by Morris West
‘So you met him. What did he offer?’
‘Joint investment in any Colombian timber project and joint investment in any other project outside Japan or the United States in which the Tanaka Group was interested.’
‘Any amount mentioned?’
‘He said that up to eight billion would not be excessive, but they would prefer smaller tranches in a variety of projects, always joint ventures, of course.’
‘The man’s not stupid. He gets a free ride to respectability on the coat-tails of a big Japanese conglomerate. That’s what a number of our high, wide and handsome promoters did in Australia; when things went sour, the Japanese ended up with the core assets. But get back to your story. Cubeddu put the proposition to you …’
‘He asked me to act for him.’
‘And you didn’t see any conflict of interest in that?’
‘No. That’s what I told you at the beginning. I work for a whole range of Japanese companies, with sometimes opposing interests. I do not share or sell secrets from one company to another. That would be fatal to my business, and quite possibly fatal to me. Besides, I have to protect myself always. If the Tanaka Group didn’t want to proceed, I had to be free to negotiate the idea elsewhere. That’s understood always.’
‘So you accepted a retainer. How much?’
‘A hundred and fifty thousand.’
‘Against what?’
‘One million in escrow if the deal goes through.’
‘Which deal is that?’
‘This one. The timber proposal is on hold for the moment.’
‘Was there any question at any time about where Cubeddu’s money came from?’
‘No. The only thing I had to verify was that it did exist and where. I had letters from a reputable banking corporation in Liechtenstein assuring me that the funds were available.’
‘And that’s all you asked?’
‘No. When I inquired about the shareholders of the Palermitan Banking Corporation, I was shown a list and I was assured that the names on it were among the wealthiest and most powerful in Colombia.’
‘But you knew their money was drug money?’
‘I had no knowledge or proof that it was anything but what the correspondence stated “funds available for investment outside the Continental United States”.’
‘So you arranged the contact between Cubeddu and Tanaka.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did the first meeting take place?’
‘In Madrid. I was not present. After that, Tanaka told me to invite Cubeddu to Tokyo for discussions on our project.’
‘Were you present at any of those discussions?’
‘No. I was not.’
‘Did Tanaka talk to you about them afterwards?’
‘Only in the most general way. He told me they were progressing.’
‘And you were satisfied with that? After all, you had a lot of money riding on the answers. You still have.’
‘I wasn’t satisfied, but I didn’t press the matter.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know Kenji. Once he saw I was anxious he would begin to tease me, as a boy might tease a puppy with a bone. That is not a game I enjoy.’
‘So now we come to Nara and afterwards. According to Gil here and to Carl Leibig, Cubeddu made a poor impression. The Russians indicated that his participation could kill the deal.’
‘Kenji did discuss that with me.’
‘What was his opinion?’
‘He said we simply needed to be patient. Things would soon be so bad in Russia that they’d rather eat with the dragon than starve.’
‘What else can you tell me about Cubeddu?’
‘Only that he’s a hard, vulgar man. He’s made some obvious passes at me, and some less obvious threats.’
‘What sort of threats?’
‘He hoped I understood that he had paid for results. If he didn’t get results, he might have to “institute recovery proceedings”.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I laughed in his face. Then he laughed too and said it was only a joke.’
I had been silent during the interrogation, but I wanted to be done with half-truths and evasions. I said to Miko: ‘There are two other things Sir Pavel should know. Do you want to tell him, or shall I?’
‘You tell him.’
‘According to Miko, Tanaka is much more seriously ill than he admits and he is looking for a successor to adopt into the business.’
‘He’s got a son.’
‘The son is a genetic biologist. He does not wish to give up his career.’
‘Ah!’ Laszlo’s smile was like a sunburst of revelation. ‘Now it begins to make sense: everything I was hearing in Australia, what I am getting from Wall Street. Even your Mr Cubeddu fits into the puzzle. Where is he now, by the way?’
‘I hope he’s still in Tokyo. It was made very clear to him that he should not be present here in Bangkok. Hoshino understands very well, but Cubeddu is a hard-head, he doesn’t want to learn.’
‘He’s here in Bangkok.’ Miko made the bald announcement. ‘He came on the same flight as I did. He’s staying at the Sheraton.’
‘That’ said Pavel Laszlo, ‘is the worst news I’ve heard tonight.’
‘What do you think will happen?’ It was Miko who asked the question. Laszlo stood up, wrapping the dressing gown about his bulging midriff.
‘I am not a prophet, madam. All I know is that when you stick a match in a petrol tank it blows up. As soon as Tanaka arrives, Gil, tell him I want to talk to him. Now, why don’t you two get out of here and let me read my book.’
As we walked down the corridor towards the elevators, Miko asked with an odd uncertainty: ‘Will you do me a favour?’
‘If I can.’
‘Take me down to the bar, buy me a drink, sit with me and listen to the music for half an hour.’
