by Barry Eisler
“He was a bureaucrat.” This is an honorable profession in Japan, and the Japanese word kanryo lacks the negative connotations of its English counterpart.
“With what ministry?”
“For most of his career, the Kensetsusho.” The Construction Ministry.
We were making some progress. I noticed that the manipulation was making me uncomfortable. Finish the interview, I thought. Then get the hell out. She puts you off your game, this is dangerous.
“Construction must have been a stuffy place for a jazz enthusiast,” I said.
“It was hard for him at times,” she acknowledged, and suddenly I sensed guardedness. Her posture hadn’t changed, her expression was the same, but somehow I knew she had been ready to say more and then had thought better of it. If I had touched a nerve, she had barely shown it. She wouldn’t have expected me to notice.
I nodded, I hoped reassuringly. “I know a little bit about being uncomfortable in your environment. At least your father’s daughter doesn’t have any problems like that—doing gigs at Alfie makes a lot of sense for a jazz pianist.”
I felt the odd tension for a second longer, then she laughed softly as though she had decided to let something go. I wasn’t sure what I had brushed up against, and would consider it later.
“So, four years in New York,” I said. “That’s a long time. You must have had a very different perspective when you returned.”
“I did. The person who returns from living abroad isn’t the same person who left.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your outlook changes. You don’t take the same things for granted. For instance, I noticed in New York that when one cab cut off another, the driver who got cut off would always yell at the other driver and do this—” she did a perfect imitation of a New York cabbie flipping someone the bird “—and I realized this was because Americans assume the other person intended to do what he did, so they want to teach the person a lesson. But you know, in Japan, people almost never get upset in those situations. Japanese look at other people’s mistakes more as something arbitrary, like the weather, I think, not so much as something to get angry about. I hadn’t thought about that before I lived in New York.”
“I’ve noticed that difference, too. I like the Japanese way better. It’s something to aspire to.”
“But which are you? Japanese or American? The outlook, I mean,” she added quickly, I knew for fear of insulting me by being too direct.
I looked at her, thinking for an instant of her father. I thought of other people I’ve worked with, and how different my life might have been if I’d never known them. “I’m not sure,” I said, finally, glancing away. “As you seem to have noticed at Alfie, I’m not a very forgiving person.”
She paused. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I responded, not knowing what was coming.
“What did you mean, when you said we had ‘rescued’ you?”
“Just trying to strike up a conversation,” I said. It sounded flip, and I saw immediately from her eyes that it was the wrong response.
You have to show her a little bit, I thought again, not sure whether I was compromising or rationalizing. I sighed. “I was talking about things I’ve done,” I said, switching to English, which was more comfortable for me on this subject, “things I knew, or thought I knew, were right. But then later it turned out they weren’t. At times those things haunt me.”
“Haunt you?” she asked, not understanding.
“Borei no you ni.” Like a ghost.
“My music made the ghosts go away?”
I nodded and smiled, but the smile turned sad. “It did. I’ll have to listen to it more often.”
“Because they’ll come back?”
Jesus, John, get off this. “It’s more like they’re always there.”
“You have regrets?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Probably. But are yours like everyone else’s?”
“That I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually compare.”
“But you just did.”
I chuckled. “You’re tough,” was all I could say.
She shook her head. “I don’t mean to be.”
“I think you do. But you wear it well.”
“What about the saying ‘I only regret the things I haven’t done?’”
I shook my head. “That’s someone else’s saying. Someone who must have spent a lot of time at home.”
I knew I would learn nothing more about her father or the stranger today without questions that would betray my true intention in asking them. It was time to start winding things down.
“Any more shopping today?” I asked.
“I was going to, but I’ve got someone to meet in Jinbocho in less than an hour.”
“A friend?” I asked, professionally curious.
She smiled. “My manager.”
I paid the bill and we walked back to Aoyama-dori. The crowds had thinned and the air felt cold and heavy. The temperature had dropped in the two and a half weeks since I had taken out Kawamura. I looked up and saw unbroken clouds.
I had enjoyed myself much more than I had expected—more, really, than I had wanted. But the chill cut through my reverie, reviving my memories and doubts. I glanced over at Midori’s face, thinking, What have I done to her? What am I doing?
“What is it?” she asked, seeing my eyes.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
She looked to her right, then again at me. “It felt as though you were looking at someone else.”
I shook my head. “It’s just us.”
We walked, our footsteps echoing softly. Then she asked, “Will you come see me play again?”
“I’d like that.” Stupid thing to say. But I didn’t have to follow through on it.
“I’m at the Blue Note Friday and Saturday.”
“I know,” I said, stupid again, and she smiled.
She flagged down a cab. I held the door as she went in, an annoying part of me wondering what it would be like to be getting in with her. As the cab pulled away, she rolled down the window and said, “Come alone.”
CHAPTER 8
The next Friday I received another page from Harry telling me to check the secure site.
