The Book of the Sword

by Carrie Asai

  When I came out of the bathroom, I felt a little better. I was still sore, but my muscles had begun to loosen up, and moving was easier. It felt good to be back in regular clothes, especially because Cheryl and I were about the same size.

  “How’d it go?” She was back at the counter, flipping through a magazine and eating a slice of cold pizza. “Well, surprise, surprise. You clean up nice,” she said, answering her own question.

  “Do you know what time it is?” It had to have been near dawn when I fell asleep.

  “About two.” Cheryl picked a piece of pepperoni off her pizza, frowned at it, and tossed it in the direction of the trash.

  I knew I had to get to Hiro before sundown somehow. The thought of spending another night with nowhere to go terrified me.

  “Hey, wait a minute! You need one more thing!” Cheryl ran back to the closet, and when she came out again, she was holding a pair of pink rubber flip-flops. “These should last you until you get where you’re going.”

  I smiled and resisted the urge to throw my arms around Cheryl. Luckily the phone rang and she jumped over an easy chair toward the kitchen, her necklaces jingling. She didn’t need to see me getting all mushy, not after she’d been so great to me.

  I slipped on the flip-flops. Then it occurred to me—I could use Cheryl’s phone to call information and try to get Hiro’s phone number again. Now I knew he lived in Hollywood—that would help, right? To be sure of the neighborhood? “Telemarketers,” Cheryl explained, hanging up the phone and shaking her head. “They just won’t quit.”

  “Could I ask you for one more favor?” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” Cheryl demanded. Then she gave that incredible laugh. “Come on. You’ve already figured out that underneath my crispy shell is a sweet center. So just ask already.”

  “Well, I thought I could call information and see if they have my friend’s number.”

  “Good idea,” Cheryl said. “But let’s just look it up on the Internet. That way it’s free.”

  “Okay.” I smiled. In just a few minutes I might be talking to Katie. I wondered if it would be too rude to ask Cheryl for some privacy when I called?

  “Come on, we can use my roommate’s computer.” Cheryl led the way to the bedroom across from hers. She stalked in without knocking.

  “What are you doing?” A headful of matted brown hair poked up from under a pile of blankets.

  “It’s two o’clock, Otto.” Cheryl pulled up the blinds, flooding the room with California sunshine. “You have to get up and help clean.”

  “Go away.” The head disappeared again. I felt like I was in a John Hughes movie—this room was definitely retro. Posters of eighties bands covered all available wall space, and Otto’s computer and computer-related stuff took up nearly half the bedroom. The flat-screen iMac I had at home hardly took up any room at all.

  “We just need to look something up.” Otto groaned, and Cheryl quickly assumed command of the computer. I held my breath when we entered Hiro’s name, and suddenly there it was: 337 Lily Place.

  “Weird,” Cheryl muttered. “Just an address. Maybe he doesn’t have a phone?”

  “Do you know where that is?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh. Lily Place? That’s weird. I’ve never even heard of it. Hey, Otto—hey!” Cheryl stretched out her leg and poked the lump of covers with her toes.

  The lump rolled over. “Cheryl, I am going to kill you if you don’t get out of here.”

  “We need your help. We need you to use that big brain of yours and tell us where Lily Place is.” Cheryl tried to flip off the covers with her foot.

  “I don’t know.” A hand appeared, holding the covers in place.

  “Otto—” Cheryl turned the name into a little song. I inched toward the door. We’d intruded long enough.

  “Look it up on the map, dumbass! What do you think the Internet is for?” A long arm stretched out, grabbed a pillow, and lobbed it in our general direction.

  “Oh. That’s true. Sorry.” Cheryl clicked the mouse a few times, and a map of Hollywood popped up with a star over Lily Place.

  “Weird. I don’t remember ever seeing that street. It’s not too far from here, but you should probably take the bus. You can get it at the end of the block.” Cheryl explained the directions in detail, then printed out a copy of the map for me, much to Otto’s displeasure. He poked his head over the comforter.

