by Barry Eisler
Which was good, because the clothes were cheap compared to the next thing I bought: a pair of second-generation, AN/PVS-5 night-vision goggles, at a camera store in Yūrakuchō. The clothes were for Maria. The night vision was for after.
It wasn’t impossible they would follow her again. But I doubted it. Wilson’s forces were seriously depleted, for one thing. For another, I was expected at Zenkō-ji Temple later that evening.
Still, when I headed down to the Old Imperial Bar that night at a little before ten, I made sure to take a seat at the end of the counter, with a view of the entrance. I ordered a gimlet. It was good, though not quite as incredible as one of Ozaki’s. In fairness, though, I had some associations between what I had tasted at Bar Radio and what I tasted after that would be hard for another place to match.
The bar was striking, and I learned from the bartender that many of its design elements were relics from the Frank Lloyd Wright–designed 1923 Imperial, torn down following the Great Kanto Quake that struck on the very day the hotel had opened. I decided it was a Maria kind of place: Oya volcanic stone on the walls, preserved from the original bar; hexagonal fixtures and mirrors and matching chairs; low light, hushed acoustics, an ambience of privacy and class. I had liked it the moment I walked in, but after an hour, I realized that knowing a bit about its history was enhancing my appreciation. I smiled, thinking Maria would be pleased with her student. I had been trying not to imagine her, because doing so made the wait more difficult to endure. But as I nursed my gimlet, I was having trouble distracting myself.
At eleven thirty, as I was torturing myself with thoughts that she wasn’t going to come, she stepped inside. Her hair was pinned up, and she was wearing a long, double-breasted tan trench coat and black heels. She was carrying a stylish leather bag, large enough for a change of clothes, and the thought of what might be under the coat made my breath catch. She saw me notice her, and, before I could take in more, she turned and left. The bartender was busy preparing drinks, and it was almost five minutes before I was able to settle the bill—five agonizing minutes. I hurried out to the bustling lobby, but didn’t see her. She wouldn’t have left, would she? I had only been a few minutes. I knew I was being ridiculous, but still, where was she?
I was suddenly gripped by paranoia. I’d been so confident, but . . . could she have been followed again? Could something have happened to her?
I felt an adrenaline dump kick in and I turned to scope the crowd. No one in any strategic positions, no one who felt out of place or who otherwise set off my radar. But still, where the hell—
She stepped out from behind one of the massive columns supporting the ceiling two stories up. She was looking away, wearing a small but satisfied smile, and I realized she had been playing with me, probably as revenge for my having waited so long to call her earlier that night.
The adrenaline, the alcohol, the sight of her . . . it all coursed through me in a rush. The lobby seemed to melt away, and all I could think about was getting her to my room. But I shook it off, and made sure to look behind her. I saw no one trailing in her wake.
She followed me to the elevator, keeping a discreet distance per the plan. An elderly Japanese couple was already waiting. I got on after them and turned. Still no one in her wake. But damn it, she was too far off. The old man pressed the button for the third floor, then looked at me questioningly. I hesitated, then held the “Door Open” button. “Sorry,” I said in Japanese. “I think someone else is coming.”
She took her time, and I felt she was taunting me. The elderly couple looked at me, too Japanese to comment on my rudeness in holding the elevator for so long. Finally, Maria walked on. I pressed the button for the eighth floor, where I was staying, and said to her in English, “Floor?”
“Same,” she said, barely glancing at me.
The doors opened on three, and the couple got off. The old guy glanced back at me, and for a second I had the oddest sense that he knew what was going on and was amused, or maybe wistful, about it. Then the doors closed, and they were gone.
I watched her, but she kept her eyes on the illuminated numbers over the door, playing the role of a stranger in an elevator. Was she being discreet, or taunting me again? Being enclosed and alone with her, close enough to reach out and touch her, to smell her perfume, and yet to have her ignore me, was maddening.
We got to eight, and the doors opened. I held them with one hand and gestured with the other. “Please. After you.”
She gave me the hint of a smoldering smile and stepped past me, pausing to examine a sign laying out the order of rooms, as though reminding herself of where she was heading.
I started down the corridor, then turned to her. “Are you lost?” I said. “Why don’t you follow me, I’ll help you get where you want to go.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, toying with me again with that damn Mona Lisa smile. “If you think you can.”
I wanted her so much I was having trouble controlling my breathing. “Why don’t we find out?” I said, and turned and walked down the corridor.
It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet, but it seemed to take a long time to reach my room. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, then held the handle and waited. A moment later, she ducked in. I shut and bolted the door behind her, then pressed her back against it. In an instant we were kissing. “I want this coat off you,” I said, panting.
“What, you don’t know how?” she said, her tone mocking. She was breathing as heavily as I was.
It was closed with a knotted belt. Kissing her again, I pulled at the knot. She’d tied it tight, doubtless on purpose, and for a moment I struggled with it, furious that I couldn’t get it loose. But then I felt some slack, and pushed the ends through, and all at once the belt was open. I gripped the lapels of the coat and swept it over her arms. She tried to stop me, grabbing at the sleeves, but I pulled harder and got it down, dropping it to the floor at her feet.
