The Toyotomi Blades (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 2)

by Dale Furutani

  A knocking at my door woke me. I pried open my eyes and looked at the clock on the bedstand. Precisely 9:10 A.M. A little groggy and bemused, I opened the door to a waiter standing next to a cart holding my breakfast.

  As I ate, I turned on the television. The hotel had an English language channel, but it was playing an incredibly boring interview with a visiting Christian missionary. I would think missionary work could be interesting and exciting, but the interview featured a great deal of bureaucratic mumbling about the details of the missionary’s trip and almost nothing in the way of interesting stories or observations.

  I turned the channel to the network that ran News Pop, and although everything was in Japanese and I didn’t understand a word, I still found it more interesting. The Japanese shows seemed to start at odd times, like 9:35, instead of regular hourly or half-hourly intervals. They had more commercials, but individual advertisers seemed to run shorter commercials. An advertiser might run the same commercial two or even three times in a row, however. With some of the commercials, it was hard to figure out what they were trying to sell because the pictures seemed to have nothing to do with the product. They might show a picture of rain in a pine forest and at the last minute pitch you to buy shoes. Maybe if I understood Japanese the relationships would be clear, but trying to figure out what I was seeing was still amusing. One thing that was very exciting was seeing the promo I shot the previous night. In the forty-five minutes or so I watched TV, I saw it run twice.

  It was around 10 A.M., which meant it was 5 P.M. in Los Angeles. Mariko had told me to call her to let her know I had arrived safely. I knew she was waiting for my call so I picked up a card by the phone and read how to make a long distance call to the Kawashiri Boutique, where she worked when she wasn’t looking for acting jobs.

  Mariko is in her midthirties, so she’s a bit younger than I. She worked for most of her life at a bank and decided a few years ago that she wanted to be an actress. She also realized she had a drinking problem and got active in AA. She reshaped her life by her own choice and I admired her for it. With the loss of my job, my life was changed through the actions of others and I was still trying to figure out how I was going to cope.

  I guess changing our careers and lifestyles two or three times during the course of our lives is no longer unusual in the United States. Internal changes and external changes demand this from increasing numbers of us. Mariko and I have both had failed marriages, so we’ve both already had major changes in the course of our lives. For me, finding Mariko was another major change and the longer I know her, the more I realize how profound that change is.

  I started punching numbers on the phone, using the U.S. country code, the area code, and the boutique’s phone number. She picked it up after only a couple of rings.

  “Hello, Kawashiri Boutique,” she said. Pretty mundane, but her voice sounded like the sweetest poetry to me.

  “It’s me. I got here uneventfully and I’ve already seen myself on Japanese TV pitching the show.”

  “I’m glad you called. I miss you already.”

  “You should have gone into hock and joined me.”

  “Don’t tempt me. It’s just too much money.”

  “That’s true. My breakfast this morning cost around thirty-five dollars for eggs and toast. That’s about fifteen dollars per egg and five dollars for the toast.”

  “So the beautiful pearl necklace I was expecting is out?”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t done any shopping, but I’m sure I can find a lovely souvenir T-shirt for you.”

  “You don’t have to bring anything back for me except yourself,” she said. “Just come back safe.”

  “That’s no worry. I’m here in Tokyo, the safest big city in the world.”

  “Tell that to the thousands gassed by that Japanese cult. Speaking of safety, I had some excitement here last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Hernandez called the police because she thought someone was breaking into your apartment.”

  Mrs. Hernandez is my neighbor in the duplex I rent. She has a good heart, but she’s a snoop. When I’m doing the snooping, it’s okay. When I’m being snooped on, it’s annoying. I’ve left my apartment at 6 in the morning and returned at 2 A.M. the following morning and she’s commented on it, including the exact times I left and returned. She’s retired and has nothing better to do than to watch the comings and goings of her neighbors. The positive part about her is that she is superior to any home alarm system.