  “Cheryl, I told you—” Otto stopped short and fumbled for a pair of glasses that lay on the crate next to his bed, jammed them onto his face, and stared at me. “Who, pray tell, is the hottie?”

  “Her name’s Heaven, dorkass,” Cheryl teased.

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “Oh. My. God. You are a vision. A vision of heaven. Do you have a boyfriend?” Otto used both hands to smooth down his hair.

  “Otto, you are so desperate, it’s pathetic. Don’t answer that, Heaven,” Cheryl said, giving my arm a reassuring pat. “If you say yes, you’re doomed to an interrogation about why you’re dating him, and if you say no, well…he’ll never leave you alone.”

  Otto moaned again and burrowed back under the covers. “Doomed. I’m the one who’s doomed.”

  “Anything else?” Cheryl asked me brightly, ignoring him.

  “I think that’s it.” It was time for me to leave, even though it was tempting to curl up in the pile of clothes in Cheryl’s room and never come out.

  “Cool,” Cheryl said as we walked out of Otto’s lair. She slammed the door behind us and walked me out to the porch. I could tell from the position of the sun that it would be dark in about three hours.

  “Thanks again for everything.” Words didn’t seem enough of a thank-you for what Cheryl had done.

  “Forget it. It’s nothing. Besides, I wouldn’t mess with someone packin’ that sword.” She nodded toward the shopping bag that awkwardly held the Whisper wrapped in my kimono.

  “I know, but—”

  “I said forget it. Now get out of here.” Cheryl grabbed my hand and pressed a slip of paper with a number into it. “My cell,” she said. “If you ever need it.”

  I nodded and put the paper in the pocket of my jeans. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  I walked down the steps, fighting off tears again. The fact that a total stranger like Cheryl would help me out had made me feel simultaneously grateful and terribly lonely. I’d never needed help from strangers before. It reminded me that I had no one else to turn to. Before the wedding I was Heaven Kogo, and even when I felt isolated, with no real roots in the world, I knew that at least my father believed I was part of something. A family, a tradition, a culture. But here, well, I wasn’t part of anything. I was completely on my own, and if something happened to me, no one would even know. I was a stranger, a foreigner. Invisible.

  In the daylight the streets of Hollywood looked parched and ugly, except for an occasional burst of bright flowers. Even the palm trees that lined the streets seemed shabby and unromantic—one had graffiti carved in the trunk. It was nothing like what I had pictured when I was back in Tokyo. I felt like this was Hollywood—everything should sparkle.

  I reached the plastic shelter and waited impatiently for the bus. Standing in one place outdoors, I suddenly felt very exposed. The men who had seemed to be looking for me last night—what if they were still looking? Even without my kimono, I felt like I stuck out in L.A. The streets were strangely empty. I scanned both directions but saw nothing. In a nearby parking lot three kids circled on crumpled-looking bicycles; a few cars passed.

  Then a black limousine turned the corner.

  It glided toward me. I froze as my mind tried to explain it away. Maybe it was just a lost celebrity? A limo driver returning home from a shift?

  But in my heart I knew it was coming for me. I kicked off the pink flip-flops, shoved them in the shopping bag, and took off.

  And there I was again, running and stumbling through more backyards and empty lots toward who knew where. This time there w
ere people out, watering gardens, walking their dogs, and some yelled as I went by. I didn’t pay any attention, barely heard them.

  I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until my chest felt like it would explode, and my head ached, and my mouth was filled with sour spit. I came out onto a main street and slowed down so that I wouldn’t attract attention. I slipped the flip-flops back on and tried to calm my breathing. When I passed a convenience store, I decided to go in. I was light-headed from lack of food, and I needed to stay sharp. I’d have to spend Ohiko’s hundred-dollar bill. I paused for a moment at the door. Could I part with the last thing my brother gave me?

  Ohiko would want me to use it. But he’d held it in his hands. A message to me was written on the front of the bill in his writing. I had no choice. I had to use the money. I decided that whatever happened, I’d keep the last dollar of it as a keepsake.