He had found out the stranger on the train was indeed a reporter: Franklin Bulfinch, the Tokyo Bureau Chief for Forbes magazine. It turned out Bulfinch was one of only five male foreigners living in the Daikanyama apartment complex where I’d seen the stranger enter; all Harry had needed to do was cross-reference the names he found in the local ward directory against the main files kept by the Immigration Bureau. The latter kept information on all foreign residents in Japan, including age, birthplace, address, employer, fingerprints, and a photograph. Using this information, Harry had been able to quickly determine that the other foreigners failed to match the description I had provided. He had also obligingly hacked and uploaded Bulfinch’s photo so I could confirm that we were talking about the same guy. We were.
Harry had recommended a look at forbes.com, where Bulfinch’s articles were archived. I checked the site, and spent several hours reading Bulfinch’s accounts of suspected alliances between the government and the yakuza, about how the Liberal Democratic Party uses threats, bribery, and intimidation to control the press, about the cost of all this corruption to the average Japanese.
Bulfinch’s English-language articles had little impact in Japan, and the local media were obviously not following up on his efforts. I imagined this would be frustrating for him. On the other hand, it was probably the reason I hadn’t been tasked with removing him.
My guess was that Kawamura was one of Bulfinch’s sources, hence the reporter’s presence on the train that morning and his quick search of Kawamura. I felt some abstract admiration for his doggedness: his source is having a heart attack right in front of him and all he does is search the guy’s pockets for a deliverable.
Someone must have found out about the connection
, figured it was too risky to take out a foreign bureau chief, and decided to just plug the leak instead. It had to look natural, or it would have provided more grist for Bulfinch’s mill. So they called me.
All right, then. There had been no B-team. I had been wrong about Benny. I could let this one go.
I looked at my watch. It was not quite five o’clock. If I wanted to, I could easily get to the Blue Note by seven, when the first set would begin.
I liked her music and I liked her company. She was attractive, and, I sensed, attracted to me. Enticing combination.
Just go, I thought. It’ll be fun. Who knows what’ll happen afterward? Could be a good night. The chemistry is there. Just a one-nighter. Could be good.
But that was all bullshit. I couldn’t say what would happen after her performance, but Midori didn’t feel like a one-nighter. That was exactly why I wanted to see her, and exactly why I couldn’t.
What’s wrong with you? I thought. You need to call someone. Maybe Keiko-chan, she’s usually good for a few laughs. A late dinner, maybe that little Italian place in Hibiya, some wine, a hotel.
For the moment, though, the prospect of a night with Keiko-chan was oddly depressing. Maybe a workout instead. I decided to head over to the Kodokan, one of the places where I practice judo.
The Kodokan, or “School for Studying the Way,” was founded in 1882 by Kano Jigoro, the inventor of modern judo. A student of various schools of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Kano distilled a new system of fighting based on the principle of maximum efficiency in the application of physical and mental energy. Loosely speaking, judo is to Western wrestling what karate is to boxing. It’s a system not of punches and kicks, but of throws and grappling, distinguished by an arsenal of brutal joint locks and deadly strangling techniques, all of which must of course be employed with great care in the practice hall. Judo literally means “the way of gentleness” or “the way of giving in.” I wonder what Kano would make of my interpretation.
Today the Kodokan is housed in a surprisingly modern and bland eight-story building in Bunkyo-ku, southwest of Ueno Park and just a few kilometers from my neighborhood. I used the subway to get to Kasuga, the nearest station, changed in one of the locker rooms, then took the stairs to the daidojo, the main practice room, where the Tokyo University team was visiting. After I threw my first uke easily and made him tap out with a strangle, the college kids all lined up to do battle with the seasoned warrior. They were young and tough but no match for old age and treachery; after about a half hour of nonstop randori I was still consistently coming out on top, especially when it went to groundwork.
A couple of times, as I returned to the hajime position after a throw, I noticed a Japanese kurobi, a black belt, stretching out in the corner of the tatami mats. His belt was tattered and more gray than black, which indicated he’d been wearing it for a lot of years. It was hard to guess his age. His hair was full and black, but his face had the sort of lines I associate with the passage of time and a certain amount of experience. His movements were certainly young; he was holding splits without apparent difficulty. Several times I sensed he was intently aware of me, though I never actually saw him looking in my direction.
I needed a break and made my apologies to the college students who were lined up, still waiting to test their mettle against me. It felt good to beat judoka half my age, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to do it.
I went over to the side of the mat and, while I was stretching, watched the guy with the tattered belt. He was practicing his harai-goshi entries with one of the college students, a stocky kid with a crew cut. His entry was so powerful that I caught the kid wincing a couple of times as their torsos collided.
He finished and thanked the kid, then walked over to where I was stretching and bowed. “Will you join me for a round of randori?” he asked, in lightly accented English.
I looked up and noted an intense pair of eyes and strongly set jaw, neither of which his smile did anything to soften. I was right about his watching me, even if I hadn’t caught him. Did he spot the Caucasian in my features? Maybe he did, and just wanted to take the gaijin test—though, in my experience, that was a game for younger judoka. And his English, or at least his pronunciation, was excellent. That was also odd. The Japanese who are most eager to pit themselves against foreigners usually have had the least experience with them, and their English will typically reflect that lack of contact.
