by Barry Eisler
He bowed again. “Ozaki.”
“This is your place, Ozaki-masutaa?”
“Yes. We celebrate our tenth anniversary this year.”
He must have been older than he looked. Or else he’d started out at an unusually young age.
“A friend of mine suggested I come here. He told me you created a place characterized by biishiki. I see he wasn’t exaggerating.”
He bowed. “And your friend is . . . ?”
I hesitated for a moment, but then decided there was probably no harm. “Miyamoto.”
“Ah yes, Miyamoto-san. A regular since we opened. And a particular aficionado of the gimlet.”
Great, Miyamoto was a regular. I hoped he wouldn’t wind up dropping in tonight. If he did, I’d have a little explaining to do. And likewise if Ozaki ever mentioned to him that he’d met a guy named Fujiwara who came for a drink with a stunning Italian woman. I supposed I could just tell him I was using Maria to get close to her husband, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. For whatever reason, the thought wasn’t a comfortable one. Maybe because I wouldn’t want Miyamoto to see me as capable of something so cold-blooded. It wasn’t something I wanted to see in myself.
“The gimlet?” I said. I didn’t want to pretend, and probably couldn’t have gotten away with it regardless, so I added, “I don’t know much about cocktails. A little about Scotch is all.”
“Well, there’s not much to it, really. Cocktails are like Go. The rules are simple. Mastery is hard. The gimlet, for example, is no more than fresh lime juice and dry gin.”
I wasn’t sure when Maria was coming. Or, suddenly, whether she would be coming at all. She was only a few minutes late, so maybe she’d gotten tied up. But maybe she’d changed her mind. She’d seemed a little uncertain when I’d asked her.
Well, if she was late, I doubted she’d mind me ordering a drink while I waited. And if she’d changed her mind, I’d at least get to drown my sorrows.
“It sounds perfect,” I said. “I’d love one.”
He bowed, and for the next few minutes I watched him engage in what was obviously a carefully conceived and well-practiced ritual. First, he wrapped a lime wedge in a small white cloth and squeezed it into a shaker. Then he poured in a careful measure of gin and added several squares of clear ice. Finally, he held the shaker with his fingertips and shook it only with his wrists, keeping his elbows close to his body. In his careful movements, I saw the influence of sadō, as Miyamoto had said.
When he was done, he poured the translucent mixture, topped with a fine foam from the shaking, into a delicately etched cocktail glass. He placed the glass on a coaster, then eased it confidently forward until it came to rest under one of the counter lights, which illuminated it as though it was a little work of art.
I thought of Miyamoto and nen, and made sure to take a moment to appreciate the aesthetic appeal of Ozaki’s creation. Then I carefully lifted it, held it under my nose for a moment, and took a sip.
It was delicious: cold and crisp, and while of course tasting of the lime and gin that had gone into it, imbued too with some additional flavor Ozaki seemed to have conjured by alchemy. Not wanting to make him turn away another compliment, I merely bowed my head for a long moment in appreciation. He returned the bow and said, “Please, enjoy,” then moved off and began cutting some fruit at the other end of the bar. It made me think of Victor and his persimmon, but I pushed the image away without too much difficulty. Maybe the gimlet, already at work.
Two more people arrived—slightly older men in suits. Ozaki greeted them by name—more regulars, it seemed. They looked important, and I tried to puzzle out why. Their suits seemed high quality, but in what way? How they fit, or the material, or something. They carried no briefcases—suggesting they had minions who attended to the sorts of mundane matters that would necessitate a bag. And there was an unconscious confidence in the way they took their seats at the bar, as though they occupied a certain place in the world naturally, by privilege, by right.
I realized I was a little buzzed. It was all right. It felt good. I decided I needed to start breaking down what I could tell about people from the way they dressed, and walked, and talked, and carried themselves, reverse engineering who they were on the inside from what they showed on the outside. Not just so I could understand the subtle indicators, but so I could articulate them—and then imitate them, as necessary, to camouflage myself whenever and wherever I needed to.
Ten minutes later and one gimlet vanquished, I heard the door again. I looked up. This time, it was Maria, looking like a movie star in a black skirt and blouse. Her hair was up. Was that to signal to me that we were here for business, not the kind of more casual get-together loose hair would have implied?
Or maybe she just liked to wear her hair up. Maybe who the hell knew. I wished I could stop overthinking everything about her. I stood and gave her a little wave.
She smiled and walked over. When she reached me, she kissed my cheeks and said, “Che eleganza!”
I caught an intoxicating whiff of perfume. She had put on perfume . . . did that mean something?
I pushed away the overthinking again and tried to concentrate. “I know,” I said. “I really need to thank my friend for the recommendation.”
She laughed. “It’s a lovely bar, but I was talking about you! I don’t think I would have recognized you.”
I felt myself blushing like an idiot. “I did a little shopping. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. Look at you. Sei un figurino. Didn’t I tell you, Italian fashion is the best? If you dress like this at the museum, all the women will swoon for you.”
I was half-pleased, and half-intrigued. “You can tell it’s Italian? How?”
