“His skin tore under my fingers,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
“I know you no mean kill him, sista.”
“You’re wrong.” She swallowed thickly. “I think I did.”
“Why?”
“I could’ve stunned him with this.” Her bloodied hand floated up from her leg, wavering horizontally in the air, the web between the thumb and index finger stretched taut. “But I turned my hand and sank my fingers into his throat. I knew it would kill him.”
“You wanted him dead?”
She nodded and hung her head, unable to meet his eyes.
IAI
Katla followed Zeph up the gangway, noticing his slow progress. He was bearing up well, but the vicious blow of the sentry must have hurt him severely. When they reached the deck of the Mojo she said, “Maybe we should have you checked for internal injuries.”
“I’m all right, sista. A bit nauseated, that’s all.”
Shaitan padded around the corner, eyeing her suspiciously as she nudged Zeph’s leg with her blunt snout. The Rastafarian patted her head and sent the Rottweiler away, then shuffled into the pilothouse. Katla followed him inside and sat down beside him on the mattress. When she was sure she had his attention, she started to shake again, flexing her fingers while small crumbs of dried blood dropped on the carpet in front of the bed.
“I have to wash my hand,” she murmured. “My nails are caked with blood.”
“I have hot water in the kitchen.”
She limped to the kitchen and turned on the taps over the sink, rinsing the blood from her fingers. The strike had driven blood under her nails, too deep for the water to reach.
“You have a nail brush, Zeph?”
“Nail brush?”
Clearly the concept of a brush to clean nails was alien to him.
“Doesn’t matter,” she replied and turned off the taps. She could clean her nails with her knife, but she didn’t want to whip it out in front of Zeph. After she dried her hands, Katla flexed her fingers, staring into the blue.
“You want drink something, sista?”
She shook her head. “I’m tired, going home.”
With Zeph hovering behind her, Katla walked unsteadily to the steps leading to the pilothouse. He watched her from the pilothouse as she limped slowly down the gangway to her Burgman and removed her helmet from the storage space under the seat, slow and halting in her movements.
“Katla?”
She looked at him with a dreamy expression, noted concern in his eyes and blinked. “I’ll be all right, Zeph.”
“Take care, sista. No accident, sight?”
“I’ll take it slow,” she said and started the Burgman, pulling away with a slight jerk. Another small sign to show that she wasn’t herself.
In the rear-view mirror she studied Zeph standing next to the pilothouse, rubbing his belly while he watched her progress. Katla puttered around the bend and rode to the Zuiderzeeweg, accelerating smoothly once she was out of view.
-o-
The basement was dark, as usual, but she didn’t hear music playing and her rap on the window went unanswered. Katla fished out her picks and set to work on the lock, which yielded in less time than it would take Bram to find his keys. The security chain was on the door, so he was probably somewhere else in the house. She climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell.
A stout Japanese woman in a dove grey kimono opened the door and smiled at her. “Good evening, Katherine-san.”
“Good evening, Mitsuko-san,” Katla said, returning her bow. “I was looking for Bram, but I think he’s not in the basement.”
“Please come in. He’s in the dojo upstairs.”
“Shiatsu?”
“No, training by himself, I believe.”
Katla stepped inside, feeling awkward as Mitsuko sank down and helped her out of her boots. On stockinged feet, Katla padded after the Japanese woman, who accompanied her to the second floor, then gestured for her to continue by herself to the top floor.
The changing room was dark, but Katla could hear muffled yells coming from behind the door to the dojo, so she flipped the light switch, shrugged out of her bomber jacket and hung it from a peg, then walked to the door leading to the dojo. The lights of the changing room reflected against the window set high in the door and all she could see was his dark shape moving like a ghost through the dojo.
Katla opened the door as quietly as she could, but Bram’s bat sense seemed heightened by the iai-jutsu practice.
“Don’t step on the mats.”
Standing at the threshold, she reached out and switched on the lights. Bram stood with his back to her in the middle of the dojo, dressed in a faded blue gi and darker blue hakama, the skirt-like garment hiding his feet. He turned around, sinking into a low crouched position, his left hand around the scabbard of a Japanese sword, the thumb resting on the ornate guard.
Bram didn’t train in iai-do, ‘the path of quick-drawing the sword’, but in iai-jutsu, ‘sword combat techniques’, with the emphasis on practical application, not mere appearance. While speed was essential, the timing was more important. And while iai-do practitioners often use mock practice swords called iaitō, Bram used a real sword, forged steel folded until the edge was sharp as a razor blade.
With a sharp yell, Bram drew the sword and flowed to his feet in one fluid movement, stabbing in her direction. Lifting the hilt sideways until it touched his temple, he spun clockwise and slashed the air behind him, turned to face her again with the sword raised two-handed overhead, the sharp blade slicing the air with a hiss as he yelled and sank on his left knee.
The whole kata had taken less than four seconds. Quick indeed.
Although Bram claimed to practice iai-jutsu to improve his posture, footwork, focus and awareness, Katla liked to watch him just for the grace in motion.
