The daimyo grinned and pushed his fist softly into the commissaris' chest.
"Yes," the commissaris said. "This Jin-gi, a rule of behavior, I thought, some sort of code."
"Yes. Two men-justice. Two ideas that together form a third, and the third idea says something about human relations. The old daimyo, the man who I replaced after I had gotten myself through the war and had been appointed to a series of functions in our organization, said that two men will only be able to really meet after they have learned to destroy their own desires. Every time I saw him he would discuss that particular subject. Rather step back than jump ahead at the cost of another person."
The commissaris raised a thin hand. "At the cost of another yakusa?"
"Yes," the daimyo said "another yakusa. And when, in the end, he decided that I understood, he didn't want me to bow to him anymore. He claimed that the Japanese custom of bowing has degenerated from a greeting to an acceptance of status." He turned toward the commissaris. "Do you follow me?"
"No," the commissaris said. "To bow is to greet, I thought."
"Yes, but who bows first? That's what matters. In Japan we always try to determine one's level of life. When two men meet, someone has to bow first. Not in Jin-gi, however." He folded his hands into a praying gesture. "You see, two separate hands become one new form. You can use us, you and me as an example too. If we had met at some official event we might have had trouble bowing. You are a powerful man in Holland, but Holland is a long way off and I have my strength here, so perhaps I am of more importance, should we meet here. If that should be true, you might be expected to bow first. But we could look at the problem from another angle. You are older than I am, and you are far more experienced; you are an exotic foreigner from the West, and I am Mr. Tanaka or Mr. Tamaki, one of a hundred million creatures pushing for space on these little islands. So now what do we do? Who bows first?"
"I will," the commissaris said, "if I can do you a favor that way."
"No bows," the daimyo said. "We forget bows. You had the opportunity to kill my old friend Kono, and your assistant could have left Yuiko in her bathroom, in her own vomit. But you forgot your own desires and stepped back and proved, in the eyes of every yakusa who is worthy of the name, that you had learned the lessons of your own organization in Holland and that you can practice your insight."
"Well…" the commissaris said.
"Jin-gi," the daimyo said, and stared into space. The trumpet had returned to the first note of the Monk song and the sustaining rhythm ended. Silence had returned to the hall. "Please excuse me," the daimyo said. "I have to go to the kitchen to see that the liquor you brought has been cooled properly. A rich royal liquor, but your assistant said that the taste gets lost when it isn't served very cold, so I asked the cook to place the bottles in his freezers, then we can drink the spirit later tonight. You brought a great quantity and you must have troubled yourselves considerably. It wasn't necessary; your presence is an important gift in itself."
Dorin took the daimyo's place on the edge of the stage and smiled nervously. "Miss Ahboombah is next on the program," he said softly. "What a spectacle, a black stripper in a Japanese castle. Our civilization is going ahead with leaps and bounds."
"You don't like black women?" the commissaris asked politely.
"Oh yes," Dorin said, and gestured vaguely. "I do. As a boy in San Francisco I was absolutely thrilled by them and my mother claims that I became quite impossible, even as a baby, whenever black ladies paid the slightest attention to me. I think that my first real excitement was caused by a girl from the Congo. I don't remember what she was doing in San Francisco, maybe she had come to some congress. She was dressed in a wide flowing African garment, very colorful, and she had her hair dyed gray and put it up into a sort of knot. I followed her about all day and I am always dreaming about her, even now, and it happened more than ten years ago."
"Sexual dreams?" the commissaris asked.
"Yes, of course, but maybe more than that. Sex, certainly, but without any pornography, elevated sex, something like that."
Dorin seemed confused. He was bending forward, almost falling off the stage and his otherwise so carefully brushed hair hung down into his eyes.
The three Chinese bartenders rushed from behind the screen and pushed the yakusa to the sides of the hall. They were gliding about on their velvet slippers and making exaggerated gestures. The yakusa allowed themselves to be pushed, grinning at the antics of the three pompous but elegant men in their brocade vests and wide trousers. The bartenders, as if they wanted to excuse themselves for their rude behavior, retreated to the screen while they held hands and did a kind of shuffle, bowing and bobbing their pigtails, gracefully following the rhythm of the music which had started up again.
A round dim moon glowed softly as the paper lanterns were switched off, one by one. Miss Ahboombah stood at the lake shore, and felt the water with a carefully extended foot. The soft light was reflected in a bleached cloth wrapped around her body. Only percussion and bass accompanied her slow dreamy movements. When she pulled a boat toward her, with small jerks on a long rope, the trumpet became audible too, whispered sounds spaced by dark lulls wherein the piano touched short double notes. The boat moved away from the shore again, powered by long paddle strokes. She stood in the rear of the boat, which glided over the swell of the lake's surface.
The commissaris sighed. There was no boat, no shore, no rope, no water; there was nothing but a floor made out of wide boards, a floor in a vast hall. But Miss Ahboombah had taken him to an African lake; there were palm trees on the shore, there would be a native village not far away, with round straw-topped huts. He saw how she looked up, following the flight of a bird, gliding about on large dark wings. He felt the slow heat of a tropical night. The bleached cloth fell off her as she dived; a long leap powered by the muscles of her legs and the resistance of the boat that glided on, empty and alone. He saw the slender body cut through heaving waves and circles formed by the splash of the leap. He saw her break through the surface and swim with stretched strokes, bending and pushing her hands through cool water. She turned and swam back to the boat and swung a glistening leg into the narrow hollowed-out tree trunk. She was squatting down and came up in a single movement, standing with the paddle back in her hand.
The light died in the paper moon, the music had gone with it, only the bass vibrated in the hall. When the paper lanterns came on again the hall was empty. The commissaris didn't want to break the silence. He heard the daimyo breathing quietly next to him and the trumpeter's leg rubbing against the side of the piano. But the applause came, hesitantly at first, then swelling till it filled the hall.
De Gier had stood in a corner, half hidden by the dragon screen. He had shaken his head unbelievingly when the dance began. He had expected a wild performance, a strip act stressed by heavy drumbeats and piercing trumpet bursts working up to some rough orgasm in which the saxophone would blare and sob and wheeze. A nightclub dancer, intent on holding her public enthralled, who will show all, while bits of garments whirl to the floor.