“Ah, the cloth, the cut, the quality. Not that Americans don’t make some acceptable clothing. But they cut to hide the figure, not show it off. Same with the British. And the French overdo in the other direction because they try to imitate Italians. You see? With Italian, you look, mmm, confident. Like you’re enjoying life, but not trying to make a statement. So? Was this my influence?”
I could feel myself blushing again. Really, it was pathetic.
“Maybe a little. After what you told me about the tuxedo.”
“Ah, I was being too hard on you.”
“No, not at all. I like learning things like that.” And that was the truth, though I didn’t expect she’d understand quite why.
We sat and she glanced at my empty glass. “What’s that you were drinking?”
“A gimlet,” I said, as I though I was an expert.
“Hmm. Usually I enjoy a negroni, but would you recommend the gimlet?”
I smiled. “Best I’ve ever had.”
Ozaki must have had a nice sense of timing, because he chose just that moment to come over. “A gimlet, please,” Maria said in Japanese. “My friend just suggested it.”
I wanted to order another, but thought I should keep trying to expand my horizons. “Omakase,” I said. Whatever you recommend.
Ozaki bowed and repeated the ritual I’d witnessed a short while earlier. Maria watched, obviously enthralled. “Ah, utsukusii ugoki,” she whispered to me, using a Japanese term that literally means “beautiful movement,” but that as a concept is more like the physical elegance associated with things like ballet. “And the bar—gorgeous. Biishiki.”
“That’s what my friend said. The one who told me about the place.” I felt in Miyamoto’s debt already.
A few minutes later, Ozaki presented us with our drinks. Mine was called a bee’s knees—gin, lemon juice, and honey syrup. We toasted and each took a sip.
“Ah,” Maria said, bowing her head to Ozaki. “Oishii desu.” Delicious.
I bowed my head as well. Ozaki smiled. “Please, enjoy,” he said, and moved discreetly off.
For a while, we made small talk about fashion. She told me that Employee Ito from Mitsukoshi had given me great advice, because most men would be afraid to mix brown shoes and char
coal pants, but to her it was one of the best combinations possible. She also explained that if you want to tell if a man is really well dressed, look down—because most men, no matter what else they might get right, don’t know shoes. And that ties should always have a dimple. And that a handkerchief in the jacket pocket should never, ever match the tie. And that British men wore their clothes like a barrier; American men, like an afterthought; Japanese men, like a uniform; and Italian men, like a come-on. She had an easy laugh, and seemed to take a lot of pleasure in sharing her information and insights.
As the evening went on, the bar began to fill up. At one point, a white guy came in and looked around. Mid-twenties, clean cut, in a suit, the tie loosened, and I guessed he was American, maybe a banker or lawyer on an expat package. But when he saw there were no open tables, he left. There was room for one at the bar, so maybe he was meeting a group. For a moment, I thought of Victor, but the guy didn’t look Russian and, anyway, he didn’t have that vibe.
Maria was on her second gimlet, and I on my second bee’s knees, when I said, “I’m glad you came. Your husband doesn’t mind?”
I wasn’t entirely sure why I was asking. My plan had been to pretend Sugihara didn’t even exist.
She took a sip of her gimlet. A moment later, she said, “Well, tonight he and his colleagues have to entertain a visiting delegation of businessmen. They’ll be talking about boring topics like the trade imbalance in semiconductors, and opening up the Japanese market to California rice. So I had the evening free.”
I had the feeling she hadn’t told him, but that she didn’t want to acknowledge it. The thought produced a small burst of warmth in my gut.
“Does he do that kind of entertaining often?” I said. Again, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was asking. To propitiate the part of myself that continued to hope tonight was somehow operational? Or because I was hoping to learn that she viewed tonight as somehow . . . illicit?
She glanced at me. “And why are you so interested in my husband?”
I shrugged. “Just some of the things you said before. At the museum.”
I hoped it was a smooth enough recovery, and apparently it was, because after a moment she said, “Well, yes, politics is a strange profession. The more senior you become, it seems, the more time you need to spend on it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just . . . it didn’t sound like something you’re happy about.”
We were quiet for a moment. Just as at the museum, I had the sense that she was deciding whether to advance or retreat.
She sighed. “It’s a hard topic to discuss without getting into areas that are . . . that I don’t like to think about. That I don’t like to feel.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. I’m not sorry you did. It’s just . . .”
She paused and looked around for a moment. More people had trickled in since she arrived, and the bar was suffused with the purr of a dozen hushed conversations.
“I really love this place,” she said. “I’m so glad you suggested it.”
“So am I.”
She glanced at me and smiled. “You’re very, mmm, earnest, do you know that?”
I didn’t know how to respond. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s actually quite appealing. I like that you blush so easily.”
I could feel myself instantly blushing at that.
She laughed. “You see? Don’t worry. Women like men who blush. It shows you appreciate us.”
We were quiet again. Then she said, “You know, I think everyone struggles with some sort of regret. But we have to, mmm, play the hand we’re dealt, is that not true?”
I nodded, afraid if I said anything it might impede her. After a moment, she said, “Have you ever been in love, John?”
I nodded again. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I ask myself that every day.”
