Everyone descended the ramp, onto the cold, windy field. At the bottom, Baynes found himself once more momentarily near Lotze.
“In fact,” Baynes said, walking beside Lotze, “I do not like your looks, Mr. Lotze, so I think I will report you anyhow.” He strode on, then, leaving Lotze behind.
At the far end of the field, at the concourse entrance, a large number of people were waiting. Relatives, friends of passengers, some of them waving, peering, smiling, looking anxious, scanning faces. A heavyset middle-aged Japanese man, well-dressed in a British overcoat, pointed Oxfords, bowler, stood a little ahead of the others, with a younger Japanese beside him. On his coat lapel he wore the badge of the ranking Pacific Trade Mission of the Imperial Government. There he is, Baynes realized. Mr. N. Tagomi, come personally to meet me.
Starting forward, the Japanese called, “Herr Baynes—good evening.” His head tilted hesitantly.
“Good evening, Mr. Tagomi,” Baynes said, holding out his hand. They shook, then bowed. The younger Japanese also bowed, beaming.
“Bit cold, sir; on this exposed field,” Mr. Tagomi said. “We shall begin return trip to downtown city by Mission helicopter. Is that so? Or do you need to use the facilities, and so forth?” He scrutinized Mr. Baynes’ face anxiously.
“We can start right now,” Baynes said. “I want to check in at my hotel. My baggage, however—”
“Mr. Kotomichi will attend to that,” Mr. Tagomi said. “He will follow. You see, sir, at this terminal it takes almost an hour waiting in line to claim baggage. Longer than your trip.”
Mr. Kotomichi smiled agreeably.
“All right,” Baynes said.
Mr. Tagomi said, “Sir, I have a gift to graft.”
“I beg your pardon?” Baynes said.
“To invite your favorable attitude.” Mr. Tagomi reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out a small box. “Selected from among the finest objects d’art of America available.” He held out the box.
“Well,” Baynes said. “Thanks.” He accepted the box.
“All afternoon assorted officials examined the alternatives,” Mr. Tagomi said. “This is most authentic of dying old U.S. culture, a rare retained artifact carrying flavor of bygone halcyon day.”
Mr. Baynes opened the box. In it lay a Mickey Mouse wristwatch on a pad of black velvet.
Was Mr. Tagomi playing a joke on him? He raised his eyes, saw Mr. Tagomi’s tense, concerned face. No, it was not a joke. “Thank you very much,” Baynes said. “This is indeed incredible.”
“Only few, perhaps ten, authentic 1938 Mickey Mouse watches in all world today,” Mr. Tagomi said, studying him, drinking in his reaction, his appreciation. “No collector known to me has one, sir.”
They entered the air terminal and together ascended the ramp.
Behind them Mr. Kotomichi said, “Harusame ni nuretsutsu yane no temari kana…”
“What is that?” Mr. Baynes said to Mr. Tagomi.
“Old poem,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Middle Tokugawa Period.”
Mr. Kotomichi said, “As the spring rains fall, soaking in them, on the roof, is a child’s rag ball.”
4
As Frank Frink watched his ex-employer waddle down the corridor and into the main work area of W-M Corporation he thought to himself, The strange thing about Wyndam-Matson is that he does not look like a man who owns a factory. He looks like a Tenderloin bum, a wino, who has been given a bath, new clothes, a shave, haircut, shot of vitamins, and set out into the world with five dollars to find a new life. The old man had a weak, shifty, nervous, even ingratiating manner, as if he regarded everyone as a potential enemy stronger than he, whom he had to fawn on and pacify. “They’re going to get me,” his manner seemed to say.