  A blast of stale air from a dusty ceiling fan hit me as I stepped into the convenience store. I slipped toward the coolers at the back and grabbed a bottle of water, then I chose a few packages of crackers and cheese from the aisle of junk food. I brought my supplies up to the front counter and set them down along with my money.

  “I can’t break a hundred,” said the clerk, without bothering to look up from his magazine. He had a little black beard and a deep, leathery tan that explained why his tattoos were so faded.

  “Please? I don’t have anything else.” My voice came out as high and trembly as a little girl’s.

  “Sorry. You don’t even have five dollars’ worth of stuff.” He flipped a page of the magazine.

  My chest tightened as I scanned the items in a rack on the counter: corkscrews, scratch-off lottery tickets, key chains, condoms—condoms right there next to the candy bars! I grabbed two Hershey bars and plopped them down on the counter. Ohiko had loved Hershey bars. They were his favorite American candy.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Sorry.” Flip went a page of the magazine.

  “Look—I’ll give you twenty dollars if you’ll let me break the hundred. Please.” Say yes, I silently pleaded. You have to say yes.

  The man behind the counter finally looked at me. “Cool.”

  “Could you also tell me how to call a cab?” I asked, now that we’d made eye contact and everything.

  “Baby, I’ll call you a cab for twenty bucks.” He winked at me.

  “Twenty more dollars or the twenty I’m already giving you?”

  “I’ll include it in the original twenty. Some might say I’m a gentleman.” He winked again.

  “Gee, thanks.” What a jerk. But I needed a cab. My feet were all ripped up, and my knees felt like jelly. I gulped my water and scarfed up my crackers as I waited outside. The cab didn’t show up for almost an hour. But fifteen minutes after that I was standing on the sidewalk outside Hiro’s house. It was so small, it could have belonged to a doll, and it was set back from the street behind overgrown bushes and a few palms—very private. I followed the walkway around to a side door. Hiro’s name was on the doorbell. I took a deep breath—could this be it? Could this be the first person the new Heaven could count on? I pushed the button.

  The door opened. The quiet, serious, somewhat gawky teenager I remembered had been replaced by a grown-up Hiro. He looked—fuller somehow, as if he had grown into his body since I’d last seen him. With his high cheekbones and dark, intense eyes, he could have been in an Armani ad.

  “Heaven? Heaven Kogo?” His voice was rough with concern.

  I nodded dumbly, marveling at how my vision seemed to be darkening, like the clicking of a shutter on a camera.

  “Heaven—listen to me—are you hurt?” He took me by the shoulders, his hands so warm, I felt like they’d give me tan lines. “Did somebody hurt you?” he asked slowly and deliberately.

  “No, no,” I said. “Nobody hurt me. Not me.” Suddenly I could feel Ohiko’s blood gushing into my hands again. I could hear the gunshots. The sound of hundreds of shoes running across a marble floor. I could smell roses, and the smell was suddenly horribly sweet. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Are you sure?” Hiro asked.

  I used the last of my dimming vision to focus on him. His eyes were so dark. Kind eyes, I thought. Ohiko was right to send me here.

  5

  Hiro pulled a small teapot out of a cupboard and scooped some green tea leaves from a bamboo box into a metal tea ball. I watched his slow, deliberate movements as I stood still and quiet in the doorway, wanting a moment before I had to talk to him. He seemed so calm and reserved, as befitted someone of his family’s stature. But he also looked very hip in just a white T-shirt, Levi’s, and bare feet. Very American. “Feeling better?” he asked. He glanced over at me as he poured boiling water into the pot.

  I couldn’t stop a little squeak of surprise from escaping my throat. “Uh, yeah,” I said. “Thanks for setting me up on your futon. How did you know I was behind you?”

  Hiro grinned. “I’m not someone who’s easy to sneak up on,” he told me. “Is plain tea okay?”