‘That doesn’t sound too hard.’
The elevator arrived. We rode down to the ground floor, found ourselves a quiet corner in the bar and ordered our drinks. The piano player discoursed Cole Porter melodies in an easy, unobtrusive style. Miko raised her glass.
‘Kampai! And thank you.’
‘Kampai, and good luck. We’re all going to need it.’
‘Can we call a truce now, you and I?’
‘If you want.’
‘I do. I’m tired, Gil, tired and scared. You’ve set the dogs on me in California. I can’t predict what’s going to happen with Kenji or how he’s going to act in the situation we have. He needs me desperately, but we communicate less and less freely. It’s almost as though he’s moved into another country. And Cubeddu frightens me. Hoshino’s a monster. He would and could eliminate me without a word spoken; but he doesn’t frighten me, because I’m part of the fabric of his world. I don’t threaten him. He doesn’t threaten me. But Cubeddu is different. There’s a rage in him. He will not admit defeat. And he wasn’t joking about recovering the money he has paid me.’
I judged it was time to put the question which we had all asked at one time or another. ‘What happens when Kenji dies? Has he made provision for you?’
‘Some, yes. I have no complaints. My business is profitable and it will continue, with or without the Tanaka Group.’
‘So what more do you need?’
‘The same thing as you, Gil Langton; a private loving and a tranquil one.’
‘You mocked me when I told you that.’
‘No. I was mocking myself, and I was jealous of you. There now. It’s all told.’
‘Not quite all.’
‘What have I left out?’
‘Marta.’
Her dark eyes stared at me, unblinking, over the rim of her glass. She was silent for a long moment, then she told me firmly: ‘She’s an adult woman, Gil. She can speak for herself. Why don’t you ask her?’
Shortly after that we finished our drinks and went our separate ways to our separate beds. I sat up for a while, reading the
newspapers which were laid out on my coffee table, topped with a posy of frangipani flowers to make the news more fragrant. On page three of the Far Eastern edition of the Wall Street Journal was a half-column news item with a Moscow dateline: President Gorbachev had accepted an invitation from the Japanese government to visit Tokyo in April for discussions on economic and political issues. Among the items listed on the agenda was the future of the Kuril Islands.
Which raised the interesting question as to how much prior knowledge Tanaka had of the proposed visit. He was, after all, a recently appointed personal counsellor to the Emperor. He was still Chairman of the small élite who controlled the policies of the keiretsu. There was a paradox here, too: the growing rumours of his alienation from his peers and his expressed confidence in the outcome of the Bangkok conference.
There was also another, smaller, mystery. Normally, during her stay in Japan, Miko was constantly at his side. She was both mistress and business confidante, which again had created problems with his colleagues. Now, when Tanaka was reported to be gravely ill, they were travelling separately and Miko was making no secret of her fears about her own future.
I slept fitfully that night, troubled by a frustration dream. I was in a bare room, facing a locked door. I knew I had the key. I could not find it in any of my pockets; I must have dropped it. As I groped about the floor, I found myself enmeshed in cobwebs, which were gradually filling the room and smothering me in grey filaments. When finally I found the key, I could not find the door.
Twelve
Sunday promised to be a straggling sort of day. The delegates from Tokyo would arrive mid-afternoon, those from Europe and Moscow in the early and late evening. None of them would feel much inclined for business. Immediately after breakfast I called Eiko and dictated a two-line memo to be handed to all delegates with their room keys. I would be at their disposal in my suite between six and eight.
Then I made contact with Laszlo’s publicity expert, a big, no-nonsense redhead with a rasping humour, a wide grin and an outback Queensland accent. Her work experience was impressive: she had run more than five hundred contingents of Japanese investors and international press men up, down and across the Australian continent. Her name was Pamela – call me Pam – Dalby and she made no secret of her talents and shortcomings.
‘I can’t write copy to save my life. Don’t ask me to interpret complicated ideas, because I trip over my bottom lip. What I’m good at is pushing the right paper into the right hands, keeping the news hounds happy and smelling trouble before it breaks, like tricky TV interviewers and big-name correspondents who specialise in minefields and booby traps.’
I told her Vannikov and I would be directing the information flow, Alex Boyko would be responsible for text and distribution. Marta Boysen would be the ideologue and Tanya the interpreter in residence. We would have our first meeting immediately after the opening general session. I showed her the rooms from which we would be operating. She checked the equipment: stationery, copying machines, word-processors, telephones. I asked her if she would like to join me by the pool. She gave a big, bar-room laugh.
‘Hell. Can you imagine me in a swimsuit with all these tiny-tot Asian Venuses? A masochist I’m not. I’m going shopping for silks and gemstones.’
‘I can recommend a couple of reputable dealers.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve been here before. I love the haggle and, believe it or not, I can read stones. My first lover, God rest his silly soul, was a jeweller. He taught me a lot about rubies and sapphires, but nothing about sex. Anything else you need before I go?’
