by Amy Tasukada
How much time passed, Nao wasn’t sure, but when Sakai’s door opened, Nao broke free from his trance. Sakai was fifty, but his hair remained charcoal black, like his suit. Their gazes met for the first time in four years. A deep crease crossed Sakai’s forehead like the folds of a case file. Then he put his cell phone to his ear and walked out. Nao slipped the card back into his sleeve and followed.
“Sakai!”
Sakai quickened his pace through the cubicle aisles and ducked into the stairwell. Nao caught the closing door and entered. Sakai slammed him against the door and held him there. Nao winced, not in pain but from the suddenness.
“What do you think you’re doing here, little brother?” Sakai banged a fist against the wall.
Sakai released his grip and exchanged his phone for his cigarette case in his pocket.
“I have questions.”
“You should’ve called.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Still?”
Sakai shook his head before walking down the half flight of stairs and glancing over the railing. “You must not come to the office. You know we can’t risk visitors. We didn’t allow visits even when you left the family.”
“When did you stop seeing family members in your office?”
“Things aren’t like they were.” Sakai took out a cigarette and lit it.
“It can’t be that different.”
“You’ve become a frog in a well, Nao, disconnected from anything outside that teahouse of yours. Let it stay that way.”
Nao stepped down a step higher than Sakai. The lapel pin Sakai wore faced inward, hiding the family crest. Why would the administrator for the Matsukawa’s legal businesses want to hide? Nao reached out, turning Sakai’s lapel over.
“Is that why you conceal your allegiances?”
Sakai brushed off Nao’s hand, taking a long puff from his cigarette.
“Answer something for me first.”
“You get one, then you’re gone,” Sakai said.
Nao pulled out the card. “Do you recognize the symbol?”
Sakai’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his distance from the card. “Why would you think I would know? It’s in Korean, of all things.”
“I thought it might be some company, and since you’re the administrator—”
“The card is as worthless as your teahouse earning reports.”
Nao pressed his lips together. The way Sakai’s eyes narrowed meant he knew about the card, but why was he withholding information?
“Does anyone in the office speak Korean?”
“You’re not going back in there to poke at a beehive. You’re known.”
Nao laughed. “I’m a merchant. No one knows me.”
“When you first opened shop, it was raided four times in the first year for suspicion of gambling. The police still come by your place to check. There’s no way they would ever forget you. You need to go.”
“But—”
“If you have some kind of legal matter, next time, go through the usual channels. There’s a phone at your teahouse. You have no excuse for coming back here.”
Nao put the card into his sleeve and gave a low bow. Defeat sank in, but he wasn’t going to let Sakai’s indifference break him. He had to know the answer.
“Older brother, please, I beg your forgiveness for my indiscretion.” The formal statement spilled from Nao’s lips even after his long absence from the yakuza. “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work with a stupid question.”
Sakai waved his hand. “It’s all right, but don’t come back. Obsessing over a card you should throw away is a waste of your time.”
If Sakai wouldn’t tell Nao the truth, he’d rekindle every connection in the yakuza to make sure they were ready to defend Kyoto. Oyama would give him a straight answer, even if it meant going deeper into the underworld he had escaped.
Nao stood up from his bow. “Does Oyama still hang out at the same place?”
“You’re thinking about asking him?”
“Since you don’t know, perhaps he will.”
“Just as stubborn as before. Oyama’s at the same place, but you know how he is. If you go, expect a fight.”
Nao lifted his hair off the nape of his neck, getting mild relief from the humidity. If it weren’t for Park, he wouldn’t be in the heat. His shoulder throbbed from the stretch, but thankfully, it was dulling. In a few hours, the only evidence Park was ever a part of Nao’s life would be the broken teacup and the card in his sleeve.
Oyama’s midday hangout was the local boxing gym. With its cement walls and a group of high school students gathered outside, Nao needed only to change their faces and it would be four years ago. The group he knew had probably joined the family by now, and if Nao were still in the local syndicate, he’d have been calling them “little brother.” In a few years, the group outside would reach adulthood and join the mob, repeating the cycle.
Nao walked past them; his clogs echoed with each step. The stench of sweat and cold metal hit his nose the moment he opened the door. He blinked, the unsettling exchange of old memories distorted by his new reality shortened his steps. Muscled brutes jumping rope and punching bags, half of them brandishing tattoos covering their backs and chests, leaving a small strip of unadorned skin down their center chest.
Their faces were unfamiliar, but the dragons and flowers decorating their flesh he knew well. While those were generic symbols, Park’s were moons, specific for symbolizing allegiance. Nao needed to figure out what they meant. He had no reason to startle the others if Park was merely in some Korean rock band.
“Nao!” Oyama called.
He was fifty and showed a few more wrinkles than Nao remembered. His hair was short and spiked up from sweat, and even though he was in a pressed shirt and tie, he had punching mitts on to practice with one of the family members.