  “What happened?”

  “She was convinced that someone was prowling around your apartment late last night, so first she called the police and then she called me.”

  “Why did she call you?”

  “She knows I have a key to your apartment. She wanted me to come and let the police into your apartment.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t had a key made for herself, just so she can snoop at leisure. Did you go down?”

  “Of course. We went in and looked around, but I saw nothing out of place and the police saw no signs of a forced entry. At least your apartment didn’t look like Cathy’s.”

  Cathy was a friend of Mariko’s who was called at work by the police and asked to return home because her apartment had been burglarized. That morning Cathy was rushed and late for work, so she actually ran out of her apartment without properly slamming the door behind her. A neighbor noticed her door was ajar and peeked through the open door to see if everything was okay. What the neighbor saw caused him to call the police.

  When Cathy got home, there were two police cars and four police officers waiting. A female police officer pulled Cathy aside and said to her, “We want you to enter your apartment to see what’s missing. Please don’t touch anything because we want to dust for fingerprints.” The officer hesitated a moment, then said, “You might want to prepare yourself for a few seconds before you go in. I’ve been inside and they pretty well trashed your apartment looking for valuables. Things are thrown everywhere and it’s a complete a mess, so watch where you step.”

  Cathy braced herself and stepped into an apartment with clothes and other belongings tossed on the floor and spread around the apartment. Then she had to brace herself a second time to tell the police officers that nothing was missing and that was how she normally kept her apartment.

  I started laughing and said, “That story about Cathy was the reason I cleaned things up before I left for Japan. I thought if anybody did go into the apartment, I didn’t want to be accused of felony sloppiness. So there was no burglar after all?”

  “I guess not. I think Mrs. Hernandez must be losing it. She rousted me out of a sound sleep for no good reason.”

  “That’s very strange. She’s usually very accurate. She acts as a one-woman neighborhood watch and not too much goes on that she doesn’t notice. If she said there was a prowler, I’d tend to believe her.”

  “She said the prowler got into your apartment, but when we looked, there was absolutely no sign that anyone had been in there. If someone did get into your apartment, they decided there was nothing worth stealing.”

  “It’s still strange,” I said.

  “So, what’s on the schedule today?” Mariko asked, changing the subject.

  “Cheap sightseeing, if I can swing it, and a stop by the studio this afternoon.”

  “Well, have fun, and come home safely to me. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  7

  Although News Pop was picking up my tab for travel, hotel rooms, and meals, all sightseeing was to be done on my own nickel. I was still living off the settlement given me when the Calcommon Corporation downsized my job out of existence, so although I could expect a check for a few more months, I didn’t have money to burn.

  There’s a large shopping arcade under the Imperial Hotel, and after changing some traveler’s checks for yen in the lobby, I went down to the arcade as my first stop. I passed the fancy art galleries, designer clothing
stores, and nice restaurants and made my way to a bookstore. At the bookstore, I bought a good street map of Tokyo and had the clerk circle the location of the Imperial Hotel.

  I figured if I got really lost, I could point to the circle on the map and a taxi driver could get me back to the hotel. Of course, that might not always work. I heard a story of a tourist in Tokyo who picked up a matchbook in his hotel’s lobby, figuring that if he ever became lost he could point to the hotel’s name on the matchbook and have the taxi driver take him back to the hotel.

  The inevitable happened and the tourist became hopelessly lost. He jumped into a taxi and handed the matchbook to the driver. The driver asked a question in Japanese and the tourist replied in English. It took about two seconds to realize that neither person could speak the other’s language. The tourist kept pointing to the matchbook and gesturing until the taxi driver had a light bulb go on. “Ah!” the driver exclaimed and he started driving. The tourist settled back in the cab and relaxed while the driver drove for about thirty minutes.