“Kochira koso onegai shimasu,” I replied. My pleasure. I was annoyed that he had addressed me in English, so I stayed with Japanese. “Nihongo wa dekimasu ka?” Do you speak Japanese?
“Ei, mochiron. Nihonjin desu kara,” he responded, indignantly. Of course I do. I’m Japanese.
“Kore wa shitsurei shimashita. Watashi mo desu. Desu ga, hatsuon ga amari migoto datta no de…” Forgive me. So am I. But your accent was so perfect that…
He laughed. “And so is yours. I expect your judo to be no less so.” But by continuing to address me in English, he avoided having to concede the truth of his compliment.
I was still annoyed, and also wary. I speak Japanese as a native, the same as I speak English, so trying to compliment me on my facility with either language is inherently insulting. And I wanted to know why he would assume I spoke English.
We found an empty spot on the tatami and bowed to each other, then began circling, each of us working for an advantageous grip. He was extremely relaxed and light on his feet. I feinted with deashi-barai, a footsweep, intending to follow with osoto-gari, but he countered the feint with a sweep of his own and slammed me to the mat.
Damn, he was fast. I rolled to my feet and we took up our positions again, this time circling the other way. His nostrils were flaring slightly with his breathing, but that was the only indication he gave of having exerted himself.
I had a solid grip on his right sleeve with my left hand, my fingers wrapped deeply into the cloth. A nice setup for ippon seonagi. But he’d be expecting that. Instead, I swept in hard for sode-tsurikomi-goshi, spinning inside his grip and tensing for the throw. But he’d anticipated the move, popping his hips free before I’d cut off the opening and blocking my escape with his right leg. I was off balance and he hit me hard with tai-otoshi, powering me over his outstretched leg and drilling me into the mat.
He threw me twice more in the next five minutes. It was like fighting a waterfall.
I was getting tired. I faced him and said “Jaa, tsugi o shimashou ka?” Shall we make this the last one?
“Ei, sou shimashou,” he said, bouncing on his toes. Let’s do it.
Okay, you bastard, I thought. I’ve got a little surprise for you. Let’s see how you like it.
Juji-gatame, which means “cross-lock,” is an arm-bar that gets its name from the angle of its attack. Its classical execution leaves the attacker perpendicular to his opponent, with both players lying on their backs, forming the shape of a cross. One permutation—classicists would say mutation—is called “flying juji-gatame,” in which the attacker launches the lock directly from a standing position. Because it requires total commitment and fails as often as it succeeds, this variation isn’t often attempted.
If this guy wasn’t familiar with it, he was about to receive an introduction.
I circled defensively, breathing hard, trying to look more tired than I was. Three times I shook off the grip he attempted and dodged around him as though I was reluctant to engage. Finally he got frustrated and took the bait, reaching a little too deeply with his left hand for my right lapel. As soon as he had the grip, I caught his arm and flung my head backward, launching my legs upward as though I was a diver doing a gainer. My head landed between his feet, my weight jerking him into a semicrouch, with my right foot jammed into his left armpit, destroying his balance. For a split second, before he went sailing over me, I saw complete surprise on his face. Then we were on the mat and I had trapped his arm, forcing it back against the elbow.
He somersaulted over onto his bac
k and tried to twist away from me but he couldn’t get free. His arm was straightened to the limit of its natural movement. I applied a fraction more pressure but he refused to submit. I knew we had about two more millimeters before his elbow hyperextended. Four more and his arm would break.
“Maita ka,” I said, bending my head forward to look at him. Submit. He was grimacing in pain but he ignored me.
It’s stupid to fight a solid armlock. Even in Olympic competition, judoka will submit rather than face a broken arm. This was getting dangerous.
“Maita ka,” I said again, more sharply. But he kept struggling.
Another five seconds went by. I wasn’t going to let him go without a submission, but I didn’t want to break his arm. I wondered how long we could maintain our position.
Finally he tapped my leg with his free hand, the judoka’s way of surrender. I released my grip instantly and pushed away from him. He rolled over and then kneeled in classic seiza posture, his back erect and his left arm held stiffly in front of him. He rubbed his elbow for several seconds and regarded me.
“Subarashikatta,” he said. “Excellent. I would request a rematch, but I don’t think my arm will allow that today.”
“You should have tapped out earlier,” I said. “There’s no point resisting an armlock. Better to survive to fight another day.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “My foolish pride, I suppose.”
“I don’t like to tap out, either. But you won the first four rounds. I’d trade your record for mine.” He was still using English; I was responding in Japanese.
I faced him in seiza and we bowed. When we stood, he said, “Thank you for the lesson. Next time I’ll know not to underestimate the risks you’re willing to take to gain a submission.”
I already knew that. “Where do you practice?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I practice with a private club,” he said. “Perhaps you might join us sometime. We’re always in search of judoka of shibumi.” Shibumi is a Japanese aesthetic concept. It’s a kind of subtle power, an effortless authority. In the narrower, intellectual sense, it might be called wisdom.