“I only see you when I go to the teahouse, and even then, you yell at me for gambling.” He laughed, taking off the mitts. “You finally venture outside of your teahouse.”
“I’m here to ask a question.”
“You want to know my pick for the next big fight?”
Nao reached inside his sleeve and pulled out the card. “Do you recognize this?”
He whistled. “Some business card you got.”
Oyama took the card, holding it in one hand while flicking it with his fingers. The older members’ focus was on them both; Nao could sense each of their eyes on him. He tried to hide the past beneath his traditional garb and small frame. He shifted his weight between his feet. There were so many people who knew who he really was.
“It’s too flashy to be from a usual business,” Nao said.
“So an unusual one then?” Oyama scratched his chin. “Maybe a fortune-teller sect.”
“I figured if it was a big corporation, Sakai would have known.”
“You went to Sakai?” He laughed. “You’re serious?”
“I realized my mistake after we spoke.”
Oyama slapped Nao’s back. “He moved up a bit since you left. Don’t worry. You’ll get a bill for his time in the mail.”
“Do you know where this card comes from?” Nao asked again, trying to stay firm under Oyama’s comedian act.
“After so many years without stepping foot inside a ring, and you come here to talk about some card you found? You were too good to stop. I try to keep telling you that.”
“I enjoy my work in the teashop.”
“You know what? I don’t think any of the new recruits have ever met you, let alone seen you in the ring.”
“They don’t need to meet me. I’m not even in the family anymore.”
“Of course you’re still family.” Oyama motioned the younger members over, a dozen people all in their twenties. “This is Nao Murata.”
Wh
y was Oyama making such a big deal? Nao looked away, not wanting to see their reactions. It wasn’t like he was ever coming back. They didn’t need to know who he was. Nao was there only to learn more about the card, not to get introduced to the new syndicate members. They could easily remain nameless customers playing mahjong in the back room.
“He’s the one you keep comparing me to when I lose a match?” one of them asked. A tiger tattoo ran down his chest.
“I was never that good.”
“Stop being so humble,” Oyama said. “You might’ve been a dick when you were with us, but you were always a natural fighter. Go show them how it’s done.”
Nao took a step backward, his clogs uneven against the padded floor. “I only came to see about the card.”
“I tell them how you were at their age, and they never believe me. The fight never really leaves you.”
Why was Oyama’s solution to every problem to box it out? Nao half expected something like that to happen. Hell, even Sakai had warned him. He didn’t expect it to turn into such a spectacle.
“I can’t fight in a yukata.”
“We’ll round something up for you.”
“But the card,” Nao reminded him.
“What?”
“Do you know what it means?”
“We have a few new Korean members. I’ll ask them to translate it, but only after you fight. Come on. Give the guys some inspiration.”
Nao shifted his weight between his feet. Could he step back into the ring and punch someone he didn’t even know? More importantly, could he control himself if he snapped back into the person he kept hidden? How much did it really mean for him to figure out the meaning behind the card and the man who possessed it?
“One match, and that’s it.”
In a matter of minutes, Nao changed into shorts and a white tank top. They clung to his skin and made him long for his yukata even with such a short absence. Gloves covered his hands, and he stepped into the ring with the young recruit with the tiger tattoo. Oyama must’ve stuck him in because the man doubted Nao’s abilities.
As he climbed into the ring, Nao gave a sideways glance to Oyama, who was hollering while holding a fistful of money.
“Are you taking bets on this?” Nao asked.
“The odds are good, but they’re getting lowered if you don’t keep your head in the match!”
Everyone gathered to watch, and Nao’s name was cheered on the lips of the older crowd. The gong rang, and a passion ignited in Nao that he thought had died. His opponent jumped around, holding his fist up to protect him from Nao’s light jabs. The way the man jumped around, he would tire himself out.
His opponent attacked with a quick right hook to Nao’s face, but Nao dodged. Nao took it easy, getting a few quick punches in, but no real heavy blows. With each one, stepping back to who he was before became second nature.
The bell rang, and the two went to their corners. A layer of sweat clung to Nao’s skin, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and making him itch.
“You’re doing good.” Oyama offered Nao water.
Nao pulled at his shirt but was unable to get it off with his gloved hands.
“Get this off me,” Nao said.
Oyama pulled it over his head. Shirtless, Nao sported what the others did: marked flesh. His tattoo was a Chinese phoenix, blazing red with a half-inked chrysanthemum grasped within its claws on his back. Against Nao’s slim frame the bird engulfed him in its flames.
“Come on. I got a week’s paycheck on you.” Oyama rubbed Nao’s shoulders, warming the dull ache there. Part of him couldn’t believe he was going through the trouble for a card.
“Only a week? You should double it.”
The gong rang, and his opponent surprised Nao with a quick strike to his jaw. He took a few steps back and watched as the younger man shuffled around, waving his arms in the air as the crowd cheered. Nao waited and then swung a hard right hook to the boxer’s head. He staggered, and Nao saw his opening. Nao landed another strike to his opponent’s head, droplets of sweat flying onto Nao’s face, and his opponent collapsed to the mat.