  Suddenly the taxi came to a stop in an industrial neighborhood that was totally unfamiliar to the tourist. He was trying to figure out where he was while the driver proudly pointed to a building in front of the cab. The tourist looked out of the cab and saw a factory building with a big sign on it that said Tokyo Match Company.

  My map had a diagram of the large Tokyo subway and rail system on it. One elevated train, the Yamanote line, runs in a huge circle around Tokyo. This circular line is sometimes used in Japan to describe a speaker. If a speaker is a Yamanote, it means he goes around and around and never comes to the point. I thought riding a loop on the Yamanote line would be a cheap way to get a quick tour of the city. I checked my map and decided to walk to a nearby train station, hop on the Yamanote line, and ride it until I had made a complete circle before getting off at the station next to where I got on.

  Walking to the train station from the hotel was an interesting experience. I thought that some racial memory might make the streets of Japan familiar, but although I felt oddly comfortable on the streets, Tokyo was as alien to me as Lagos, Nigeria, or Bombay, India would be.

  The twisty streets of Tokyo, originally laid out in a way to confound invading armies, also serve to confound invading tourists. The fact that some streets don’t have names also adds to the fun, along with the Japanese custom of assigning numbers based on the sequence that the buildings in a neighborhood were built. Over time, this custom makes it impossible to guarantee that building four is flanked by buildings three and five. For a country normally viewed by the rest of the world as being orderly and systematic, something as simple as trying to find an address illustrates that the Japanese are as illogical and silly as the rest of us.

  As I walked along, the people around me seemed to be in a great rush. In Los Angeles, we sort of meander when we walk. In Tokyo, people were very intent on reaching their destination and not intent on enjoying the journey. As I walked along, I wondered if I was doing the gin-bura, or Ginza stroll. In the old days, the samurai would positively swagger, especially on a big public street in the Ginza district, where all the big money lenders, banks, and smartest shops could be found. Now it looked more to me like the Japanese were practicing the Ginza sprint, because I was the only one strolling.

  As people scurried past me, they treated me very much like a tree or one of the metal guardrails that seemed designed to keep people from parking on the sidewalk. The bustle was very reminiscent of New York City, but with one big difference. In Tokyo, not one person bumped into me, jostled me, or even gave me a hard look. The schools of people seemed to flow around me like fish around coral.

  I made it to the train station, bought a ticket from a machine, and climbed up to the platform. The train was old, but kept up, and for once I had a good time running around in circles. I ended up in the Ginza, near where I started from, and spent the rest of the day exploring the area and wandering through the big department stores.

  For lunch I stopped at the restaurant in the Wako department store that looks over the intersection of Chuo Dori and Harumi Dori, the heart of the Ginza. I ate tiny cucumber, butter, and ham sandwiches that had the crusts carefully sliced off and watched the endless ebb and flow of humanity outside the window.

  In the crowd, I saw a tall blond tourist making his way across the intersection. His pale skin, straw hair, and lanky body looked totally out of place in the milling crowd of short, dark-haired pedestrians. He was a pale cork bobbing in a sea of black and brown. I realized that the reason I felt comfortable on the streets was because I blended into the crowd perfectly. That’s not always an advantage in Japan. I know another AJA (American of Japanese Ancestry) who frequently comes to Japan on business. He once told me that he liked to walk with tall, blond business associates because the Tokyo drivers will always stop and let a gaijin (foreigner) cross the street. Because he looked Japanese, my friend was cut no slack by Tokyo drivers, and he was expected to be nimble and watch out for himself when crossing the road.

  Junko would be able to blend into this street scene as easily as I would, but in Japan she was an alien. I was used to standing out based on my Asian looks, and I associated racial prejudice with looking different. When I was in the army during the Vietnam War, I was once sitting on the ground with a large number of recruits early in my stint in basic training. A grizzled sergeant came up to us and barked, “Tanaka! Stand up!” I didn’t know what I had done wrong, but I scrambled to my feet as ordered. “Okay, you recruits, look at Tanaka. Take a good look, because this is what a gook looks like, and gooks are the enemy!” My faced burned, but I was nineteen and in the midst of the most frightening and unsettling experience of my life and didn’t know what to do. All I could do was stand there humiliated as the other recruits laughed. What was especially disturbing was this sergeant was African-American, and he must have known what it was like to be singled out because of your race. Unfortunately, whatever life experiences he had along these lines didn’t teach him empathy, only mimicry.