After a moment of attentive stillness, Bram yanked his right hand from the hilt, the sword revolving once around its axle, and tapped his fist on the hilt behind the guard. His left hand dropped to the scabbard as he grabbed the hilt and swung the sword on his shoulder with the edge up. Bringing the scabbard to the sword, he slowly turned his hip and stretched his right arm until the tip entered the scabbard, then turned his hip back and slid the sword soundlessly into the scabbard. His left thumb held the sword guard and his right hand came to rest on his right thigh as he sank back in the low crouch again and cocked his head.
Katla leant against the door frame. “I bet the mice are impressed.”
“Miser,” Bram replied with a sweet smile. “How did your expedition go?”
“Badly. Zeph got caught and I had to kill someone to get him out.”
His smile faltered. “Zeph witnessed the killing?”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I had to kill him too.”
Bram’s face grew pale and mask-like, his right hand still resting on his thigh, but the thumb of his left hand pushed against the tsuba as if he prepared to draw the sword.
“That was a joke, Bram.”
“A joke?” he whispered, the sword clicking back in the scabbard. “The idea of you killing my best friend should amuse me?”
“No, but the irony of me killing your friend because he witnessed me killing someone who was about to kill him could be considered funny.”
“Not by me.”
“I got that.”
“I hope so,” Bram said, gracefully rising to his feet. He turned his back on her and walked to the dais in the back of the dojo, halting and squatting in the low crouched position again.
With his thumb Bram undid the sageo cord and pulled the sword from his belt, offering it horizontally in the direction of the altar on the dais and bowing his head. He held the position a couple of seconds, then pulled the sword diagonally against his chest and rose to his feet. After a standing bow he turned and walked towards her, while he wrapped the cord around the hilt and back around the scabbard. At the edge of the mats he kneeled in seiza, pla
ced the sword on his left side, bowed twice, clapped his hands twice and bowed one more time, picked up the sword, rose to his feet and stepped backwards, making one last standing bow before turning and brushing past her, the scabbarded sword loosely in his left hand.
Katla followed him into the changing room, where Bram took a cleaning kit from a cabinet and unsheathed the sword. Using some kind of powder puff on a stick, he dabbed white powder along both sides of the blade, wiped it off and applied a thin layer of oil that smelled like cloves. He sheathed his sword, tied the sageo cord around the handle and hung his sword on a pair of pegs in a wooden cabinet. He closed the doors and turned to his locker.
“What?” Katla asked. “No bow?”
“Don’t be a dunce,” he said. “Why should I bow to a cabinet?”
He started to undo the short sashes of his hakama. Katla had seen him fold the garment, another useless ritual which would take him half an hour. She removed the knee brace, unbuckled her belt and asked, “Race for the shower?”
“Sure,” Bram said, stepping out of the hakama. He didn’t wear trousers under the garment, which meant she would have to hurry. Katla struggled out of her jeans, but Bram didn’t lose time folding his hakama, just twisted the straps of the garment around two pegs to air it out, took off his black belt and shrugged out of his jacket. With a smile he dropped his boxer shorts and strode naked to the showers while she pulled her sweater over her head. She removed her slip and limped to the shower area, where Bram was already standing in the spray, his arms folded across his chest.
“Not much of a race,” he remarked dryly and shook his head, spraying water on the tiles. Katla limped up to him and pinched his side. “You cheated.”
“Cheated?”
“You skipped the dress code.”
“What dress code?” Bram said. “Trousers are not obligatory under a hakama. Nor is folding one mandatory.”
She snorted and turned him her back, taking down a nail brush hanging from one of the taps to remove the dried blood from under her nails.
Bram rested his chin on top of her head, his arms around her waist, and rubbed her navel with his middle finger. “So the expedition was fruitless?”
“Not entirely.” She leant back against his chest. “There was too much fog to take photographs. I didn’t want the trip to be a total waste, so I went ashore to check out the office, but the lock to the building has been changed.”
“You didn’t have your picks on you?”
“They installed a lock that would’ve taken me fifteen minutes to open. And I passed a sentry before I made it to the building.”
“The sentry caught Zeph?”
“I told Zeph to stay in the dinghy, but he was ashore, being pistol-whipped by the sentry.” His hands stopped caressing her, but she hung back the nail brush and said, “Don’t worry, he wasn’t hurt too bad.”
“What is ‘not too bad’?”
She turned in his embrace. “He was hit once, in the belly, but the sentry was about to shoot his kneecaps when I came up behind him. I made some noise to distract him and when he turned around I tore out his throat.”
“You couldn’t just have stunned him?” he asked, his hands resting on her hips. “Maybe kill him after bringing Zeph to safety?”
“He had a gun. I couldn’t risk an involuntary muscle spasm.”
“Zeph must’ve been pretty upset.”
“He gagged, but that could’ve come from the blow to his stomach. We went back to the Mojo, where I went into shock.”
Bram blinked, his cataracts showing. “You went into shock?”
“So Zeph could comfort me. He did a good job, too. I feel much better now.”
“And how does Zeph feel?”
“I’ll ask him tomorrow.” She kissed his throat. “He’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.”