The gym echoed with cheers, but Nao closed his eyes, hoping the darkness would take him away from the fight. Each of the numbers Oyama counted down reduced Nao’s adrenaline and replaced it with memories. Red on his hands and a throat raw from his screams. No. He’d changed. He wasn’t the person he was before. Although the sweet allure of the fight sent a shock wave of endorphins through him.
Nao stepped closer, ready to smack the tiger right off his opponent’s flesh if he chose to get up.
“Enough!” Oyama pushed Nao away. “You already won.”
Nao threw his gloves down and slipped out of the ring. “How much did you make?”
“Enough.” Oyama handed the money to a few older people. “You had me worried there for a moment.”
“What does the card say?”
“Huh?”
“The card,” Nao repeated. “What does it say?”
“You’re still going on about the card?”
“If you’d tell me what it means, then I’d stop.”
Oyama whistled to the boxer Nao had defeated. The boxer wobbled over, unable to stand up straight. He bowed to Nao then offered him a towel.
Oyama gave the loser a smack to the back of his head. “Do you believe me now when I say Nao would kick your ass in a minute if he were still part of the Matsukawa?”
“Do you know Korean?” Nao asked since Oyama was yet again ignoring the card.
“A little.”
“Show him the card, Oyama.”
Oyama handed the card over, but the young boxer shook his head and handed it back.
“Sorry, I can’t read it. I only get the gist of what my grandparents say when they talk to me.”
“What kind of Korean are you, then?” Oyama laughed.
Nao snatched the card. “I’ll have to find my own translator.”
“Why is it so important to you? Throw the damn thing away.”
“Sakai told me the same thing. It must mean something if it can get you both to agree on something.”
“Little brother, this card is bad news. You don’t want to get involved in this business anymore. You were clear about that when you left.”
“The way the card came into my possession, it’s important I know.”
Oyama rubbed his neck but gave no reply.
“Are you going to tell me or not?” Nao crossed his arms.
“Look, if you want to know, take it to Father.”
“Father?”
“I’ll leave it up to him. He can decide how much he thinks you need to know.”
Nao shook his head. “No, I’ve lived in Kyoto all my life. I deserve to know what happens, even if it’s in the underworld.”
After a stop at a confectionary shop and then a train ride, Nao followed the concrete wall around the perimeter of the house he knew so well. Behind the fence stood the three-story headquarters of the Matsukawa family, the Kyoto branch of the yakuza. The wall came to a stop and changed from concrete to a deep mahogany gate. Two inverted arrows were scorched into the wood, the same symbols that were on Sakai’s lapel pin. The family had no need to hide the business, as they had a silent mutual agreement with the police. As long as their business didn’t disrupt average citizens, the police would turn a blind eye to their operations.
Nao switched the bag of confectioneries to his opposite hand and stood in front of the intercom beside the gate. Was he really going all the way to the head of the family on the off chance Park was in the Korean mob? He could stop and forget the card as Oyama and Sakai had suggested. The bag crinkled as Nao tightened his grip. He couldn’t set Park adrift, or the tattoo, or the way he’d so easily offered himself up.
Nao sighed. All those years without looking at another man
with a suggestive grin, no wonder he’d jumped at the opportunity. He couldn’t let those lascivious sensations bombard his thoughts if Park was in the mob. He was there to warn the Matsukawa so they could protect Kyoto.
He pushed the intercom button.
“It’s Nao.”
The gate buzzed, and Nao walked through and took the traditional winding path to the modern house. His throat dried with each step. What would the family think of him returning? Before he could reach the door, it opened for him. Four men greeted him. Two were on their knees, bowing so low their heads touched the floor. Their purple jumpsuits signified they were new recruits. The two behind them wore cheap suits. Nao returned the formal greeting and stepped inside the vestibule.
The aroma of simmering fish stock hit Nao’s nose, conjuring memories. Little and older brothers all stayed in the house of the Matsukawa. Yet family ties needed to be renewed each year by drinking sake with the godfather.
Nao replaced his shoes with the slippers offered to him. “Is Father in?”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“I can wait, then.”
“Go upstairs. Father won’t mind since it’s you.”
Nao hesitated a moment but then climbed the polished wooden stairs. Cleaning was a never-ending task for new recruits. Others who saw him bowed and exchanged a formal greeting as he passed. Each step weighed down his legs. Perhaps the fight took it out of him more than he thought.
Nao knocked on the door before entering, then apologized for his intrusion. Sakai was with Father, but Nao kept his gaze on the wall. He focused on the Japanese flag hanging behind Father’s desk with the Matsukawa crest beside it. The whole room smelled of cigarette smoke and cleaning chemicals, and the walls were a deeper shade of yellow than Nao remembered.
“Nao?” Father said, a deep crease in his forehead furrowed against his gunmetal hair.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” Nao apologized. “But I have a question I wanted to ask.”