  Junko looked just like the people walking around on the street below me. Yet despite looking, acting, and sounding like everyone else, she was a minority because her ancestors were born in Korea. It’s a strange world, and one we make unnecessarily stranger by dividing people up into different types of minorities.

  In the afternoon, I took a cab back to the studio and met with a pleasant surprise from Junko. As soon as she saw me, she asked, “Where did you say you bought that sword?”

  “At a garage sale.”

  “And how much did you pay for it?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “When we leave the studio I want you to go with me to buy a lottery ticket,” Junko said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you must be incredibly lucky. That sword could be very valuable.”

  Stunned, I asked, “How do you know?”

  “Those news stories we found made me curious about who the swordsmith Kannemori was and why so many of his swords were stolen, so I did some research against some Japanese language databases. Those databases are more comprehensive than the English language databases we subscribe to. In the university database, I found an article about Kannemori swords that was printed in a scholarly journal in 1987. It described some unusual swords made by Kannemori in the early 1600s. It seems the swords were especially made for the Toyotomi clan. These blades have a design incised into the blades that actually weakens the sword and ruins it as a fighting weapon. Your sword has the same kind of designs as those described in the article. The article talked about blades at the Japan National Museum and in the hands of a private collector here in Japan. Those two had different designs on their blades and yours seems to be different still. If yours is a Kannemori blade it could be worth a lot.”

  “How could we find out for sure?”

  “I’ve already called the author of the article, Professor Hirota. He teaches Japanese history at All Japan University. He’s out of town right
now, but his assistant said Professor Hirota would call me as soon as he’s back. He said the professor would probably be very interested. I’m going to ask Professor Hirota if he’ll look at your sword and see if it’s a Kannemori.”

  I don’t view myself as a greedy man, but I was unemployed and the prospect of a windfall from a garage sale purchase made my spirits soar.

  Junko was working on a videotape piece that gave the details of the murder I had solved, and she asked me to help make sure the chronology and facts were right. She was weaving news footage and stock pictures of Los Angeles together to illustrate the piece, which she said would take up three minutes of my twelve-minute segment. I secretly wished she would make a longer tape introduction, because the remaining nine minutes of live interview seemed like an eternity to fill.

  My enthusiasm for being on camera live was waning as I thought of all the embarrassing and disastrous possibilities. Mostly, I thought I’d freeze up and sit there grinning like an idiot while the hosts asked me questions in Japanese. Finally I confessed my apprehensions to Junko.

  She smiled and said, “Everyone gets nervous, but not too many people admit it, especially men. You’ll do fine. If you’d like, I’ll give you some hints.”

  “Dozo,” I said, using the Japanese word for please.

  “I thought you didn’t speak Japanese,” she answered.

  “Dozo represents a significant chunk of my Japanese vocabulary. I know some words, but I don’t know grammar. Plus, everyone speaks so fast, I can’t even pick out the few words I know.”

  Junko laughed. “When you’re beginning to learn a language, it seems like everyone is speaking really fast. It’s just that you haven’t adjusted to the rhythm of the language yet. After a while, it seems like people slow down and you can hear individual words, but it’s really because you’ve picked up an ear for a particular language.”

  “You should know. You speak several languages.”

  “Well, the more you learn, the easier it seems. Everyone gets English training in the Japanese school system, although English teachers are usually terrible. We learn to read and write it very well, but spoken language skills are incredibly poor. Many of our English teachers just don’t know how to speak it properly.”