The photo caption read, “WELCOME HOME. Hero Returns from China to Well-Deserved Honors.” Although the page was smudged-newspapers hadn’t had decent paper stock for years-Harry saw that the man on the ramp was a colonel with the deep-set eyes of a fasting monk. A long sword in a utilitarian sheath hung from his belt.
“Ishigami. How about that?”
“That’s what I thought,” Willie said.
“Who is it?” DeGeorge asked.
“A long-lost friend,” Harry said. “I ought to read the newspapers more thoroughly.”
DeGeorge asked Harry, “What day is left in the pool for Willie?”
“The eighth. That’s Monday. War in three days is cutting it a little close.”
“I don’t bet,” Willie said.
“A social bet,” said DeGeorge. “Could happen.”
Harry shook his head. “Ninety new American films have just arrived. Too Hot to Handle, Tarzan Escapes, One Hundred Men and a Girl. Who on earth would go to war when there’s entertainment like that?”
“What do you do here, Harry?” Willie asked.
DeGeorge said, “Ostensibly, he’s a movie rep. He does something else, I’ve just never been able to figure out what the fuck it is. Is it true, Harry, you’re actually giving a speech at the Chrysanthemum Club tomorrow? You, at the Chrysanthemum Club?”
“I’m virtually respectable.”
Willie returned to the picture in the newspaper. “Can Ishigami find you?”
“You did,” Harry said. He didn’t want to look at the picture, as if the image might sense his attention and look up from the page.
“If we’d thought a bit, of the end of it…” Michiko whispered with the song. Sometimes she seemed to know every nuance of the lyrics, Harry thought, sometimes she might have been repeating nonsense. He couldn’t tell anymore.
“So, really and truly, Harry, is it going up?” DeGeorge asked.
“What?”
“The big balloon. War. Everyone’s reading about last-minute negotiations in Washington. What do I tell the readers of The Christian Science Monitor and Reader’s Digest and The Saturday Evening Post while they drink their warm Postum and listen to Amos ’n Andy and Fibber McGee, what do I tell Mr. and Mrs. America about the glorious Japanese Empire?”
“Tell them that the Japanese have only the purest of intentions. As exemplified by their actions in China, right, Willie?”
Willie kept his mouth shut.
“Weren’t you in China?” DeGeorge asked Harry.
“Not for long.”
“What are you going to do?” Willie asked Harry.
“I don’t know. No good deed goes unpunished, right?”
“You must leave Japan.”
“How? Americans can’t even leave town. Maybe Ishigami just wants to say hello.” Harry tried to hoist a smile for Willie’s sake. “Maybe this whole war scare will just blow over.”
“You think so?” asked Willie.
Not a chance, Harry thought. He had performed one decent act in his life, and something so out of character was bound to catch up. Michiko followed Artie Shaw with Benny Goodman, clarinets for the ages. Goodman was the complete musician: he could cover registers high and low. In comparison, Shaw was all flash, living at the higher register, poised for a crash. Harry figured he was more like Shaw. When he looked at the picture of Ishigami, he was back in Nanking all over again. Ten Chinese prisoners knelt in the light of torches, hands tied behind their backs. A corporal ladled water from a bucket over Ishigami’s sword. Ishigami took a practice swing and left a shining fan of water in the air.
Kimi shook Harry’s shoulder to get his attention. “There’s a soldier at the door.”
The blood left Harry’s face as he rose from his chair, expecting the worst, but it was only a sergeant with a gun, shouting, “Come out, Lord Kira, wherever you are!”
3
HARRY MOTIONED MICHIKO to play a new record while he steered the drunk out onto the street and took the gun away. It was a Baby Nambu, Luger-styled like a full-size Nambu pistol but easier to hide. The sergeant’s balance was none too steady. He had fallen or walked into a lamppost; his nose was bloody, and when he sneezed, he sprayed blood off his mustache. Harry was to some degree relieved to get away from DeGeorge’s constant probing and step into the jostling of the street outside, a weekend crowd out for entertainment and prurient interest, off to cafés or after women. A geisha with a face as white as porcelain slipped into an elegant willow house across the street. A stilt walker advertised Ebisu beer. Men in kimonos wore squashed fedoras; nothing in Japan was so disregarded as a hat brim. University students paraded in filthy uniforms and caps. Pickpockets warmed their hands at carts selling sweet potatoes. Harry tucked the gun into his belt.
“I’ll find you a taxi, Sergeant,” Harry said. “No charge.”
“Harry! Harry, it’s me!” The soldier tried to pull his tunic straight. “It’s me, Hajime!”
“Hajime?”
“S’me. Harry, such a long time. Old friends, yes?” Hajime said, although Harry didn’t remember him as a friend. More the schoolmate most likely to be reborn as vermin. The eyeglasses and mustache were new, but behind them was the same round face. Harry remembered how, as a boy, Hajime had been the most relentless of tormentors, the first to set on Harry, the last to leave off. “Buy me a drink?”
“I’ll find you a ride.” Harry peeled Hajime’s hand off his sleeve.
“Wait, wait.” Hajime backpedaled, undid the buttons of his pants and pissed in a gutter as passersby jumped aside. The Japanese were the cleanest people on earth, but they made extraordinary allowances for drunks. A man could kiss his boss or piss in the street as long he was deemed under the influence. The nosebleed started again.
Harry gave him a handkerchief. “Keep it and button yourself up.”
Head back, handkerchief pressed against his nose, Hajime staggered under the neon sign. The Eiffel Tower sizzled like a rocket; everyone near it wore a red glow.
“This is your own club, I hear. ‘Happy Palace.’”
“ Paris.”
“Something like that. Just one drink, Harry. Meet your new friends.”
“Would you like to piss on their shoes or bleed on them?”
“I need to have a good time, Harry. I’m shipping out tomorrow. That’s why I was celebrating.”
“By yourself?”
Hajime leaned on him. “There’s no one, Harry. No wife, no family. Friends are worthless shits. But we had great times, Harry. ‘Forty-seven Ronin,’ that was us. A little rough, but no harm meant, Harry. How long has it been? Lord Kira, that was you.”
“I remember.” Harry directed Hajime toward the corner. There would be taxis at the theaters.
“ China. I’ve been to China, Harry. I could tell you stories.”
“I bet you could.” Harry knew that a real friend would inquire into Hajime’s military career, but war stories didn’t appeal to Harry. With the Japanese spy mania, it was unwise for a Westerner to ask a soldier anything: where he’d been stationed, where he was going, doing what.
“Americans don’t go to war, do they? So you’re safe.”
“I hope so.”
“I want to see your famous club, celebrate there.”
“I’m going to do you a bigger favor. I’m going to put you in a taxi.”
Hajime tried to wrestle free. “Now you’re rich, you’re too good for your old friends. Let’s see your club.”
“No.”
“Then promise me something.” Hajime stopped struggling and lowered his voice. “Promise to see me off tomorrow, Harry? Sixteen hundred, Tokyo Station.”
“You can find someone else.”
“You, Harry. Just to have someone there. Promise?”
Hajime wore a smirk, but maybe that was his sole expression, Harry thought. Like one size fits all. “You’ll get in a taxi if I do?”