But the director eased off himself when they settled cross-legged at the table, facing each other across dishes of prawns and sea urchins arranged with delicate flowers. His conversation centered on American museums and American baseball. Hank held his own on the latter subject, and at least remembered enough from school trips back home to mention a painting of worn work shoes by Van Gogh at the Baltimore Art Museum, and of the battle scenes on a Roman sarcophagus in the Walters Art Gallery.
“I have not seen these,” mused Mr. T, impressed. “And so close to Washington, D.C., where I have visited influential senators. You go often to see the famous Old Shoes?”
“My parents live in Baltimore. That’s where I grew up and went to college.” Hank did not bother to admit that visits back home never included museum trips.
Mike arrived to take charge of Hank once again. It was agreed that, after several scheduled meetings and a trip to Kawasaki shipyards to look at vessels that might have American headroom, Hank would return to the States until a new longliner had been found.
Mike addressed his father in Japanese, using a deferential tone Hank had not heard him use with others, then turned to Hank, smiling. “No banquet tonight, Hank. Business business. However, Father has instructed since he remembers your strange fascination with Kabuki drama.” He produced a ticket. “Good time for you. First-class seat for Kabuki. Starting four in afternoon the writing says—I don’t attend these things, but so it says here—so you’d better hurry.”
“But I don’t . . .” Hank started, then checked himself. No way to explain that a woman might be there he didn’t want to meet, didn’t want even to be seen with. He accepted the ticket and made a courtesy bow to the director. “Really nice of you, sir. Thanks.” What indeed were the chances in a whole theater crowd of encountering a single person?
An hour later he approached the fluted entrance to Kabuki-Za with a stirring of pleasure. Several women in the busy lobby wore the traditional kimono and obi; the place was like Japan in books. For a man who seldom went even to a movie unless it was John Wayne or if Jody wanted to, he’d been sucked in by the wildness of this Japanese theater. The color, yes. And it reminded him, maybe, of wind and weather with its long calms broken by violence. Helene had taken him to Kabuki-Za for the first time after they’d met by chance at that yakitori café, but it no longer needed to be tied to her . . . apple perfume. He joined the Japanese bustle, holding his ticket in anticipation.
“Well, I declare. It’s Cousin Herbert back in town, great shaggy-dog beard and all!”
And there stood Helene Foster, the woman who had almost cost him his marriage. She was as lively and feminine as ever, in a crisp outfit with a signature scarf over her shoulder. “Well.. . hi,” he said. “Uh, nice to see you.”
“And you, and you.” They shook hands. “My goodness gracious. You’re back.”
She waited, expectant but at ease. And at once playing the little country-cousin game they’d invented, which inevitably had led them twice to bed. He needed to keep it sober. “You’re still here studying Kabuki, I guess,” he ventured.
“Generous Fulbright, yes indeed.”
“That’s . . . great.”
“But not many big fishermen come through, and Japanese men aren’t exactly . . . One does get homesick for you woolly bears.” Her face had all the lights and expressions he’d remembered, so that anything she said sounded amusing and agreeable. “My, isn’t it hot! You’re lucky Kabuki’s running this week with special performances. A traveling company. They’re normally closed all summer, you know.”
“Well. Lucky!” He looked around. Fortunately, people were hurrying toward the auditorium. He held up his ticket. “I’m really snowed with business this trip. Meetings day and night. Didn’t plan to visit Kabuki here, but friends bought me this as a gift. Bad Japanese manners to refuse.”
Her eyes rested merrily on his face. “Certainly not. It would have been impolite.”
“Well. . . Guess I’d better find my seat. It’s sure nice to see you again.”
“Sure nice.” She flashed her saucy smile. Was she making fun of his discomfort? (He had firmly broken off with her back then.) And did he now detect that light, apple-like scent that had somehow turned him on, or was his imagination doing tricks? She held out her hand, and said evenly, “So good to see you again, Cousin Herbert. Good-bye.”
The finality of it relaxed him enough to reply with the play name he’d given her. “Me too, Daisy Mae. You take care.”