I put my palms against the door just past her shoulders and looked down. She was wearing a long black skirt and a ridiculously tight blouse, the top three buttons all undone. Underneath I saw the lacy outline of a black bra, the skin of her breasts pale and insanely smooth alongside it.
“Oh, now in such a hurry,” she said, her tone mocking again. “And yet so blasé about making me wait earlier.”
I couldn’t think of a response. I didn’t even want to. I kissed her again, my hands on her face, her neck, her breasts.
“No, maybe now I don’t want to,” she said, her voice husky. “Maybe I should make you wait, the way you made me.”
I gripped the lapels of the blouse, her skin hot against the backs of my fingers, and looked in her eyes.
She grabbed my wrists and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t let you.”
I pulled. A button popped. She gasped and gripped my wrists tighter, trying to squeeze them together. I barely felt it. I pulled more. Another button popped. She looked down at what I was doing, panting, then back at me.
I leaned closer. “Kiss me.”
She shook her head.
I tried to kiss her. She turned her head, released my wrists, and tried to shove me away. I might as well have been a tree. I caught her left wrist, swept it behind her back, took hold of it in my left hand, and pressed her back against the door. With my right hand I reached for the back of her neck, where her hair was up, and found a long hair stick. I pulled it out and tossed it aside. Her hair fell to her shoulders and I took hold of her throat.
“Kiss me,” I breathed.
Again she shook her head. I took hold of her chin and held her head still and put my mouth over hers. She moaned, and when I felt her tongue against mine I thought my head would explode. With my free hand, I gripped the front of her blouse and ripped it the rest of the way open. She moaned again and squirmed between my body and the door. I reached up behind her and unclipped the bra, then pulled down one side, then the other, and then, still holding her arm behind her back, lowe
red my head and closed my mouth over a wine-colored nipple. She gasped and with her free hand managed to grab my hair. I didn’t care. I barely felt it. I let go of her arm, felt along the top of the skirt for a zipper, found it, undid it, then gripped both sides of the cloth and pulled hard in opposite directions. The sound of the fabric tearing open made me feel crazy, desperate, and she moaned something in Italian and let go of my hair and took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.
Somehow I got my clothes off, or she did. I barely noticed—all that mattered was that I had to be naked with her. I pulled her skirt high and finished tearing it open, then threw it aside. I looked down. She was wearing sheer black panties, and black stockings held up by garters. I didn’t know what was more overwhelming—the sight of her in lingerie, or the knowledge that she had worn it for me.
“God,” I whispered.
She grabbed me by the hair again. “You don’t deserve. To make me wait for your call like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I don’t think you are. Not sorry enough.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I slipped my fingers inside her panties.
“No,” she whispered.
I pulled. I heard the fabric tear.
She gripped my hair harder. “No,” she whispered again.
I pulled the other way. The fabric tore on the other side. I tossed the panties aside, lowered my mouth to her breasts again, and started touching her. She was wet.
I let her feel my teeth, and she gave a little yelp. She pulled my hair, hard. And again, harder.
“Bastardo,” she breathed. “Bastardo.”
I dropped lower, reached under her knee, and straightened, bringing the knee high. I looked into her eyes and pushed against her. She pulled my hair hard again and growled something in Italian. I felt the tip of my cock against her wetness and pushed, not all the way, but hard, and I felt myself slip inside her and God it was good, so good, and I tried to hold back but my body wasn’t listening, and she gasped and gripped my hair and swore something else in Italian, and I pushed again, deeper, gripping her leg and holding it high, opening her up to me, and she cried out, and I dropped my hips lower and pressed against her harder and suddenly I was fucking her all the way, as deeply as I could, and I didn’t know what she was saying in Italian but I knew it was enraged and filthy, and with my free hand I gripped her ass and fucked her harder and she took my face in her hands and kissed me so fiercely it hurt, and then she was moaning into my mouth, crying out, her arm wrapped around my neck, and I felt her coming and then I was coming, too, my hips pounding into hers and her back slamming into the door in time to our desperate rhythm.
And then she was sagging against me, laughing, and I eased her leg down and settled her back against the door and looked into her eyes, shaking my head in dazed wonder.
“Oh mio dio, that wasn’t considerate at all.”
“Should I apologize?”
She laughed again. “For making me wait earlier? Yes. But I think I wanted to be angry at you. So you would do what you just did.”
I smiled. “I’ll have to make you wait more often, then.”
She punched me in the shoulder. “No, this is not a good idea. Very high-risk for you.”
I took her hand and pulled her over to the bed. We got under the sheets and, for a while, just held each other.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“That I wish you could stay.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Yeah. I just hate knowing how little time we have.”
“It’s why we have to make the most of it, yes?”
“Ah, a metaphor for life. Still teaching me?”
She laughed. “Tonight, I think I had nothing to teach you. If I’m your teacher, I’m so pleased with the progress of my student.”
I smiled. “How was your opening?”