She stepped out of his embrace and limped out of the shower area, taking his towel from the peg inside the door. As she was rubbing her hair dry, Bram entered the changing room and felt the empty peg. “Where’s my towel?”
“I don’t know,” Katla said, drying her back. “There was only one towel and I was first.”
She sat down on the bench and dried her legs. Bram strolled to his locker and took out a fresh towel, turning his back as he began drying himself.
“Maybe you better leave Zeph to me.”
“You doubt my dissuasion skills?”
“Zeph might be conflicted about you. He’ll need time to adjust. And he might get suspicious at your quick recuperation.”
“Fine, you deal with him. As long as he doesn’t realise I killed before.”
He nodded and hung out his towel, wrapped his robe around him and waited by the door for her to dress. She padded after him down the stairs, the house silent except for the second floor where she could hear harsh clacking noises and someone laughing. Bram didn’t pay it any attention and continued his descent.
Katla waited until they were at the basement doors, then asked, “What was going on in there? Not ‘Go’, was it?”
“Private party. Bakuto.”
“Bakuto?”
“Gamblers. They rent a space for the evening and play oicho-kabu, a card game like blackjack, only the best hand is not twenty-one, but nineteen.”
He opened the door and stepped into the dark basement, leaving it to her to turn on the lights. Katla dimmed the flat orbs on the walls to a cozy glow and closed the door behind her. Bram sat down at the foot of his futon and she halted in front of him. His hands stroked her legs, his head craned back as if he was looking at her. She pushed him backwards and straddled him, leaning all her weight on him to keep him down. His arms encircled her and she took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth, feeling his lips open and his tentative tongue sneaking out. A delicious languor took hold of her limbs as she succumbed to his kiss, her body wrapped around his. They sat entwined until they got their breath back, then Bram stretched out his hand for the small brown intercom by the bed. “You want something to drink?”
“Saké.”
He pressed the call button and spoke something in Japanese. A guttural voice replied curtly and the intercom clicked off. Bram flopped back down and she lay down on top of him, closed her eyes and smelled him, the musky scent of his sweat untainted by deodorant or after shave lotion. His heartbeat was tranquil, a dull thudding in his chest. She was just relaxing, when the bell in the corner pinged.
Bram ran his fingers through her hair and murmured, “Slide to the side?”
She rolled off him and he sat up, scooted to the foot of the bed and rose to his feet. Pulling his bathrobe around him, Bram strode to the dumbwaiter in the corner and returned with a stainless steel tray, which he placed on the small lacquer table beside the bed. Two cups and a small porcelain flask with a napkin wrapped around it. Katla propped herself up on an elbow and accepted a cup of saké, took the flask from his hands and poured him a cup.
He sat down on the bed and raised his cup. “Kampai.”
“Banzai,” Katla replied and drank down the cup, the warm saké trickling down her throat and warming her stomach.
Bram drained his cup and asked, “You took something from the sentry?”
“I took his wallet, money clip and pendant.”
“A pendant?”
“Probably an amulet. I’ll show you, but I’d like some more saké first.”
He poured her another cup. “Why do you think it’s an amulet?”
“He wore it under his clothes.”
Bram filled his own cup and shook the flask. “Almost gone.”
“I’ve had enough,” she said and sipped her saké. He drained his cup and poured the last drops straight from the porcelain flask into his mouth, placed both cup and flask on the tray and lay down beside her, folding his hands under his head. Nursing her cup, Katla said, “If he had worn it on top of his clothes it could be considered ornamental, but amulets are private.”
She finished her saké and reac
hed over Bram to place the cup on the tray, fished the bundle from her jacket and peeled the torn silk lining from the amulet. Both the stone and the silver chain were clotted with blood.
“I have to clean it first,” she said, removing the chain and taking the amulet to the washbasin in the corner. Under the hot tap the blood washed easily from the smooth surface, but remnants remained in the grooves and the silver rim circling the stone. She dislodged the dried blood with her nails, rinsed and dried the stone pendant, limped back to the bed and handed Bram the amulet.
His fingers trailed the horse’s head cut in relief on the front before he turned over the amulet and traced the small Chinese symbols cut in the back.
While he was busy with the amulet, Katla lay down beside him and opened the wallet. Inside she found a Dutch driver’s license and two credit cards, an American Express Gold Card and a MasterCard from the ING Bank. A separate slot contained business cards with ‘Eric Kwong, manager’ and more Chinese symbols. The address was on the Geldersekade, close to the Chinatown of Amsterdam, the area around the Zeedijk. The money clip—ordinary steel, no adornments or engravings—contained close to a thousand euro in small bills.
“What colour is this stone?”
She looked up from the wad of bills. “Dark green. Looks like jade.”
“Jade,” Bram mused. “Maybe a good luck charm.”
“I thought dragons were considered lucky. Not horses.”
He rubbed the stone. “Can I keep this for a while?”
“I’ve got no use for it, but be careful who you show it to, okay?”
“The wallet yield anything?”
“His name and business address,” Katla said. “Geldersekade, near the Nieuwmarkt.”
“You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”
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