She squeezed his hand spontaneously. “You remembered! I do declare!” Instead of parting she took his arm. “Just for that, Cousin Herbert, you can walk me to my seat so the folks who see me here all the time will know I have connections.”
Nothing but to go with it. “Sure. Glad to.” He began to construct the details of a fish conference that would force him to leave at first intermission.
She examined his ticket and exclaimed, “My stars! Your friends are some influential. It’s a house seat just like mine.” Indeed, he was located directly behind her.
The performance began with all the elements of Kabuki he’d liked. Snarling warriors stomped down a ramp waving swords, their elaborate costumes swaying with each violent movement. The actors’ faces, painted in garishly colored lines, contorted with expressions larger than life, while their voices lept from gravelly growls to high-pitched whines. But he enjoyed little of it.
There she was in his vision coolly inescapable, wearing indeed that aphrodisiac perfume that wafted back. The easy scarf in silhouette would be carrying the odor same as her hair. He couldn’t help reacting. And thinking. If he’d been free as in old fisherman days there’d be no question. For that matter, as he considered, not one of the fisheries people who might recognize him would be attending an afternoon performance on an office day. No one would see, no one need know. She was so quick and vivacious. Lively in bed. Fun. Such a light touch. None of. . . other women’s seriousness—party-dampening seriousness at times. The perfume brought it all back so potently that he needed to keep shifting in his seat.
The performance droned on. An interminable scene with two players seated, immobile, singsonging at each other, ended at last, but not before he wondered what the hell he’d ever seen in this stuff. At last the lights came up for an intermission. Helene rose and faced him.
He stood with resolve and stretched. “Hey, let me buy you a drink, or ice cream, or something.”
“Lovely!”
Her arm brushed his as they walked up the crowded aisle. Outside the auditorium a gallery of kiosks offered everything from sake to sushi to souvenir dolls. Hank waved his arm. “Take your pick.”
“I think a drink would be nice.”
They clinked whiskeys and sipped. She smiled. “This is nice, Hank.”
“Nice seeing you again, Helene.”
“Dare I hope this is a new start?”
He allowed his sight to travel over her face and trim body once more. “No. A second good-bye. After we’ve toasted I’m leaving.”
She took it as gracefully as he’d hoped she would. “I like you, Hank. Good luck.”
“I like you too, Helene.”
As once before, she took his face in her hands to turn it to her. He closed his eyes. Her perfume seemed overpowering. “All the woolly bears,” she murmured. “They do climb that male tree and pull up the ladder, don’t they?”
“Seems so, Helene.” He touched her cheek. “Guess it’s good-bye now.”
“‘Bye, Hank.” He started to say he was sorry, but she kissed him lightly, and walked away. It left him free to watch her. She had style. He hurried from the theater.
On the afternoon following his lunch with the director, Hank called on the fishery agency. He now moved there as a creature of importance. Principal supervisors—their level apparent by the isolation of their desks from others crowded together—came to shake his hand (their own hands all limp). Lesser employees who had been friendly during meetings in the spring look
ed up bashfully and leapt to their feet when Hank came over. Hayashi, now a low-level supervisor, who months before on the road had become “Yashi-san,” greeted him with careful reserve from his desk at the head of a long table. Kodama alone, seated at the table below Hayashi where he worked elbow to elbow among others, nodded vigorously with the trace of a smile.
Hank had spent a restless night with his body awake from the Helene encounter. He craved exercise to keep his mind on Jody. After he had conducted his business with an official three desks higher than Hayashi, he approached Kodama. “Do you run after work? I’ll join you.”
“Only in morning, of course.”
“Good. What time and where?”
“No. Two hours away, doing before train to office.”
“You commute that far?”
“Of course. All here coming train. Having family apartment in Tokyo impossible for mere office worker.”
“Too bad. I need the exercise.”
Twitch of the mouth, Kodama’s ultimate expression of humor. “I go to Kodo-kan after office. You do judo?”
“Sure! I mean, wouldn’t mind learning.”
