his face again. “It’s too late now, anyway.”
“Look at me. Look at me!”
He lifted his head a bit.
“Anyone can change, even you. It’s never too late to try.”
Hiro nodded back.
She couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t her imagination, but for the first time she could recall, the edges of his mouth seemed to tilt slightly upward.
STEPPING GRACEFULLY from the elevator, Yoko eyed the cheaply tiled floor in the windowless corridor and thought that it would have been nice to hire legal counsel with a better location. A display of opulence always made people more comfortable when they were handing over large cash sums.
Nevertheless, the paralegal work was being done for half the usual rate, and all of the shares had been presold to her “ladies,” anyway. Getting the signatures was just a formality when the group arrived in thirty minutes.
Halfway down the hall, she turned into the women’s washroom. She checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. The new cobalt-blue Versace suit looked fabulous, and she knew it. Her hands smoothed the skirt and she made a last-minute adjustment to her blouse. A shiver of excitement crossed her shoulders.
In a few hours, this deal will be closed. The gallery will be filled with smiling people drinking champagne, and I will be congratulated on my latest triumph.
Behind her, a lone figure stepped into view. Yoko could see the old woman in the mirror’s reflection. A simple flowered scarf covered her head.
That face . . . it can’t be . . . she’s dead!
The vision dragged time backward. Her mother’s words were sharp and stained with worry. She was wielding a brush through Yoko’s hair. “Pull yourself together. This is not the time to act like a vain schoolgirl. Focus on staying in character. Remember to leave the door slightly open when you exit his hotel suite. Once you go out for dinner, I’ll come in and take the jewelry. We need this money to take care of our family and pay down the debt your father left behind. Don’t make a mistake, child. Our survival depends on it.”
Yoko blinked and the stern maternal figure was gone. Instead, she found herself staring at the withered face of the building’s cleaning lady.
The woman edged away from the doorway. “I’ll come back later.”
Yoko turned. “I’m finished here.” She shook off the mental cobwebs and stepped around the cleaning pail at her feet.
This is the last job. Get it done, and you never have to play this game again.
Continuing to the end of the hall, she came to the two-room office of Ito & Ito. An engraved plastic sign was glued to the metal door. Mr. Ito Sr. had passed away in the late nineties, and Mr. Ito Jr. was the only lawyer now occupying the space. He had a skeleton-like appearance befitting a mortician, with sunken cheeks and dark circles around his eyes.
Yoko tried the door handle, but oddly it was locked. Turning an ear, she noted voices inside. They sounded raised and angry. Nonetheless, her manicured finger pressed the buzzer, and soon the pinprick of light coming through the peephole went dark. Seconds later, the door cracked open and a harried-looking Mr. Ito Jr. slipped out into the hallway. He was wringing his hands and looking paler than usual.
“Hello, Sensei. It’s good to see you.”
His protruding Adam’s apple drew her eye. It always seemed so vast on his slender neck. But there was no time for his idiosyncrasies. Her tone was demanding. “Why is your office door locked?”
“Well . . . we seem to have a situation.”
“What situation? It’s critical for everything to go as planned. My ladies will be arriving soon and I have a gallery opening taking place at six.” She could feel her blood pressure rising. “If you’re holding out for more money—”
The lawyer waved his slender hands in the air. “No, no! You misunderstand me. Several guests have arrived early, and they have in their possession a letter that has . . .” He appeared to be struggling with phrasing the sentence. “. . . it has upset them very much.”
“A letter from whom?”
“It’s a translation, but the original letter was written by one of your English teachers named Max. It contains serious accusations against you.” Mr. Ito’s head dipped like a thief caught with a hand in the cookie jar.
“But how?” She suddenly felt as though an earthquake had struck the building. “Did you tell them the letter is full of lies?”
“I tried, but they seem convinced that it’s true.”
You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.
Yoko straightened her posture and inhaled sharply. “Then I’ll have to persuade them to believe otherwise. They are my ladies, after all. They will believe whatever I say.”
“Please, you don’t understand.”
“Step aside!” She pressed past the simpering man, opened the door, and strode into the office. The picture inside stopped her in her tracks. Almost a dozen women and their husbands lined the waiting room’s walls, some sitting, some standing in clusters. Several women looked as if they’d been crying, while the accusing eyes of all the others fell directly upon her.
Palpable hostility pierced the air as Mr. Ito’s voice whispered from behind her, “Their husbands also came for support. I tried to warn you.”
One man stepped forward from the group. He thrust a sin
gle sheet of paper into Yoko’s hand. “You have some explaining to do!”
The room was filled with hushed breathing as she skimmed the document. Her raised plea broke the silence. “This is clearly fabricated! Max was caught stealing from me. The police are looking for him. I didn’t want to worry anyone until he was found.” The expressions in the room remained stoic and several heads continued shaking their betrayal.
This can’t be happening. These are my ladies. I have to get them to believe me. They can sway their husbands. Masami Ishi will want his money. I cannot go to jail.
Another man stepped forward and spoke up. “I checked the invoices my wife paid over the last three years.” He raised an open hand. “On five occasions you charged us for English classes while we were away. Other times we were double or triple-billed.”
“I . . . I’m sure it was a simple mistake. Every business makes a few errors. I’ll refund the money.” She scanned the hostile room. “I’m not the bad person.” Yoko shook the paper. “These are all lies from the mouth of a thief!”
A third man spoke. “It doesn’t matter. That Gaijin’s letter was just the catalyst. We’ve compared the stories you’ve been telling our wives. There are too many inconsistencies and half truths. I’ve spent enough time in business to spot a con artist. You won’t be getting any more of my money.” He barked an order to his wife. “Let’s go.”
Mr. Ito Jr. scuttled away from the door.
The strain registered in Yoko’s anguished voice. “Your children’s welfare is at the center of everything I do.” I need my new life.
The women gathered their coats and handbags as a stream of silent couples exited the room. Yoko moved from one familiar face to another. She searched desperately for allies, but found none. Downcast eyes refused to meet her gaze. “I’ve cared for your children like they were my own. Please don’t do this. I can get you copies of the police report. Please believe me.” The room soon emptied and the sound of footsteps faded away.
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