She smiled. “Are there answers?”
“Not satisfying ones. We lived in different worlds. It couldn’t work.”
“Because you have two souls?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. I got involved in some things after the war she wouldn’t have been able to understand.”
“What kind of things?”
“That’s a story for another time.”
By another time, I of course meant never.
“Was she Japanese?”
“Yes. Well, ethnic Korean, but yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“In America, I think.”
“You haven’t tried to contact her?”
“I think it’s better if I don’t.”
There was a deep sympathy in her eyes. “That’s a sad story.”
“Well, like you said. We all have them.”
“Yes.”
“What about you? Have you ever been in love?”
She looked at me. “That’s a bold question to ask a married woman.”
I returned the look, fortified by Ozaki’s delicious elixirs. “I know.”
“Well, the answer is yes. I was twenty years old and a third-year student at Sapienza when my husband came to lecture there. And here was this older man, charming and knowledgeable and so incredibly passionate about art. And so exotic for me, too, you know, having grown up in Italy.”
She took a sip of her gimlet. “I think you can imagine the rest. I got pregnant. He couldn’t extend his time in Italy. I almost didn’t care. I was in love. So I came back with him. But my parents . . . they grew up in a small village, and they were from an earlier generation. For them, it was a horrifying scandal. They cut me off. Shunned me. So, when I left Italy, it was a one-way trip.”
“They wouldn’t be in touch with you? Even after you gave them a grandson?”
She clamped her jaw for a moment, as though bracing for something painful, and stared at her glass. “I think my mother wanted to reach out. But my father was very, mmm, domineering. And I think my mother was afraid to cross him. I think she and I would have reconciled. I wished we could have. I never hated them for what they did. But my mother died before that happened. And when . . . my son died, I got a letter from my father. Telling me it was God’s punishment for what I did to my parents.”
“I’m so sorry, Maria.”
She nodded. “I don’t want to hate him for that. I’ve worked hard not to. But I can never forgive it. To say such a thing. To go out of his way to say such a thing. Whatever delicate threads there might still have been between us, with that he cut them forever.”
She blew out a long breath. “I think I need another drink. You?”
“If you’d like one. Sure.”
She looked up, and Ozaki appeared as though by magic. “Masutaa,” she said. “Two martinis, please. With a twist.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I liked that she ordered for both of us. Maybe because it showed how comfortable she was with me.
She looked around. “I love it,” she said again. “What a magical little place this man has created.”
We were quiet again for a moment while Ozaki began preparing our drinks. “So this is the answer to your question,” she said. “I was in love with my husband. And we had a good life in Kyoto with our little boy. We called him Dante, for the poet, of course, and also because the name is easy to pronounce in Japanese.”
Her voice caught, and she paused to collect herself. Ozaki set down our drinks, bowed, and moved off.
She raised her glass. “Salute,” she said, and took a big swallow. “Mamma mia, that man is a magician. The government should designate him a Living National Treasure.”
I took a swallow, too, but I barely tasted it. I was too intent on her.
“Anyway,” she said, “as I told you at the museum, we moved to Tokyo for my husband’s new life as a politician. I was still happy—Dante made me happy no matter what. But then there was an accident. A very stupid accident with a revolving door in a b
uilding. After that, I spent three years barely leaving the house. I must say, my mother-in-law was very good to me. Better than my own mother, as you see. And Director Kurosawa offering me a position . . . well, as I told you, it really did save my life.”
A beat went by. I said, “Did you ever think about . . . other children?”
“Ah, that was one of fate’s little ironies. I couldn’t have more children. Only one accidental pregnancy. Maybe my father was right.”
“No. That was a sick, horrible thing he said because he wanted to hurt you. God had nothing to do with any of it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I struggled for a moment because I didn’t want to say too much.
Fuck it.
“I told you. I’ve seen awful things. The worst things. And done them. Please don’t ask me what. Nobody who comes back from that shit wants to talk about it. But I’ve seen more evil than anyone in his right mind would even want to know exists. And for all that, I’ve never seen punishments or rewards distributed other than at random. If there were a God, he would have struck me down a long time ago.”
Even as it came out, I thought I probably shouldn’t have said it. But I hated that she would believe she could be to blame for any of her misfortune. And maybe her doubts had tapped into something else, as well. I didn’t believe in God. But sometimes not believing was a struggle. Maybe my remarks were directed as much at myself as at her.
I’d been buzzed after the first drink. And suddenly, I realized buzzed was an exit I’d passed quite a few miles back.
She took my hand and squeezed it, briefly but hard. Then she let it go and took a sip of her drink.
“Anyway,” she said. “For too many reasons to go into, losing Dante became like a wall between my husband and me. He copes with his pain by burying himself in his work.”
“How do you cope with yours?”
“Oh, by trying to see the beauty in the world. And, I suppose, to curate it for the sake of others. And by telling myself one day I’ll be with my little boy again. I have to believe that, or life would be unbearable.”
I said nothing, not knowing any words that would have adequately conveyed what I felt. She looked at me, and though her eyes were wet, she laughed. “You see? Earnest, even in your silence.”