“Ha. Years of discipline.” He appraised Hank. “You come, I shall introduce.”
“Done.”
“It shall make you very fatigue.”
“Good!”
“Maybe . . . painful.” Kodama gestured at his leg, then his back.
“Okay. Today?”
They reached the establishment called Kodo-kan by subway, packed like fish in a net. It was a large building with the statue of its founder outside. “Jigoro Kano,” said Kodama, bowing low to the figure. “Other Bushido is very ancient. However, judo started hundred years ago, only.” Inside they climbed to a balcony. Below in a wide gymnasium, pairs of men in loose pajamalike garments fiercely tumbled each other. Their shouts echoed. Hank had seen Bruce Lee movies of fantasy violence, but here it was real. “You do that?”
“Of course.”
Hank felt an uneasy thrill. “You’re taking me out there?”
“No, of course. Small room, thick mat, for beginner.”
Kodama tossed Hank an extra roll of the rough pants and shirt from his locker. “Ghee, first judo word.” In the exercise room he started Hank with slow stretches, but soon was barking him into trots and push-ups. Sweat blurred Hank’s eyes. Kodama did it fiercely, with zest.
“Now you will practice fall. Quick lesson only. Do more today than sensible, but, however, since only today you come.” He showed Hank how to roll to the mat in a ball bracing himself with a curved, supple arm— over and over as Hank panted, wished for a break.
A man looked through the doorway and Kodama called him in. “My partner sometimes.” They spoke in Japanese. When Hank paused to listen Kodama barked: “Go! Go! Thirty more push-up, go!” Hank heard their low laughs as he obeyed.
“Okay, you rest,” commanded Kodama offhandedly, at last. With a sigh Hank started to lie back. “Up! Up!”
Hank watched Kodama and his partner exchange curt bows, then circle snarling as they grabbed for each other. Sudden grip and shout from one, hard thud to the mat for the other. Like lions in their intensity but over and over, like business. When the partners separated, they bowed cheerfully.
Kodama summoned Hank. “You wish now attack, Mr. Carford?”
Hank knew the outcome, but: “Sure!”
The mat was mercifully soft, but the throw was hard enough that Hank felt the floor beneath. He rose and attacked again. Floor harder. He made himself rise again.
Kodama stopped him with outthrust palm. “Now demonstrating one throw, given only to Japanese beginner after month, two month.” He placed Hank’s grip on the shoulder of his own ghee and Hank’s leg behind his own ankle, coached a circular sweep of the arm, and allowed himself to be thrown to the mat. The mechanics had amazing logic.
Hank was exhausted and beginning to hurt, but said, “Okay, now I’ll attack you again!”
“No. Finished.” Kodama directed him to exchange bows. And, unexpected from Kodama, grins.
The aches began in earnest before Hank’s cab reached the hotel. They increased until he felt he’d discovered all the wires that held his body together. A hot soak helped. He phoned Mike and for once feigned illness to cancel a night at the microphones of a karaoke bar. Instead, he took a quiet stroll (more like a limp!) past the Ginza, walking several blocks out of the way to avoid Kabuki-Za. In May the air had been pleasant, but now it was steamy.
Next morning he felt like the rusted Tin Man until another hot soak eased his joints. He met with company lawyers through lunch, then with company accountants. In late afternoon he quietly left a conference to phone Kodama at the fishery agency. “Judo again tonight, Kodama-san?”
“Ha. Not cripple? You wish again?”
“I’m leaving soon. Learn while I can.”
“Ha. Tonight I had expected with family. Okay. Judo.”
Hank made excuses to Mike. “Rappongi’s really nice. But I need to think about what your accountants told me.”
“Some tiger!”
Kodama allowed him no more ease than the day before. As Hank panted and sweated, judo seemed more the essence of Japan than anything else he’d encountered: his personal Kabuki. When they finished, the ultimate compliment: “Too bad you go home, Mr. Carford.” Hank persuaded Kodama to join him for dinner. They ate at an inexpensive place that displayed plastic replicas of the dishes served inside.