“I have to say, it was sensational. There were many important guests from the world of Japanese art and antiquities, and they were all quite, mmm, lavish in their praise. I was suitably modest in response, of course. But my God, it’s a guilty pleasure, to tell you the truth.”
I smiled again, loving how alive she seemed as she recounted the evening, at her delight in privately exulting in her obvious triumph. “I’m so happy for you,” I said. “You worked hard for this. You earned it. I’d know you were lying if you told me you weren’t proud.”
“Well, I won’t deny it, then. Especially after a whole evening of turning aside compliments.”
“What did you wear?”
“A quite stunning Armani in emerald-green chiffon. But I changed in the hotel restroom before looking for you in the bar. If you tried to tear that beautiful dress off me, I would have murdered you.”
I laughed. “I wish I could have seen you in it.”
“Well, you will before I leave. It’s not as though you left me anything else to wear on my way out.”
“And your husband was there?” It didn’t matter anymore, but I still wanted to know.
“Yes, of course.”
“He must have been very proud.”
“I think so, yes, but you know Japanese men, it’s not as though he could really show it.”
“He’s out with his colleagues now?”
“Yes, probably for a few hours. But still, I should be sure to get home before him.”
I felt weirdly glad he was all right. Granted, I was fucking his wife, but I didn’t want to hurt him. And I certainly didn’t want to hurt Maria. In another universe, I might have killed Sugihara. But in this one . . . I was just a bullet he had happened to dodge. And he would never even know I’d been there. I’d have no impact on him at all.
We made love again. The second round was different—more gentle, more languorous. But also, for me, less focused. When we’d gotten off that elevator and stepped into the room, the rest of the world had just . . . evaporated. Now it was coming back, in the form of my early-morning rendezvous at Zenkō-ji.
Maria showered, then changed in the bedroom. I lay on the bed and watched, succeeding to some extent in not thinking about where I had to go next, just reveling in the sight of her getting into that gorgeous green dress. When she was done, she turned and looked at me over her shoulder. “Zip it up for me, yes?”
I stood and put my hands on her hips. “I’d rather take it off.”
“Yes, so would I. But I have to go. I’ve already stayed longer than I meant to.”
I did as she asked. She got into the trench coat and belted it closed. I glanced around, not seeing the garters and torn clothes. Then I realized—she had put them in the leather bag, presumably to be discarded somewhere safe. Whatever magic space we’d been inside when we were alone was gone. We were both already thinking of what we had to face next.
I pulled on a robe and followed her as she headed out. She went to open the door, but I reached past her and pressed my hand against it.
“Will I see you again?” I said.
She dropped her head, and for a moment she didn’t respond. Then she said, “I’m afraid so. But not for much longer.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t good. For anyone.”
“It is for me.”
“It feels good for you. And for me. But that’s not the same as being good.”
“I don’t agree.”
“I’m not trying to persuade you. I’m just telling you what’s true. But stop, don’t make that long puppy-dog face.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been doing it until she’d said so, but yes, I realized I must have been looking morose.
She smiled. “You’re smart, John. And you’ve seen things outside my own experience. There’s something a little mysterious about you, and I think that’s part of what makes you so attractive to me. No, that’s not quite right, it’s the mystery combined with the other thing I was going to say.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re still young. And in some ways, forgive me, naïve. I th
ink you’re more American than you know.”
I knew she didn’t mean it unkindly, and it was something I was aware of myself. But still, to have someone else point it out felt inherently insulting.
“What do you mean?”
“Americans are such an optimistic people. But so much of their optimism is because they know so little history. They’re too young. They haven’t lived enough. When you live a little longer, you see the world as it really is. And yes, even then it can be shiny and bright, but also you know it has sharp edges. And sometimes what’s shiny is exactly what’s sharp. If you want to get close to it, it means you get cut.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“This is what I’m talking about. You don’t understand because you’re young. In a way, I’m envious, don’t you see that? I was once as young as you. But I’m not anymore. And I can’t be.”
“You can be whatever you want to be.”
She smiled sadly. “You don’t believe that. You’re just being stubborn.”
Again, I knew she didn’t mean it unkindly. But I knew she was right, and it was making me feel younger by the second.
“I have to go,” she said. “But here’s a little good news, all right?”
“Please. I could use some.”
“Eventually, if we’re lucky, this thing of ours . . . it will be good. But not for a while.”
“What does that even mean? How can it be good later, and not now?”
“It means you are going to be such a beautiful memory for me.” Her voice caught, and she went on. “The only thing I’ve known since losing Dante that for a few moments could take away my pain, and replace it with passion. I will never forget that. Or stop wanting it back.”
“Then why not just keep it?”
She shook her head and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away. “And it will be good for you, too. I’ve taught you many things, haven’t I? And the most important things I’ve taught you, you won’t even realize you’ve learned until much later. That makes me happy. I’m going to keep unfolding inside you. And what you had with me . . . you’ll keep discovering new, mmm, facets, and realizing it was different than what you first thought. Better. More profound. You’ll see.”