  “Yes, please,” I replied. I took a seat at the kitchen table, trying to look casual, nervously taking in the rest of the apartment as I waited for Hiro to join me. The place had a very Japanese feeling, with several reproductions of hanging scrolls from the Edo period on the walls. I recognized them because we had some originals from the same era hanging back home—Konishi was a collector. Hiro had made a few concessions to the West, though. The living room held a puffy green velvet couch and a coffee table stacked with books in both Japanese and English. A battered-looking bike hung from a large hook on the wall, and the entryway was littered with random pieces of workout gear and martial arts equipment I recognized from Ohiko’s training: bike shoes, bike helmet, a bo—I’d loved to watch my brother training with the long wooden pole—and assorted sparring pads. It was pretty cozy, all things considered.

  Hiro placed teacups and the teapot on the table and sat down across from me. It was weird, but suddenly I felt really awkward. It was like I didn’t know what to do with my hands. It occurred to me that I’d never been alone with any man except Ohiko or my father. Grow up, Heaven, I told myself. This is not the time to start having an issue. You’re nineteen years old, and you need Hiro’s help.

  Hiro poured out the tea without saying anything.

  “I would have called before I came,” I explained lamely. “I mean, I tried to get your phone number from information, but they didn’t have it.”

  Hiro placed the teapot down on the table and gave me a small but warm smile. “I only have a cell phone, and they don’t list those numbers,” he explained. “That must have made it difficult for you to find me.”

  I nodded, trying to figure out how to explain what I was doing here and everything that had happened. I was afraid I’d start crying the moment I began to talk. I couldn’t help feeling that as long as I didn’t say that Ohiko was dead, it wouldn’t be true. Hiro calmly picked a few tea leaves from the rim of his cup, not asking questions, not pushing me. That was something else I remembered about him—he’d never teased me like some of Ohiko’s other friends.

  “Ohiko is dead.” It came out of me before I had time to stop it.

  Hiro’s eyes widened slightly, but his voice was calm when he spoke.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  So I did. Once I started talking, it was as if I couldn’t tell the story fast enough. I began with the wedding, but when Hiro asked me a few questions, it became clear he didn’t know anything about my engagement to Teddy, even though the Japanese gossip rags had been discussing it for months. I told Hiro about Ohiko’s break with my father, about the trip to L.A., finding Ohiko’s note, and then, finally, the moment when the ninja shattered the sky and destroyed everything I loved.

  When I finished, Hiro took a sip of tea and replaced his teacup on the table. “Why did you assume the intruder was a ninja?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding?” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve seen plenty of movies,
you know.”

  “Yes, but—was he just dressed like a ninja?” Hiro asked, his black eyes intent on my face. “Or did he use a ninja fighting style?”

  I was quiet for a moment. The terrible picture of Ohiko and the ninja locked in a sword fight to the death pushed away all other thoughts. He had certainly been as well trained as Ohiko.

  “He used a katana. He and Ohiko fought each other for at least five minutes. He was quick. He was graceful, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes. So he was trained.” Hiro ran his fingers through his shiny black hair. It was short but shaggy, as if it hadn’t been cut in a while. “Did Ohiko wound him?”

  “I don’t think so. He ran out a side door when the bodyguards showed up. They had guns,” I explained.

  “So he’s still out there.”

  I shuddered. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Hiro shook his head. “Something about this doesn’t make sense. I know the people your father must have invited to the wedding—many of them have bodyguards, and not a few of them carry their own guns. Why would all the bodyguards be waiting outside? Why wouldn’t somebody else have drawn their weapon?”

  I knew I had to tell him about my father, but even now it felt like a betrayal. I knew he had purposely let Ohiko die. I knew it. But I still hoped there might be some logical explanation—even though I couldn’t imagine such a thing.

  “My father…” I swallowed hard. The words felt like they were stuck in my throat. Hiro waited. “He just stood there,” I said.

  Hiro’s dark brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I watched him stand there. He was holding his gun, but he didn’t do anything. He just…he just watched while Ohiko…” A huge sob rolled up before I could stop it, and in the next moment I was weeping like a child—that kind of gasping, hysterical crying that feels like it will never stop. Apparently I did have some tears left. Hiro left the table and returned with some tissues. He put his hand, heavy and warm, on my shoulder, and after a few minutes I calmed down enough to stutter out the rest of my story.