“When you were a far-seas fisherman, Kodama-san, did you work on longliners?”
“Hai. Longliner.” (He pronounced it “rong-riner.”) “Gulf Alaska. Six years. Before Americans drove away.” He made the statement now as matter-of-fact, without the earlier anger. Hank asked him questions about gear and fish preparation. He answered knowledgeably, with curt authority.
An idea began to grow. Next day Hank asked Mike Tsurifune if he knew Kodama’s qualifications as a fisherman. “Just thinking out loud. If I must have a Japanese aboard to ensure Japan quality, what of Mr. Kodama?” “No, no. He’s not our company man, merely a fisheries employee.”
“Then hire him. We work well together.”
“We have many of our own.”
The more Hank thought of it, the firmer he became. At length Mike sighed. “I’ll inquire about his qualifications.”
Next day Mike declared, “Very well, Hank. My source informs that this Kodama was a longline master during his final years of fishing. He came home only because a single-ship company owned the vessel.” Mike raised his eyebrows and pursed his mouth significantly. “Loss of Alaska quota made the company bankrupt. The vessel delivered sablefish in good quality, however. So, very well—Kodama, if you wish.”
Hank considered it all day. Could Kodama answer to him as captain, or had his own judo submission to Kodama imprinted a different relationship? It was Friday, with departure home booked for Sunday, following a final Saturday night banquet. “Dinner now, Kodama-san?”
“No.” It was positive. “Tonight with family. I must good-bye until you come again.” Hank had seen photos of a respectful wife and three smiling children, reluctantly produced at Hank’s urging when they had toured.
“Can I visit you tomorrow?”
“Fishery office closed.”
“I mean at your home.”
Wary unease. “Home very . . . not special.”
“You said two hours’ train from Tokyo. Tell me which train to take. I invite you and your family to lunch near your home.”
Head to side, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching. “Home very not special.” Hank assured him it didn’t matter. “Then, therefore. . .”
Next morning, on his own, Hank found helpful train officials who nodded at the Japanese characters of Kodama’s instructions and passed him person by person to the correct platform. En route to the station he bought some little dolls with round wooden faces and a paper bird on a stick, the only things other than food packages at an open stall. The ride took him through accumulation
s of ugly concrete structures with virtually no countryside between.
Kodama waited at the stop, stiffly. He was not wearing office clothes, but his pants and open shirt were crisp.
The Kodamas lived on the seventh floor of a concrete apartment building. Kodama strode past the elevator and led the way up the stairs two at a time. At the fifth landing Hank laughed and slowed. Kodama returned, grinning, to urge him on, and for the first time called him “Carford-san” rather than “Mister.”
Waiting at the apartment door was his wife in modified traditional dress. When introduced she bowed, holding a hand close to her mouth. Behind her stood two bashful but curious boys and a very bashful girl, all dressed for show. Hank realized he’d put them to trouble. More so when it became clear that he was not taking them to lunch but being served. The foolish gifts, gratefully received, were embarrassing compensation.
He and Kodama faced each other cross-legged around a low table while the wife brought plates of sushi and dips. Occasional titters came from the children, who watched by the edge of a screen. “Eh!” commanded Kodama to the oldest boy, about ten, and gestured him over. The child, straight and grave, came at once. Kodama put an arm around his legs and introduced him. Low bow. Next came the girl, reluctantly, then the younger boy with a bounce. In the dimness of an inner room stood an old woman in traditional dress. When Hank noticed her, she bowed low.
Hank’s negotiation, when it came, went swiftly. “Do you like working in the Tokyo office, Kodama-san?”
“Pshh!”
“Rather be a fisherman?”
“Of course. When I am a fisherman, all live in house in village—wife, mother, children. Now . . .” He flicked his hand toward a window that opened to concrete structures. “But I am lucky. Many from the boats that America makes go home must now do like pulling cart in the market.”
“I guess I’m lucky too. Do you know that I’m to be captain of a long-liner?”
“Of course.”
“Would you consider coming to be . . . sort of my mate in charge of the factory?”
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