‘That’s the lot. I’ll be interested to see what you buy. Good luck.’
‘Good luck to you, too. From what Pavel tells me, you’re carrying a lot of weight in this exercise.’
‘They’re paying by weight. I can’t complain.’
She was a big, loud woman from no place, but I felt better for meeting her. It was like stepping out of a small, dark room into a fortyacre paddock and hearing the shout of a country welcome.
I thought for a moment of calling Siri and inviting her across the river for lunch. Then I thought better of it. I did not really want to work at anything, even at being pleasant to people. I needed to be quiet and alone, to gather my wits and my strength for a performance that would go on eight, ten hours a day, for two weeks.
Rehearsals were over now. Tomorrow it would be showtime, with the big parade around the centre ring: the band, the elephants, the caracoling horses, the tumblers, the clowns. And, slap in the middle of the sawdust, the ringmaster, the temporary god who controlled all these wonders.
The pool attendant settled me in a shady spot with fresh towels and a big green umbrella. I smeared myself with protective lotion against the treachery of the tropic sun. The waiter brought me a coconut filled with exotic juices laced with white rum and curacao. I read the first two pages of a thriller I had bought at the bookstall, but it was pale stuff beside the dramas which had played themselves out along the river reaches in the last fifty years, dramas in whose epilogues I, Gilbert Anselm Langton, was most paradoxically involved.
In 1941 the Japanese had occupied Thailand, with the reluctant consent of its government which, with equal reluctance, declared war on the United States and Britain. In Washington, Cordell Hull refused to accept the declaration and the Ambassador who presented it immediately began to organise a resistance group called the Free Thai.
However, the Japanese were the occupying power. Their invasions of Malaya and Singapore were launched from Thai territory and the nightmare horrors of the Burma railway were enacted under the placid eyes of the Thai people. Now I, the son of a man who had interpreted at the trials of Japanese war criminals, was here in Bangkok, mediating the interests of a large Japanese corporation and a German one which had survived two world wars.
How to explain it? How to justify the shifting allegiances, the chameleon changes in the colour of human acts? Just behind me was the oldest section of the hotel, called the Authors’ Residence, whose suites were named for famous visitors – Noel Coward, Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham. I remembered sitting in the lounge there one steamy monsoon night while Jim Thompson, the silk king, explained his continued loyalty to the wartime leader of the Free Thai, the Prime Minister Pridi, who was then in exile in Peking, suspected of complicity in the murder of King Ananda.
Pridi and Thompson had been close friends. Pridi was the fabled ‘Ruth’ of the Free Thai movement. Thompson had been, and still was at the time, an Intelligence man. He was also a great and theatrical teller of tales. So where did the truth lie? How closely was Thompson’s own disappearance linked to his friendship with Pridi? Who could tell? And how much did it matter any more? What had been was already mythology, mai pen rai. Today was rolling back, hour by hour, into yesterday. Before judgment was even pronounced it was already obsolete.
Which brought me, by a round turn, back to Marta Boysen. I kept telling myself and everyone else that she was in the past, out of my life, because she was trapped in her own private mythology of domestic tyranny and a flight to freedom. The truth was that she was planted like a stone for stumbling in my present and my immediate future. I would have to meet her every day. I would have to say good morning and good night, offer her drinks, comment on the quality of her work; and still there would be unfinished business between us. It was all very well to talk about swift surgery and swift healing. Any doctor would tell you the ghost limb could still ache, years after the amputation.
However, in a strange fashion, I was more deeply troubled by the state of my relations with Kenji Tanaka. In the two short weeks since I had accepted to join the project, those relations had changed from warm friendship to bleak neutrality. The instinctive trust we had reposed in each other, both as friends and as business partners, seemed to have become a matter of calculation, if not of daily review by either party.
I had never had any illusions about the financial disparities between us. I was a modestly rich man with
the luxury of indulging his scholarly interests to make money. Kenji Tanaka was massively wealthy, the President of a huge conglomerate of industries spread all around the world. Yet, in the narrow field of our common endeavours, we were equals, partners in a competitive game which we played for the pleasure of it.
The differences in our histories and our cultures were even greater than the financial ones. I still had childhood memories of the Pacific war and the barbarities perpetrated by the armies of occupation in Malaya, the Philippines and the East Indies. But the gift of tongues with which my father had endowed me, the overview of history which he saw as an instrument of healing, gave me, I had believed, a privileged entry into the world of Kenji Tanaka. He had acknowleged that more than once.
‘I hear you speaking my language, Gil, and suddenly I am shocked that you do it so well and so easily. There is another thing which always surprises me: you are indifferent to the advantages you have. You have a key that opens many more doors than my money can. You teach me my own history. You recite fables which I had always thought were exclusive to my childhood. You will never know how much I resented the fact that you knew the song I used to sing as a little boy, Umeboshi san, Mr Pickle-plum.’